S.J.A. Turney - Tales of Ancient Rome

“First lap over and nothing much has changed: the lead three are all a little closer together, but no difference in position. Again, Scauvus is pushing like mad to close with the first two and, as they pass the Emperor in his box, it’s still Sura leading by half a length, Prudens fighting him desperately for first place, and Scauvus less than a length behind them.”

He swallowed another mouthful of water quickly. It was thirsty work.

“There’s trouble for the whites, but they’ve lost anyway. Their second quadriga is pulling off without even completing a lap and making for the carceres. Looks like the outer horse is lame. He’s… yes, he’s off the track and out of the race.”

“Screw him” the blind master snapped excitedly. What about the three? Are they at the corner yet?”

Andros took a deep breath.

“As they round the far corner again, positions are the same. It’s tight, though… so tight you wouldn’t believe. Now, there’s hardly room to separate the three. Sura and Prudens are almost alongside, with Scauvus close behind. They’re putting on extra speed as they come close to our corner again.”

Lentullus nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes. Are they here? I can’t hear the horses for all the shouting. Are they at the next turn?”

“They’re closing on it now, master. Here they come: Sura first, but his two mares are still arguing and…” his voice rose a notch. “Yes… they’ve pulled out too wide for the turn and Prudens has found the room. He’s in now, neck and neck. As they come back into our straight, it could go either way by the end of this lap!”

Something was happening in the crowd off to his left, but he kept his eyes riveted on the action just left of straight ahead.

“Scauvus is still closing. It’s so tense and overwhelming. If we’re lucky we might see all three of them jostling for first by the time they straighten out!”

But the cause of the commotion in the crowd suddenly became apparent, with a roar and screams. Half a brick, cast with anger and deadly accuracy, hurtled out from the stand, smashing into the nearest guide horse of Sura’s team. The blow was not hard enough to damage the horse, but the shock did enough. The black Armenian mare reared desperately in pain, and the entire team foundered, chaos ensuing.

Desperately, seeing what had happened, Prudens hauled on his reins and steered his chariot in so close to the spina that the wheel hub raised sparks from the stonework. In a heart-stopping moment, he pulled out past the rolling disaster that was Sura’s quadriga.

Half the crowd cheered, not entirely sure what was happening but aware that, whatever it was, Prudens was out clear now and in the lead.

But the disaster wasn’t over. Unable to swerve enough from his following position, Scaurus’ team drove straight into the former leader’s chariot, the two vehicles slamming together. Horses went down in squeals of pain, while the one wounded by the brick broke free from the trouble and galloped off ahead down the track, yanking the hapless rider straight from the wreckage of his chariot and throwing him to the sand of the arena, where it proceeded to race away, dragging the broken charioteer away by the rein-wrapped arms.

Chaos and death.

Disaster for the teams.

Financial ruin for many spectators.

But what had immediately occurred to Andros in that flash of panic as the accident began, was just how close to the track they were and the location and direction of the two chariots as they collided. A tiny mental calculation based on the approach angles, and he was already leaping away through the crowd at the very moment Scauvus’ quadriga smashed into that of Sura, running up the stands.

The great, broken wooden bulk of the chariot, borne aloft by the momentum of the crash, the yoke sheared away and freeing the poor horses, hurtled through the air and into the stands.

Lentullus turned to his sightless friend.

“Where’s the boy. What’s going on?”

A whistling noise and growing rush of air was the last thing either of them ever heard.

Andros, his heart still racing, watched the panicked and miserable crowd filing out of the circus. In the chaos following the fatal crash that had demolished part of the stands and killed or injured more than a dozen people, nobody thought to question the young Greek slave as he made his way to the raised seating area where senator Paulinus sat.

The ageing man had barely raised an eyebrow, given the scale of his losses today, as he paid the young man with a large leather bag of coins. After all, the boy was Lentullus’ slave, and had the legal chitty.

Andros grinned.

Life was going to be rather nice. By the time the chaos was under control, and he was missed, he would be at Ostia boarding the first ship bound for home.

And he’d be going home richer than the Gods.

“Bless you, Prudens the master charioteer.”

Marcus Aelius Pacutus looked out over his latifundium with a professional, practiced eye and nodded to himself.

The huge estate that covered the lower slopes of the mountains above the city of Carsulae in central Italia rolled off over the slopes, revealing seemingly endless rows of vines, each tended lovingly and carefully and renowned for their produce that went on to make some of the finest wine exported across the Empire.

The devotion of this great estate to wine had been the work of Pacutus’ grandfather, a man of blinding and astounding luck who had not only survived the reign of Nero unscathed despite his noted opposition to the Emperor’s policies, but had even managed to come out of it with land, money and title and the respect and support of the new Emperor.

Two and a half generations was all it had taken to turn a new vineyard into a wine variety sought after by the noble classes and sold in bars and thermopolia from Gaul to Syria. It was largely down to the soil, of course. As Columella had noted, the soil was at the heart of it all, and the soil here high in the valley in the centre of the country was rich and dark, perfect for the vine.

Some of it, of course, had come down from his father and grandfather’s financial acumen. Too many latifundia had failed and been sold away because the owners invested too heavily and landed themselves in deep debt, or overstretched, or hired too many freedmen workers.

Not so on the Pacutus estate. Marcus’ forefathers had been astute and wise and had carefully balanced the coffers with income and expenditure to make sure that the latter never outweighed the former.

The estates finances and income had, in fact, been in such a strong position that his father, after serving briefly as a decurion in Carsulae, had retired from public life entirely at a surprisingly young age, to live on the estate and the fortune it made.

It had come as a surprise to no one then, when his father died six years ago, that Marcus had immediately discarded his cuirass and abandoned the military tribunate to return to the estate and take control.

Marcus had new ideas, though. His father and grandfather were financially astute, yes, but they had also been weak and sympathetic people. The estate made more than enough for a nobleman to live a comfortable life, but Marcus knew it could be better still. Working the figures himself, he passed them before a friend who had worked in the treasury and who was a genius with an abacus. The simple fact was that, though the latifundium had made a fortune, it could easily have made twice as much with a little less softness and sympathy.

His nose itched, but that would go away in its own time. An itchy nose was a sign of something, he remembered hearing tell. Was it that he was coming into money? Hopefully, it would take him that inch closer to his dream of actually rolling in golden coins. He smiled.