Robert Fabbri: The Racing Factions

Marius eased his way through the throng and up to Magnus as the Red teams streamed by, roared on with increasing passion by their supporters. ‘They’re all ready at the other bridge.’

The last Red chariots drove by and Cassandros finally appeared.

‘Well?’ Magnus asked.

‘Well, of the last four races the teams in the first one are going to be driven by their three best charioteers.’

‘No good, brother, the Whites will put three of their six spare teams in that one and the rest in the next; what about the third race?’

Cassandros grinned. ‘If they survive the first race the same three charioteers will drive in the third, and, what’s more, the teams have won two of their last eight races and been placed in another four.’

Magnus slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s our one; top charioteers and teams with form. Well done, mate, I know how hard you had to work to get that information. You can have a rest from it now.’

‘No chance, brother, he fits me like a glove.’

Magnus drew the air through his teeth, screwing up his face. ‘Literally I suppose.’ Shaking his head to banish the image he turned to Marius. ‘Off you go to the senators’ enclosure and tell Ahenobarbus’ slave: the second-to-last race of the day.’

‘Right you are, Magnus.’

‘Rufinus has given his men orders to let you across the bridge, just show him your stump and tell him which race. Oh, and Senator Pollo has got one of his young lads waiting there too, tell him the same thing.’

Marius disappeared off into the crowd in the direction of the Aemilian Bridge as roars from the opposite direction indicated the proximity of the final twelve White chariots of the day.

‘Cassandros, get back down to the other bridge and tell the lads that we’re just about to start.’ As Cassandros moved off Magnus put his arm around Servius’ shoulder and guided him away. ‘I think we should step this way; some of the lads may not be so accurate.’

‘A wise precaution.’

The roaring from the White supporters on the far side of the street intensified as their teams drew closer; at the same time the hisses and cat-calls from the Reds increased in animosity. Here and there small scuffles broke out that were soon dealt with by the men of the Urban Cohorts. Magnus caught sight of Rufinus slapping a miscreant with the side of his sword; their eyes met; the centurion nodded and moved away towards the bridge, taking his men with him.

The White teams came into view, resplendent with tall white plumes adorning their heads and white ribbons decorating their manes and tying back their tails; high-stepping, heads tossing with jangling harnesses and flaccid-lipped snorts, the first team – four greys – came level with Tigran’s window as the bays behind them reached Sextus’. Within an instant the Whites’ cheers of approval had turned into howls of outrage as they, quite literally, saw red. A tongue of crimson liquid flooded through the air from Tigran’s window, expanding as it descended; a second jet of red shot through Sextus’ window. For a moment time seemed to slow as both airborne streams of red paint flowed inexorably towards the leading couple of White teams; with a wet slap and splatter the greys became piebald red and grey whilst behind them the bay team’s coats were spattered and their feathers dripped crimson.

The reaction was immediate; enraged that their colour should be so soiled, the Whites charged at the perceived perpetrators of the outrage with the fury of the deeply offended. The Reds responded with equal measure; still smarting from the Greens’ ruse four days earlier, they were more than happy to fight anyone. With the men of the Urban Cohorts withdrawn the whole street erupted into an orgy of violence, trapping the White teams who reared and bucked in terror, ripping their traces and smashing their chariots.

‘That’ll do to start with,’ Magnus chuckled as he and Servius hurried away along the back of the crowd before they too were trapped by the fighting. ‘A conscientious centurion like Rufinus will have no choice but to close the Aemilian Bridge to everyone in order to prevent the fighting spreading across the river.’

‘And it looks like it might go on for a long time,’ Servius observed as Tigran and Sextus caught up with them.

‘What a shame for the White teams stuck in it; they’re bound to miss their races now.’

Sprinting towards the Tiber Island they soon outpaced the spreading riot. As they crossed the bridge Magnus looked back and waved at a second-floor window on the Whites’ side of the road. An instant later four streams of green paint spurted out and flew across the street, splattering the Red crowd; four more followed in their wake. It was now the Reds’ turn for righteous indignation; covered in the colour of their hated rivals who had cheated them so grievously a few days before they burst over the road and attacked the people who must have been responsible for the deeply offensive insult.

Magnus and his brethren ran on; they traversed the Tiber Island and reached the eastern bank of the river, speeding on towards the Circus Maximus and leaving raucous mayhem in their wake.

*

‘I thought I’d come and watch it with you, gentlemen,’ Euprepes said, sitting down next to Magnus and Servius as the gates of the Circus Maximus opened to admit the teams competing in the second-to-last race of the day. ‘My drivers understand their orders so now comes the moment of truth.’

Magnus shifted uneasily on the stone seating as the three Red chariots appeared followed by the Blues, accompanied by cheers and jeers from the huge crowd. Suddenly his eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Juno’s bald crack! A White!’

Down on the track a single White chariot trailed in after the three Greens to gales of laughter from the supporters of the other three factions.

Magnus looked in alarm at Euprepes. ‘I don’t call that funny at all. I thought when they only put two chariots into the previous race it was because they only had five spare teams.’

‘They must have saved the sixth for a chance in this race. That’s Scorpus.’

‘The fuckers! He’s good.’

‘It’s all right, Magnus, my lads will deal with it.’

‘They’d better, my friend,’ Magnus said, thinking of the chances of keeping his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy, should Ahenobarbus lose his money.

The ten hortatores entered the circus whilst the starter drew numbered coloured balls from a barrel; as each team’s number was called they could choose which of the twelve starting boxes to occupy.

Once all the teams were loaded, slaves pushed the double doors back against the poles, behind each one, that were inserted into highly tensioned, twisted bundle of sinews. The doors were secured with a wooden bolt placed vertically through two overlapping iron rings – one screwed to each door; cords of twine, attached to each bolt, ran up to the roof of the boxes and then over, through eyelets, and down the back to the starter’s position so that all could be pulled open simultaneously. The hortatores then took up position in a line, fifty paces in front of their teams’ respective starting boxes as a slave patrolled the roof, checking each cord, making certain that all could run free.

The crowd went silent with anticipation. From within the dark confines of the starting boxes the teams neighed and snorted; the hortatores’ mounts stamped and tossed as their riders struggled to control them.

The presiding praetor – the man who had sponsored the day’s racing – stepped forward to the front of the senators’ enclosure and held up a white napkin; it fluttered in the breeze. The crowd drew communal breath as he paused for a few moments; then, with a flick, the napkin dropped. The starter pulled on the cords, the doors burst open and, to the delirium of the crowd, the teams sprang forward. Suddenly, from the Blue end of the circus, there came jeers and whistles; Magnus scanned the chariots to see that there were only two of that colour running. Looking back at the starting boxes he saw that one remained shut; of the slave on the roof there was no sign.