Robert Fabbri - The Dreams of Morpheus

Occasionally catching sight of Rufinus’ transverse, white-horsehair crest, Magnus kept pace with him, making sure his brothers stayed close, knowing he must wait for his chance to get to the centurion.

On reaching the altar, the right-hand horse was slipped out of its traces and the crowd, sensing the religious significance of the moment, began to hush as it was garlanded with pendants of bread; two priests of Mars moved into position on each side and grasped its reins. The Flamen Martius approached the unsuspecting animal with slow, deliberate, twisting steps so that his cloak fanned around him as he swayed left and then right. With his spear alternatively raised to the sky and then pointed at the October Horse’s chest, he repeated forms of words so ancient that their meaning was only vaguely clear to those not schooled in the rituals of Mars. Now, no other voice could be heard other than that of the priest, who was accompanied by the snorts and stamps of his unsuspecting victim.

With a final appeal to the heavens, he brought his spear down and, grasping it in both white-knuckled hands, rammed it, overarm, into the beast’s chest. The priests hauled on the reins as the October Horse screeched and made to rear; they kept it down as two more priests, with folds of their togas covering their heads, grasped the spear and, with a mighty effort, helped the Flamen Martius thrust it home and burst the heart of the gift to Mars. Transfixed on the spear and restrained by its reins, the beast tossed its head, arcing the pendants of bread through the air back and forth as blood flowed from the puncture in its breast; but this soon lessened as the victim’s heart, tangled on the iron blade within it, ceased to pump and the pressure dropped. Down came the great beast as its forelegs buckled, cracking its knees on the paved ground already slick with blood; they slipped forward as the Flamen and his assistants hauled the sacred spear free. Released from its supporting prop and with the strength rapidly fading in its muscles, the October Horse rolled its eyes so only yellowish-white was visible and, with an unnatural rattle in its throat, collapsed on to its left side, twitching erratically.

Not a sound could be heard once the last breath had fled the sacrifice; for a few moments all stood still, spellbound by the intensity of the ritual. The Flamen Martius broke that spell by taking an axe from the altar and moving to the rear of the carcass; one of his assistants moved to pull the tail straight and iron flashed in the sun. The tail was severed and then held upright by the assisting priest to prevent the precious blood within from spilling. Holding it aloft, the priest and two colleagues made their way through the crowd, which parted for them as they increased their pace, in order to take the tail to the Regia , where the sacred spears and the sacred shields of Mars were housed. There, on the Regia’s hearth, the blood would be sprinkled.

The Flamen moved to the front of the carcass, intoning prayers, as his remaining three assistants pulled at the dead head to straighten the neck. A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd as the time approached when it would be decided where the severed head would reside for the year: nailed to the Regia, if the Via Sacra Brotherhoods won the fight by dragging it there, or to the equally ancient Mamillian Tower in the Suburra if the Brotherhoods from that quarter won.

With a final, hoarse call to the deity, the high priest of Mars brought the axe slicing through the air, over the top of his head, to thump down with the wet, solid blow of a butcher’s cleaver, burying itself deep in the neck. With this stroke, the Flamen’s job was done and he left it to his younger colleagues to part the head from the body. Once this had been achieved, the garland of loaves was thrown on to the altar to be consumed by fire, and its smoke twirled up in thanks for yet another harvest preserved.

Now it was time to fight for the head.

Ushered by the Urban Cohorts, the crowd dispersed, falling back from around the altar, allowing the massed Brotherhoods from the two contesting areas to line up facing each other with a hundred paces between them. Both contingents were several hundred strong, although the Suburra looked to be slightly larger than the Via Sacra; neither side had any obvious weapons other than cudgels and knuckledusters. Magnus saw Grumio in the front rank of the Suburra, looking suspiciously towards Rufinus’ Urban Cohort century and others beyond that had finally been freed from the press of crowds round them. Signalling his brothers to follow him, Magnus moved towards the centurion as the priests began to carry the severed head between the two competing sides, holding it aloft for all to see.

‘Have you tried to sell that resin yet?’ Magnus asked in a hushed voice as he sidled up to Rufinus.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because the Urban Prefect has now heard about it; it’s probably best to keep it hidden for a while.’

Rufinus raised his eyebrows, betraying mild alarm, whilst watching the priests place the head on the ground. ‘I’ve asked an intermediary to make some enquiries.’

‘Well, stop him.’

Rufinus nodded as the priests hurried away. ‘It’s the first thing I’ll do once I’ve earned it.’

The Flamen Martius raised his spear into the air and called on the deity to bless both sides in their sacred struggle to win through to their respective goals; and to entreat him that, whoever won, Rome would be seen as having discharged her duty to him.

He brought the spear down and with a mighty roar of violent anticipation both sides flung themselves forward to meet head on like two warlike tribes of the most primitive nature.

And the people of Rome cheered themselves hoarse.

Blood, teeth and screams flew through the air within an instant of the collision. The front two or three ranks – if they could be called that – of either side melded into a free-for-all that lost direction so that men fought towards all points of the circle and, with no uniforms or identifying marks other than facial recognition, lashed out at anything standing with brutal intent.

The area where the head had last been seen was more compact and a giant scrimmage had formed; it heaved back and forth as the participants within grappled and wrestled, trying to wrest possession of the head of the once-proud beast that had been declared the greatest horse in Rome.

As he watched, telling himself to concentrate on the business in hand and not be carried away by enjoyment of the spectacle, Magnus slowly led his brothers round the flanks of the Suburra contingent.

The scrimmage eased south, towards the city – the direction of both sides’ objectives – leaving a trail of unconscious and wounded participants in its wake. The spectators moved with it, as did the various centuries of the Urban Cohorts in order to keep the fight out of the grand buildings that lined its route through the Campus Martius.

Magnus and his brothers began to infiltrate the Suburra faction, keeping towards the edges.

‘Hand me a measure,’ Magnus said, holding out a hand to Cassandros.

The brother dipped into his sack and brought out a bronze modius.

Magnus weighed it in his hand and smiled with narrowed eyes. With a straight arm, he hurled it high into the air over the Via Sacra contingent. He did not see it land but he knew it would cause grievous injury or maybe death. Looking to his right, he saw that Rufinus had brought his men closer. ‘Right, lads, five left; hurl them all at Rufinus’ boys.’

Within a few moments five bronze missiles had landed amongst the Urban Cohort century, bringing two down, despite their helmets, shields and chainmail, and cracking the bones of a couple more. The response was instant. Shields came up, lines formed and swords were drawn, and left legs stamped forward as they faced the source of the attack: the Suburra faction.