Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

‘Get out!’ Nepos snarled at the two masseurs.

‘Now, what-’

‘These are some of my closest friends,’ Grotius said, grovelling. ‘It behoves us to share our good fortune.’

‘They know…?’ He sprang lithely over and seized him by his tunic, drawing his face close. ‘How many others have you blabbed to, you Tyrian bird-brain?’

‘None but these, Master Driver, truly! And I can say they’re in great admiration that it’s your own cunning that came up with this winning stroke against those arrogant Greens.’

Nepos let his hands drop. ‘So they should be, runt.’

‘I would be so gratified if you’d show them something of our little surprise.’

The big chariot driver hesitated, then gave a wicked grin. ‘Follow me.’

Below the clubhouse were the workshops and Nepos stopped at the one with two lounging guards. ‘Just remember,’ he muttered darkly, ‘the Greens have got it coming!’

Inside were workbenches and timber racks, but in the centre was the sleek and oddly large bulk of a racing chariot. Not much more than a platform on wheels with a raised breast-rail and side panels, it was clearly designed for victory. In weight it was pared down to the very limits of prudence: wheel spokes nothing but spindles, iron fittings like filigree and a single supporting beam fore and aft. On the side was emblazoned a large blue escutcheon. The whole gave an impression of arrogance and speed.

Nepos swaggered over to it and lightly stepped aboard, cutting a magnificent figure as he looked down on them. He dropped to a racing crouch, one hand stretched to the ‘reins’, the other furiously cracking an imaginary whip, his lips curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘It’s the last lap, the Greens are coming up on the outside. I sees ’em, gets ready. They’re coming… we make at each other. Priscus doesn’t give way, the prick. But next time he gets it – like this!’

There was no giveaway motion that Nicander could see but with a shocking clatter a small wooden pole suddenly shot out from the side of the chariot, ending yards away.

‘See?’ It didn’t take much imagination to conceive of its effect on an adjacent chariot, thrust into flimsy wheel spokes at speed.

Nepos leapt to the ground and bent under the platform to replace the device. ‘That’s all it is!’

The concealed pole was held by a simple leather spring which was restrained by a small peg protruding up through the platform. The driver had only to tread on the peg to set it off. And with both of his hands in sight working reins and whip there could be no accusations of interference.

‘Ingenious!’ Grotius chuckled. ‘And will see us rich as Croesus!’

Nicander and Marius returned to their tenement.

‘I told you it was a certainty, didn’t I!’ Marius crowed. ‘Worth staking all of, say, ten golden solidi, don’t you think, Nico?’

Nicander didn’t reply but went straight to his accounts.

‘Did you hear me, Greek? At least ten – why not fifteen?’

Nicander flipped the ledger firmly shut and looked away.

‘So just five, then.’

There was no response. ‘Come on, that’s not so much – is it? This is our big chance! Have we ever seen anything like it since we came to this pox-ridden place? We can’t let it go without-’

‘You know nothing of finance, do you? Five solidi – how much do you think this can yield on just a single voyage in olive oil? No? I’ll tell you. It returns as eight. A profit of three on five.’

Marius stared back obstinately.

‘But this is a four month turnaround voyage. And danger of pirates and tempest.’ His eyes held Marius’s with a sudden intensity. ‘Three solidi! Enough, perhaps, to keep us in meat for six months. And then back to that woman’s stinking fish. But let’s say we take our five solidi to the races at a solid sevens. Thirty-five solidi! Think of it – put on a Cyrenaican grain venture we’d be talking near fifty! Reinvested in another, and one on the side in marble and we’d be looking to moving out of this… this situation in a year.’

‘Well, let’s do it! The five on Blues to win!’

Nicander didn’t answer, his gaze unseeing.

‘Why not?’ Marius blazed.

Nicander reached for his slate, his hand flying as he made calculations.

‘This is why not,’ he said, holding it up.

‘What’s that to me?’

‘If instead we settle all we can rake together on a certain sevens, we stand to make six… hundred… and… seventy… gold ones! We clear out of here, set up on The Mese and get our start! The world ours for the taking, Marius! With that kind of cash we get respect, investment capital and decent living all in one hit! We’d be on our way!’

Marius blinked, startled at what seemed so out of character in his friend. ‘Yes, but don’t you think-’

‘Who’s holding back now! Courage, brother!’

‘That’s all our savings, and most of our purse too. What if something goes wrong?’

‘We saw with our own eyes what’s in plan, and the Blues’ greatest man to do it. How can it fail?’

‘I…’ rumbled the big legionary awkwardly.

‘Look, remember what Grotius said at the end. We don’t place the bet until they’re at the starting line. Gives us the chance to wait for the secret signal from Nepos that’ll tell us the Greens haven’t rumbled what’s going on. Nothing to risk now, is there?’

‘What if-’

‘You’ve objection to the high life? Slaves, fine wine, Palmyran dancing girls at dinner?’

‘But-’

Nicander slapped his hands down on the table. ‘An end to it! All or nothing – what’s it to be…?’

‘We walk in beggars, we leave rich men!’ Nicander cuffed Marius affectionately on the back as they approached the bulking mass of the hippodrome, a full quarter-mile long and capable of seating a hundred thousand – a fifth of the city population. Located at the end of Constantinople’s peninsula, together with the palaces and churches, the Senate, Patriarchate and Praetorium, it stretched from where the main street ended at the Hagia Sophia all the way to the Bosphorus.

The colossal structure was simple in layout: an elongated circuit with a tight turn at each end and along the centre, the spina , a central barrier adorned with noble statues from Rome’s glorious past. A twisted bronze column rose thirty feet above the spina , topped with three serpent heads. Stands reared sharply up around the entire length, save the northern end, where the starting boxes and entertainment rooms were located, surmounted by copper prancing horses.

It seemed all the world was converging there. Patricians and beggars, souvenir touts and contortionists, great ladies and courtesans, thieves and urchins. All streaming in for the race of the season. The raucous hectoring of officials mingled with the strident brass of the Excubitors’ military horns, the jeers and catcalls of rival supporters and the ceaseless hubbub of excited spectators.

On the side closest to the Bosphorus, the structure formed a wall for the Great Palace compound, giving the Emperor private entry to his box, the kathisma. The opposite side, facing inland, was where the people flooded in through the black gate. The Greens supporters began massing to the left of the Emperor’s box, the Blues to the right, and the two found seats there.

Nicander couldn’t suppress a growing thrill; he’d never seen an emperor and Justinian was the most powerful ruler in the world. He’d rescued the pride of the Romans, built the breathtaking Hagia Sophia, and had kept the faith and his peoples secure against the barbarian hordes.

There was movement at the kathisma. The ivory gates were flung open and six flamboyantly dressed soldiers strode out. Their officer looked about importantly, then returned inside. Moments later, hidden trumpets flourished a fanfare.