The Racing Factions (7 page)

‘Equally successful, I’m pleased to report. I got twenty to one for a Green one-two in the order you told me. This purse contains two hundred in gold and this is Ignatius’ promissory note for a further two hundred. Did you profit as well?’

‘Very much so; I’ve sent a couple of the lads back with our winnings.’

‘I’m told by an acquaintance that Ahenobarbus was equally successful in the same race.’

‘That’s gratifying to hear, senator.’

‘Well, yes and no, Magnus. The Lady Antonia sent me a note just before she left the circus: Ahenobarbus is very enthusiastic about the information as he feels that it’s impossible for someone of his family to be too rich.’

‘A noble sentiment.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. However, there’s one small snag.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is that before he lays out such a huge amount on a wager he wants to meet the person who provides the information; he wants to find out just how he intends to fix a Red one-two-three, seeing as no one has ever managed it previously.’

‘Ah!’ Magnus’ face fell.

‘Ah, indeed. Antonia said in the note that he expects that person at his house tomorrow morning as soon as he’s finished greeting his clients. Obviously there’ll be no mention of my name.’

‘Obviously.’

Magnus waited in a thin drizzle outside an old and elegant marble-clad house on the east of the Palatine next to the Temple of Apollo. Despite its age the house was well maintained, reflecting the wealth of Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus whose family had first held the consulship over two hundred years before.

With the rain soaking into his toga, Magnus watched the stream of clients come down the half-dozen steps from the front door in reverse order of precedence, calculating that there were at least five hundred – the sign of a very influential man in possession of a very large atrium.

As the last of the clients, a couple of junior senators, came down the steps the door closed behind them. Magnus crossed the street and knocked.

A viewing slot immediately pulled back to reveal two questioning eyes. ‘Your business, master?’

‘Marcus Salvius Magnus, come at the request of the Senior Consul, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus.’

The door opened and Magnus walked in, through the vestibule and into an atrium that could easily hold five hundred people.

‘Wait here, master,’ the doorkeeper requested, ‘whilst I inform the steward of your arrival.’ He whispered an order to a waiting slave of inferior rank and dress before returning to his post as the messenger walked quickly off.

Magnus studied his surroundings: everything spoke of immense and long-held wealth. Engraved silver candelabras, the height of a man, with eagles’ feet of gold; golden bowls on low marble tables polished to reflect the high, brightly painted ceiling. The statue in the
impluvium
was a bronze of Neptune spurting water from his mouth and lifting his trident in triumph. Magnus smiled to himself as he thought of Ignatius seated next to a statue of the same god in the Circus Maximus, the god that was evidently the guardian deity of the Domitii.

‘Very auspicious,’ he muttered, clenching his thumb in his hand to ward off the evil eye that might be drawn to him by his assumption of a good omen.

‘The master will see you now,’ a voice from the far end of the atrium informed him. ‘Please follow me, sir.’

Magnus did as he was bid and followed the steward through the atrium and to the door of the tablinum.

A gruff ‘enter’ greeted the steward’s knock and he swung open the black and yellow lacquered door soundlessly. Magnus stepped in and the door closed behind him.

A heavy-set, balding man with full cheeks, a small, mean mouth and a long nose that curved up towards its tip stared at Magnus with malevolent eyes. He sat behind a carved, wooden desk; behind him a window looked out on to a damp and dismal courtyard garden waiting for the first shoots of spring. ‘Who are you, Marcus Salvius Magnus, that you can fix a race?’

Magnus paused before answering and then realised that he was not going to be offered a seat. ‘I’m the agent for the man who has paid to fix a race.’

The eyes bored into him with unsettling intensity as Ahenobarbus slammed both his palms down on the desktop with a hollow crack; colour exploded alarmingly into his cheeks. ‘I asked for the fixer to come, not his agent; how dare you disobey me!’

‘We are aware of that, Consul, and I’ve come solely because I’m the one who made all the arrangements and am therefore in a better position to explain to you how it would work.’

Ahenobarbus’ small mouth pursed into a tightly clenched moue as he considered this for a moment. ‘Very well, tell me.’

Magnus set out his plan, leaving out not the slightest detail; when he had finished Ahenobarbus’ mouth remained puckered but the colour in his cheeks had subsided into a less alarming shade.

‘That may well work,’ Ahenobarbus conceded eventually. ‘What’s more, if it does it won’t look suspiciously like a fix; and I should know because I’ve tried to arrange the very same thing but failed. My aunt, the Lady Antonia, tells me that you wish me to place a bet with the bookmaker named Ignatius.’

‘That is correct, Consul.’

‘What amazes me is why she would get involved in something like this; she used all her charm on me to get me to consent; she must be very fond of your benefactor to show such loyalty.’

‘It’s not something that’s occurred to me, Consul,’ Magnus replied truthfully, surprised at the thought that the loyalty Antonia had shown had been to him.

‘No, of course not, why would someone as lowly as you consider such things? Now tell me why I should place this bet with Ignatius?’

‘If you don’t we won’t tell you which race it’s going to be.’

Ahenobarbus laughed; it was a grating sound. ‘That’s no threat, little man; I could take the information and then place the wager with anyone.’

‘But the other three bookmakers in the senators’ enclosure have all been in there for a very long time and consequently are very wealthy; even a bet ten times that amount won’t hurt them. However, Ignatius has yet to attain such riches as, up until now, he’s just been a bookmaker to the masses; if you place it with him it’ll ruin him completely and you can get your pleasure in chasing him for every sestertius.’

Ahenobarbus folded his arms and contemplated Magnus. ‘Do you think that I derive pleasure from other people’s misfortunes?’

Magnus knew that he had to reply with care. ‘I’ve heard that . . . you like to win.’

There was a brittle silence in the room that was abruptly shattered by another hoarse laugh. ‘By the gods below, I do; and, what’s more, I like to be sure that I’m going to win. How can we be certain that this Ignatius will accept the wager?’

‘His greed; he wants to be as rich as the other three book-makers in the senators’ enclosure and he wants to be so quickly. As you know, one Colour finishing first, second and third is very rare indeed; he’ll think that your money is his the moment you show it to him and name your bet.’

Ahenobarbus’ eyes narrowed and he compressed his lips so tightly that the skin around them went pale as the blood was forced away. ‘The bastard’s going to think he’s taking me for a fool; no one does that.’ Again the palms slammed down on the desk. ‘All right, I’ll do this. Tell me which race-day?’

‘The one in three days’ time.’

‘Which race?’

‘I’ll be able to tell you that just after halfway through the programme. Have one of your slaves waiting at the entrance to the senators’ enclosure; a man with a missing left hand will come and tell him which race.’

Magnus heaved his way towards Servius through the crowds of Red supporters flocking along one side of the tenement-lined street leading to the Aemilian Bridge. The other side of the road was lined with Whites; as always on a race-day, the Urban Cohorts’ heavy presence kept the two sides apart.

‘I can’t imagine how people get any enjoyment from just watching the teams going to the circus,’ Magnus muttered, reaching his counsellor as the final twelve Red chariots of the day came into view to Red cheers and White derision.

‘It’s good for us that a lot of people expect very little from life, brother.’

‘It is indeed. Where’s Cassandros?’

‘He’ll be along any moment; he had to wait for his flexible little friend to help harness all the last twelve teams before he could slip out and report on their form.’

Magnus took a few moments to scan the crowd and then looked up behind him; he caught the eye of Tigran in a window on the second floor of a plain, rickety brick tenement overlooking the Red crowd. A few windows down from him he discerned the ox-like silhouette of Sextus; Magnus nodded his satisfaction. ‘The lads are in position. Did you see Rufinus and his boys?’

‘I’ve just left them.’ Servius pointed up the street to Rufinus, who nodded at Magnus. ‘He’s waiting for your signal; his lads are ready and looking forward to it.’

Magnus slapped his hands together. ‘So am I, brother, so am I.’

The first of the Red chariots, driven by apprentice charioteers, drew level, raising the volume of the crowd all around them.

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.