Why should Barnabas have the benefit? In any case,' she told me, 'he was afraid to use his own name in case it was recognized-so he used yours!'
If that was his sense of humour, I guessed that it must have been Pertinax himself who had named my horse.
Since Ferox was carrying all my spare savings, I did want to see the race. So when Titus Caesar, whom I had met previously in the course of my work, sent me an invitation to join him in the president's box, I shot up there in a trice.
It was the one place in the Circus where I knew there could be no chance of Anacrites interrupting me.
Titus Caesar was a younger, more easy-going version of his Imperial papa. He knew me well enough not to be surprised when I burst into his presence with a toga bundled under one arm instead of arrayed in the immaculate drapes most people adopted at public meetings with the Emperor's son.
'Sorry, Caesar! I was helping out with a dung shovel. They're a bit short-staffed.'
'Falco!' Like Vespasian, Titus tended to look as though he could not decide whether I was the most appalling subordinate ever to be wished on his retinue, or his best laugh today. 'My father says you're claiming Little Sweetheart is sausage meat-I reckon that makes him a certainty.'
I laughed, uneasily, as I hastily robed myself. 'Caesar, the odds against my poor bag of bones are a hundred to one!'
'Could be a killing here!' Titus winked at me happily.
I told Titus I assumed he was old enough not to bet his purple livery on a shag-tailed besom like mine. He looked thoughtful. Then the curly-haired Caesar adjusted his wreath, stood up to give the crowd someone to roar at, and solemnly let fall the white kerchief to start our race.
It was a novice sprint for five-year-olds. There were ten declared, but one refused the starting box. Until Ferox put in his late appearance on the racecard, the favourite had been a big grey Mauretanian, although other people reckoned the clever money was on a compact little black chaser with Thracian blood. (It was well sweated up, and looked like a windblower to me.) Our Ferox was a Spaniard; there could be no doubt of it. Everything from the proud set of his head to the hungry gleam in his eye spoke quality.
When the slaves hauled the ropes and the starting gates swung out in unison, the Mauretanian was already stretching his neck as the horses crossed the starting line. Ferox was close behind him. Little Sweetheart had been crowded out by a brown horse with a white sock and a spiteful squint, so he was last.
'Ah!' murmured Titus, in the tone of a man who has pledged his last tunic to his bookmaker and is wondering if his brother will lend him one. (His brother was the mean-tempered Domitian, so probably not.) 'A back marker, eh? Tactics, Falco?' I glanced at him, then grinned and settled down to watch Ferox race.
Seven laps provide a lot of opportunity for casual conversation of a knowledgeable kind. We worked our way through the fact that it was a useful field and that the grey Mauretanian was in great heart but seemed in need of an outing so might not finish a principal. White socks was running wide round the goal posts, while the little black Thracian looked a lovely horse, an easy mover with a very consistent stride.
'Generous and genuine!' boasted a guardsman who had bet on him, but the Thracian had given all he had by the third lap.
Seven circuits when your savings are in the balance seem a long time.
By the time they lifted down the fourth of the wooden eggs that count off the laps, complete silence had fallen in the president's box. It was starting to look like a two-horse race: Ferox and the Mauretanian. Ferox ran in an interested manner, cantering easily with his tail straight behind him. He had grace and he had elegance. He ran with his head up to give him a good view of any horses in front. He could run as fast as anything on the track, but quite early on I began to suspect that our beautiful mulberry stallion actually
'I think yours is pulling up,' Titus suggested, hopefully trying to be polite. 'Perhaps he'll come from behind.'
I answered gravely, 'He's left himself a lot of work to do!'
Little Sweetheart was eighth instead of ninth-but only because a perky russet had made a mistake, had come down on his nose and been pulled out.
I watched mine for a moment. He was terrible. Old mustard-face ran with the most ungainly action. Even to his owner, who was trying to be charitable, that horse looked as if he had made an appointment at the abattoir before he came out. His head stayed down as if his jockey was strangling him. As he travelled forward his back legs, which were slightly out of rhythm with the front, kicked up behind at every stride and seemed to hesitate. Thank the gods he was not a hurdler. My baby would have been the kind who looks six times at every jump as he makes his approach, then hangs in the air half-way over so your heart is in your mouth.
At least his tail flew out at a jaunty angle that I rather liked. He was so bad I was starting to wish I had bet on him out of loser's sympathy.
By the sixth lap, Ferox was challenging strongly in second place. Still.
Little Sweetheart had just realized the horse immediately in front of him now was the white sock who had jostled him at the start, so he redeemed himself by passing it; he got a bit close but fiddled through all right. This time Titus refrained from comment. Sixth place in a field of seven (following a collision, there was a loose horse, a daft ginger thing, now); nothing to raise a shout about. Especially with only a lap and a half to go.
The roar of the crowd was increasing. I saw the Sweetheart twitch his ears. Out at the front things were starting to happen. A muddy grey in third place had been running on his own for so long he nearly went to sleep. A spotted nag no one had given a thought to made a temporary challenge, causing Ferox to increase his stride, though he kept his favourite position at the big Mauretanian's shoulder. My palms were wet. Ferox was second: he would be second in every race he ever ran.
Everything I ever did in life seemed to go wrong. Nothing I ever wanted seemed attainable. Who said that?… Helena.
The field was well strung out now. There was a good twenty lengths between first and last as they went past the judges for the sixth time. The spectators were cheering Ferox, all certain he would sprint for it on the final lap. As the front runners rounded the posts I knew in my bones he never would.
They were half-way down on the far side from the judges-little more than half a lap to go-when I and most of Rome discovered something new: my horse, Little Sweetheart, could run as if his mother had conceived him in a conjunction with the wind.
They were running towards us. He was wide, so even with the rest of the field in front of him I saw his mustard nose lift. When he started his run, it was unbelievable. The jockey never used his whip; he just sat tight while that fool of a horse decided it was time to go-and went. The crowd opened their hearts to him, though most were losing money with every stride. He was the permanent tailender, the endless no-hoper-yet he streaked past the field as though he was just going for a rollick in the sun.
Ferox came second. Little Sweetheart won. He was leading at the finish by three lengths.
Titus Caesar clapped me on the shoulders. 'Falco! What a wonderful race! You must be extremely proud!'
I told him I was feeling extremely poor.
•
It took me hours to get away.
Titus rewarded my jockey with a heavy purse of gold. I had a present too, but mine was a fish: Titus promised me a turbot.
'I know you're a trencherman-' He paused, with polite anxiety. 'But will your cook know what to do with
