for the Greens was the renowned Diocles. For the Blues it was not the leading driver that drew the eye, competent though Musclosus was, but the lead horse of the first team, none other than the legend of the Circus Maximus, the pale grey Candidus. While stewards, both mounted and on foot, cleared the track, Ballista quickly placed bets on both teams from the Blues. Only the first string had much of a chance, but it had been known for the second string to come in, and it would not do for Isangrim to be disappointed if there was any form of win for the Blues in the prestigious first race.
The loud twang of the torsion-powered starting mechanism was followed a split second later by a hollow clang as the gates of the stalls crashed into the restraining Herms, the stone pillars with the bust of a man at the top and carefully sculpted male genitals at roughly the right height. The noise of the starting stalls always thrilled Ballista. It reminded him of the shooting of artillery.
Trumpets rang out. Thousands of voices yelled, 'They're off,' and the air was full of the smell of racing: hot horse, crowded humanity and cheap perfume.
The teams shot like bolts from the stalls; the coats of the horses and the silks of the drivers gleaming, the dust puffing up behind them. It was touch and go as they reached the central barrier and all the way down the first straight. Three of the teams were going flat out for position. When they emerged from the first turn, Commius, the second driver of the Blues, was hugging the barrier in front. Diocles, the star of the Greens, tucked in behind him, the second driver for the Greens following. Musclosus was holding back the great-hearted grey Candidus and his team.
'Candidus always likes to come from behind.' Ballista smiled reassuringly at Isangrim. 'Musclosus has driven him before. No need to worry – there are seven laps.' What the northerner said was true. But he had not pointed out that it was also true that Diocles and his team always favoured lying second. So it went, for four laps; Commius, the pacemaker for the Blues, led them round, and each stayed in the same position.
On the second straight of the fifth lap the pace got to the horses of Commius. They were weakening. Even from the stands, the Blues' second string could be seen to falter. A feint from Diocles drew them away from the barrier. They did not have the energy remaining to pull back in quickly enough as the Greens' star swept by on the inside. Around the next corner, they pulled wide, allowing both the other teams to overtake them.
Going into the last lap, it seemed that nothing could stop a Green victory; Diocles was several lengths clear in front, and the Green second string was blocking Musclosus. Diocles was already performing his trademark waving to the crowd.
At the penultimate turn, as the Green second string started to turn left, Musclosus made his move. Leaning right out over the yoke, plying the whip on their withers, he forced his horses on into what threatened to be a collision. It was at moments like this that the great-hearted grey, Candidus, proved his courage and his worth. His was the example that his Blue team followed. The Green team lost their nerve; shying away, they carried their chariot way out wide towards the stands.
Diocles was waving to the crowd, performing tricks with his whip. He did not see Candidus coming up the barrier until the last moment. As the Blue team flashed alongside, Diocles savagely hauled his team over. His reins tied round his waist, he threw his whole body into the desperate attempt to close the gap. The very unexpectedness of the manoeuvre confused his team. The left-hand horse stumbled. It struck into the horse next to it. This horse lost its footing. In a moment the beautiful harmony of the four running horses, man and chariot went down in a tangle of splintered wood and shattered bones. Momentum carried the thrashing tangle along the sand. It left a smear of blood behind.
Miraculously, out of the side of the chaos rolled a figure in ripped, dusty green. Something glittered in his hand. Arrogant bastard though many considered him, Diocles had not won over four hundred races and survived more crashes than he could remember without having his wits about him. Somehow, in the heart of the maelstrom, he had unsheathed his knife and cut the reins that were tied around his waist. He lay still for a moment, then raised himself on one elbow and waved the knife above his head. He sank back to the ground. The crowd roared.
At least ten lengths in front, Musclosus took the last corner wide; no shaving the turning post with the wheel this time. Safely round, he called Candidus and his team for one last effort, all the time looking over first one shoulder then the other to make sure that no god had given wings to the hooves of the trailing Green second string. There was no divine intervention. The Blue team crossed the winning line. The crowd roared again.
That was the high point of the day. From then on, it was all downhill.
It was publicly given out that Valerian supported the Blues and his son Gallienus the Greens. The latter was true enough, but the former was widely recognized for what it was – a political statement, the attempt of an elderly, rather aloof emperor to appear a man of the people. By the second race, Valerian could be seen doing paperwork with his secretaries and Macrianus. The crowd did not like it. They strongly disapproved. They demanded that their emperors not only attend the spectacles but did so with evident enjoyment. Anything less was to show disrespect to the people, to disrespect their libertas. The plebs were very touchy when it came to their libertas, thought Ballista. And of what did their libertas consist? The liberty to shout such demands as Lower taxes! Cheaper corn! Free that gladiator! Put on more shows! Ballista had little but contempt for such 'liberty'.
After four races, not one using all twelve starting stalls, an ugly realization spread through the crowd. The limited numbers in the first race had not been to showcase the return of the legendary horse Candidus but evidence of the tight-fisted nature of the old emperor. Shouts and chants rang out, along the lines of an aged miser coaxing broken-down charioteers and horses out of retirement with a bowl of gruel.
Even though the sixth race, the one before lunch, was a free-for-all featuring three teams from all four factions, it was then that things started to come to a head. Well before the break line, when such things became permissible, Teres of the Whites blatantly left his lane and pulled straight across the favourite, Scorpus, of the Reds. The crowd were on their feet, waving their togas and cloaks, yelling for a recall and restart. The emperor Valerian worked on, ignoring the pandemonium. The race degenerated into a farce, with over half the teams either pulled up or slowed down while a minority raced on. After seven laps, Thallus, the other driver for the Whites, crossed the line first, to derision and uproar.
Valerian sent a herald to the front of the royal box. The herald raised his arm. The crowd fell silent. The herald read out the words of the emperor: 'The race stands. Prandium. Time for the midday meal.' The mob bayed.
The lunchtime entertainment made things worse. Some acrobats erected two tall poles on the central barrier. A high wire was strung between them. The acrobats walked the wire and struck some attitudes. The crowd jeered and chanted: 'Gladiators. We want gladiators. Blood on the sand.'
Again the herald came forward. This time the imperial words were not listened to in silence. The herald persevered: 'There will be blood on the sand next summer. The blood will be Persian. Your emperor needs all the money he can get for the coming war. Gladiators are expensive.'
The message could not have hit a worse note. The crowd howled. A chant emerged in unison from thousands of mouths: 'Everything available, everything expensive, cheap corn now!' It was only too true that the presence of the imperial court and a field army in the city of Antioch had dramatically driven up the price of corn, the staple of life. The chant was taken up by more and more of the crowd.
Ballista felt a stab of apprehension. This could quickly turn very ugly. He glanced up at the imperial box. While the emperor worked on, the praetorians at the back were shifting on their feet, hefting their shields tightly, checking their weapons. Ballista looked all around. There was a definite air of unease among the senators and equestrians. The stairs at the top of the stand were a long way away. The ones they had entered through at the bottom were much nearer. The noise from the crowd was increasing.
Yet again the imperial herald appeared. He raised his arm. The chanting faltered and died into silence. 'That is what he wants – silence,' the herald said. There was a stunned silence, then the crowd erupted in fury. The first shower of stones dashed across the front of the imperial box. The crowd had become a mob, surging, baying for blood. The herald scuttled away. The praetorians rushed forward, erecting a testudo, tortoise, of shields around the emperor.
Ballista knew it could only get worse. He had to act quickly. Already stones were flying up into the seating reserved for the elite. The heads of the first of the mob were appearing over the low dividing wall at the bottom. They were climbing over, intent on robbery, assault and rape. Senators, equestrians and their families were running up the steps, scrambling over the seats trying to get away, to reach the stairs at the top of the enclosure. Telling Julia to keep a close hold on their son, Ballista started to strip. He struggled out of his toga, wrapped its
