Robert Fabbri

The Racing Factions

ROME, FEBRUARY AD 32

The stallions’ eyes rolled; specks of foam flew from their mouths as they answered their charioteer’s call and accelerated down the track. Barrel chests sucked dusty air into their straining lungs whilst pounding hearts pumped blood to the muscles in their legs, which were working to the very limit of their power as they pulled a light chariot seven times around the track. They felt the reins tug back; they slowed, their current sprint over and another corner to be rounded. The inside horse wheeled left in response to a sharp pull on the reins and led his three stable mates, at a speed at which they could just keep their footing, around the turning post at the far end of the spina, the central barrier of the Circus Maximus. Feeling another bite of the four-lash whip, they looked up the 350 paces of the dust-clouded straight and they were away again, inciting each other to greater effort in the fury of the race in which they were leading.

Their driver, in the colours of the Green Racing Faction, risked a quick glance over his shoulder to one of the three White chariots, just four paces behind, but gaining; beyond it his Green team-mate drew out into the track in an attempt to pull level with the chasing White. The leading Green driver snatched a small skin of water thrown at him by a boy from his team stationed on the spina; he squirted its contents over his dirt-encrusted face and into his parched mouth, discarded it and pulled his team to the right to avoid the mangled wreckage of two chariots, a Blue and a Red. A couple of well-aimed curses, written on folded lead sheets and studded with nails, flew past him as he neared the spectators; pulling back to the right, closer to the spina and out of range of the hurled missiles, he sped on, showering grit all over the crash. Within it, public slaves struggled to cut loose writhing horses entangled in the debris, whose screeches were lost in the tumult of a quarter of a million voices roaring on the ten remaining chariots. Waving the flags of their favoured faction, the citizens of Rome screamed themselves hoarse, stamping their feet on the stepped-stone seating, urging on the teams upon whom over a million sesterces was riding in bets.

The Green driver pulled on the reins wrapped about his waist and slid his team, in a spray of sand, around the turning post closest to the twelve starting boxes positioned next to the towering wood and iron arched gates of the circus; the next lap began. High on a column above the spina the fifth of seven bronze dolphins, marking the progress of the race, tilted down and noise of the crowd escalated even more, echoing around the Palatine and Aventine Hills, overlooking the Circus Maximus on either side, and on to the rest of the Seven Hills of Rome.

‘Come on, you Greens! This one has to be ours, lads!’ Marcus Salvius Magnus bawled in excitement to his two companions as the second-placed White chariot misjudged the corner, losing crucial ground and allowing the second Green team to come alongside. Magnus’ breath steamed as the temperature fell with the sun. The baying, sweat-reeking crowd around him, on the Aventine side of the main gates, sported Green colours and had worked themselves up into a frenzied celebration at the prospect of their team’s first win of the day.

‘Twenty-five denarii at eight to one! That’s two hundred, or eight hundred sesterces; Ignatius ain’t going to like that, Magnus,’ the huge bald man next to him shouted, punching the stump of his left wrist in the air.

‘Too right, Marius, we’ve finally got that bastard bookmaker this time, and with our biggest bet of the day.’ Magnus’ scarred, ex-boxer’s face creased into a grin; he looked down at the wooden receipt for the bet, signed by the bookmaker Ignatius, grasped in a massive fist of his other companion. ‘Two hundred denarii – that’s almost as much as a legionary earns in a year! It’ll make Ignatius’ eyes water and swell the brotherhood’s coffers nicely. Fancy a couple of whores tonight, Sextus?’

‘A couple of whores?’ Sextus ruminated, slowly digesting the thought whilst keeping his eyes fixed on the action down on the track far below, where the second Green driver was drawing a small knife from the protective leather strapping around his chest. ‘Right you are, Magnus, if you’re sure we can afford it after what we’ve lost today.’

‘We’ve lost five denarii in nine races, my slow friend, that’s forty-five; we’re one hundred and fifty-five denarii up. We could afford five hundred whores.’

Sextus’ ox-like face creased with strained concentration as he tried – but failed – to get to grips with such advanced arithmetic. ‘With learning like that, brother, I can understand how you got to be the patronus of our Crossroads Brotherhood.’

‘If the leader of the Brotherhood can’t count, Sextus, then how is he going to be able to check that everyone in the South Quirinal has paid their rightful dues to us in order to enjoy our continued protection?’

‘Then that rules me out of ever becoming leader.’

‘Yes, that and the fact that you’d have to kill me first.’

The crowd’s thrilled roar drew Magnus’ attention back to the race as the White and Green chariots touched wheels, shattering the eight spokes in both of them in a hail of splintering wood. The Green immediately slashed at the reins tied around his waist with his knife and, severing them, bailed out as the wheels of both vehicles fragmented. At a speed of more than thirty miles per hour, the chariots’ unsupported sides juddered down on to the sand, their naked axles gouging deep furrows, abruptly slowing them and jerking the traces of the two teams of horses, causing them to slew into each other and rebound. With the weight of its driver gone, the Green chariot twisted up into the air, its remaining wheel spinning freely, and arced, with delicious inevitability, over on to the White charioteer. The fast-rotating iron tyre scraped through the skin of his neck with a spray of blood as it knocked him sideways off the chariot to crunch down, unconscious, on to the track with the reins still wrapped about his waist; his team ran on, dragging him along the scouring sand as his vehicle disintegrated around him.

The leading Green was clear.

‘A selfless act, and the best way to deal with the favourite,’ Magnus pronounced at the top of his voice, watching with approval the downed Green charioteer scrabble to his feet and leap on to the spina, narrowly avoiding a trampled death beneath the hooves of three chasing teams. ‘One and a half laps to go and nobody near our man; we’ll collect the money, brothers, and then go and wait outside the senators’ enclosure to escort Senator Pollo home.’

With the result of the race now a foregone conclusion most of the crowd sat back down and amused themselves by watching the attempts of the crashed White’s hortator – the single horsemen attached to each of the twelve racers for exactly this purpose – to pull up the bolting team before their charioteer had all the skin scraped from his limbs. Only the Green faction stayed standing to cheer on the progress of their hero of the moment.

Sure of victory and uninterested in the White charioteer’s fate, Magnus looked around for one of the bookmakers’ slaves who patrolled the crowd with leather bags around their waists, taking bets on behalf of their owners. ‘You, boy!’ he shouted, spotting one of Ignatius’ many slaves circulating amongst the spectators. ‘Over here.’

The elderly slave gave a deferential nod and made his way through the celebrating Green supporters, who had begun pointing and droning crude chants at the White faction on the Palatine side of the gates; they replied with obscene gestures and jeering.

The seventh dolphin fell as the Green chariot, its driver punching the air, crossed the winning line in front of the White faction’s seats; the Greens’ joy was completed by the sight of the White charioteer being carried away, quite evidently dead.

‘Where’s your master, boy?’ Magnus asked as the slave approached.

The old man pointed to the colonnaded walkway above the seating. ‘Up there, sir, next to the statue of Neptune.’

Magnus tugged at the sleeves of Marius’ and Sextus’ tunics. ‘Come on, lads; let’s cash our bet with the man himself so that we can have the pleasure of seeing his face.’

His Crossroads Brethren grinned in anticipation of Ignatius’ expression as he counted out what would, in all likelihood, be his biggest pay-out of the day. The thought of supplementing the considerable income paid to the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood by local traders and residents in return for protection from rival Brotherhoods was a cheering one. They barged past the old slave, who was immediately set upon by other Green supporters who had laid wagers with Ignatius and were now keen to claim their winnings.

The noise of the crowd died down as teams of public slaves poured on to the track to remove mangled chariots and the carcasses of horses and to clear it of thrown objects in preparation for the next race. Magnus and his brothers forced their way to the steps leading up to the walkway and negotiated a path through the tangle of individuals using them as overflow seating. Eventually, after pushing through the crush of people, who, unable to get a seat, were obliged to stand along the colonnade, they managed to get to the walkway that ran along the entire Aventine side of the circus.

‘Now where’s the statue of Neptune?’ Magnus muttered, looking along the carved images of gods and great men that punctuated the colonnade; between them, at regular intervals, were wooden desks at which bookmakers sat counting coinage and clacking abacuses, surrounded by piles of wax tablets, and guarded by thuggish-looking men with cudgels. ‘There it is; I’d know Neptune’s trident anywhere.’

Ignatius’ four guards shifted warily, nervous at being approached by three men just as brutish as themselves; they slapped their cudgels into the palms of their hands, feeling their weight with threatening intent.

Magnus raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘No need for that sort of behaviour, lads; we’re here to collect our rightful winnings from my old friend Ignatius.’

The man seated behind the desk looked up, midway through tallying a pile of bronze sesterces; his face was as fearsome as those of the men guarding him: lantern jaw, broken nose, dark eyes sunken beneath an overhanging forehead. His attire, however, was not that of a street thug: those days were long behind him, their memory preserved in the livid scars on his left cheek and well-muscled forearms; beneath his white, citizen’s toga he wore a saffron-coloured tunic of finest wool and around his neck, falling to the pectoral muscles on his expansive chest, hung the heaviest and longest gold-linked chain that Magnus had ever seen. ‘Magnus, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’ His voice was deep and gruff and his accent betrayed his lowly roots in Rome’s poorest district, the Subura, although he did his best to cover it. ‘I trust that I’ve been having a good afternoon at your expense?’

‘A very good afternoon for the first nine races, Ignatius, you took forty-five in silver off us; a pity about the last race though. Give him the receipt, Sextus.’

Ignatius leaned forward and took the proffered piece of wood bearing his signature along with the number of the bet. ‘Two hundred and eleven.’ Taking up a wax tablet from the top of a pile, he scanned it quickly, raising his pronounced eyebrows and tutted. ‘It seems I owe you money.’

‘It does look that way.’

Ignatius pulled out a heavy-looking strong-box from under the desk. ‘I’d better pay it then, although I don’t understand why you came all the way up here for such a trifling amount when you could have saved yourself the trouble and had one of my slaves pay it out.’

‘Yeah, very funny, Ignatius; that’s going to be your biggest payout today. Now get on with it.’

Ignatius shrugged and unlocked the box; he scooped out a large double handful of silver denarii and began to count them out into stacks of ten. When he had completed four and a half such piles he stopped and pushed them across the desk, toppling them with a metallic clatter.

‘That’s our business completed, I believe.’

‘I may not be able to read, Ignatius, but I can certainly count, and that is nowhere near two hundred denarii plus our original twenty-five stake.’

‘You’re absolutely right, my friend; that’s forty denarii and your original five stake.’

‘We put down twenty-five. Sextus, tell him, you laid the bet.’

Sextus nodded slowly at the memory. ‘Yeah, Magnus, the slave was a young lad with curly black hair; I gave him twenty-five in silver on the Green’s first chariot at eight to one.’

‘Well, my friends, I’ve written down on my ledger: bet two hundred and eleven, Sextus, five denarii, Green first to win, eight to one.’ He picked another tablet up from a different pile and proffered it to Magnus. ‘And this is the slave’s record of all the bets he took on the last race; it says exactly the same thing, but I suppose it’s a waste of time showing it to you gentleman as it probably just looks like a collection of squiggles to you.’

Magnus knocked the tablet away and jabbed his forefinger towards the bookmaker’s face. ‘Listen, Ignatius, I don’t give a fuck about what you wrote down; we made a bet and expect it to be honoured.’

Ignatius remained unruffled; he added another five denarii to the fifth pile. ‘Take the money I owe you plus, as gesture of goodwill, an extra five so that we’re completely even on the day’s transactions as I’ve recorded them; in fact, I’ll even make it easy for you.’ He scooped back the fifty denarii. ‘You can have it in gold.’ He smiled, coldly and without mirth, in a take-it-or-leave-it manner and placed two golden aurei on the desk with a couple of hollow clacks. ‘And now piss off before I’m forced to have my lads break open your skulls.’

Magnus tensed, as if he was about to leap over the desk, and felt a heavy hand clamp on to each shoulder.

‘I wouldn’t, mate,’ a voice growled in his ear as the other two guards squared up to Sextus and Marius.

Magnus’ eyes locked with those of Ignatius; he breathed deeply, suppressing the urge to explode into foolhardy action. After a few moments, feeling an icy calm settle on him, he shook himself free from the restraining hands, looked with menace at their owners and then scooped up the two aurei. ‘We’re not even, Ignatius, not by a long way. I now owe you and I pay my debts. Always.’ With a final glare at Ignatius, he pushed past the heavies and walked calmly away.

‘What are you going to do, brother?’ Marius asked, catching Magnus up.

‘Go back down and find that slave.’

‘I swear to you, master,’ the young slave pleaded through gritted teeth, ‘I wrote down twenty-five denarii.’

‘And you gave Ignatius all the money?’ Magnus pulled back the lad’s thumb even further as Sextus, looking puzzled, sat with a massive arm around him as if they were having a friendly chat. Marius stood right in front of the group to block the view of the slave’s pained face, but no one in the crowd was taking any notice; their attention was held by the twelve chariots in the second-to-last race parading around the track.

‘Yes, master. Ignatius blinded the last slave he caught cheating him.’

Magnus increased the pressure. ‘So why do you think that he wrote down five instead of twenty-five?’

‘I don’t know, master, but it’s happened before when he’s stood to lose a lot of money with a big bet.’

‘Has it now? And what about your records?’

The slave’s face screwed up even further. ‘They’re written on wax, master, the two Xs can be scraped clean leaving just the V.’

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Menes, master.’

Magnus released his grip. ‘If you know what’s good for you, Menes, you won’t mention our little chat to Ignatius. Now piss off.’

Menes scuttled away and disappeared into the crowd.

Sextus frowned. ‘So did we get the right money or not, Magnus? I mean, can I still have a couple of whores tonight?’

‘No, brother, we did not, but we will; and until we do you’ll just have to make do with one.’

‘Do you think the slave’s lying?’ Marius asked, sitting in Menes’ place.

‘No, brother; I think that Ignatius’ dishonesty means that he has just unwittingly declared war on the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood.’

‘That’s very foolish of him.’

‘Very.’ Magnus stood. ‘Come on, lads, we don’t want to be late for our senator.’

‘Magnus, my friend, I trust you’ve had luck?’ Senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo boomed, waddling down the steps from the senators’ enclosure in a flurry of wobbling belly, jowls and chins.

‘Quite the opposite, senator.’ Magnus took up his position in front of his patron, the man to whom he owed his life, with his brothers at either shoulder, ready to beat a path for him through the departing race-goers disgorging into the urine-scented, cavernous belly of the Circus Maximus.

‘That’s what comes of just betting on your beloved Greens without paying any attention to form.’

‘Once a Green, always a Green, sir.’

Gaius’ full, moist lips broke into a grin as he pushed away a carefully tonged curl of hair from his eye. ‘I find it much better to have no such affiliations; it gives me far more room for manoeuvre and a better chance of backing the winning team. That, of course, goes for politics as well as racing.’

‘I admire your lack of loyalty, sir.’ Magnus shoved a slow-moving, old man out of the way as they emerged through an arch into the Forum Boarium where the four Racing Factions had their race-day camps; horses and wagonloads of chariots trailed out, heading back to their permanent bases on the Campus Martius, north of the city. The fading, late-afternoon light washed the grand marble buildings on the Palatine above them with a warm glow, despite the dropping temperature.

‘I reserve my loyalty for family, patrons and my clients, such as yourself; it’s generally wasted elsewhere.’

‘Except on the Greens.’

Gaius laughed. ‘Have it your own way, Magnus. If it makes you happy to lose your money needlessly, who am I to dissuade you? In the meantime, I have a favour to ask.’

Magnus stopped for a few moments, giving way to a party of higher status. ‘Of course, patronus.’

Gaius nodded at the passing senator, one of this year’s praetors, preceded by his fasces-bearing lictors. ‘As you know, my eldest nephew, Sabinus, has failed for the last two years to get elected as a quaestor; obviously I can’t allow that state of affairs to continue.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘I have to make sure that he gets in this time because next year his younger brother, your friend Vespasian, will be old enough to stand and I certainly won’t be able to afford two sets of bribes; not to mention the friction it’ll cause in their already strained relationship.’

‘Surely your patron, the Lady Antonia, could help; the support of the Emperor Tiberius’ sister-in-law for Sabinus would be invaluable.’

‘I’m nervous about asking her to involve herself in matters, like quaestor elections, so far beneath her.’

‘She involves herself with some matters way beneath her.’

Gaius chuckled. ‘She’s always loved a boxer; is she still demanding your services?’

Magnus grunted. ‘Yeah, well, now and again I get a summons.’

‘I’ve made an appointment to see her tomorrow morning concerning another issue and I wouldn’t want to make two requests of her at the same time; you know how demanding her reciprocal favours can be.’

‘I do – at first hand, as it were.’

‘So I have to look elsewhere for support for Sabinus and that’s where I’ll need your particular skills.’

‘I assume, therefore, that pressure needs to be applied or an incentive offered, if you take my meaning?’

‘I do indeed; but in this case pressure would be risky.’

‘So you have someone in mind?’

‘I think it would help if the Senior Consul publically supported Sabinus.’

‘Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus?’ Magnus turned in horror to Gaius. ‘You must be mad, begging your pardon, to think about influencing him, sir, he’s a monster.’

‘He is.’

‘He pulled an eques’ eye out in the forum just because he criticised him.’

‘And only last month he purposely ran over, with his quadriga, a small boy playing on the Via Appia. What better person to support Sabinus? If Ahenobarbus backs him a lot of other people will vote for him too, to keep on the right side of the monster.’

Magnus looked dubious as Marius and Sextus, either side of him, used their strong arms to ease their way through the crush. ‘Why don’t you just bribe him?’

‘I will, and handsomely so; but everyone else is too. He’s taking money from all the candidates and will end up supporting the one who pays him most. The trouble is I don’t know whether my bribe will be enough and I can’t afford to increase it; somehow it needs to be supplemented.’

‘So you want me to ease him in the right direction.’

‘Exactly, but without him realising that I’m behind it as I fully intend to have both my eyes still in place once Sabinus is elected quaestor.’

‘And how do you think I can manage that?’

‘I’ve no wish to know, Magnus my loyal friend; but you’ve served me well before and I’ve complete trust in your ability to solve even the most delicate of problems.’

The ceaseless night-time clatter and rumble of delivery carts – banished from Rome’s packed streets during the day – had begun in earnest by the time Magnus and his companions reached the tavern, at the junction of the Vicus Longus and the Alta Semita, that served as the headquarters of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood. Magnus checked the flame on the altar of the Crossroads Lares – the deities of the neighbourhood – the upkeep of which was the original purpose of the formation of the many such brotherhoods in Rome; satisfied with it, he patted the brother guarding it on the shoulder and stepped through the door into the fug of the crowded tavern.

‘A legionary back on leave called in to see you,’ an old man with gnarled hands informed him, looking up from a scroll on the wine-stained table before him.

‘Did he leave a name, Servius?’

‘Just the one: Lucius. He said that you’d remember him from Thracia and Moesia a couple of years ago; he’s serving with the Fourth Scythica.’

Magnus looked at his aged counsellor and second in command, recalling the name for a couple of moments, and then smiled. ‘Lucius? Yeah, I remember him; Vespasian saved him from execution in Thracia; he owes him big. He used to work as a stable lad for the Greens before he joined up; he’s still got contacts there, promised me a few tips.’

‘He’s going to be at the Greens’ stables on the Campus Martius from noon tomorrow; he said you should drop by, he’d give you the tour that he promised when he last saw you.’

‘Did he now? I may well take him up on that, it’d take my mind off a couple of problems we’ve got; come through to the back room, we need to talk.’

‘Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus!’ Servius exclaimed as Magnus finished talking; his gaunt, lined face appeared waxen in the light of a single oil lamp. ‘He’s a monster; no one in their right mind would meddle in his affairs.’

Magnus poured them both a cup of wine from the jug on the table between them. ‘That’s what I said, but the senator needs him to back Sabinus.’

‘I suppose Sabinus getting elected and taking a seat in the senate could be useful for us.’

‘Possibly; and then his younger brother, Vespasian, will follow him and we’ll have three tame senators to call upon should we run into difficulties with the authorities; but Sabinus first.’

‘If we can get Ahenobarbus to support him.’

‘Which is a big “if”, brother. So what do you know about him?’

‘Apart from the fact that, just like all his ancestors, he’s violent, cruel and arrogant?’

Magnus waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know all that.’

‘He’s very greedy; he hoards money and hates giving it away. When he was a praetor he used to refuse to hand over the prize money to charioteers in the games he sponsored; he found it bad enough being forced to put on the games without having the extra expense of rewarding the winners. It’s ironic really because he loves chariot-racing; he attends every race and is a fanatical supporter of the Reds. All his family are because their beards grow that colour.’

‘I fucking loathe the Reds almost as much as I do the Blues.’

‘I know, don’t we all? But the Whites loathe them even more than we do.’

‘I ain’t that keen on the Whites either. What else?’

‘He’s married but doesn’t have children.’

‘Likes it rough the other way?’

‘Likes it rough any way. He married his wife four years ago when she was just thirteen; apparently every time she’s been seen in public since she’s had bruises all over her face and arms.’

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘Oh, he is, believe me.’

‘So how do we get to him?’

‘We’ve got time to think; the elections aren’t for another few months. What was the other problem? You said there were two.’

‘Ah, yes; Ignatius.’ Magnus downed his wine and related the events of the afternoon.

‘What are you thinking of doing?’ Servius asked, having heard the story without a flicker of emotion.

‘We could kill him but he’s well protected and anyway that’s too clean and quick for what he did. I can’t allow people to humiliate me in front of a couple of the brothers; that sort of thing gets around and before you know it there’re mutterings about a change of leadership. I want to see him suffer and I want the brothers to be reminded about what happens to men who cross me.’

‘Ruin him, then; but the problem is how to place a bet with him big enough to do that and certain enough to win.’

Magnus thought for a few moments and then smiled; his dark eyes twinkled in the lamplight. ‘We need to fix a race.’

Servius pulled at the loose, wrinkled skin of his throat. ‘Of course we do.’

‘You can get odds of forty or fifty to one for all three chariots of one team to come in first, second and third.’

‘Yes, but he’s got to be worth at least a million denarii; you’d still have to bet at least twenty-five thousand denarii to have a chance of ruining him. That’s a thousand aurei. We don’t have that sort of money; and, even if we did, how would we make him pay up?’

‘No, we don’t have that sort of money, nor would Ignatius be terrified enough of us to honour the bet even if we did, but . . .’ Magnus paused and winked at Servius.

The old man broke into a brown-toothed grin. ‘I take your meaning: there is someone who would frighten Ignatius into parting with his last sestertius, and he certainly does have that sort of cash. But how could you make Ahenobarbus place such a bet with him?’

‘That’s where Ignatius’ greed will be his downfall. I think, brother, that, despite how much the idea repulses me, we’re going to organise a Red one-two-three.’

Magnus pushed his way through the drinkers in the tavern, past the amphorae-lined bar and on to his table in the far corner, which had a good view of the door; the regulars knew better than to occupy it and passing customers, who lacked the benefit of such knowledge, were soon made aware of their transgression.

A Greek with a nasty scar along his jaw, which reduced his beard to clumps, brought a jug of wine and a cup and set it on the table.

‘Thanks, Cassandros,’ Magnus grunted. ‘Sit down a moment.’

Cassandros complied whilst pouring Magnus’ wine.

‘I need you to do what for you should be a pleasant job.’

Cassandros grinned lopsidedly. ‘So I’ll be mixing business with pleasure.’

‘Very much so. Tomorrow I want you to go down to the Campus Martius and hang around the Red stables.’

Cassandros’ face fell. ‘But tomorrow is the Lupercalia.’

‘And you’re going to miss it. I know you enjoy watching patrician youths running naked through the streets whipping women with thongs of goatskin but, let’s face it, the ceremony is to help women conceive and therefore completely irrelevant to a man of your tastes. Instead you’re going to find yourself a nice attractive Red stable lad or whatever and show him a good time; Servius will give you some cash to cover your expenses. Take him home, give him a serious going-over and leave him panting for more, if you take my meaning?’

‘I do indeed, brother. How long do you want me to keep him desirous of my services?’

‘Shouldn’t be more than a month I’d guess; and then I’ll be wanting some information from him.’

Cassandros frowned. ‘You’re not thinking of betting on the Reds, are you?’

‘Why would a lifelong Green do a thing like that? Don’t you worry about what I’m thinking of doing; you just concern yourself with making a nice young lad very friendly.’

‘Only the aedile in charge of the games can do that,’ Gaius informed Magnus as they made their way up the Palatine, rife with crowds, the following morning. ‘Only four bookmakers are licensed to operate in the senators’ enclosure: Albus, Fabricius, Blasius and Glaucio; and all of them have paid very hefty bribes for the privilege, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s a very lucrative position.’

‘Do you know the aedile?’ Magnus asked as a group of women came running, laughing and screeching in excitement, towards them.

‘I do.’

The women dashed past, their laughter and footsteps echoing off the grand buildings of the Palatine, pursued by a group of naked youths, in varying states of arousal, lashing at them with freshly cut, bloody strips of goatskin. The crowds on the pavements cheered them on; young girls held out their hands to be whipped, giggling as the youths obliged them.

‘And?’ Magnus asked as Gaius eyed the youths in appreciation, turning his head as they passed.

‘And it makes no difference. There’re already four book-makers with the senatorial-enclosure licence.’

‘What would happen if there were suddenly three?’

‘Ah! That would be a different matter altogether; then there would be a vacancy which the aedile would be duty-bound to fill.’

‘Do you know him well enough to make a recommendation?’

Gaius tore his eyes from the retreating youths’ buttocks and gave Magnus a sly look. ‘And whom should I be recommending?’

‘Ignatius.’

‘A friend of yours?’

‘Quite the opposite.’

‘Then why help him?’

‘It’s partly to do with Sabinus.’

‘In which case I’ll be only too pleased to help – but it’ll be expensive.’

‘Don’t worry, senator, you’ll be able to recoup that money and a lot more besides.’

They stopped outside a single-storey house that, although tall and grand in structure, was not ostentatious compared to other buildings on the Palatine. Its windowless walls were painted a plain white, and it lacked any extraneous decoration.

Gaius slapped Magnus on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Magnus. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for me whilst I have my interview with Antonia, I shouldn’t be long.’

‘Of course, senator. One thing before you go in: does Antonia have anything to do with Ahenobarbus?’

‘He’s her nephew, the son of her late elder sister, another Antonia. And he’s married to her granddaughter, Agrippina.’

‘Is he now? Does Antonia have any influence over him?’

Gaius rapped on the bronze-studded oaken door. ‘A little, but not enough to make him forgo all the bribes from the other candidates.’ A viewing slat slipped back and after a brief pause the doors were opened. Gaius walked in leaving Magnus deep in thought.

‘I thought the offer of a tour would be of interest to you.’ A broad-shouldered young man with military-style cropped hair and a tanned face greeted Magnus at the entrance of the Greens’ stables in the shadow of the Flaminian Circus.

‘More than you would know, Lucius, my friend.’ Magnus grasped the proffered forearm. ‘It’s good of you to remember your promise. When did you get back from Moesia?’

‘A couple of days ago; I’ve got a month’s leave in the city. Let’s go in.’

Lucius led Magnus through the arched gate, acknowledging two guards who made Ignatius’ protectors look like boy-players in the theatre.

‘How come they let you in?’ Magnus asked, eying the two colossi.

‘All my family work for the Greens; my uncle’s the stable-master now, I can come and go as I please.’

They walked into a busy, rectangular yard, two hundred paces long and half that across. The two long sides consisted of solely of stables, hundreds of them; whilst the shorter sides housed a mixture of workshops, forges, warehouses and offices. The air was scented with the sweet, animal smell of horses and filled with the sound of their hooves clattering on the paved ground as they were exercised in groups of four or in pairs. At one end, teams of carpenters were repairing those chariots only mildly damaged in yesterday’s racing, replacing broken struts in the light frames and restretching green linen over them. Next to them blacksmiths fitted glowing-red iron tyres on the eight-spoked wheels and dipped them, steaming and hissing, into tubs of water, contracting the metal so it fitted tightly around the rim. Everywhere there was activity: hunched leather-workers stitching harnesses and traces, dusty grooms currying horses, sweating slaves unloading bags of feed from a covered wagon, boys running errands, axles being greased; hammering, joking, neighing, sawing, shouting and whickering – all the business of a faction’s stables on the day after a race.

‘Were you there yesterday?’ Magnus asked as they wove their way through the plethora of pursuits.

‘Of course, I was helping my uncle in the Forum Boarium; we had a hundred and forty-four horses in the teams yesterday, plus all the hortatores’ mounts and the spares. Busy day.’

‘And only one winner.’

‘Yeah, shit, weren’t it? We haven’t had a day like it for years even through it was only a half-day’s racing. The faction-master was livid; although judging by the size of his purse at the end of the day he wasn’t just betting on his own team.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Yeah. Especially as it’s not allowed for anyone who works in the faction’s stables; one rule for them and one rule for us – you know how it is, my friend. If we get caught betting on another team we get expelled from the stables.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s assumed that the only reason you would want to bet on an inferior team is because you’ve been fraternising with them and got some tips in exchange for information about your own team’s plans or, even worse, you’ve bribed the drivers to throw a race.’

Magnus stroked the muzzle of one of the finest pieces of horseflesh he had ever been close to: a beautiful bay Gaetulian mare from the province of Africa.

‘Spendusa,’ Lucius informed him. ‘She’s a rarity.’

‘I know; most racehorses are stallions.’

Spendusa whickered gently, her breath and soft, flaccid lips warming the palm of Magnus’ hand.

‘We have one team of mares. It’s a new idea: we don’t expect them to win but we’re going to use them when they come on heat. The hope is that they’ll distract the stallions in the other teams and allow our other two chariots to come in first and second.’

‘But they’ll be just as distracted as the rest.’

‘Not if they’re two teams of geldings.’

‘Nice.’ Magnus grinned and stroked Spendusa’s well-muscled flank. ‘Will it work?’

‘My uncle says that it already has in experiments in the Flaminian Circus. The stallions under-perform – they’re too busy trying to get a sniff; whereas the geldings just press on thinking about nothing more than their feed-bag at the end of the race.’

Magnus whistled appreciatively. ‘That’ll piss off the other factions.’

‘It’ll cause a riot.’

‘It will. When are you going to try it?’

‘They’re next on heat at the calends of March, Mars’ birthday. We’re going to put them in one of the races on that day, after the armed priesthood of the Salii have finished their round of the city.’

‘Which race?’

‘I don’t know yet but I’ll tell you when I find out.’

‘Now that’s the sort of information that’s worth a lot of money.’

‘I know. And I’m telling you because I want you to pass it on to Tribune Vespasian as a thank you for his saving me from execution back in Thracia. Hopefully he’ll be able to profit from it.’

Magnus laughed and slapped an arm around Lucius’ shoulders. ‘And Vestals will stop taking a close interest in their middle fingers. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong thank-you gift there, my friend; Vespasian’s about as likely to put money down on a wager as I am to take it up the arse from a Nubian. And, besides, he’s away from Rome for a few months at his estate in Cosa. I, on the other hand, will be only too pleased to profit in his stead.’

Lucius shrugged. ‘Fair enough, I owe you as well. I should know which race we’re entering them for by Equirria festival, two days before the calends. Come and see me then.’

‘What do you know about the bookmakers Albus, Fabricius, Blasius and Glaucio?’ Magnus asked Servius. They were sitting on one of the rough wooden tables outside the crossroads tavern, idly throwing dice; no money was involved. Around them, the Brotherhood was similarly occupied whilst at the same time keeping their eyes on the constant stream of passersby making their way to and from the Porta Collina, just a couple of hundred paces away along the Alta Semita, or frequenting the open-fronted shops on the ground floor of tenements that lined the street.

‘Aside from the fact that they are all licensed to operate in the senators’ enclosure in the Circus Maximus?’

Magnus smiled, impressed by the speed with which his counsellor made the connection. ‘Yes, I know that.’

‘Albus and Glaucio both come from the Aventine: born and bred in the tenements on the far side by the granaries; but they now live in far grander houses on the summit. They’ve known each other and been rivals since boyhood; their mutual loathing is surpassed only by a hatred of any other bookmakers. Despite their antipathy they work together to fix odds to protect their businesses.’ Servius threw the dice and grimaced his disgust.

Magnus retrieved the offending articles. ‘So they need each other?’

‘Yes, it’s a perverse sort of loyalty but a strong one.’

‘What about the other two?’

‘Fabricius is a freedman; he lives on the Caelian, close to the Servian Wall. He’s completely ruthless and deals harshly with everyone who crosses him; he even had a neighbour’s house torched because the man built up another storey and took the sun from his garden. Four people died, including the owner, but nothing could be proved, of course. Apart from his bodyguards and bet-takers, Fabricius’ whole household is made up of female slaves who are – how shall I put it? – extremely well fed.’

‘Big and bouncy, eh?’ Magnus chuckled, shaking the dice-cup and throwing.

‘Which is ironic as he has no spare flesh on him whatsoever; although I’m told he eats like a slave at the Saturnalia.’

Magnus examined his score. ‘So he wallows in copious amounts of female flesh to make up for it; I suppose it keeps him warm in winter.’

Servius wrinkled his nose. ‘But what about in a hot summer?’ Magnus pushed the dice across the table. ‘Don’t bear thinking about.’

‘Quite. Blasius, however, lives on the west slope of the Esquiline, not far from the Querquetulian Gate. I don’t know anything about him other than he is, like the other three, fabulously wealthy. They’re all as well guarded as people who regularly take huge chunks of senatorial money can expect to be and they all pay for the protection of their local brotherhoods; so they’re very hard to get at – if that is your intention, which I assume it is.’

‘I just need one vacancy so that I can get Ignatius into the senators’ enclosure.’ Magnus glanced past Servius’ shoulder to a party of half a dozen well-dressed, eastern travellers, clearly newly arrived in the city. ‘Tigran! Looks like one for you and your cousin; squeeze them hard.’

A young, almond-skinned man with a pointed, hennaed beard got up from the table next to Magnus. ‘Our pleasure, Magnus. Come, Vahram, let’s show our Roman brothers how to extract the correct toll for travelling through our area.’ His cousin’s eyes glinted and white teeth showed under his beard; the two easterners walked off towards the travellers.

‘Keep an eye on them, Marius, back ’em up if negotiations don’t go smooth.’

‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius got to his feet, indicating to a couple of the brothers to follow him.

Magnus turned his attention back to Servius. ‘So what do you suggest?’

Servius rubbed the palm of his hand over the rough grey stubble on his chin and thought for a few moments. ‘If you’re determined to get at one, then Fabricius is your man.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of where his house is situated; go and have a look tonight.’

An abrupt scream followed by shouts and the clatter of hardened leather soles on stone cut through the background calls of shopkeepers, street-traders and haggling customers. Magnus swung round and immediately leapt to his feet, drawing a short, street-fighter’s knife from his belt. One of the two cousins lay writhing in the road whilst the other, Tigran, was fending off the swords of two of the travellers with only a knife as Marius and his two brothers weighed into the rest.

‘With me, lads!’ Magnus shouted at the rest of his brethren, who were jumping to their feet in a scraping of wooden tables pushed forward and benches falling back. Magnus powered into one of Tigran’s opponents, body-checking him to the ground and slashing his blade across the man’s forearm as the young easterner fell to his knees clutching at a bloody wound in his shoulder. Stamping on the downed man’s kneecap with brittle crunch, Magnus twisted and grabbed the flowing hair of Tigran’s second assailant; as the man raised his weapon for the killing blow to the wounded brother, Magnus jerked back his head and pressed a blood-slick blade to his exposed throat. ‘I’d drop that if I were you, bum-boy, it’s illegal to carry swords in our city.’ Ramming his knee up between the man’s buttocks to emphasise the point, Magnus slowly applied pressure to his knife; the easterner’s sword fell ringing to the ground and he went limp.

Magnus threw the man down on to the ground, spitting at him in disgust, and looked around; the fight had drawn a crowd. ‘Get rid of them, Marius.’

‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius headed off without sheathing his knife; the crowd began to disperse without needing to be told to mind their own business and not that of their local Crossroads Brotherhood.

The six travellers were all down and in various states of consciousness and pain; their slaves, carrying the baggage, hung back, looking with fearful eyes at their masters, unsure what to do. Tigran still clutched his wound, trying to stem the bleeding, his face contorted in agony and sorrow as he stared down at the glazed eyes of his cousin, Vahram.

‘What the fuck happened there?’ Magnus exploded. ‘It’s meant to be a generous offer to provide protection, for a small fee, through our territory; not a fucking declaration of war!’

Tigran tore his eyes from his cousin’s immobile face and stared up at Magnus. ‘It was all agreed: a denarius for each traveller and two for the slaves.’ He pointed to an easterner lying next to Vahram, moaning softly in a pool of blood that oozed from his abdomen. ‘He said he would pay the eight denarii and put his hand under his cloak; we thought he was getting out his purse, but instead out comes a sword and he plunges it into Vahram.’

From along the street came the staccato clatter of hobnailed sandals.

‘Fucking great!’ Magnus spat. ‘Now the Urban Cohorts are getting involved.’

*

‘The Urban Prefect will have to hear of this,’ the Urban Cohort centurion informed Magnus, staring down at the dead and wounded. ‘He’s issued orders for us to crack down on street violence, especially involving the brotherhoods.’

Magnus nodded, feigning a look of sympathetic understanding. ‘Rightly so, centurion, some of them are vicious; it’s getting to the stage that decent folk can’t walk about the city in safety. We, however, try and enforce the law in our area.’ With his foot he flicked back the cloak of one of the wounded easterners to reveal a scabbard. ‘See? Carrying swords in the city; only you lads and the Praetorians are allowed to do that. We were just trying to explain that to them, as they were obviously new to Rome and must have been unacquainted with that particular law. It cost one of my men his life.’

The centurion looked down at the evidence whilst his men continued to surround the area with their weapons drawn. ‘I’ll still need to make a report.’

‘Of course. I would have done the same when I was in the Cohorts.’

‘You were in one of the Urban Cohorts?’

‘I finished my time ten years ago. I believe my mate, Aelianus, is still the quartermaster down at the depot?’

The centurion grinned. ‘That old crook, yeah; he should have been discharged years ago but he seems to cling on.’

‘It’s a very lucrative business being in charge of all that gear.’

‘I’m sure it is; I’ve been trying to get new boots for my century for the last two months.’

‘What’s your name, centurion?’

‘Nonus Manilus Rufinus.’

‘Well, Rufinus, today is your lucky day; I’ll have a word with Aelianus and the next time you put in a request for boots mention my name, Marcus Salvius Magnus. I think you’ll find Aelianus very accommodating and I’d be surprised if your lads get their pay deducted for the new gear.’

‘That’s very good of you, Magnus.’

‘Not a problem, my friend. Now what are we going to do about these fucking easterners that killed one of my men with their illegal swords?’

Rufinus scratched the back of his head. ‘I’ll take them down to the cohort depot and lock them up until the Urban Prefect decides what to do with them.’ He looked closely at the belly-wound of Vahram’s killer. ‘If they survive, that is. Obviously I’ll have to make a report; we can’t allow people to flout the law like that. Naturally I’ll emphasise that it was self-defence on your part.’

‘Naturally. And there won’t be any mention of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood?’

‘Of course not; that will just get the Urban Prefect upset and we wouldn’t want to do that; he’s getting on.’

‘A wise precaution, Rufinus; I believe he’s going to be eighty this year.’ Magnus indicated the easterners’ slaves, who had been rounded up into a tight group. ‘Shall we just take the blood-money now, out of whatever they’ve got in their baggage?’

Rufinus shrugged. ‘I suppose that would make matters easier; if you’re happy with the blood-money then the murder could be forgotten about. Take what you like.’

‘It’ll be simpler if we just take everything; you will come round and pick up your share once you’re off duty this evening, won’t you?’

‘Of course. I’d better take the slaves though, just in case . . . you know.’ Rufinus waved his hand in a vague manner.

‘I do indeed,’ Magnus assured him. ‘You never know.’

‘Quite.’

‘Would you like some of my lads to help your boys carry the bastards to the depot?’

‘We’ll manage, Magnus. I’ll see you later when I come for my . . . er . . .’

‘It’ll be waiting for you, my friend.’

‘A third goes to Tigran, a third to Rufinus and a third to the Brotherhood,’ Servius said, clacking at an abacus. ‘Which means that, in coin, one share is one hundred and twenty-one aurei.’

Magnus whistled softly and stopped pacing around the small back room. ‘No wonder they were armed, walking around with over three thousand denarii on them. What were they going to do with all that money?’

‘I don’t know; but what is for sure is that they won’t like losing it. They’ll come looking for it if they’re freed.’

‘They’ll be dead in a few days; they’re not citizens. Rufinus will make his report very damning once he’s seen how much he stands to gain by their execution. I wouldn’t worry about it, brother, and it’s no more than they deserve after killing Vahram. We need to concentrate on more important business: it’s time I took a gander at Fabricius’ house.’

‘You can see right into it!’ Magnus muttered in surprise as he looked down from the Servian Wall into the torch-lit courtyard garden of Fabricius’ house, just fifty paces away.

Servius smiled and patted Magnus on the shoulder as they strolled along the walkway. ‘Only because Fabricius burned down the house between here and the wall a couple of months ago; they haven’t started rebuilding it yet.’

Magnus glanced down at the burnt-out ruin below, just visible in the weak moonlight. ‘Silly man, he doesn’t realise just how much that bit of extra sun is going to cost him.’ He stopped and scrutinised the house. The courtyard garden, surrounded by a portico with a sloping, tiled roof, was a decent size for the tightly packed Caelian Hill, stretching forty paces by twenty; although the wall surrounding it was a good twelve feet high, from where he stood, thirty feet up, Magnus could see the door that led into the tablinum and on into the atrium of the house. ‘From here to the door must be almost a hundred paces; if Fabricius walked out of it, it wouldn’t be an impossible shot for a good archer. Tigran’s our man, he’s an easterner; they’re born to the bow.’

‘My thoughts entirely; but he’s not going to come out at night at this time of year and it would be too dangerous to try during the day; Tigran needs the dark to be able to escape cleanly.’

‘Then we’ll have to come up with something that’ll bring him out from under his fat slaves and into the garden. Have Marius and a couple of the lads watch the place for the next few days; we need to get an idea of the household’s routine. In the meantime we’ve got to work out how to prevent three Blue teams and three White teams finishing ahead of the Reds.’

‘What about our Greens?’

‘That’s the easy part, brother; I saw how to do that this afternoon.’

Magnus’ face fell as he walked through the tavern door. A Greek in his late twenties, with a thick black beard and dark, expressionless eyes, sat at his table in the corner. ‘Does she want to see me, Pallas?’

‘She does, master,’ Pallas replied, getting up and bowing his head.

‘There’s no need to do that.’

‘I am a slave and you are freeborn.’

‘Maybe, but you’re also steward to the Lady Antonia.’

‘But still a slave.’

‘Which is what I’m going to be for the rest of the night.’

‘That’s a matter of perception, master. If she demanded it of me I could not refuse to go to her bed; you, on the other hand, could.’

‘And if I did that, then I wouldn’t benefit from her favour.’

The Greek steward raised an eyebrow a fraction. ‘But that would be your free choice, whereas if I refused she’d be within her rights to have me crucified.’

Magnus turned and headed for the door with Pallas following. ‘Yeah, well, however you argue it there’s no getting around the fact that she’s a powerful woman and we all have reason to do her bidding.’

‘And some of her requests are a little more demanding than others, which is why she sends me to fetch you so that she can preserve her dignity and as few people as possible know that she . . . er . . .’

‘Likes to get a hard fucking from ex-boxers?’

Pallas cleared his throat. ‘Precisely.’

*

‘You may go now, Magnus,’ Antonia murmured, lying back on the pillow and staring up into the gloom of the ceiling high above, beyond the reach of the few oil lamps placed around the bed. ‘And take your things.’

‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus looked down at the most powerful woman in Rome and wondered how it had come to this. During his two years as a boxer, after leaving the Urban Cohorts, she had often hired him to fight as an after-dinner entertainment for her friends; like many other respectable Roman matrons, she would sometimes retain him for services of a different nature after the party broke up. He had always performed his duty with diligence, acceding to all her demands – which were numerous and sometimes not for the faint-hearted. However, once he had retired from fighting, the massive difference in their social status precluded any liaison until he had met his patron Senator Pollo’s nephews, Vespasian and Sabinus. They had been favoured by Antonia and because Magnus’ loyalty was to Senator Pollo and his family, his and Antonia’s paths had crossed a few years previously; since then she had made regular demands on his services. It was not so bad, he reflected as he retied his loincloth; for a woman in her mid-sixties she was still attractive. Her skin remained smooth with only a few wrinkles around her sparkling green eyes: eyes that never missed a single detail. She wore very little make-up; her high cheekbones, strong chin and full lips needed no embellishment. Even with her auburn hair loose and dishevelled she still managed to look like the high-born patrician that she was; an image helped by the fact that she had not run to fat and her body had not yet creased and sagged.

Magnus slipped on his tunic, gently rubbing the bite-marks on his shoulder. ‘Domina?’

‘Are you still here?’

‘I have a favour to ask, domina.’

‘What is it?’

‘I would like you to give someone a racing tip.’

‘To whom and why?’ Antonia turned over languidly to lie on her belly, her eyes closed and her face nestled into the pillow; the sheet fell away from her buttocks.

Magnus admired his handiwork. ‘To your nephew, Ahenobarbus.’

‘You don’t want to get involved with him; he’s probably the most unpleasant member of my family. I’m just pleased that he and Agrippina haven’t managed to breed yet; a child of that union would be atrocious.’

Magnus knew enough about the imperial family to understand that was condemnation indeed.

‘I don’t want to get involved with him; I was hoping to do this without him ever knowing where you got your information from – until it’s been proven reliable, if you take my meaning?’

‘Why do you want him to win at the races?’

‘I don’t want him to win as much as I want him to place a bet with a bookmaker called Ignatius, big enough to ruin Ignatius when he does win.’

‘If he wins.’

‘Oh, he’ll win all right; it’ll be a sure thing.’

‘How much do you want him to put down?’

‘A thousand aurei on a Red one-two-three at odds of around fifty to one.’

‘And if he wins then the bookmaker will owe him over a million denarii; it would probably break him.’

‘Yes, domina.’

‘This bookmaker has upset you, I take it.’

‘Very much, domina.’

‘Ahenobarbus might not believe me.’

‘I know, so before he places the big bet we’ll have a practice run on the races on the calends of March; then he can judge just how good the information he’s getting is. If you’re willing to grant me this favour, have Pallas meet me at the Temple of Mars in Augustus’ Forum that morning at the third hour.’

‘I’ll think about it, Magnus; now leave me.’

‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus scooped up his sandals, took the short black-leather whip from off the bed and left the room.

‘The Whites bring their teams out of their stables’ gates and turn right, past the Pantheon and the Baths of Agrippa; they then pass between Pompey’s theatre and the Flaminian Circus and on to the Fabrician Bridge and over the Tiber Island,’ Servius informed Magnus as they stood in the rain outside the Villa Publica on the Campus Martius, three days later. ‘They cross the river, turn left along the Via Aurelia and go across the Aemilian Bridge and then through the Porta Flumentana and into the Forum Boarium, the race-day camp for all four teams. The Reds also take that route; however, the Urban Prefect never lets the Reds go at the same time as the Whites – that way he avoids any faction trouble.’

Magnus digested the information for a few moments; drops of rain trickled off his wide-brimmed leather hat. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. ‘What about the Sublician Bridge?’

‘To stop any rabble getting into the teams’ camp, that’s always closed on a race day as it too leads directly into the Forum Boarium.’

‘So the only ways to cross the river near the Circus Maximus on a race day are across the Tiber Island and the Aemilian Bridge.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What about the Greens and Blues?’

‘They take a different route. They don’t cross and recross the river; they enter the city through the Porta Carmentalis and then cross Velabrum and enter the Forum Boarium from the east.’

‘Why are there two different routes?’

‘To avoid congestion.’

‘And they always stick to the same route?’

‘Always. You wouldn’t know this because our connections mean we can always get into the circus whenever we want; however, hundreds of thousands of people can’t and they line the routes so that they can see their favoured teams pass.’

‘How the masses live, eh?’

Servius spat; his saliva was immediately lost in a rain-battered puddle. ‘Fucking rabble. Come on, brother, let’s get back before my old bones seize up.’

‘How far in advance do they bring the teams in?’ Magnus asked as they turned to go.

‘Normally, on a twenty-four-race day, they start by bringing in the twelve chariots for the first four races plus the spares for the day and all the hortatores; then they do relays of twelve throughout the day so that the Forum Boarium doesn’t get too crowded.’

Magnus grinned despite the rain. ‘So if we were to stop the Whites bringing their last relay of twelve in then they wouldn’t have any teams in the final four races, would they, brother?’

‘Don’t forget the spares.’

‘How many do they have?’

‘It depends on the fitness of the horses, but normally between three and six teams, never more because of shortage of space.’

‘So we could guarantee the last two races being free from Whites?’

‘It’s possible; but how would you do it? They’re very well guarded and if you were to block the way they would just go back and take another route to the circus.’

‘Not if we block the bridges and trap them on the wrong side of the river.’

‘But the Reds would be trapped as well.’

‘Not if we time it right. Let’s invite Nonus Manilus Rufinus over for a little chat when he gets off duty this evening.’

‘So what have you learnt, brother?’ Magnus asked, rubbing his hands over a portable brazier as Marius walked into the tavern’s back room.

‘Fabricius doesn’t go out much and when he does he’s very well guarded.’

‘As we expected,’ Servius commented, taking a sip from a steaming cup of hot wine; his eyes watered from the brazier’s smoke.

Magnus indicated the jug on the table. ‘Help yourself, brother. What about his household?’

Marius poured himself a cup, chuckling. ‘Well, every morning two of his fat slaves – and they really are fat, you should see ’em, Magnus, you’d have to roll ’em in flour and look for the damp patch. Anyway, every morning the same two head off for the market to buy whatever they need for the day. They come back a couple of hours later laden with stuff; it’s unbelievable how much they all eat.’

‘Fabricius likes to keep them fat and he can well afford it.’

‘Well, I ain’t ever seen the like of it, Magnus.’

‘Are they guarded when they go?’

‘No, who would want to touch ’em?’

‘We would. Tomorrow, brother, I want you to invite those two well-formed ladies here for a little bit of the brotherhood’s hospitality, if you take my meaning?’

Marius’ eyes glinted with amusement over the rim of his cup. ‘They’re big old beasts; it’ll take more than me and my two lads.’

‘Take Sextus; what he lacks in brains he makes up for in brawn.’

Marius turned to leave, taking his cup with him. ‘Right you are, Magnus; I’ll have them here by the third hour of the day.’

‘Make sure you do, brother; and don’t let them see your faces or where you take them.’

‘Of course not, Magnus.’ Marius opened the door and stepped out.

‘Leave the door open; let’s get some of this smoke out.’

Servius rubbed his eyes. ‘Thanks.’

‘We’ll be ready to do this first part tomorrow night; how’s Tigran doing with his archery practice?’

‘He says he’s fine; his wound has healed nicely. The last couple of days he’s gone out into the country each morning and has been practising shooting at a sack of hay a hundred paces away; he reckons to hit it nine times out of ten.’

‘Let’s hope it’s not the tenth shot tomorrow. Tell him to practise all day and to be here by nightfall. And get one of the lads to purchase a couple of snakes first thing in the morning, but not poisonous ones.’

Servius picked up a stylus and a wax tablet and scratched a note. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, reading a previous note. ‘Cassandros came in this morning; he says he’s been doing very nicely with a young lad from the Reds. I’ll spare you the details, but the boy enjoys all of Cassandros’ little hobbies and can’t get enough of one in particular.’

Magnus winced and looked at his hand. ‘I suppose that involves a lot of olive oil.’

‘I’m afraid it does, brother. Anyhow, suffice it to say that the lad is very amenable now and Cassandros is sure that he can get whatever information we require out of him.’

‘Good; tell him that, when the time comes, I’ll want to know the form of the Red teams in the last two races on the first race-day after the calends of March.’

Servius made a note of the race as a figure appeared silhouetted in the doorway.

Magnus rose to greet the new arrival. ‘Rufinus, my new friend, good of you to come; I have a little proposition for you concerning the closing of bridges owing to a riot.’

Magnus shivered; his breath steamed in the cold night air as he hunched down on the Servian Wall, keeping low so that his silhouette would not be visible. Next to him, Tigran examined an arrow in the moonlight, checking the fletching was secure and the shaft true; satisfied with his choice he nocked it.

‘Juno’s plump arse, come on, lads,’ Magnus muttered, peering down into the street that ran alongside Fabricius’ house, ‘what’s keeping you?’

Marius and Sextus had delivered the two slaves earlier that day, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Magnus had been truly surprised by their magnitude and had feared for a while that his plan might not work; but after the lads had shown they could lift the women’s massive bulk he was happy with it.

After a few more muttered curses Magnus finally heard the noise he had been waiting for: the clatter of hooves and the rumble of iron-shod wheels on stone. Out of the gloom a covered wagon appeared, making its way slowly up the street. As it drew level with the wall of Fabricius’ courtyard garden it pulled in as close as possible and stopped. The cover was pulled back by shadowy figures and then two ladders were placed upright in the wagon, leaning against the wall so that they reached its summit.

‘Good lads,’ Magnus said under his breath. Two of the figures started mounting the ladders with a large, struggling shape between them; underneath, in the wagon, two more figures took the weight of the writhing burden. Eventually they got it to the top and heaved it on to the tiled roof of the garden portico.

‘Remember, it’s the small skinny man we want,’ Magnus reminded Tigran as the second obese slave was hefted up the ladders. ‘The first people through the door will be bodyguards; it’ll be a fuck-up if you shoot one of them.’

Tigran nodded and took a kneeling position, drawing his compact recurved bow as the second shape was manhandled on to the roof.

‘Hoods and gags now, lads,’ Magnus muttered, ‘and then give them something to make some noise about.’

The two men up the ladders fiddled for few moments with the slave women and then leapt down as shrill screams pierced the night air. As soon as the ladders were removed the wagon thundered off into the night, turning left down a side street and disappearing.

The screeching continued.

Tigran aimed his arrow at the closed garden door of Fabricius’ house; light leaked from beneath it. On the roof one of the two slaves started to slide down, increasing the intensity of the shrieks.

‘They really don’t like snakes down their tunics,’ Magnus observed, staring at the door, willing it to open. ‘Come on, come on.’

The sliding slave neared the edge and then, with a shriller but suddenly curtailed yelp, fell into the garden.

The door opened and two bulky figures filled its frame.

‘Bodyguards,’ Magnus whispered unnecessarily.

The second slave continued screaming; the men ran towards her, disappearing from view as an enormous female shape, obviously naked, took their place in the doorway, closely followed by a second and then a third.

Tigran’s aim remained firmly fixed on the mounds of female flesh silhouetted against the soft light burning within the house.

A harsh shout from inside caused the three women to turn and move apart; light played on the rolls of fat that draped their forms and wobbled as they moved. A slight man appeared in their midst, pushing them out of the way.

Tigran’s bow thrummed.

The man stopped.

The women jumped back.

Tigran’s bow twanged again; this time the man jerked, arcing around with his left shoulder raised. The women brought their hands up to their mouths but failed to stifle the squawks that welled up from inside as Fabricius collapsed to the floor with two arrows in his chest.

‘Great shooting, brother,’ Magnus said, shaking his head in admiration. ‘You’ve just created a most convenient vacancy.’

‘I’ve made my recommendation,’ Gaius informed Magnus the following day as he and a few of his brothers escorted the senator back up the Quirinal from the Senate House.

‘And?’

‘And the aedile was rather surprised to hear that there was a vacancy, it was the first he knew of it; I assured him that it was the case – one of Fabricius’ rivals had finished him off over an argument about positioning in the senators’ enclosure. I told him that it wouldn’t be worth investigating because whichever one of the other three did it would be sure to cover his tracks.’

‘Very sensible advice, senator; we wouldn’t want a man whose time is as valuable as the aedile’s wasting it on a pointless investigation.’

‘Exactly, especially when he should be utilising it on the far more important task of making sure that there are enough book-makers for the senators to place wagers with next race day.’

Magnus nodded sagely. ‘Far more important. What did the aedile think of your suggestion?’

‘He took the hundred aurei that you gave me to give him and said that he would send for Ignatius immediately. He then expressed a warm certainty that if Ignatius could come up with a sizable incentive for the aedile to appoint him it would be confirmed by this evening before any other bookmakers heard of Fabricius’ unfortunate end and applied for the position themselves.’

‘That’s very understanding of him; perhaps you’d like to give him a racing tip as a thank you? I’m sure Ignatius would be only too pleased to take the aedile’s wager after the generosity he’s shown him.’

Gaius looked at Magnus and narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah! I see: create a certainty, then have people who can afford a large bet lay money with Ignatius and break him. That’ll do it; but how does that help Sabinus?’

‘We just have to choose the right time to drop his name with someone; but first I’ve got to create that certainty.’

‘How do you plan to do that?’

‘By having a nice quiet chat with the Green faction master after the Equirria.’

The Campus Martius brimmed with people in holiday spirits a few days later, making their way to the already packed Trigarium, nestled in the east and south of the Tiber’s curve. Having no permanent structures, it was an area ideal for exercising horses; but today it was not mere exercise that the people of Rome were coming to see, it was racing: the Equirria, a series of horse races in honour of Mars.

Magnus barged a path through the heaving crowds towards the Greens’ race-day camp on the banks of the river. Although it was not chariots being raced, the factions still entered using their hortatores as jockeys; they would prove to be stiff competition for the noble young bucks who rode their favoured mounts in the gruelling races set over different distances.

‘Lucius!’ Magnus shouted over the hubbub, spotting his friend checking the girth and saddle of one of the Green horses.

Lucius looked up from his work. ‘Magnus, my friend, I was expecting you.’ He paused, waiting for Magnus to draw closer. ‘I’ve got good news, but not here, I’ll tell you away from the camp.’

A huge roar engulfed the whole Trigarium, signalling the start of the first race. Wearing the colours of their factions or, if they were independent, just a plain tunic, the twelve jockeys urged their mounts at terrifying speeds around the oval course carved through the throng of spectators. With no barriers marking its route, the course itself was a fluid affair, subject to the undulations of the crowd, suddenly narrowing and then widening again as they surged to better see the race. Waving faction flags or ribbons, they cheered on the riders as they negotiated their way around the treacherous track, narrowly missing – or sometimes clipping with disastrous consequences – foolhardy spectators who had encroached on to their path.

Handing the horse’s bridle to an attending slave, Lucius led Magnus away from the Green camp and into the heaving mass. ‘I heard the faction master telling my uncle yesterday that the mares and geldings will run in two days’ time in the second race.’

‘And that’s for sure?’

Lucius shrugged. ‘As sure as it can ever be; there’s always the chance of injury during training.’

‘And how is their training going?’

‘Excellently, my friend. The two teams of geldings would both stand a good chance of winning even without the help of the mares on heat.’

‘That’s good news. Where can I find your faction master?’

‘Euprepes will be in the tent in the middle of our camp; I’ll be able to get you in if you want an introduction.’

‘Better not, mate, I’ll do it myself; it would be tricky for you to be seen associating with me after what I’ve got to say to him.’

Lucius looked worried. ‘You’re not going to tell him that you know about the mares, are you?’

‘No, my friend, I wouldn’t betray your loyalty like that.’

‘Euprepes will see no one without an appointment,’ the ex-gladiator guarding the tent informed Magnus, cracking both his shoulders in turn to stress the point.

‘Oh, but I have an appointment; in fact I’ve got a permanent appointment. You tell him that the man who’s going to make him richer even than when he was a charioteer driving first for the Blues and then the Greens is here to see him.’

‘He won’t believe you so I’d fuck off quietly if I was you, mate.’

Magnus squared up to the guard. ‘I’ve got no intention of fucking off quietly – or loudly for that matter. Now you listen to me, matey-boy, I’ll get to talk to Euprepes somehow, very soon, and I’ll inform him, as he’s hugging me to his breast with tears of joy in his eyes and gratitude welling in his heart at my generosity, that his involvement in my proposal very nearly didn’t happen because of an over-officious oaf obstinately denying me ingress to his tent. Now, do you want to risk what will happen when he contemplates the magnitude of your error or would you prefer to pop in and tell him that Marcus Salvius Magnus is here with a proposition that will make the prize money from winning nearly two thousand races seem like nothing more than what a dockside whore-boy earns for parting his buttocks for a Syrian sailor?’

The guard’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched, tensing the sculpted muscles all down his arms. However, he remained motionless, weighing up his options for a few moments until he turned, abruptly, and disappeared through the tent’s flaps.

Magnus smiled to himself and waited, watching a Green rider bring his lathered horse into the camp surrounded by cheering supporters. ‘A Green victory, very auspicious,’ he muttered.

‘And what makes you think that I would possibly do this, Magnus?’ Euprepes asked, stroking his grey-flecked, Greek-style beard and holding Magnus’ gaze with surprisingly blue, penetrating eyes.

‘Odds of forty or fifty to one?’

‘But I’m not allowed to bet on other teams, especially on a Red one-two-three.’

‘I quite understand that, Euprepes, and I’m sure that you never break that rule – personally. However, I’m informed that you had a very good day at the last races, when, I believe, the Greens only won once in the whole half-day. I would guess that you had a good friend place the odd, illicit wager on the opposition.’

Euprepes gave a thin smile. ‘A man in my position would be foolish not to take advantage of the information that I possess.’

‘I quite agree; that would be stretching loyalty too far.’

‘Indeed – although, obviously, there is no questioning my loyalty to the Green faction.’

‘Obviously.’

‘What’s your motivation for doing this?’

‘I’m a lifelong loyal Green, so what does it matter?’

Euprepes conceded the point with a nod and a wave of his hand. ‘Which race?’

‘Either the second-to-last or the last in the first race-day after the calends of March.’

‘So if I was to give our charioteers orders to let the Reds win how can you guarantee that the Whites and the Blues will also do the same? Have you spoken to their faction masters too?’

‘Now that would be letting a few too many into our little circle, I would say. If there were to be numerous people betting on a Red one-two-three in the one race that it actually happens the bookmakers might get a little suspicious.’

Euprepes inclined his head in appreciation of the fact.

‘The Whites I can deal with; it’s the Blues that are still a problem, but I’m sure that with your help we can guarantee that all three teams will fail to finish.’

‘Have my three teams bring them down?’

‘Too risky; one might get through and, also, it would look a little strange if the Greens spent the entire race having a go at the Blues whilst the Reds just storm ahead.’

Euprepes considered this for a few moments. ‘You’re right; we’ll just do one.’

‘And the other two?’

‘A malfunction and a hail of curses?’ the faction master suggested.

‘Perfect.’ Magnus stood and proffered his forearm. ‘I knew that a man of your experience would have the answers.’

‘So it’ll be just you and me who know about this?’

‘No, Servius my second knows, as well as a very helpful centurion in one of the Urban Cohorts and also a couple of others who will be betting in the senators’ enclosure.’

‘So they won’t be making our bookmakers suspicious.’

‘Exactly; if we spread small bets over quite a few of them we’ll clean up without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘Thank you for coming to me with this, my friend; let me as a show of gratitude give you a tip for the races the day after tomorrow.’

‘A Green one-two in the second race?’

Euprepes’ eyes opened wide in surprise; he laughed and slapped Magnus on the shoulder. ‘I can see you are very well informed; however, you’re not as well informed as I am. I’ll give the orders for our first and second teams to cross the line in reverse order so it will be a Green one-two, second team first, first team second.’

‘Euprepes, you are a very kind and understanding man.’

‘As are you, Magnus.’

Magnus waited on the steps of the Temple of Mars, in Augustus’ statue-lined forum, watching the arrival of twelve patrician youths singing and waving long swords in unison in a slow, rhythmic dance. Watched by a solemn crowd, they moved forward with regular leaps in time to the slow beat of the almost unintelligible song. Clad in ancient embroidered tunics of many colours and plain, oblong breastplates under short red cloaks and spiked, tight-fitting leather headdresses, the leaping, armed priesthood of the Salii paraded their sacred bronze shields around the city in celebration of the god of war’s birthday. Eleven of the shields, shaped as if two round hoplons had been fused together one on top of the other, were replicas of the twelfth, the original shield said to have fallen from the heavens back in the time of King Numa, Romulus’ successor.

‘They say that whoever is in possession of the original shield will dominate all the peoples of earth.’

Magnus turned, surprised by the voice so close behind him; he saw Pallas.

‘Which is why they made eleven copies; a potential thief wouldn’t know which one to steal.’

Magnus tutted. ‘In which case, I’d steal all twelve.’

‘Yes, I don’t think the ancients really thought that one through. However, my friend, my mistress has thought your request through and is willing to deliver your tip in today’s racing to her nephew.’

Magnus grinned in relief. ‘That is most considerate of her, Pallas.’

Magnus and his Crossroads Brethren joined in with the rest of the Greens in their corner of the Circus Maximus, screaming themselves hoarse, as the Green second team followed by the Green first team began their last lap with an unassailable lead. Way behind them their nearest rivals, a Red and a Blue, cracked their four-lash whips over the withers of their teams in a vain attempt to squeeze a little more speed from them. Although there was only a prize for the winner, both trailing drivers were well aware that many of their faction’s supporters would have the minimum bet of one of their colour coming in the first three at odds of evens or less; neither wanted to upset their supporters by appearing not to be trying.

The two leading Greens, however, did not have that worry; they cut through the dust of the track at a speed that would guarantee a first and second place but would not blow the horses. As their hortatores guided them around the wreckage of their third team, Magnus, for the first time ever, found himself concerned for a horse; he hoped that Spendusa would be cut from the wreck without too much harm done. The ruse had worked very successfully – too successfully as far as the mares were concerned. Two teams of stallions from the White Faction directly behind them in the pre-race procession had bolted in their urgency to get to the mares. The two teams in the starting boxes to either side had smashed their chariots as they reared and bucked in the narrow confines, maddened by nature’s compulsive scent oozing in from so close. As the boxes slammed open with high-torsion violence the two teams of Green geldings leapt forward, oblivious to the urgent need to spread seed. The remaining five teams of stallions, however, were not so relaxed; their urge to breed was evident to all in their behaviour and appearance throughout the race until, in a rare breakout of cross-faction harmony, a Red and a Blue charioteer had combined to bring the Green mares crashing down, albeit far too late.

Magnus gave a nervous glance over at the imperial box on the Palatine side of the circus; he could just make out the distant figure of Antonia and he prayed that she had passed on the tip that Pallas had given her, as she had promised she would, to Ahenobarbus. His gaze wandered up to the top of the enclosure; somewhere up there was Ignatius. Magnus smiled inwardly as he cheered his faction on, feeling the thrill of vengeance soon to be had on the man who had publicly cheated him.

The Greens worked themselves up into a frenzy as their geldings crossed the line, which was equalled by the sense of outrage felt by the other three factions at the use of such a ruse.

‘Looks like the Reds ain’t too happy with us, lads,’ Magnus commented as a surge from the Red area, adjacent to the Greens on the Aventine side of the circus, headed towards them. ‘That’s just as I’d hoped.’ Within moments fighting had broken out and blood had been spilt. Magnus looked at his brothers and fellow Greens around him and shouted: ‘Let’s be having them, lads!’ All around, Green faction supporters were having the same idea and a tide of anger began to push towards the Reds.

With Marius and Sextus to one side, Tigran and Cassandros to the other and supported by many more of the South Quirinal Brotherhood, Magnus barged his way through streams of spectators fleeing the violence, knocking men aside in his eagerness to close with the Reds. Bunching his fists he flew at the first person he saw sporting Red colours. Slamming his right into the man’s midriff, Magnus knocked the air out of him, doubling him over; he brought his knee sharply up to crunch into the fast-descending face, crushing the Red’s nose in a splatter of crimson. Next to him, Sextus, with a straight right jab of his ham-like fist, belted a Red back; blood arced through the air from a shattered mouth as Cassandros caught a knife-wielding hand by the wrist and forced the arm down across his knee, snapping it with such force that a shard of white bone ripped open the skin to the earsplitting howl of agony. Screams of pain, yells of anger and grunts of exertion replaced the roars of encouragement, shouts of victory and groans of disappointment as the two factions ripped into each other with a venom born of years of mutual loathing and rivalry. Magnus worked his fists with the mechanical precision learnt during his time as a boxer, blocking and dealing blows with rapid jerks and unfailing accuracy, as Marius wrapped the stump of his left arm around a neck and pulled the head forward, bringing his own down abruptly to crack into the face with a sickening, dull crunch.

Above the din came the call of a horn answered by another not far off.

‘That’s the Cohorts arriving, lads, best be going before they try and introduce us to their iron.’ With a well-aimed kick at the genitals of a young man trying to get away he broke off from the fight, turned and sprinted towards the nearest exit that did not contain onrushing units of the Urban Cohorts; his brethren followed.

‘I do love a ruck with the Reds – more than anything, Magnus,’ Marius puffed as they barrelled down the steps.

‘That weren’t just a ruck, brother; that was the means to get a couple of bridges closed.’

‘I imagine that you were right in the thick of that,’ Gaius Vespasius Pollo boomed, waddling down the steps holding a heavy-looking purse and a scroll.

Magnus took his place with his brothers ready to beat a way home through the crowds for his patron. ‘Indeed, but it was more business than pleasure, sir, and very successful it was too; the Reds will be seething with resentment for a good few days. I’m not looking forward to seeing their behaviour on the next race-day if they haven’t calmed down by then; it’s only four days away. How was your business?’

‘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.

*

‘I thought I’d come and watch it with you, gentlemen,’ Euprepes said, sitting down next to Magnus and Servius as the gates of the Circus Maximus opened to admit the teams competing in the second-to-last race of the day. ‘My drivers understand their orders so now comes the moment of truth.’

Magnus shifted uneasily on the stone seating as the three Red chariots appeared followed by the Blues, accompanied by cheers and jeers from the huge crowd. Suddenly his eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Juno’s bald crack! A White!’

Down on the track a single White chariot trailed in after the three Greens to gales of laughter from the supporters of the other three factions.

Magnus looked in alarm at Euprepes. ‘I don’t call that funny at all. I thought when they only put two chariots into the previous race it was because they only had five spare teams.’

‘They must have saved the sixth for a chance in this race. That’s Scorpus.’

‘The fuckers! He’s good.’

‘It’s all right, Magnus, my lads will deal with it.’

‘They’d better, my friend,’ Magnus said, thinking of the chances of keeping his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy, should Ahenobarbus lose his money.

The ten hortatores entered the circus whilst the starter drew numbered coloured balls from a barrel; as each team’s number was called they could choose which of the twelve starting boxes to occupy.

Once all the teams were loaded, slaves pushed the double doors back against the poles, behind each one, that were inserted into highly tensioned, twisted bundle of sinews. The doors were secured with a wooden bolt placed vertically through two overlapping iron rings – one screwed to each door; cords of twine, attached to each bolt, ran up to the roof of the boxes and then over, through eyelets, and down the back to the starter’s position so that all could be pulled open simultaneously. The hortatores then took up position in a line, fifty paces in front of their teams’ respective starting boxes as a slave patrolled the roof, checking each cord, making certain that all could run free.

The crowd went silent with anticipation. From within the dark confines of the starting boxes the teams neighed and snorted; the hortatores’ mounts stamped and tossed as their riders struggled to control them.

The presiding praetor – the man who had sponsored the day’s racing – stepped forward to the front of the senators’ enclosure and held up a white napkin; it fluttered in the breeze. The crowd drew communal breath as he paused for a few moments; then, with a flick, the napkin dropped. The starter pulled on the cords, the doors burst open and, to the delirium of the crowd, the teams sprang forward. Suddenly, from the Blue end of the circus, there came jeers and whistles; Magnus scanned the chariots to see that there were only two of that colour running. Looking back at the starting boxes he saw that one remained shut; of the slave on the roof there was no sign.

‘A starting-box malfunction,’ Euprepes observed with a look of false concern. ‘What a shame for the Blues. Still, it does happen from time to time.’

Magnus grinned. ‘Especially if you can get your man on the roof.’

‘Now that would be cheating; we wouldn’t stoop to that.’

‘Never.’

Down on the track the nine remaining teams stormed up the Aventine straight with a Blue in the lead, closely pursued by a Red with a Green outside him.

‘The Blue is Lacerta,’ Euprepes informed Magnus, ‘I’ve been trying to negotiate in secret with him to come over to our faction.’

Magnus nodded dumbly. With tension constricting his throat, he remained silent as the first corner was rounded with Lacerta ten paces in front. Behind, the Green steered clear of the Red but not so clear as to make it obvious – just a hand’s breadth – as both chariots took the corner too fast and skewed out into the middle of the track. Hardly able to look, Magnus watched the next two Reds, battling with Scorpus the White on the inside and the remaining Blue – a Numidian – just behind, negotiate the 180-degree turn. Spraying clouds of fine sand, the four chariots skidded around behind their sure-footed teams, the charioteers all leaning to their left to prevent their vehicles from tipping over to disaster.

They disappeared around the corner mainly obscured from Magnus’ vision by the angle of the statues that adorned the length of the spina. A roar went up from the White supporters on the Palatine side of the circus gates as the final two Greens entered the curve.

Magnus strained his neck. ‘Fuck! What can they see?’

Glimpses of fast-moving chariots, flashing across the gaps between the statues, tormented Magnus with their brevity.

The Whites’ volume grew.

The leading teams raced down the Palatine straight and angle lessened; the gaps grew wide enough for Magnus to see that Lacerta was still in front and also to discern the cause of the Whites’ excitement. ‘Shit! Scorpus has moved up into second and is gaining; he could fuck this for us. What are your drivers going to do about him?’

Euprepes did not reply but stared intently down at the track, clenching his fists on his knees as the first dolphin tilted and Lacerta started the second lap with Scorpus just five paces behind him; the lead Red was a good twenty paces to his rear.

The supporters of the Blues and Whites strove to outdo each other in the intensity of cheering as the next lap proceeded in a welter of dust and speed. Magnus glanced over at the imperial box where he could make out Antonia; next to her was the brooding figure of Ahenobarbus.

The second and then the third dolphins tilted as Lacerta and Scorpus pulled away from the rest of the field in their own private battle for first place. The leading Red remained third, closely followed by the first Green with the Blue Numidian on his inside. The next two Reds were nigh on fifty paces behind and beyond them the final two Greens were out of the race, over half a length of the track behind the leaders.

Magnus’ head slumped into his hands. ‘I’m going to have to get out of Rome, Servius; Ahenobarbus will tear the place apart looking for me.’

The old counsellor looked grim. ‘That certainly looks to be the only option.’

Euprepes remained silent, his fists still bunched, glaring down at the track with his jaw jutted out in concentration.

The fourth dolphin tilted and the situation had worsened.

Boys from the factions, based on the spina, threw skins of water out at their racers to quench their thirsts and to wash the dust from their stinging eyes. As the Numidian snatched at a skin aimed at him half a dozen smaller shapes hurtled through the dust from behind a spina statue. They cannoned into his team, catching the inside horse down its flank and on its jaw; the beast slewed to the right, buffeting its fellows and pushing the outside horse’s forelegs on to the wheel of the Green chariot next to it. The sharp edge of the iron tyre grated through skin and flesh and rasped the bone; the leg buckled and the horse collapsed to its right, crashing on to the side of the Green chariot, hauling its teammates down with it in a skidding spray of sand. With his team’s momentum violently checked the Numidian’s chariot arced to the right, snapping it from the central pole, hurling him, splay-limbed, into the air to somersault once before crunching down on his back with lung-emptying force. The Green charioteer fought to control his team as they veered off to the right; the two trailing Reds swerved to avoid the wreckage, and moved past the Green.

Euprepes fists slammed down on to his knees. ‘A hail of curses!’

Magnus inhaled, deeply, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath for a very long time. ‘Very good, my friend; nothing like nail-studded lead tablets to bring a horse down.’

Servius nodded in appreciation, playing nervously with the loose skin on his neck. ‘And who’s to say who threw them, the track’s always littered with them.’

Magnus glanced up at the dolphins as the fifth tilted down. Lacerta pulled his body back on the reins around his waist, slowing his Blue team, taking the bend tightly and allowing Scorpus to draw level with him as he took the longer route around the outside at considerably more speed; their supporters screamed them both on. They whipped their teams away down the Aventine straight for the sixth time, neck and neck; their hortatores both waved an arm above their heads indicating the position of the Numidian’s wrecked chariot. Ahead the trailing two Green teams could just be glimpsed rounding the far turning point.

As the three Reds began their sixth lap, Magnus felt the bile rise in his throat and sweat trickling down his cheeks; he glanced over at Ahenobarbus in despair. ‘They’ll never catch them; our only chance is that Lacerta and Scorpus bring each other down.’ He looked with venom at the trailing Green teams, now almost three-quarters of a lap behind the leaders. ‘I never thought I’d say this but: fucking Greens!’

As Lacerta and Scorpus turned into the last lap the last two Green chariots were only halfway down the Aventine straight.

With another quick look at the imperial box Magnus saw that Ahenobarbus was sitting very, very still. ‘That’s it,’ he muttered, getting to his feet, ‘I’m off; I intend to be out of the city within the hour.’

Euprepes grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘It’s not over until the final dolphin dives.’

‘It is for me.’

Euprepes looked Magnus in the eye. ‘Trust me.’

‘I was mad to.’

‘You weren’t; sit back down and watch.’

Magnus did so reluctantly as the trailing two Greens disappeared around the far end of the spina and the excitement of the White and Blue supporters reached a crescendo. Lacerta and Scorpus rounded the turning post with very little between them, more than fifty paces ahead of the Reds, whom Magnus had meant to be triumphant, followed by the third Green.

Now, sure of disaster, Magnus did not care that the top quarter of the Palatine straight all but was blocked from his view; he stared glumly at the first gap that afforded sight of the action, waiting for the inevitable, unable to believe that Euprepes’ Green charioteers could salvage the situation from so far behind. They came through, side by side, almost cantering now, having given up hope. Lacerta and Scorpus pounded up behind them hell for leather; their hortatores screamed at the Greens and they parted to let them through as the Red teams rounded the final corner.

Slashing his whip down, Scorpus exhorted his team on, edging just ahead of Lacerta as they neared the gap.

The inside Green charioteer glanced over his shoulder; with an abrupt crack of the whip and a jerk of his right leg, he forced his horses to accelerate. As they sped forward the chariot’s right wheel flew off; the crippled vehicle collapsed to one side, dragging the team out to the right and into Scorpus’ path, forcing him into Lacerta. The Blue and White teams collided and ricocheted off each other into the Green chariots on either side, slowing abruptly as the terrified beasts shied. Holding his diagonal course, the inside Green forced the rearing White team back into the Blues who in turn remained penned in by the second Green. With bestial screeches – heard only by the charioteers – lost beneath the howls of outrage from the Blue and White factions, all sixteen horses collapsed to the right fighting against each other in a flurry of equine limbs in vain attempts to stay upright.

Then a new sound rose over the circus: the sound of celebration; Red celebration. Magnus stared, dumbfounded, as first one, then two and then a third Red chariot crossed the line followed, in fourth place, by the final Green. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened; for a moment he sat motionless before springing to his feet and punching both fists in the air with a high-pitched howl of jubilation.

He felt a sharp tug on his tunic and looked down still roaring.

‘A little more discretion would perhaps be appropriate, brother,’ Servius suggested, indicating around with his eyes.

Magnus looked up; he was surrounded by a sea of silent Green supporters staring in incomprehension at the one man in their midst who derived pleasure from a Red one-two-three. Magnus lowered his arms and shrugged apologetically at the nearest Greens. ‘We did come fourth.’ He sank down, hyperventilating in relief and then tried but failed to suppress the urge to vomit.

Magnus and Euprepes stood under one of the great arches of the Circus Maximus looking out over the Forum Boarium at the Racing Factions packing up for the day. Echoing off the stone all around were the cries of support and howls of disappointment of the people of Rome watching the final race.

‘As soon as my lads get back with all our winnings I’ll be off, my friend,’ Magnus said, proffering his forearm to Euprepes. ‘The South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood is four thousand aurii better off from all the bets we spread around. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

‘And I’m a few hundred thousand in silver better off because of your idea, Magnus.’

‘It may have been my idea, but I shall be giving the credit to someone unsuspecting.’

‘You give the credit to whomever you want but the fact remains that between us we are the first people to have fixed a one-two-three without anyone noticing.’

‘Us with a little help from the gods.’

‘Gods? I didn’t notice any gods being involved.’

‘What about the wheel coming off at the last moment?’ Euprepes raised his eyebrows. ‘At just the right time, you mean?’

‘Yeah, if that wasn’t the gods, I don’t know what it was.’

‘Mechanics, my friend. The charioteer had a strap around his right foot; a sharp jerk pulled a bolt from the axle and the right wheel came off at just the right time. The other chariot had one too but didn’t need to use it.’

‘But . . .’ Magnus frowned, looking puzzled for a few moments, and then his expression gradually brightened in dawning realisation. ‘Oh, I see! I’m sorry I doubted you, that’s brilliant, Euprepes; those last two chariots were always meant to be last.’

‘Exactly. How else could we absolutely guarantee to have two chariots in front of the winners unless they were about to be lapped; and then, when an accident happens . . .’

‘Like a wheel falling off, for example?’

‘That’s a very good example, Magnus, it happens all the time. When an accident happens we can’t be accused of deliberately crashing into the winners to fix the race.’

‘And all bets must be honoured.’

‘Indeed. And I didn’t have to risk my best horses in a deliberate crash. My worst two teams had no problems being in the right position, almost a lap behind, by the end of the race.’

‘You could say they made it look easy.’

Euprepes grinned and turned to go; then he paused. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll overlook your mate Lucius giving you highly confidential information.’

Magnus hid his surprise. ‘That’s very good of you.’

‘Next time you want information like that, come directly to me. Even after sparing Lucius, after what I’ve won today, I’m still in your debt.’

‘I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, Euprepes, but I consider you to be the kindest and most understanding of men.’

Senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo did not look like a man who had won a lot of money as he waddled down the steps from the senators’ enclosure soon after the completion of the last race.

‘Did you not get your bet on, sir?’ Magnus asked as he and his brethren began the arduous job of escorting him home through the race-day crowds.

‘I did, Magnus; I put down all my winnings from the Green one-two the other day on the basis that what I won today would be a sufficiently large bribe to perhaps interest Ahenobarbus in backing Sabinus in the elections. I laid Ignatius’ promissory note of two hundred in gold with him and the two hundred in gold coinage I laid amongst the other three bookmakers; they were fine and I have promissory notes from them worth over ten thousand in total.’

‘But Ignatius has refused to honour the bet?’

‘Worse, my dear man, he disappeared. One moment he was there and then after the three Reds crossed the line he wasn’t. No sign of his slaves or bodyguards, just his table was left. I would guess that he took the opportunity to get out of the city very quickly. Now I have only half the amount that I planned to bribe Ahenobarbus with.’

Magnus cursed and bit his lower lip, thinking of Ignatius enjoying his wealth unnoticed in some far-off provincial town. Seething, he took his anger out on the people before him as he barged through the crowd. From the left the crush started to part and, above people’s heads, Magnus could see eight fasces – axes wound in rods, the symbol of power – borne by lictors.

Magnus and his brethren stopped to give way for a party of higher status.

‘Who could that be?’ Gaius mused. ‘No magistrate has eight lictors.’

As the walking symbols of Imperium pushed their way past, a grating voice called out: ‘Stop!’ From behind the last two lictors Ahenobarbus emerged and pointed at Magnus. ‘Come here!’

Magnus approached the Senior Consul with trepidation.

Ahenobarbus slapped his arm around Magnus’ shoulder and leant in to him in a conspiratorial manner. ‘That, Magnus, was spectacular; I’m over two million denarii better off.’

‘Two million?’

‘Yes, two. I caught the insolent little man smirking as he took my money, taking me for a fool, so I doubled the bet and Ignatius accepted it.’

‘But, Consul, I’ve a nasty feeling that he’s left Rome.’

‘Left Rome?’ Ahenobarbus’ mouth pursed in confusion. ‘Of course not, although he did seem to be making plans to beat a pretty hasty exit as those three Reds came in. However, I had four of my lictors watching him.’ He turned and signalled. His remaining four lictors came forward with a terrified Ignatius in their midst. ‘He’ll find it very difficult to leave Rome; in fact he’ll find it very difficult to leave my house until he’s paid me what he owes. Tomorrow we’re going to start auctioning his property and then if that doesn’t raise enough we’ll auction him at the slave market.’

Magnus gave Ignatius an appraising look. ‘Might even buy him myself.’

Ignatius’ eyes widened in horror.

Magnus smiled his most innocent smile. ‘I expect you’re wishing that you paid me my full winnings now, Ignatius?’

‘You?’ Ignatius blurted, ‘You did this to me?’

‘No, Ignatius, you did; and, of course, the Fates who contrived to have a Red one-two-three in the very race that our esteemed Senior Consul decided to bet so much on it.’

‘Talking of the Fates,’ Ahenobarbus said, moving Magnus away from Ignatius, ‘who was the particular Fate that organised all this?’

Magnus inclined his head towards Gaius. ‘My patron, Consul, Senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo.’

Gaius tried to hide the confusion and consternation he felt but failed as Ahenobarbus clasped his forearm.

‘Senator Pollo, we haven’t had much contact before but I can see that you are a man of rare ability.’

‘I am honoured, Consul, thank you.’

‘No, it is I who should be thanking you; what can I do for you?’

Gaius broke into a moist-lipped smile. ‘Well, there is the small matter of the quaestor elections coming up soon.’

‘Ah yes, such a wide field, so many worthy candidates; it’s difficult to choose.’

‘Indeed, Consul; but I feel that my nephew, Titus Flavius Sabinus, would be an admirable choice.’

‘I think that you may well be right, senator, I was thinking of backing him myself.’

‘It may interest you to know that Ignatius took a bet off me for two hundred aurei in the second-to-last race.’

‘Did he now? Were you lucky enough to have the foresight to bet on a Red one-two-three?’

‘Like you, I was divinely inspired. I only won a trifling amount, two hundred and fifty thousand denarii, but perhaps, as you strip Ignatius of his assets, you would care to keep it as an aid to your memory?’

Ahenobarbus clapped Gaius on the shoulder. ‘The name Titus Flavius Sabinus will be firmly fixed in my mind; in fact, I’ll practise saying it every time the subject of the quaestor elections comes up. Good day, senator.’ With a brief nod to Magnus he rejoined his lictors.

Gaius looked at Magnus with delight. ‘Promissory notes for a quarter of a million denarii that I can use as a bribe for supporting Vespasian in next year’s quaestor elections and the Senior Consul supporting Sabinus in this year’s; that should do it.’

Magnus pictured his own considerable winnings; his eyes narrowed in cold satisfaction and a grim smile creased his lips as he watched Ignatius, shoulders slumped, disappear into the crowd at the mercy of Ahenobarbus. ‘Yes indeed, senator; that should do it very nicely.’

Content

Robert Fabbri
The Racing Factions