Shadows In Bronze Part 38

With his tail tied high and his ragged mane plaited, Little Sweetheart looked as good as he ever would, though still a disaster. Famia had found him a saddlecloth, though he would have to manage without the gold fringes and pearl-encrusted breastbands his rivals were nicked out in. To Famia's disgust, I insisted that even though he was bound to lose sensationally, if this was the only time in my life I could field my own racehorse, I would run the Sweetheart for the Blues; Famia made a stink, but I was adamant.

Ferox looked a million in his glossy mulberry coat; you could shave in his flanks. He was attracting plentiful attention as he and the Sweetheart waited side by side in the Cattle Market Forum; the buzz among the bookmakers was scintillating. Ferox would be running in the colours of the Marcellus-Pertinax faction, the Whites.

I acted up as an owner for a while, allowing the punters to jibe at me for the faith they a.s.sumed I placed in my gangling scruff, then Famia and I went off for lunch.

'You betting, Falco?'

'Just a flutter.'

Famia would think it bad form for an owner to back another horse, so I did not tell him Larius was putting fifty gold sesterces on Ferox for me: all my spare cash.

When we came back to the Circus they had started the hone races, though from our place on the card we had another hour to wait. I went to check that the Sweetheart was keeping Ferox calm, in order to safeguard my wager. While I was petting Ferox, I noticed a small, nervous, stuffed-vineleaf vendor hopping about: clearly a man with a gastric disturbance - or something significant to say. He said it to Faulk, though they were looking at me. Money changed hands. The vineleaf tray skedaddled, then Famia came across.

'You owe me ten denarii.'

'See me tomorrow when I call in my bet.'

'Your man is in the second tier, on the Aventine side, near the judges' box; he's put himself level with the finishing line.

'How can I get near him un.o.btrusively?' Famia cackled that with my well-known ugly visage it would be impossible. But he was useful: five minutes later I had slipped through one of the dark stalls at the starting gate end, and squeezed myself through the double doors.

Noise, heat, smells and colour a.s.saulted me. I was in the arena, right down on the track. I had a bucket and a shovel. I waited until the riders pa.s.sed, then wandered out across the sand, making a desultory scoop at the ground as I crossed the diagonal starting line. I reached the central barrier, the spina, feeling that I stood out like a pimple on a barrister's nose - but Famia was right: n.o.body ever notices the slaves who sweep up dung.

They were running one of those show pieces where bareback riders stand astride two horses at once - dramatic, though comparatively slow. The trick is to have the horses well trained, and to keep a good rhythm; my brother could do it. (My brother was the flashy, athletic type with a streak of blatant stupidity; he tried anything that risked his neck.) Standing up against the marble podium, the huge size of the Circus was breathtaking. The width across was half the length of a normal stadium, and from the white chalk of the starting line the far end seemed so distant I had to squint. Immediately above me as I ambled up the length of the spina, towered magnificent shrines and statues; Apollo, Cybele, Victory. For the first time I appreciated the workmanship on the great gilded bronze screen which stood between the senatorial seats and the arena itself. Beyond them yawned two tiers of marble terracing and a third tier of wood, then the closed-in upper gallery with standing room only. As I made a random pa.s.s with my bucket, I noticed how the sand had a glistening mica rim near the podium and the spina, when coloured chippings from past gaudy occasions had worked to the edges of the track. They never have awnings at the Circus; you could frizzle up an omelette on the sand. Everywhere had a constant odour of warm horseflesh above the lunchtime garlic and ladies' cologne.

The spina was ornamented with mosaics and gilt, against which I must have appeared a small, dark dot, like some tiresome, meandering bug. In the s.p.a.ce of two races I shuffled up as far as the huge red granite Egyptian obelisk which Augustus had set in the very centre of the spina; then I edged on nearer to the finishing line and the judges' box. This was where the seats were always most warmly packed. At first the ma.s.s of faces melded into one great fudge of humanity, but as my confidence grew I began to see details: women shuffling their footstools and hoisting their stoles over one shoulder, men red-faced and bilious in the sun after lunch, soldiers in uniform, children squirming restlessly or fighting in the aisles.

There was a break between races, filled with tumblers and acrobats. Spectators moved about. I squatted against the podium, dry-eyed in the dust, while I began a methodical survey of the second tier. It took me twenty minutes to find him. As I did I thought he spotted me too, though he looked away. Once I pinpointed him, it seemed impossible that I could have missed his bad-tempered physiognomy before.

I sat still and went on searching. Sure enough, two rows lower down and ten places along I found Anacrites himself. Some of the time he was watching Pertinax, but mostly he stared round at the other seats. I knew who he was looking for! At the far end of the row where Pertinax was sitting and again higher up were two spies I recognised who formed a triangle with Anacrites, penning in the man I wanted and keeping him safe from me. None of them looked at the arena while I was crouching there.

I stood up. So did Pertinax. I started to cross the track towards the gilded screen. He moved along the row of seats. He had seen me. I knew it, and so did Anacrites, though he could not work out where I was. Stumbling over other people's feet, Pertinax reached a gangway. Even if I climbed over the screen, in among the indignant n.o.bility on their marble thrones, he would be off down the stairs and out of the nearest vomitarium long before I got near. Meanwhile Anacrites suddenly shouted to one of the aediles' heavy squad and gestured unmistakably at me. I was not only losing Pertinax, but about to be arrested myself.

Then another shout aroused me, amid pounding hooves. I looked up into the huge grinning teeth of a beribboned black stallion bearing straight down on me. Trick saddle-men: this time two men in barbarian trousers, linking arms as they stood upright on a single horse. With a fiendish cry and a wild flash of eyeball one leaned out sideways as the other balanced him. They scooped me up like a disreputable trophy. We shed the second rider then careered on, with me as terrified ballast waving my dung shovel and trying to look as if this mad ride was the best fun I had ever had.

The crowd loved us. Anacrites hated it. Not being a fool who fancied himself as a horseman, so did I.

We swept right round the three conical goal posts and the altar of Cosmos at the end of the spina, dewing at a nerve-racking angle as we turned. Then we sped back along the whole length of the stadium on the far side. In a screech of polished hooves I was dropped at the starting gates. Famia dragged me in.

'Jupiter, Famia! Was that idiot a friend of yours?'

'I told him to look out for you - we're on soon!'

My brother-in-law seemed to be a.s.suming I was interested in the progress of my own c.o.c.keyed horse.

We were next. There was a shift in the atmosphere; word had it this was a race to watch. Famia said big money was riding on Ferox. The champion did look special - that high-stepping gait, the powerful build, and the deep-purple sheen on his wonderful coat. He looked like a horse who knew this was his great day. As I watched Bryon mounting their jockey, he and I exchanged a good-mannered nod. It was then that I noticed someone, someone not studying Ferox but intently scanning the crowd which was inspecting him. Someone looking for Pertinax, without a doubt.

I muttered to Famia, 'Just seen a girl I know-'

Then I slipped through the crowd while my brother-in-law was still grumbling how he would have thought that on this one occasion I could leave the women be...

Lx.x.xVI.

'Tullia!'

'Falco.'

'I was looking for you yesterday.'

'I was looking for Barnabas.'

'Will you see him again?'

'Depends on his horse,' the barmaid said dourly. 'He thinks he has a winner- but he left his bets with me!'

I drew Tullia by the arm right across the Cattle Market Forum to the shade and quiet beside that little round temple with the Corinthian columns. I had never been in it or noticed who its divinity was, but its neat structure had always appealed to me. Unlike the more brash temples further from the river, this lacked the usual swarm of seedy trade and seemed an improper place to be propositioning a big-eyed young girl in her sparkly-hemmed holiday gown.

'I have something to suggest to you, Tullia.'

'If it's filthy, don't bother!' she whipped back warily.

'Had enough of men? Then how would you like to make a great deal of money for yourself?'

Tullia a.s.sured me she would like that very muck 'What money, Falco?'

If I said half a million she would not believe me. 'A lot. It should go to Barnabas. But I reckon you deserve it more...'

So did Tullia. 'How do I get it, Falco?'

I smiled quietly. Then I explained to the barmaid how she could help me corner Pertinax, and obtain for herself a fortune that was as pretty as her face.

'Yes!' she said. I love a girl who does not hesitate.

We walked back to the horses. Little Sweetheart was gazing about him as if all this was wonderful. What a comic. The first time Famia put up his jockey, my wonderful animal shrugged him straight off.

'Which one's that, Falco?' Tullia enquired.

'Little Sweetheart. He belongs to me.'

Tullia chuckled. 'Good luck, then! Oh - give you these!' She handed me a leather pouch. 'His betting tokens. Why should Barnabas have the benefit? In any case,' she told me, 'he was afraid to use his own name in case it was recognized - so he used yours!'

If that was his sense of humour, I guessed that it must have been Pertinax himself who had named my horse. Since Ferox was carrying all my spare savings, I did want to see the race. So when t.i.tus Caesar, whom I had met previously in the course of my work, sent me an invitation to join him in the president's box, I shot up there in a trice.

It was the one place in the Circus where I knew there could be no chance of Anacrites interrupting me.

t.i.tus Caesar was a younger, more easy-going version of his Imperial papa. He knew me well enough not to be surprised when I burst into his presence with a toga bundled under one arm instead of arrayed in the immaculate drapes most people adopted at public meetings with the Emperor's son.

'Sorry, Caesar! I was helping out with a dung shovel. They're a bit short-staffed.'

'Falco!' Like Vespasian, t.i.tus tended to look as though he could not decide whether I was the most appalling subordinate ever to be wished on his retinue, or his best laugh today. 'My father says you're claiming Little Sweetheart is sausage meat - I reckon that makes him a certainty.'

I laughed, uneasily, as I hastily robed myself. 'Caesar, the odds against my poor bag of bones are a hundred to one!'

'Could be a killing here!' t.i.tus winked at me happily.

I told t.i.tus I a.s.sumed he was old enough not to bet his purple livery on a s.h.a.g-tailed besom like mine. He looked thoughtful. Then the curly-haired Caesar adjusted his wreath, stood up to give the crowd someone to roar at, and solemnly let fall the white kerchief to start our race.

It was a novice sprint for five-year-olds. There were ten declared, but one refused the starting box. Until Ferox put in his late appearance on the racecard, the favourite had been a big grey Mauretanian, although other people reckoned the clever money was on a compact little black chaser with Thracian blood. (It was well sweated up, and looked like a windblower to me.) Our Ferox was a Spaniard; there could be no doubt of it. Everything from the proud set of his head to the hungry gleam in his eye spoke quality.

When the slaves hauled the ropes and the starting gates swung out in unison, the Mauretanian was already stretching his neck as the horses crossed the starting line.

Ferox was close behind him. Little Sweetheart had been crowded out by a brown horse with a white sock and a spiteful squint, so he was last.

'Ah' murmured t.i.tus, in the tone of a man who has pledged his last tunic to his bookmaker and is wondering if his brother will lend him one. (His brother was the mean- tempered Domitian, so probably not.) 'A back marker, eh? Tactics, Falco?' I glanced at him, then grinned and settled down to watch Ferox race.

Seven laps provide a lot of opportunity for casual conversation of a knowledgeable kind. We worked our way through the fact that it was a useful field and that the grey Mauretanian was in great heart but seemed in need of an outing so might not finish a princ.i.p.al. White socks was running wide round the goal posts, while the little black Thracian looked a lovely horse, an easy mover with a very consistent stride.

'Generous and genuine!' boasted a guardsman who had bet on him, but the Thracian had given all he had by the third lap.

Seven circuits when your savings are in the balance seem a long time.

By the time they lifted down the fourth of the wooden eggs that count off the laps, complete silence had fallen in the president's box. It was starting to look like a two-horse race: Ferox and the Mauretanian. Ferox ran in an interested manner, cantering easily with his tail straight behind him. He had grace and he had elegance. He ran with his head up to give him a good view of any horses in front. He could run as fast as anything on the track, but quite early on I began to suspect that our beautiful mulberry stallion actually liked something to watch in front of him.

'I think yours is pulling up,' t.i.tus suggested, hopefully trying to be polite. 'Perhaps he'll come from behind.'

I answered gravely, 'He's left himself a lot of work to do!'

Little Sweetheart was eighth instead of ninth - but only because a perky russet had made a mistake, had come down on his nose and been pulled out.

I watched mine for a moment. He was terrible. Old mustard-face ran with the most ungainly action. Even to his owner, who was trying to be charitable, that horse looked as if he had made an appointment at the abattoir before he came out. His head stayed down as if his jockey was strangling him. As he travelled forward his back legs, which were slightly out of rhythm with the front, kicked up behind at every stride and seemed to hesitate. Thank the G.o.ds he was not a hurdler. My baby would have been the kind who looks six times at every jump as he makes his approach, then hangs in the air half-way over so your heart is in your mouth.

At least his tail flew out at a jaunty angle that I rather liked. He was so bad I was starting to wish I had bet on him out of loser's sympathy.

By the sixth lap, Ferox was challenging strongly in second place. Still.

Little Sweetheart had just realized the horse immediately in front of him now was the white sock who had jostled him at the start, so he redeemed himself by pa.s.sing it; he got a bit close but fiddled through all right. This time t.i.tus refrained from comment. Sixth place in a field of seven (following a collision, there was a loose horse, a daft ginger thing, now); nothing to raise a shout about. Especially with only a lap and a half to go.

The roar of the crowd was increasing. I saw the Sweetheart twitch his ear. Out at the front things were starting to happen. A muddy grey in third place had been running on his own for so long he nearly went to sleep. A spotted nag no one had given a thought to made a temporary challenge, causing Ferox to increase his stride, though he kept his favourite position at the big Mauretanian's shoulder. My palms were wet. Ferox was second: he would be second in every race he ever ran.

Everything I ever did in life seemed to go wrong. Nothing I ever wanted seemed attainable. Who said that?... Helena. Helena, when she thought that I had left her, and knew that she was going to have MY child. I needed her so badly I almost spoke her name. (I might have done it, but t.i.tus Caesar had always looked at Helena in a speculative way that worried me.) The field was well strung out now. There was a good twenty lengths between first and last as they went past the judges for the sixth time. The spectators were cheering Ferox, all certain he would sprint for it on the final lap. As the front runners rounded the posts I knew in my bones he never would.

They were half-way down on the far side from the judges - little more than half a lap to go - when I and most of Rome discovered something new: my horse, Little Sweetheart, could run as if his mother had conceived him in a conjunction with the wind.

They were running towards us. He was wide, so even with the rest of the field in front of him I saw his mustard nose lift. When he started his run, it was unbelievable. The jockey never used his whip; he just sat tight while that fool of a horse decided it was time to go - and went. The crowd opened their hearts to him, though most were losing money with every stride. He was the permanent tailender, the endless no-hoper - yet he streaked past the field as though he was just going for a rollick in the sun.

Ferox came second. Little Sweetheart won. He was leading at the finish by three lengths.

t.i.tus Caesar clapped me on the shoulders. 'Falco! What a wonderful race! You must be extremely proud!'

I told him I was feeling extremely poor.

It took me hours to get away.

t.i.tus rewarded my jockey with a heavy purse of gold. I had a present too, but mine was a fish: t.i.tus promised me a turbot.

'I know you're a trencherman -' He paused, with polite anxiety. 'But will your cook know what to do with it?

'Oh, the cook can visit his auntie!' I a.s.sured him blithely. 'I always attend to my turbots for myself... In Caraway Sauce.

Two people made a killing. One was t.i.tus Caesar, who could reliably expect that as the elder son of a great Emperor he would find himself a favourite with the G.o.ds. The other, for which I shall never forgive him, was my pernicious, devious, close-mouthed, horse-doctoring brother-in-law Famia.

They had a big family party, the rest of them. I had to endure it, knowing this would be the one night of my life when other people would be glad to buy my wine for me, but I needed a dear head. All I can remember of the ghastly entertainment is Famia carousing, and my three-year-old niece playing with Tullia's useless gift to me of the Pertinax betting tokens... Marcia, spreading the sad little bone disks all around her on the floor while people ineffectually told her to stop eating them.

As soon as I could I went to see Gordia.n.u.s. He had little to add to what I already knew about events on the Quirinal yesterday - but I had news for him.

'Sir, a Transtiberina barmaid will be bringing you a doc.u.ment later this evening. It has to have an alteration made to it first.'

'What is it?

'A marriage contract. Coming to you from the bridegroom. He thinks his bride has asked to inspect it, prior to the formalities. Tomorrow you and I have an appointment with Atius Pertinax.'

'How's that, Falco?'

'We are arranging his wedding,' I said.

Lx.x.xVII.

The day we married Atius Pertinax was refreshingly dear, after rattling rainshowers in the night.

My first task was to nip down to the Cattle Market Forum to buy a sheep. The cheapest I could get which would be acceptable to the five G.o.ds of matrimony was a little mottled fellow, who looked perfect enough for the purposes of religion, though a puny sort of lamb if we had wanted a pot roast in red wine sauce. However, we would not be needing the G.o.ds to remember our sacrifice gratefully for long.

Next a rancid garlandseller at the Temple of Castor shucked off some tired wreaths onto me. My sister Maia loaned us her wedding veil. Maia had worked the looms at a cloakmaker's before she married; the weaver had had a soft spot for our Maia so her saffron veil was a distinctly superior length of cloth. Maia lent it out to poor girls on the Aventine; it had done duty at many an unstable coupling before it adorned the Pertinax bash. My mother would have baked us a must cake, but I left my mother out of this.

When I met up with Gordia.n.u.s, leading my woolly contribution, he joked, 'I hope you see today as a rehearsal for a wedding of your own!'

The sheep, who was on my side, let out a sickly bleat.

We met Tullia in the Forum of Julius, on the steps of the Temple of Venus Genetrix.

'Will he come?' demanded the priest excitably.

'He was in the wineshop last night, looking for me. My mother gave him the message and collected the contract off him; she thought he believed her...'

'If he fails to show,' I said calmly, 'we all go home.'