Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (108 page)

A few hours later, my head aching from too much wine and too little sleep, I found myself back in the consul’s study. I had agreed to arrive at his house an hour before the first race to deliver my report, such as it was.

I told him all I had learned. The secondhand gossip of bathing attendants and tavern drunks seemed trivial as I recounted it, but Decimus Brutus listened in silence and nodded gravely when I was done. He squinted at the portrait of his wife.

‘Nothing, then! Scorpus is drowned, and the Finder finds nothing. Have you outsmarted me after all, Sempronia?’

The portrait made no reply.

‘I’m not done yet, Consul,’ I told him. ‘I shall attend the races today. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. I may yet—’

‘Yes, yes, as you wish.’ Decimus Brutus vaguely waved his hand to dismiss me, never taking his furiously squinting eyes from the image of Sempronia.

A slave escorted me from the consul’s study. In the atrium, a small retinue crossed our path. We paused as the train of women flitted past, escorting their mistress from one part of the house to another. I peered into their midst and glimpsed a wealth of auburn hair set with pearls. Green eyes met mine and stared back. Hands clapped, and the retinue came to a halt.

Sempronia stepped forwards. Decimus Brutus had been correct: the picture did not do her beauty justice. She was taller than I expected. Even through the bulky drapery of her stole, her figure suggested a lithesome elegance that carried through to the delicacy of her long hands and graceful neck. She flashed the aloof, challenging smile which her portraitist had captured so well.

‘You’re new. One of my husband’s men?’ she said.

‘I . . . had business with the consul,’ I said.

She looked me up and down. ‘There are circles under your eyes. You look as if you were out all night. Sometimes men get into trouble, staying up late . . . poking their noses where they shouldn’t.’

There was a glint in her eye. Was she baiting me? I should have kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t. ‘Like Scorpus? I hear he got into trouble.’

She pretended to look puzzled. ‘Scorpus? Oh, yes, my husband’s all-purpose sneak. Scorpus drowned.’

‘I know.’

‘Odd. He could swim like a dolphin.’

‘So I heard.’

‘It could happen to anyone.’ She sighed. Her smile faded. I saw a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes, and a look that chilled my blood.
Such a pleasant fellow
, her look seemed to say.
What a pity it would be if one had to kill you!

Sempronia rejoined her retinue, and I was shown to the door.

By the time I reached the Circus Maximus, all Rome seemed to have poured into the long, narrow valley between the Palatine and Aventine Hills. I pushed through the crowds lined up at the food and beverage shops tucked under the stands, stepping on toes and dodging elbows until I came to the entrance I was looking for. Inside the stadium, the seats were already thronged with spectators. Many wore red or white, or waved little red or white banners to show their affiliation. I swept my eyes over the elongated inner oval of the stadium, dazzled by the crazy patchwork of red and white, like blood spattered on snow.

Restless and eager for the races to begin, spectators clapped, stamped their feet, and took up chants and ditties. Cries of ‘Diocles in red! Quicker done than said!’ competed with ‘White! White! Fast as spite!’

A high-pitched voice pierced the din – ‘Gordianus! Over here!’ – and I located Lucius Claudius. He sat by the aisle, patting an empty cushion beside him. ‘Here, Gordianus! I received your message this morning, and dutifully saved you a seat. Better than last time, don’t you think? Not too high, not too low, with a splendid view of the finish line.’

More important, the consular box was nearby, a little below us and to our right. As I took my seat, I saw a silvery head emerge from the box’s private entrance. Decimus Brutus and his fellow consul Lepidus were arriving along with their entourages. He had made it safely to the circus, at least. Partisan chants were drowned out by cheers. The two consuls turned and waved to the crowd.

‘Poor Deci,’ said Lucius. ‘He thinks they’re cheering him. The fact is, they’re cheering his arrival, because now the races can begin!’

There was a blare of trumpets and then more cheering as the grand procession commenced. Statues of the gods and goddesses were paraded around the racetrack on carts, led by Victory with wings outspread. As Venus passed – favourite of gamblers as well as lovers – coins showered down from the crowd and were scooped up by her priests. The procession of gods ended with an enormous gilded statue of Jupiter on his throne, borne upon a cart so large it took twenty men to pull it.

Next came the charioteers who would be racing that day, slowly circling the track in chariots festooned with the colour of their team, red or white. To many in the stands, they were heroes larger than life. There was a chant for every racer, and chants for the lead horses as well. The noise of all the competing chants ringing out at once was deafening.

Never having been a gambler or a racing aficionado, I recognized few of the charioteers, but even I knew Diocles, the most renowned of the Reds. He was easy to spot by the extraordinary width of his shoulders, his bristling beard and his flowing mane of jet-black hair. As he passed before us, grinning and waving to the crowd, I tried to see the reaction of Decimus Brutus, but I was able to see only the back of the consul’s head. Did Diocles’ smile turn sarcastic as he passed the consular box, or did I only imagine it?

The procession ended. The track was cleared. The first four chariots took their places in the starting traps at the north end of the circus. Two White chariots, a principal along with a second-stringer to regulate the pace and run interference, would race against two Red chariots.

‘Did you get a racing card?’ Lucius held up a wooden tablet. Many in the stands were using them to fan themselves; all around the red-and-white chequered stadium, I saw the flutter of racing cards.

‘No?’ said Lucius. ‘Never mind, you can refer to mine. Let’s see, first race of the day . . .’ The cards listed each charioteer, his colour, and the name of the lead horse in his team of four. ‘Principal Red: Musclosus, racing Ajax – a hero of a horse, to be sure! Second-string Red: Epaphroditus, racing a five-year-old called Spots – a new horse to me. For the Whites: Thallus, racing Suspicion, and his colleague Teres, racing Snowy. Now there’s a silly name for a horse, don’t you think, even if it is pure white. More suitable for a puppy, I should think – by Hercules, is that the starting trumpet?’

The four chariots leaped out of their traps and on to the track. Once past the white line, they furiously vied for the inner position alongside the spine that ran down the middle. Clouds of dust billowed behind them. Whips slithered and cracked as they made the first tight turn around the post at the end of the spine and headed back. The Reds were in the lead, with Epaphroditus the second-stringer successfully blocking the principal White to give his colleague a clear field, while the second-string White trailed badly, unable to assist. But in seven laps, a great deal could happen.

Lucius jumped up and down on his pillow. All around us, spectators began to place wagers with one another on the outcome.

‘I’m for Snowy!’ shouted the man across the aisle from Lucius.

A man several rows down turned and shouted back. ‘The second-string White? Are you mad? I’ll wager you ten to one against Snowy winning. How much?’

Such is the Roman way of gambling at the races: inspired by a flash of intuition and done on the spur of the moment, usually with a stranger sitting nearby. I smiled at Lucius, whose susceptibility to such spontaneous wagering was a running joke between us. ‘Care to join that wager, Lucius?’

‘Uh . . . no,’ he answered, peering down at the track. Under his breath, I heard him mutter, ‘Come on, Ajax! Come on!’

But Ajax did not win. Nor did the long-shot Snowy. By the final lap, it was Suspicion, the principal White, who had pulled into the lead, with no help from the second-string White, who remained far in the rear. It was a stunning upset. Even the Red partisans in the crowd cheered such a marvellous display of Fortune’s favour.

‘A good thing you didn’t bet on Ajax,’ I said to Lucius. He only grunted in reply and peered at his racing card.

As race followed race, it seemed to me that I had never seen Lucius so horse-mad, jumping up in excitement at each starting trumpet, cheering jubilantly when his favoured horse won, but more often sulking when his horse lost, and yet never once placing a bet with anyone around us. He repeatedly turned his racing card over and scribbled figures on the back with a piece of chalk, muttering and shaking his head.

I was distracted by my friend’s fidgeting, and even more by the statuelike demeanor of Decimus Brutus, who sat stiffly beside his colleague in the consular box. He was so still that I wondered if he had gone to sleep; with such poor eyesight, it was no wonder he had no interest in watching the races. Surely, I thought, no assassin would be so bold as to make an attempt on the life of a consul in broad daylight, with dozens of bodyguards and thousands of witnesses all around. Still, I was uneasy, and kept scanning the crowd for any signs of something untoward.

With so much on my mind, along with a persistent headache from the previous night’s wine, I paid only passing attention to the races. As each winner was announced, the names of the horses barely registered in my ears: Lightning, Straight Arrow, Bright Eyes . . .

At last, it was time for the final race, in which Diocles would compete. A cheer went up as he drove his chariot towards the starting traps.

His horses were arrayed in splendid red trappings. A gold-plumed crest atop her head marked his lead horse, Sparrow, a tawny beauty with magnificent flanks. Diocles himself was outfitted entirely in red, except for a necklace of white. I squinted. ‘Lucius, why should Diocles be wearing a scrap of anything white?’

‘Is he?’

‘Look, around his neck. Your eyes are as sharp as mine . . .’

‘Pearls,’ declared Lucius. ‘Looks like a string of pearls. Rather precious for a charioteer.’

I nodded. Diocles had not been wearing them in the opening procession. It was the sort of thing a charioteer might put on for luck just before his race – a token from his lover . . .

Down in his box, Decimus Brutus sat as stiffly as ever, displaying no reaction. With his eyesight, there was little chance that he had noticed the necklace.

The trumpet blared. The chariots sprang forwards. Diocles took the lead at once. The crowd roared. Diocles was their favourite; even the Whites loved him. I could see why. He was magnificent to watch. He never once used his whip, which stayed tucked into his belt the whole time, alongside his emergency dagger. There was magic in Diocles that day. Man and horses seemed to share a single will; his chariot was not a contraption but a creature, a synthesis of human control and equine speed. As he held and lengthened his lead lap after lap, the crowd’s excitement grew to an almost intolerable pitch. When he thundered across the finish line there was not a spectator sitting. Women wept. Men screamed without sound, hoarse from so much shouting.

‘Extraordinary!’ declared Lucius.

‘Yes,’ I said, and felt a sudden flash of intuition, a moment of godsent insight such as gamblers crave. ‘Diocles is a magnificent racer. What a pity he should have fallen into such a scheme.’

‘What? What’s that you say?’ Lucius cupped his ear against the roar of the crowd.

‘Diocles has everything: skill, riches, the love of the crowd. He has no need to cheat.’ I shook my head. ‘Only love could have drawn him into such a plot.’

‘A plot? What are you saying, Gordianus? What is it you see?’

‘I see the pearls around his neck – look, he reaches up to touch them while he makes his victory lap. How he must love her. What man can blame him for that! But to be used by her in such a way . . .’

‘The plot? Deci! Is Deci in danger?’ Lucius peered down at the consular box. Even Decimus Brutus, ever the ingratiating politician, had risen to his feet to applaud Diocles along with the rest of the crowd.

‘I think your friend Decimus Brutus need not fear for his life. Unless the humiliation might kill him.’

‘Gordianus, what are you talking about?’

‘Tell me, Lucius, why have you not wagered even once today? And what are those numbers you keep figuring on the back of your racing card?’

His florid face blushed even redder. ‘Well, if you must know, Gordianus, I . . . I’m afraid I . . . I’ve lost rather a lot of money today.’

‘How?’

‘Something . . . something new. A betting circle . . . set up by perfectly respectable people.’

‘You wagered ahead of time?’

‘I put a little something on each race. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If you know the horses, and you place your bet on the best team ahead of time, with a cool head, rather than during the heat of the race . . .’

‘Yet you’ve lost over and over today, far more often than you’ve won.’

‘Fortune is fickle.’

I shook my head. ‘How many others are in this “betting circle”?’

He shrugged. ‘Everyone I know. Well, everyone who is anyone. Only the best people – you know what I mean.’