The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (36 page)

Julia twisted and turned her head. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place.”

He gave a snort of disbelief. “What Roman has never been to the Circus?”

She shrugged her elegant shoulder. “Father considered it a crude pastime for his family. He only came when his official duties dictated it.”

Damon heard the sadness beneath her words. With all that had been occurring, she’d never had time to grieve for her father.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

Damon shrugged his shoulder. “I used to come all the time as a boy. Father had seats there along the side by the starting gate. Of course I did not see much of him. He spent the entire day behind the stands placing bets and losing. Once he even went home without me.”

“Such a thing I cannot fathom,” she murmured. “Your father was a foolish man.”

He’d not argue that but such events were long in his past.

“Quintus Marcellus, Prefect of Rome, bids you welcome.”

They turned to a bald slave dressed in a gold-embellished white tunic. The man had evidently been awaiting their arrival. It disconcerted Damon no small amount that the man had recognized them. Quintus’ network of infiltrators must be vast.

The slave clasped his hands and inclined his head. “If you will, master.”

Damon kept his grip light but firm on Julia as the man led the way up three flights of chiseled steps to the Imperial enclosure. A marble building set on the highest tier at the Palatine end of the track; it had spacious seating for the elite as well as a separate box for the Emperor and his entourage. There were only two exits, Damon noted. The doorway they entered through now or over the side three stories below to the hard-packed earth of the track. He took a deep breath and touched the hilt of the blade hidden beneath the folds of his toga.

“Ah, Julia. My dear. How kind of you to accept my invitation.”

Julia tensed beside him as Quintus sauntered toward them. “I want to leave,” she whispered under her breath.

“And openly insult the Prefect? Not a wise idea, goddess,” he said into her ear. But he understood her apprehension. While Quintus exuded the most exquisite manners, there was an undercurrent of supreme confidence in his power and position that was unsettling. Coupled with a will of self-centered malevolence and it was a combination that no man in his right state of mind would be foolish enough to challenge.

Of course, Damon had never been accused of being in his right state of mind.

He watched the Prefect approach and straightened his shoulders, which emphasized his height. He stood at least a head taller and noted with quiet amusement the flair of annoyance in the man’s cold eyes. Simple tactics, but he’d take every advantage he could.

“Julia,” Quintus took her hands in his and tugged her toward him, kissing her on both cheeks.

Damon grit his teeth as the bastard’s lips lingered a breath longer than what was considered proper. He remained firmly planted to Julia’s side, a clear signal that the man would have to be blind not to see.

Quintus wasn’t blind. He pulled away and met Damon’s gaze, his mouth drawn into a tight line of irritation. “Pontus. You, of course, are also welcomed.” Damon grasped the man’s forearm in greeting. Quintus’ fingers dug into his skin, but Damon kept the smile on his face friendly.

“We are honored to be here,” he answered easily. “My wife,” he gave the slightest emphasis on the word wife, “has never attended the races.”

“Really?” Quintus purred. “Well, my dear, you are in for a treat. Come sit next to me.”

The Prefect had Julia by the arm before Damon could react and was leading her to the front row of cushioned stone benches. As if on cue, a handful of other guests filed into line after them leaving Damon to bring up the rear.

Grudgingly giving him credit for such a well-planned move, Damon shouldered his way through the others arriving on the opposite side of the bench just as Quintus and Julia arrived.

“It is a beautiful day to watch the horses run,” he said smoothly, extending his hand for Julia to take which she did, holding on with a death grip.

Quintus’ expression went hard but then he slid his congenial mask back in place with practiced ease. “Indeed it is.”

They sat on the bench with Julia snugged between them. A score of other guests settled in behind them.

“So this is your first visit to the races?” Quintus began, holding out a goblet for a slave to fill with wine. Damon accepted some from the same jar and sipped it only after Quintus had taken a drink. Poison was a coward’s way out, but highly effective.

An oily smile slid over the bastard’s lips. He was toying with them, Damon thought, like a cat does with a mouse before devouring it. He took a healthier swallow of the spirits. What this cat did not realize was that this mouse...this street rat...had teeth and claws and wouldn’t hesitate to use them to protect the woman he loved.

Damon managed to conceal the small choking noise in his throat with a cough. Julia’s brow creased in concern, but he swung his gaze out concentrating on the stadium below. He loved Julia. The fear that that thought should have provoked did not surface. She was everything a man could ask from a woman and more. A woman who filled an empty place within him that he’d not realized existed. A woman worth everything. Even his life.

But he did not intend for it to get that far. He eyed Quintus over his chalice. He was the most skilled agent in the entire espionage underworld of Rome. He was going to find out what the bastard was hiding and use it to bring him to his knees.

Quintus was still speaking. “There are four teams,” he was explaining to Julia who was doing a marvelous job of feigning interest. “The Reds, the Whites, the Greens and the Blues. Each owned by a different
factiones
or stable designated by one of the four colors.”

“Is that why I saw people wearing strips of colored cloth on their persons?”

Quintus laughed. “Indeed. Every person who attends wants it well known which team they support.” He raised a long, carved rod up, a piece of red material snapping in the breeze. “I admit I myself have fallen prey to the high spirits generated by the event.”

“The Reds have won the majority of the races this past season,” commented Damon lazily. “I would think they are long past due a defeat.”

Quintus leaned in front of Julia, his eyes narrowed. “The Reds are the most skilled team. Their lead charioteer the famed Diocles is renowned for his prowess and exacting strategy.”

Damon shrugged a shoulder, glanced at the Prefect before returning his gaze to the crowds below. “As I say, no one can win every effort. The Blue team has more spirit, their horses bred from strong Arabian lines, their drivers are hungry for victory.”

Quintus laughed and as if on cue, so did the rest of his sycophants. He gave Damon a calculating look. “At the risk of appearing inhospitable, would you care to lay a small wager on the first race?”

His tone of voice conveyed that Quintus held no qualms that his team would win, most probably because he’d bribed a driver or
arranged
for an accident. Still, the race was close to starting and he’d not known which team Damon might support. He decided to risk the odds.

“I’ll wager one hundred silver pieces.”

The amount of the wager drew gasps from the other guests. Quintus expression hardened. “Done.”

The stringent blare of trumpets sounded from the arched entry at the other end of the track. A dozen dancing slave girls, clanging cymbals and prancing about in joyous fervor led the ceremonial parade onto the track. They were followed by just as many men blowing trumpets and fools tumbling and skipping about wearing elaborate horse-head masks. Each fool was dressed in one of the four colors and brought roars of laughter from the crowd as they pantomimed the dash of chariots around the track.

“The mob. They are so easily amused.” There was a sneer in Quintus’ tone. “Give them bread and the games and they are content to live their miserable lot.”

Damon caught Julia’s irate look. It pleased him that she felt outrage at Quintus’ dismissive view a result, he supposed, of her upbringing by a socially aware father. Suddenly, he wished he had known Octavian Manulus. But this was neither the time nor the place to debate the fate of the people. He sent her an imperceptible shake of the head. She flared her eyes at him, but kept her mouth closed.

The ceremony continued. Behind the revelers came men carrying statues of racing deities, among them
Sol
and
Luna.
They would be brought here to the Imperial enclosure and positioned on flat marble stands so that all could see that the races were blessed by the gods. His father had encouraged a young Damon to pray for victory to one or the other, whichever the day’s odds maker recommended. Felix Primax had always picked the wrong one.

The crowd let out a deafening roar when the chariot teams entered the circus. The Circus Maximus lived up to its name, easily accommodating up to twelve teams, three from each stable. Today’s race would run with four horses per chariot.

As the charioteers lined up their teams along the curved starting line, Quintus leaned toward Julia. “And what team will you cheer on?”

“Why, Prefect,” she answered in a congenial voice, turning to Damon and lacing her hand in his. The gaze she turned up to him was filled with sincerity. “I can do no less than support my husband.”

Damon’s chest swelled with pride. His goddess was brave and spirited just like the steeds below. What a wonder life would be trying to tame her. He was fair certain it couldn’t be done, but oh, the joy in trying.

He squeezed her hand, leaned over and nipped at her ear, biting back a smile at the sour look on Quintus’ face.

“We shall see,” the Prefect intoned in a flat voice.

As he was the sponsor of the races, Quintus stood and went to the edge of the box. He waved a white cloth which set the crowd to wild cheering. Then, he let it drop.

The chariots took off in a cloud of dust. Even above the roar of the spectators, Damon could hear the sharp crack of whips and the creaking of wheels. The chariots themselves were insubstantial, barely a wide board set on an axle. The drivers controlled the muscled horses with only the reins wrapped around their waists. A turn badly taken could result in the driver being swept from the chariot, tethered and dragged or trampled to his death. Even as he contemplated that, one of the Green team’s drivers careened around the first turn, lost control and was flung onto the track. The other horses did not miss a step, crushing the man into the sand.

Julia paled and hissed in a breath. Gods, he would have shielded her from this. For his part, Quintus was cheering, striking the air with a clenched fist. While Damon had seen more than a few men die—some in the cruelest way—he always mourned the loss. Quintus thrived on it. Another indication of how dangerous this enemy was.

“See Pontus, my Reds have taken the lead.”

Damon watched as one of the egg-shaped counters was moved along a pole. The Red team had finished three laps while the Blue team had, according to their dolphin-shaped counters—surely a favorable sign—only completed two. But that was quickly remedied. Two more dolphins flipped down the pole.

The crowd was going wild as the Blue team surged ahead. One of the Red chariots caught the wheel of a Green, splintering both from beneath their driver’s feet. The Red driver managed to slice the reins free with a curved knife tucked in his laces and saved his life. The Green driver was not so fortunate.

Only one lap left and the Blues and the Reds had completed six of the seven laps. Damon leaned forward on the bench, silently cheering on his team. When the last dolphin sailed to the end of the pole hole, the only spot in the circus not filled with wild cheering was the Imperial enclosure.

“The goddess Fortuna has showered you with luck this day,” said Quintus, anger lacing his voice.

Damon forced a lighthearted smile. “Indeed, but her true gift came the day I married my wife.” He leaned into Julia, brushed his lips against hers, smiled as she returned the kiss. He was risking much with such a public display of affection but Quintus needed to be pushed. That tasting her again flooded him with warmth was an added benefit.

“There are twenty more races yet to be run,” the Prefect all but snarled. “We shall see who is the best team at day’s end.”

The early morning stretched into late afternoon. Though the enclosure had a heavy awning that provided a fair amount of shade, the heat of the day was still wearing. Damon studied the Prefect from beneath his lashes as he poured Julia another cup of water.

She looked completely worn out, having had to endure Quintus’ constant excuses to touch her; brush a fly away from her hair, let his fingers linger there, sharing a joke and grasping her hand, murmurings in her ear that he made no attempt to conceal from Damon. His goddess handled it all with grace, even sensing when he had had enough and was close to beating the man with his fists. She’d sent him an imploring look, soothed him with a hand on his thigh and pretended to enjoy the day.

The Prefect’s temper was deteriorating fast. His team continued to trail the Blues. He snapped and snarled at any who thought to speak with him, including one unfortunate slave who had stumbled while serving wine to the guests. Quintus had ordered his guards to have the man lashed for his clumsiness.

It was only after the Reds had managed to garner a one race lead over the Blues that Damon decided it was time to prod Quintus. And the Prefect himself gave him the opportunity.

“Listen to the rabble,” he practically crowed in delight. “They despair over that pathetic team. They should lay their bets on true winners.”

“True,” Damon concurred. “You’d think they would be more grateful. After all, you, the host of these games, have made such a difference in their lives.”

Quintus actually looked puzzled. Damon pressed on.

“With your support of improved
insulae.
My wife tells me that along with my father-in-law, you were key in getting the monies from the Imperial treasury.” Damon narrowed his eyes. Was it possible the Prefect had paled at the mention of the project?