The Storm of Heaven (95 page)

Cornets and bucinas winded, a brave, glad ringing sound. The slaves and grooms in the starting gates flooded away, carrying their bags and boxes and ladders with them. Ila padded off, waving good-bye. The Roman woman turned, snugging her helmet strap tight. She tested her balance on the chariot, rolling from side to side. It was very light, made of wicker and pine, with scenes of the ancient gods painted on the sides. The horses looked over their shoulders at her, rolling their eyes and blowing. They were a matched set of dark brown Parthian mares. Two grooms remained with each chariot, holding the leads for the teams. The horses were eager to run, tossing their heads. The long ostrich feathers danced in the air.

Thyatis tightened the reins around her hand, staring straight ahead at the brilliant white sand. The blood fire was beginning to hiss in her veins, making the world slow down and become preternaturally distinct. A hush fell over the drivers and teams in the starting gate.

His cane rapping on the marble steps, Narses climbed into the viewing box of the Prasina faction. The entryway was draped with dark green swags and all of the slaves were clad in light green tunics. The
lanista
swallowed a laugh, seeing the way the Prasina were strutting about in their holiday best, all in various shades of viridian. Today, in deference to his hosts, the old gladiator was wearing a sprig of holly at his shoulder.

"Narses! So good to see you. Come and sit." The mentor of the Prasina, an overweight cheerful iron merchant named Sebastianus, waved to Narses, who grimaced but acceded to the request. "You were right! I should never have doubted you."

Sebastianus clapped the
lanista
on the shoulder and tried to help him into one of the winged chairs next to the balcony. Narses considered tripping the merchant with his cane, but then thought the better of it. Who knew when he might do business with the Greens again? Better to stay on good terms. The racing faction had grown powerful in the city. "Right about what?"

"The crowd!" The Green waved grandly at the vast sweep of the Circus. Every seat, it seemed, was filled and on the upper decks many people were standing. "Gate receipts have never been higher."

Narses nodded sagely, though inside he was shaking his head at the man. This was the last day of the greatest games that Rome had seen in over a century. Even if the race card had donkeys and dwarfs on it, the citizens would have turned out. All of the games, plays, pantomimes, tragedies and foot races had been very well attended. In retrospect, the Emperor's decision to delay the
munera
and to starve the populace of his or her accustomed entertainments had heightened everyone's anticipation. The
lanista
tapped the head of the cane against his chin.
Too many sweets spoil the taste. Hmm...

"I'm glad that you accepted my proposal."

Sebastianus giggled, pressing his thick fingers against the
lanista's
shoulder. "An equitable arrangement for both of us!"

"I hope so." Narses clasped his hands on the cane. "It should be a good race."

The
lanista
fought to keep from smiling. Once he had approached the various factions with Gaius Julius' plan to race both Hamilcar and Diana, the mentors had fallen over each other to fill his hands with gold. Of course, only the Greens and their hated rivals the Blues had the coin to meet his price. Just that part of the transaction had netted him several million sesterces. A small, though doubtless weighty, portion of the gate receipts would flow into the school as well.

The real money would come from the betting. Narses kept himself out of the frenzy, letting the patricians and the merchants and the various Imperial officers beggar themselves with ever more daring wagers. However, before he had even spoken a word of this to the mentors, Narses had made arrangements with the criminal cartels who controlled the betting. A very small percentage of the total wagers would come into his hands, less than one percent, but in exchange Narses had promised that there would be a fair race between his two entrants.

Of late, the cartels had found that corruption of the races was so widespread—and well known—that betting had fallen off. In particular, before the Emperor's abeyance, the Greens had won the last twelve major races. Who wanted to bet or give odds under those circumstances? When the various touts and bookmakers had circulated the word that, in honor of the dead of Campania, the race today would be straight up—no fixed chariots, no bribed drivers, no mysteriously lamed horses—the gamblers had come swarming out of the woodwork. The
lanista
expected to rake in another ten to fifteen million sesterces just from his percentage of the wagers.

Visions of a real villa had begun to trouble his waking thoughts, replete with acres of garden and vineyards and fruitful orchards. A singular vision of a white wall covering with golden wisteria and small red flowers occupied his thoughts.

Sebastianus' chortling was lost in a sudden roar from the crowd. The chariots had come forth from the starting gates, the horses stepping smartly, their plumes dancing in the bright sun. In a careful line, the twelve teams walked out, making a long slow circuit of the stadium, letting everyone see them, their glossy coats and the smart-looking chariots. A cohort of musicians marched behind the drivers, their tubas, trumpets and bucinas winding out a long stentorian dirge. Before them, carried on platforms held up by poles and a hundred slaves apiece, preceded garlanded images of Jupiter and Juno and Minerva. Each driver rode easily, one arm raised in salute to the crowd and to the Emperor. Narses could see that Galen and his family had returned to the
pulvinar
on the far side of the stadium. The racing factions maintained their boxes beneath a tall tower in the southwestern corner of the Circus, conveniently close to the starting gates and the stables. The location was also in shade the entirety of the day.

The Emperor's box, though covered with a tiled pitched roof, was south facing and exposed to the brunt of the sun. The finish line, however, was directly across from the
pulvinar
, in front of the temple of Victoria. The Emperor would get a good view of the finish! Narses had been a guest in the box before, and today, with the intense afternoon heat, as well as the press of the crowds, he preferred his cooler location. Despite the assurance that there would be no fix in the race, the
lanista
was entirely certain that Hamilcar would win.

Aside from Narses and the African himself, no one in Rome knew that the youth had been a champion driver amongst his people in Numidia. Even with his great success as a gladiator in the arena, Hamilcar often practiced in secret, particularly with the four-horse chariots in use today. The
lanista
had seen him drive. The youth was a natural with the two-wheeled car and a swift team.

The chariots continued their circuit, the crowd raising a ringing cheer as they passed. The sound traveled around the stadium, pacing the drivers and their teams, making strange echoes. Narses settled back in the chair, quietly ignoring his hosts, who were working themselves into a cheerfully drunken fog. When one of the courtesans approached him, he politely declined. His attention was on the race, not these distractions.

Galen, Emperor of the West, stepped down from his golden seat, arm raised in salute to the people in the stands and the drivers arrayed below him. As he descended the steps, a slave on either side maneuvered a canopy of purple silk to keep him in the shade. The sun was bright today. The Emperor took a deep breath and lowered his arm. Another slave placed a dark red handkerchief in his hand. Dropping this was the signal for the race to start. He stretched out his arm, the cloth in his fist.

"Citizens of Rome," Galen's voice rang out, strong and clear, echoed around the sweeping length of the stadium by heralds repeating his words, so that all might hear. "I call upon the gods to protect and increase the power of the Roman people, to bless their empire and their armies with victory and good fortune, to be gracious and favorable to the plebes, the patricians, the College of the Priests, to me, to my family and my great household."

At the words, a deep-throated cheer rose up, for Galen had loosened his purse enough to see every man, woman and child in the city feasted for two days and two nights in preparation for the last day of the games. Well lubricated with food and wine and sweet pastries, the people were in a mellow and forgiving mood. Whispers of the Emperor's penuriousness had fallen quiet.

"The oracles," he continued, "have instructed spotless white bulls be led to the altar of Jupiter by day, not by night, for the heavenly gods love sacrifice under the light of the sun. To please the honored dead and the gods who watch over us and make Rome strong, performances have been given in the theaters, all have rejoiced and I have laid cakes upon the altar of Eilithyia."

Again, there was a murmur of general approval. The strange weather afflicting the land had passed, leaving blue skies and clean-falling rain. It seemed, with these proper sacrifices and the veneration of the dead, the displeasure of the gods had been turned aside.

"One hundred and ten matrons have prayed on bended knee, asking Divine Juno Regina for her blessing and forgiveness. I have knelt myself beside the Tiber and given up a pregnant sow to the goddess Tellus, so she might make the fields thick with wheat and the harvest rich. All these things I have done to restore the health of the people and the state."

The crowd responded in kind to the words, raising their voices in praise for the Emperor and for the gods. Galen gestured to one of his Praetorians, then raised both hands to the heavens. As he did so, soldiers began to descend from the heights of the stadium in pairs, heavy baskets in hand. They began to scatter tokens of copper, stamped with letters and numbers, into the crowd. The people surged to their feet, raising a glad cry. The poorer citizens were traditionally forced to sit in the highest seats in the stadium and now this largess—for everyone knew that the tokens could be redeemed at the Imperial storehouses for cloth, salt, grain, meat, tools, lumber, iron ingots, fired pottery, lambs, kine, all matter of goods and wealth—was being distributed to them first.

"Already," the Emperor called to the people, "Already Faith and Peace and Honor and ancient Modesty and neglected Virtue are venturing to return, and blessed Plenty with her cornucopia appears. Our voices ask for aid and we feel the presence of divine spirits. We beg for these soft showers from heaven, pleasing the gods by the prayers that we have learned, trusting them to turn away disease, drive out fearful dangers, gain peace and a season fertile with fruits. Our song of piety winds grace from the gods above, our song from those below."

On either side of the
pulvinar
, massed ranks of maidens and young men began to sing. The hymn was powerful and ancient, first raised to the sky in the time of fabled Romulus and Remus, primordial kings of Rome. Many in the assembled multitude joined in, filling the stadium with the booming roar of their massed voices. The Praetorians continued to descend the steps, their hands sowing a sparkling cascade of copper.

Galen waited, sweating in his heavy toga and cloak, until the gift givers reached the walkway separating the patricians and senators from the lower classes. Then he raised the red handkerchief again, drawing the attention of a rank of trumpeters arrayed on the
spina
across from him. At the motion, the grooms loosed the bridles of the chariot horses and ran out of the way. The drivers took up their reins, waiting tensely for the signal.

"For the glory of our ancient gods, let this race begin!" Galen's voice rang out into the hushed silence left by the end of the hymn. He dropped the handkerchief. As it drifted to the ground, the massed trumpets sounded in a sharp bleat of noise. Motion exploded along the line of chariots, the drivers whipping their horses to the race. Hooves thundered on the sand and the chariots leapt forward, wheels spinning furiously.

Behind the Imperial box, a tunnel ran through the bulk of the stadium and into the Palatine Hill itself, allowing the Emperor and his family easy, secure access to the circus. With the race under way, the usual crowd of servants, courtiers, clerks and Praetorians departed. An old man, his back bent with weariness, shuffled along the hall, one gnarled hand pressed against the wall for support. Near the small complex of rooms at the back of the viewing platform, the ancient stopped to catch his breath.

A servant, looking out for him, hastened up to his side. "Master Gaius? The senator has kept you a seat, close by the balcony."

"Give me a moment, lad." Gaius Julius' voice was little more than a croak, strained and hoarse. His fingers curled around the man's arm, though the servant barely noticed the weight. "I am not well. Tell me, has anyone been asking for me?"

The man nodded, then motioned off to the side, where an alcove was half hidden by a wooden screen. "He did not give a name, master, but he was generous."

"Good." Gaius Julius gathered his strength and then hobbled to the alcove. His limbs, which had once seemed so tireless and strong, had been reduced to this pitiful state. Even his mind seemed clouded and slow, though he was certain that his mental faculties remained unimpaired. He had taken to checking and then double-checking everything he did. It made for slow work, but it was necessary. A wrinkled hand thrust aside the screen. The man waiting in the alcove was nondescript, perfectly ordinary in appearance. Even his toga and tunic were an indefinable color. Gaius Julius expected that the courier was well remunerated for this particular skill. "You have my chits?"

The man nodded and pressed a leather case into Gaius' hand. The old Roman felt the weight of the bronze betting tokens and smiled. Even in his reduced state, the thrill of a dangerous gamble fired his blood and set his mind in motion. "Excellent. Here."

The nondescript man took the bag of coin, bowed and then slipped out. Gaius Julius leaned against the wall, weary beyond measure.
Damn the Prince! He toys with our lives too, not just his own!