LITMIR.BIZ

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the body of Clocchis as, crushed to a pulp, he was dragged over the sand. Diocoles, favored by the gods, had managed to cut his reins and lay against the stone as the other chariots thundered past.

      As slaves rushed to clear away the wreckage, Aquilia slumped back into her seat.

      “I’ve lost,” she said. “Curse the luck. Atilus, you’re the richer by a hundred gold pieces.”

      And the poorer by the ten I’d backed on Diocoles, but still the day showed a good profit. As the race ended I bought more wine.

      In the tier before me a knight spoke thoughtfully to his companion as he studied his tablets.

      “A private wager, Mercallus? On the second team in the next race to pass the finishing line. I’ve fifty pieces which says Ferdo will be the one.”

      “The Blue charioteer?”

      “Yes. Is it a bet?”

      Mercallus grunted, studying his program. Out of curios­ity, I did the same.

      Ferdo’s inner horse was a Centenarius, one that had won over a hundred races, and would wear a specially adorned harness. The driver himself had a good reputation and was a favorite of the Blue faction, but his team consisted of Sicilian horses which, though fast, were unreliable. The ne­cessity of slowing them to allow Nero to win would unsettle them—a fact which the knight had overlooked.

      Leaning forward, I touched him on the shoulder.

      “My pardon, but I overheard your conversation. If you would be interested in extending your wager, I would be grateful to be accommodated.”

      He was younger than I had thought, with a sharply de­lineated face and deep-set eyes of pale blue. They widened as, turning, he saw me.

      “Atilus! This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

      “A holiday.”

      “One which I hope will soon be over. You fight all too rarely these days. We miss you. It isn’t kind of you to deny your supporters the spectacle of your skill.” His eyes moved to the woman at my side. “Hello, Aquilia. I was telling Atilus that he is needed on the sand. Good sword-work is rare and a man shouldn’t neglect his skills.”

      “I agree, Drusillius.” Her hand closed with warm inti­macy on my thigh. “Perhaps, if the offer was large enough, he would be interested.”

      “In a private display?” His eyes clouded with thought. “Perhaps it could be arranged. But, in the meantime, the bet. How much did you have in mind, Atilus?”

      “A hundred pieces.”

      “That Blue will not come second.” He made a note on his tablets. “And you, Mercallus?”

      As he turned away Aquilia whispered. “A fortunate meeting, Atilus. Drusillius Augustus has wealth and influ­ence. With him behind you, you could go far.”

      As far as my sword would take me. Drusillius was one of those who was more interested in a display of skill than the butchery the crowd demanded. Such skill was best appre­ciated at close hand, and that was the reason he’d men­tioned a private bout. The spectators would be rich and, with such patrons, a successful gladiator could live like a prince. For as long as he could hold his own.

      There was no mercy for the fallen and I was aware of it. The rooms beneath the amphitheaters were full of remind­ers: broken-down fighters who had been lucky to escape with their lives, victors too badly maimed ever to fight again, freedmen who had lost their nerve and had quit while they still had the chance. Cripples, men with missing limbs and empty sockets where once there had been eyes, those with faces pounded into nightmare masks, some who dragged themselves over the ground with calloused hands, their bodies useless below the waist. Victims never men­tioned by those who lauded the games.

      The trumpets sounded and the fifth race began.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The Circus Maximus was shaped like a long U, the flat end containing the processional gate and the starting stall for the chariots. As the trumpets sounded, the four teams dashed from their waiting positions. A gasp rose from the crowd as they saw the Green chariot. It was covered with gold and studded with gems; even the metal rims of the wheels were gilded and the extended axles, set with bands of gold, had knobs of silver. The horses were equally mag­nificent; their harness gilded, their manes braided with bright ribbons.

      Nero himself matched the extravagant splendor of the display, dressed in leather, gilded and set with gems. The round hat on his head was a gleaming ball of gold, broken only by the tall, thick plume of horsehair dyed a bright green. Like Apollo himself, he caught and reflected the sun so that he moved in a glimmering nimbus of light.

      His team, selected thoroughbreds from Libya noted for their staying power, raced into the lead and headed for the inner position. It was too great a lead and, normally, the judge would have declared a false start, but he was not a fool, and the rope stretched from the end of the Spine to where he sat was lowered long before Nero reached it.

      Like a blazing thunderbolt, the golden chariot streaked down the track well ahead of the others.

      As a display it was magnificent, but as a race it was a foregone conclusion. Even so, Nero handled his team well, cutting sharply around the curves, swaying back to tighten the reins lashed around his waist, leaning forward to give the animals their heads.

      After him came the others. For them the second place would determine the real victor, and each did his best to gain it. As I’d guessed, the Blue team was unsettled by the drag of the reins. Accustomed to going all-out, they were thrown off stride, swinging too far out, heads tossing and teeth bared as they fought the restriction. Ferdo did his best to control them, but he had been trained to win and, like the team, he was unsettled.

      Swinging back toward the Spine, he blocked the White chariot which, coming too close, was suddenly wreathed in flying splinters from its locked wheel. Red, seeing his chance, sent his team lunging toward the gap formed on the inside, a space barely wide enough to pass through, his offside horse slamming against the inner horse of the White team. For a moment it looked as if all three chariots would end in a pile of wreckage and then, suddenly, Red was clear.

      The roar of the crowd rose from all sides.

      “Belens! Belens! Belens for the Reds!”

      Nero might be the first across the finishing line, but the spectators had no doubt as to who was the real winner.

      As the gold chariot slowed, I rose and shouted, “Lucius! Lucius for the Greens! Lucius!”

      A shout that reached the ears of Nero who turned and looked up at me.

      “To the Greens!” I yelled again. “Lucius for the Greens!”

      The colors were more than just identifying marks for the stables; they were representative of warring political fac­tions, and my shouts had stirred the appropriate loyalties. Within seconds others had joined in, Belens’s name was drowned out as every Green supporter strained his throat.

      “Lucius! Lucius for the Greens! Lucius!”

      Flushed, happy, Nero accepted the laurels of victory; then sent his team slowly around the track, one hand lifted as if he were a god dispensing favors. In a sense, he was. As he finally left the circuit and headed toward the stalls, a crowd of slaves ran over the sand. From baskets they hurled ivory tokens into the stands; each token entitled the holder to a gift of some kind.

      “So he did it,” mused Aquilia. “The Emperor of Rome lowered himself to the level of a common charioteer. Competing with slaves for an empty victory.”

      “Aquilia!”

      “I know. Be careful. His spies and informers are every­where and a loose word can lead to torture. But, Atilus, why did he do it?”

      A question I couldn’t answer. Nero was governed by whims and look a delight in outraging established opinion, but this seemed to be going too far. The Fathers of the City would

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