LITMIR.BIZ

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a chance had been missed. The little man didn’t seem at all out of place amongst the more experienced charioteers.

      The silence held as the horses pawed and snorted in place for a moment, then the horn was blown a third time, its wail lost in the roar as the teams lunged forward and the race began.

      ‘You have done well, Crassus,’ Pompey said, looking over the heads of the crowd. ‘I doubt there’s a man in Rome who doesn’t know your generosity.’

      Crassus glanced sharply at him, looking for mockery. Pompey was impassive and didn’t seem to feel the gaze.

      Below them, the thundering horses reached the first corner. The light chariots scored long sliding arcs in the sand as they were pulled around by the plunging horses. The riders leaned over to balance themselves, held in place by nothing more than their skill and strength. It was an impressive display and Dacius slid neatly between two teams to take an early lead. Crassus frowned at the development.

      ‘Have you decided whom you will support for consul at the end of the year?’ he said, forcing a neutral tone.

      Pompey smiled. ‘It’s a little early to be thinking of it, my friend. I am enjoying being consul myself at the moment.’

      Crassus snorted at the blatant falsehood. He knew Pompey too well to believe his denials. Under the pressure of his stare, Pompey shrugged.

      ‘I believe Senator Prandus can be persuaded to put his name on the lists,’ he said.

      Crassus watched the racing teams, considering what he knew of the man.

      ‘There are worse choices,’ he said at last. ‘Would he accept your … guidance?’

      Pompey’s eyes were bright with excitement as Dacius continued to lead the field. Crassus wondered if he was feigning the interest merely to annoy him.

      ‘Pompey?’ he prompted.

      ‘He would not be troublesome,’ Pompey replied.

      Crassus hid his pleasure. Neither Prandus nor his son Suetonius were men of influence in the Senate, but having weak men as consuls would mean he and Pompey could continue to guide the city, merely exchanging the public aspect for the private. Returning to the anonymity of the back benches after leading Rome was an unpleasant prospect for both of them. Crassus wondered if Pompey knew he held debts on the family and would have his own form of control if Prandus was elected.

      ‘I could accept Prandus, if you are sure of him,’ he said over the noise of the crowd. Pompey turned an amused expression to him.

      ‘Excellent. Do you know if Cinna will stand?’

      Crassus shook his head. ‘He’s all but retired since the death of his daughter. Have you heard something?’

      In his eagerness, Crassus reached out to hold Pompey’s arm and Pompey grimaced at the touch. Crassus felt a spike of hatred for the man. What right did he have to assume such airs, when Crassus paid the bills of his great houses?

      ‘I have heard nothing yet, Crassus. If not Cinna, though, we must find another to stand for the second post. Perhaps it is not too soon to begin cultivating a new name.’

      As the fourth lap began, Dacius led by a full length, with the Thracian holding position behind him. Paulus was third, with the sea-sick Spanish horses bringing up the rear. The crowd bellowed their approval and every eye was on the teams as they rounded the far corner and galloped through the start for the fifth lap. The wooden egg was removed and the bawling voices were becoming hoarse.

      ‘Have you considered Julius? His term in Spain is almost over,’ Crassus said.

      Pompey glanced over at him, suddenly wary. He still suspected Crassus of a loyalty to the young Caesar that he did not share. Had the man not waived the debts of the Tenth shortly after Julius took control? Pompey shook his head.

      ‘Not him, Crassus. That dog has teeth. I’m sure you don’t want … disruption any more than I.’

      Dacius had increased his lead and Crassus continued to speak, pleased to be able to ruffle the smooth placidity of his colleague.

      ‘They say Caesar has done very well in Spain. New lands under our control, new cities. I believe there has even been talk of a Triumph for him.’

      Pompey looked sharply at Crassus, his brow furrowing.

      ‘I’ve heard nothing of Triumphs and I have made myself clear. When his posting is over, I will send him somewhere else. Greece, perhaps. Whatever you are planning should be forgotten, Crassus. I witnessed my own men standing in the rain for that one when they saw his oak wreath. My own men, honouring a stranger! You remember Marius well enough. We don’t want another one in the city, especially as consul.’

      Crassus didn’t reply for a long moment and Pompey chose to interpret the silence as assent.

      Below them on the track, Dacius came up behind the Spanish team and moved to lap them. The faltering driver swerved violently as Dacius passed him, losing control for a split second. It was long enough. With a crash that could be heard over the appalled howl of the crowd, both teams were fouled and the neat lines of horses became screaming chaos in an instant.

      The Thracian heaved his reins over to clear the wreckage. His whip snapped at the inner horses, forcing them to shorten their stride for a turn that nearly had him over. The crowd watched in agony as the little man guided them around, but then they were through and clear and many in the circus rose to their feet to applaud his skill.

      Pompey swore under his breath as he saw Dacius lying still on the sand. One of his legs was twisted peculiarly. His knee had clearly been shattered and though he still lived, he would not race again.

      ‘Signal the guards I gave you, Crassus. There will be fighting once they recover from the shock.’

      Crassus set his jaw in anger, catching the eye of a centurion and holding up a clenched fist. They moved down amongst the benches and it was not a moment too soon. After the excitement at the destruction of the horses and chariots, the crowd had become aware of their lost bets and howled as one in an orgy of frustration. The final laps went without incident, the Thracian first across the line to general indifference. Fights had already broken out and the legionaries acted swiftly, using the flats of their swords to separate struggling men from each other.

      Pompey signalled his personal guard that he was ready to leave and they cleared a path for him. He exchanged a glance with Crassus as he left and saw the man’s dislike, for once unmasked. As he reached the street, Pompey was lost in thought, barely hearing the growing disruption behind him.

      Julius dismounted at the edge of the village, his horse gently snickering as it cropped at grass between the stones of an ancient road. He and Servilia had ridden far inland and there was no sign of life in the hills around them. It was a beautiful country, with vast swathes of forest and chalky cliffs that dropped into green valleys. The sun had moved past the noon point before they came to this place. They had seen mottled red deer and boars that ran squealing from their horses.

      Julius had taken long, looping trails to avoid all signs of people on their ride. He seemed content to be alone with her and Servilia was flattered. At times, it seemed as if they were the only ones alive. The forests were full of shadows and silence and they passed through the gloom almost as ghosts themselves. Then the trees would give way to bright sunlight and a grassy plain and they would gallop recklessly away from the dark until they were panting and laughing together. Servilia could not remember a more perfect day.

      The village Julius led her into was a strange place at the foot of a valley. A river ran close by, but as in the forests, there were no voices to break the stillness. The houses were slumping with age and wild ferns and ivy grew out of windows from within. Everywhere there were signs of decay. Doors that had been hung on stiff leather hinges yawned open at them and wild animals scuttled out of their sight as they led their horses along a street towards the centre. The quiet of the empty village made speech difficult, as if it was an intrusion. Servilia was reminded of the echoing vaults of a temple and wondered

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