The Racing Factions

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘That’s good news. Where can I find your faction master?’

  ‘Euprepes will be in the tent in the middle of our camp; I’ll be able to get you in if you want an introduction.’

  ‘Better not, mate, I’ll do it myself; it would be tricky for you to be seen associating with me after what I’ve got to say to him.’

  Lucius looked worried. ‘You’re not going to tell him that you know about the mares, are you?’

  ‘No, my friend, I wouldn’t betray your loyalty like that.’

  ‘Euprepes will see no one without an appointment,’ the ex-gladiator guarding the tent informed Magnus, cracking both his shoulders in turn to stress the point.

  ‘Oh, but I have an appointment; in fact I’ve got a permanent appointment. You tell him that the man who’s going to make him richer even than when he was a charioteer driving first for the Blues and then the Greens is here to see him.’

  ‘He won’t believe you so I’d fuck off quietly if I was you, mate.’

  Magnus squared up to the guard. ‘I’ve got no intention of fucking off quietly – or loudly for that matter. Now you listen to me, matey-boy, I’ll get to talk to Euprepes somehow, very soon, and I’ll inform him, as he’s hugging me to his breast with tears of joy in his eyes and gratitude welling in his heart at my generosity, that his involvement in my proposal very nearly didn’t happen because of an over-officious oaf obstinately denying me ingress to his tent. Now, do you want to risk what will happen when he contemplates the magnitude of your error or would you prefer to pop in and tell him that Marcus Salvius Magnus is here with a proposition that will make the prize money from winning nearly two thousand races seem like nothing more than what a dockside whore-boy earns for parting his buttocks for a Syrian sailor?’

  The guard’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched, tensing the sculpted muscles all down his arms. However, he remained motionless, weighing up his options for a few moments until he turned, abruptly, and disappeared through the tent’s flaps.

  Magnus smiled to himself and waited, watching a Green rider bring his lathered horse into the camp surrounded by cheering supporters. ‘A Green victory, very auspicious,’ he muttered.

  ‘And what makes you think that I would possibly do this, Magnus?’ Euprepes asked, stroking his grey-flecked, Greek-style beard and holding Magnus’ gaze with surprisingly blue, penetrating eyes.

  ‘Odds of forty or fifty to one?’

  ‘But I’m not allowed to bet on other teams, especially on a Red one-two-three.’

  ‘I quite understand that, Euprepes, and I’m sure that you never break that rule – personally. However, I’m informed that you had a very good day at the last races, when, I believe, the Greens only won once in the whole half-day. I would guess that you had a good friend place the odd, illicit wager on the opposition.’

  Euprepes gave a thin smile. ‘A man in my position would be foolish not to take advantage of the information that I possess.’

  ‘I quite agree; that would be stretching loyalty too far.’

  ‘Indeed – although, obviously, there is no questioning my loyalty to the Green faction.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘What’s your motivation for doing this?’

  ‘I’m a lifelong loyal Green, so what does it matter?’

  Euprepes conceded the point with a nod and a wave of his hand. ‘Which race?’

  ‘Either the second-to-last or the last in the first race-day after the calends of March.’

  ‘So if I was to give our charioteers orders to let the Reds win how can you guarantee that the Whites and the Blues will also do the same? Have you spoken to their faction masters too?’

  ‘Now that would be letting a few too many into our little circle, I would say. If there were to be numerous people betting on a Red one-two-three in the one race that it actually happens the bookmakers might get a little suspicious.’

  Euprepes inclined his head in appreciation of the fact.

  ‘The Whites I can deal with; it’s the Blues that are still a problem, but I’m sure that with your help we can guarantee that all three teams will fail to finish.’

  ‘Have my three teams bring them down?’

  ‘Too risky; one might get through and, also, it would look a little strange if the Greens spent the entire race having a go at the Blues whilst the Reds just storm ahead.’

  Euprepes considered this for a few moments. ‘You’re right; we’ll just do one.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘A malfunction and a hail of curses?’ the faction master suggested.

  ‘Perfect.’ Magnus stood and proffered his forearm. ‘I knew that a man of your experience would have the answers.’

  ‘So it’ll be just you and me who know about this?’

  ‘No, Servius my second knows, as well as a very helpful centurion in one of the Urban Cohorts and also a couple of others who will be betting in the senators’ enclosure.’

  ‘So they won’t be making our bookmakers suspicious.’

  ‘Exactly; if we spread small bets over quite a few of them we’ll clean up without anyone being any the wiser.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to me with this, my friend; let me as a show of gratitude give you a tip for the races the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘A Green one-two in the second race?’

  Euprepes’ eyes opened wide in surprise; he laughed and slapped Magnus on the shoulder. ‘I can see you are very well informed; however, you’re not as well informed as I am. I’ll give the orders for our first and second teams to cross the line in reverse order so it will be a Green one-two, second team first, first team second.’

  ‘Euprepes, you are a very kind and understanding man.’

  ‘As are you, Magnus.’

  Magnus waited on the steps of the Temple of Mars, in Augustus’ statue-lined forum, watching the arrival of twelve patrician youths singing and waving long swords in unison in a slow, rhythmic dance. Watched by a solemn crowd, they moved forward with regular leaps in time to the slow beat of the almost unintelligible song. Clad in ancient embroidered tunics of many colours and plain, oblong breastplates under short red cloaks and spiked, tight-fitting leather headdresses, the leaping, armed priesthood of the Salii paraded their sacred bronze shields around the city in celebration of the god of war’s birthday. Eleven of the shields, shaped as if two round hoplons had been fused together one on top of the other, were replicas of the twelfth, the original shield said to have fallen from the heavens back in the time of King Numa, Romulus’ successor.

  ‘They say that whoever is in possession of the original shield will dominate all the peoples of earth.’

  Magnus turned, surprised by the voice so close behind him; he saw Pallas.

  ‘Which is why they made eleven copies; a potential thief wouldn’t know which one to steal.’

  Magnus tutted. ‘In which case, I’d steal all twelve.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think the ancients really thought that one through. However, my friend, my mistress has thought your request through and is willing to deliver your tip in today’s racing to her nephew.’

  Magnus grinned in relief. ‘That is most considerate of her, Pallas.’

  Magnus and his Crossroads Brethren joined in with the rest of the Greens in their corner of the Circus Maximus, screaming themselves hoarse, as the Green second team followed by the Green first team began their last lap with an unassailable lead. Way behind them their nearest rivals, a Red and a Blue, cracked their four-lash whips over the withers of their teams in a vain attempt to squeeze a little more speed from them. Although there was only a prize for the winner, both trailing drivers were well aware that many of their faction’s supporters would have the minimum bet of one of their colour coming in the first three at odds of evens or less; neither wanted to upset their supporters by appearing not to be trying.

  The two leading Greens, however, did not have that worry; they cut through the dust of the track at a speed that would guarantee a first
and second place but would not blow the horses. As their hortatores guided them around the wreckage of their third team, Magnus, for the first time ever, found himself concerned for a horse; he hoped that Spendusa would be cut from the wreck without too much harm done. The ruse had worked very successfully – too successfully as far as the mares were concerned. Two teams of stallions from the White Faction directly behind them in the pre-race procession had bolted in their urgency to get to the mares. The two teams in the starting boxes to either side had smashed their chariots as they reared and bucked in the narrow confines, maddened by nature’s compulsive scent oozing in from so close. As the boxes slammed open with high-torsion violence the two teams of Green geldings leapt forward, oblivious to the urgent need to spread seed. The remaining five teams of stallions, however, were not so relaxed; their urge to breed was evident to all in their behaviour and appearance throughout the race until, in a rare breakout of cross-faction harmony, a Red and a Blue charioteer had combined to bring the Green mares crashing down, albeit far too late.

  Magnus gave a nervous glance over at the imperial box on the Palatine side of the circus; he could just make out the distant figure of Antonia and he prayed that she had passed on the tip that Pallas had given her, as she had promised she would, to Ahenobarbus. His gaze wandered up to the top of the enclosure; somewhere up there was Ignatius. Magnus smiled inwardly as he cheered his faction on, feeling the thrill of vengeance soon to be had on the man who had publicly cheated him.

  The Greens worked themselves up into a frenzy as their geldings crossed the line, which was equalled by the sense of outrage felt by the other three factions at the use of such a ruse.

  ‘Looks like the Reds ain’t too happy with us, lads,’ Magnus commented as a surge from the Red area, adjacent to the Greens on the Aventine side of the circus, headed towards them. ‘That’s just as I’d hoped.’ Within moments fighting had broken out and blood had been spilt. Magnus looked at his brothers and fellow Greens around him and shouted: ‘Let’s be having them, lads!’ All around, Green faction supporters were having the same idea and a tide of anger began to push towards the Reds.

  With Marius and Sextus to one side, Tigran and Cassandros to the other and supported by many more of the South Quirinal Brotherhood, Magnus barged his way through streams of spectators fleeing the violence, knocking men aside in his eagerness to close with the Reds. Bunching his fists he flew at the first person he saw sporting Red colours. Slamming his right into the man’s midriff, Magnus knocked the air out of him, doubling him over; he brought his knee sharply up to crunch into the fast-descending face, crushing the Red’s nose in a splatter of crimson. Next to him, Sextus, with a straight right jab of his ham-like fist, belted a Red back; blood arced through the air from a shattered mouth as Cassandros caught a knife-wielding hand by the wrist and forced the arm down across his knee, snapping it with such force that a shard of white bone ripped open the skin to the earsplitting howl of agony. Screams of pain, yells of anger and grunts of exertion replaced the roars of encouragement, shouts of victory and groans of disappointment as the two factions ripped into each other with a venom born of years of mutual loathing and rivalry. Magnus worked his fists with the mechanical precision learnt during his time as a boxer, blocking and dealing blows with rapid jerks and unfailing accuracy, as Marius wrapped the stump of his left arm around a neck and pulled the head forward, bringing his own down abruptly to crack into the face with a sickening, dull crunch.

  Above the din came the call of a horn answered by another not far off.

  ‘That’s the Cohorts arriving, lads, best be going before they try and introduce us to their iron.’ With a well-aimed kick at the genitals of a young man trying to get away he broke off from the fight, turned and sprinted towards the nearest exit that did not contain onrushing units of the Urban Cohorts; his brethren followed.

  ‘I do love a ruck with the Reds – more than anything, Magnus,’ Marius puffed as they barrelled down the steps.

  ‘That weren’t just a ruck, brother; that was the means to get a couple of bridges closed.’

  ‘I imagine that you were right in the thick of that,’ Gaius Vespasius Pollo boomed, waddling down the steps holding a heavy-looking purse and a scroll.

  Magnus took his place with his brothers ready to beat a way home through the crowds for his patron. ‘Indeed, but it was more business than pleasure, sir, and very successful it was too; the Reds will be seething with resentment for a good few days. I’m not looking forward to seeing their behaviour on the next race-day if they haven’t calmed down by then; it’s only four days away. How was your business?’

  ‘Equally successful, I’m pleased to report. I got twenty to one for a Green one-two in the order you told me. This purse contains two hundred in gold and this is Ignatius’ promissory note for a further two hundred. Did you profit as well?’

  ‘Very much so; I’ve sent a couple of the lads back with our winnings.’

  ‘I’m told by an acquaintance that Ahenobarbus was equally successful in the same race.’

  ‘That’s gratifying to hear, senator.’

  ‘Well, yes and no, Magnus. The Lady Antonia sent me a note just before she left the circus: Ahenobarbus is very enthusiastic about the information as he feels that it’s impossible for someone of his family to be too rich.’

  ‘A noble sentiment.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. However, there’s one small snag.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Which is that before he lays out such a huge amount on a wager he wants to meet the person who provides the information; he wants to find out just how he intends to fix a Red one-two-three, seeing as no one has ever managed it previously.’

  ‘Ah!’ Magnus’ face fell.

  ‘Ah, indeed. Antonia said in the note that he expects that person at his house tomorrow morning as soon as he’s finished greeting his clients. Obviously there’ll be no mention of my name.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Magnus waited in a thin drizzle outside an old and elegant marble-clad house on the east of the Palatine next to the Temple of Apollo. Despite its age the house was well maintained, reflecting the wealth of Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus whose family had first held the consulship over two hundred years before.

  With the rain soaking into his toga, Magnus watched the stream of clients come down the half-dozen steps from the front door in reverse order of precedence, calculating that there were at least five hundred – the sign of a very influential man in possession of a very large atrium.

  As the last of the clients, a couple of junior senators, came down the steps the door closed behind them. Magnus crossed the street and knocked.

  A viewing slot immediately pulled back to reveal two questioning eyes. ‘Your business, master?’

  ‘Marcus Salvius Magnus, come at the request of the Senior Consul, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus.’

  The door opened and Magnus walked in, through the vestibule and into an atrium that could easily hold five hundred people.

  ‘Wait here, master,’ the doorkeeper requested, ‘whilst I inform the steward of your arrival.’ He whispered an order to a waiting slave of inferior rank and dress before returning to his post as the messenger walked quickly off.

  Magnus studied his surroundings: everything spoke of immense and long-held wealth. Engraved silver candelabras, the height of a man, with eagles’ feet of gold; golden bowls on low marble tables polished to reflect the high, brightly painted ceiling. The statue in the impluvium was a bronze of Neptune spurting water from his mouth and lifting his trident in triumph. Magnus smiled to himself as he thought of Ignatius seated next to a statue of the same god in the Circus Maximus, the god that was evidently the guardian deity of the Domitii.

  ‘Very auspicious,’ he muttered, clenching his thumb in his hand to ward off the evil eye that might be drawn to him by his assumption of a good omen.

  ‘The master will see you now,’ a voice from the far end of the atrium informed him.
‘Please follow me, sir.’

  Magnus did as he was bid and followed the steward through the atrium and to the door of the tablinum.

  A gruff ‘enter’ greeted the steward’s knock and he swung open the black and yellow lacquered door soundlessly. Magnus stepped in and the door closed behind him.

  A heavy-set, balding man with full cheeks, a small, mean mouth and a long nose that curved up towards its tip stared at Magnus with malevolent eyes. He sat behind a carved, wooden desk; behind him a window looked out on to a damp and dismal courtyard garden waiting for the first shoots of spring. ‘Who are you, Marcus Salvius Magnus, that you can fix a race?’

  Magnus paused before answering and then realised that he was not going to be offered a seat. ‘I’m the agent for the man who has paid to fix a race.’

  The eyes bored into him with unsettling intensity as Ahenobarbus slammed both his palms down on the desktop with a hollow crack; colour exploded alarmingly into his cheeks. ‘I asked for the fixer to come, not his agent; how dare you disobey me!’

  ‘We are aware of that, Consul, and I’ve come solely because I’m the one who made all the arrangements and am therefore in a better position to explain to you how it would work.’

  Ahenobarbus’ small mouth pursed into a tightly clenched moue as he considered this for a moment. ‘Very well, tell me.’

  Magnus set out his plan, leaving out not the slightest detail; when he had finished Ahenobarbus’ mouth remained puckered but the colour in his cheeks had subsided into a less alarming shade.

  ‘That may well work,’ Ahenobarbus conceded eventually. ‘What’s more, if it does it won’t look suspiciously like a fix; and I should know because I’ve tried to arrange the very same thing but failed. My aunt, the Lady Antonia, tells me that you wish me to place a bet with the bookmaker named Ignatius.’

  ‘That is correct, Consul.’

  ‘What amazes me is why she would get involved in something like this; she used all her charm on me to get me to consent; she must be very fond of your benefactor to show such loyalty.’