FOR THE first ten rows, the seats of the amphitheater at Apollonia were made of marble, but beyond that there were wooden benches on bricks. The oblong structure could accommodate more than five thousand spectators and was by far the largest arena Tishtry had ever seen. She stood by the Gates of Life and stared at the enormous place.
On the sands there were three charioteers taking their teams on practice runs around the course, each of them maneuvering close to the long partition down the middle of the arena, a low brick wall called the spina. There were wooden fenders at either end of the spina, all showing countless impact scars. These were the metae, and as Tishtry watched, one of the charioteers cut in too close and his quadriga grazed the nearest meta, leaving yet another mark on the wood.
Chimbue Barantosz had the fidgets, which surprised no one but himself. He paced along the wall of the amphitheater, paying little attention to the charioteers, his Greek driver walking beside him. “I was told that the Master of the Bestiarii would meet me an hour ago. Where is the man? Where is he?”
Tishtry, enjoying the view from her vantage point, did not listen to her master’s protests. She was too caught up in the excitement of the arena to be worried by his constant fussing.
“He was supposed to be here,” Barantosz insisted, raising his voice.
“You are Chimbue Barantosz?” someone spoke up from behind him.
The three turned toward the questioner. “Who are you?” Barantosz demanded of the lean and angular young man who regarded them so confidently.
“Master of the Bestiarii” was the answer. “You were supposed to meet me in the training arena, weren’t you?”
“You sent word that you would meet me at the arena; we came here.” Barantosz was feeling abused, and he could not resist the impulse to pout. “You kept us waiting.”
“I would not have if you had come to the training arena,” the man said. “I am called Atadillius, Barantosz.”
“Atadillius.” Barantosz repeated as if the name tasted bad. “Very well. I am here with my slave.” He nodded toward Tishtry. “You were sent word about her.”
Atadillius regarded Tishtry with some surprise. “You’re very young,” he said at last, as if he had to say something.
“That doesn’t matter.” Tishtry responded, though Atadillius’ confidence was a little daunting to her.
“Perhaps not. Are you reckless?”
There was no way to tell what sort of answer he wanted from that unexpected question, so Tishtry glanced at her master and then said, “I’m careful of my horses, and I don’t plan to let myself get hurt.”
Atadillius gave a brief, fierce smile. “I see.” He turned his attention to Barantosz. “When can I see what she does?”
Barantosz scowled. “There are the horses to see to, and if they are recovered from the journey, it might be possible ... before sunset, if it is urgent.” The last came out in a rush and he looked uneasily toward Tishtry. “If you think you can do it?”
“There should be no problem,” she said, secretly amazed that she should sound so sure of herself.
“At the training arena then, an hour before sunset.” He looked down into the arena, his expression critical. “Paiden is getting sloppy. It happens when you get too old.”
Tishtry, who had been watching the charioteers closely, asked, “Is he the one with the grays?”
There was a hint of respect in Atadillius’ manner now. “What makes you think so?”
“Well, he’s feathered the metae three times in the last five circuits, and the other two haven’t.” She pointed to the chariot. “You see? He’s going to do it again.”
The impact of wheel on meta was a loud crack and the chariot teetered around the end of the spina, visibly wobbling.
“He’ll lose the wheel on the next turn,” Tishtry predicted.
“The shock wasn’t that bad,” Atadillius protested.
“Yes it was,” Tishtry declared. “It will collapse when he tries to lean into the turn.” She was certain of what she said, and found his doubt irritating. “If he leans with the chariot, he’ll go over.”
Atadillius folded his arms and sighed. “All right. Let’s watch.”
Barantosz could sense the challenge between the Master of the Bestiarii and his slave. He pulled unhappily at the ends of his belt and tried to think of a comment that would calm the two. “You don’t know what chariots will do” was the best he could come up with.
Below them, Paiden leaned in his chariot as it approached the end of the spina. Slowly the wheel slipped on its axle, folding farther under the vehicle with each rotation. Realizing too late that he was in danger, Paiden tried to shift his weight, but his last—second efforts were useless; the wheel broke free and the quadriga lurched onto its side, spilling Paiden onto the sands. The three yoked horses were able to drag the chariot a little way, but the free—running inside horse took the bit in his teeth and in a sudden burst of speed snapped his traces.
“Well?” Tishtry said, looking toward Atadillius.
“He lost the wheel.” the Master of the Bestiarii acknowledged. “You must have been watching closely.”
“Anyone could have seen that was going to happen,” Tishtry scoffed, enjoying her little victory.
“Just see that you do as well in the practice arena,” Atadillius said coldly.
As Atadillius stalked off, Barantosz looked after him, misery in his eyes. “I hope he’ll still let you perform here, that’s all I can say.”
Tishtry grinned.
* * *
It was the third time that Tishtry had been asked to go through her routine in the practice arena, and by now she was beginning to feel comfortable in the larger space. In the four days since she had arrived, she had become an object of curiosity, which pleased her. She noticed that there were more than a dozen people sitting on the fence around the practice arena, and she smiled as she led her horses onto the sands. She saluted her audience, then climbed into her quadriga, flipping the reins to put her team in motion. She felt the familiar strength of the horses in the pull on her arms as the team went from walk to trot to canter.
On the fence, Atadillius nodded to himself as Tishtry made her first circuit of the arena. He admired the way she handled her horses and he liked her style, no matter how clumsy and undeveloped it was.
“What are you thinking?” Macon asked from her place beside him.
“With a little development, she might be worth sending to a bigger arena,” Atadillius answered as he turned to smile at Tishtry’s sister.
Macon was not able to smile in return. “There are more risks in bigger arenae, aren’t there.” She hesitated. “Our brother was killed doing tricks in his quadriga, and I am afraid it will happen to her, as well.”
“Not a chance,” Atadillius assured her. “I’ve been watching her, and no matter what it might look like, she takes no chances at all.”
Now that the team had settled into their steady, smooth gallop, Tishtry climbed out of the chariot, springing onto Dozei’s back and crouching there until the horses thundered out of the tight turn at the end of the circuit and had a long, straight stretch ahead of them. This was the part she liked best, the exhilaration of that first stand. When she was younger it had frightened her, but now she was so used to the trick and to her team that the fear had almost left her. She rose up and raised her arms over her head, fists clenched, as her father had taught her.
“It’s a good beginning,” Atadillius said, “but there’s nothing special about it. She should find a way to make more of it.”
“Isn’t standing on the back of a running horse enough?” Macon asked, a bit shocked to hear Tishtry criticized.
“Not for Romans, no,” Atadillius answered. “She should have a little more to make it really special, bring it to the attention of the crowd. The w
ay she does that, you’d think anyone could do it. The thing is for her to do something that makes it clear that although it is easy enough for her, no one else could manage it.” He pointed to the quadriga. “She needs a better chariot as well, one that lets her do more with it.”
“Our master isn’t likely to buy her one, and she has yet to make any more money from her performances to purchase one herself,” Macon pointed out.
“We’ll see.” Atadillius braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward on the fence, watching closely as Tishtry began to jump lightly from the back of one horse to another. “I wish she’d skip.”
“Skip?” Macon repeated in astonishment.
“Well, that or something more unusual.” He rested his chin on his laced fingers. “Pity the team isn’t a matched one.”
“It is,” Macon insisted.
“I meant for color. Still, better that they are the same size and have the same stride, I suppose, given what she does.” He pointed to the little saddle on Amath, the dark bay. “Did you make that?”
“Of course. And the bridles,” Macon said, with a touch of pride. “I make all the saddles and bridles for the family.”
As if to thank her older sister for the saddle, Tishtry bent down, grasped the special handholds on the fenders of the saddle, then extended herself in a handstand as the horses continued to race around the practice arena.
Several of those on the fence who had been watching her silently now applauded and hooted their approval.
“That’s one of her best tricks,” Atadillius conceded. “I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Still, if she could find another trick, even more spectacular, then it would be wonderful.”
Tishtry braced herself as she came out of the handstand. Then she sprang into the air, somersaulting backward to land on her feet in the quadriga, where she once again took the reins and guided her team on a last sweep around the arena. That was the only part of the routine that worried her. Her quadriga, being a standard racing chariot, was badly balanced for the trick, and once she had twisted her ankle on landing. She had a few ideas about how her vehicle could be made better.
The gates at the end of the practice arena opened and she shot through them, noting with satisfaction that several of the grooms had stopped their work to take a peek at her performance.
“You did quite well,” Atadillius said as he came up to her when she had got out of the chariot and was helping to unhitch her team.
“I know,” she answered. “And I will do better. I want to make the routine longer, but the horses aren’t ready for that yet. I don’t know what they’ll be like when the amphitheater is full. All the people and noise may make them nervous.”
“It could,” Atadillius agreed. “We’ll find out next week.”
“So soon?” Macon wanted to know. Her face, usually thoughtful and calm, was now creased with worry. “Shouldn’t she have more time?”
“So that other charioteers may come and watch her and try to get the advantage of her by doing her tricks before she does them?” Atadillius asked. “I’m going to talk to Barantosz tonight. We’ll arrange it.”
“Good,” Tishtry said, then added, “They may try to do my tricks if they like. It took most of my life for me to learn them, and if they think they can master them overnight, let them do their best.”
Atadillius shook his head. “No doubt what you say is true, but don’t repeat it; others may hear you and take it for a challenge. Time enough for that when you are well established and there are editoris trying to place you in their Games.”
“All right.” Tishtry finished the unhitching and called to one of the grooms, “I’m going to walk them.”
“Your master would do well to purchase an aurigatore for you, to help you with the care of your animals and your equipment. Rivals have been known to sabotage one another through the use of stable hands.” Atadillius rubbed his chin. “Would you look after her tack, Macon, until we find someone right? It’s not what you are trained for, and it might be that your master will not like it, but it would be wiser.”
Macon nodded. “I don’t want to see anything happen to Tishtry. I’ll be pleased to look after her tack.”
“I think you’re both being worse than nursemaids, but if you want to go to all this trouble, who am I to stop you?” Tishtry said, and led her horses away toward the open area where she could walk her team.
* * *
Chimbue Barantosz took a hasty gulp of wine. “How do you mean, it would be possible for Tishtry to go further?”
Atadillius favored him with a superior smile. “You have a remarkable young slave there, Barantosz, and it is a shame you have been so shortsighted about what she might accomplish, given the chance.” He dropped onto one of the dining couches and helped himself to the spiced pork set out on the table between them. “I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself.” This last was a lie, but Atadillius was sure it would serve his purpose.
“I never thought that ... well, she’s quite good, I suppose, but … she’s very young, after all.” He had some more wine. “Her family are quite hopeful for her, but …”
Atadillius did not let Barantosz dither any longer. “Small wonder. I have been Master of the Bestiarii since I bought my freedom six years ago, and I tell you that never have I seen a girl work horses the way Tishtry does. She lacks polish and she needs instruction in performing, but knowing what she can do, I am convinced that she might eventually make it as far as Roma, and the Circus Maximus.”
“Gods of the fishes!” Barantosz burst out, his soft babyish features turning rosy and his mouth opening in astonishment. “Tishtry? In Roma?”
“It’s possible. With care and good sense.” He paused, then went on even more smoothly as he reached for more pork, “It will take time, and I would want your assurance that I have the right to work with her, coach her and all.”
“It will cost me money, won’t it?” Barantosz cut in.
“Naturally. But once the winter storms come, there will be plenty of time to practice and perfect her tricks. There are no Games here in the winter, and that means a good three months to devote to making her performance better.”
“But the cost ...” Barantosz persisted.
“If she improves—and I believe she will—you could sell her for a great deal of money. You wouldn’t have to risk more than you’d have to invest in my time and abilities. That wouldn’t put you at a disadvantage for long.” He assumed a more casual manner as he grew confident of his success. Barantosz, he knew, was as greedy as he was timid, so he added, “I’d be willing to take part of my pay in commission from her sale.”
At that, Barantosz looked up, a flicker of interest in his hooded eyes. “How great a part?”
“Thirty percent,” Atadillius said.
“Fifty percent,” Barantosz countered at once. “If you will defer half of your payment contingent on her sale, well, then it might be arranged.” He plucked at the knots of his belt. “I want you to explain this to her. Let her see that it will be to her advantage in the long run.”
Atadillius had heard Macon speak of the various assurances Barantosz had given Tishtry and her family. “If you wish.”
“She’s ... difficult. It would be better coming from you. She’d listen to you.” He took his cup and gulped some wine. “You’re a practical man, Atadillius. You can make her understand.”
“But why should I?” he asked innocently. “Perhaps, if you were to compromise at forty percent, I’d find myself more eloquent.”
“All right.” Barantosz squirmed. “Forty percent. But I don’t want to have anything to do with what you say to her. Is that acceptable?”
Atadillius took the last of the pork. “Done,” he said with his mouth full.
TISHTRY thought she had never heard so much noise before in her life.
It was worse than the howling of wind in a winter storm, and all it was was the voices of people gathered in the amphitheater to watch the Games. She had tried to pretend that she was used to it when it had first begun, but now she let herself be amazed. She was troubled that her team would bolt at the sound, for they might be frightened by it. It was not easy for her to admit to herself that it frightened her.
“Don’t worry,” a rangy Persian secutor said to her as he strolled by, swinging his weapons. “This is a small place. Nothing like the big arenae where there are ten times this number of people in the stands, and the sound makes you deaf after a while.”
“There can’t be ten times this number of people in the whole world,” Tishtry protested.
The secutor laughed. “This is a small place. It might be bigger than anything you’ve got back home in Cappadocia or Armenia or wherever it is you come from, but don’t doubt it—this is nothing.”
“But it’s ... so much.” She thought of her tricks, hoping she would be able to do them for the gigantic crowd. With so many people, would any of them actually see what it was she was doing? She fingered the small brass studs that had been added to her leather costume, and she was glad now she had chosen them instead of colors, because the sunlight would make them shine, and more of the crowd would see her. She swallowed hard and tried to forget how nervous she was.
“Just do your tricks. Don’t think about the people. They’ll want to see what you can do. Think of this as practice, for when you get into a proper arena with twenty thousand in the stands.” The secutor cuffed her shoulder in encouragement.
Four Horses For Tishtry Page 4
