The Dreams of Morpheus

by Robert Fabbri

Rufinus picked it up and felt the weight of it in his hand; he whistled softly. ‘Magnus, my friend, as always it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’

  Magnus ripped the sackcloth in half and handed a bit to Rufinus to wrap his resin in. ‘Let the fight build up a bit and then threaten as if to join in against the Suburra, but do not make the move. That should be enough to make them attack you and then after that it becomes self-defence.’

  Rufinus stuffed his half-tablet down his tunic. ‘What if I’m asked why I formed up against the Suburra?’

  ‘You’ll say that you thought the fight was escalating into a grain riot.’

  ‘What made me think that?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my friend; the evidence will be there. You leave that to me; it’ll be flying through the air.’

  The Ides of October dawned bright and clear with a golden sun rising over the eastern hills, slowly drying the dew that glistened on Rome’s streets and roofs. The city bustled with an air of anticipation and very little business was attempted; instead, the main part of the citizenry made their way to the Campus Martius, outside the northern walls of the city, to celebrate the most important of the three annual equestrian festivals dedicated to Mars. It was the day when the October Horse would be chosen after a series of two-horse chariot races round a course on the Campus Martius; the right-hand horse of the winning pair would be sacrificed to the god of war and guardian of agriculture in an ancient rite to celebrate the completion of the agricultural and military-campaigning season.

  Magnus and thirty of his brothers set out after completing their dawn rituals at the altar of the Crossroads Lares. Both Sextus and Cassandros carried sacks, each containing three of the modius measures that Aetius had delivered during the night. After a short walk they came to the one-storey house of Senator Pollo and joined his clients waiting outside its windowless frontage to escort their patron to the celebrations. Each man held the small bag of coins, their stakes for the day’s wagers, which they had received from their patron as they greeted him at his morning salutio – a formality that Magnus was excused from due to his religious obligations at the same time.

  Magnus formed up his brothers at the head of the clients, ready to beat a passage for the senator and his entourage through the dense festival crowds. All along the street other parties were assembling, some larger, some smaller, depending on the status of the patron.

  The heavy wooden door, the only opening to the street in the plain burnt-ochre-painted wall, opened and Gaius appeared at the top of the steps to applause from the lesser men who relied on his patronage. Raising his hand in acknowledgement, he waddled down to the pavement and made his way towards Magnus, the crowd parting for him, many of them forced to jump down into the soiled street.

  Gaius dropped a weighty purse in Magnus’ hand. ‘May the gods grant you good fortune, my friend.’

  ‘And may they grant the same to you, patronus.’

  Gaius chuckled. ‘I rather think that our good fortune is down to our own efforts.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it don’t do any harm to entreat the gods as well.’

  ‘No, no, my friend, I quite agree; yet the rest of the city is probably entreating away and who will the gods grant good fortune to? I’ll tell you: just the bookmakers and the sensible few that bet on form and fitness rather than which racing faction the chariots are in.’

  ‘But these races aren’t factional.’ Magnus signalled to his brothers to move and the procession headed off down the hill.

  ‘Of course not; none of the four colours can be seen to be more favoured by Mars than the other. But come now, Magnus; you know as well as I that, apart from the young bucks racing for family glory, most of the charioteers are all apprentices of one of the colours – the Reds, Blues, Whites or Greens – and a lot of the horses, rather than being genuine warhorses entered by families of standing, as in ancient times, are, instead, veterans of the wars on the track. Don’t tell me that you don’t know which chariots belong to your beloved Greens just because they don’t sport their colours?’

  ‘It’s hard to bet against the Greens,’ Magnus mumbled as he hefted the heavy purse in his hand.

  ‘I seem to remember you betting on a Red one, two, three a couple of years ago, and doing very well out of it.’

  ‘That was business.’

  Gaius pointed to the purse. ‘And so is this; you’ll notice that there is considerably more in there than I would normally distribute to you and your lads on a festival day.’

  ‘I was wondering about that; what do you want us to do, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow, at the second hour, I want you to go to the House of the Moon in the stonemasons’ street on the Caelian Hill and take with you one of the tablets. Knock four times in quick succession, count three heartbeats and then repeat the signal. When asked to identify yourself say “Morpheus”. I don’t know how many men will be inside but at least two, I should imagine. You’re to go alone; leave the lads that accompany you at the end of the street. You should be quite safe.’

  ‘Should be quite safe? That doesn’t sound like a hundred per cent guarantee.’

  ‘What is in this life, my friend? Anyway, they will examine the tablet and take a sample. Tell them how many others like it you have and they will name a price. Refuse the first two offers out of hand, then say that you have to consult about the third but you’ll have an answer within a couple of hours. Speed is of the essence now that the Urban Prefect has been informed of the theft.’

  ‘He’s been what?’

  ‘The theft was noticed yesterday and needless to say Herod Agrippa was apoplectic. He went to both the prefect of Ostia and the Urban Prefect here in Rome and demanded action. I don’t know what they can do in reality, but it would be best to conclude the deal and get the tablets out of the city and the money into Antonia’s hands as soon as possible.’

  ‘I quite agree; business like this is best done fast.’

  ‘Indeed. Now tell me, how will this other bit of business go today? Am I to be standing up in the Senate tomorrow, urging the Urban Prefect to launch an inquiry into weights and measures, and then proposing a vote of thanks?’

  ‘It’ll be fine; my mate, a centurion in one of the Urban Cohorts, will get his men into a provocative position and, with a little help from the lads and me, it should spark the riot.’

  ‘Urban Cohorts, eh? He’ll be sticking his neck out a bit; I hope you’ve paid him well.’

  ‘Don’t worry, senator, I … Oh shit. I bribed him with half of the tablet that I took as a commission.’

  Gaius turned to Magnus in alarm. ‘Has he still got it?’

  ‘I don’t know; but I suggested who to sell it to: doctors who treat senators, Praetorian officers or Urban Cohort officers.’

  ‘Oh dear. In the circumstances, that’s the worst place to go.’

  Magnus’ ears rang as the people of Rome cheered and whistled, roaring on the twelve teams in the final race of the festival as they hurtled round the temporary track on the Trigarium, the equestrian training ground set in the bend of the Tiber, on the north-west corner of the Campus Martius. Here they had spent the morning enjoying racing of the highest calibre: a dozen heats with twelve pairs of the finest stallions driven to extreme exertion by their charioteers, all contesting the privilege to partake in the ultimate race in honour of the god.

  Tens of thousands crammed round the track, ringed by a stout and solid wooden barrier and lined with soldiers of the Urban Cohorts in full military panoply, as the festival took place outside of the pomerium, the sacred boundary of the City of Rome. Every vantage point behind the spectators, crammed twenty to thirty deep round the three-hundred-pace-long track with a turning post at each end, had been taken.

  As the seven remaining teams still running approached the last lap, flanks and muzzles foaming with sweat, eyes rolling, great hearts pounding, charging forward to the cracks of whips over their withers, the noise escalated to deafening proportions. But Magnus did not notice; he did not
cheer. Magnus just stood, unmoving, in the shadow of an equestrian statue of a long-dead patrician, waiting for news from Rufinus. His brothers had scoured the Campus Martius all morning, and had eventually found him and his century at the eastern end of the track. But with the press of people so tight, not even the bookmakers’ slaves who roamed the crowds taking bets could make it to the front rows. So Magnus had been forced to wait, uncertain whether Rufinus had attempted to sell his half of the resin, and whether it had come to the ears of the Urban Prefect.

  The roar escalated to a point that would have competed with the battle-cry of the god himself, and tens of thousands of fists were punched into the air as the winning team crossed the finish line after seven laps of the track. The charioteer leant back on the reins, wrapped around his waist, to slow his victorious stallions – a pair of chestnuts with black manes and tails. The soldiers of the Urban Cohorts stationed at the eastern end of the track, under Rufinus’ command, locked shields as they forced a path through the cheering crowd for the victor. Magnus and his brothers shadowed the procession from the edge of the spectators as it made its way towards the altar of Mars at the heart of the Campus Martius where the Flamen Martius, Caius Iunius Silanus, the aged high-priest of Mars, waited, brandishing one of the sacred spears in readiness for the sacrifice. Wearing a fringed cloak over his toga, of double-thick wool and clasped at the throat, his head encased in a leather skullcap fastened by a chinstrap and with a point of olive-wood poking out of its top, he called on the deity to look down kindly upon the sacrifice of the best horse in the city.

  Heads tossing, nostrils snorting, and with tails swishing, the two magnificent beasts high-stepped along the path forced for them by punched shield bosses, their hoofbeats and the jangle of their harnesses lost in the tumult. Taken up with the delirium of the moment and aware in some corner of their equine minds that the frenzy was due to their achievement, they held their heads high – skittering occasionally, only to be brought back under control by a sharp tug of the reins – as they progressed slowly through the crowd swirling about them.

  Occasionally catching sight of Rufinus’ transverse, white-horsehair crest, Magnus kept pace with him, making sure his brothers stayed close, knowing he must wait for his chance to get to the centurion.

  On reaching the altar, the right-hand horse was slipped out of its traces and the crowd, sensing the religious significance of the moment, began to hush as it was garlanded with pendants of bread; two priests of Mars moved into position on each side and grasped its reins. The Flamen Martius approached the unsuspecting animal with slow, deliberate, twisting steps so that his cloak fanned around him as he swayed left and then right. With his spear alternatively raised to the sky and then pointed at the October Horse’s chest, he repeated forms of words so ancient that their meaning was only vaguely clear to those not schooled in the rituals of Mars. Now, no other voice could be heard other than that of the priest, who was accompanied by the snorts and stamps of his unsuspecting victim.

  With a final appeal to the heavens, he brought his spear down and, grasping it in both white-knuckled hands, rammed it, overarm, into the beast’s chest. The priests hauled on the reins as the October Horse screeched and made to rear; they kept it down as two more priests, with folds of their togas covering their heads, grasped the spear and, with a mighty effort, helped the Flamen Martius thrust it home and burst the heart of the gift to Mars. Transfixed on the spear and restrained by its reins, the beast tossed its head, arcing the pendants of bread through the air back and forth as blood flowed from the puncture in its breast; but this soon lessened as the victim’s heart, tangled on the iron blade within it, ceased to pump and the pressure dropped. Down came the great beast as its forelegs buckled, cracking its knees on the paved ground already slick with blood; they slipped forward as the Flamen and his assistants hauled the sacred spear free. Released from its supporting prop and with the strength rapidly fading in its muscles, the October Horse rolled its eyes so only yellowish-white was visible and, with an unnatural rattle in its throat, collapsed on to its left side, twitching erratically.

  Not a sound could be heard once the last breath had fled the sacrifice; for a few moments all stood still, spellbound by the intensity of the ritual. The Flamen Martius broke that spell by taking an axe from the altar and moving to the rear of the carcass; one of his assistants moved to pull the tail straight and iron flashed in the sun. The tail was severed and then held upright by the assisting priest to prevent the precious blood within from spilling. Holding it aloft, the priest and two colleagues made their way through the crowd, which parted for them as they increased their pace, in order to take the tail to the Regia, where the sacred spears and the sacred shields of Mars were housed. There, on the Regia’s hearth, the blood would be sprinkled.

  The Flamen moved to the front of the carcass, intoning prayers, as his remaining three assistants pulled at the dead head to straighten the neck. A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd as the time approached when it would be decided where the severed head would reside for the year: nailed to the Regia, if the Via Sacra Brotherhoods won the fight by dragging it there, or to the equally ancient Mamillian Tower in the Suburra if the Brotherhoods from that quarter won.

  With a final, hoarse call to the deity, the high priest of Mars brought the axe slicing through the air, over the top of his head, to thump down with the wet, solid blow of a butcher’s cleaver, burying itself deep in the neck. With this stroke, the Flamen’s job was done and he left it to his younger colleagues to part the head from the body. Once this had been achieved, the garland of loaves was thrown on to the altar to be consumed by fire, and its smoke twirled up in thanks for yet another harvest preserved.

  Now it was time to fight for the head.

  Ushered by the Urban Cohorts, the crowd dispersed, falling back from around the altar, allowing the massed Brotherhoods from the two contesting areas to line up facing each other with a hundred paces between them. Both contingents were several hundred strong, although the Suburra looked to be slightly larger than the Via Sacra; neither side had any obvious weapons other than cudgels and knuckledusters. Magnus saw Grumio in the front rank of the Suburra, looking suspiciously towards Rufinus’ Urban Cohort century and others beyond that had finally been freed from the press of crowds round them. Signalling his brothers to follow him, Magnus moved towards the centurion as the priests began to carry the severed head between the two competing sides, holding it aloft for all to see.

  ‘Have you tried to sell that resin yet?’ Magnus asked in a hushed voice as he sidled up to Rufinus.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because the Urban Prefect has now heard about it; it’s probably best to keep it hidden for a while.’

  Rufinus raised his eyebrows, betraying mild alarm, whilst watching the priests place the head on the ground. ‘I’ve asked an intermediary to make some enquiries.’

  ‘Well, stop him.’

  Rufinus nodded as the priests hurried away. ‘It’s the first thing I’ll do once I’ve earned it.’

  The Flamen Martius raised his spear into the air and called on the deity to bless both sides in their sacred struggle to win through to their respective goals; and to entreat him that, whoever won, Rome would be seen as having discharged her duty to him.

  He brought the spear down and with a mighty roar of violent anticipation both sides flung themselves forward to meet head on like two warlike tribes of the most primitive nature.

  And the people of Rome cheered themselves hoarse.

  Blood, teeth and screams flew through the air within an instant of the collision. The front two or three ranks – if they could be called that – of either side melded into a free-for-all that lost direction so that men fought towards all points of the circle and, with no uniforms or identifying marks other than facial recognition, lashed out at anything standing with brutal intent.

  The area where the head had last been seen was more compact and a giant scrimmage had forme
d; it heaved back and forth as the participants within grappled and wrestled, trying to wrest possession of the head of the once-proud beast that had been declared the greatest horse in Rome.

  As he watched, telling himself to concentrate on the business in hand and not be carried away by enjoyment of the spectacle, Magnus slowly led his brothers round the flanks of the Suburra contingent.

  The scrimmage eased south, towards the city – the direction of both sides’ objectives – leaving a trail of unconscious and wounded participants in its wake. The spectators moved with it, as did the various centuries of the Urban Cohorts in order to keep the fight out of the grand buildings that lined its route through the Campus Martius.

  Magnus and his brothers began to infiltrate the Suburra faction, keeping towards the edges.

  ‘Hand me a measure,’ Magnus said, holding out a hand to Cassandros.

  The brother dipped into his sack and brought out a bronze modius.

  Magnus weighed it in his hand and smiled with narrowed eyes. With a straight arm, he hurled it high into the air over the Via Sacra contingent. He did not see it land but he knew it would cause grievous injury or maybe death. Looking to his right, he saw that Rufinus had brought his men closer. ‘Right, lads, five left; hurl them all at Rufinus’ boys.’

  Within a few moments five bronze missiles had landed amongst the Urban Cohort century, bringing two down, despite their helmets, shields and chainmail, and cracking the bones of a couple more. The response was instant. Shields came up, lines formed and swords were drawn, and left legs stamped forward as they faced the source of the attack: the Suburra faction.

  A shudder went through those of the Suburra closest to Rufinus’ century as they saw the threat just paces from them.

  Magnus signalled his brothers to withdraw, filtering back through the looser edges of the melee as, with a change of timbre to the roars, a section of the Suburra split off to attack the century that had formed up as if on the side of their opponents – just as they had been told it would.