The Chariots of Calyx

Chapter Twelve

Junio was clearly disappointed at being dragged away from the excitement so soon, and perhaps the soldiers were too, but if so they were too well trained to show it. The optio himself was a real racing enthusiast, however, and he proved a positive well of information on the subject.

‘The Blues are staying at a lodging house close to the west gate of the town,’ he told me importantly, as his soldiers forced a way down the thronged hill for us, a violent but highly effective procedure — people were treading on each other to allow us through. Behind us, there was a scuffle as small groups of supporters, all sporting different colours, scrambled frantically for our seats. ‘I could take you there if you wish. Or if you would prefer to go round to the stable enclosure. .?’

That was the obvious choice to me, since that was where the team would be, in preparation for their next race. I was afraid that we might have trouble getting in — members of the public are not usually permitted behind the scenes — but the optio was confident. He led the way unhesitatingly, straight across the circuit, where the slaves were hastily raking the sand back over the clay track. They waited, blank-faced, till we passed and then raked out our footsteps with their own, walking backwards as they worked.

Even so, nobody shouted at us. One or two urchins in the crowd gave us an ironic cheer, but the civic officials in the box ignored us, and when we reached the inner gates they were thrown open for us without question. An armed escort has its uses.

The gates led to a short, dark passageway which opened out into a huge yard, surrounded by stalls and makeshift stabling for horses, and at first sight it appeared to be almost as thronged with people as the stadium itself.

As we came in the eight local chariots were lining up, two-in-hand this time, to take their turn at the racing. Their drivers, resplendent in their uniforms, balanced their precarious vehicles and waited for the signal to enter the stadium. Some were nervously adjusting their helmets or their harness, others steadying their restless horses, while some were trying to dissipate the tension by exchanging jibes and insults.

‘Call yourself a racing driver, Gaius Flaminius? I could overtake you on a pregnant mule!’

The victim of the taunts, a tall thin youth in Green colours, turned as red as his tormentor’s chariot. ‘Is that so, Paulus Fatface? Well, I’ll tell you something. The only reason your horse gallops so fast is to get away from the smell of your feet!’

We left them to their battle of words and went on into the yard beyond.

It was alive with activity. Stable-slaves hurried everywhere: leading horses, carrying buckets, polishing harness, sweeping straw, tripping over their sandals in their haste while their masters shouted and cursed.

In the stalls beyond, the horses that had completed the earlier race were being cared for. A man who was clearly an animal medicus was bandaging the leg of a handsome chestnut with white ribands in its mane, while a nervous-looking slave hovered nearby with salves, just out of reach of the creature’s hooves. You did not have to be a racing man to see what was happening: they were treating one of the horses that had been damaged by pulling the overturned chariot.

I glanced around for the unfortunate driver, and saw him laid out on a shutter in the corner. His face and body were battered and bloody and he was evidently dead. No one paid any attention to him. Nearby, his substitute was already donning his cloak and helmet under the critical eye of a stout man whom I took to be the coach, who was waving his arms in a last-minute demonstration of tactics. The young man was a reserve driver, by the look of it, and nervous at his sudden elevation — his face was so white that he scarcely needed the plume on his headgear to identify his colour.

Each factio clearly had its own quarter of the yard, and, in the nature of these things, Blue was inevitably in the furthest corner. I nodded to the optio, and he led the way. No one questioned us, or even paused in their activity, but I was uncomfortably aware of curious stares following us as soon as our backs were turned. The moment I looked around, however, every man was engaged in his work, eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. These were people who preferred not to meddle with soldiers.

The driver of the Blues, presumably Fortunatus’ replacement, was busily lashing out at a stable-slave as we approached, both with his tongue and with his whip, for giving a hot horse cold water, but on our arrival he stopped his tirade and turned to greet us. ‘You were looking for me, citizen?’ He was a lightly built young man, but strong — the perfect build for a driver — with muscles like whipcord. He was clearly no coward, but at my approach he ran his tongue round his lips like a schoolboy who has failed to prepare his homework.

‘I came,’ I told him, as a murmur from the stadium crowd and the sound of flying hoofbeats told us that the next race had begun, ‘to ask about Lividius Fortunatus. I understand he had an accident?’

I had meant it as the simplest overture, but the effect was dramatic. The tongue flicked out again, and his voice almost failed him. ‘I should be honoured, naturally,’ he managed at last, ‘if in my humble way I could render the remotest service to His Excellence the Governor, but I know nothing about it. I did not see the race at all, so I do not see how I can assist you, citizen.’ There was so much sweat on his face, he looked as if he had been drinking from a street fountain.

When a man grovels like that it usually means, in my experience, that he has something to hide. Also, he is often easy to bully. He had mentioned the governor, and that gave me an advantage. I assumed my most menacing expression.

‘Nonetheless, on behalf of His Excellence Helvius Pertinax, I would like to know. .’ I began, but the words died on my lips. From the recesses of the stall another man had appeared.

This was the Blue team coach, that much was clear from his manner and his dress, and he was as hefty as his driver was slight. He was muscular enough, under his colourful tunic, and had no doubt once been athletic, but now the body was running to fat. Wine and good living had etched the face almost as much as the ugly scar which ran across it from eyebrow to chin — the relic of some ancient shipwreck on the chariots, no doubt. Most trainers have been drivers in their time, some of them ex-slaves from other provinces, and this man had the swarthy skin and dark eyes of a Greek. He hurried towards us courteously enough, but there was no trace of welcome in his eyes.

‘Perhaps I can be of help to you, gentlemen?’ He was having to speak loudly and deliberately to make himself heard. ‘As he told you, our replacement driver did not witness the race. I did. A most unfortunate incident, and terrible for Fortunatus. A tragedy for our factio. I am the team manager, by the way. My name is Calyx.’ He smiled. The corners of his mouth moved reluctantly, as if they were pulled up by strings, and were not used to the exercise. ‘Yes, a tragedy. If it had not been for that, the Blues would almost certainly have won.’

I glanced at the substitute driver. He was mopping his face with the back of his hand, and looking as relieved as any man can look who is about to risk life and limb in a flimsy cockleshell amidst the hooves of thundering horses. The unfortunate slave he had been lambasting, I noticed, had picked up his water bucket and escaped.

I turned back to Calyx. ‘What exactly caused the accident?’ I asked, raising my own voice over the enthusiastic sounds of the crowd. ‘It was not like Fortunatus, by all accounts, to be shipwrecked.’

It was more a comment than a question. In fact I thought I knew the answer. Almost certainly Fortunatus had been caught at an unguarded moment and barged by the chariot of another colour while he was off-balance — that happens all the time, as we had seen earlier, and is regarded as part of the contest. The only surprise was that an experienced charioteer like Fortunatus should have allowed himself to be caught out like that.

The carefully sculpted smile hardened on Calyx’s face, as if it had been suddenly set in wax. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said loudly. ‘Some fault with the chariot perhaps, or one of the horses skittish. Perhaps we shall never know for sure. No other chariot was involved and Fortunatus himself can remember nothing of the accident.’ He spread out his hands and moved forward as if to usher us physically from the scene. ‘So perhaps you will excuse me, citizen. I don’t think I can be of further help to you, and I have a race to supervise.’

I can be stubborn when I wish. ‘But you saw the fall yourself?’ I said. Or rather I hollered. The hubbub from the track was increasing every moment.

He shrugged. ‘It was all over so quickly. One moment Fortunatus was galloping away from the start and the next moment he was lying on the track. Luckily it was near the starting stalls or he might have gone under the wheels of another colour, and then what would have happened to the team?’

It was hard to keep up a conversation in the circumstances, but I pressed him again. ‘You did not see what caused it?’ I shouted over the din.

The wax smile was slipping little by little, but he kept his manner civil. ‘There must have been some problem with the chariot, citizen. I did not see what, exactly; my attention was elsewhere for a moment. When I glanced back I was simply in time to see him fall.’

In that case, I thought, Fortunatus might have staged the accident. It seemed a desperate expedient — the last driver to feign a fall in Rome was put to death for his presumption. His factio had dragged him before the courts, furious that he had taken bribes and lost the rest of the team their share of the purse. Too risky, surely? Or perhaps the accident was not of Fortunatus’ making.

‘Was there damage to the horse, or chariot? You must have seen them, after the race. .’ I stopped. The roaring of the crowd had risen to a climax, and a moment later the gates burst open and the local teams came trotting in, the victor (it seemed to be Paulus Fatface) brandishing his garland. The others came behind him, most of them looking dazed and dishevelled, although they were all still aboard their cars. They streamed past us in a whirlwind of leather and dust.

Calyx held up his hand, and spoke for the first time in a normal voice. Even the pretence of a smile had left him now. ‘I tell you, citizen, I know nothing about it. It was an accident, is all. These things happen in chariot racing. Even the best drivers have mishaps, often when they are trying hardest. As for the chariot, I could not say. After the race I was more concerned for Fortunatus than for his racing car.’ He was still moving us away from the Blue quarter.

I was almost walking backwards. ‘But surely one of the stable-team. .?’ I protested. ‘Someone must have looked at the chariot?’

‘I will ask them, since you require it, citizen. When the day is over. I cannot interrupt them now. Our next race will begin in a moment. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. I’m sorry to be unhelpful, but I’ve told you all I know.’ He nodded, turned on his heel and hurried back to his team.

The optio turned to me. ‘You want me to arrest him, citizen? I am sure a short session at the guardroom would assist his memory.’

I shook my head. ‘It is too late. No doubt he and his friends are already preparing a plausible account of the event, in case we should ask again.’ I nodded towards the stables where Calyx was already in deep conversation with two men in tunics, whom I had not noticed earlier, who had now emerged from the shadows. An ugly-looking pair too: one was short and fat, with shoulders like an ox, grizzled hair, and a face like a discontented bull, presently lowering in my direction. The other was taller, thinner, greyer and possibly more sinister. The most disconcerting thing about him was not his narrow face, with its long crooked nose and cruel thin slit of a mouth, but the dreadful, casual strength of the long supple fingers which were even now twisting and testing a strip of narrow leather. As I glanced towards him I saw that he had fixed his eyes on me: cold, grey, close-set eyes with a dead, expressionless stare which chilled my blood. He saw me looking and turned swiftly away.

‘You think that Calyx was lying, citizen?’ The officer sounded shocked, as if the idea of lying to an optio was the height of civil disobedience.

‘I don’t think that he was lying,’ I said. ‘I know that he was.’ I turned to my young slave. ‘Isn’t that right, Junio?’

Junio grinned. This was a game we often played. I was trying to instruct him in my skills, and he was delighted by the opportunity to show off his abilities in front of strangers. ‘I think so, master. Obviously he was lying when he said he wasn’t watching Fortunatus,’ he said. ‘The race had just begun, he said so himself, and that is the very moment when the whole event can be won or lost by someone getting into a good position. Calyx is the coach and manager, and there were hundreds of denarii hanging on that race, yet he tells us that his “attention was elsewhere”. Of course he was watching. Or if he wasn’t, that is still more odd. Fortunatus was his most successful driver.’

It was exactly what I had reasoned myself, and I rewarded the boy with a smile. Junio preened.

One of the soldiers looked admiring, too, but the optio said, ‘Oh,’ in the tone of someone who felt he should have thought of it himself. ‘He isn’t watching now,’ he added, as an afterthought.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘You would expect him to be out here in the preparation area during a race. If he was in the stadium, it must be because that particular race was important to him. And yet, as Junio points out, he wasn’t even looking at a crucial moment. Or says he wasn’t. Very curious, to say the least. And he seems oddly unmoved by the whole event. Not that he would weep for Fortunatus, but he strikes me as a man who would become very angry if his financial expectations were crossed. Yet he appears to have taken his losses like a stoic.’ I signed. ‘I’d give a great deal to know exactly what happened to cause that shipwreck.’

A small hand tugged at my toga. ‘Citizen?’

I looked down. It was the cold-water slave with his bucket, his arms and shoulders already turning blue from the blows he had received. Around him, the four-in-hands were beginning to assemble again. The drivers seemed twice as lofty and assured after the amateurs of the last race. Even the new driver for the Whites looked perfectly at home in his flimsy car.

‘Citizen?’ the boy said again, more urgently.

‘Well?’

‘I can tell you a little bit. The slave who shares my sleeping space was on duty in the circuit at the time. There really wasn’t anything to see, he says. Fortunatus simply seemed to let go and topple out of his chariot — nobody was near him and there was nothing the matter with his car or horses. He thought perhaps Fortunatus had been ill.’

I stepped aside to let a stable-hand pass with the bandaged chestnut before I asked, ‘And had he?’

The boy glanced nervously towards Calyx and his companions, but they were still conferring earnestly, their backs now turned to us. ‘Not at all, citizen. That is the strange thing. He had been in the very best of spirits. And afterwards, when he was brought back to the inn on a shutter, the team coach cursed and ranted, but he did not seem really upset, if you know what I mean. I know what he is like when he is genuinely angry.’

‘I imagine you do.’ I looked at him suspiciously. ‘And you are in danger of enraging him now, if he sees us together. Why are you telling me all this?’

The boy shrugged his bruised shoulders. ‘You saved me from a flogging, citizen. Besides, I heard what you were saying just now, about how you would give a great deal for information. Fortunatus promised me a sestertius if I looked after his horse after the event, only of course, as it was. .’

I could take a hint. I did not have a great deal to give but I gestured to Junio, and he produced the extra denarius which we had won on the horses. The boy was delighted with it. His eyes opened as wide as oyster shells, and he took it reverently and slipped it into his tunic folds at once. Then with a murmur of gratitude he disappeared about his business. Not a moment too soon. The four-in-hands were assembling again, and already Calyx had left his companions and was glaring around the courtyard, thundering, ‘We are ready for the arena. Where is that wretched bucket-boy!’

We left him to it, and went back through the gates. We only just had time to get off the course and out of the stadium before the trumpets blew again, and the professional drivers came cantering in. As we walked away from the enclosure we could hear the cheering that told us the next race had begun.