Then the women behind her babbled something about the Princeps. Margo gasped. Claudius! She hadn't expected the emperor to walk at the head of the procession. She'd pictured him as riding in a gilt chariot or something. Maybe that was reserved for generals who'd won battles. Claudius moved carefully, doggedly, lacking anything like stately grace as he led the procession into the great Circus.
Unexpectedly, Margo's heart constricted. She hadn't realized the twisting of his face, so painfully visible in the Time Tours photograph, had extended to other physical difficulties. No wonder Malcolm had refused to laugh at him. The courage-and pain-that procession must be costing him ...
Margo gulped and felt her cheeks burn. She had run away from her problem rather than face it head-on the way Claudius faced his illness. Look where that had led her. She bit her lip. Tonight, she promised herself. I'll find him tonight after the games, after I get away from Flaminius.
Behind Claudius came musicians: drummers and pipers filled the arena with rolling thunder and skirling music while brassy horns sang out in voices so wild Margo's back shivered. Behind the musicians came carriages and hand-carried litters on which rode the Roman gods and goddesses. She had no idea who they all were, but their statues caught the morning sun in as splendid a pageant as Margo had ever seen.
The procession made its way around the mica-glittered track in a complete circuit, ending at the marble temple on the Palatine side. Claudius ascended a staircase slowly, followed by bearers who carried the images of the deities up to the platform to "watch" the games. Claudius himself took a backless stone chair near the front of the platform. He lifted his hand and the crowd went insane.
Popular guy.
Margo discovered unexpectedly that she was glad.
A hush fell across the great Circus. In the sudden quiet she could hear the scream of high-strung horses, the thud of hooves against wooden doors. The smell of sweat and adrenaline drifted on the wind along with the distant snarls of wild beasts. Margo leaned forward.
A well-dressed official of some sort had appeared in the balustraded box above the starting gates. Other figures were visible as well, fussing over some sort of machinery. A white cloth fluttered from the official's hand She wished irritably for a lowly pair of binoculars. It looked very much like someone was turning a barrel on a spit and drawing something out of it, but she couldn't see what We should've found seats closer to the start.
Other men had climbed onto the barrier wall, some of them dressed well, others clad in simple tunics. Ladders were run up to the crossbeams holding the eggs and dolphins. Several moments passed while the tension mounted Men who could only be field judges took their positions. Then, before she was ready for it, the white cloth dropped
A snapping sound cracked through the breathless arena. The crash of wooden doors flung wide reached her even at the far end of the Circus. Then twelve chariots dashed into view, horses flying four abreast as they raced down the chalked-out lanes. Margo was on her feet with the rest of the crowd. The chariots tore across the pavement toward the first white line in the sand. Trumpets sang out as they flashed past. Then twelve racing chariots like doll's teacups on wheels broke position and flung inward toward the barrier wall.
They tore down the track in a thunder of hooves. Drivers whipped their teams to greater speed. Their short capes snapped in the wind. They'd wrapped long reins completely around their waists, crouched over the tiny platforms like jockeys on skateboards. Green tunics, red tunics, blue and white ones ... The four racing factions of the Circus stampeded for the best position as they swept toward the first turn. Margo held her breath.
The leader, a green driver, swept around the turn. The second chariot sped around in his wake. The third chariot brushed its wheels against a stone curb. The chariot lurched. The pole snapped. Margo screamed. The delicate chariot, little more than a wooden shell with a lattice-work floor, disintegrated into splinters. Galloping horses dragged their driver out of the wreckage. He fought to draw a knife at his belt. Other chariots swung wide to miss the wreckage.
The driver sliced through the reins and rolled heavily across the track. The other chariots left him lying on the sand. Slaves raced out to pull the driver and the wreckage off the track. Others caught the runaway team and led the horses out of the arena. The remaining chariots swept back toward the first turn for their second lap. Men on ladders had taken down one egg and one dolphin from the crossbeams.
Margo drank in details, determined to think like a scout for a change. The horses wore collars around their necks instead of harness like she'd seen in London. How can they breathe, pulling against their windpipes lake that? The horses' manes had been tied up so they couldn't stream in the wind. Their tails had been bobbed short, like a Manx cat's. Wickerwork on the lightweight racing chariots bore the teams' colors. The drivers wore slaves' collars.
Malcolm had said the men who raced and fought here were either slaves, prisoners, or criminals. She wondered if the driver who'd been dragged down the track would live. She shivered. Already the chariots were pounding down the straightaway for the next lap. They skidded around the turn, bouncing across ruts left from previous laps, and rounded the turn in a cloud of glittering dust.
Three laps. Four. Five. How many laps in all? She checked the lap counters: two eggs and dolphins each remained on the crossbeams. The chariots fought one another for the lead as they swept into the turn for the sixth lap. Margo held her breath, but they all made it through the jolting one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. The sixth markers came down. Brassy trumpets sang out again. Final lap.
A driver in blue was battling it out with a red driver for the lead Margo waved her red handkerchief with one hand and bit knuckles on the other. Red drivers back in the pack swung wide, blocking blue chariots from coming up to assist their team member. Two of the chariots collided. The crowd roared Margo hid her eyes. When she dared look, she saw one broken chariot cartwheel into the wide moat with a tremendous splash. A driver in blue was being dragged wide in the turn. His body slammed into the little shrine. She screamed and hid her eyes again.
Another roar shook the stadium. She risked a peek The surviving chariots had rounded the turning post nearest the start and were thundering toward the finish line. The red chariot shot into the lead as the driver lashed his horses. The blue chariot caught up, passed, then faltered again. The blue driver was whipping his horses mercilessly. Then the red driver swept ahead by a nose just as they flashed past the white chalk line.
The emperor's favorite had won!
Margo found herself shouting right along with the rest of the crowd. Quintus Flaminius exchanged a few coins with the man seated next to him, grinning as he deposited them in his money pouch. Margo noticed other private bets being settled, as well. Achilles' eyes glowed as he watched the driver sweep around the turning post in a wide circle and pass the emperor's platform. The driver completed the victory lap back to the finish line while the other chariots drove disconsolately off the track. The victor pulled his team to a halt. A ramp had been lowered across the moat, allowing him to ascend steps to the judging platform. Margo wondered who was handing out the prizes. She'd expected the victor to receive his reward from the emperor, but he'd stopped on the opposite side of the arena from the emperor's box. It was another man who placed a leafy crown on the driver's head, handed him a palm branch, and placed a bulging leather pouch in his hand. The crowd cheered as he descended the steps triumphantly, resumed his chariot, and drove past the emperor's box once again. Claudius saluted him to thunderous approval from the crowd.