The stands buzzed as the chariots for the next race moved into the starting slots. A trumpeter blew a fanfare and the starter gave the signal. The spring-loaded gates snapped up. The roar swelled as the teams of horses thundered out into the straight; their helmeted drivers balanced expertly on the light two-wheeled racing vehicles and cracked their whips in the air above their teams of four matched horses.
“But they’re tied up,” she said, surprised. “The drivers are tied up. What if there’s an accident and they fall?”
“Yes, the reins are tied around their waists. But they carry knives, to slash themselves loose if need be.”
“Why do they need four horses, for such a little cart?”
Acasius smiled at this term for a racing chariot. “Only the two in the middle actually pull it. The outside horses are lightly attached – they’re only needed for stability. Just look at those teams move! Marvellous animals, marvellous.”
“It must be fun,” she said, leaning forward to get a better view. “Especially if you don’t crash, and you win.”
He smiled again. “Indeed. You see those columns, along the spina, with stone eggs on top? At the end of each lap, one egg drops into a slot. That way everybody knows how many laps there are to go.”
“I see them, I see them! There! The first one dropped!” She jumped in his arms with excitement. “Look at that one go! Will he win, Father, will he win?”
Acasius laughed at her excitement. “Probably not, he’ll be the pacesetter for the Blues. He’ll stay out in front for a while.”
“Are we Blue or Green, Father?”
“Oh, Green, Green! I work for the Greens, remember!”
The Blue leader maintained his headlong pace for a second round.
Theodora could hardly breathe. “The Green’s catching up! He’ll pass, he’ll pass! Look!”
“No, his job is to jostle the Blue out in front, if he can. Then his team mate, who’s faster, can get by.”
“But that’s cheating!”
“No, just tactics. There! Did you see that?”
A howl from the stands greeted a near-crash as the Green edged nearer to the frontrunner. Both chariots rocked wildly.
“Oh, well held,” her father exclaimed. He stared intently as the two charioteers managed to avoid disaster. “Now watch that one coming up on the outside. That’s the Blues’ best driver.”
Delirious cheers urged the challenger on as he swept past the others and tore ahead.
“Nika! Nika!” echoed around the arena.
“What are they shouting?” the child asked.
“‘Nika’ means ‘win’. It means ‘victory’. They’re shouting: Victory! Victory!”
“Nika!” she shouted. “Nika!”
“Not when the Blues are ahead,” her father said. “Only cheer the Greens. Don’t back the wrong team, sweetheart.”
“We’ll pass again, won’t we, Father?”
“Watch our man try,” he agreed, and let out a yell in concert with a hundred thousand other throats as the champion driver of the Greens hurled his chariot forward to pass his team mate and the Blue pacesetter. But the Blue charioteer swept onward. The rest of the field were some distance behind the two leaders; they charged along choked by their dust.
“They’ll all try to keep to the left,” said Acasius, “but if their wheels touch the stone kerb, they’ll shatter, and the chariot will be done for.”
Round and round they stormed, the magnificent horses and the fragile chariots driven by men who looked slim and slight and almost disappeared amid the churning dust. She cheered their champion, together with the screaming supporters of the Greens who were dressed in shades of the appropriate colour, facing the tiered ranks of blue-clad supporters on the opposite side. But the foremost chariot was Blue and its driver clung grimly to the lead; never did he allow the Green driver a single chance to pass him by.
Five eggs had dropped.
“Two laps left,” said Acasius, watching intently. “Go, Green! Go, go!”
Now one of the less able charioteers drove too close to the kerb and a wheel shattered into matchwood. He was flung from his perch onto the tracks, a second chariot cannoned into his disabled one and both broke up. The second driver had managed to free himself from the traces with swift slashes of his knife and leapt onto the spina, but the unfortunate first driver was dragged among the frantically lunging, whinnying horses and was trampled by slashing hooves.
The child screamed with dread. Her father held her tightly. “They’ll get him out,” he said. “They’ll save him, don’t worry.”
The ground staff dashed across the track, risking their lives among the rest of the chariots that raced on. Clouds of dust partially obscured the chaos. Yet it was all too clear that the figure they carried off on a stretcher was broken like a pottery statue dashed to the ground, and stained from head to foot with red.
“Come on, come on, get it clear!” Acasius muttered.
The men worked at a frenzied pace to remove the debris and the wildly thrashing horses, but there was too little time to clear the track altogether before the last egg slotted home and the leading chariots tore around to battle it out in the final lap. The Blue driver, still in the lead, lost some speed as he dexterously avoided the obstacles in his path, going out wide. The Green tried to sneak past on the inside, but there was still some wreckage near the kerb and his left wheel struck it. This resulted in wild swings from side to side as he struggled to regain control. The supporters of both groups were beside themselves: they jumped up on their seats, waved their arms, and bellowed encouragement. The noise grew deafening.
The child thrilled to the roar of the crowd. She felt as if she could float on the noise. As if it might lift her up, might float her out of her father’s arms, right up to the Kathisma where the Emperor sat.
The Green driver had to haul his team almost to a standstill to avoid another disaster. The Blue charioteer had speeded up again and swept triumphantly ahead. She almost wept when he charged past the winning post. Around them some people hugged each other rapturously, while others howled in dismay.
“Father, we lost! We lost!”
“Never mind, we’ll win another time. Now come along. We must get out quickly, I’m not supposed to bring you here.” He strode back the way they had come, through passages now thronged with rowdy, excited punters. He held her tightly under the cloak. When they reached the main exit, he set her down.
“Can we go home now?” Her short legs were shaky.
“I must go and check on Bruno. He’s been a bit grumpy lately. If he’s not better by tomorrow, I’ll have to get the vet to see to him. I think it may be an abscess in a tooth, he’s been off his food.”
“Father … the driver … will he … Did he die?”
“He wasn’t carried out through the Nekra Gate,” her father said, “so he must have been alive. They’ll do their best for him. The Hippodrome has good physicians. I’m sorry you saw that. You go along home, sweetheart, you’re all right on your own, aren’t you? You’ll run all the way?”
“I’m fine, Father,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I can do it.” She would thread a path among the cleaners, stableboys, grooms, animal trainers, food vendors, loafers, beggars, pickpockets and the many bettors, who would wager not only on the outcome of the races, but on the outcome of the marble game. Marble balls with the colours of the competing teams would roll down slightly sloping marble tables, towards the holes at the bottom. This game, her father said, required no skill and