Blood Games by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

only three of them. The Blues’ chariot was no longer in the race, and Kosrozd was trying to hold his chariot on course in spite of a wheel that was nearly off its axle. He was almost around the turn when the wheel broke free and the chariot lurched heavily onto its side.
    A terrible hush fell over the stands, and for the time it would take to count five there was as much silence as there ever was in the Circus Maximus, and the muffled thunder of hooves on sand could be heard to the top row of the stands. Then the incredible welter of thousands of voices broke out again as Kosrozd, still tied to the reins of his horses, was dragged behind them over the white sand.
    At first sight of Kosrozd, Saint-Germain had moved forward, intent. His face had gone white as he watched Kosrozd twist, trying to grab the knife in his high sandals that would cut him free.
    For a little time it looked as though he might succeed, for he had pulled himself around so that he could grab the reins in one hand. Then the end of the spina loomed and the horses, long used to the course, cut in close to the three tall metae. There was too much noise from the crowd for Kosrozd's shriek of agony to be heard, but Saint-Germain saw the terrible impact before the horses dragged him on.
    Saint-Germain was out of his seat on the instant, and with a terse word to Egnatius, left the box, running down the stairs to the stable area, pushing his way past bestiarii and various fighters in his rush.
    Two moratori were already moving through the Gates of Life to grab Kosrozd's maddened team as Saint-Germain dashed into the area by the stables. A surgeon was waiting, and he looked up laconically as Saint-Germain approached.
    "You're the owner?” he asked as he dropped his well-used tools into a pot of water hung over a brazier.
    "Of the charioteer for the Reds, yes.” As he spoke, his foreign accent was stronger, which was the only indication of the degree of his worry.
    The surgeon nodded. “The Blues’ charioteer will go out through the Gates of Death.” He was a man of grizzled middle age, the veteran of many military campaigns, and now resigned to his degrading work of tending to those wounded in the arena.
    The moratori had caught the horses at last, and were dragging the team by main force toward the Gates of Life.
    "Those lads,” the surgeon said, indicating the moratori, “they've got a rough job. Catching a team of racing horses isn't my idea of soft work."
    Saint-Germain was not listening. He hastened to the open doors where the moratori stood calming the team. Ignoring the horses and the shocked exclamations of the moratori, Saint-Germain went to Kosrozd's side.
    The Persian charioteer was, mercifully, no longer conscious. His left shoulder was broken and a white shard of bone pushed through the mangled skin. Bruises and abrasions marked the rest of his body, and a deep gash in his leg was steadily pumping blood.
    Angry with worry, Saint-Germain took the knife from Kosrozd's ruined sandal and cut the reins at last. He motioned away the medico who came to drag Kosrozd to the surgeon, and instead took Kosrozd in his arms as easily as he might have lifted a child. Holding the charioteer with care, he took him across the stableyard to where the surgeon waited.
    "You've a deal of strength, to carry him that way,” the surgeon remarked as Saint-Germain lowered Kosrozd onto the low pallet by the stable wall.
    Saint-Germain had no response to make to that. “He's badly hurt."
    "I can see that,” was the testy rejoinder. “I'll have to get the saw if I'm going to take that arm off."
    " No! ” Saint-Germain grabbed the surgeon by the shoulder. “I forbid it!"
    The surgeon gave a patient sigh. “Look, foreigner, it's not that I want to do it. But take a look for yourself. There are three bones broken around the shoulder. If I leave the arm on, he won't be able to use it, and the wound will fester and kill him. This way, he's got a chance to live. That's all