the White faction’s seats; the Greens’ joy was completed by the sight of the White charioteer being carried away, quite evidently dead.
‘Where’s your master, boy?’ Magnus asked as the slave approached.
The old man pointed to the colonnaded walkway above the seating. ‘Up there, sir, next to the statue of Neptune.’
Magnus tugged at the sleeves of Marius’ and Sextus’ tunics. ‘Come on, lads; let’s cash our bet with the man himself so that we can have the pleasure of seeing his face.’
His Crossroads Brethren grinned in anticipation of Ignatius’ expression as he counted out what would, in all likelihood, be his biggest pay-out of the day. The thought of supplementing the considerable income paid to the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood by local traders and residents in return for protection from rival Brotherhoods was a cheering one. They barged past the old slave, who was immediately set upon by other Green supporters who had laid wagers with Ignatius and were now keen to claim their winnings.
The noise of the crowd died down as teams of public slaves poured on to the track to remove mangled chariots and the carcasses of horses and to clear it of thrown objects in preparation for the next race. Magnus and his brothers forced their way to the steps leading up to the walkway and negotiated a path through the tangle of individuals using them as overflow seating. Eventually, after pushing through the crush of people, who, unable to get a seat, were obliged to stand along the colonnade, they managed to get to the walkway that ran along the entire Aventine side of the circus.
‘Now where’s the statue of Neptune?’ Magnus muttered, looking along the carved images of gods and great men that punctuated the colonnade; between them, at regular intervals, were wooden desks at which bookmakers sat counting coinage and clacking abacuses, surrounded by piles of wax tablets, and guarded by thuggish-looking men with cudgels. ‘There it is; I’d know Neptune’s trident anywhere.’
Ignatius’ four guards shifted warily, nervous at being approached by three men just as brutish as themselves; they slapped their cudgels into the palms of their hands, feeling their weight with threatening intent.
Magnus raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘No need for that sort of behaviour, lads; we’re here to collect our rightful winnings from my old friend Ignatius.’
The man seated behind the desk looked up, midway through tallying a pile of bronze sesterces; his face was as fearsome as those of the men guarding him: lantern jaw, broken nose, dark eyes sunken beneath an overhanging forehead. His attire, however, was not that of a street thug: those days were long behind him, their memory preserved in the livid scars on his left cheek and well-muscled forearms; beneath his white, citizen’s toga he wore a saffron-coloured tunic of finest wool and around his neck, falling to the pectoral muscles on his expansive chest, hung the heaviest and longest gold-linked chain that Magnus had ever seen. ‘Magnus, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’ His voice was deep and gruff and his accent betrayed his lowly roots in Rome’s poorest district, the Subura, although he did his best to cover it. ‘I trust that I’ve been having a good afternoon at your expense?’
‘A very good afternoon for the first nine races, Ignatius, you took forty-five in silver off us; a pity about the last race though. Give him the receipt, Sextus.’
Ignatius leaned forward and took the proffered piece of wood bearing his signature along with the number of the bet. ‘Two hundred and eleven.’ Taking up a wax tablet from the top of a pile, he scanned it quickly, raising his pronounced eyebrows and tutted. ‘It seems I owe you money.’
‘It does look that way.’
Ignatius pulled out a heavy-looking strong-box from under the desk. ‘I’d better pay it then, although I don’t understand why you came all the way up here for
‘Where’s your master, boy?’ Magnus asked as the slave approached.
The old man pointed to the colonnaded walkway above the seating. ‘Up there, sir, next to the statue of Neptune.’
Magnus tugged at the sleeves of Marius’ and Sextus’ tunics. ‘Come on, lads; let’s cash our bet with the man himself so that we can have the pleasure of seeing his face.’
His Crossroads Brethren grinned in anticipation of Ignatius’ expression as he counted out what would, in all likelihood, be his biggest pay-out of the day. The thought of supplementing the considerable income paid to the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood by local traders and residents in return for protection from rival Brotherhoods was a cheering one. They barged past the old slave, who was immediately set upon by other Green supporters who had laid wagers with Ignatius and were now keen to claim their winnings.
The noise of the crowd died down as teams of public slaves poured on to the track to remove mangled chariots and the carcasses of horses and to clear it of thrown objects in preparation for the next race. Magnus and his brothers forced their way to the steps leading up to the walkway and negotiated a path through the tangle of individuals using them as overflow seating. Eventually, after pushing through the crush of people, who, unable to get a seat, were obliged to stand along the colonnade, they managed to get to the walkway that ran along the entire Aventine side of the circus.
‘Now where’s the statue of Neptune?’ Magnus muttered, looking along the carved images of gods and great men that punctuated the colonnade; between them, at regular intervals, were wooden desks at which bookmakers sat counting coinage and clacking abacuses, surrounded by piles of wax tablets, and guarded by thuggish-looking men with cudgels. ‘There it is; I’d know Neptune’s trident anywhere.’
Ignatius’ four guards shifted warily, nervous at being approached by three men just as brutish as themselves; they slapped their cudgels into the palms of their hands, feeling their weight with threatening intent.
Magnus raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘No need for that sort of behaviour, lads; we’re here to collect our rightful winnings from my old friend Ignatius.’
The man seated behind the desk looked up, midway through tallying a pile of bronze sesterces; his face was as fearsome as those of the men guarding him: lantern jaw, broken nose, dark eyes sunken beneath an overhanging forehead. His attire, however, was not that of a street thug: those days were long behind him, their memory preserved in the livid scars on his left cheek and well-muscled forearms; beneath his white, citizen’s toga he wore a saffron-coloured tunic of finest wool and around his neck, falling to the pectoral muscles on his expansive chest, hung the heaviest and longest gold-linked chain that Magnus had ever seen. ‘Magnus, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’ His voice was deep and gruff and his accent betrayed his lowly roots in Rome’s poorest district, the Subura, although he did his best to cover it. ‘I trust that I’ve been having a good afternoon at your expense?’
‘A very good afternoon for the first nine races, Ignatius, you took forty-five in silver off us; a pity about the last race though. Give him the receipt, Sextus.’
Ignatius leaned forward and took the proffered piece of wood bearing his signature along with the number of the bet. ‘Two hundred and eleven.’ Taking up a wax tablet from the top of a pile, he scanned it quickly, raising his pronounced eyebrows and tutted. ‘It seems I owe you money.’
‘It does look that way.’
Ignatius pulled out a heavy-looking strong-box from under the desk. ‘I’d better pay it then, although I don’t understand why you came all the way up here for
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