The Dreams of Morpheus(12)

‘How much is that worth?’

‘As I said: more than its weight in gold – if you know where to sell it. My guess is that the Praetorian Guard or Urban Cohorts’ doctors would be very interested, or perhaps the doctors favoured by the Senate.’

Rufinus picked it up and felt the weight of it in his hand; he whistled softly. ‘Magnus, my friend, as always it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’

Magnus ripped the sackcloth in half and handed a bit to Rufinus to wrap his resin in. ‘Let the fight build up a bit and then threaten as if to join in against the Suburra, but do not make the move. That should be enough to make them attack you and then after that it becomes self-defence.’

Rufinus stuffed his half-tablet down his tunic. ‘What if I’m asked why I formed up against the Suburra?’

‘You’ll say that you thought the fight was escalating into a grain riot.’

‘What made me think that?’

‘Don’t worry, my friend; the evidence will be there. You leave that to me; it’ll be flying through the air.’

The Ides of October dawned bright and clear with a golden sun rising over the eastern hills, slowly drying the dew that glistened on Rome’s streets and roofs. The city bustled with an air of anticipation and very little business was attempted; instead, the main part of the citizenry made their way to the Campus Martius, outside the northern walls of the city, to celebrate the most important of the three annual equestrian festivals dedicated to Mars. It was the day when the October Horse would be chosen after a series of two-horse chariot races round a course on the Campus Martius; the right-hand horse of the winning pair would be sacrificed to the god of war and guardian of agriculture in an ancient rite to celebrate the completion of the agricultural and military-campaigning season.

Magnus and thirty of his brothers set out after completing their dawn rituals at the altar of the Crossroads Lares. Both Sextus and Cassandros carried sacks, each containing three of the modius measures that Aetius had delivered during the night. After a short walk they came to the one-storey house of Senator Pollo and joined his clients waiting outside its windowless frontage to escort their patron to the celebrations. Each man held the small bag of coins, their stakes for the day’s wagers, which they had received from their patron as they greeted him at his morning salutio – a formality that Magnus was excused from due to his religious obligations at the same time.

Magnus formed up his brothers at the head of the clients, ready to beat a passage for the senator and his entourage through the dense festival crowds. All along the street other parties were assembling, some larger, some smaller, depending on the status of the patron.

The heavy wooden door, the only opening to the street in the plain burnt-ochre-painted wall, opened and Gaius appeared at the top of the steps to applause from the lesser men who relied on his patronage. Raising his hand in acknowledgement, he waddled down to the pavement and made his way towards Magnus, the crowd parting for him, many of them forced to jump down into the soiled street.

Gaius dropped a weighty purse in Magnus’ hand. ‘May the gods grant you good fortune, my friend.’

‘And may they grant the same to you, patronus.’

Gaius chuckled. ‘I rather think that our good fortune is down to our own efforts.’

‘Yeah, well, it don’t do any harm to entreat the gods as well.’

‘No, no, my friend, I quite agree; yet the rest of the city is probably entreating away and who will the gods grant good fortune to? I’ll tell you: just the bookmakers and the sensible few that bet on form and fitness rather than which racing faction the chariots are in.’

‘But these races aren’t factional.’ Magnus signalled to his brothers to move and the procession headed off down the hill.

‘Of course not; none of the four colours can be seen to be more favoured by Mars than the other. But come now, Magnus; you know as well as I that, apart from the young bucks racing for family glory, most of the charioteers are all apprentices of one of the colours – the Reds, Blues, Whites or Greens – and a lot of the horses, rather than being genuine warhorses entered by families of standing, as in ancient times, are, instead, veterans of the wars on the track. Don’t tell me that you don’t know which chariots belong to your beloved Greens just because they don’t sport their colours?’

‘It’s hard to bet against the Greens,’ Magnus mumbled as he hefted the heavy purse in his hand.

‘I seem to remember you betting on a Red one, two, three a couple of years ago, and doing very well out of it.’