The Dreams of Morpheus(13)

‘That was business.’

Gaius pointed to the purse. ‘And so is this; you’ll notice that there is considerably more in there than I would normally distribute to you and your lads on a festival day.’

‘I was wondering about that; what do you want us to do, sir?’

‘Tomorrow, at the second hour, I want you to go to the House of the Moon in the stonemasons’ street on the Caelian Hill and take with you one of the tablets. Knock four times in quick succession, count three heartbeats and then repeat the signal. When asked to identify yourself say “Morpheus”. I don’t know how many men will be inside but at least two, I should imagine. You’re to go alone; leave the lads that accompany you at the end of the street. You should be quite safe.’

‘Should be quite safe? That doesn’t sound like a hundred per cent guarantee.’

‘What is in this life, my friend? Anyway, they will examine the tablet and take a sample. Tell them how many others like it you have and they will name a price. Refuse the first two offers out of hand, then say that you have to consult about the third but you’ll have an answer within a couple of hours. Speed is of the essence now that the Urban Prefect has been informed of the theft.’

‘He’s been what?’

‘The theft was noticed yesterday and needless to say Herod Agrippa was apoplectic. He went to both the prefect of Ostia and the Urban Prefect here in Rome and demanded action. I don’t know what they can do in reality, but it would be best to conclude the deal and get the tablets out of the city and the money into Antonia’s hands as soon as possible.’

‘I quite agree; business like this is best done fast.’

‘Indeed. Now tell me, how will this other bit of business go today? Am I to be standing up in the Senate tomorrow, urging the Urban Prefect to launch an inquiry into weights and measures, and then proposing a vote of thanks?’

‘It’ll be fine; my mate, a centurion in one of the Urban Cohorts, will get his men into a provocative position and, with a little help from the lads and me, it should spark the riot.’

‘Urban Cohorts, eh? He’ll be sticking his neck out a bit; I hope you’ve paid him well.’

‘Don’t worry, senator, I … Oh shit. I bribed him with half of the tablet that I took as a commission.’

Gaius turned to Magnus in alarm. ‘Has he still got it?’

‘I don’t know; but I suggested who to sell it to: doctors who treat senators, Praetorian officers or Urban Cohort officers.’

‘Oh dear. In the circumstances, that’s the worst place to go.’

Magnus’ ears rang as the people of Rome cheered and whistled, roaring on the twelve teams in the final race of the festival as they hurtled round the temporary track on the Trigarium, the equestrian training ground set in the bend of the Tiber, on the north-west corner of the Campus Martius. Here they had spent the morning enjoying racing of the highest calibre: a dozen heats with twelve pairs of the finest stallions driven to extreme exertion by their charioteers, all contesting the privilege to partake in the ultimate race in honour of the god.

Tens of thousands crammed round the track, ringed by a stout and solid wooden barrier and lined with soldiers of the Urban Cohorts in full military panoply, as the festival took place outside of the pomerium, the sacred boundary of the City of Rome. Every vantage point behind the spectators, crammed twenty to thirty deep round the three-hundred-pace-long track with a turning post at each end, had been taken.

As the seven remaining teams still running approached the last lap, flanks and muzzles foaming with sweat, eyes rolling, great hearts pounding, charging forward to the cracks of whips over their withers, the noise escalated to deafening proportions. But Magnus did not notice; he did not cheer. Magnus just stood, unmoving, in the shadow of an equestrian statue of a long-dead patrician, waiting for news from Rufinus. His brothers had scoured the Campus Martius all morning, and had eventually found him and his century at the eastern end of the track. But with the press of people so tight, not even the bookmakers’ slaves who roamed the crowds taking bets could make it to the front rows. So Magnus had been forced to wait, uncertain whether Rufinus had attempted to sell his half of the resin, and whether it had come to the ears of the Urban Prefect.

The roar escalated to a point that would have competed with the battle-cry of the god himself, and tens of thousands of fists were punched into the air as the winning team crossed the finish line after seven laps of the track. The charioteer leant back on the reins, wrapped around his waist, to slow his victorious stallions – a pair of chestnuts with black manes and tails. The soldiers of the Urban Cohorts stationed at the eastern end of the track, under Rufinus’ command, locked shields as they forced a path through the cheering crowd for the victor. Magnus and his brothers shadowed the procession from the edge of the spectators as it made its way towards the altar of Mars at the heart of the Campus Martius where the Flamen Martius, Caius Iunius Silanus, the aged high-priest of Mars, waited, brandishing one of the sacred spears in readiness for the sacrifice. Wearing a fringed cloak over his toga, of double-thick wool and clasped at the throat, his head encased in a leather skullcap fastened by a chinstrap and with a point of olive-wood poking out of its top, he called on the deity to look down kindly upon the sacrifice of the best horse in the city.