‘The Dolphin is the fastest animal in the known world,’ explained the stadium attendant in a warm yet detached tone, clearly regurgitating lines he had spoken a hundred times before, ‘and thus they adorn the central barrier of the track.’
He squinting slightly, he noticed, never meeting the gaze of his audience, as if to make eye-contact would somehow allow them into his soul. He smiled. For all his convivial tone the man probably loathed these little tours, putting on his well-worn act in the hope of a tip or two. He turned away from the gaggle of tourists listening to the man’s potted history of the city’s race track. None of them were what he was looking for.
He shielded his eyes as he turned away, squinting like the attendant against the late afternoon glare, the high arches of the Circus Maximus painted in hues of honey and amber by the low Roman sun. He ambled slowly, gaze held neutrally, walking with the athletic poise of a man who associated with the chariot Factions. Calm and confident, that was his maxim. He kept himself trim, dressed sharply and exuded the laid-back confidence of a racing man.
He let his eyes drift to a wine stall where the old men lounged, speaking in throaty voices about who would take the first corner at tomorrow’s first race. His gaze moved to a scurrying slave with some message to give, then on to an ambling merchant with his family and clients in tow - yet none of them offered a serious mark. He shook his head and pressed on, forcing himself not to glance at the public sundial. There were plenty more hours left in the day.
Then he saw him. Just beyond the shade of the arches, dark haired and deep in thought. He straightened his cloak, knowing he had found what he was looking for: a nervous young man scrutinizing an almanac, muttering about the ascendancy of Mercury and the position of Cancer to a couple of bookish friends. He smiled and whispering a prayer stepped forwards.
‘Gentleman – I greet you,’ he began in a casual yet authoritative tone, ‘you look like men who would appreciate good odds. My master runs a book from which your remuneration is guaranteed – is it the Blues your fancy is set on? My master has contacts on the track and knows where the smart money is – if you get me – he keeps a pleasant place just a street away in which we can complete the transaction …’
The young man’s lips began to move in his pale face as if he were plucking up the courage to decline. ‘We had a young gentleman like yourself place a bet with us only the other day,’ he continued, ‘he came in burdened with debts to his father and the last I heard he was taking his new yacht from Lake Avernus to Puteoli.’
The punter’s hand flickered by the purse at his belt.
Yes! Victory was his.
The Dead Cert is set in the Late Roman world of Varus and Aurelius Britanicus, chariot racing entrepreneurs and lead characters in my unpublished epic novel The Gold Faction.
This looks like a Cool Start to something Epic.