Free The Racing Factions by Robert Fabbri

comes the moment of truth.’
    Magnus shifted uneasily on the stone seating as the three Red chariots appeared followed by the Blues, accompanied by cheers and jeers from the huge crowd. Suddenly his eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Juno’s bald crack! A White!’
    Down on the track a single White chariot trailed in after the three Greens to gales of laughter from the supporters of the other three factions.
    Magnus looked in alarm at Euprepes. ‘I don’t call that funny at all. I thought when they only put two chariots into the previous race it was because they only had five spare teams.’
    ‘They must have saved the sixth for a chance in this race. That’s Scorpus.’
    ‘The fuckers! He’s good.’
    ‘It’s all right, Magnus, my lads will deal with it.’
    ‘They’d better, my friend,’ Magnus said, thinking of the chances of keeping his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy, should Ahenobarbus lose his money.
    The ten hortatores entered the circus whilst the starter drew numbered coloured balls from a barrel; as each team’s number was called they could choose which of the twelve starting boxes to occupy.
    Once all the teams were loaded, slaves pushed the double doors back against the poles, behind each one, that were inserted into highly tensioned, twisted bundle of sinews. The doors were secured with a wooden bolt placed vertically through two overlapping iron rings – one screwed to each door; cords of twine, attached to each bolt, ran up to the roof of the boxes and then over, through eyelets, and down the back to the starter’s position so that all could be pulled open simultaneously. The hortatores then took up position in a line, fifty paces in front of their teams’ respective starting boxes as a slave patrolled the roof, checking each cord, making certain that all could run free.
    The crowd went silent with anticipation. From within the dark confines of the starting boxes the teams neighed and snorted; the hortatores’ mounts stamped and tossed as their riders struggled to control them.
    The presiding praetor – the man who had sponsored the day’s racing – stepped forward to the front of the senators’ enclosure and held up a white napkin; it fluttered in the breeze. The crowd drew communal breath as he paused for a few moments; then, with a flick, the napkin dropped. The starter pulled on the cords, the doors burst open and, to the delirium of the crowd, the teams sprang forward. Suddenly, from the Blue end of the circus, there came jeers and whistles; Magnus scanned the chariots to see that there were only two of that colour running. Looking back at the starting boxes he saw that one remained shut; of the slave on the roof there was no sign.
    ‘A starting-box malfunction,’ Euprepes observed with a look of false concern. ‘What a shame for the Blues. Still, it does happen from time to time.’
    Magnus grinned. ‘Especially if you can get your man on the roof.’
    ‘Now that would be cheating; we wouldn’t stoop to that.’
    ‘Never.’
    Down on the track the nine remaining teams stormed up the Aventine straight with a Blue in the lead, closely pursued by a Red with a Green outside him.
    ‘The Blue is Lacerta,’ Euprepes informed Magnus, ‘I’ve been trying to negotiate in secret with him to come over to our faction.’
    Magnus nodded dumbly. With tension constricting his throat, he remained silent as the first corner was rounded with Lacerta ten paces in front. Behind, the Green steered clear of the Red but not so clear as to make it obvious – just a hand’s breadth – as both chariots took the corner too fast and skewed out into the middle of the track. Hardly able to look, Magnus watched the next two Reds, battling with Scorpus the White on the inside and the remaining Blue – a Numidian – just behind, negotiate the 180-degree turn. Spraying clouds of fine sand, the four chariots skidded around behind their sure-footed teams, the charioteers all leaning to their