Chapter 38

George’s Dinner is Ruined

Fat George was not happy. Not happy at all.

He sat at a table on a cushioned chair. Immediately in front of him on the table were two wax tablets marked with the day’s takings from the bet makers. Pushed back farther on a board lay the remains of his dinner, the bones of a goose and the shells of several crabs. Dinner had been fine. Dinner was not the problem. The problem was the numbers on the tablets in front of him. Where was all of his money?

George did not support either the Greens or the Blues. The Greens and Blues supported him. George had several bet makers in his employment, and no matter which chariot team was up, he enjoyed a steady and comfortable profit. Gambling was one of his more secure forms of income, and George had his pudgy fingers in many pies - pimping, extortion, smuggling, fencing, theft. Only poor weather and poor attendance caused a drop in a day’s earnings at the Hippodrome. Today the weather had been fine until the evening rain. Attendance was poor, but it had been poor for months. The marks on the tablets were telling him one of his bet makers had lost so heavily the others had been forced to band together to cover his losses - paying with George’s money - and still short. The furrowing of the brow in the lumpy face gave warning of his mood to his steward as the man quietly stepped in to whisper the bet makers waited outside.

“Waiting with excuses,” George scowled. It was not a pretty sight and looked like a snarl. Unlike a snarling bear or wolf with sharp white fangs, George’s visible teeth were rotted black stumps on inflamed gums in a reeking mouth. “Send them in.” The steward returned a few moments later with a file of men all with downcast eyes caps in their hands.

“You do not have my money, do you? And you want me to do what? Cover your shortfall like the generous Christian I am? Is that it?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

No response was forthcoming.

“Why did you even bother coming here with your cocks in your hands? So I could see your sad faces? Which one of you assholes lost my coin?”

One shuffled forward. “Domine you must understand… the wager was foolish.”

“Yes. I’ve seen the tablets.”

“No, please Domine. Not foolish for me - foolish for the Latin.”

“What Latin?”

“The man who made the wager, Domine.”

George rose his bulk. “This whole loss,” he said smacking the man across the face with one of the wax tablets, “Is from one wager? With a Latin?”

Kosmas flinched, but endured the blow. His nose bled. “Nai Domine, he wagered all on an outside chariot. Gold Domine. An old… nobody. He wanted to wager more. Much more. I would only accept half. And after the race I could do nothing but pay. Many regular gamblers saw and talked of the wager. Some followed him to the seats and continued to bet with him. I offered seven for two. In the stands he offered even. What would you have done?”

“I would have smelled something. Who is he?” said George.

The file of bet makers shrugged their shoulders and looked at their shoes.

Fat George began again, “I want to understand why I have no money today. A man, from Italia -you never see him before - walked up to you and wagered - gold - on only one chariot, an outside car, in only one race? And you know nothing?”

“They were Latins.” Kosmas ventured again.

“They?”

“There were two of them. An older gruff one who made the bet and a younger burly one.”

“And you have no idea who they were or where they have gone?”

A cough came from the file of side betters. “Domine, I sent Andros Deletes and his cousins to follow them.”

“Andros Deletes has the mind of an ox, and his cousins are dumber still, but at least that is something. You have slightly more sense than the rest. We may recover something yet.”

It was at this point the steward came discreetly in again, caught his master’s eye and quietly conveyed to him that one of the Deletes clan was without - something about his cousin Andros being “taken out.”