Chapter 72
The Fourth Wager
“There’s a good,” Pons looked under the belly of the dog as it licked the dried eel from between his fingers, “Girl. Who is a sweet mutt? Why, you are. No, keep your snout out of the grease. It is no good. That is why I am putting it back on the shelf like nothing happened.”
He held up the skin of the eel. The black hound, thankfully a sweet tempered barn dog - to keep the high strung horses calm - not a guard dog, begged wagging her tail. He had brought the fish in a pocket, as an afterthought, something to snack while sipping from a wineskin. But… was it an afterthought? A premonition?
“Ah, there you go,” Pons tossed the morsel. The dog pursued it into the hay. He cleared up the telltale saw dust from beneath the chariot - hopefully the cut would suffice, “Now I must bid you a goodnight.”
Passing through the archway and slipping from shadow to moonlight to shadow once again, Pons reconnoitered the avenue. All dark, all silent, except - from the steps of a church - the laughter of his own watchmen.
He strolled up to them. “Having a pleasant evening?”
“Except for our feet being wet, it has been a lovely night,” Cyn held out the wineskin.
“Seen anything?”
“There is a beggar sleeping at the far end of the church stairs. Over yonder I spy the first of the fishing boats putting out to sea. There have been a few cats lurking about.”
“Back to the tavern then.”
“Above ground or below?”
“Above. Looks like we are in the clear. We ‘aven’t done nothing wrong. If the viglas stop us we are simply drunks heading home.”
“It is said the streets of this city are to be feared at night.”
“True, Marius, true. That is because of evil men like us.”
“Should we wait for our co-conspirators?” Cyn asked
“Bugger ‘em. They’ll show up, they always bloody do.”
* * *
Late in the morning, when the trio from Montferrat came down to the Eel’s common room, they did indeed find Nestor and Zinth pestering the goodwife for food.
“So, once again, who do I bet on, and who do I bet with?” Marius asked.
Pons raised his voice. “Gather around everyone I do not want to repeat this. We do not know which team to wager on until I watch the parade to the post. I will instruct you at that point. However, I recommend you wager with Kosmas, at the main stands. He enjoys betting with out-of-towners.”
“And Kosmas pays.” piped in Cyn. He was stiff having slept on the floor to allow Marius, the guest, his bed. “Can we eat and move this to the hot baths?”
“Kosmas pays almost all he owes, almost all of the time. He has not seen Marius before and does not know we are in league. Nestor and Zinth, you will show up later with more silver. You will tell Kosmas you have robbed us, ‘the Latins.’ He will love it.”
“Since Fortune shows favor - we wish to wager.” Zinth rhymed.
“And if Fortune does show favor, this will provide enough to continue living until the Margrave arrives.”
* * *
Alexander the Great noticed that more flowers, thrown from the girls watching the parade to the post, rained down on Antenor (for the Greens) and Diocles for (the blues) than on any of the others. They were the favorite charioteers. Handsome pricks.
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Gone were the days when he rolled to the post without a standard bearer. An impressive tally was now recorded on the placard. He led the six tetra hypos - quadriga teams following the twelve biriga chariots, six each for the day's first two races, as they rolled along the avenue.
Old timers talked of the grand days when six races were held each day, eight on feast days or if a foreign dignitary was in town. There would be four, or in the final, even five teams pulling. Back then, newcomers from the provinces would briefly try starting up a white or red faction as in the ancient days. Inevitably they would run out of money within a few months. Nothing like that racing atmosphere had existed for ages. Now, in Constantinople you were either Blue or Green. There were only three races - when and if there was to be a race day, and two of those would merely be synoris - biriga races. What was the Empire coming to?
Alexander smiled to see his good luck pisan in the crowd with his friends. When the Latin brought his sister’s favor and turned his fortune around, he became solid on the track. His come from behind win and the clean sweep victory - was one of those ‘you should have seen it’ races, which was still talked about in the forums and markets almost a year later. Even now the comb, Anna’s hair fallen away, was still woven through the threads of his tunic.
Again Fortune was smiling on him. He could feel it. After his victory on the previous day he had been lucky enough to draw the lot for first position. He would have no need to cut inward for advantage. All he needed to do was charge like Hell when the gates swung open and spin-pivot on the left wheel while bringing the horses around at the far end of the spina. Simple.
If Alexander’s talisman did not meet his eyes and stared instead at the rims of his chariot wheels, it went unnoticed as a proud poppa pushed forward with two sons and two daughters showing their blue colors and offered apples to his team. Alexander smiled his assent.
* * *
“Saddens me to say it, men, but we will be abandoning our customary support of the Venetoi and I will have you place your bets on the Parasenoi.” Pons handed a purse each to Marius, Zinth, and Nestor. “Green across the board. No particular driver.”
* * *
The carceres - massive stone starting gates - were capped with a magnificent gilded bronze statue which resembled his own team. They were slightly curved to compensate for the circumference of the track and adjust distance. Horse shit. Everyone knew the inside team had the advantage. Alexander the Great, in pole position, had a clear view of the Imperial box where the Emperor Alexios’ fiancee stood with the white cloth dangling from her fingertips. However he was watching the referee who would release the ropes to open the hisplex - the starting gates. The French Princess would release the mappa, the referee would release the rope. He watched the referee.
And they were off.
Alexander shifted his weight to the back of the chariot with his feet over the axle, leaning and using it as a fulcrum to lift the yoke off of the two middle horses. Less encumbered, whip cracking fear - right behind their ears, they were free to hit their stride. The outside horses were not attached to the yoke - at all - and were unburdened, only trace straps connected them to the bridles of the inner horses. The secret, the trick, the skill, came in keeping all four houses - burdened and unburdened - parallel. With four sets of reins to control and only two hands, one holding reins, one holding a whip, it was a challenge. Feet wide, his center of gravity low.
His second whip snap went to the face of Antenor racing beside him. Boos from the crowd, but once the hisplex fell, there were no rules. As this team surged forward he also whipped the faces of the green horses beside him causing them to veer to the outside. Open track and room to turn. Ha Fortuna!
Physics. Centrifugal force, momentum, velocity, shifting weight, tensile strength.
Rounding the spina the axle snapped and the inside wheel came off his chariot. Thrown from the car and pulled forward by his team, Alexander fishtailed, dragged along the track. Whip forgotten he drew his knife and slashed at the reins wound about his left hand. The remains of the chariot hit the obelisk of Constantine on his left and splintered to wicker and wood fragments, Alexander missed by a hair’s breadth, as he did the pounding hooves of the team on his right. So close everyone in the stands rose as one to watch the man's life or death struggle. Once cutting himself free… he was immediately run over by one of his own teammates sending the latter’s car swerving out of control, his team of horses diarayed.
Alexander the Great lay in a heap, unmoving, for two more circuits until the stretcher bearers got into position and judged it expedient to throw him on and run off the track.
* * *
After the weight of the odds, the celebration dinner, and Nestor and Zinth’s slice, the win was not a doubling of Pons’ wealth, but it was helpful. Still, it nagged. He could not help but feel that somehow he was responsible for the injury of their lucky charioteer.