He’d even won three times in the minor races involving the lesser Green and Blue riders and the Reds and Whites-amusements for the crowd, those were, with careening chariots, reckless corners, dangerous pile-ups, hot-headed young riders lashing at each other as they strove for recognition- Three wins was perfectly decent for a youngster riding Fourth for the Reds in Sarantium.
Problem was, perfectly decent wouldn’t suffice at this particular moment. For a veritable host of reasons, the race coming up was hugely important, and Taras cursed fortune that it was his lot to be slotted outside between ferocious Crescens and the whirlwind that was Scortius. He shouldn’t even have been in this race, but the Reds’ second driver had fallen and wrenched a shoulder earlier in the morning and the factionarius had chosen to leave his Third in the next race, where he might have a chance to win.
As a direct result of this, seventeen-year-old Taras of Megarium was sitting here at the starting line, behind horses he didn’t know at all well, sandwiched between the two finest drivers of the day, with one of them making it clear that if he didn’t cut off the other, his brief tenure in the City might be over.
It was all a consequence of not having enough money to buy adequate protection against the curse-tablets, Taras knew. But what could one do? What could one possibly do?
The first trumpet sounded, warning of the start to come. The handlers withdrew. Taras leaned forward, talking to his horses. He dug his feet deeply into the metal sheaths on the chariot floor and looked nervously to his right and a bit ahead. Then he glanced quickly down again. Scortius, holding his experienced team easily in place, was smiling at him. The lithe, dark-skinned Soriyyan had an easy grin-allegedly lethal among the women of the City-and at the moment he was glancing back with amusement at Taras.
Taras made himself look up. It would not do to appear intimidated. ‘Miserable position, isn’t it?’ the First of the Blues said mildly. ‘Don’t worry too much. Crescens is a sweet-natured fellow under that surface. He knows you can’t go fast enough to block me.’
‘The fuck I am, the fuck I do!’ Crescens barked from the other side. ‘I want this race, Scortius. I want seventy-five for the year and I want it in this one. Baras, or whatever your name is, keep him outside or get used to the smell of horse manure in your hair.’
Scortius laughed. ‘We’re all used to that, Crescens.’ He clucked reassuringly at his four horses.
The largest of them, the majestic bay in the leftmost position, was Servator, and Taras longed in his heart to stand in a chariot behind that magnificent animal just once in his life. Everyone knew that Scortius was brilliant, but they also knew that a goodly portion of his success-evinced by two statues in the spina before he was thirty years old-had been shaped by Servator. There had even been a bronze statue to the horse in the courtyard outside the Greens’ banquet hall, until this year. It had been melted down over the winter. When the Greens lost the driver they lost the horse, because Scortius’s last contract with them had stipulated- uniquely-that he owned Servator, not the faction.
He’d gone over to the Blues in the winter, for a sum and on terms that no one knew for certain, though the rumours were wild. The muscular, tough-talking Crescens had come north from riding First for the Greens in the notoriously rough-and-tumble hippodrome of Sarnica- second city of the Empire-and had assuaged some of his faction’s grief by being hard and brave and ruggedly aggressive and by winning races. Seventy-five would be a splendid first season for the Greens’ new standard-bearer.
Seventy five would be, Taras desperately wanted to say, but didn’t. Didn’t have time, either. His right-side trace horse was restive and needed attention. He had only handled this team once before, back in the summer. The starter’s trumpet was up. A handler hurried back and helped Taras hold his position. He didn’t look over at Crescens, but he heard the fierce man from Amoria cry, ‘A case of red from my home if you keep the Soriyyan bastard outside for a lap, Karas!’