The leader, a green driver, swept around the turn. The second chariot sped around in his wake. The third chariot brushed its wheels against a stone curb. The chariot lurched. The pole snapped. Margo screamed. The delicate chariot, little more than a wooden shell with a lattice-work floor, disintegrated into splinters. Galloping horses dragged their driver out of the wreckage. He fought to draw a knife at his belt. Other chariots swung wide to miss the wreckage.
The driver sliced through the reins and rolled heavily across the track. The other chariots left him lying on the sand. Slaves raced out to pull the driver and the wreckage off the track. Others caught the runaway team and led the horses out of the arena. The remaining chariots swept back toward the first turn for their second lap. Men on ladders had taken down one egg and one dolphin from the crossbeams.
Margo drank in details, determined to think like a scout for a change. The horses wore collars around their necks instead of harness like she’d seen in London. How can they breathe, pulling against their windpipes lake that? The horses’ manes had been tied up so they couldn’t stream in the wind. Their tails had been bobbed short, like a Manx cat’s. Wickerwork on the lightweight racing chariots bore the teams’ colors. The drivers wore slaves’ collars.
Malcolm had said the men who raced and fought here were either slaves, prisoners, or criminals. She wondered if the driver who’d been dragged down the track would live. She shivered. Already the chariots were pounding down the straightaway for the next lap. They skidded around the turn, bouncing across ruts left from previous laps, and rounded the turn in a cloud of glittering dust.