The Racing Factions by Robert Fabbri Page A

speed that would guarantee a first and second place but would not blow the horses. As their hortatores guided them around the wreckage of their third team, Magnus, for the first time ever, found himself concerned for a horse; he hoped that Spendusa would be cut from the wreck without too much harm done. The ruse had worked very successfully – too successfully as far as the mares were concerned. Two teams of stallions from the White Faction directly behind them in the pre-race procession had bolted in their urgency to get to the mares. The two teams in the starting boxes to either side had smashed their chariots as they reared and bucked in the narrow confines, maddened by nature’s compulsive scent oozing in from so close. As the boxes slammed open with high-torsion violence the two teams of Green geldings leapt forward, oblivious to the urgent need to spread seed. The remaining five teams of stallions, however, were not so relaxed; their urge to breed was evident to all in their behaviour and appearance throughout the race until, in a rare breakout of cross-faction harmony, a Red and a Blue charioteer had combined to bring the Green mares crashing down, albeit far too late.
    Magnus gave a nervous glance over at the imperial box on the Palatine side of the circus; he could just make out the distant figure of Antonia and he prayed that she had passed on the tip that Pallas had given her, as she had promised she would, to Ahenobarbus. His gaze wandered up to the top of the enclosure; somewhere up there was Ignatius. Magnus smiled inwardly as he cheered his faction on, feeling the thrill of vengeance soon to be had on the man who had publicly cheated him.
    The Greens worked themselves up into a frenzy as their geldings crossed the line, which was equalled by the sense of outrage felt by the other three factions at the use of such a ruse.
    ‘Looks like the Reds ain’t too happy with us, lads,’ Magnus commented as a surge from the Red area, adjacent to the Greens on the Aventine side of the circus, headed towards them. ‘That’s just as I’d hoped.’ Within moments fighting had broken out and blood had been spilt. Magnus looked at his brothers and fellow Greens around him and shouted: ‘Let’s be having them, lads!’ All around, Green faction supporters were having the same idea and a tide of anger began to push towards the Reds.
    With Marius and Sextus to one side, Tigran and Cassandros to the other and supported by many more of the South Quirinal Brotherhood, Magnus barged his way through streams of spectators fleeing the violence, knocking men aside in his eagerness to close with the Reds. Bunching his fists he flew at the first person he saw sporting Red colours. Slamming his right into the man’s midriff, Magnus knocked the air out of him, doubling him over; he brought his knee sharply up to crunch into the fast-descending face, crushing the Red’s nose in a splatter of crimson. Next to him, Sextus, with a straight right jab of his ham-like fist, belted a Red back; blood arced through the air from a shattered mouth as Cassandros caught a knife-wielding hand by the wrist and forced the arm down across his knee, snapping it with such force that a shard of white bone ripped open the skin to the earsplitting howl of agony. Screams of pain, yells of anger and grunts of exertion replaced the roars of encouragement, shouts of victory and groans of disappointment as the two factions ripped into each other with a venom born of years of mutual loathing and rivalry. Magnus worked his fists with the mechanical precision learnt during his time as a boxer, blocking and dealing blows with rapid jerks and unfailing accuracy, as Marius wrapped the stump of his left arm around a neck and pulled the head forward, bringing his own down abruptly to crack into the face with a sickening, dull crunch.
    Above the din came the call of a horn answered by another not far off.
    ‘That’s the Cohorts arriving, lads, best be going before