Four Horses For Tishtry Read online

  The crowd shouted and screamed, and the noise frightened her horses in a way they had not been scared before. Immit strained her neck out, striving to get the bit in her teeth.

  With a quick move, Dionysos swung his team into Tishtry’s one more time, and this effort was more damaging. The outside wheel broke three of its spokes and flailed on the axle, no longer secure. Over the sound of the crowd, Tishtry could hear Dionysos laugh.

  Tishtry abandoned her earlier plans and got back onto her horses’ backs, doing a dance step from Shirdas to Immit to Neronis, but leaving Amath to run without hindrance. She did the splits across the three horses’ backs, then leaned down between the big animals and started to cut her team free of the chariot, which was floundering behind them. The first harness lines parted, and she got over onto the next horse, trying to reach the broad leather straps as she felt Shirdas and Immit surge ahead. She reached her traces and held the two free—running horses in with the two still attached to the chariot. There were two more laps to go, and she could sense that Dionysos had not finished with her yet. Her hands were slick with sweat as she grabbed the harness line between Neronis and Amath.

  Suddenly Dionysos cut in front of her, and this time Amath gave a screaming whinny and stumbled, falling as Tishtry cut the line holding him to the chariot. He fell heavily to his side, the chariot coming to rest against his flank as his hooves pawed at the air.

  Tishtry was distressed, and worry for her horse almost made her draw in her team, but she was too close to winning now. She gathered up the traces and stood on Immit’s rump, letting Neronis and Shirdas run a bit ahead of the dun mare. It was something she had only done with her team on the lunge, and she hoped that they would not be too confused to complete the maneuver.

  Ahead of her, Dionysos was taking his team into the curve. His grin was as broad as she had ever seen it, and she wanted to throw herself into his chariot and battle him there like a gladiator.

  Amath had got to his feet and pulled himself to the side of the arena. He put no weight at all on his off rear leg, and as Tishtry approached him, she could see that the leg was broken. Her heart went cold inside her.

  One more circuit, one last trick, Tishtry told herself as she tried to ignore her fatally injured horse. Then she would win, and could tend to her team. The desire to defy Calpurnius had left her with the sight of Amath leaning against the wall, his head down, resignation in every line of his body.

  Dionysos swung in front of Tishtry, signaling his horses to fan out so that she could not pass on either side of him. He was looking back over his shoulder, making a sign of victory, when his team ran into her overturned chariot.

  The screams and neighing of his team were drowned in the bellow from the crowd. Dionysos was catapulted out of his chariot and fell among the thrashing hooves of his animals.

  Tishtry pulled her three horses into a walk, and still standing on Immit’s back, she made her team walk around the wreck in single file, then brought them into their standard abreast formation as she drew them up in front of the editoris’ box.

  At either end of the arena, the Gates of Life and the Gates of Death were flung open, and arena slaves rushed onto the sands, hurrying to aid Dionysos and his ten matched horses, all caught in a horrible tangle thirty paces behind Tishtry.

  From her place on Immit’s rump, Tishtry saluted the two Romans in the editoris’ box, and without waiting for their response, she wheeled her three horses and rode them out through the Gates of Life.

  HIMIC shook his head as he came out of Amath’s stall. “There is nothing more we can do for him. One of the grooms will take care of ...” He did not finish.

  Tishtry nodded. She went to the door of the stall and reached through to pet the bay’s soft nose. “I’m sorry, old boy,” she whispered, feeling tears on her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “The Master of the Games has impounded the chariot, to examine it for possible signs of tampering,” Himic said behind her. “There isn’t much left of it, not with what Dionysos’ team did to it, but the law requires that the thing be inspected.”

  “Fine,” she said, still touching Amath in affection and grief. “That wheel did not break of its own accord.”

  “Probably not,” Himic agreed. “Come, girl. Leave Amath to the grooms now. He’s suffering.”

  “I know.” She forced herself to turn away, to take her mind off Amath. “What about Dionysos. How badly is he hurt?”

  “The physician hasn’t finished with him yet, but he has broken his arm and a few ribs for sure. There are cuts on his face; when he heals he won’t be quite as pretty as he was before, but better that than crippled, I suppose.” Himic deliberately led her out of the stables. “He is claiming that there was sabotage of the contest, and Valericus has said that he will do what he can to find out if anyone attempted to harm his team.”

  Tishtry had fallen into step beside her aurigatore. “Himic, have you been bought, as well?”

  Himic stopped. “No. I am to stay with Calpurnius, to train the next promising youngster my master finds.” He looked down at Tishtry. “Whoever it is, he won’t be as good as you are, girl. You’re the kind a man like me gets to train once in a lifetime.”

  Her throat, already tight, now felt as if it had closed entirely. “Oh, Himic, what is going to become of me?”

  He took her by her shoulders and did his best to smile. “Why, you will go on to Ancona—that’s all arranged—and from there to Roma, where you will perform in the Circus Maximus, just as you have always wanted to do. You will have a dozen horses of your own, and half a dozen chariots, and by the time you retire and buy your freedom, you will have money enough to own Calpurnius three times over. You’ll see.”

  “I’ll buy you then,” she said, her voice quivering as she strove to keep from crying in earnest.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. In a few years, I will be able to retire to the back of the stables, and all I will have to do is tend the horses and see that the mares drop healthy foals. Perhaps my master will provide me with a woman, and we’ll drop a few children of our own.”

  Tishtry knew that she was supposed to laugh at this, but she could only shake her head. “I will miss you, Himic. Without your help, I would never have done ... any of this.”

  “Of course you would have,” he said, thrusting her away from him. “It would have taken a little longer, perhaps, but nothing could have stopped you once you set your heart on your goal.” Impulsively, he gave her a hug, then he growled, “Lykos is waiting for you, over by the Gates of Life. He needs to make arrangements for the shipment of your team.”

  At this mention of her horses, Tishtry looked back over her shoulder toward the stables. “Amath ...”

  “Never mind Amath. Leave him be.” Himic sighed. “You have other horses to look after.”

  “I’ll have to inspect their legs and feet once they have been cooled,” she said, her habits reasserting themselves.

  “This time the authorities of the amphitheater will tend to that. More of their investigation into that accident.” He pointed to where Lykos stood. “Go on. Your new master will want you to be prepared to depart soon.”

  “Must I?” she wailed. It had all been too much—the contest, the injury to Amath, the accident that had hurt Dionysos—and to have to leave now made her feel that she was losing everything.

  “Lykos says your new master is kind. Don’t keep him waiting too long,” Himic told her gruffly, then turned on his heel and walked away from her, not looking back as he went.

  Tishtry watched him go, and for once in her life made no attempt to be brave. She wept bitterly, standing by herself in a cocoon of misery while other arena performers milled around her, paying very little attention to her.

  Finally she wiped the tears from her face with her grubby hands and went to speak to Lykos.

  * * *
>
  “The Master of the Games has ordered Calpurnius fined,” Lykos told Tishtry three days later while he supervised the loading of her gear. “In telling you to lose, he broke the law against suborning slaves. The fact that he told you to lose is bad enough, but that he had already sold you and did not inform you of the fact is very bad indeed. His slaves have been banned from the amphitheater for a period of a year, and he is not allowed to sponsor any more Games for a period of five years.” He signaled to one of the slaves who had accompanied him to pick up her chest of belongings. “Take that to the ship and see that it is safely stowed.”

  Tishtry sat on a bench near the window of the tavern where Lykos had secured her a room. “What is it like in Ancona?”

  “Well, the amphitheater is much larger than this one. Ancona seats almost twice as many people as the amphitheater here in Salonae, and neither is anywhere near the size of the Circus Maximus. Franciscus has said that he wishes you to work in Ancona until you are comfortable with the larger arena, and then he will arrange for you to go to Roma.” He came and patted her on the shoulder. “You will have a year to train your new team. Franciscus has sent word that you will have your pick of twenty horses. He is giving you six of them to begin with.” Both of them knew that this was remarkably generous. “He has also set aside a portion of your winnings for you.”

  “What?” Tishtry looked up at Lykos. “You mean the horses are not all?”

  “Apparently not,” Lykos said, smiling a bit, though with features as austere as his, it was hard to tell if his expression was intended to be a smile.

  “So I go from a greedy master to a mad one.” She sighed. “And in time, who knows what sort of man will buy me?”

  “That is for the future, and the gods will decide,” Lykos said with surprising gentleness. “Come, girl. It is time to leave.”

  Tishtry got to her feet. “Very well. Show me where I am to go.” She thought of her arrival in Salonae, and the confusion she had found when she had got off the ship. She had grown used to the size and chaos of the place and knew that she would miss it.

  “There is a Greek merchantman waiting for us. Your horses are already aboard, and aside from you and me, it is ready to sail.” Lykos gestured toward the door.

  “Himic didn’t say good—bye,” Tishtry mused as she followed Lykos out of the tavern.

  “He is Calpurnius slave; he would not be permitted to do such a thing,” Lykos remarked as he led the way toward the waterfront.

  “Still,” she murmured, then fell silent as she turned her back on Salonae.

  * * *

  Her new collar was made of amber and silver, and was finer and lighter than any she had worn before. Her owner’s name was embossed on it, and her own as well. Tishtry had almost got used to it by the time she arrived in Ancona, two days after leaving Salonae.

  “There are quarters for arena slaves near the amphitheater,” Lykos explained to her as they left the ship. “Space has been reserved for you by your master, and he has arranged for the horses I mentioned to be brought here before the next full moon. That will give you a little time to work with your four horses so that you will be ready to show your master what your team can do already.”

  Tishtry found it difficult to generate any real interest in performing, for she was still saddened by the loss of Amath, and her shoulder ached whenever she put too much weight on it, or tried to lift anything heavy. “It will take a little time, I think” was all she was willing to say.

  Lykos did not remark on her attitude, but merely told her to go with his men and they would take her to her quarters. “There are baths adjoining the slaves’ quarters, and they will tend to you. Be sure you mention your injuries so that the masseur will know what to do for you.”

  Tishtry was tempted to stay with her horses and to delay going to her new quarters, but she could read determination in Lykos’ face and decided she would not argue with him. “All right. But I will want to see my team after they are taken to their stalls.”

  “Of course. One of the grooms will show you the way. You have only to ask.” Lykos paused, then added this one precaution. “There are more than two hundred horses stabled here at the amphitheater. Let the grooms guide you.”

  “All right,” she said, too downcast to be impressed by the number of horses Lykos had mentioned. As she followed Lykos’ man through the crowded streets, she noticed the lack of bigae and carts and eventually she asked about it.

  “There are rules here, as in Roma. On days when the swine market is open, only foot traffic, sedan chairs, and single—horse vehicles are allowed within the city walls from an hour after sunrise to an hour before sunset. Otherwise no one would be able to move on these streets.” He pointed out a thermopolium where sausages were being heated on a grill and huge vats of wine sunk into the counter open to the street attracted customers. “If you want a quick meal, these are the places to go. Some of them serve grilled fish as well as sausages.”

  Tishtry nodded, wanting to appear familiar with the city. The aroma of the food blended with the smell of livestock from the nearby market and the general crush of humanity around her. “The people here smell ... different.”

  “Proper Romans bathe often and have the grace to use fresh scent. The clothes are washed to keep them fresh. We’re not like some of the barbarians of the Empire who ...” He stopped, remembering that Tishtry was an Armenian from Cappadocia. “Of course, many of the client countries have taken to our ways.”

  “Of course,” Tishtry said politely, though she wanted to kick him for his attitude.

  But later, when she had seen her quarters—two rooms and a large closet for storing her tack and her clothing—she went along to the baths, going first to the tepidarium for mild exercise and a refreshing dip in cool water. Then she went into the caldarium, to sit in the hot, steamy darkness in a small pool of hot water. She felt the tightness in her shoulder begin to ease and her fatigue let go of her. After that, she went briefly to the frigidarium to splash herself with cold water before going to the masseur, who spread sweet—smelling oil over her, then set to work kneading all her muscles, giving special attention to her shoulder and back.

  “I have an ointment of rose oil, white cedar, and thyme that will help your shoulder,” the masseur said when he was almost through with his work. “If you rub it into your shoulder in the morning and after exercise, it will ease the strain.”

  “Thanks,” Tishtry murmured, feeling so relaxed now that she feared they would have to pour her into a cask to get her back to her quarters. “I’ll do it.”

  “Your master has sent word that you’re to have massage twice a week as part of your training routine,” the masseur went on. “He orders that for all his arena slaves.”

  “Does he have many?” Tishtry asked, touched with interest now.

  “I have heard that he has quite a few; no fighters, just performers. It’s easier for foreigners to have performers.” The masseur finished up with her hands and feet, then dismissed her, telling her to move slowly for an hour or so.

  That night Tishtry slept deeply, and by morning she felt restored as she rubbed ointment into her shoulder and went out to inspect her team. She had them on the lunge in one of the smaller practice rings—the amphitheater at Salonae had had just one, but Ancona had four—when a stranger approached her, watching from the fence while she worked.

  He was very still, this stranger; he made no impatient movement, no distracting gestures, until Tishtry released her team to let them run on their own for a bit, then he came through the gate into the ring, walking up to Tishtry as he offered a greeting.

  She returned it, shading her eyes to study him. “You are?”

  “Franciscus.” he said. He was taller than most Romans, dressed in a short black Persian tunica and black leggings worn with red Scythian boots. His hair and eyes were dark.
r />   “My master?” she said, impressed in spite of herself.

  “Yes.” His shadow fell across her. “You are quite expert with your horses,” he said.

  “Does that surprise you?” she asked, a bit surprised herself.

  “No.” He reached for a pouch that hung at his belt. “You are entitled to five percent of your winnings. That is the custom among Romans.” The pouch was a large one, filled with coins. “They are all gold and silver; no copper. There are forty—one aurei and sixty—eight denarii.”

  Her eyes widened at the sum. “So much?” With what she had saved already, she had more than enough to buy her family’s freedom at last.

  “Some of it should have been given you before; Calpurnius withheld part of your winnings for his own use. The magistrates at Salonae released the money to me when they recorded your sale. Lykos brought the documents to me when he returned here with you.” He looked down at her as she took the pouch. “Is there anything you require?”

  “I ...” Now that it was possible to free her family, she did not know how to go about it. “My family ... I want ...”

  “Lykos told me,” he said with a faint, kind smile. “You wish to buy their freedom. They are owned by a Cappadocian horse breeder—”

  “Chimbue Barantosz,” she supplied, nodding.

  “—who has agreed to hold the price level for you.” He paused. “Would you like to arrange the transfer of funds? I own several merchant ships that trade in Cappadocia. It would not be difficult to send a messenger to Barantosz.”

  Tishtry’s eyes lit up. “Oh, would you?”

  Franciscus’ smile lasted longer this time. “It would be my honor.”

  Although it was improper to behave this way in front of her master, Tishtry leaped into the air with a whoop. It was real! She had done it! Her family would be free! She would perform in Roma!