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from thigh to calf in bright leggings. They wore the reins fastened around their waists, but kept a sharp-edged knife ready either at their belt or in a wicker basket inside the chariot body. It would be used to slash themselves free in case of disaster.
    The carriages churned the turf and battered against each other at the U-turns around the stone pillars, the stronger outside horses, usually stallions, hauling at their loose traces as they ran the longer curve, the inner horses, mostly mares, more tightly harnessed to pivot the vehicle around the turning post.
    The charioteers’ heads swivelled endlessly, as danger from being rammed could come from behind or on either side if they led, or could come from a stalled or crashed competitor ahead if they followed. Canny drivers aimed to edge their rivals into the stone spine that ran down the track centre – one broken wheel was enough to disable a chariot; others opted to outrun the pack.
    In a typical race, men and horses rounded the turning posts 14 times, every single one a fine opportunity for a shipwreck, and the crazed dashes down the straights were no safer.
    And the crowd loved it. They cheered for their favourites, gave generous applause to the victors and acknowledged the skill and bravery even of those who crashed or were rammed. Race followed race and the rituals were observed religiously. The aedile dropped the signal to start, the racers battled, the winner was declared and presented with his prize by the starter and did a lap or two of honour, acknowledging the crowd and sometimes leaping out onto the shafts to display his acrobatic skills as his horses ran free.
    One famous charioteer, Sinan of Moesia, had been brought from Gaul at the expense of the Green faction whose luminary, a wealthy merchant called Mullinus, was seeking political office, and he was celebrating his fifth victory when he climbed the steps to where Milo and Sintea were sitting with his wreath and prize purse.
    A muscular, powerfully-built man, Sinan bowed low before the young couple, and Milo laughed and made a joking reference to the trickles of sweat that made marks through the dust on the charioteer’s face. Sinan straightened, smiling, then sneezed explosively, barely in time to turn his head away from Milo. I saw Sintea flinch and realize she must have caught a little of the spray, and the charioteer was apologising: “Dust, my lady, I must have eaten a meal of it.” Sintea was dabbing at her face, the little incident was over, and the victor turned to wave to the crowd, holding high his coin purse. I noticed that he sneezed again, several times, as he picked his way down the steps to the arena.
    An intermission followed and acrobats and dwarf jesters were amusing the crowd. “That juggler troupe never arrived,” I said to Cragus, “The one from Dover that Mullinus spoke so highly about.”
    “Mullinus knows everybody, lord,” said Cragus. “I’ll ask him when they are going to get here. There was a good minstrel he was bringing from th ere, he never arrived, either.”
    “Ah well, “I said, more careless than I should have been, “there’s a week to go, they’ll likely be here in the next day or so.”
    At dusk that evening, as Guinevia and I sat talking with Milo, Sintea had retired early, saying she had a headache, my majordomo slipped quietly into the chamber to announce a visitor, if I would receive one.
    “It is the trader Mullinus, lord,” he said. “I explained that you were with your son but he was pressing, and says the matter is important.”
    I nodded permission. I knew Mullinus. A decade before, he was wearing my dead father’s silver and amber badge of office when I collided with him outside the public bath at Colchester. He told a long story about escaping a slaver in Belgica while wearing the man’s cloak, which happened to have the badge fastened to it.
    Mullinus was a successful trader and something about his story rang true, so I did not kill him,