Broken Chariots by J.G. Willem

Author:J.G. Willem [Willem, J.G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J.G. Willem
Published: 2021-04-28T22:00:00+00:00

Part V - The Spiky Thing With Flowers

Tiberius was not in a good mood when they went to see him. It didn’t make their task impossible, only harder.

The squat, curly-haired promoter had an office tucked into the flank of the Circus Maximus. A broad, shuttered window opened onto the racetrack about halfway between the turning posts. This meant he caught the horses at full gallop, at the point where they had achieved top speed but were not yet required to slow to make the turn safely.

Ursa watched through gaps in the shutters as the charioteers ran their practise laps, getting in shape for the upcoming race.

Leontius was out there. So was Pistrus.

“I’m not saying he’s in bad form,” Tiberius grumbled. “He’s in great form. Amazing form, actually, for someone who’s been out of the game as long as he has.”

The promoter walked away from the window and poured himself a cup of wine. Belbus and Ursa were still working on theirs.

“Then what’s the problem?” Ursa said, turning from the racetrack.

“The problem is, I have nowhere to put him.”

Tiberius slumped down on a couch, putting his feet up and wriggling his toes. They seemed glad to have the promoter’s substantial weight off them. He breathed through his mouth, as though he’d just finished running a lap of the circus himself. His cheeks were red and it wasn’t particularly warm. They were in the shade. They were inside.

“Swap out one of your guys,” Belbus said.

Tiberius frowned. “I don’t want to swap out one of my guys. I like my guys.”

“I like your guys too. They’re great guys. What I think you’re not appreciating here is the opportunity.”

“I think you’re right.” Tiberius nodded sagely. “I do not appreciate the opportunity at all. What I see is a drunken lout who spent all his money and then some on that gaudy monstrosity across the river. I see a tavern brawler. I see a man who couldn’t cut it on the track retreat to the sandbox to scrap and screw and scratch out a living for himself.”

“A living?” Belbus couldn’t believe his ears. “Do you hear yourself, Tiberius? The man is a champion!”

“He is a champion of the plebs. A scrapper. He is not fit for the Circus Maximus. We have standards here.”

“I think your plant is dying,” Ursa said, nodding with her forehead to the wilting potted palm in the corner.

Belbus paused on the verge of descending into a tirade.

The comment, likewise, caught Tiberius off-guard. “And?”

“I think it could use some sunlight or some water or something.”

Belbus squinted at her. What the hell was she on about?

The promoter did the same. He looked from Belbus to the plant to Ursa.

“It’ll be alright for a few more days,” he said. “Then someone will bring in a fresh one.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding, like that cleared everything up. “What happens to the old one?”

He responded with a blank stare, like she’d asked the question in Aramaic.

“That’s what I thought.” Ursa took a sip of her wine. Belbus observed that she didn’t shudder this time.

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