Four Horses For Tishtry (5 page)

“Gods of the fishes!” Barantosz burst out, his soft babyish features turning rosy and his mouth opening in astonishment. “Tishtry? In Roma?”

“It’s possible. With care and good sense.” He paused, then went on even more smoothly as he reached for more pork, “It will take time, and I would want your assurance that I have the right to work with her, coach her and all.”

“It will cost me money, won’t it?” Barantosz cut in.

“Naturally. But once the winter storms come, there will be plenty of time to practice and perfect her tricks. There are no Games here in the winter, and that means a good three months to devote to making her performance better.”

“But the cost ...” Barantosz persisted.

“If she improves—and I believe she will—you could sell her for a great deal of money. You wouldn’t have to risk more than you’d have to invest in my time and abilities. That wouldn’t put you at a disadvantage for long.” He assumed a more casual manner as he grew confident of his success. Barantosz, he knew, was as greedy as he was timid, so he added, “I’d be willing to take part of my pay in commission from her sale.”

At that, Barantosz looked up, a flicker of interest in his hooded eyes. “How great a part?”

“Thirty percent,” Atadillius said.

“Fifty percent,” Barantosz countered at once. “If you will defer half of your payment contingent on her sale,
well, then it might be arranged.” He plucked at the knots of his belt. “I want you to explain this to her. Let her see that it will be to her advantage in the long run.”

Atadillius had heard Macon speak of the various assurances Barantosz had given Tishtry and her family. “If you wish.”

“She’s ... difficult. It would be better coming from you. She’d listen to you.” He took his cup and gulped some wine. “You’re a practical man, Atadillius. You can make her understand.”

“But why should I?” he asked innocently. “Perhaps, if you were to compromise at forty percent, I’d find myself more eloquent.”

“All right.” Barantosz squirmed. “Forty percent. But I don’t want to have anything to do with what you say to her.
Is that acceptable?”

Atadillius took the last of the pork. “Done,” he said with his mouth full.

TISHTRY
thought
she had never heard so much noise before in her life. It was worse than the howling of wind in a winter storm, and all it was was the voices of people gathered in the amphitheater to watch the Games. She had tried to pretend that she was used to it when it had first begun, but now she let herself be amazed. She was troubled that her team would bolt at the sound, for they might be frightened by it. It was not easy for her to admit to herself that it frightened her.

“Don’t worry,” a rangy Persian secutor said to her as he strolled by, swinging his weapons. “This is a small place. Nothing like the big arenae where there are ten times this number of people in the stands, and the sound makes you deaf after a while.”

“There can’t be ten times this number of people in the whole world,” Tishtry protested.

The secutor laughed. “This is a small place. It might be
bigger than anything you’ve got back home in Cappadocia or Armenia or wherever it is you come from, but don’t doubt it—this is nothing.”

“But it’s ... so much.” She thought of her tricks, hoping she would be able
to do them for the gigantic crowd. With so many people, would any of them actually see what it was she was doing? She fingered the small brass studs that had been added to her leather costume, and she was glad now she had chosen them instead of colors, because the sunlight would make them shine, and more of the crowd would see her. She swallowed hard and tried to forget how nervous she was.

“Just do your tricks. Don’t think about the people. They’ll want to see what you can do. Think of this as practice, for when you get into a proper arena with twenty thousand in the stands.” The secutor cuffed her shoulder in encouragement.

“Twenty thousand!” she scoffed, determined not to let the secutor get the better of her. She had learned that the veteran arena performers enjoyed gulling the newcomers with ridiculous tall stories. “You’re outrageous.”

“A lot you know of it, girl,” the secutor chuckled. “Wait until you get to Roma.”

“I will,” Tishtry promised him, wondering if she would ever get to Roma to perform in the Circus Maximus, where the greatest Games in the Empire were held for more than a hundred days out of every year. She went about her tasks with her team, cleaning their hooves and inspecting them for any signs of damage, then stretching out each horse’s legs, pulling them slowly, extending them to help the animals limber up. When she was satisfied, she signaled for a groom to help her yoke
them up. “Be
careful of Immit. She’s a little head shy.”

The groom stared at the silver—dun mare as if daring her to misbehave. “I’ve yoked up lions, girl. There aren’t many horses that are too much for me.”

“That may be,” Tishtry said sharply, “but you may be too much for her. She has to be on the sands shortly and that crowd is bad enough. If you vex her now, then we may do badly.” She took the bridle out of the groom’s hands. “I had better do it myself.”

Atadillius, who had been watching this exchange, took a moment to stroll over to the young Armenian. “Very wise, Tishtry.”

“Don’t you start on me,” Tishtry countered as she fixed the bit in Shirdas’ mouth.

“I’m not starting on you,” Atadillius protested with what appeared to be genuine concern. “There are those who would prefer you fail today, and there are many ways to accomplish that. Take care, girl. You are not amusing your master’s friends at home anymore, you are a bestiarii in the amphitheater at Apollonia. Remember that. Fortunes are made
and lost on these Games.”

Tishtry shrugged. “That is the worry of the gamblers,” she said, dismissing the matter.

“And suppose that gambler has put money on you, to win or to lose. Do you think that they would stop at hurting a few horses or an unknown slave? At the moment, it would cost little to compensate your master for your market value, and there are some who would find that an excellent investment.”

“They’re fools,” Tishtry said as she tightened the last of the buckles.

“Possibly. But just the same, stay near the spina, so that they cannot throw things at you.” Atadillius hesitated, puzzled by Tishtry’s attitude. “Word has spread about you, girl. There are men in the stands who have been speculating about you, with denarii.”

At this mention of money, Tishtry looked up at him, curious for the first time. She wished she could still the sudden rush of stage fright that had taken hold of her. “They’re betting on
me?
But why? I don’t race, I just drive and ride.”

“And perhaps you might fall, or you might do a trick they haven’t seen before,” Atadillius suggested. “Have a care, girl. Your sister would never pardon me if I let you be hurt here.”

Tishtry tossed her head, more nervous than ever. “What has my sister to do with this?” Her interest was piqued by this turn of their conversation, but her apprehension kept her
from asking anything more.

“Go ride. Then have her explain it to you.” With that, Atadillius strode abruptly away.

* * *

Just before the Gates of Life were opened, Tishtry got into her chariot and tried to whisper a few reassurances to her team, but gave up when she found herself almost shouting to be heard. She tried to calm herself, afraid that her nervousness would communicate itself to her horses, and they would be more keyed up than they were already. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths and be calm. “It’s just like home,” she said to herself. “This crowd is no different from the horse breeders and wine makers. There’s just more of them.” She cleared her throat, surprised at how tight it had become.

The
brazen hoots of the hydraulic organ ended and the aurigatore standing at the heads of her team
signaled her as the Gates of Life swung open.

Tishtry gathered up the traces and stretched her mouth into a smile as she sent her horses hurtling out onto the sands.

A sound between a buzz and a roar greeted her appearance, and Tishtry watched her teams’ ears turn back. She felt her hands shaking and she forced them to be still. It was bad enough to have her team so upset, but for her to be as distressed as they went beyond anything she could accept. She set her jaw and put her mind on her tricks.

Her first vault onto Dozei’s back brought applause, and this startled her so much she almost lost her footing. She did her best to turn her near—stumble into a kind of jig, and kept up this impromptu little dance for one whole circuit of the arena. She discovered that this was soothing to her, making her less distracted by the noise around her. She nodded once to herself and put her mind on her next trick. The noise around her became less demanding, and she
decided that she could continue her ride without too much difficulty. She
started her bounce from horse to horse and felt a certain satisfaction that this time the enthusiasm of the crowd did not shatter her concentration.

On Atadillius’ suggestion, Tishtry kept her first appearance brief, doing only those tricks she had the greatest experience performing. Her
confidence improved, and the crowd loved it.

In less than a week, she and her team were back on the sands once more. This time she did a few more of her tricks, but not her handstand. She argued with Atadillius about it, but he remained firm.

“Your horses are still skittish from the noise, you can’t deny that,” he reminded her.
“And that would mean you might do badly. Not doing a trick at all is better than doing it badly. You have all summer to get ready for it. By fall, you will have a routine twice as long as the one you do now, and the sweetenings the editor pays you will more than double. Everyone will think that you are improving before their eyes—which you are, but not the way they will assume—and that will increase the fee paid for your performances.”

That last was powerfully persuasive, since the sweetenings and the small portion that was her share of the performance fees
would go toward buying her family’s freedom. Tishtry was quite pleased to have amassed a pouchful of silver denarii and an assortment of copper coins, some
Roman, some Greek. “How much more?”

“Double,” he said confidently. “If your reputation spreads, possibly more.”

Tishtry laughed. “My reputation?”

“You’re getting one. Now is the time you must have a care. I’ll tell Barantosz, so he’ll take extra care of you.”

“Very well.” Tishtry chuckled, convinced that Atadillius was being absurdly cautious.

Yet by midsummer she had had one trace snap on her while she was working with Shirdas, and had discovered that the leather had been deeply cut with a knife. And not long after, she had noticed that the spokes of her quadriga had been tampered with. She became more cautious.

August was difficult, for the engulfing heat was worsened by hot, dry winds blowing in from Asia. Everyone in the arena turned surly, even her horses, and Tishtry, for the first time in her life,
wanted to avoid performing with her team.

“Tell Barantosz that you are ill,” Macon suggested as they sat in the cabin, both of them half dressed and sweating.

“But I am not ill, and he has already been paid for my appearance. He
hates to give back money. Atadillius ... he thinks that it might be better if I perform because there are others who are going to refuse. That Boeotian bestiarii with the tigers has already said he cannot trust his cats in this heat.”
She looked directly at Macon. “I could earn a lot, working these Games.”

“And you could lose a lot too,” her older sister reminded her. “You are not so favored by the gods that you may fly in the face of fate.”

“I will not do that,” Tishtry said with a weary smile. “I will do a shorter version of my tricks and it will be enough.”

“If you’re sure,” Macon said doubtfully.

“Well, I think I am,” she responded. “But there must be enough water for the horses when I am through, and I will need a long time to walk them cool, otherwise they could be harmed, and I draw the line at that.”

Three other bestiarii withdrew from the Games during the hot winds, and as a result, Tishtry was one of the specialty entertainments. She created more excitement with her performance because there were few bestiarii, and she decided to take full advantage of this, introducing a new trick to her routine: she somersaulted across the backs of all four horses as they galloped, and having reached Shirdas’ back this way, she did a backflip that landed her on Dozei
once again. The
crowd went wild for it, and the
editor of the Games awarded her a sweetening of fifty silver denarii.

“You see,” she boasted to Macon that evening while they ate figs and chopped mutton, “I said it would be all right, and here we are, richer than ever before.”

“The money is not the most important thing,” Macon warned her.

“It might not be, but there is no other way to gain your freedom and the freedom of our family. Barantosz might be
a fool, but he’s not so much of a fool that he’ll grant his slaves their freedom on a whim. He expects money for his writ of manumission.”

“The family wouldn’t mind if you didn’t succeed,” Macon pointed out.

“I
would mind,” Tishtry said stubbornly, and despite her youth, there was no doubting her determination.

“Then be wise, so that you can achieve your goal,” Macon said, then changed the subject. “Your tunica is getting worn. Would you like me to repair it?”

“Can you do that?” Tishtry asked, genuinely surprised.

“Well, leather is leather, and whether I’m making a saddle or repairing a tunica, there shouldn’t be much difference, should there? I could put a few more studs on the tunica while I’m at it.”

“All right. I think I’d like a sunburst design. Could you do that?” She grinned at her older sister. “Something that catches the light.”

“If that’s what you want,” Macon said, trying not to giggle. “A sunburst it will be.”

* * *

“There are two more Games scheduled between now and the end of October,” Atadillius told Tishtry when she came
in from her morning practice. “You’ve been asked for both of them. One of those asking to be editor is a Roman. His name is Marius Balbo, and he will pay very well for your performance, so save your best tricks for him. Barantosz has said that you must do something very unusual.”

“What about the handstand? I’ve only done it once, and you know how the crowd roared for it.” She grinned eagerly. “That would be sure to please Balbo, and it will please Barantosz.”

Atadillius winked. “Your master has good reason to flatter the Romans; they buy most of his horses and mules.”

“Fine. Then I will do what I can.” She was brushing down her team’s coats, going over the hair until it was free of dust. “They
like this best, I think. They’re as bad as cats.”

“They’re much bigger than cats,” Atadillius observed. “Don’t be too obvious with Balbo. He has that Roman tendency to like flattery unless he
knows that’s what it is, and then he hates it.” He folded his arms. “Barantosz has given me permission to work with you in the winter, strengthening your routine.”

“So I can keep the crowds coming next year?” Tishtry asked
with a sigh. “If you think it’s wise, I suppose I ought to do it.”

Finally Atadillius could keep the idea to himself no longer. “No, not so you can keep the crowd here happy next year. Next year, if you work well,
we will take you to another amphitheater. How would you like to perform in the arena at Troas?”