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<blockquote data-quote="Greenfield" data-source="post: 5892291" data-attributes="member: 6669384"><p>***</p><p>"I will avenge myself on them all!", roared the huge Orc. "Today I kill!"</p><p></p><p>His own men looked happy, now that their leader had an opportunity to vent his rage on someone other than them.</p><p></p><p>The event was the wrestle, and while there were many wagers placed on individual matches, there were almost none placed on the final outcome. Everyone knew who would win, and nobody would bet against him.</p><p></p><p>The Kergen stalked out onto the field to face his first opponent. He saw that the competitors were stripping off all their clothes, and had slaves rubbing olive oil into their skin.</p><p></p><p>"What? Puny humans afraid their pretty robes get bloody?", he laughed.</p><p></p><p>"No Master", Pendaclese explained. "They don't want to give their opponent anything to grab. They oil themselves to help slip out of holds.</p><p></p><p>The great Orc laughed his cruel laugh and began to peel off his hides. "You right, goat-boy", said, pointing to his first opponent's crotch. "He have nothing. Not like Vandal!"</p><p></p><p>The huge Orc then made a show out of oiling his own body, paying particular attention to his manly parts and laughing at the reaction of the crowd.</p><p></p><p>Then the trumpets flared, and a herald called the match.</p><p></p><p>"We begin with Kergen of the Vandal, facing Achilos of Sparta. You both know the rules, don't you?"</p><p></p><p>Kergan looked confused. "What rules? It's a fight!"</p><p></p><p>"There are rules, Vandal.", the judge explained. "The match is fought in the circle. If one of you leaves the circle, he loses."</p><p></p><p>"Ah, so puny Human can't run.", the Orc laughed. "Good, I like rules."</p><p></p><p>"No biting, and you may grab and hold your opponent, but you may not hit them. And if you touch the ground with anything but your hands or feet, you lose. The match will be three falls, and the winner is the one who wins the most."</p><p></p><p>Kergen nodded, happily anticipating a chance to rip the smaller foe limb from limb.</p><p></p><p>The first fall was over almost before it began. Kergen swept the Spartan up in his arms, then twisted and cast the smaller man away like a child. The warrior struggled to land on his feet, but those feet were well outside the marked circle.</p><p></p><p>"That was too easy, over too fast.", boasted Kergen. "Maybe he need help, eh? Someone want to fight my other hand?"</p><p></p><p>After a short time for recovery, the pair entered the circle again. Again the signal to start was given, and again Kergen lunged for his smaller opponent. But the Spartan was quicker and ducked low, wrapping his arms around the Kergen's tree-trunk thigh. He lifted, unbalancing his larger foe. The Kergen stopped his fall with an outstretched hand, but like his foe in the previous fall, he had touched outside the ring. The second fall went to the Spartan.</p><p></p><p>"Goat!", the great Orc called. "My hands are slippery. Get me the tar."</p><p></p><p>Pendaclese had wondered how long it would take for Kergen to realize that his opponents hadn't applied the oil to themselves, so their hands weren't greasy. But what Kergen had called for was something else. </p><p></p><p>The Orc covered his hands with a thick and gritty black liquid, then scrubbed them off in the sand. The third and deciding fall was about to begin.</p><p></p><p>As the signal came, Kergen grabbed his foe in a great bear hug, raking the man's ribs with his claws. The Spartan arched his back in shock as his flesh was shredded, but still struggled to break the hold. Kergen hefted the smaller man well over his head, then with a cry of triumph he dropped to one knee and slammed his helpless foe down across the other, shattering his spine.</p><p></p><p>He rolled the all but lifeless form to the sand and raised his arms in victory.</p><p></p><p>"The winner is Achelos, of Sparta!", came the call from the judge. "Kergen, your knee was on the sand before he hit. You lost."</p><p></p><p>The great Orc's eyes flashed red, and with a roar he lunged for the judge.</p><p></p><p>The judge, however, was no fool, and had feared this kind of reaction. He was already running.</p><p></p><p>Kergen thundered through the crowd, bowling people out of the way as his quarry fled for his life, darting left and right to throw his pursuer off his stride.</p><p></p><p>Four guards stepped in, lowering their pikes as Kergen charged. Arrows suddenly appeared in the Orcs back as others joined in. </p><p></p><p>In his insane rage, Kergen felt nothing, saw nothing except the man he wanted to kill, just out of reach. His momentum carried him forward onto those pikes where he finally stopped, one pike piercing his breast and emerging from his back.</p><p></p><p>To the amazement of all, however, the great Orc pressed onward, pulling himself down that lance, hand over hand, until he could reach the man who held it. With a single stroke of his huge clawed hand, he nearly tore the man's arm off.</p><p></p><p>A second flight of arrows struck, and still he raged, but now his blood was flowing like a stream, and the remaining spearmen drove him to the ground.</p><p></p><p>Markus was busy with the fallen Spartan until his attendants displaced him and worked to staunch the fallen warrior’s wounds. The Jovian looked up as he heard the cries of the crowd when the Vandal fell.</p><p></p><p>"Do we save this man's life?", came the call from the Herald, appealing to the crowd as if it were the great arena.</p><p></p><p>Five thousand hands turned their thumbs down.</p><p></p><p>"Then let his life or death remain in the hands of the gods.", came the judgment.</p><p></p><p>The other Orcs had formed a circle around their fallen leader, and were watching as he bled.</p><p></p><p>Markus pressed forward, for it was his birthright to be the hand of the gods. He jostled his way between two Orcs and found himself facing Cassius across the body. Each laid a hand on the great spear, intending to remove it.</p><p></p><p>Karanga, now the leader of the Orcs stopped them. "It is the way of our people. Who is not strong enough to stand deserves to fall. He will rise, or not, on his own."</p><p></p><p>The two companions stood in silent witness as the great Orc hero slowly bled out. Then the bleeding stopped, and they saw his wounds begin to close. His breath lost the ragged tone, and he was visibly regaining strength.</p><p></p><p>But even the Kergen was mortal, and his strength finally failed him. The rise and fall of his chest ceased, and he died.</p><p></p><p>The Orcs lifted their fallen leader and, for the final time, retreated to their camp. This time there was no laughter.</p><p> ***</p><p>The rumors were flying fast and furious. Both General Calvinus and General Marcus had withdrawn their sponsorship of champions in the Chariot Race. They had instead chosen to compete themselves.</p><p></p><p>Nedel had given up on seeking divine guidance, and now turned to a more reliable source: Rumors!</p><p></p><p>He sought out a certain thief that Markus had recommended, but the lad was keeping his own counsel, and avoiding public contact. And although the boy had claimed to know everyone, nobody would even admit to knowing him.</p><p></p><p>Still, the pursuit wasn't entirely fruitless. </p><p></p><p>"I'm Parnassus", the lad said, by way of introduction. "It's said you'll pay for information. What would you like to know?"</p><p></p><p>"How much is it going to cost?", Nedel asked in return.</p><p></p><p>"Not a penny more than it's worth.", the boy replied. "What's your pleasure?"</p><p></p><p>"What do you know of the Vandals?"</p><p></p><p>"The ones here, or the horde?", the boy teased. "The bastards left last night, packed up and gone, headed north. Good riddance. They stank up the swamp." </p><p></p><p>Nedel nodded, and laid a few coin on the table, leaving the rest in his hand as an implicit offer. "And what of the Caesars?"</p><p></p><p>"The Senator is sweating blood. Word is that the two Generals have reached an accord of sorts, and he isn't part of it. Some say that they're going to try to kill each other in the arena. Others say that the winner will be Caesar, and the other will be given command of the armies. My thought is that, if Denius has anything to say about it, neither will finish that race."</p><p></p><p>"Well, I've been staying in the military camp.", Nedel said, happy to be better informed than the source for once. "Marcus and Calvinus saluted each other as Caesar when they met, and have been spending a lot of time together. No weapons drawn, and no time apart to plot against each other. Calvinus has a legion two days away, one by fast march, and Marcus has none within a thousand leagues of here. If they were going to settle this with blood, they'd do it in a duel, or Calvinus would simply have his troops march in and take Marcus prisoner. So they may be racing for the Empire, but it won't be to kill each other."</p><p></p><p>The boy nodded, happy to get such direct news. "Still, whether it's Marcus or Calvinus, Denius' head isn't too secure right now and he knows it. He won't let it end without blood."</p><p>***</p><p>The closing event of the games was intended to be a spectacle, and no effort had been spared in making it happen.</p><p></p><p>The competition field had been cleared, and the track had been laid out, a full half mile around, and bounded by heavy rails and stones placed by an army of slaves. Pennants fluttered in the breeze atop long poles held by attendants, and crews stood by around the track to help clear any wrecks. And, of course, the crowds pressed in.</p><p></p><p>Slaves moved among the crowds offering fruit juices and wines, cheeses, fruit or vegetable and roast meat on a skewer, a local delicacy called "Kabob", as well as the honeyed pastries the region was known for.</p><p></p><p>Raised platforms stood in place outside the track to offer a better view of the start and finish, and three distinct areas had been roped off there for the Imperial parties, but two of them were without their leaders.</p><p></p><p>There was a collective gasp as the chariots wheeled onto the track. Instead of the normal, light racing chariots, there were two heavy war chariots in the front row, one on the inside edge and one outside. The starting positions had been determined by the casting of lots, though some positions had been traded about, and it was obvious that the two Generals had arranged for lead positions.</p><p></p><p>The gamblers scrambled to adjust their wagers yet again as they saw the change in the field. Normally there's a careful balance in designing and building a racing chariot, with the craftsmen striving to make the frame as light as they could, yet strong enough to survive the race. And of course, no one knows in advance just how many obstacles a chariot may have to roll over in a race. War chariots are considered far too heavy to race well, but their presence boded ill for the survival of the lighter racers.</p><p></p><p>Marcus stood tall in his colors, his long red cape fluttering in the breeze. Calvinus also wore the imperial emblems, though he had chosen to add more than ceremonial armor. The two men smiled at each other, though there was little of affection in either face.</p><p></p><p>Then, with now familiar fanfare of trumpets, the race began.</p><p></p><p>Calvinus whipped his team furiously, gaining a half length at the start, then immediately cut inward towards the inside rail. And "cut" was the decisive term, for his wheels were adorned with long wicked spikes that raked the flanks and legs of the team on his left. The horses rebelled and shied away from the pain, while simultaneously responding to the lash of their own master. The result was a disaster.</p><p>Horses stumbled and chariots collided, turning the outside rail of the starting area into bloody chaos. Wiser or more skillful pilots had held their teams for a few heartbeats at the start, to avoid such a problem, but several had let their eagerness get the better of them, and ended up part of the pile. Pennants were lowered to warn drivers of the hazards of the track, even though all were painfully aware, and emergency crews advanced as quickly as conditions allowed to clear the wreckage, and attend to the injured, both man and beast.</p><p></p><p>Marcus' team, meanwhile, had sprung forward smartly, and were well clear before the tumult had reached his side of the field. He wielded his lash expertly, driving his horses with the sound of it cracking by their ears, or the lightest touch along their withers. He drew no blood from his team, but rather inspired them to do their best as he edged them away from the rail leading into the first turn.</p><p></p><p>Others in the field might have overtaken Marcus, but they shied away from his own assortment of spikes and blades, and so couldn't jostle for position in the normal manner.</p><p></p><p>The companions, whether by chance or by design, were scattered among the crowd, each watching a different section of the track. </p><p></p><p>Seeburn, who stood near the judges stands and the imperial platforms, heard one of the odds makers comment, "Aye, the General leads for now, but he'll kill his horses if he keeps them at that pace. I'll take your money, friend, but it's a poor wager." Seeburn, however, knew that with an empire at stake, Marcus would indeed drive his team until their hearts burst, and consider it a bargain.</p><p></p><p>Cassius was on a slight rise by the beginning of the first turn, looking for trouble, while Nedel stood towards the narrow end of the track. Markus had decided to observe from the thick of the poorer spectators, as far from Senator Denius as he could be, which placed him at the start of the second turn.</p><p></p><p>It was Appelenea, however, standing back from the far straight, that spied a problem. One of the attendants seemed nervous, and aside from the sling of bandages slung across his shoulders, she spotted a second bag, concealed beneath the first. A bag that seemed oddly lumpy, with many small points pressing into the fabric from within.</p><p></p><p>The horses thundered past, with Marcus in the lead and Calvinus close behind, his lash flying freely among the teams of his competitors, leaving chaos in his wake. Pennants were being lowered to mark crashes all along the way. But no one crashed near the nervous attendant, so he remained by the rail as the Half-Elven beauty made her way forward.</p><p></p><p>She wracked her brain for a way to stop the man, reviewing what she could ask Nature to do, but it had little to offer her against the cold iron in the man's sack.</p><p></p><p>Finally, after much struggle, she found herself near the rail, and one of the pennant bearers.</p><p></p><p>"Excuse me, but that man over there, in the blue tunic? He has a bag of caltrops with him, and I think he plans to interfere in the race."</p><p></p><p>The attendant looked at her, unsure of what to do. Thinking quickly, she quietly raked a fingernail across her thigh, where the split in her gown left it exposed. Stepping back, she raised the leg.</p><p></p><p>"See?", she asked. "I brushed against him, and something sharp in that bag did this to me! And it clanked like iron!"</p><p></p><p>The pennant bearer made a decision, and lowered his pole to mark a hazard, even though there was no wreckage to clear. He raised a free hand in a signal to one of the guard patrols, calling them to him.</p><p></p><p>The man in blue was watching them both, but held his ground until he saw the attendant talking to the guard, and point directly at him.</p><p></p><p>Then his nerve broke, and he fled quickly, the guard in hot pursuit.</p><p>***</p><p>"Did you hear?", said the odds maker, as he paid off the winners. "Someone tried to lace the track with spikes. The guard caught him, of course. All I can say is that he didn't have any money wagered with me!"</p><p></p><p>Denius face contorted with fury. Why couldn't he find decent help in this city? In Rome the matter would have been settled early on by the first men he'd sent.</p><p></p><p>He'd arranged for several teams around the track, all with the same instructions, yet when the first had lost his nerve and run, the others had been forced to discard the incriminating evidence. Marcus had won, and Calvinus had been seventh, out of a field of eleven teams. More than twenty had started the race, and nearly half had been wrecked.</p><p></p><p>Now it was time to bow, and hope he still had a head when he straightened up.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Greenfield, post: 5892291, member: 6669384"] *** "I will avenge myself on them all!", roared the huge Orc. "Today I kill!" His own men looked happy, now that their leader had an opportunity to vent his rage on someone other than them. The event was the wrestle, and while there were many wagers placed on individual matches, there were almost none placed on the final outcome. Everyone knew who would win, and nobody would bet against him. The Kergen stalked out onto the field to face his first opponent. He saw that the competitors were stripping off all their clothes, and had slaves rubbing olive oil into their skin. "What? Puny humans afraid their pretty robes get bloody?", he laughed. "No Master", Pendaclese explained. "They don't want to give their opponent anything to grab. They oil themselves to help slip out of holds. The great Orc laughed his cruel laugh and began to peel off his hides. "You right, goat-boy", said, pointing to his first opponent's crotch. "He have nothing. Not like Vandal!" The huge Orc then made a show out of oiling his own body, paying particular attention to his manly parts and laughing at the reaction of the crowd. Then the trumpets flared, and a herald called the match. "We begin with Kergen of the Vandal, facing Achilos of Sparta. You both know the rules, don't you?" Kergan looked confused. "What rules? It's a fight!" "There are rules, Vandal.", the judge explained. "The match is fought in the circle. If one of you leaves the circle, he loses." "Ah, so puny Human can't run.", the Orc laughed. "Good, I like rules." "No biting, and you may grab and hold your opponent, but you may not hit them. And if you touch the ground with anything but your hands or feet, you lose. The match will be three falls, and the winner is the one who wins the most." Kergen nodded, happily anticipating a chance to rip the smaller foe limb from limb. The first fall was over almost before it began. Kergen swept the Spartan up in his arms, then twisted and cast the smaller man away like a child. The warrior struggled to land on his feet, but those feet were well outside the marked circle. "That was too easy, over too fast.", boasted Kergen. "Maybe he need help, eh? Someone want to fight my other hand?" After a short time for recovery, the pair entered the circle again. Again the signal to start was given, and again Kergen lunged for his smaller opponent. But the Spartan was quicker and ducked low, wrapping his arms around the Kergen's tree-trunk thigh. He lifted, unbalancing his larger foe. The Kergen stopped his fall with an outstretched hand, but like his foe in the previous fall, he had touched outside the ring. The second fall went to the Spartan. "Goat!", the great Orc called. "My hands are slippery. Get me the tar." Pendaclese had wondered how long it would take for Kergen to realize that his opponents hadn't applied the oil to themselves, so their hands weren't greasy. But what Kergen had called for was something else. The Orc covered his hands with a thick and gritty black liquid, then scrubbed them off in the sand. The third and deciding fall was about to begin. As the signal came, Kergen grabbed his foe in a great bear hug, raking the man's ribs with his claws. The Spartan arched his back in shock as his flesh was shredded, but still struggled to break the hold. Kergen hefted the smaller man well over his head, then with a cry of triumph he dropped to one knee and slammed his helpless foe down across the other, shattering his spine. He rolled the all but lifeless form to the sand and raised his arms in victory. "The winner is Achelos, of Sparta!", came the call from the judge. "Kergen, your knee was on the sand before he hit. You lost." The great Orc's eyes flashed red, and with a roar he lunged for the judge. The judge, however, was no fool, and had feared this kind of reaction. He was already running. Kergen thundered through the crowd, bowling people out of the way as his quarry fled for his life, darting left and right to throw his pursuer off his stride. Four guards stepped in, lowering their pikes as Kergen charged. Arrows suddenly appeared in the Orcs back as others joined in. In his insane rage, Kergen felt nothing, saw nothing except the man he wanted to kill, just out of reach. His momentum carried him forward onto those pikes where he finally stopped, one pike piercing his breast and emerging from his back. To the amazement of all, however, the great Orc pressed onward, pulling himself down that lance, hand over hand, until he could reach the man who held it. With a single stroke of his huge clawed hand, he nearly tore the man's arm off. A second flight of arrows struck, and still he raged, but now his blood was flowing like a stream, and the remaining spearmen drove him to the ground. Markus was busy with the fallen Spartan until his attendants displaced him and worked to staunch the fallen warrior’s wounds. The Jovian looked up as he heard the cries of the crowd when the Vandal fell. "Do we save this man's life?", came the call from the Herald, appealing to the crowd as if it were the great arena. Five thousand hands turned their thumbs down. "Then let his life or death remain in the hands of the gods.", came the judgment. The other Orcs had formed a circle around their fallen leader, and were watching as he bled. Markus pressed forward, for it was his birthright to be the hand of the gods. He jostled his way between two Orcs and found himself facing Cassius across the body. Each laid a hand on the great spear, intending to remove it. Karanga, now the leader of the Orcs stopped them. "It is the way of our people. Who is not strong enough to stand deserves to fall. He will rise, or not, on his own." The two companions stood in silent witness as the great Orc hero slowly bled out. Then the bleeding stopped, and they saw his wounds begin to close. His breath lost the ragged tone, and he was visibly regaining strength. But even the Kergen was mortal, and his strength finally failed him. The rise and fall of his chest ceased, and he died. The Orcs lifted their fallen leader and, for the final time, retreated to their camp. This time there was no laughter. *** The rumors were flying fast and furious. Both General Calvinus and General Marcus had withdrawn their sponsorship of champions in the Chariot Race. They had instead chosen to compete themselves. Nedel had given up on seeking divine guidance, and now turned to a more reliable source: Rumors! He sought out a certain thief that Markus had recommended, but the lad was keeping his own counsel, and avoiding public contact. And although the boy had claimed to know everyone, nobody would even admit to knowing him. Still, the pursuit wasn't entirely fruitless. "I'm Parnassus", the lad said, by way of introduction. "It's said you'll pay for information. What would you like to know?" "How much is it going to cost?", Nedel asked in return. "Not a penny more than it's worth.", the boy replied. "What's your pleasure?" "What do you know of the Vandals?" "The ones here, or the horde?", the boy teased. "The bastards left last night, packed up and gone, headed north. Good riddance. They stank up the swamp." Nedel nodded, and laid a few coin on the table, leaving the rest in his hand as an implicit offer. "And what of the Caesars?" "The Senator is sweating blood. Word is that the two Generals have reached an accord of sorts, and he isn't part of it. Some say that they're going to try to kill each other in the arena. Others say that the winner will be Caesar, and the other will be given command of the armies. My thought is that, if Denius has anything to say about it, neither will finish that race." "Well, I've been staying in the military camp.", Nedel said, happy to be better informed than the source for once. "Marcus and Calvinus saluted each other as Caesar when they met, and have been spending a lot of time together. No weapons drawn, and no time apart to plot against each other. Calvinus has a legion two days away, one by fast march, and Marcus has none within a thousand leagues of here. If they were going to settle this with blood, they'd do it in a duel, or Calvinus would simply have his troops march in and take Marcus prisoner. So they may be racing for the Empire, but it won't be to kill each other." The boy nodded, happy to get such direct news. "Still, whether it's Marcus or Calvinus, Denius' head isn't too secure right now and he knows it. He won't let it end without blood." *** The closing event of the games was intended to be a spectacle, and no effort had been spared in making it happen. The competition field had been cleared, and the track had been laid out, a full half mile around, and bounded by heavy rails and stones placed by an army of slaves. Pennants fluttered in the breeze atop long poles held by attendants, and crews stood by around the track to help clear any wrecks. And, of course, the crowds pressed in. Slaves moved among the crowds offering fruit juices and wines, cheeses, fruit or vegetable and roast meat on a skewer, a local delicacy called "Kabob", as well as the honeyed pastries the region was known for. Raised platforms stood in place outside the track to offer a better view of the start and finish, and three distinct areas had been roped off there for the Imperial parties, but two of them were without their leaders. There was a collective gasp as the chariots wheeled onto the track. Instead of the normal, light racing chariots, there were two heavy war chariots in the front row, one on the inside edge and one outside. The starting positions had been determined by the casting of lots, though some positions had been traded about, and it was obvious that the two Generals had arranged for lead positions. The gamblers scrambled to adjust their wagers yet again as they saw the change in the field. Normally there's a careful balance in designing and building a racing chariot, with the craftsmen striving to make the frame as light as they could, yet strong enough to survive the race. And of course, no one knows in advance just how many obstacles a chariot may have to roll over in a race. War chariots are considered far too heavy to race well, but their presence boded ill for the survival of the lighter racers. Marcus stood tall in his colors, his long red cape fluttering in the breeze. Calvinus also wore the imperial emblems, though he had chosen to add more than ceremonial armor. The two men smiled at each other, though there was little of affection in either face. Then, with now familiar fanfare of trumpets, the race began. Calvinus whipped his team furiously, gaining a half length at the start, then immediately cut inward towards the inside rail. And "cut" was the decisive term, for his wheels were adorned with long wicked spikes that raked the flanks and legs of the team on his left. The horses rebelled and shied away from the pain, while simultaneously responding to the lash of their own master. The result was a disaster. Horses stumbled and chariots collided, turning the outside rail of the starting area into bloody chaos. Wiser or more skillful pilots had held their teams for a few heartbeats at the start, to avoid such a problem, but several had let their eagerness get the better of them, and ended up part of the pile. Pennants were lowered to warn drivers of the hazards of the track, even though all were painfully aware, and emergency crews advanced as quickly as conditions allowed to clear the wreckage, and attend to the injured, both man and beast. Marcus' team, meanwhile, had sprung forward smartly, and were well clear before the tumult had reached his side of the field. He wielded his lash expertly, driving his horses with the sound of it cracking by their ears, or the lightest touch along their withers. He drew no blood from his team, but rather inspired them to do their best as he edged them away from the rail leading into the first turn. Others in the field might have overtaken Marcus, but they shied away from his own assortment of spikes and blades, and so couldn't jostle for position in the normal manner. The companions, whether by chance or by design, were scattered among the crowd, each watching a different section of the track. Seeburn, who stood near the judges stands and the imperial platforms, heard one of the odds makers comment, "Aye, the General leads for now, but he'll kill his horses if he keeps them at that pace. I'll take your money, friend, but it's a poor wager." Seeburn, however, knew that with an empire at stake, Marcus would indeed drive his team until their hearts burst, and consider it a bargain. Cassius was on a slight rise by the beginning of the first turn, looking for trouble, while Nedel stood towards the narrow end of the track. Markus had decided to observe from the thick of the poorer spectators, as far from Senator Denius as he could be, which placed him at the start of the second turn. It was Appelenea, however, standing back from the far straight, that spied a problem. One of the attendants seemed nervous, and aside from the sling of bandages slung across his shoulders, she spotted a second bag, concealed beneath the first. A bag that seemed oddly lumpy, with many small points pressing into the fabric from within. The horses thundered past, with Marcus in the lead and Calvinus close behind, his lash flying freely among the teams of his competitors, leaving chaos in his wake. Pennants were being lowered to mark crashes all along the way. But no one crashed near the nervous attendant, so he remained by the rail as the Half-Elven beauty made her way forward. She wracked her brain for a way to stop the man, reviewing what she could ask Nature to do, but it had little to offer her against the cold iron in the man's sack. Finally, after much struggle, she found herself near the rail, and one of the pennant bearers. "Excuse me, but that man over there, in the blue tunic? He has a bag of caltrops with him, and I think he plans to interfere in the race." The attendant looked at her, unsure of what to do. Thinking quickly, she quietly raked a fingernail across her thigh, where the split in her gown left it exposed. Stepping back, she raised the leg. "See?", she asked. "I brushed against him, and something sharp in that bag did this to me! And it clanked like iron!" The pennant bearer made a decision, and lowered his pole to mark a hazard, even though there was no wreckage to clear. He raised a free hand in a signal to one of the guard patrols, calling them to him. The man in blue was watching them both, but held his ground until he saw the attendant talking to the guard, and point directly at him. Then his nerve broke, and he fled quickly, the guard in hot pursuit. *** "Did you hear?", said the odds maker, as he paid off the winners. "Someone tried to lace the track with spikes. The guard caught him, of course. All I can say is that he didn't have any money wagered with me!" Denius face contorted with fury. Why couldn't he find decent help in this city? In Rome the matter would have been settled early on by the first men he'd sent. He'd arranged for several teams around the track, all with the same instructions, yet when the first had lost his nerve and run, the others had been forced to discard the incriminating evidence. Marcus had won, and Calvinus had been seventh, out of a field of eleven teams. More than twenty had started the race, and nearly half had been wrecked. Now it was time to bow, and hope he still had a head when he straightened up. [/QUOTE]
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