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Blue
stands or at any of the banquets or ceremonies.
    He nudged Pappio, on impulse. 'You know him?' He gestured at the man
he meant. Pappio, dabbing at his upper lip, squinted in the light. He
nodded suddenly. 'One of us. Or he was, last year.'
    Fotius felt triumphant. He was about to stride over to the group of
Blues when the man he'd been watching brought his hands up to his
mouth and cried the name of Flavius Daleinus aloud, acclaiming that
extremely well-known aristocrat for Emperor, in the name of the
Blues.
    Nothing unique in that, though he wasn't a Blue. But when, a
heartbeat later, the same cry echoed from various sections of the
Hippodrome-in the name of the Greens, the Blues again, even the
lesser colours of Red and White, and then on behalf of one craft
guild, and another, and another, Fotius the sandalmaker actually
laughed aloud.
    'In Jad's holy name!' he heard Pappio exclaim bitterly. 'Does he
think we are all fools?'
    The factions were no strangers to the technique of 'spontaneous
acclamations.' Indeed, the Accredited Musician of each colour was,
among other things, responsible for selecting and training men to
pick up and carry the cries at critical moments in a race day. It was
part of the pleasure of belonging to a faction, hearing 'All glory to
the glorious Blues!' or Victory forever to conquering Astorgus!'
resound through the Hippodrome, perfectly timed, the mighty cry
sweeping from the northern stands, around the curved end, and along
the other side as the triumphant charioteer did his victory lap past
the silent, beaten Green supporters.
    'Probably does,' a man beside Fotius said sourly. 'What would the
Daleinoi know of any of us?'
    'They are an honourable family!' someone else interjected.
    Fotius left them to debate. He crossed the ground towards the cluster
of Blues. He felt angry and hot. He struck the imposter on one
shoulder. This close, he could smell a scent on the man. Perfume? In
the Hippodrome?
    'By Jad's Light, who are you?' he demanded. 'You aren't a Blue, how
dare you speak in our name?'
    The man turned. He was bulky, but not fat. He had odd, pale green
eyes, which now regarded Fotius as if he were some form of insect
that had crawled out of a wine flask. Fotius actually wondered, amid
his own turbulent thoughts, how anyone's tunic could remain so crisp
and clean here this morning.
    The others had overheard. They looked at Fotius and the man who said,
contemptuously, in a clipped, precise voice, 'And you are the
Accredited Record Keeper of the Blues in Sarantium, dare I suppose?
Hah. You probably can't even read.'
    'Maybe he can't,' said Pappio, striding up boldly, 'but you wore a
Green tunic last fall to our end-of-season banquet. I remember you
there. You even made a toast. You were drunk!'
    The man seemed, clearly, to classify Pappio as close kin to whatever
crashing thing Fotius was. He wrinkled his nose. 'And men are
forbidden by some new ordinance to change their allegiance now? I am
not allowed to enjoy and celebrate the triumphs of the mighty
Asportus?'
    'Who?' Fotius said.
    'Astorgus,' the man said quickly. 'Astorgus of the Blues.'
    'Get out of here,' said Daccilio, who had been one of the Blue
faction leaders for as long as Fotius could remember, and who had
carried the banner at this year's Hippodrome opening ceremonies. 'Get
out, now!'
    'Take off that blue tunic first!' someone else rasped angrily. Voices
were raised. Heads turned in their direction. From all over the
Hippodrome the too-synchronized frauds were still crying the name of
Flavius Daleinus. With a roiling, hot anger that was actually a kind
of joy, Fotius grabbed a fistful of the imposter's crisp blue tunic
in his sweaty hands.
    Asportus, indeed.
    He jerked hard and felt the tunic tear at the shoulder. The jewelled
brooch holding it fell onto the sand. He laughed-and then let out a
scream as something smashed him across the back of the knees. He
staggered, collapsed in the dust. Just as the charioteers fall,