It’s the final lap of the 73BC Nicopolis GP and the crowd are going walnuts. After narrowly avoiding a crashed chariot in lane 4 and the threshing wheel blades of the mad Scythian in lane 6, I whip my knackered nags through an unexpected gap in the frontrunners, and find myself leading by a good pertica. There’s now only one 180-degree turn and a furlong of foam-flecked dust between me and 25,000 denarius. This is it. My team, The Ballista Boys, are about to write themselves into chariot racing history.