unconvincingly small pen labelled “Rhinoceros' and a slabbed area with damp edges labelled “sea lion”; both were empty. A sad eagle was chewing out his feathers on a perch. And letting out a hard, terrifying roar was a huge black-maned lion.
For some reason, with Leonidas dead, the last thing I had expected to see was another great cat. He was caged up, thank Jupiter. I stood my ground, regretting the show of bravado. He was more than two strides long. The muscles of his long, straight back rippled effortlessly as he paced around. I could not imagine how anyone had ever captured him. He looked younger than Leonidas, and far more unhappy at being confined. A board leaning outside the bars said his name was “Draco”. At my entrance he had rushed forwards and with a huge roar let me know what he would do to me, given the chance. When I faced up to him he prowled angrily, searching for a way to break free and attack.
I backed out of the room. The lion's roar had attracted attention from the slaves. They let out appreciative whistles at how he had made me go white. “Draco looks a handful.”
“He's new; just off a boat from Carthage. He's going in the next hunt.”
“Something tells me you haven't fed him yet. In fact he looks as hungry as if he hasn't been fed since he left Africa.”
The slaves all grinned. I said I hoped the cage was strong. “Oh we'll be moving him later. He belongs in here normally. “
“Why has he been in solitary? Is he the bad boy of the class?”
“Oh…” Vagueness set in suddenly. “All the beasts get shifted to and fro a lot.”
There was nothing to query in what they had told me, yet I felt a distinct doubt. Instead of creating a fuss, I merely asked, “Did Leonidas have a name board? If no one else wants it, could I have it for a souvenir?”
“All yours, Falco.” They seemed relieved I had changed the subject. One of them went for the board, which I noticed he had to fetch from the inner room I was trying to remember whether Leonidas had had his official cognomen on his cage on previous occasions. I could not recall it, and when the board was brought out and displayed for me, I failed to recognize the uneven red lettering. I decided this was the first time I had seen it.
“Why were you keeping it in there instead of on his cage?”
“It must have been on the cage when he was in it.”
“Sure?” They didn't answer. “All your animals have names, don't they?”
“We're a friendly group.”
“And the crowd like something to yell out as the creatures go to their deaths?”
“Right.”
“What's happened to Leonidas, now he's dead?” They knew I had a particular interest, because of Thurius. They must have guessed I had worked out for myself that the dead lion's carcass would become cheap fodder for some other animal. “Don't ask, Falco!”
I was not intending to stick my neck out here. Not in a place where even a keeper could completely vanish without trace. I had heard that crocodiles chew you up boots, belt and all. A hungry lion would probably clean his plate nicely too.
I wondered how many casualties had there been at this barracks? And had any of the victims ever died other than accidentally? This would be a good place to dispose of an unwanted corpse. Was Leonidas simply the latest in a line? And if so, why?
Feeling gloomy, I returned to the office where Anacrites had undergone one of his unpredictable mood swings and was now eager to please. To get my own back I pretended not to notice his welcoming smile, but wrote steadily on my tablet until he could bear it no longer and jumped up to see what I was doing. “That's poetry!”
“I'm a poet.” It was an old ode I was scribbling to annoy him, but he assumed I had just composed it at speed while he watched. He was so easy to fool it was hardly worth the effort.
“You're a man of many parts, Falco.”
“Thanks.” I wanted to hold a formal reading of my work one day, but I was not telling him that. There would be enough hecklers if I invited my family and real mends.
“You wrote all those lines just now?”
“I can handle words.”
“No one will argue with that, Falco.”
“Sounds like an insult.”
“You talk too much.”
“So everyone tells me. Now talk yourself: earlier you mentioned some new information. If we are to stand a chance in partnership we have to share Are you going to cough?”
Anacrites wanted to look like the serious, responsible partner, so he felt forced to come clean: “Last night, someone brought a letter to your mother's house which purports to say who killed your friend Leonidas.”
I noted the cautious administrator's way he insisted it was only “purported” information. He was so mealy- mouthed I could kick him. “And who does the purporter allege that to be?”
“It said ‘Rumex did for that lion.' Interesting, eh?” “Interesting, if true It's too much to hope we know who Rumex is?”
“Never heard of him.” Chief Spies never know anything. Or anyone.
“Who brought the note?” He looked at me, wanting for some perverted reason to be difficult. “Anacrites, I'm well aware my mother pretends to be deaf when it suits her, but if any stranger is crazy enough to approach her door especially after dark on a murky evening in winter-she pops out and grabs them before they can blink. So whose ear lobe did she twist off last night?”
“It was a slave who said a stranger had paid him a copper to bring the tablet.”
“I suppose he swore it was a man he never saw in his life before?”
“Yes, that old line.”
“Did you get the slave's name?”
“Fidelis.”
“Oh a ‘trusty fellow'! Sounds too good to be true.”
“A pseudonym, I thought,” mused Anacrites. He liked to be suspicious of everything.
“Description?”
“Slim build, under-average height, very dark colouring, stubbly jaw, off-white tunic.”
“No dead eye, or his name tattooed in woad? Rome is full of identical slaves. Could be anyone of a million.”
“Could be,” replied Anacrites. “But it isn't. I was Chief Spy remember: I followed him home.”
Surprised at his initiative, I made out I was unimpressed. “No more than you should have done. So where did the mysterious trail take you, sleuth?”
My partner gave me a knowing look. “Straight back here,” he said.
15
WITH ONE ACCORD we rose to our feet and went out to search the establishment. We found plenty of slaves, mostly smelling of stables, but none Anacrites could identify.
“Do we demand that Calliopus should produce him, Falco?”
“You're not a Palace torturer now. Leave it. He'll say he doesn't recognize your description as any slave he owns. And he'll imply you're a romancer.”
Anacrites looked offended. Typical of a spy. We informers may be reviled by everyone but at least we have the guts to acknowledge how our reputation stinks. Some of us even occasionally admit that the profession has asked for it.
“How long did you wait outside after he got here?” I asked.
“Wait?” Anacrites looked puzzled.
“Forget it.” He was a typical spy all right-absolutely amateur.
The messenger belonged elsewhere. Still, if he had turned up here once to contact somebody, he might come again.
