me-oh of course you did ask me-”
“Enjoy your joke.”
“Well, I bet everything gets taken over and run by the state.”
‘Vespasian's an organizer,” I agreed. “He's presenting the Flavian Amphitheatre as his gin to the populace: the benign Emperor affectionately saluting the Senate and People of Rome. We all know what that entails. SPQR stands for official catastrophe. Public slaves, committees, consular control.”
‘Vespasian has two sons, both young men,” Famia said, stabbing the air with his thumb for emphasis. “He's the first Emperor in living memory to possess that advantage-he comes equipped with his own Gan1es committee. He'll be giving the world a magnificent show-and you mark my words: the whole affair will be run from an office in the Golden House, headed up by Titus and Domitian.”
“A Palace scheme?” I was thinking that if nobody had yet formulated this plan, I might do myself some good by suggesting it to Vespasian. Better still, I would suggest it to Titus Caesar, so he had a chance to propose it formally, getting ahead of his younger brother before Domitian knew what was happening. Titus was the main heir, the coming man. His gratitude was something I liked to cultivate. “You could be right, Famia.”
“I know I'm right. They're going to take everything out of the hands of the private lanistae, on the grounds that the new amphitheatre is too important to be left to unregulated private enterprise.”
“And once the state organization is in place, you reckon it will become permanent?”
“A right cock-up.” Famia's idea of political commentary tended to follow routine lines. The four charioteering factions were funded by private sponsorship, but there was always talk of them being state run; it might never happen but Famia and all his colleagues had developed fixed prejudices in advance.
“Imperial control: beasts caught by the legions and shipped by the national fleets; gladiators trained in army style barracks; Palace clerks running it. All the glory to the Emperor. And everything paid for from the Treasury of Saturn,” I foolishly mused.
“That means paid for by the hard-earned silver I had to cough up for the bloody Census tax.” With luck, Famia had not yet heard how I was currently employed.
My brother-in-law was reaching the point where he wanted to confide to me the troubles of his private life. I reckoned they were all his fault; anyway, I was on my sister's side. I interrupted his moans to ask if he could tell me anything about Calliopus, or better still about Saturninus, the rival who seemed to feature rather large in my suspect's business life. Famia claimed the beast importers and gladiatorial bashers were strangers to all in his more refined racetrack sphere. I managed not to choke with laughter.
By chance I happened to mention the Tripolitanian connection. Then he did take an interest. Apparently some of the best horses came from Africa.
“Numidia-Libya-they're all that way, aren't they?”
“Roughly. But I thought good steeds came from Spain, Famia?”
“The best of all come from bloody Parthia, actually. This huge fellow”-indicating the grey who had spurned his medicine-“is from Cappadocia; he'll have Parthian or Median ancestors in his bloodline. Gives him the power to drag a chariot round the bends on the outside of the team. You're the best, aren't you, boy?” The grey showed his teeth ferociously; Famia decided against patting him. So much for being good with animals. “After that, Spain and Africa rank about equal. Libyan horses are famous for toughness and endurance. That's good in a race. You don't want a pretty four that prances up to the starring gate but can only manage a quick sprint. You need a team that can hang on solidly for seven laps.”
“Right.” I managed not to tease him by suggesting, you mean like the Blues have? “I suppose the horse shippers are probably the same lot who bring in big cats and other exotics for the venatio?”
‘Reckon so, Falco. Which may mean that I know a supplier who can tell you what you want to find out. Whatever that may be.”
I let him jeer. That's what you expect from family. As usual I myself felt rather vague about what I was really looking for, but I spared Famia my uncertainty and just thanked him for offering to introduce me to his hypothetical pal. He would probably forget all about it, so I did not trouble to be too effusive.
“By the way, have you ever heard of a character called Rumex?”
Famia looked at me as if I was mad. “Where have you been, Falco?”
He obviously knew more than I did but before he could tell me, he was stopped by a slave, wild-eyed with excitement, who rushed into the stables, saw Famia, and shrieked, “You've got to come at once and bring a rope!”
“What's up?”
“An escaped leopard's up on the roof of the Saepta Julia!”
17
FAMIA DID NOT bother finding a rope. Like most chronic drinkers, his intake hardly affected him. He was alert enough to know this was not the same as catching horses. Apprehending a leopard would involve rather more than approaching in a sly manner holding out a carrot, while hiding a bridle behind your back. We were both running fast to the Saepta, but I knew without asking that Famia had come simply for the show. That did leave me wondering who in Rome might be thought appropriate to deal with this situation. Not me, I knew that. I was going for the show too.
When we got there, and saw the size and menace of the beast-a leopardess, in fact-I was damned sure I didn't want to be involved. She was lying on the roof with her fat tail dangling like a Greek epsilon, occasionally snarling when the crowd below annoyed her. In the true manner of a Roman street crowd, that was what they were trying very hard to do Forgetting that they had seen leopards in the arena biting human necks then casually tearing human flesh, the locals were waving, growling, allowing their children to prance nearby grimacing, and even offering up broom handles to see if they were long enough to poke the cat.
Someone was going to get killed. One glance at the leopardess's narrow eyes told me she had decided it would not be her.
She was a beautiful animal. Sometimes the long sea voyage across the Internal Sea, not to mention the stress of captivity, leaves arena cats looking the worse for wear.
This one was as healthy as she was finely marked. Her spotted fur was thick and her muscle tone at its peak. She was lithe, bonny, and powerful. When Famia and I arrived outside the Saepta she was lying motionless. Her head came up, watching the crowd like potential prey on the savannah. Not a scratched ear or sniff escaped her.
It was safest to leave her alone in full view. The Saepta Julia enclosure was only two stories high. However she got up there, she could as easily get down again and be away. Everyone should have stood well back, keeping quiet, while some wild beast expert with equipment was fetched.
Instead, the vigiles had taken charge. They ought to have cleared the streets and contained the situation. Instead they were like boys who had found a snake curled up under a portico and were wondering what they could make it do. To my horror, they dragged up their syphon engine and prepared to squirt a cold douche at the leopardess to frighten her down. They were the Seventh Cohort. Idiots. They patrolled the Transtiberina, which was crammed with foreigners and itinerants. They were only adept at beating up frightened immigrants, many of whom did not even know Latin and took to their heels rather than discuss life and fate with the vigiles. The Seventh had never learned to think.
The centurion in charge was a ridiculous oaf who could not see that if the leopardess was forced down to ground level they were in big trouble. She could run amock. Worse, they could lose her for days among the massive temples, theatres, and art-filled porticos in the Field of Mars. The area was too crowded to hunt her safely, and yet too exposed to stand much hope of cornering her. There were people milling everywhere; some had not even noticed they had wandered into an incident.
Before I could offer these helpful thoughts, the rumpled troops of the Seventh started playing with their toy.
“Stupid bastards,” commented Famia.
The fire engine was a gigantic tank of water pulled on a waggon. It had two cylinder pistons which were
