“We've got one from Oea, one from Lepcis-I suppose there had to be a Third Man, from the Third Town.”
“Neat,” Thalia agreed noncommittally, like a woman who thought nothing involving the male sex was ever tidy.
“Sabratha, isn't it? Very Punic, so I'm told.”
“They can keep that then.”
Thalia's opinion suited me too. I was a Roman. As the poet said, my mission was bringing civilised pursuits to the known world. In the face of tenacious opposition, I believed you whacked them, taxed them, absorbed them, patronised them, then proscribed human sacrifice, dressed them in togas and discouraged them from openly insulting Rome. That done, you put in a strong governor, and left them to get on with it.
We beat Hannibal, didn't we? We razed the city and sowed the fields with salt. We had nothing to prove. That would explain why my hackles rose at the mention of anything Carthaginian.
“Is the man from Sabratha Punic, Thalia?”
“Don't ask me. Who are you going to hammer over that poor lion?”
“A certain Rumex did it, according to my sources.”
Thalia shook her head sadly “He's an idiot. Calliopus will fix him good.”
“Calliopus is trying to cover it up”
“Keeping it in the family.”
“He denies even knowing Rumex.”
“Pizzle.”
“Oh?”
Thalia must finally have realised I had no trace on the fingered Rumex and that I was hoping she could give me a lead. She eyed me askance. I looked shamefaced; she roared with mocking laughter, but then while I wriggled with embarrassment she explained who the great Rumex was.
I must have been the only man in Rome who had never heard of him.
Well, me and Anacrites. That only made it worse.
20
ONCE YOU KNOW, the evidence leaps out at you from every wall:
OUR MONEY's ON RUMEX:
I even spotted in rather shy, small letters on a temple column an impassioned mutter of:
Rumex stinks!!!
I knew who he was now all right. The man who had been named as the slayer of Leonidas was this year's most idolised gladiator from the Games. His fighting role was as a Samnite, not normally a popular category. But Rumex was a real favourite. He must have been around for years, and was probably lousy, but he had now achieved the fame that only comes to a few. Even if he was only half as good as his reputation, he was not a man to tangle with.
There were graffiti on bakeries and bathhouses, and a poem nailed to a wooden Herm at a crossroads. Outside the Saturninus Gladiators' School stood a small but obviously permanent group of young female admirers waiting for a chance to screan1 adulation if ever Rumex appeared; a slave walked out with a shopping basket so to keep in good voice they screamed at him. Apparently used to it, he went over and cashed in by chatting them up. They were so hot for Rumex that in his absence they were fair game for anyone.
Inside the barracks gate lurked a porter who was assembling his pension fund from bribes for taking in letters, bouquets, seal rings, Greek sweetmeats, addresses, and intimate items of women swear for Rumex. This was bad. To a civilised male it was positively embarrassing. Lest 1 should doubt that women who ought to know better were throwing themselves at this overdeveloped mongrel, two fine and fancy ladies were approaching the gate just as I arrived. They had jumped out of a hired chair together, brazenly showing flashes of leg through slit sideseams in their modest gowns. Their hair was curled. They flaunted shameless stacks of jewellery, advertising the fact that they came from well-oil; supposedly respectable homes. But there was no doubt why they were here today; they had already proffered the door porter a tip to admit them.
Cursing, I recognised them both.
I would lose them unless I did something about it. I raced up to the barracks angrily. They looked annoyed: these two hussies cruising for a hunk were Helena Justina, my supposedly chaste darling, and my irresponsible youngest sister Maia. Maia muttered something that I lip-read as an obscenity.
“Ah, Marcus!” exclaimed Helena, without batting an eyelid. I noticed that her eyelid, were brilliant with antimonised paste. “At last you have caught up with us carry my basket now.” She thrust it into my hands.
Dear gods, they were pretending I was some domestic slave. I was not having that. “I want a word with you-”
“I want a word with you!” hissed Maia, in genuine wrath.
“I hear you've been giving drink to my husband-I shall beat you if it happens again!”
“We're just going in here,” Helena announced, with the peremptory high-class disdain that had once flummoxed me into falling for her. “We want to see someone. You can either follow us quietly or wait for us outside.”
Apparently their tip had been a huge one. The porter not only allowed them in, but bowed so low he nearly scraped his nostrils on the ground. He gave them directions. They swept past me, ignoring my glares. Whistling started up as soon as they were spotted by the riff-raff inside, so I bit back my indignation and hurried after them.
The Saturninus barracks put Calliopus and his measly hutments in the shade. We passed a forge alongside an armoury, then a whole suite of offices. The timberwork was sharp, the shutters were painted, the paths were neat and swept. The slaves skipping about all wore livery. One large courtyard was simply for show: perfectly raked golden sand, with cool white statues of naked Greek hoplites positioned ostentatiously between well-watered stone urns of dark green topiary. There was enough outdoor art to grace a national portico. The shrubs were manicured into boxtree peacocks and obelisks.
Beyond lay the palaestra, again huge and smart. The peace of the first courtyard gave way to highly organised bustle: more trainers' voices yelling than at the Calliopus establishment. More thumps and whacks of punchbags, weights, and wooden swords on dummy targets. In one comer rose the distinctive arched roof. of a private bathhouse.
My two womenfolk stopped, not as I hoped to apologise, but to pin their necklines more revealingly. As they threw their stoles over their shoulders with more of a swagger and pegged back their little slips of modesty veils, I made a last attempt to reason with them. “I'm horrified. This is scandalous.”
“Shut up,” said Maia.
I rounded on Helena. “While you're shaming yourself at a school for killers, where, may I ask, is our
