sensitive one.
“Nice! And was Rumex used to fighting animals? He wasn't a bestiarius, surely? I thought he norn1alIy played a Samnite and was conventionally paired?”
“Right. He didn't want the job, and that's a fact. The boss leant on him.”
“How?”
“Who knows?” Once again, a shifty look passed between the two gladiators. They knew how. The old phrase “nothing to do with us, legate” went unsaid, but its implied customary addition “we could tell you things, all right!” hung in the air. They shared an unspoken pact that they would not tell me. I would put the whole conversation at risk by pushing it.
“We'll have to ask your boss then,” Anacrites said. They deliberately made no comment, as if daring us'
“Let's go back to the ex-praetor's house,” I suggested.
“The lion's cage was opened up, and then what?”
“The keepers wanted to prepare everything quietly but the damned magistrate came on the scene, wetting himself with excitement' He grabbed one of those straw dummies they use to excite the beasts' He started to wave it about. The lion roared and crashed out past the keepers. It was terrible. He leapt straight at Urtica.”
Anacrites gulped. “Dear gods. Was he hurt?”
The two men said nothing. He must have been. I could find out. That afternoon when I had tried to see him at his Pincian mansion, perhaps Pomponius Urtica had been groaning indoors, recovering from a mauling. At least I knew now what had befallen the torn straw man I had discovered in the workshops at the Calliopus barracks.
“It must have been an awful scene,” Anacrites joined in again.
“Urtica was down, his girlfriend was screaming, none of our team could handle it.”
“Rumex just grabbed a spear and did his best?”
His two friends were silent. Their attitudes seemed different. One had said his piece while the other listened with a slightly sardonic expression. It could be that the second man disapproved of him telling me the tale. Or it could be something else. He might just possibly disagree with the story as it had just been told.
“Then they had to decide what to do with the dead lion?” suggested Anacrites. Again, nothing from them.
“Well,” I countered, “you can't just shove a Circus lion behind a bush in Caesar's Gardens and hope the men who trim the lawns will just collect him in their clippings cart.”
“So they put him back where he had come from?”
“Obvious thing to do.”
Anacrites and I were doing the talking because the friends of Rumex were apparently no longer prepared to give' I pushed for one last query: “What caused the trouble originally between Saturninus and Calliopus?”
It seemed a neutral subject, a change of topic, and they agreed to speak again. “I heard it was an old row about a tally in the sparsio,” the first one told the other. The sparsio was the free-for-all when vouchers for prizes and even gifts in kind were hurled at the arena crowds as a bounty.
“Back in the old days.” Even the second became less reticent. Only slightly, however.
“Nero stirred up trouble on purpose,” I prompted. “He liked to watch the public fighting over the tickets' There was as much blood and broken bones up in the terraces as down on the sand.”
“Calliopus and Saturninus had been partners, hadn't they?” Anacrites said. “So were they watching the Games together? Then did they fall out over a voucher in the scrum?”
“Saturninus grabbed the voucher first, but Calliopus trod on him and snatched it-”
The lottery had always caused havoc around the arena' Nero had enjoyed stirring up those wonderful human talents: greed, hatred and misery. People used to place huge bets too, gambling on the chance of winning a prize, only to lose everything if they failed to grab a ticket. When the tickets were thrown by attendants or launched from the spitting voucher machine, chaos ensued. Holding on to a ticket was the first lottery; getting one for a worthwhile prize was the second game of chance. You could win three fleas, ten gourds-or a fully laden sailing ship. The only drawback was that if you bagged the day's big prize you were compelled to meet the Emperor.
“What was the controversial win?” I asked.
“The special.”
“In cash?”
“Better'“
“The galleon?”
“The villa.”
“Oho! That must be how Calliopus acquired his desirable cliff-top gem at Surrentum.”
“No wonder they fell out then,” said Anacrites. “Saturninus must have been very unhappy at losing that.” Ever the master of the banal. He and I knew exactly what that villa at Surrentum was now worth. Losing it, Saturninus had been screwed. It lent an extra dimension to Euphrasia's sarcastic interest in why Calliopus had sent his own wife Artemisia there now.
“They've been feuding ever since,” said the chubby gladiator. “They hate each other's guts'
“A lesson to all who work in partnership,” I murmured piously, aiming to worry Anacrites.
Unaware of the undercurrents, our informant went on: “We reckon they would kill one another, if they had the chance.”
I smiled at Anacrites. That was going too far. I would never kill him. Not even though we both knew he had once tried to arrange a fatal accident for me.
We were partners now. Absolutely pals.
It was time to leave.
As we all stirred ourselves, Anacrites suddenly bent forwards as if on an impulse (though nothing he ever did was without some sly calculation). He drew back the coverlet from Rumex” face and gazed down somberly once more. Trying to prize out one last relevation, he was pretending to feel some ghastly fascination with the stiffening corpse.
Drama had never been my style. I walked quietly from the room.
Anacrites rejoined me without comment, followed by the dead man's two friends, whom I sensed would now guard him in an extremely subdued spirit. Whatever murky business was stirring in the world of the arena,
Rumex was free of all pressure and all danger now. That might not be so for his colleagues.
We said our goodbyes, Anacrites and I showing decent regret. The two gladiators saluted us with dignity. Only when I glanced back as we walked off down the corridor did I realise that the scene had affected them much more than we had understood. The big overweight one was leaning on the wall covering his eyes, obviously weeping.
The other had turned away, green in the face, helplessly throwing up.
They were trained to accept bloody massacre in the ring. But for a man to be slain all unprepared in his bed was, for them, a deeply disturbing event.
It had churned me up too. Added to the anger I had first felt over Leonidas I felt a grim determination to expose whatever sordid business had now caused another death.
34
I KNEW WHAT I intended to do. I was uncertain about Anacrites. I should have remembered that although spies often cause death indirectly, and often deliberately order it, they rarely have to look the results in the face. So he surprised me. Outside the barracks gate I paused, ready to tell him to lose himself while I took up the questioning. He faced me. Those murky, greyish eyes met mine. His expression was grim.
“One each?” he asked.
I pulled out a coin and spun. He got Calliopus; I took Saturninus.
Without conferring we set off separately to interrogate the rival Tripolitanians. I had my normal methods at my disposal; how Anacrites would manage in a real tussle, without a bank of torture irons and a set of pervenedly inventive assistants, was less clear. I suppose somehow I trusted him. Maybe he even had some faith in me.
We met up again at Fountain Court that night. By then it was late. Before we set about comparisons we ate. I had panfried some sliced sausage which I stirred into a bean and leek braise, lightly flavoured with aniseed, which
