after testing their edges.
All through these formalities, the fighters in the ring were showing off. Their warm-up consisted of straightforward muscle exercises with plenty of grunts and knee bends, plus feats of balance and tricks with javelins. One or two hurled their shields aloft and caught them spectacularly. All made great play of feinting and parrying with practice weapons, some lost in total private concentration, others miming attacks on each other, playing up real or imagined enmities. A few egotistical amateurs from the crowd went down to the arena and joined them, wanting to look big.
When the weapons had been approved, attendants carried them from the president's tribunal to be distributed. The warm-up ended. More trumpets blared. The procession formed again as all those who were not in the first bout made to leave. The gladiators marched around the whole ellipse once more, this time deafening the president with the time-honored shout: “those about to die salute you!”
Rutilius acknowledged them. He looked tired.
Out came most of the gladiators again through the great doorway. We stepped aside hastily. They were heavy and huge-thighed, not men to be trampled by. Behind them someone bawled the formal incitement to the first pair: “Approach!”
The hum of noise subsided. A Thracian and a myrmillon in a fish-crested helmet circled each other warily. The long day's professional slaughter had begun.
Justinus and I turned away, still intending to resume our seats. Then, coming from the tunnel, we saw a young man, running fast.
“That's Hanno's son. It's Iddibal.”
Stung into action, I was the first to waylay him and demand what was wrong. Iddibal seemed hysterical. “It's Auntie Myrrha! She's been attacked-”
My heart lurched. Things were starting to happen. “show us!” I commanded him. Then Justinus and I took him by an arm each and pretty well dragged him to where he had found his injured aunt.
60
WE SHOUTED FOR a doctor, but as soon as we examined her we reckoned Myrrha was done for. Justinus exchanged a look with me, discreetly shaking his head. We pulled Iddibal away to the side of the tunnel on the pretext of allowing the medical staff space.
“What was your aunt doing here?” I could not remember seeing Myrrha leave her seat. My last sighting had been with Euphrasia, looking like any substantial matron stuck there for the day, with a packet of dates in her well-beringed hand and a large white kerchief shading her pinned and rolled hair.
Staring over my shoulder to where Myrrha lay, Iddibal trembled. We had found the woman lying against the wall of the tunnel near its far exit at the stadium end. She had made no sound since we reached her. There was blood soaking her robe and now spreading on the sandy floor. Somebody had slashed her right across the throat; she must have seen the attack coming and had tried to fend it off. Her hands and arms were cut too. There was even a knife scratch on one cheek. Judging from a long trail of blood spots, she had staggered out here, coming from the stadium, wrapping her marine blue stole around her wounded throat in an attempt to staunch the blood.
Now she was fading fast, though Iddibal had not accepted it. I knew Myrrha would never recover consciousness.
“Why was she here?” I urged him a second time.
“Our novice fighter is being armed in the stadium.”
“Why the stadium?”
“For secrecy.”
Justinus touched my arm and went to take a look.
“Who's your fighter?” The frightened nephew had gone limp on me. “Who, Iddibal?”
“Just a slave.”
“Whose slave?”
“One of her own that Aunt Myrrha had taken a dislike to. Nobody. Just a nobody.”
I pulled Iddibal more upright and rammed him back against the wall. Then I loosened my hold on him, to seem more friendly. He was dressed in holiday style, even more colorful than the last time I saw him. A long tunic in shades of green and saffron. A wide belt around it. A couple of finger rings and a gold chain.
“That's a nice chain, Iddibal.” Its workmanship looked familiar. “Any others at home?”
Bemused and troubled, he answered numbly, “It's not my favorite. I lost that when all this began…”
“When and how?”
“In Rome.”
“Where, Iddibal?”
“I left my best clothes with my aunt when I signed on with Calliopus-” He was still straining to look past me to where a doctor was crouched over his aunt. “After I was manumitted, I found the chain was gone.”
“What did your aunt say?”
“She had to assume somebody had stolen it. In fact, the slave we're putting up today was the only suspect; Aunt Myrrha told that to father and me last night when she suggested him for the bout-”
“Theft sounds a good reason to get rid of him, yes.” I bet Myrrha had had another motive. I had a filthy feeling about this so-called thief, and what Myrrha really knew about her nephew's chain. I tugged at the one Iddibal was now wearing. “Same style as this, was it? The one you lost in Rome?”
“Similar.”
“I may have seen it once.”
At that Iddibal roused himself. He must have interpreted my ominous tone. “Who had it?”
“Somebody gave it to Rumex, the night he was killed.”
He seemed astonished. “How can that be?”
The doctor attending Myrrha stood up. “she's gone,” he called. Iddibal abandoned me and rushed over to the corpse. The doctor was holding out an object he had found among Myrrha's clothing; since the nephew was grief-stricken the man gave it to me. It was a small knife, with a bone handle and straight blade, such as a domestic slave might use for sharpening styli.
“Seen this before, Iddibal?”
“I don't know. I don't care-for heaven's sake, Falco-leave me alone!”
Justinus came back.
“Marcus.” He stepped close to talk privately. “They have an area where their novice is being hidden from the public. I insisted they let me see him; he's nothing much. Sitting quietly in his armor, inside a small tent.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. But Myrrha went in to speak to him a short time ago. The attendants are outside, playing dice, and took no notice-he was her slave, apparently. They saw Myrrha leave, heading fast towards the tunnel with her head wrapped up. They thought no more about it.”
“Did you mention that she had been hurt?”
“No.”
“What's the name of their gladiator?”
“Fidelis, they say.”
“I thought it might be!”
Iddibal looked up. Tearstained and haggard yet no longer so distraught, he rose from his knees beside the sticken figure of his aunt. “That's his knife,” he told me, rediscovering himself. “Fidelis was her interpreter.”
My voice must have been grim: “A man of that name ran errands as a messenger in Rome. I have an idea your aunt then used him for something very serious. Iddibal, you aren't going to like this but you'll have to face up to it: I don't believe Myrrha ever paid over any money for your release from Calliopus.”
“What?”
“When she heard from you that Calliopus wanted Rumex dead, she offered to do the job you had refused. I
