Yes, I thought. When the great new amphitheater opened, the businessman from Sabratha would still clean up financially-but today he had been stopped in his stride for a moment. That could only be healthy for him and his son.
Saturninus must be returning; there was an expectant hum.
Time was running out. Romanus was now standing alone. As I approached, he spoke to me: “Falco!” croaked a desperate voice from out of my nightmares. “Falco; it's me!”
“You bastard,” I answered, without any surprise. “How did you get Glaucus to accept you at the gym? If there's one person I don't want to see at my private bathhouse, frankly-Anacrites-it's you!”
The men sweeping the final marks from the sand worked around us.
Behind the owl-eyed helmet, I now detected Anacrites' familiar pale gray irises. “Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?”
“I can guess that.” I was furious. “When I left you in Rome, you decided that you would solve my case-that's the case you had said we should abandon. You were contacted by Scilla. Either you said no at first, or she took against you and went to Cyrene to hire me instead. You came out to Tripolitania of your own accord-”
“Falco, we are a partnership!”
I felt sick. “I was already hired by the woman; you were trying to compete! You met Scilla again in Lepcis, helped her lure Calliopus here-and now you have killed her. That was not very sensible; she'll never pay her bill! And however did you end up fighting, you fool?”
“Calliopus saw through my disguise. He had me set upon and imprisoned. He said I could either be killed straightaway and dumped in a gutter, or I could fight today and at least stand a chance-Falco, how can I get out of this?”
“Too late, you idiot. Anacrites, when they brought you into the ring you should have appealed to Rutilius. You're a free man, sold into the arena against your will-why go along with it?”
“Scilla had told me she was going to fight for Saturninus. I guessed she intended to somehow try to kill both him and Calliopus. I thought if I was out here, I might be able to intervene-Falco,” said Anacrites plaintively, “I thought that it was what you would do yourself.”
Dear gods. The madman wanted to be me.
The crowd was baying for the final contest. There was no way I could rescue him, even assuming I wanted to.
“I can't help you,” I told him. “It's now you against Saturninus and if you try to back out, Lepcis Magna will riot.”
He was being brave, damn him: “Ah well, I enjoyed working with you, partner.”
I tried to find a joke in return. “You'll have to trust in the old stories-all the fights are fixed-”
“And the referee is blind!”
I turned on my heel. Justinus followed me. I took two strides then turned back with one final desperate quip. “If you get wounded, remember Thalia's performing dog: lie still and play dead.”
To my horror Anacrites then held out his hand to me. He would be killed here in a few minutes; I had no alternative. I shook hands, just like a partner wishing him good luck. A partner who knew no luck in the world could possibly help him now.
Saturninus had prepared himself with a professional's efficiency. Over his embroidered loincloth, his belt was a wide, champion's effort. He wore one greave, an arm protector, and a carved, rectangular shield. His helmet was a pair to that worn by Anacrites. His bare chest and limbs looked oiled. He swept out across the arena, visibly fresh. An expert. The local man. Undefeatable.
I stared up at the massed faces, twenty-five or so rows of them. The crowd was murmuring feverishly. Then silence fell.
I expected it to be short. It was nearly so short most people missed it. Saturninus took up his guard. Anacrites was facing him, though probably not yet concentrating. With a loud yell, a heavy stamp forwards, and a powerful sword-stroke, Saturninus struck Anacrites' own sword from his hand. Now, Anacrites was not even armed.
Anacrites went straight in. Even Saturninus must have been startled. Anacrites plunged forwards and pushed his opponent, shield against shield. Good try. Almost an army move. Saturninus may not have expected this, but he reached around and stabbed inwards. Anacrites dragged himself sideways away from the blow but kept close, so they wheeled. Carried on by the momentum and still locked together, they continued to push each other in a wild stumbling circle while Saturninus hacked with his sword. Anacrites was already covered in Scilla's blood, but new streams of his own were flowing. I could hardly bear to watch.
Anacrites fell. He at once raised his finger, appealing for compassion. Saturninus stepped back, looking contemptuous. In the crowd I saw a few thumbs up and fluttering white handkerchiefs, though nowhere near enough. I dared not look at Rutilius. Saturninus took his own decision; in the time-honored move, he bent to hoick up his opponent's helmet by the chin, exposing his throat. He was about to give Anacrites the death blow.
Suddenly Saturninus reeled back. His sword fell to the sand. He had recoiled from Anacrites and was bent forwards, clutching his stomach. Blood welled between his fingers. I could not see the weapon, but I recognized his action-familiar to anyone who has seen a tavern brawl. He had been stabbed in the bowels with a knife.
Anacrites was the Chief Spy. No one should have expected a clean fight.
Saturninus made a desperate effort. He stumbled forwards, caught up his sword again, then fell onto Anacrites. The sword seemed to go in somewhere, but the knife found another target too. They both lay still.
There was uproar again, but even the crowd had seen enough by now. Justinus and I walked out to the corpses as steadily as we could. We pulled them apart. There was no sign of life. I found the knife Anacrites had used and managed to slide it up my sleeve unseen. We made a show of performing a formal inspection, then I tapped both bodies briskly with the mallet and signaled for bearers. Saturninus was afforded the honor of a stretcher. “Romanus,” as a stranger, was towed from the ring face-up and feet-first, with the back of his helmet dragging on the bloody sand. The only way he could have left was as a corpse. Had he survived the fight, the outraged crowd would have torn him apart.
64
AFTER THE NECESSARY salutes to the president, I set off for the great doorway, with Justinus close behind me. The hubbub continued in the arena as we walked outside.
We surveyed the grim row of bloody bodies. I pushed up the beaked mask I wore, feeling as if my legs would give way.
Justinus looked at me somberly. “Your partnerships seem to get wound up rather roughly.”
“He brought it on himself. Always consult your colleague-who will dissuade you from sheer stupidity.”
I forced myself to walk over to the line of carcasses. Groaning at the effort, I knelt down. More gently than he would have expected, I released the helmet from Anacrites and laid it to one side. His face was as white as the time I found him with a smashed head, as close to dying as anybody could have been and yet survive.
“I shall have to tell my mother about this. We'd better make sure he's really gone this time. Hermes-” Justinus stepped forwards with the snaky staff. “Right: give him a quick shove somewhere with your hot caduceus.”
A pair of pale gray eyes opened, very wide. As Justinus knelt down to touch the “corpse,” a resounding yell of terror rose to the Tripolitanian skies.
I smiled to myself resignedly. Anacrites was still alive.
