ostriches were ogling us while Buxus tried feebly to restrain their curiosity by offering them a bowl of grain. They were taller than him and determined to be nosy, like ghouls craning their necks when someone has been run over by a waggon.
Leonidas was lying in his cage, not far from where he had been when I saw him yesterday. This time his head was turned away from us.
“We need more light.”
Calliopus, sounding terse, called for torches. “We keep it dim to pacify the beasts.”
“Can we go in?” I put a hand on one bar of the cages. It felt stronger than I expected from its gnawed appearance; the contraption was wooden, though reinforced with metal. A short length of chain kept the door fastened, secured by a closed padlock. Apparently the keys were kept in the office; Calliopus yelled to a slave to run for them.
Buxus abandoned his nursemaiding task and joined us, still jostled by the long-legged birds.
“You can go in. He's safe. He's dead, definitely.” He nodded to a flyblown carcass inside the cage. “He's never touched his breakfast!”
“You fed hi this morning?”
“Just a tidbit to keep him going.” It looked like a whole goat. “I called him; he was lying just like that. I just thought he was asleep. Poor thing must already have gone and I never realized.”
“So you left him to finish his snooze, as you thought?”
“That's right. When I came back later to bring some corn for the daft birds here, I thought he seemed quiet. When I checked I knew he hadn't moved. There were flies all over him, and not even a twitch of his tail. I even poked him with a long stick. Then I said to myself: he's gone all right.”
The torches and keys arrived together. Calliopus roused himself and jingled the keys on a huge ring, with difficulty sorting out the right one. He shook his head. “Once you take them from their natural habitat these creatures are vulnerable. Now you can see what I'm up against, Falco. People like you”-he meant people who queried his financial probity-”don't realize how delicate this business is. The animals can pop off overnight, and we never know why.”
“I can see you kept him in the best possible conditions.” I entered rather carefully. Like all cages it had become sordid, but the straw bedding was thick. There was a large trough of water, and the goat carcass, though Buxus was already towing that off for some other beast's snack, shoving aside the ostriches who had followed him, then closing the cage door to keep them out.
The unkind thought struck me that Leonidas was now heading for the same fate as the goat who had been intended for his breakfast. As soon as interest in him waned, he too would be served up to some cannibalistic crony.
Close up he was bigger than I had realized. His coat was brown, his untidy mane black His powerful back legs were tucked neatly either side of him, his front paws stretched out like a sphinx, his fat tail curled like a domestic cat's with its black tassel neatly aligned with his body. His great head was nose down against the back of the cage. The smell of dead lion had not yet supplanted the smells he accrued in his living quarters when alive. Those were pretty strong
Buxus offered to open the lion's huge mouth and exhibit his teeth for me. Since this was closer than I ever wanted to be to a live lion, I agreed politely. I always welcome new experiences. Calliopus stood watching, frowning over his loss as he reckoned up what replacing Leonidas would cost him. The keeper bent over the prone animal. I heard him mutter some only half-ironic endearment. Gripping the rough mane with both hands, Buxus heaved hard to turn the lion over towards us.
Then he let out a cry of real disgust. Calliopus and I took a moment to respond, then we stepped closer to look. We smelt the powerful reek of lion. We saw blood, on the straw and in the matted fur. Then we noticed something else: from the great beast's chest protruded the splintered handle of a broken spear.
“Somebody's done for him!” raged Buxus. “Some bastard's gone and murdered Leonidas!”
7
“JUST PROMISE,” cajoled Anacrites, back in the lanista's office. “Tell me you won't let yourself be sidetracked by this, Falco.”
“Mind your own business.”
“That's exactly what I am doing. My business and yours at present is to earn sesterces by pinpointing bastards for the Censors. We don't have time to worry about mysterious killings of Circus lions.”
But this was not any old Circus creature. This was Leonidas, the lion who was due to eat Thurius. “Leonidas dispatched criminals. He was the Empire's official executioner. Anacrites, that lion was as much a state employee as you and me.”
“I shall not object then,” said my partner, a man of sour and wizened ethics, “if you put up a plaque in his name denoting the Emperor's gratitude, and then make a frugal one-off payment to whoever runs his funeral club.”
I told him he could object or not object to anything, so long as he left me alone. I was perfectly able to wind up our audit here with one hand tied behind my back in the time it took Anacrites to remember how to write the date on our report in administration Greek. While I was doing my share, I would also discover who killed Leonidas.
Anacrites never knew when to leave a het up man to settle down. “Isn't what has happened a matter for his owner now?”
It was. And I already knew what his owner was planning to do about it: nothing.
When he first saw the wound and the spear butt, Calliopus had gone a funny colour, then he looked as if he was regretting having invited me to view the corpse. I noticed him frown at Buxus, obviously warning him to keep quiet. The lanista assured me the death was nothing sinister, and said he would soon sort it out by talking to his slaves. It was perfectly clear to a seasoned informer that
Calliopus was fobbing me off. He intended some kind of cover up. Well he had reckoned without me.
I told Anacrites he looked as if he needed a rest. In fact he looked the same as usual, but I needed to patronize him to cheer myself up. Leaving him in the lanista's office trying to reconcile figures (perhaps not the best cure for a man with a bad head), I walked outside to the area of hard ground where five or six of the gladiators had been practicing for most of the morning. It was a bleak rectangle at the heart of the complex, with the menagerie on one side rather unsuitably sited next to the fighters' refectory; barracks with sleeping quarters lay at the back end behind a half-hearted colonnade, which came round to an equipment store with the office over it. The office had its own balcony from which Calliopus could watch his men practice, and an exterior staircase. A crude statue of Mercury at the far end of the yard was supposed to inspire the men as they exercised. Even he looked depressed.
The nerve-racking clatter of the exercise swords and the aggressive shouting had finally ceased. The bestiarii were now in a curious huddle near the doorway to the menagerie. In the silence as I approached them I could make out harsh grunts and roars from the animals.
These bestiarii were not huge muscle-bound fellows, though strong enough to hurt you if you stared at them longer than they wanted. They all wore loincloths, some favoured various leather binding straps on their sturdy arms, and for verisimilitude one or two were even in helmets, though plainer shapes than the finely craned casques worn by fighters in the arena. More wiry and quicker on their feet than most professionals, these men also looked younger and brighter than average. I soon discovered that did not mean they would handle questions meekly.
“Any of you notice anything suspicious last night or today?”
“No.”
“The name's Falco”
“Shove off then, Falco”
As one man they turned away and pointedly resumed their exercises, doing gymnastic back-flips and battering at each other's swords. It was dangerous to get in their way, and far too noisy for questions. I didn't fancy
