"Normally," explained the spokesman carefully. "Normally there wouldn't be a problem, girls." So what was abnormal today?
"We have money," Helena proposed bluntly. "We want to give him a present-but we thought it would be nicer if we could just see him, to ask him what he really wants." The man shook his head.
Helena clutched her hand to her mouth. "He's not ill?" Over-indulgence, I thought to myself. In what, it seemed best not to speculate.
"Has he been hurt in practice?" gasped Maia, with real distress.
"He's resting," said the spokesman for the second time.
I let myself speculate after all. Everyone knows what top gladiators are like. I could imagine the scene indoors. An uneducated thug, provided with indecent luxury. Gorging on sweated suckling pig, dousing it in lashings of cheap fish-pickle sauce. Reeking of impossibly scented pomades. Swilling undiluted Falernian like water, then leaving half empty amphorae unstoppered for the wineflies. Playing endless repetitive games of Latrunculi with his sycophantic hangers-on. Pausing for three-in-a-bed orgies with teenage acolytes even dafter than the two rash women who were debasing themselves outside his quarters now…
"He's resting," said Maia to Helena.
"Just resting," Helena answered her. Then she turned to the group of minders and exclaimed, with innocent lack of tact, "That's such a relief. We were afraid of what might have happened to him-after what people are saying about that lion."
There was a small pause.
"What lion?" asked the spokesman in a patronising voice.
He stood up. He and the others adopted a well-practised shepherding technique. "We don't know anything about no lion, ladies. Now, excuse me, but I'll have to ask you to be moving on. Rumex is very particular about his training regime. He has to have absolute quiet all around him. I'm sorry, but I can't allow any members of the public to hang about when there's a risk of disturbing him-"
"You don't know about it, then?" Helena persisted. "It's just that there is a terrible rumour running round the Forum that Rumex has killed a lion that belonged to Calliopus. His name was Leonidas. It's all over Rome-"
"And I'm a gryphon with three legs," asserted the chief minder, evicting Helena and my sister from the barracks area ruthlessly.
Outside in the street again, Maia swore.
I said nothing. I know when to carry a basket with my head down. I walked quietly behind them as they stalked away from the gate, making sure I looked like a particularly meek boudoir slave.
"You can stop playing the know-all," scoffed Maia to me grumpily. "It was a good try."
I straightened up. "I'm just agog at your encyclopedic knowledge of the Games. You both sounded true arena bores. Who fed you the gladiatorial lore?"
"Petronius Longus. We wasted time on it for nothing, though."
Helena Justina had always been shrewd. "No, it's all right," she told my sister in a satisfied voice. "We didn't manage to see Rumex, but the way those men made us leave so rapidly when we mentioned Leonidas says it all. My guess is that Rumex has been deliberately quarantined. Whatever happened when the lion was killed, Rumex was definitely involved."
XXI
I was all set to play the heavy-handed paterfamilias, berating them.
"We could have got in if we had really tried," interrupted Maia.
"At what price?"
My sister smiled at me wickedly.
I made the mistake of commenting that I had once been glad that Helena had found a mend amongst the Didius family, but I had not expected to see her being led astray so shamelessly by Maia The two of them groaned and raised their eyes to the heavens. Then I realised Helena's air of studied neutrality meant that their coming here had been her idea.
Luckily for those disreputable scamps, that was when the lanista Saturninus returned home with his troupe of animal keepers, dragging a cart containing the escaped leopardess. It had taken them time to arrive here because the curfew on wheeled vehicles meant they had to manhandle the cage and the beast. They were sweating over the task but obviously wanted to replace her safely on their own premises before there were any more accidents. I bundled my outrageous womenfolk into their conveyance, from which they peered out unrepentantly.
"I suggest that you pair of Messalinas take yourself home and knit bootsocks like proper domestic matrons-the best of wives, whom Famia and I won't mind mentioning on our tombstones one day." Maia and Helena laughed. It sounded as if they were intending to outlive Famia and me, then take unsuitable lovers and throwaway their children's inheritance at some tawdry leisure spa. "I would escort you but I have urgent business. I," said I haughtily, "will go in and attempt to see Rumex-now you two beauties have queered my pitch!"
The door porter failed to recognise me. Without my basket and bossy womenfolk I was a citizen; slaves, of course, are invisible. It was a dodge I had used before when I wanted to stay anonymous.
I asked to see Saturninus. The porter told me the master was not at home. I pointed out that I had just seen the master entering, so the lag answered that whoever I was and whatever I had seen, Saturninus was not at home to me.
I could have tried charm, or simple persistence. But with Helena and Maia watching, I took out my official pass as a Palace auditor, held it half a digit from the porter's face. Then I declaimed like a little schoolboy orator that unless his master wanted to be denounced for obstructing the Census, the elusive Saturninus had better see me at once. A slave was summoned to show me the way.
Almost before the door closed behind the slave who took my message in to Saturninus, the chief of Rumex's minders came out of the room. I stood quietly with downcast eyes. He disappeared, also apparently without spotting that I was the "slave" who had come with Helena and Maia-whose interest in Leonidas he had almost certainly just been reporting. Then I was called in. There was no fuss over it.
The lanista was standing in the centre of a modest room while one slave poured what looked to be water into a beaker he held ready, and another crouched at his feet removing his outdoor boots. He met my gaze, neither hostile nor particularly curious, though I noticed a slight frown as if he was wondering where he had seen me before. I let him puzzle it out.
Now I had a chance to look at him properly. He must have been some sort of fighter himself once. He was middle-aged and solid-but the muscles in his arms and legs told their own story. Whereas my first quarry Calliopus looked more like a cushion-seller than a gladiators' manager, this one was every inch the part, still with the scars and the bearing of his own fighting past. He looked as if when he didn't like his dinner he might kick the legs right off the table-and then kick the legs off the cook too. I could imagine how he egged on his men in the arena. As a trainer, he would know the job from personal experience. There are lanistae who, when they accompany their fighters, jump around so excitedly they expend even more energy than their myrmillons and retarii. Saturninus, I reckoned, would be the calm sort, who circled quietly, just putting in well-placed words of encouragement.
He had surrounded himself with tokens of his low trade. In his spare, functional office, he had weapons and ceremonial helmets hung on wall-pegs; a set of the staves lanistae carry in the arena stood on a large urn in one corner; an elaborately enamelled breastplate was displayed on a wooden rack. There were winner's crowns and padded purses-perhaps ones he had won in the old days himself
His gaze was intelligent; that went with success in the arena. No man survived to earn his freedom without a cunning streak. I expected him to seem watchful, but he was quiet, friendly-suspiciously friendly, perhaps-and untroubled by my visit.
I said who I was, what I was doing for Vespasian, and that auditing Calliopus was the first stage in a wider review of the Circus world. He made no comment. Word had certainly gone round. I did not suggest he would be my next victim, though he must have deduced it.
"Arising from my enquiries there is a loose end to tie up. Calliopus has had a lion kidnapped and destroyed. I have received information that on
e of your troupe was responsible. So I would like to interview Rumex, please."
"Thank you," said Saturninus, "for contacting me about it first."
"A natural courtesy."
"I appreciate your formality." His slaves had previously left us. He went to the door and spoke to somebody outside. This place was unexpectedly polite. Something had to be wrong. "Rumex is coming."
That was annoying. I had to interview him with Saturninus present. Still, I decided not to insist on privacy. There was no doubt I was about to be spun a yarn here. Might as well go along with what they wanted until I worked out their angle and could apply pressure where it would hurt. I was certainly not intending to grab a prize gladiator by the tunic seams and hurl him against a wall with the idea of beating the truth out of him. This would call for greater subtlety.
I busied myself looking at the trophies and arn10ur. Saturninus stood beside me recounting what they all were. When he described an old fight he was good on theory. He could tell an interesting tale too. The waiting time passed harmlessly.
There was a small knock on the door, then a slave opened it for Rumex. I knew as soon as I saw him that I might as well not have bothered.
He had probably been stupid before fighting made him worse. He was tall, lithe on his feet, beautifully honed in the body, hideously ugly in the features, and as dense as a wharf side pile. He could probably string two words together-if they were "where's mine?", "get lost", or "kill him". That was his limit. He walked into his master's room as if he were afraid of knocking over furniture, yet the dance in his feet that must make him the envy of his opponents was obvious even here. He was definitely powerful and looked as if he could be fearless too.
There was a rather silly fringe on his tunic skirt, and he wore a gold necklace that must have cost a fortune though its design was of astounding trashiness. Jewellers in the Saepta Julia make them up especially for men of his type. The chunks of linked gold had his name on a square tag. That must have helped when he forgot who he was.
"Greetings, Rumex. I'm honoured to meet you. My name's Falco; I have a few questions to ask."
"That's all right." He looked at me so honestly I knew at once that Rumex had been tutored for this. Besides, he agreed to help me far too willingly. Most people who are innocent are puzzled why you should approach them. No need for that here. Rumex knew. He knew the answers too: both the ones I was looking for and the lies he had been told to say instead.
"I am investigating the suspicious death of the man-eating lion, Leonidas. Do you know anything about it, please?"
"No, sir."
"He was taken from his quarters at night, speared, and mysteriously returned."
"No, sir," repeated Rumex, though my last remark had been a statement not a question. If he had been this slow at following on in the arena he would have been a one-fight phenomenon.
"I have been told that Leonidas was killed by you. Is that correct?"
"No, sir."
"Had you ever actually seen him?"
"No, sir."
"Can you remember where you were and what you were doing the night before last?"
Rumex wanted to give me his usual answer but realised that would sound damning. His eyes tried to look at his trainer for advice, but he managed to keep his gaze fixed "honestly" on me.
"I can answer that, Falco," Saturninus intervened. Rumex looked grateful. "Rumex was with me all night." I thought that did startle Rumex; perhaps then it was true. "I took him to a small dinner party at the house of an ex-praetor." If I was supposed to be impressed by rank, it failed.
"Showing him off?" I asked, implying that Saturninus was too delicate to say so.
He smiled, acknowledging us both as men of the world. "People are always eager to meet Rumex."
I turned to Rumex, who had been thinking he was safe from further questioning. "And did you give the ex-praetor a private demonstration of your fabulous prowess?" I had been making conversation but this time he looked horrified.
His trainer inserted smoothly, "A few standing press-ups and feints with a practice sword always go down well."
I glanced at each in turn. I had hit a nerve, clearly. I absorbed the implications. Could Leonidas have been murdered in a senior magistrate's house? Was Saturninus present at the time? "I'm sorry, Saturninus; I'll have to insist on a name for your host that night."
"Of course, Falco. I'd like to send word to the man before I mention him to a stranger. Just a courtesy." Neat.
"I can insist that you don't alert him."
"With a man of his rank, surely there can be no objection?" Saturninus was already making one of his little trips to the door to give murmured orders to a runner.
I let him win. I was not confident that I could withstand a formal complaint of harassment from a praetor. Vespasian would take it amiss even if I had evidence against the man-and I had none. Well, not at this stage. His rank didn't daunt me, but I would have to be certain first.
It was an interesting development. One minute I was checking dodgy ledgers amongst society's dregs, the next I wanted to view the social diary of somebody one step down from consul-and what's more, he was being rather obviously warned about my interest.
"Who else was present at your dinner with the mystery man?" I asked, keeping it casual.
The lanista matched my tone: "Oh it was quite informal."
"Friends?"
I felt he was trying not to tell me, though he was skilled enough to give way when there was no alternative. "Me and my wife-with just the praetor and a ladyfriend."
Dinners at big men's houses tended to be nearer the classic number of nine sitting down. This foursome was oddly cosy, if true.
"You're moving in enviable circles. I'm dying to ask you how it came about."
"A business connection." Saturninus knew how to make anything sound natural
I pretended to be more amateur than I was: "I thought senators were rather limited in their freedom to engage in commerce?" They were forbidden to do it, in fact. However they could engage their freedmen as go betweens, and many did.
"Oh it's nothing commercial," Saturninus was quick to respond. "We met when he was organising the Games." That was a formal responsibility of the praetors in their year as magistrates. To end up friendly with one particular lanista could look like an abuse of patronage-but some members of government do assume that abusing their position is the whole purpose of holding high office. Proving that money had changed hands illegally would be next to impossible-and even if I discovered it had happened, most praetors would genuinely fail to understand my complaint.
"Wonderful to think you have maintained such good relationships after his term of office," I said. Saturninus gave me a bland smile. "So-your messenger must have had time to purvey the politenesses by now. Can I have the ex-praetor's name?"
"Pomponius Urtica," said Saturninus, as if he really loved assisting me. I made a point of taking out a note tablet and writing it down. Unphased, Saturninus volunteered spellings. Equally calmly I pressed him to give the ex-praetor's home address.
It was understood I had reached the limits of this interview. Without consulting me, the lanista dismissed Rumex. The big gladiator slipped from the room.
"Thank you for your help," I said to Saturninus. This was all a nice game.
"I have enjoyed our talk," he replied, as if it had been just a tight set of draughts. Then he startled me by adding, "You seem an interesting character. My wife is very keen on entertaining. Perhaps you would accept an invitation to dine with us tomorrow night? With your guest of choice," he suggested, in a very civilised manner leaving me free to bring a wife, a prostitute, or a bug-eyed little boy masseur from the baths.
It was folly for a state auditor to fraternise with the subjects of his current investigation. Naturally I said yes.
XXII
Pomponius Urrica lived on the Pincian. His mansion lay up on the high ground to the east of the Via Flaminia, way out past the Mausoleum of Augustu
s. Nice district. Patrician open spaces, with panoramic views that were interrupted only by tall, elderly pine trees where doves cooed. Beautiful sunsets over the Tiber. Miles from the racket of the Forum. Clean air, peaceful atmosphere, stunning property, gracious neighbours: wonderful for the smart elite who inhabited that fine district-and miserably inconvenient for the rest of us if we came visiting.
Urrica himself had it easy. When he needed to travel down to conduct public business he would be carried in a big litter borne by well-matched, well-tempered slaves with unfaltering steps. He never had to get his boots dirty in the dust and donkey droppings, and he could while away the hour the journey took each way with a little light reading as he reclined on downy cushions. He may have been equipped with a hip-flask and a packet of sweet toast. For added entertainment no doubt he sometimes squashed in some flirty flutegirl with a big bust.
I walked. I had nothing and no one to sustain me. Winter had turned the dust in the roads to mud, and the donkey droppings had mingled with the mud, leaving loose lumps among the slurry like half-stirred polenta in a caupona that the aediles were about to close down.
I found the lush praetorian abode. It took some time since all the ostentatious Pincian spreads were pretty much identical and all were sited up extremely long approach roads too. At Urtica's I was told by the door porter that his master was away from home. This was no surprise. The slave did not say, though I readily deduced, that even had his master been there (which was perfectly possible) I would not have been allowed in. My fine informer's intuition told me that an order had been given to reject any tired lag who called himself Didius Falco. I did not cause offence at that elegant mansion by proffering my Palace pass. It had been a long hard day already. I spared myself the embarrassment.
I walked all the way back into town. I bought myself a hot pancake and a cup of flavoured wine, but on that nippy winter's afternoon companionship was hard to find. All the flirty flutegirls seemed to be visiting their aunties in Ostia.
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