I spotted Euphrasia amongst the elegantly turned out town councilors and their wives. She looked extremely expensive in a grand set of gold hardwear and near-sheer indigo drapes. To my surprise she had Artemisia, Calliopus' handsome young wife, on her left and the expansive shape of Hanno's sister Myrrha on her right. Any public display of close affinity usually masks an intended coup. So that looked good news. The three lanistae were presumably off somewhere preparing their gladiators. I wondered where Scilla was. I could not believe she would not be observing today's activity; especially as the special bout was so important for her compensation claim.
Rutilius had to leave his seat again. A parade of statues of local gods, crudely disguised under the names of Roman ones, heralded a few brisk religious formalities. He took part with suitable gravity, slitting open a chicken so its entrails could be surveyed. His manner was quiet and extremely efficient as he then pronounced the omens good and the procedures all in order. This enabled the Games to start.
Immediately preparations rushed ahead for the execution of the man caught raving against the gods yesterday. Veils were now wrapped discreetly around syncretized Jupiter Ammon and around Milkashtart and Shadrapa, ancient eastern deities who apparently passed themselves off as Punic variants of Hercules and Liber Pater or Bacchus. A huge chorus of booing went up as an armed guard dragged in the criminal. His crimes were posted up, though without the dignity of naming him-assuming anyone had even bothered to find out who this ranting foreigner was. He was shaven-headed and filthy. The man had been beaten up last night in prison, without doubt. He hung limply in the arms of his captors, either unconscious from the beating or still drunk. Both maybe.
"He's way out of it. That's a relief."
Barely glancing at the slumped figure, I turned to talk to Helena. She sat, purse-lipped, with her hands clasped in her lap and with downcast eyes. I heard the trundling noise as a low-wheeled platform was brought. The victim, stripped naked, was being tied to a stake on this conveyance, which had a shin-high guard shaped like a low chariot front. Every move brought a new surge of angry noise from the crowd. I dropped one hand reassuringly over Helena's clenched fists.
"Soon be over," muttered Rutilius, soothing her like a surgeon while maintaining his smile for the crowd.
The little cart was pushed out into the ring. Attendants poked it forwards with long poles. From nowhere a lion had been released. Needing little encouragement it ran out towards the man at the stake. Helena closed her eyes. The animal seemed to hesitate. At the roar from the crowd, the prisoner finally revived, raised his head, saw the lion and shrieked. The hysterical voice caught my attention, shockingly familiar.
A sea breeze dragged at the veil covering one of the statues, causing it to flutter free. The attendants pushed the cart closer to the lion. The lion took a closer interest. One of the guards cracked a whip. The prisoner looked up at the statue of Shadrapa, then yelled defiantly, "Stuff your Carthaginian gods-and stuff bloody one-eyed Hannibal!"
The lion leapt on him.
I was on my feet. I now knew his voice, his Aventine intonation, the shape of his head, his stupidity, his raving prejudice-everything. There was nothing I could do. I could never have reached him. He was too far away. There was no way to get there. A thirteen-foot-high smooth-sided marble barrier kept wild beasts from invading the audience and kept the spectators out of the ring. The whole crowd rose in a standing ovation, shouting out their indignation at the blasphemy and their approval of the kill. Seconds later the lion was tearing the man to pieces, while I fell back holding my head in my hands.
"Oh dear gods… Oh no, oh no!"
"Falco?"
"It's my brother-in-law."
Famia was dead.
LIX
Guilt and dread were beginning their inexorable descent on me as I shoved my way to the backstage area. What was left of Famia's bloody corpse had been dragged out, still hanging from the cart. The sated lion had been retrieved with the customary efficiency; with its jowls dripping red, it was already caged, and about to be whisked away down the covered tunnel. After an execution beasts were removed from sight very speedily. I heard somebody laugh. The amphitheater staff were in a happy mood.
Gagging, I made a family claim for the body, though there would be little to cremate at a funeral.
Rutilius had warned me to be careful what I said. His caution was unnecessary. Famia's appalling outcry still rang in my ears. I would do what was proper here for my own people at home, though probably no one would thank me. I had no wish to add to the insult that had been offered locally.
How could I ever explain this to Maia-my favorite sister-and her nice, well-brought-up children? Marius, who wanted to teach rhetoric. Ancus, with the big ears and the shy smile. Thea, the pretty, funny one. Little Cloelia, who had never seen her father for what he was and who doggedly worshiped him. I knew what they would think. I thought it too. He came out here with me. Without me, he would never have left Rome. It was my fault.
"Marcus." Camillus Justinus was at my shoulder now. "Anything to do?"
"Don't look."
"Right." Utterly sensible like most of his family, he gripped me by the arm and wheeled me away from where I had stood rooted to the spot. I heard him speaking in a low voice to whoever was in charge. Money changed hands. Helena and Claudia must have given him a purse. Arrangements were concluded. The remains were to go to an undertaker. What was needed would be done.
What was needed should have happened a long time ago. Famia should have been dried out. Neither his wife nor I had had the time nor the will to do it. Maia was long past trying.
Well, that burden was over now. But I knew the tragedy had hardly started yet.
I wanted to go.
I would have to extricate Helena. Leaving the presidential seats was bad form. Two of us had already abandoned Rutilius very publicly. He might not be too displeased, knowing the circumstances, though the crowd certainly would. In Rome showing disinterest in the expensive bloodshed of the arena caused the kind of unpopularity that even Emperors feared.
"We have to go back, Marcus." Justinus spoke quietly and calmly, the approved way of dealing with a man in shock. "Apart from our diplomatic duty, we don't want to get crucified!"
"I don't need you looking after me."
"I wouldn't dare suggest it. But we owe it to Rutilius to respect appearances."
"Rutilius condemned him."
"Rutilius had no choice."
"True." I was a fair man. My brother-in-law had just been mauled to death in front of me, but I knew the rules: cheer loudly, and say he asked for it. "Even if Rutilius had known the man was related to me, insulting Hannibal in his home province isn't allowed. Blaspheming the gods like that would have got him flogged even at home… Don't worry. I shall return looking shifty, like a man who has just had to run out after being taken short."
"Tact," agreed Justinus, walking me steadily back to my seat. "Wonderful feature of civic life. Dear gods, now don't let anybody offer us a friendly dip in their honeyed nuts…"
Although we meant to do the right thing, we were forestalled in rejoining the happy crowd. As we passed the end of the tunnel nearest the amphitheater, we realized the next phase of the Games had now begun. The bloody sand had been raked clean; the tracks made by the cart as it was dragged out had been smoothed over. The huge doors were open and the procession of gladiators was entering the ring. They passed right in front of us, and we felt drawn to follow them as far as the great rectangular gateway through which they all marched.
It was a sight of mingled grandeur and bad taste, as always. Fed, exercised, and honed to a high pitch of fitness, the huge men who fought professionally strode out, to be greeted by a tremendous roar. Trumpets and horns were blasting away. The fighters were dressed ceremonially, each in a gold-embroidered cloth-of-purple Greek military cloak. Oiled, and showing off their muscles, they strutted forth in order of the program. Their names were hailed. They acknowledged this arro
gantly with upheld arms, turning to either side of the crowd, buoyed up by a surge of energy.
They made a stately circuit, showing themselves to every portion of the audience. They were attended by their lanistae, all in crisp white tunics striped over the shoulders with narrow colored braid, and bearing long staves. Amongst them I spotted Saturninus, parading to roars from the locals. Attendants came on, carrying salvers on which large purses of prize money bulged. The slaves who raked and brushed the sand attempted a ragged goose-step in a shaky line, holding their implements on their shoulders like ceremonial spears; others led on the horses which would be used in mounted combats, manes burnished and harnesses glittering with enamel disks. Finally in walked an eerie figure portraying the mystical judge of the Underworld, Rhadamanthus, in a tight somber tunic, long supple boots, and the sinister beaked mask of a bird; he was followed by his hard-hearted crony, Hermes Psycopompus-the black messenger with the fiercely heated snaky staff, a branding iron with which he would prod the inert, to discover whether they were really dead, simply unconscious-or feigning.
Crowded in the doorway with a group of arena staff, Justinus and I could see Rutilius on his feet as he supervised the drawing of lots. Fighters of equal experience would be pitted against one another, but that still left the actual draw at each level; this now took place. Some of the pairings were popular and drew enthusiastic cheers; others produced good-humored groans. Eventually the program was all settled, and the weapons to be used were presented formally to the president. Inspecting the swords, Rutilius took his time. This improved the mood of the crowd even further because it showed he knew what he was about; he even rejected one or two 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.
LX
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?"
"Fidel
is, 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 think she used Fidelis. He took your lost chain to the Saturninus barracks, to offer as a supposed gift. Rumex let him bring it close, then as he put it on he was stabbed in the throat. Unlike Myrrha who must have been wary today, Rumex was caught off guard. On that occasion the slave was able to kill neatly and take his weapon home."
"I don't believe it," said Iddibal. People never do. Then they think things through.
"Myrrha must have decided Fidelis knew too much," Justinus followed up gently. "So she planned to have him killed in the arena today to silence him."
"Perhaps once he killed Rumex, Fidelis became too cocky," I suggested, remembering his attitude when we met them at Sabratha.
"For some stupid reason, she visited him-perhaps to apologize." Justinus was a nice lad. I thought it more likely that Myrrha had been taunting the condemned slave. "He stabbed her, and she must have been too shocked to call for help-"
"Impossible to do so," I said. "She had set him up to kill Rumex; she was guilty too. She needed to keep that secret."
So, fatally wounded, though perhaps unaware of just how grave her condition was, Myrrha had proudly walked away. She collapsed. Now she was dead.
I was all set to visit Fidelis myself and interrogate the bastard. But Fidelis would keep. He had nothing to tell me, really; I was now sure I knew exactly what he had done, and how he was now being made to pay for his faithful service to Myrrha. From the way Justinus described him sitting quietly, it sounded as though Fidelis himself understood that discovery had come and was resigned to his fate. He was a slave. If he died in the arena, that was only where a trial judge would send him anyway.
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