Two For The Lions

by Lindsey Davis

  People said I was like my father, but if they noticed my reaction they only ever said it once.

  I knew why he was happy. Every time I was deep in some complex job he would be interrupting with urgent demands that I pop down to his warehouse and help him shin some heavy piece of furniture. With me nearby he was hoping to lay off two porters and the lad who brewed borage tea. What was worse, Pa would make instant friends with every suspect I wanted to keep at a distance, then he would blab my business throughout Rome.

  "This calls for drinks," he cried, and rushed away to find some.

  "You can tell Ma about this yourself." I growled at Anacrites. That did make him go paler than ever. He must have gathered that my mother had not spoken to my father since the day he ran off with a redhead, leaving Ma to bring up his children. The idea of me working in Pa's vicinity would have her looking for somebody she could hang up by the heels on her smoked-meat hook. By moving into this office Anacrites could well have just terminated his lease at Ma's house, sacrificing some very palatable dinners and risking a far worse wounding than the one after which she saved his life. "I hope you can run fast, Anacrites."

  "You're all heart, Falco. Why don't you thank me for finding us this fine billet?"

  "I've seen bigger pens for pigs."

  It was a first-floor closet that had been abandoned for two years after the previous tenant died in it. When Anacrites made the landlord an offer, he couldn't believe his luck. Every time we moved we banged our elbows. The door didn't close, mice were refusing to give way to us, there was nowhere to pee, and the nearest foodstall was right the other side of the enclosure; it sold mouldy rolls that made us bilious.

  I had established my own space at a small wooden counter where I could watch the world going by. Anacrites wound himself on to a stool in the darker rear area. His unobtrusive oyster tunic and oiled-back hair merged into the shadows, so only his smooth pale face stood out. He was looking worried, leaning back his head on the partition as if to hide the great cleft of his wound. Memory and logic were both playing tricks on him. All the same, he seemed to have brightened when he joined me in partnership; he gave the peculiar impression he was looking forward to his new active life.

  "Don't tell Pa what we're doing for the Census, or the news will be everywhere by dinner time."

  "Well what can I tell him, Falco?" As a spy he had always lacked initiative.

  "Internal audit."

  "Oh right! That usually makes people lose interest rapidly. What shall we say to suspects?"

  "Have to be careful. We don't want them to realize our draconian powers."

  "No. They might respond by offering us bribes."

  "Which we are far too respectable to accept," I said.

  "Not unless the bribes are very handsome indeed," replied Anacrites demurely.

  "As with any luck they will be," I chortled back.

  "Here we are!" Pa reappeared, carrying an amphora. "I told the vintner you'd call in later to pay for it."

  "Oh thanks!" Pa squashed in beside me, and gestured expectantly for the formal introductions he had brushed aside before. "Anacrites, this is my father, the devious miser Didius Favonius. Otherwise known as Geminus; he had to change his name because there were too many angry people after him."

  My new partner evidently thought I had introduced him to a fascinating character, some colourful and sought after Saepta eccentric. Actually they had met before, when we were all involved in searching goods in a treason case. Neither seemed to remember it.

  "You're the lodger," exclaimed my father. Anacrites looked pleased by his local fame.

  As Pa poured wine into metal cups, I could tell he was watching us together. I let him stare. Playing games was his idea of fun, not mine.

  "So it's Falco & Partner again?"

  I pressed out a tired smile. Anacrites sniffed; he had not wanted to be merely "& Partner", but I had insisted on continuity. I was, after all, hoping to ride on straight into a different partnership as soon as possible.

  "Settling in?" Pa was pleased to sense an atmosphere.

  "It's a bit tight, but we're expecting to be out and about so that shouldn't matter." Anacrites seemed determined to annoy me by engaging Pa in chat. "At least the price is reasonable. Apparently there hasn't been anyone renting for some time."

  Pa nodded. He liked to gossip. "Old Potinus had it. Until he cut his throat."

  "If he worked here I can see why he did it," I said.

  Anacrites was looking around the Villa Potinus nervously, in case there were still bloodstains. Unrepentant, my father winked at me.

  Then my partner gave a start. "Internal audit's no good as a cover!" he complained to me in a huff "No one will believe that, Falco. The internal auditors are meant to examine mistakes in the Palace bureaucracy. They never go out among the public--" He realized I had put one over on him. I was pleased to see he was furious.

  "Just testing," I smirked.

  "What's this about?" nudged Pa, hating to be left out.

  "Confidential!" I answered crushingly.

  V

  THE NEXT DAY, having boned up on what Calliopus said he was worth, we went back to his training barracks to take his operation apart.

  The man himself hardly looked as if he was engaged in the trade of death and cruelty. He was a tall, thin, neat fellow with a well-trimmed head of dark, crinkled hair, big ears, flared nostrils, and enough of a suntan to suggest foreign extraction though he blended in well. An immigrant from south of Carthage, if you closed your eyes he could have been Suburra-born. His Latin was colloquial, its accent pure Circus Maximus, unmarred by elocution training. He wore plain white tunics with just enough finger jeweler to imply he was humanly vain. A wide boy, one who had made good by hard work and who conducted himself with a decorous manner. The kind Rome loves to hate.

  He was the right age to have worked his way up from anywhere. He could have learned all sorts of business practices along the way. He saw to us himself. It implied that he could only afford a small group of slaves, who all had their own work to do and could not be spared for us.

  Since I had seen his manpower schedules, I knew differently; he wanted to keep personal control over anything Anacrites and I were told. He seemed friendly and incurious. We knew what to make of that.

  His establishment comprised a small palaestra where his men were trained, and a menagerie. Because of the animals, the aediles had made him stay out of Rome, on the Via Portuensis, way over the river. At least it was the right side of town for us, but in all other respects it was a damned nuisance. To avoid the Transtiberina rough quarter we had to persuade a skiffman to row us across from the Emporium to the Portuensis Gate. From there it was a short sprint past the Sanctuary of the Syrian Gods, which put us in an exotic mood, and then on past a Sanctuary of Hercules.

  We had kept our first visit brief Yesterday we met our subject, looked at his lion in a rather unsafely chewed wooden cage, then grabbed some documents to get to grips with. Today things would get tough.

  Anacrites was supposed to be primed to conduct the initial interview. My own study of the records had told me Calliopus currently owned eleven gladiators. They were "bestiarii" of the professional grade. By that I mean they were not simply criminals shoved into the ring in pairs to kill one another during the morning warm-up sessions, with the last survivor dispatched by an attendant; these were eleven properly trained and armed animal fighters. Professionals like them give a good show but try to be "sent back"--that is, returned to the tunnels alive after each bout. They have to fight again, but they hope one day the crowd will shout for them to receive a large reward and perhaps their freedom.

  "Not many survive?" I asked Calliopus, putting him at ease as we settled in.

  "Oh more than you think, especially among the bestiarii. You have to have survivors. The hope of money and fame is what keeps them coming up to join. For young lads from poor backgrounds it may be their one chance to succeed in life."

  "I exp
ect you know, everyone thinks the fights are fixed."

  "So I believe," said Calliopus noncommittally.

  He probably also knew the other theory every self-respecting Roman mutters whenever the president of the Games waves his pesky white handkerchief to interfere with the action: the referee is blind.

  One reason this lanista's gladiators were regarded as feeble specimens was that he really specialized in mock hunts: the part of the Games which is called the venatio. He owned various large wild anin13ls whom he would set free in the arena in staged settings, then his men pursued them either on horseback or on foot, killing as few as they could get away with while still pleasing the crowd. Sometimes the beasts fought each other, in unlikely combinations--elephants against bulls, or panthers against lions. Sometimes a man and a beast were pitted one to one. Bestiarii, however, were little more than expert hunters. The crowd despised them compared with the Thracians, myrmillons and retarii, the fighters of various types who were intended to end up dead on the sand themselves.

  "Oh we lose the odd man, Falco. The hunts need to look dangerous."

  That did not square with events I had watched where reluctant animals had to be lured to their fate by banging shields loudly or waving fiery brands.

  "So you like your four-footed stock to be ferocious. And you collect them in Tripolitania?"

  "Mainly. My agents scour the whole of North Africa--Numidia, Cyrenaica, even Egypt."

  "The animals cost a lot to find, house and feed?"

  Calliopus gave me a narrow look. "Where's this leading, Falco?"

  We had announced that Anacrites would ask the first questions, but I was happy to start in like this myself; it unsettled Calliopus who felt unsure whether the interview had yet begun formally. It unsettled Anacrites too, come to that.

  Time to be frank: "The Censors have asked my partner and me to conduct what we call a lifestyle check."

  "A what?"

  "Oh you know. They wonder how you can manage to own that pretty villa at Surrentum when you say your business is running at a loss."

  "I declared my Surrentum villa!" Calliopus protested

  That, of course, had been his mistake. Property on the Bay of Neapolis runs at a premium. Villas on the cliffs with sparkling views across the shimmering blue to Capreae are the mark of millionaires from consular families, ex-imperial slaves from the petitions bureau, and the more successful blackmailers.

  "Very proper," I soothed him. "Of course Vespasian and Titus are sure you're not one of those evil bastards who plead piteously that they work in a field which has heavy overheads, while at the same time they are maintaining troops of thoroughbreds in the Circus of Nero and driving chariots with go-faster spokes and gilt finials. What wheels do you run, by the way?" I asked innocently.

  "I have a family-style mule-drawn conveyance and a litter for the personal use of my wife," said Calliopus in a hurt tone, obviously making rapid plans to sell his boy racer quadriga and it quartet of zippy Spanish greys.

  "Most frugal. But you know the sort of thing that causes excitement in the bureaucracy. Big carriages, as I said. Large gambling stakes. Flash tunics. Noisy confederates. Nights out entertaining girls who provide unusual services. Nothing you could ever be accused of: I realize." The lanista blushed. I carried on blithely: "Pentellic marble nudes. Mistresses of the type who can speak five languages and judge a cabochon-cut sapphire, who are kept in discreet penthouses up Saffron Street."

  He cleared his throat nervously. I made a note to discover the mistress. A job for Anacrites, perhaps; he seemed to have nothing to say for himself. The woman might only have mastered two or three lingos, one of them merely shopping-list Greek, but she was bound to have wheedled out of her lover a little apartment "to keep mother in", and Calliopus would probably have his foolish name on the transfer deed.

  What a great deal of mire there was to uncover in the course of our noble work. Dear gods, how deceitful my fellow citizens were (thought I, contentedly).

  There was no sign yet that Calliopus intended to offer us inducements to leave him alone. It suited Falco & Partner at present. We were not yet that type of audit team. We intended to nail him; it was his hard luck. We wanted to start with a genuine high strike rate and a matching income for the Treasury, in order to prove to Vespasian and Titus that we were worth employing.

  It would also alert the general population that being investigated by us was dangerous, so people on our list might like to reach an early settlement.

  "So you own eleven gladiators," Anacrites weighed in finally. "How do you acquire them, may I ask? Do you purchase them?"

  A rare look of anxiety crossed Calliopus' face as he worked out that this question would precede one that asked where the purchase money came from. "Some."

  "Are they slaves?" continued Anacrites.

  "Some."

  "Sold to you by their masters?"

  "Yes."

  "In what circumstances?"

  "They will normally be troublemakers who have offended the master or else he just thinks they look tough and decides to convert them to cash."

  You pay a lot for them?"

  "Not often. But people always hope we will."

  "You also acquire foreign captives? Do you have to pay for them?"

  "Yes; they belong to the state originally."

  "Are they regularly available?"

  "In times of war."

  "That market could dry up if our new Emperor installs a glorious period of peace. . . Where will you look then?"

  "Men come forward."

  "They choose this life?"

  "Some people are desperate for money."

  "You pay them a lot?"

  "I pay them nothing--only their bread."

  "Is that enough to hold them?"

  "If they could not eat before. There is an initial enrolment fee paid to free men who volunteer."

  "How much?"

  "Two thousand sesterces."

  Anacrites raised his eyebrows. "That's not much more than the Emperor pays poets who recite a good ode at a concert! Is it reasonable for men signing their lives away?"

  "It's more than most have ever seen."

  "Not a large figure, however, in return for slavery and death. And when they join, they have to sign a contract?"

  "They bind themselves to me."

  "For how long?"

  "For ever. Unless they win the wooden sword and are made free. But once they have been successful, even those who win the biggest prizes tend to grow restless and rejoin."

  "On the same terms?"

  "No; the recommissioning fee is six times the original."

  "Twelve thousand?"

  "And of course they expect to garner more prizes; they believe themselves winners."

  "Well that won't be for ever!"

  Calliopus smiled quietly. "No."

  Anacrites stretched himself: looking thoughtful. He conducted an unforced style of interview, making copious notes in a large, loose hand. His manner was calm, as if merely familiarizing himself with the local scenery. It was not what I had expected. Still, to become Chief Spy he must have been successful once.

  Calliopus, we had already decided, had been advised by his accountant to co-operate where it was unavoidable, but never to volunteer anything. Once Anacrites had started him talking, a drawn-out pause threw him. "Of course I can see what you're after," he burbled. "You wonder how I can afford to make these purchases, when I told the Censors most of my outgoings were long-term ones with no immediate returns."

  "Training your gladiators," Anacrites agreed, making no comment on the guilty gush of extra information.

  "It takes years!"

  "During which time you have to pay for their board?"

  "And provide trainers, doctors, armourers--"

  "Then they may die on their first public outing."

  "Mine is a high-risk enterprise, yes."

  I leant forwards, interrupting. "I never met a businessman who didn't make that claim!
"

  Anacrites laughed, more with Calliopus than me, still winning his confidence. We were going to play this like nice fellows, implying that nothing the suspect said mattered. No tutting and head-shaking. Just smiles, pleasantries, sympathy with all his problems--then writing a report that would kick the poor victim to Hades.

  "What do you do for capital?" 1 asked.

  "I am paid for supplying men and beasts for the venatio. Plus, if we stage an actual fight, some prize money."

  "I thought the winning gladiator took the purse?"

  "A lanista receives his own share."

  Much bigger than the fighter's, no doubt. "Enough for a villa with views to Neapolis? Well, no doubt that represents years of work." Calliopus wanted to speak but I carried on regardless. We had him on the run. "Given that you have accrued your rewards over a long period, we did wonder whether when you prepared your return for the Census there might have been any other items of estate outside Rome, perhaps, or properties which you have owned for so long they slipped your memory--which were inadvertently omitted from your tax declaration?"

  I had made it sound as though we knew something. Calliopus managed not to gulp. "I will look at the scrolls again to make quite sure--"

  Falco & Partner were both nodding at Calliopus (and preparing to take down his confession) when he was given an unexpected reprieve.

  A hot, tousled slave with dung on his boots rushed into the room. For a moment he squirmed in embarrassment, unwilling to speak to Calliopus in our presence. Anacrites and I politely put our heads together, pretending to discuss our next move, whilst in fact we listened in.

  We caught some mumbled words about something terrible having happened, and an urgent request for Calliopus to attend the menagerie. He cursed angrily. Then he jumped to his feet. For a moment he stared at us, debating what to say.

  "We have a death." His tone was curt; clearly he was annoyed about it. The loss, I deduced, would be expensive. "I need to investigate. You can come if you want."

  Anacrites, easily able to look off colour nowadays, said he would remain in the office; even a bad spy knows when to take a chance to search the premises. Then Calliopus informed me that whatever had happened had struck down his lion, Leonidas.