Two For The Lions

by Lindsey Davis

  Well. Whatever the man's legal parentage, I had just unearthed the third reference to this Saturninus today. First Iddibal had told me that when Calliopus discovered he had bought a trained man-eater by mistake, he had tried to sell Leonidas to another lanista who bore that name. Now it transpired that Saturninus had been the seller all along--so presumably Calliopus was really trying to make the agent take the lion back to the man who had tricked him. This followed a partnership they had joined in the previous year--which in my experience of partnerships was likely to have ended in at least an awkward parting, if not a blazing row.

  Rivalry, eh?

  X

  AT LEAVING TIME I managed to shed Anacrites. We walked out through the barracks portico together and started up the road, then I lost him with a simple lie about having left my stylus behind. While he when on to cross the Tiber alone, I wasted time at the Temple of Hercules, trying to squeeze some gossip out of a slightly tipsy priest. He had no idea who his neighbours were. He had not even noticed lions constantly roaring just down the highway, and if any of the bestiarii ever came to the sanctuary to make offerings for favourable treatment from the gods, they had wasted their sacrifices. This charlatan was only interested in scrutinizing entrails if they came in a bowl with bacon and celery, nicely doused in a wine sauce.

  I left the temple. Anacrites had safely vanished. By the time I returned to Calliopus establishment, the exercise grounds had both emptied. All gladiators love the feeding trough.

  I walked in looking innocent, then since on one was about I managed to station myself in the shadow at the base of the rough and ready statue of Mercury. Huddling in my cloak against the chill, I prepared to wait, With the short winter hours the light had faded already. I could hear the hum of the fighters at their meal indoors. Occasionally a slave brought a bucket to or from the menagerie. Then someone came out from one of the rooms below the office.

  Whoever was that?

  It proved to be two people. Hanging back a bit was a sturdy fellow who looked like Iddibal, the most helpful of the fighters I had talked to that morning. He was trailing after a woman. She looked distinctly classy--in the confident, expensive sense. Well, that's another thing all gladiators are supposed to like.

  It was too dark to make out her face, though I could see the flash of jewellery on her well-padded chest. She was lurking in a veil, probably with good reason; rich women are renowned for hanging around gladiators' schools--but we still all pretend it's a scandal when they do. There was a flounce on her gown and another in her gait. She carried herself like one of those heavy, extremely senior Greek goddesses who bear on their heads walled cities instead of topknots and ribbons. Although neither was speaking, I gained the impression strong word, had been exchanged between Iddibal and this personage before they made their exit, and that there was still much to be said, on her side at least.

  Just then Calliopus came out from his office, which was on an upper storey. He looked down over the balcony without comment. The woman saw him, then stalked away out of the complex with immense dignity--a complete phoney if she had just been here for the illicit thrill of throwing herself at a young stud. I glimpsed a slave waiting for her just beyond the main gate.

  No lanista encourages sordid goings-on. Well, not openly. Pragmatists will appreciate that presents from rich women help keep their fighters optimistic, though they don't actually hold the door open. For one thing, the wealthy dames love a hint of secrecy. Whatever the rules were here officially, Iddibal (if he it was) ducked his head without acknowledging his master, then quickly scuttled across to the main building where his cronies were scoffing their meal.

  Calliopus watched with his arms folded. He came down the staircase and crossed the open ground to the animal house, walking at a brisk pace. I noticed he had a long cloak folded on over one shoulder; it was hometime for the man in charge. That was good; I had been prepared to squat here in the cold half the night.

  He stayed inside just a short while, then came out again with Buxus and a couple of other attendants. Calliopus dismissed the slaves who scampered off in the direction of the barracks, no doubt hoping the gladiators had left them a few morsels to eat Calliopus locked the menagerie. Then he and Buxus walked together back up to the office, which was solemnly secured as well. The lanista hung the big key ring on his belt. Instead of departing through the outer entrance gate as I expected, Calliopus then gave me a nasty shock: he and Buxus returned to ground level and came marching straight towards me.

  I had still behind the plinth when the lanista first appeared. Now I pulled in my head, and waited for what seemed like inevitable discovery. There was a colonnade behind me, in front of the row of cells where the bestiarii slept, but if I scampered back to take cover I would be making myself visible. Escaping detection seemed impossible. As soon as the two men drew level with me, I would be like a virgin caught out with a melon-seller. I prepared to jump up and make some feeble excuse for still being on the premises. Even so, the measured pace at which the two men were walking made me pause. I flattened myself against the rough-cast plinth and held my breath.

  They were on me. Only the statue remained between us. A couple of footsteps scuffed: boot leather on wood instead of baked earth. A quiet clink of metal and a son little knocking sound. Two more steps. Then to my astonishment, I heard Calliopus and Buxus walking away again. Once my heart had stopped beating, I ventured to peep out. This time they had their backs to me, going straight to the portico. l3y now I could see a big carriage drawn up and waiting in the roadway outside. Calliopus said something casual, then he left. Buxus went whistling off for his evening meal.

  I sat tight until my confidence returned. I crept around the statue base and stood thoughtfully in front of the calm-eyed Mercury in his winged sandals and ill-chosen December nudity. He stared over my head, no doubt trying to pretend that he did not feel like an idiot showing his all to the local sparrows and wearing a wreath perched on top of his travelling hat. A couple of wooden steps in front of his plinth provided access for whoever renewed his laurel leaves.

  I trod silently up the steps. With a whispered "excuse me" I fumbled under the wreath. As I suspected, some hard-hearted pervert had knocked a nail into Mercury's head, just behind his left ear. What a way to treat a man--let alone the messenger of the gods. Hanging on the nail was a single large key. I left it there. Now I knew where they kept their emergency spare. So did half of Rome, probably.

  Like Calliopus I went home. Unlike him, my earnings were moderate. I had no carriage to come and collect me; I just walked. For informers this is an ideal way to think. Of our girlfriends and our dinner, usually.

  XI

  MY APARTMENT WAS full of people. Most had come to annoy me, but it's the duty of a good Roman to make himself available at home to those who wish to fawn on him. Naturally I wanted my daughter to grow up with an appreciation of the sociable customs that had applied in our great city since Republican times. On the other hand, since Julia Junilla was little over six months old, her only current interest was in applying her crawling skills to heading out to the landing as fast as she could and flinging herself off into the street ten feet below. I scooped her up just as she reached the edge, let myself be charmed by her sudden beaming smile of recognition, and went indoors to tell the rest of them firmly that they could clear out.

  It got me nowhere as usual.

  My sister Maia, who was on very friendly terms with Helena, had come to visit; on my entry she groaned loudly then grabbed her cloak and pushed out past me, implying that my arrival had spoiled the happy atmosphere. Maia had a family; she must also have had things to do. I was fond of her, and she could usually make a pretence of tolerating me. Behind her as she barged past I had glimpsed a small, scowling figure, robed in five sensible layers of long woollen tunic and looking at me the way the Medusa sized up passers-by before turning them to stone: our mama. I guessed she would be accompanied by Anacrites.

  Helena, whose face revealed a pr
evious moment of panic on realizing that Julia had escaped again, noted that I had now recaptured our offspring. Recovering from her alarm, she made a cutting remark about Cato the Elder always being home from the Senate in time to see the baby bathed I congratulated myself on having cornered a woman who could flay me with literary allusions rather than having picked up some dumb pudding with a big bust and no sense of historical niceties. Then I said, if ever I was made a member of the Senate I would ensure that I followed Cato's sterling example but while I remained on the rougher side of the Sacred Way I might have to spend time earning fees instead.

  "Talking of earning," my mother started in, "I'm pleased to see you settling down to working with Anacrites. He's just the person to set you straight."

  "No one can touch Anacrites for talent, Ma." He was a weevil, but I wanted my dinner not an argument. He always had been a weevil, and now he was littering up my domestic life as well. In fact he was sitting on my particular stool. Not for long, I vowed. "What are you doing here, partner? You look like some snotty-nosed infant that's been parked all day with his auntie and now has to wait until Mother comes to take him back home!"

  "I lost you somewhere, Falco."

  "That's right; you let me give you the slip," I grinned, annoying him by making a joke of it.

  "We were all just discussing wherever you could have got to," glared Ma. "Anacrites told us you had already finished your work." She clearly believed I had dumped him in order to waste time and money in a winebar, though she was too tactful to say so in front of Helena. In fact Helena was perfectly capable of reaching the same conclusion, and requiring an oath on the altar of Zeus at Olympus (yes, the full round trip to Greece) before she would change her mind.

  "If Anacrites said that, I'm sure it's what he sincerely believed." Still carrying the baby, I waved my free hand airily. "There was a detail I wanted to investigate."

  "Oh!" Ever alert to me keeping secrets from him, Anacrites started up in indignation. "What was that, Falco?"

  I glanced around the room, tapped my nose, and whispered, "State business. Tell you tomorrow." He knew I was intending to forget.

  "You don't need any secrets here," scoffed my mother. I said I would be the judge of that, and she aimed a swipe at me with a colander. The reason she had the implement (which I dodged) was that Ma deemed Helena Justina too noble to prepare cabbages. Don't get me wrong; she approved of Helena. But if Ma was there, Ma shredded the greens.

  Anacrites, as her lodger, obviously supposed this meant that they would both be staying to dine with us. I let him dream.

  Now I was home, in what passed for my place as the master of the household, Ma quickly completed her work and gathered herself together to leave. She took the baby from me with the air of saving Julia from the talons of a bird of ill omen, kissed her goodbye, and handed her to Helena for safe keeping. We had offered Ma a meal, but as usual she decided that we would rather be left on our own for romantic reasons (though of course being given permission crushed any romance there might have been). I hooked a hand under Anacrites' elbow, and without actually letting it seem like rudeness, propelled him to his feet. "Thanks for escorting my mother home, old fellow."

  "It's no trouble," he squeezed out. "Look, have you been taking that lion business further on your own?"

  "Never entered my head," I lied.

  As soon as I had waved off Ma, I closed the door firmly. Helena, more tolerant than Ma, waited for me to explain in my own time where I had been. She allowed me to reassert my authority with a few moments of lewd assault, followed by tickling the baby until Julia was hysterical, then looking round for titbits to nibble until I was provided with proper sustenance.

  Anacrites had made sure he gave Helena his opinion of our progress on the Census job, adding a warped description of what I had been up to regarding Leonidas. I now told her the parts I had not told him. "There's a smell of something nasty. It's quite clear the lanista is trying to stop me poking my nose in--"

  Helena laughed. "Little does he realize that's a certain way to ensure you take an interest!"

  "You know me."

  "On the whole." She shrugged, taking a bowl of nuts away from me, ostensibly to stop me filling myself up before supper, then tucked into it herself It always gave me a thrill to see this girl who looked so prim revealing her healthy appetites. As she guessed what I was thinking, her huge eyes gazed back at me serenely; she smoothed her skirt over her knees with a very precise, stiff-fingered gesture--then she cracked open another pistachio.

  "Am I being stubborn over this, sweetheart?" I reached for the nut bowl but she swung around on her stool and avoided me. "There is a lion that has been somehow spirited away from his cage, apparently without a roar--or if he did roar, without anybody hearing him even though his devoted keeper and a gaggle of gladiators were just strides away. He's been killed somewhere else--why? then returned to his billet and locked in."

  "To make it look as if he never left?"

  "Seems so. Doesn't it make you curious?"

  "Certainly, Marcus."

  "The keeper is lying, and has probably been ordered to do so."

  "That's odd too."

  "And the gladiators have clammed up."

  Helena was watching me, her dark brown eyes as thoughtful about the mystery as they were about evaluating what it meant to me. "This is troubling you, my darling."

  "I hate secrets."

  "And?" She could tell there was more to it. "Well, perhaps I'm getting overexcited." "You!" She was; teasing. "How, Marcus?"

  "I wonder whether it is pure coincidence that this happened when I'm conducting enquiries there."

  "What could be behind it?" prompted Helena levelly.

  "The dead lion is the one who had been booked to execute Thurius Since it was me who apprehended Thurius--" I told her my real suspicion; it was one I could never mention to Anacrites: "I wondered whether somebody may have it in for me."

  Helena could well have laughed or scoffed. I would not have blamed her. Instead, she listened calmly and as I expected she made no attempt to patronize me. She simply told me that I was an idiot, and on reflection I agreed.

  "Can we have some dinner now?"

  "Later," she said firmly. "First, you're going to be a good Roman like Cato the Elder, and you're going to see the baby bathed."

  XII

  WE HAD NO domestic water supply. Like most of Rome we inhabited an apartment where the nearest fountain was around a corner in another street. For our daily ablutions we went to the public baths. They were plentiful, sociable, and in many cases nee. The more luxurious parts of the Aventine boasted large detached mansions with their own private bathhouses, but in our slum we had a long walk with our strigil and oil-flask. Our street was called Fountain Court, but that was an administrative joke.

  Across the road, in the huge gloomy block where I had once lived myself: stood Lenia's laundry, which did possess a deep, rather fitful well. Its murky water was usually available in winter, and big cauldrons were always on the fires in the back yard. Because I was supposed to be helping Lenia arrange her divorce I felt able to cadge what remained of her warn1 water after the laundry closed for the night. She had been married a whole year now having lived with her husband for all of a fortnight--so in accordance with local custom it was well time she shed her spouse.

  Lenia was married to Smaractus, the most stinking, greedy, heartless and degenerate Aventine landlord. Their union, which all her friends had been denouncing from the moment she proposed it, had been cobbled together out of their mutual hopes of defrauding each other of property. The wedding night had ended with the nuptial bed on fire, the husband in jail accused of arson, Lenia in acrimonious hysterics, and everyone else drunk out of their minds. An occasion to remember--as the wedding guests now insisted on reminding the unhappy pair. They did not thank us for it.

  Their curious start should have provided years of nostalgic stories to retell happily around the fire at Saturnalia. Well, perhap
s not around the fire, since Smaractus had been rather badly frightened by his adventure in the flaming bed. Around a festive table, with the lampwicks all trimmed neatly, perhaps. But from their night being rescued by the vigiles they had descended into a hell from which nobody could save them. Smaractus came home from jail in a foul temper; Lenia pretended she had had no idea he was so violent and unpleasant; he accused her of setting fire to the bed deliberately with a view to grabbing a big inheritance if she killed him; she said she wished she had done it, even if there was no inheritance. Smaractus made a few feeble attempts to claim rights in the laundry (the one freehold he had omitted to acquire in our district), then he stole what he could carry and fled back to his own grimy apartment. Now they were getting divorced. They had been talking about it for the past twelve months without any progress, but that was typical of the Aventine.

  Lenia had been in her office where black winter mould, encouraged by the laundry steam, had encased the walls in a sinister patina. Hearing us, she swayed to the door. She seemed subdued, which meant either she had not yet drunk enough to liven her up this evening, or she had tippled so much she had poisoned herself Her unusual red hair, product of violent substances unknown to most cosmetics vendors, hung either side of her white, bleary-eyed face in frizzled hanks as she dithered at the doorway.

  While Helena slipped past me to avail herself of the still-warm tubs, I planted myself in Lenia's path with a well-placed verbal tackle. "Hello! I see your hot-blooded lover's here."

  "Falco, when the bastard comes down, trip him up and make him talk about my settlement."