"I want some information, Famia."
"And I want a drink." I had come prepared to bribe him.
"Oh thanks, Marcus!"
"You ought to level off"
"I will--when I've had this one."
Talking to Famia was like trying to clean your ear with a very bulky sponge. You told yourself the procedure would work, but you could waste hours screwing up your fist without managing to poke anything down the hole.
"You sound like Petronius," I scolded.
"Good lad--he always liked a drop."
"But he knows when to stop."
"Maybe he knows, Falco--yet from what I hear nowadays he's not doing it."
"Well, his wife's left him and taken his children, and he almost lost his job."
"Plus he's living in your old disgusting apartment, his girlfriend went back to her husband, and his promotion prospects are a joke!" cackled my brother-in-law, his slit-like eyes becoming almost invisible. "And you're his best pal. You're right. Poor dog. No wonder he prefers oblivion."
"Have you finished, Fan1ia?" "I haven't started yet."
"Nice rhetoric." I had to pretend to be tolerant. "Listen, you're the fountain of knowledge about the entertainment world. Will you give me the benefit?" Famia was too busy guzzling my flagon to refuse. "What's the word about a beast importers' feud? Someone told me all the lanistae are wetting their loincloths; they all hope the new amphitheatre in the Forum will mean rows of gold winecoolers on their side-tables."
"Greed's all they know." That was rich, from him.
"Is their rivalry hotting up? Is there a trainers' war looming?"
"They are always at it, Falco." Some dregs of intelligence had been warmed up by the wine. He was almost capable of holding a useful conversation. "But yes, they do reckon the new arena means really big shows in the offing. That's good news for us all. There has been no word about how it will be organised though."
"What do you think?"
I had sensed rightly that Famia was bursting with a pet theory: "I reckon the damned lanistae with their carefully guarded sources for wild animals and their private cliques of fighters will be in for a big shock. If you ask me--oh of course you did ask me--"
"Enjoy your joke."
"Well, I bet everything gets taken over and run by the state."
Vespasian's an organizer," I agreed. "He's presenting the Flavian Amphitheatre as his gin to the populace: the benign Emperor affectionately saluting the Senate and People of Rome. We all know what that entails. SPQR stands for official catastrophe. Public slaves, committees, consular control."
Vespasian has two sons, both young men," Famia said, stabbing the air with his thumb for emphasis. "He's the first Emperor in living memory to possess that advantage--he comes equipped with his own Gan1es committee. He'll be giving the world a magnificent show--and you mark my words: the whole affair will be run from an office in the Golden House, headed up by Titus and Domitian."
"A Palace scheme?" I was thinking that if nobody had yet formulated this plan, I might do myself some good by suggesting it to Vespasian. Better still, I would suggest it to Titus Caesar, so he had a chance to propose it formally, getting ahead of his younger brother before Domitian knew what was happening. Titus was the main heir, the coming man. His gratitude was something I liked to cultivate. "You could be right, Famia."
"I know I'm right. They're going to take everything out of the hands of the private lanistae, on the grounds that the new amphitheatre is too important to be left to unregulated private enterprise."
"And once the state organization is in place, you reckon it will become permanent?"
"A right cock-up." Famia's idea of political commentary tended to follow routine lines. The four charioteering factions were funded by private sponsorship, but there was always talk of them being state run; it might never happen but Famia and all his colleagues had developed fixed prejudices in advance.
"Imperial control: beasts caught by the legions and shipped by the national fleets; gladiators trained in army style barracks; Palace clerks running it. All the glory to the Emperor. And everything paid for from the Treasury of Saturn," I foolishly mused.
"That means paid for by the hard-earned silver I had to cough up for the bloody Census tax." With luck, Famia had not yet heard how I was currently employed.
My brother-in-law was reaching the point where he wanted to confide to me the troubles of his private life. I reckoned they were all his fault; anyway, I was on my sister's side. I interrupted his moans to ask if he could tell me anything about Calliopus, or better still about Saturninus, the rival who seemed to feature rather large in my suspect's business life. Famia claimed the beast importers and gladiatorial bashers were strangers to all in his more refined racetrack sphere. I managed not to choke with laughter.
By chance I happened to mention the Tripolitanian connection. Then he did take an interest. Apparently some of the best horses came from Africa.
"Numidia--Libya--they're all that way, aren't they?"
"Roughly. But I thought good steeds came from Spain, Famia?"
"The best of all come from bloody Parthia, actually. This huge fellow"--indicating the grey who had spurned his medicine--"is from Cappadocia; he'll have Parthian or Median ancestors in his bloodline. Gives him the power to drag a chariot round the bends on the outside of the team. You're the best, aren't you, boy?" The grey showed his teeth ferociously; Famia decided against patting him. So much for being good with animals. "After that, Spain and Africa rank about equal. Libyan horses are famous for toughness and endurance. That's good in a race. You don't want a pretty four that prances up to the starring gate but can only manage a quick sprint. You need a team that can hang on solidly for seven laps."
"Right." I managed not to tease him by suggesting, you mean like the Blues have? "I suppose the horse shippers are probably the same lot who bring in big cats and other exotics for the venatio?"
Reckon so, Falco. Which may mean that I know a supplier who can tell you what you want to find out. Whatever that may be."
I let him jeer. That's what you expect from family. As usual I myself felt rather vague about what I was really looking for, but I spared Famia my uncertainty and just thanked him for offering to introduce me to his hypothetical pal. He would probably forget all about it, so I did not trouble to be too effusive.
"By the way, have you ever heard of a character called Rumex?"
Famia looked at me as if I was mad. "Where have you been, Falco?"
He obviously knew more than I did but before he could tell me, he was stopped by a slave, wild-eyed with excitement, who rushed into the stables, saw Famia, and shrieked, "You've got to come at once and bring a rope!"
"What's up?"
"An escaped leopard's up on the roof of the Saepta Julia!"
XVII
FAMIA DID NOT bother finding a rope. Like most chronic drinkers, his intake hardly affected him. He was alert enough to know this was not the same as catching horses. Apprehending a leopard would involve rather more than approaching in a sly manner holding out a carrot, while hiding a bridle behind your back. We were both running fast to the Saepta, but I knew without asking that Famia had come simply for the show. That did leave me wondering who in Rome might be thought appropriate to deal with this situation. Not me, I knew that. I was going for the show too.
When we got there, and saw the size and menace of the beast--a leopardess, in fact--I was damned sure I didn't want to be involved. She was lying on the roof with her fat tail dangling like a Greek epsilon, occasionally snarling when the crowd below annoyed her. In the true manner of a Roman street crowd, that was what they were trying very hard to do Forgetting that they had seen leopards in the arena biting human necks then casually tearing human flesh, the locals were waving, growling, allowing their children to prance nearby grimacing, and even offering up broom handles to see if they were long enough to poke the cat.
Someone was going to get killed. One glance at the leopardess
's narrow eyes told me she had decided it would not be her.
She was a beautiful animal. Sometimes the long sea voyage across the Internal Sea, not to mention the stress of captivity, leaves arena cats looking the worse for wear.
This one was as healthy as she was finely marked. Her spotted fur was thick and her muscle tone at its peak. She was lithe, bonny, and powerful. When Famia and I arrived outside the Saepta she was lying motionless. Her head came up, watching the crowd like potential prey on the savannah. Not a scratched ear or sniff escaped her.
It was safest to leave her alone in full view. The Saepta Julia enclosure was only two stories high. However she got up there, she could as easily get down again and be away. Everyone should have stood well back, keeping quiet, while some wild beast expert with equipment was fetched.
Instead, the vigiles had taken charge. They ought to have cleared the streets and contained the situation. Instead they were like boys who had found a snake curled up under a portico and were wondering what they could make it do. To my horror, they dragged up their syphon engine and prepared to squirt a cold douche at the leopardess to frighten her down. They were the Seventh Cohort. Idiots. They patrolled the Transtiberina, which was crammed with foreigners and itinerants. They were only adept at beating up frightened immigrants, many of whom did not even know Latin and took to their heels rather than discuss life and fate with the vigiles. The Seventh had never learned to think.
The centurion in charge was a ridiculous oaf who could not see that if the leopardess was forced down to ground level they were in big trouble. She could run amock. Worse, they could lose her for days among the massive temples, theatres, and art-filled porticos in the Field of Mars. The area was too crowded to hunt her safely, and yet too exposed to stand much hope of cornering her. There were people milling everywhere; some had not even noticed they had wandered into an incident.
Before I could offer these helpful thoughts, the rumpled troops of the Seventh started playing with their toy.
"Stupid bastards," commented Famia.
The fire engine was a gigantic tank of water pulled on a waggon. It had two cylinder pistons which were operated by a large rocker arm. As the vigiles worked the arm up and down--something they did with gusto when a crowd was watching--the pistons forced a jet of water up and out through a central nozzle. It had a flexible joint that could be turned through three hundred and sixty degrees.
With more skill than they ever applied to house fires or burning granaries, the Seventh projected their water spray straight at the leopardess. She was knocked sideways, more by surprise than by the initial impact. Now angry and unpredictable, she started to slide, but recovered and scrambled to get a grip on the roof tiles with her extended claws. The Seventh followed her with the fine arc of the waterjet.
"I'm getting out of here!" Famia muttered. Many of the crowd lost their nerve too and surged off in different directions. Above us the troubled leopardess tried to walk along the roof-tree. The vigiles swung their nozzle to intercept her. She decided to escape downwards and moved tentatively lower on the pantiles a couple of steps, coming down on the street side rather than the internal Saepta enclosure. She was nervous of the roofs slope. It took the Seventh a fraction longer to adjust to the new direction; once they caught her in the spray again she made up her mind to leap.
People scattered. I should have done the same. Instead I reached for a stool, abandoned on the street by a flowerseller. I freed my knife from my boot and moved towards where the cat was intending to land. She was aiming for the narrow street half-way along Agrippa's Pantheon.
"Shift your arse out!" shouted the centurion, spotting a hero who might show him up.
"Shut up and do something useful!" I snarled back. "Get your lads sorted. Make a line. When she jumps we can try to guide her inside the Saepta. If we lock all the doors at least she'll be confined, then we can get specialist help--"
She leapt. I was ten strides away. Nearer folk scrambled for safety, screaming. Street-sellers ran with their trays. Parents grabbed infants. Youths jumped behind statues. The leopardess looked around, sizing up the situation.
"Everyone stand still! Turn off that bloody water!" yelled the centurion, as if pumping it had never been his own idea.
The scene quietened. The leopardess yawned. But her eyes never ceased watching; her head never failed to turn towards any hint of movement.
"Everyone keep calm!" shouted the centurion, sweating badly. "Leave it to us. It's all under control--"
The leopardess decided he was annoying her and adopted a low crouch, fixing him with those dangerous dark eyes.
"Oh great gawds," muttered one of the troopers in a low voice. "she's stalking Piperita!"
One of the others laughed a bit, then advised in an unhelpful tone, "Better stand still, sir!"
I felt myself grin involuntarily: still one of the ranks, still hoping any officer would come unstuck. The centurion now had his own worries, so I took charge myself "Avoid sudden movements, Piperita. She's probably more scared than we are--" That old lie. "Famia," I called quietly. "Nip round the back and get into the Saepta. Tell everyone to lock the other doors and stay inside their booths. Some of you lads run around the Pantheon to the other side of her so we can make a phalanx and guide her indoors--"
The Seventh responded at once. They were so unused to leadership that they had never developed healthy rebellion against it.
The silent leopardess was still observing the centurion as if he was the most interesting prey she had seen for weeks. Rightly or wrongly Piperita tried to inch further away from her without appearing to react. This aroused her hunting instincts even more. We could see her tense.
A small group of vigiles appeared from behind the Baths of Agrippa, on the far side of her, now sensibly holding esparto mats in front of them. The grass mats hardly offered much protection, but gave the impression of a solid barrier across the street and might help them steer the beast. They would be steering her towards me and the others, but we had to put up with that. I told the men in my row to take off their cloaks to use for a similar barrier. Not many were wearing them; even in December such luxuries were never part of their uniform. All the vigiles were unarmed too. A couple of nervous ones Hill behind the syphon waggon. Holding my stool in front of me, I steered the others forwards slowly.
It was going well. It had been a good idea. The leopardess saw us advancing. She tried a feinting run towards our group, but we stamped our feet and made off putting gestures; she turned tail. Piperita scampered among us and lost himself from her view. Threatened, the leopardess was looking for somewhere to escape. We had two lines of men walking towards her, closing in to make a V-shape at the Pantheon side. It left her a wide space the other way, inviting her to retreat through one of the grand side entrances to the Saepta. I heard Famia call down from one of the upper storeys, confirming that the other doors were closed. This was going to work.
Then disaster intervened. Just as the leopardess was approaching the open archway, a familiar voice boomed from inside: "Marcus! What's going on out there, Marcus? What in Hades are you playing at?"
I could hardly believe this nightmare: the short, wide bodied shape of my father had popped out of the Saepta. Face to face with the cat, he stood plumb in the middle of the entrance: grey curls, startled brown eyes, delinquent scowl, no damned sense. Famia must have told him to stay under cover--so the fool had to come straight out here to see why.
He must have thought about running. Then, being Pa, he clapped his hands smartly as if he were shooing cattle. "Hep! Hep! Get out of it, puss!"
Brilliant.
The leopardess took one look, decided Geminus was too scary to tackle, and bounded for freedom at full stretch, straight towards the hapless row of men opposite me. They stood their ground in horror, then leapt aside. We saw the big cat pounding through the gap, muscles rippling all along its back, paws pounding, tail up, backside in the air in that distinctive leopardine style.
; "She's away!"
She was--but not far enough. She made a beeline for what may have looked like a place to hide: the Agrippan Baths.
"Come on!" I set off after the cat, urging the vigiles to follow me. As I passed Pa, I shot him a disgusted look.
"You harbouring a death wish, boy?" he greeted me. I was too good a Roman to tell my own father to jump into a quaking bog, without a plank or ropes. Well, there was no time to phrase it rudely enough. "I'll get Petronius," he called after me. "He likes cats!"
Petro wouldn't like this one. Anyway, it was marauding in the Seventh's jurisdiction: not his problem. I, though, had somehow involved myself So who was stupid?
We tried telling the attendants to close the doors behind us. No use. Too many frightened people were rushing out through the monumental entrance. The attendants simply decided to run away with them. Everyone was shrieking in panic. When we ran inside, the leopardess had disappeared. The noise died down after the first exodus of naked men. We started to search the place.
I ran through the apodyterium, snatching at clothes on the pegs to check that the cat was not hidden under togas and cloaks. The Baths of Agrippa had been planned to impress; together with the Pantheon they formed the most dramatic building complex in the large output of Augustus' organizing son-in-law, his visible monument after he realized that despite decades of service he would never himself get to be Emperor. These baths had been free to the public since Agrippa died, a gracious gesture in his will. They were elegant, lofty, marble-clad, and supremely functional. Every time we pushed open the door to the next chamber we were slapped back by a wall of ever hotter, steamier air. Every step forward became more slippery and dangerous.
Out here in the Field of Mars was a long way to come for most folk, but even so the baths were generally well patronized. The leopardess had almost cleared them. The pickpockets and snack-salesmen had been first out. The fat women who took money for guarding clothes and supplying equipment had knocked us sideways as they ran for cover. A solitary slave now cowered in the unguent room, too frightened even to flee. For once the Spartan dry heat room and steamy tepidarium lay eerily empty. I kept going, accompanied by a few of the vigiles, our studded boots scraping and sliding on the tiled floors. When we staggered through the heavy self-closing door to the hot room, our clothes instantly stuck to us. Unprepared by normal warming-up procedures, we found the wet heat utterly draining Our hair dripped. Our hearts pounded unnaturally. Through the stifling steam we could make out naked shapes, the shiny raspberry flesh of soporific bathers all apparently undismayed by the chaos outside--oblivious in fact. These men had not been recently inspected by a loose leopard.
Two For The Lions Page 9
