Two For The Lions

by Lindsey Davis

  "Let's do it then."

  One thing to be said for Anacrites was that since his head wound had made him erratic he could take a decision to spend large sums of our so far unearned money without turning a hair. Of course tomorrow the same erratic behaviour would make him change his mind--but by then I would have sent off a banker's order to Justinus and it would be too late.

  "Alternatively," Anacrites suggested (always alert to a chance of thwarting some private plan of mine), "I could go out to Oea myself."

  "Good idea"" I liked to disappoint him when he was playing me up. "Of course it's December so it won't be easy getting there. You'll have to take short hop sailings Ostia-Puteoli, Puteoli-Buxentum--Ithegium, Rhegium--Sicily just to start. You should get a lift out from Syracusa to the island of Melita quite readily, but it could become tricky after that--"

  "All right, Falco."

  "No, no; it's good of you to volunteer."

  We left it in the air, though I was planning to write to Justinus anyway.

  We talked about what to do next. The documents on Calliopus could now be set aside until we finalised the issues of the mistress's house and the overseas property.

  We needed to move on to another victim, either Saturninus or one of the other lanistae. I was sorry that this meant we ought to leave Calliopus' training barracks with the Leonidas question unanswered. But we had no choice.

  The Census was supposed to be over within twelve months of its inception. In theory we could drag out the disputes for years if we chose to, but Vespasian was in a hurry for the state revenue--and we were hungry for our fees.

  I mentioned that I would be dining with Saturninus. I said I would try to gauge whether he looked a likely prospect for auditing. Anacrites seemed quite happy for me to fraternise. If it was useful he could share in the credit; if it went wrong he could denounce me to Vespasian for corrupt practices. Nice to have a partner I could trust. "It's acceptable," I joked, "So long as I don't enjoy myself."

  "Watch out for poison in the food," he warned in a friendly voice, as if he were thinking of supplying some best quality aconite to my host. It was the poison in our partnership that was bothering me.

  I was feeling low. I seemed to have caught a chill during my exploits at the Agrippan Baths yesterday.

  Restless, I mooched out on to the balcony that ran around this part of the barracks. Nux gave a last growl at Anacrites and came to sit on my feet. While I stood there attempting to clear my raw throat, I noticed Buxus come out from the building opposite where the animals were kept, carrying one of the ostriches. I had seen him do it before. It was the easiest way to transport them: tucking them under one arm, gripping their wings with his elbow, while dodging their long necks and prying beaks.

  This one was different. The big bird had lost all its curiosity Its legs dangled limply, its wings hung quite still, and its bare neck was down so its tiny head dangled almost in the dust. I knew at once that it was dead.

  I called down: "What's up with him, Buxus?"

  The keeper, always tender-hearted, appeared to be snivelling. "Something disagreed with him."

  Nux noticed the corpse and leapt down the stairs to investigate. I called her back; she stopped and turned to look at me, puzzled that I was spoiling her fun" I went after her, down to the yard.

  Some of the bestiarii had been exercising with weights; they came up to see what was going on. We all gazed at the dead bird I recognised it as the largest male, the one that had been nearly eight feet high, once resplendent in black and white feathers but now reduced to a selection of fan dancer's costumery. "Poor thing," I said. "The birds are a damned nuisance if they can get at you and bite your tunic to shreds, but it's sad to see one dead. Are you sure he hasn't been off colour? Maybe the Roman winter disagrees with ostriches."

  "He was fine an hour ago," moaned Buxus He laid his burden on the hard ground of the exercise yard, then squatted on his haunches with his head in his hands. I gripped Nux by the collar as she struggled to get at the bird and worry it.

  "Who's going to be next?" moaned the keeper, in great distress. "This is all getting too much--"

  The bestiarii glanced at each other. Some shuffled away, not wanting to be involved. Some patted Buxus on the shoulder fim1ly, as if to shut him up. Gripping Nux under my arm, I went down on one knee to examine the ostrich.

  It had definitely stopped breathing, but I'm no ornithologist. It was just a lump of limp poultry to me"

  "What happened exactly?" I asked quietly.

  Buxus had taken the hint from the others. Now his reply was neutral, just like when he was putting off my interest in Leonidas. "He stood still, then sort of folded up. He lay down in a heap and put his head on the ground, as if he had gone off to sleep."

  Someone had come up behind me; I glanced round and saw Calliopus. He must have just arrived for the day. Still in his outdoor cloak, he pushed past me, lifted the bird's head, dropped it, and swore. Buxus kept his own head down, looking cowed.

  "That bastard!" Calliopus must be referring to Saturninus. Furious, apparently he did not care what I overheard. He strode inside the menagerie" Buxus then leapt up and followed him. The bestiarii hung back, but I was hard on the keeper's heel....

  "It's the grain, I think," I heard Buxus mutter in an undertone. "The new load. That's where I found him foraging. Before I could shoo the silly brat away, it was too late. The sack split when they delivered it--"

  Calliopus brushed him off, rampaging past the cages and on into the second area" Borago the bear growled at the commotion, so did the new lion Draco who was now in the cage where his predecessor died. He prowled about, but seemed quieter, no doubt calmed by a few choice cuts of Leonidas.

  The second room with the sea lion's pit was empty now that Draco had been moved out. Even the eagle was gone from his perch. Beyond it again lay a short corridor which led to a store. There stood a modest grain bin--with a wooden cover on it--and on the ground in front of that lay a hempen sack. It had burst open at one seam, spilling corn on to the ground. Calliopus took a cursory look round, then seized a scoop. He caught up a good panful of the grain from the broken sack, then shoved out past us again. Buxus and I trotted after him like children playing hide and seek. In the yard, Calliopus spread the grain in a patch on the ground. He whistled. "Watch the pigeons!" he commanded. Without a word more to Buxus he marched off to his office. I might as well have been invisible.

  Buxus looked up to the roof; where one or two scrawny pigeons were always making a nuisance of themselves. He went and squatted in the shade of the building, waiting to see if any of the flying vermin would come down and commit suicide. Still carrying Nux to keep her out of harm's way, I walked up to him.

  "When was that sack delivered?" I assumed it was recently. This place was well-run. The spilt grain would normally have been cleared up fairly soon after the accident happened

  "This morning," Buxus consented to tell me in a mournful voice.

  I had seen a cart unloading when I walked in. "Half an hour ago?" He nodded. "So there wasn't much chance it was tampered with here? And where is it supplied from?"

  He looked furtive. "I don't know about that. You'll have to ask the boss."

  "But you have a regular arrangement?" Buxus still looked guarded, but he said yes' "And how often do they make a delivery?"

  "Once a week."

  Crouching on his haunches, he put his head down on his arms. It was either a good imitation of a very depressed man, or a strong hint for me to move along.

  I went back inside the menagerie and took another look at the grain sack. Where it was slit two long ends of the seam binding were dangling; their ends looked neatly cut rather than frayed. Tampered with, apparently. I heaved up one end of the sack and peered at the underside. It was labeled with abbreviations that said it had come from Africa Proconsularis, the grainbasket of the Empire nowadays I nearly left it at that, but luckily I turned up the other end too. That carried in red lettering " Horrea Galbana
", which would have been where it had been stored in Rome, plus the peculiar label "ARX: ANS'. Nux was straining to get at the spilled grain, so I gripped her more firmly and let her lick my neck while I tried to decipher the abbreviated note. It looked like an address. Not the address of the barracks here.

  I returned to the office, churning over the possibilities. "Calliopus, am I right that you suspect your grain has been poisoned by Saturninus as part of your feud?"

  "I have nothing to say," said Calliopus coldly.

  "You ought to have," commented Anacrites' I could at least rely on him to back me up if it meant annoying someone else.

  "Who supplies your corn?" I croaked, as my sore throat gave out on me.

  "Oh. . . one of the big granaries. I'll have to look up the requisition--"

  "Don't bother," I rasped. "I think you'll find it's the Granary of the Galbae."

  Judging by his frown, I had managed to annoy Calliopus myself: If "ARX: ANS' meant what I suspected, I knew exactly why.

  I tipped the wink to Anacrites. Rather to my surprise he said nothing, but simply rose from his stool, collected our equipment, and told Calliopus we were finished here; he would hear either from us or from the Censors' Office in due course. As we hopped down the outer stairs with Nux happily scampering ahead of us, two pigeons made a feeble attempt to flutter up from the grainy bait laid in the yard, but collapsed into tattered grey clumps with their beaks in the dirt. I called the dog to heel. A few flies were already inspecting the dead ostrich as we walked out through the gate.

  XXV

  ONCE WE REACHED the road, Anacrites expected me to tell him what was on my mind and began annoying me with his usual questions. I said he could do something useful by finding out about the house Calliopus had bought for his mistress. I would meet him later at our office in the Saepta. First, it would do no harm for me to visit the Granary of the Galbae. I only had to cross the Tiber and I was there.

  He looked suspicious, thinking that was the last he would see of me. It had not escaped him that the Granary of the Galbae lay at the back of the Emporium and the Porticus Aemilia, just below the Lavernal Gate. From there it was just a short, steep hike up to the crest of the Aventine--and a long lunch at home with Helena. I reassured him that since I was going out to dinner I would not be needing lunch. Feeling evil, I made it sound as unconvincing as I could.

  The Horrea Galbana was a whole palace of commerce. By the time I had struggled from the river wharf through the battling crush of stevedores and porters who were unloading barges and boats for the Emporium I was in no mood to be lightly impressed. It grated to enter this monstrous establishment, built by a rich family as the short cut to even greater wealth. The rental potential had always been enormous, even though the Sulpicii Galbae were probably unwilling to come down here themselves and haggle over grain prices. They had been persons of great status since Republican times; one of them became Emperor. He only stuck it for six months, but that must have been long enough to bring the Granary under state control.

  I had to admit this was an astonishing place. It contained several great courtyards, each with hundreds of rooms on more than one floor, run by military-style cohorts of staff At least that gave me half a chance of finding out what I was after. There was bound to be documentation for everything, if I could find the relevant scribe before he bunked off for the local caupona. Anacrites was right; it was mid-morning: dangerously near the time when skivers had their lunch.

  Not only grain was stored and sold here Space was rented out for everything from wine cellars to strongrooms. Some of the single booths were leased to working tradesmen: woven goods, expensive architectural stoneware, even fish. But mostly the buildings were specially constructed corn stores. They had raised tiled floors, set on dwarf wall... with ventilated thresholds to allow good air circulation through the tunnels underneath. They were plaster-lined, with only a louvred vent at the back for light. The great quadrangles were lined with rows of these dim, cool rooms, sealed with tight doors against dampness, vermin and theft, the triple enemies of stored grain. Most of the staircases turned into ramps after a few steps, to facilitate life for the porters as they struggled around with the heavy sacks on their backs; many of them were permanently bent in the spine and bow-legged. Cats were allowed to run everywhere as a countermeasure to rats and mice. Fire buckets stood at frequent intervals. Maybe it was my cold, but to me that day the air seemed thick with annoying dust.

  I found the administrative office easily. An hour later I had wormed my way up the queue to see a slinky-hipped clerk with long eyelashes. He might eventually spare time from telling coarse jokes to his neighbour, the rent-clerk, and might discuss the dockets I needed to know about.

  Once I reached him, he buffed his nails on the shoulder of his tunic and prepared to fob me off

  We had a long wrangle about whether he was empowered to let me see despatching details, followed by a fierce set-to over his claim that there was no customer called Calliopus.

  I borrowed a tablet from the rent-clerk, who had been observing my problems with a supercilious smirk. On it I wrote clearly: "ARX: ANS.'

  "Mean anything?"

  "Oh that!" mouthed the beauteous king of the dockets.

  "Well, that's not a private customer."

  "So who is this public one?"

  "Confidential." I had thought it would be. "SPQR."

  I stood on his foot, letting my boot studs press between his sandal straps, grabbed handfuls of his pristine tunic, and pushed his chest until he was squealing and leaning backwards.

  "Spare me the secret passwords," I growled. "You may be the prettiest scribe at the snootiest old granary on the Embankment, but any tough nut with an ounce of good sweetbreads in his cranium can decipher that logo once he associates the words "grain" and "once a week". Adding "s' and "P" and "Q" and "R" just shows you know some of the alphabet. Now listen to me, petal. The corn you supplied this week is poisoning birds' Think about that very carefully. Then consider how you will explain to the Senate and People of Rome why you refused to help me find who tampered with the corn."

  I stepped back suddenly, loosening my grip on his tunic. "It goes to the Arx," confessed the scribe in a terrified whisper.

  "And the rest stands for " Anseres Sacri ." I told him, though he knew it well enough.

  He was right to be anxious. The sack of corn that had poisoned the ostrich had been intended for the famous Sacred Geese.

  XXVI

  "DOWN, NUXIE!"

  For a moment there seemed a good chance my scruff would end up in custody for goose-worrying. A priest of the Temple of Juno Moneta peered out from the sanctum suspiciously. Casual visitors were discouraged up here; the Citadel was no place to walk your dog.

  Juno Moneta had in ancient times assumed responsibility for the Mint and for the patronage of Roman commerce--an early instance of the female sex taking over the housekeeping purse. Jupiter might be the Best and Greatest, but his celestial wife had grabbed the cash I sympathised. Still, as Helena said so sensibly, it was useful for one person to control the home budget.

  "Oh please, don't set them of!!" The custodian of Juno's sacred guard-birds seemed cheerful and relaxed. If Nux retrieved one of his charges for my cooking pot it would simply pose awkward problems of bureaucracy. "I have to call out the Praetorians if they decide to have a honk--not to mention filing an incident report as long as your arm. You're no marauding Gaul, I hope?"

  "Certainly not. Even my dog has Roman citizenship."

  "What a relief."

  Ever since a monstrous army of Celts once raided Italy and actually sacked Rome, a permanent gaggle of geese had been given privileged status on the Arx, in honour of their feathered forebears who had raised the alarm and saved the Capitol. I had imagined that the big white birds led a pampered life. This lot looked a bit wormy, to tell the truth.

  The geese were taking an aggressive interest in Nux. She barked once, then shrank back against my legs. I wasn't too conf
ident I could save the little coward. As I bent to pat her reassuringly, I noticed I had stepped in some of the slimy green droppings that lay in wait all over the hillside at the top of the steps past the Mamertine.

  Across the dip on the Capitol, the twin peak to the Arx, the restored Temple of Jupiter had begun to rise slowly. Destroyed by a catastrophic fire at the end of the civil war that brought Vespasian to power, the Temple was now being rebuilt in due magnificence as a sign of the Flavian Emperors' triumph over their rivals. Or as they would no doubt put it, as a gesture of piety and the renewal of Rome. Fine white dust drifted towards us on the misty rain, through which there was no diminution in the sound of stonemasons chipping at marble; they were, of course, secure in the knowledge that the Census property tax would be paying for their materials and labour at top rates.

  Once they had built the new Temple of Capitoline Jove, they would be moving on profitably to the Flavian Amphitheatre, the new stage for the Theatre of Marcellus, restoring the Temple of the Divine Claudius, then creating the Forum of Vespasian, complete with two libraries and a Temple of Peace"

  An area near Juno's outdoor altar had been turned into a tiny garden for the Sacred Geese. They had a fine view over the roof of the Mamertine prison to the Forum, though their enclosure was rather rocky and inhospitable.

  The custodian was a slight, elderly public slave with a whispy beard and bandy legs, clearly not chosen for his love of winged creatures. Every time a goose wandered too close to him he jeered, "Foxes!"

  "It's a terrible place for them," he confirmed, noticing my polite concern. He sheltered in a hut under a stunted pine tree. For a man with easy access to goose egg omelettes, not to mention the occasional roast drumstick no doubt, he was oddly underweight. He matched his thin charges, though. "They ought to have a pond or a stream, with growing herbage to tear up. If I take my eyes off them, they wander off in search of better pasture. I go down and round them up with my stave--" He shook it in a listless manner. It was a splintered stick I wouldn't throw for the dog. "Sometimes they come home with a few feathers plucked, but normally nobody bothers them."