Two For The Lions

by Lindsey Davis

  "And so you were too proud to go back before you made your name?" Helena and he were like old friends laughing together sympathetically over the faults of one of them. Saturninus was pretending to be honest; Helena pretended to go along with it.

  "Rome was something of a shock," Saturninus admitted. "I had money and education. In that respect I could match any youth of my age from the great senatorial families but I was a provincial and debarred from political life at a high level. I could have engaged in trade--imports and exports--but it was not my style; well, I might as well have stayed in Lepcis and done that. The other alternative was to become some sort of dreary poet, like a Spaniard begging for favours at court--" Euphrasia snorted at this suggestion; Helena smiled; Saturninus acknowledged them. "All the time I saw beer-swilling lanks from Gallic tribes being admitted to the Senate with full honours, while Tripolitanians did not rate the same distinction."

  "They will," I assured him. Vespasian had once been governor of Africa; he would extend the senatorial franchise once he thought of it. Previous emperors had done so for provinces they knew well (hence the long bearded senatorial Gauls Saturninus so despised, who had been championed by loopy old Claudius). In fact, if Vespasian hadn't had the idea yet of doing something for Africa, I could nudge him along with a report. Anything to look helpful to the government. And Vespasian would like it, being a cheap measure.

  "Too late for me!" Saturninus was right; he was too old and in a vile profession.

  "So you decided to beat the system?" asked Helena quietly.

  "I was young and hotheaded. Of course I was the type who had to take on the world in the hardest way available."

  "You became a gladiator."

  "And a good one," he boasted pleasantly.

  "Am I right that willing volunteers have greater status?"

  "You still have to win your fights, lady. Otherwise you have all the status of a corpse being dragged out with hooks."

  Helena looked down at her sweetmeat bowl.

  "When I won my wooden sword, it gave me a kind of bitter pleasure to become a lanista," Saturninus went on after a moment. "Senators were allowed to maintain troupes of gladiators; for them it was just an exotic hobby. I used the profession for real. And it worked; it gave me all the status I wanted in the end."

  This man was an intriguing mixture of ambition and cynicism" He still looked as much like a gladiator as any slave sold into that life, yet he enjoyed his present luxuries quite naturally. Before he joined the fight business, he had grown up in Tripolitania being served his food by respectful minions and receiving it in elegant tableware. His wife Euphrasia ordered in the courses at dinner with an imperious wave; she too was fully at ease with their lifestyle She wore a huge necklace with rows of twisted wires and copper disks, including fiery carbuncles; it looked both exotic and antique, and was perhaps inherited.

  "Yours is a typical Roman story," I said. "The rules say you belong where your money places you. But unless your name is Cornelius or Claudius, and your family once owned a house at the base of the Palatine inside the walls of Romulus, then you have to manoeuvre your way to a place. New men need to push hard to gain acceptance. But it can be done."

  "With respect, Saturninus," Helena joined in, "it's not entirely to do with being provincial. Someone like Marcus has just as hard a battle."

  I shrugged. "The Senate may be closed to many of us, but so what? Who needs the Senate? Who wants the bother of it, frankly? Anyone can move wherever he wants, if he has the staying power. You prove the point, Saturninus. You fought your way up, literally. Now you dine with city magistrates." He showed no reaction as I alluded to Pomponius Urtica. "You lack nothing of luxury or social position"--I decided not to mention power, though he must have that too--"even though your occupation is sordid."

  Saturninus gave me a wry grin. "The lowest possible element--both pimps and butchers. We procure men, but as dead meat."

  "Is that how you see it?"

  I had thought his mood dark, but Saturninus was thoroughly enjoying the conversation. "What do you want me to say, Falco? Pretend I supply my men as some religious act? Human sacrifice, a blood payment to appease the gods?"

  "Human sacrifice has always been illegal for Romans."

  "Yet that's how it all started," Helena demurred. "Pairs of gladiators were matched during funeral games held by the great families. It was a rite, perhaps intended to confer immortality on their dead by the shedding of blood. Even though gladiators fought in the Cattle Market Forum, it was still portrayed as a private ceremony."

  "And that's where everything differs nowadays!" Saturninus leant forwards, shaking his forefinger. "Now holding a private bout is disallowed." He was right: the motive would be suspect. I wondered if this had particular relevance" Had there been some private bout recently? Or had somebody at least tried to commission one?

  "That's the political element," I said. "Now combats are given to bribe the mob during elections--or to glorify the Emperor. The praetors get a look in once a year in December, but otherwise, only the Emperor may offer Games to the public. A private display would be regarded as shocking and self-indulgent--and in effect treasonous. The Emperor would certainly view any man who commissioned one as hostile to him."

  Saturninus knew how to listen completely impassively. But I felt I was close to some truth. Were we still debating Pomponius Urtica, perhaps?

  "Without the ceremony, it would just be a lust for blood," said Helena.

  "Why?" Euphrasia, the elegant wife, made a rare contribution: "Is it more cruel to shed blood in a private situation than before a huge crowd?"

  "The arena enshrines a national ritual," said Helena. "I do think it's cruel, and I am not alone" But gladiatorial games set the rhythm of life in Rome, along with the chariot races, the naumachia, and theatrical dramas."

  "And many combats are a formal punishment for criminals," I pointed out.

  Helena winced. "That's the cruellest part--when prisoners fight, naked and unprotected, each knowing that if he prevails against one opponent he will only be kept in the arena and made to fight another, one who is fresh as well as desperate."

  She and I had had this argument before. "But you don't even enjoy watching the professionals, whose swordplay is a matter of skill," I said.

  "No. Though that's not as bad as what happens to the criminals."

  "It's supposed to be redeeming for them. Their shame is denounced by the crowd; the statues of gods are veiled so they shall not see the proclamation of the condemned men's crimes; and justice is seen to be done."

  Helena still shook her head. "It ought to make the crowd feel ashamed to partake in the event."

  "Don't you want criminals punished?"

  "I find what happens too routine; that's why I dislike it."

  "It's for the public good," I disagreed.

  "At least they are being seen to pay a penalty," Euphrasia put in.

  "If you don't think it's humane," I wrangled with Helena, "what else do you think we should do with a monster like Thurius? He put unknown numbers of women through horrendous experiences, killed and dismembered them. Simply to fine him, or send him into exile, would be intolerable. And unlike a private citizen, he can't be ordered to fall on his sword when he is apprehended and disgraced; he's not conditioned to do it and anyway, he's a slave; he's not allowed a sword unless he's confined in the arena and is fighting as a punishment."

  Helena shook her head. "I know that prisoners being condemned to die in public is supposed to warn others. I know it's vengeance for the public. I just don't want to be there."

  Saturninus leant towards her. He had been listening in silence while we argued" "If the state orders an execution, should it not be carried out openly?"

  "Perhaps," Helena agreed. "But the arena uses punishment as a fom1 of entertainment. That's sinking to the criminals' level."

  "There is some difference," the lanista explained. "To extinguish life in the arena, by the swipe of a lion's paw or w
ith the sword, should be quick and fairly efficient. You called it routine--but to me that is what makes it pem1issible" It's neutral--dispassionate. It's not the same as torture; it's nothing like this criminal Thurius deliberately inflicting prolonged pain, and gloating over his victims' suffering."

  His wife biffed him with one graceful hand. "Now you're going to tell us about the nobility of a gladiator's death."

  He was blunt. "No. That's waste; it costs money; every time I have to see it I feel sick. If it's one of mine who dies, I'm angry too."

  "Now you're talking about your expensively trained professionals, not condemned men," I smiled. "So you'd like to see fights where they all walk away? Just a display of skill?"

  "Nothing wrong with skill! But I like what the crowd likes, Marcus Didius."

  "Always the pragmatist?"

  "Always the businessman. There is a demand; I provide what is wanted. If I did not do the job, someone else would."

  The traditional excuse from suppliers of vice! That was why lanistae were called pimps. Since I had eaten at his table, I refrained from saying it. I was tainted too.

  Euphrasia liked to stir things, apparently; she had a provocative streak: "I think you two guests have a big disagreement about cruelly and humanity!"

  We lived as man and wife; by definition our disagreements were never sophisticated.

  Helena probably resented a near stranger commenting on our relationship. "Marcus and I both agree that an accusation of cruelly is the worst insult you can offer anyone. Cruel emperors are damned in the public memory and removed from the record. And of course "humanity" is a Latin word--a Roman invention." For an unsnobbish woman she could lay on a superior air like honey on a cinnamon plait.

  "And how do Romans define their wonderful humanity?" asked Euphrasia satirically.

  "Kindness," I supplied. Restraint. Education. A civilized attitude towards all people."

  "Even slaves?"

  "Even lanistae," I said drily.

  "Oh even them!" Euphrasia glanced sideways at her husband wickedly.

  "I want vicious criminals punished," I said. "Watching it gives me no personal pleasure, but it does seem right to be a witness. I don't feel I lack humanity--though I do concede, I am glad to live with a girl who has a fuller share of it."

  Euphrasia was still harping: "And so you are eager to see Thurius fed to a lion?"

  "Certainly." I half turned on my elbow to look squarely at her husband. "Which brings us rather neatly to the particular lion who had been booked to do the job."

  For a brief instant our host let his guard slip and his displeasure show. It was evident that Saturninus did not wish to discuss what had happened to Leonidas.

  XXIX

  EUPHRASIA KNEW SHE had said the wrong thing: Leonidas was a closed subject, though she may not have been told why. Without turning a hair, she waved the servants to clear away the desert course. Four or five discreet waiting staff moved in on silently padding feet to lift out the tables, complete with their litter and used bowls; these slaves conveniently passed in front of our couches, causing a break in the conversation. It gave Saturninus time to recover his composure. The dark furrow on his brow cleared.

  He was never going to be easy when cornered, however. "What," he asked me directly, "does Calliopus say happened?"

  He was too clever to be finessed. "Some of his bestiarii released Leonidas during a prank at the barracks, allegedly. The lion played up and ended the night with a spear in him. The ringleader is supposed to be a certain Iddibal." "Iddibal?" Saturninus' curiosity sounded genuine.

  "A young bestiarius in the Calliopus troupe. He looks like nothing special--though he may be running wild. He has some woman openly chasing after him."

  Saturninus was silent for a second. Was that because he knew Iddibal had had nothing to do with the Leonidas incident? Then he spoke, as if closing the matter, or trying to: "Calliopus ought to know what happens in his own yard, Falco."

  "Oh I reckon he knows all right!"

  "That sounds as if you suspect something else happened, Falco," Euphrasia interjected. Her husband shot her another irritated look. She had a mercurial way of being all tact one minute, then turning willful on him.

  I cleared my throat. I was starting to feel weary, and would have preferred to shelve this. Helena reached over and squeezed my hand. "Marcus Didius is an informer; of course he believes all he is told!"

  Euphrasia laughed, perhaps more than the irony demanded.

  "Is it true," Helena then asked Saturninus, "That you and Calliopus are serious rivals?"

  "Best of friends," he lied valiantly.

  "Somebody said you had quarrelled when in partnership?"

  "Oh we have had a few skirmishes. He's a typical Oean--a devious buffoon. Mind you, he would probably say, trust a Lepcis man to insult him!"

  "Is he married?" Helena asked Euphrasia.

  "To Artemisia."

  "I see her as somewhat downtrodden." I revived and joined in again. "My partner and I unearthed signs that Calliopus has a mistress--and as a result he's currently supposed to be involved in a huge quarrel with his wife about his after-hours activities."

  "Artemisia is a nice woman," Euphrasia declared firmly.

  Helena scowled. "Poor thing then! Do you know her well, Euphrasia?"

  "Not well." Euphrasia grinned. "She is from Oea, after all, and I am a good Lepcis citizen. I see her at the baths sometimes. She wasn't there today; somebody said she has gone to their villa at Surrentum."

  "For Saturnalia?" Helena arched her fine eyebrows in astonishment. Surrentum has the best views in Italy and in summer is delightful. December can be bleak up on any seaside cliff, however. I did hope that the work of Falco & Partner had not caused the poor woman's exile.

  "Her husband thinks Artemisia is in need of sea air," Euphrasia jeered; Helena tutted angrily at the unfairness of men"

  Saturninus and I exchanged self-righteous male glances. "So your skirmishes with your old partner," I asked him bluntly, "include the escapade with your leopardess at the Saepta yesterday? I heard that Calliopus' men were at the scene."

  "Oh he was behind it," Saturninus agreed. Well, there was no point in his denying it"

  "Any firm evidence?"

  "Of course not."

  "And what can you tell me about a sack of grain that found its way off the Arx today and turned out to be poisonous?"

  "I know nothing and can tell you nothing, Falco." Well, I expected that.

  "I'm glad you aren't taking the credit. If the Sacred Geese of Juno had guzzled any of the poison, Rome would face a national crisis."

  "Shocking," he said impassively.

  "Calliopus seems to be the regular recipient of sacks that have fallen off the back of a cart'."

  Saturninus was not in the least put out. "Roadside thieves nip things off when carts slow down at crossroads, Falco."

  "Yes, it's an old dodge. And a better sounding explanation than that the supplier allowed a regular fiddle to owners of menagerie animals."

  "Oh not us. We buy our feed at cost, through proper channel."

  "Well, I certainly recommend that for the next few months! Do your "proper channels' include the Granary of the Galbae?"

  "I believe we get better terms from the Granary of the Lollii."

  "Very astute. Incidentally, Calliopus lost a fine male ostrich who ate some of the bad corn."

  "I'm desolate for him."

  Helena had noticed that I was flagging again: "Calliopus does seem to have rather bad luck with his menagerie. Or perhaps not. Think about when he first lost his lion: the story of a prank on the yard is clearly untrue. Evidence shows that Leonidas had been taken from his cage and transported elsewhere. Calliopus is either very stupid indeed to believe what he alleges Iddibal did--or he knows the real truth and is foolishly trying to delude Marcus Didius."

  "Why would Calliopus do that?" asked Euphrasia, wide eyed and giggling.

  "The easy solution, the one we are
supposed to believe, is that Calliopus has decided to exact his own revenge for his lion's death and he doesn't want interference."

  "And is there a complicated solution, Helena?"

  I was secretly watching Saturninus, but he managed to look merely polite.

  "One explanation," Helena decided, "would be that Calliopus was fully aware of what was planned that night."

  For all the interest he showed, Saturninus could have been listening to her describing a new Greek novel.

  "Why would he want his lion killed?" Euphrasia scoffed.

  "I don't imagine he did. Whatever murky business was in hand, Leonidas probably died by accident."

  "When Calliopus saw the body, his reactions seemed genuine," I confirmed. In fact his anger and surprise had been the only sure signals he evinced that day. "But I'm damned certain he knew all along that Leonidas was being taken away in the night."

  The way Saturninus was now staring fixedly at his fingernails marked a change in him. What had given him pause? That Calliopus knew of the plan? No, he had heard Helena say so without a flicker of reaction. I reckon he knew Leonidas was being taken away. Was the key word "Leonidas'? I remembered a couple of puzzles I had seen at the menagerie: the name board for Leonidas stored in another part of the building, and the second lion being first hidden away then returned to the main corridor, if that was his usual place.

  "My opinion," I submitted crisply, "is that Leonidas was a substitute."

  "A substitute?" Even Helena was surprised.

  "Calliopus owns a second lion, a new one just imported. I think Draco was supposed to have gone on the mystery tour that night."

  Saturninus remained silent. This could all be nothing to do with him. Or he might be in the thick of it

  "I think," I said, "Calliopus for some reason had Draco and Leonidas secretly switched."

  Saturninus finally looked up. "It would be very dangerous," he said slowly, "if someone was expecting a freshly captured wild animal, to send them a trained man-eater instead."