Two For The Lions (16 page)

"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."

I returned his stare levelly. "The recipients would be on watch for the wrong set of behaviour?" He made no reply. "The man-eater might be mishandled. Imagine the scene: Leonidas had been accustomed to making journeys in a small travelling cage, and he knew what to expect at the end of it: the arena--and men for him to eat. He was hungry that night; his keeper told me so. On being released from the cage, strangers might unwittingly give him signal... that set off his training. He normally looked quiet, even friendly, but once he thought he was supposed to attack he would go for whoever he saw--perhaps even kill them""

"When he started rampaging, people would panic," Helena said.

"Anyone who was armed," I went on, "would have to try to kill the lion. A gladiator, for instance."

Finally Saturninus made a slight gesture with his hand. It merely said my suggestion was feasible. It did not say he had ever seen it happen. He would never confess that.

I still had no certain knowledge why Leonidas had been taken from his cage that night, where he went, or who was with him on his journey and at its violent aftermath. But I was convinced that I had just worked out how he came to die.

XXX

DID IT MATTER?

I toyed with a bunch of grape stems that had been mislaid among the lushly fringed spread on my feeding couch. Was I eccentric to care? Was my obsession with Leonidas unhealthy and pointless? Or was I right, and the noble beast's fate should be as significant to a civilised man as any unexplained killing of a fellow human being?

When Saturninus said that sending a man-eater in place of an untrained lion was dangerous, for a rare moment he had failed to keep his voice calm. Was he remembering the killing? And if he was present, was he in any way responsible for the whole sinister farce? He had already claimed he and Euphrasia had dined with the ex-praetor Urtica that night. I thought him easily the sort of man who knows that the best lies are closest to the truth; the truth could be not that Saturninus possessed a respectable alibi, but far worse: that poor Leonidas had also been the praetor's guest.

Pomponius Urtica had a new, "wild" girlfriend; he might want to impress her He was keen on the Circus; he was close to the lanistae. Saturninus for one seemed to view Urtica as a contact with useful influence. The man's status could be about to evaporate, however. If he had used his house for a private display, he was open to blackmail. If it were ever made known that he had commissioned death for domestic entertainment, then he would be destroyed politically.

Saturninus would of course cover up for him. This could be it: first he had indulged the man by secretly arranging some sort of combat" Then, when the display went wrong, Saturninus had boldly made the best of it. By saving the magistrate's reputation, he would acquire a patron with a permanent debt.

I was beginning to understand. One aspect I saw immediately was that anyone who threatened to expose the people involved was courting danger. Urtica was politically powerful. Saturninus kept a troupe of trained killers. He had been a gladiator himself; if crossed, he looked as if he could still avenge himself quite efficiently.

Across the space where the tables had been, now an expanse of newly swept geometric mosaic tiles, Helena Justina had observed me brooding. She held my gaze until my mood lightened, then she smiled quietly. I was feeling the strain of my cold. I would have liked to be taken home, but it was still too early to retire. Hospitality held us in its relentless grip.

Saturninus had been giving his attention to a bowl of nuts. Now he looked up suddenly and, as people do when you want to be left alone to snuffle, he insisted on making me share his vivacity. "So, Falco! The word is you're making my old partner Calliopus hop!"

This was the last subject I wanted to discuss. I applied the necessary discreet smile. "That's privileged information."

"I bet he's cheating the Censor to Hades and back." "He has employed an accountant with flair."

"But you're thwarting them?"

My irritation was hard to check. "Saturninus, you're too intelligent to think you can give me dinner then expect me to leak secrets."

I knew better than to discuss my report with anyone, even Calliopus himself: From what I knew of bureaucracy it was perfectly possible for Falco & Partner to substantiate a million-sesterces fraud, yet still to encounter some slimy high-powered bureaucrat who would decide there were policy reasons, or ancient precedents, or issues affecting his own pension, that made him advise his great imperial master to shelve the expose.

Saturninus never gave up. "The rumour in the Forum is that Calliopus looks miserable."

"That," interrupted Helena Justina calmly, "will be because his wife has found out about his mistress'" She smoothed the cover of the cushion she was leaning on. "He must be afraid Artemisia will insist on him following her to Surrentum at this awful time of year."

"Is that what you would have arranged, Helena?" asked Euphrasia, with a sidelong glance at me.

"No," said Helena. "If I was departing Rome because my husband had offended me, I would either leave the notice of divorce propped against his feeding bowl--or he would be right there in the carriage with me so I could tell him what I thought."

Saturninus seemed honestly puzzled. "You would do as your husband directed."

"I doubt it," said Helena.

Saturninus looked affronted for a moment, as though he were not used to a woman disagreeing with him--though from our observations that evening at table, he was just as used to it as anyone. Then he decided to duck the issue with more nosy questions. "So! Now Calliopus must await the results of your enquiries!"

I looked him straight in the eye. "No peace for me and my partner. We're conducting a composite audit, not just random checks."

"What does that mean?" smiled Saturninus.

I had a stinking cold, but I was nobody's helpless sparring stake. I made it pleasant, since we were dining in his house: "It means you're next."

For the rest of the evening we discussed where to buy garlands in December, religion, pepper, and the wilder sidebranches of formal epic poetry. Very nice. I let Helena do the work" She had been brought up to shine in society. A man with his head blocked so he can only breathe through his teeth is entitled to sink down scowling and pretend to be an uneducated Aventine pig.

"Helena Justina is admirably erudite," Saturninus complimented me. "And she speaks of pepper as if she owned a whole warehouse!"

She did. I wondered if he had somehow found out. If not, I had no intention of revealing her private wealth.

I had thought Helena might want to ask Saturninus and Euphrasia what they knew about silphium. They came from the right continent, its geographical habitat. But Saturninus was not a man into whose hands she would deliver her younger brother. Justinus was no innocent, but he was a fugitive, therefore vulnerable. It was unlikely Camillus Justinus would ever seek to join a troupe of gladiators--although it was not unknown for the sons of senators to take that course when desperate for cash, or a defiant new life. The thought of our missing lad catching the lanista's eye was creepily suggestive. This was an entrepreneur, a procurer of men. Saturninus would acquire--for any purposes--anyone who seemed useful to him.

That was why we were here tonight.

Had I needed proof; it was to come as we were leaving. In the course of what seemed like a harmless chat about how professional poets in Rome have to operate through patronage or starve, I had let slip that I myself wrote for relaxation. Always a mistake. People want to know if your work has been copied up by scrollsellers, or if you have given readings socially. Saying no shrinks your standing; saying yes makes their eyes glaze defensively. Though I mentioned that I sometimes toyed with the idea of hiring a hall to give an evening of my love poems and satires, it was said ruefully. Everyone, including me, was convinced it was a dream.

I spoke from the clear assumption that self-respect debarred me from toadying to some wealthier man as his client. I would never consent to be a mere commodity, and I wasn't the type to enjoy being grateful. Saturninus lived in a different world and seemed unaware of my attitude: "That's an attractive idea, Falco! I always hankered to expand into something more cultured--I'll invest in your venue with pleasure--"

I let it slide past me as if I had become too feverish to respond. This had seemed a long evening; it was time to go. I needed to be safely back in our litter before I lost my temper. Our host was an entrepreneur all right: the bastard was openly trying to procure me.