I looked around the group. "I suppose nobody's been indulging in a spot of off-duty target practice using Leonidas?"
"Oh no," they said, with the kind of assurance that never quite rings true.
I did not seriously suppose they would risk annoying Calliopus by damaging the lion. Even if Leonidas only brought in official fees, a working executioner was still better than a dead one, at least until the lanista had recouped his original purchase price. Anyway there must be cachet for Calliopus in owning the beast who destroyed the most notorious criminals. The forthcoming punishment of Thurius, the murderer, was attracting much public interest. And Calliopus did seem genuinely upset to lose Leonidas; that was why I felt so troubled that he was pretending the death was unexceptional.
Whatever else I might have extracted from these gladiators was forestalled. Calliopus himself arrived, presumably to tell the men to button up, just as he had obviously told their colleagues in the palaestra. Rather than have a confrontation at that point, I nodded to him and left, casually taking with me one of the training spears.
I made my way swiftly back to the cage where the lion lay. Since the door still stood open, I went straight inside. Using my knife to widen the wound in the lion's ribcage, I managed to withdraw the protruding spearhead. Then I laid it side by side with the one I was carrying: they did not match. The one that killed the lion had a longer, narrower head and was attached to its shaft with a different length of metal. I'm no expert, but it was clearly forged on a different anvil by a smith with a different style.
Buxus came in.
"Does Calliopus use a particular armorer?"
"Can't afford it."
"So where does he obtain his spears?"
"Wherever they're on discount that week."
Why do I always take on jobs involving cheapskates?
"Buxus, tell me: did Leonidas have any enemies?"
The keeper looked at me. He was a slave, with the usual slave's unhealthy pallor, wearing a dirty brown tunic and rough, oversized sandals. Between the thongs his lumpen feet were badly scratched by the straw he spent his days in. Fleas and flies, of which there were all kinds in his working environment, had feasted on his legs and arms. Neither as underweight as he might have been nor as downtrodden either, he had a cautious face with pouchy eyes. His gaze seemed more open than I expected; that probably meant Buxus had been selected by Calliopus to convey whatever rubbish his master hoped to palm off on me.
"Enemies? I don't expect the men he was due to eat liked him, Falco."
"But they're in chains. Thurius can hardly have taken a night off from the condemned cell and nipped here to get in first." I wondered whether Buxus himself might be involved in the killing; this death, like most murders, could well have a domestic cause. But his affection for the great creature and his anger when he discovered his lion's murder both seemed genuine. "Were you the last person to see Leonidas alive?"
"I topped up his water last night. He was a bit peckish but all right then."
"Still moving about?"
"Yes, he had a bit of a prowl. Like most big cats he hates-hated-being caged. It makes them pace around restlessly. I don't like seeing them get that way. They go mad, just the same as you or I would do if we were locked up."
"Did you go inside the cage last night?"
"No, I couldn't be bothered to fetch the key to open up so I just sloshed his drink through the bars with a pannikin and whispered a sweet good night."
"Did he answer?"
"Bloody big roar. I told you he was hungry."
"Why didn't you feed him then?"
"We keep him short."
"Why? He's not due for the arena yet. What's the reason for starving him?"
"Lions don't have to have meat every day. They enjoy it more with an appetite."
"You sound like my girlfriend! All right; you sloshed in a jug or two, then what? Do you sleep nearby?"
"Loft next door."
"What's the nightly routine? How is the menagerie kept secure?"
"All the cages are locked all the time. We often have members of the public coming to look at the animals."
"They get up to all sorts?"
"We don't take chances."
"Were any strangers around last night?"
"Not that I saw. People don't usually trek out here after dark."
I returned to security arrangements. "I gather the keys are kept in the office? What happens when you need to muck out and at feeding time? Are you allowed to use the keys yourself?"
"Oh yes." I had rightly deduced that the keeper enjoyed a position of some trust here.
"And at night?"
"The whole menagerie is locked up. The boss sees to it himself. The keys go into the office and the office is locked when Calliopus goes home. He has a house in town of course-"
"Yes, I know." Plus several others; that was why Calliopus had been favored by a visit from Anacrites and me. "I expect you close up fairly early in the evening. Calliopus will want to go to the baths before dinner. A man of his standing is bound to be dining formally most nights, I suppose?"
"I dare say." The slave had little idea of social life among free citizens apparently.
"His wife's demanding?"
"Artemisia has to take him as he is."
"Girlfriends?"
"I've no idea," declared Buxus, obviously lying. "He doesn't often stay late here anyway. He gets whacked out drilling the men all day; he wants his rest."
"Well that leaves you to your own devices." Buxus said nothing as I changed tack, assuming that I was now being critical of himself. "But what would happen, Buxus, if one of the beasts were ill in the night, or if you had a fire? Presumably you don't have to run all the way into Rome to ask your master for the keys? If you have no access to the menagerie he could lose everything in an emergency."
Buxus paused, then admitted, "We have an arrangement."
"And what's that?"
"Never you mind."
I let it pass. Probably there was a duplicate key hanging on a nail somewhere really obvious. I could find out the details when I knew for sure it was relevant. If my guess was right, any competent burglar who cased the joint could have found that nail.
"So did everything go smoothly last night, Buxus?"
"Yes."
"No sick beasts needing the farrier's attention? No alarms?"
"No, Falco. All quiet."
"Did you have a girl in? A gambling mate?"
He jumped. "What are you accusing me of?"
"Just a man's right to company. So did you?"
"No."
He was probably lying again, this time on his own behalf. He realized I was on to him. But he was a slave; Calliopus was unlikely to tolerate open socializing of any kind, so Buxus would understandably want to keep his habits to himself. I could extract details if I needed to. It was too soon in the game to start heavy-handed questioning.
I sighed. With a cold corpse at your feet, it's all the same. That this one was a lion did not change how I felt. The same old dreary depression at life being wasted for some barely credible motive and probably by some lowlife who just thought he could get away with it. The same anger and indignation. Then the same questions to ask: Who saw him last? How did he spend his last evening? Who were his associates? What did he eat last? Whom did he eat, in fact?
"Were you the only person who had dealings with the lion, Buxus?"
"Him and me were like brothers."
When you investigate murders, that claim often turns out to be untrue. "Oh yes?"
"Well he was used to me, and I was used to him-as far as I wanted to be. I never turned my back on him."
The keeper was still facing Leonidas now. With his eyes as much on the lion as if it were still liable to spring and maul him, Buxus crouched down to where I had set the spear and the bloody spearhead alongside one another. Calliopus might be trying to hush this up, but I had a feeling Buxus wanted to know who had killed his powerful pal. "Falco-" His voice was low as he gestured to the snapped-off spike. "Where's the shaft off the one that did for him?"