"Then they had to decide what to do with the dead lion?" suggested Anacrites. Again, nothing from them.
"Well," I countered, "you can't just shove a Circus lion behind a bush in Caesar's Gardens and hope the men who trim the lawns will just collect him in their clippings cart."
"So they put him back where he had come from?"
"Obvious thing to do."
Anacrites and I were doing the talking because the friends of Rumex were apparently no longer prepared to give. I pushed for one last query: "What caused the trouble originally between Saturninus and Calliopus?"
It seemed a neutral subject, a change of topic, and they agreed to speak again. "I heard it was an old row about a tally in the sparsio, " the first one told the other. The sparsio was the free-for-all when vouchers for prizes and even gifts in kind were hurled at the arena crowds as a bounty.
"Back in the old days." Even the second became less reticent. Only slightly, however.
"Nero stirred up trouble on purpose," I prompted. "He liked to watch the public fighting over the tickets. There was as much blood and broken bones up in the terraces as down on the sand."
"Calliopus and Saturninus had been partners, hadn't they?" Anacrites said. "So were they watching the Games together? Then did they fall out over a voucher in the scrum?"
"Saturninus grabbed the voucher first, but Calliopus trod on him and snatched it-"
The lottery had always caused havoc around the arena. Nero had enjoyed stirring up those wonderful human talents: greed, hatred, and misery. People used to place huge bets too, gambling on the chance of winning a prize, only to lose everything if they failed to grab a ticket. When the tickets were thrown by attendants or launched from the spitting voucher machine, chaos ensued. Holding on to a ticket was the first lottery; getting one for a worthwhile prize was the second game of chance. You could win three fleas, ten gourds-or a fully laden sailing ship. The only drawback was that if you bagged the day's big prize you were compelled to meet the Emperor.
"What was the controversial win?" I asked.
"The special."
"In cash?"
"Better."
"The galleon?"
"The villa."
"Oho! That must be how Calliopus acquired his desirable cliff-top gem at Surrentum."
"No wonder they fell out then," said Anacrites. "Saturninus must have been very unhappy at losing that." Ever the master of the banal. He and I knew exactly what that villa at Surrentum was now worth. Losing it, Saturninus had been screwed. It lent an extra dimension to Euphrasia's sarcastic interest in why Calliopus had sent his own wife Artemisia there now.
"They've been feuding ever since," said the chubby gladiator. "They hate each other's guts."
"A lesson to all who work in partnership," I murmured piously, aiming to worry Anacrites.
Unaware of the undercurrents, our informant went on: "We reckon they would kill one another, if they had the chance."
I smiled at Anacrites. That was going too far. I would never kill him. Not even though we both knew he had once tried to arrange a fatal accident for me.
We were partners now. Absolutely pals.
It was time to leave.
As we all stirred ourselves, Anacrites suddenly bent forwards as if on an impulse (though nothing he ever did was without some sly calculation). He drew back the coverlet from Rumex's face and gazed down somberly once more. Trying to prize out one last revelation, he was pretending to feel some ghastly fascination with the stiffening corpse.
Drama had never been my style. I walked quietly from the room.
Anacrites rejoined me without comment, followed by the dead man's two friends, whom I sensed would now guard him in an extremely subdued spirit. Whatever murky business was stirring in the world of the arena, Rumex was free of all pressure and all danger now. That might not be so for his colleagues.
We said our good-byes, Anacrites and I showing decent regret. The two gladiators saluted us with dignity. Only when I glanced back as we walked off down the corridor did I realize that the scene had affected them much more than we had understood. The big overweight one was leaning on the wall covering his eyes, obviously weeping. The other had turned away, green in the face, helplessly throwing up.
They were trained to accept bloody massacre in the ring. But for a man to be slain all unprepared in his bed was, for them, a deeply disturbing event.
It had churned me up too. Added to the anger I had first felt over Leonidas I felt a grim determination to expose whatever sordid business had now caused another death.
Thirty-four
IKNEW WHAT I intended to do. I was uncertain about Anacrites. I should have remembered that although spies often cause death indirectly, and often deliberately order it, they rarely have to look the results in the face. So he surprised me. Outside the barracks gate I paused, ready to tell him to lose himself while I took up the questioning.
He faced me. Those murky, grayish eyes met mine. His expression was grim.
"One each?" he asked.
I pulled out a coin and spun. He got Calliopus; I took Saturninus.
Without conferring we set off separately to interrogate the rival Tripolitanians. I had my normal methods at my disposal; how Anacrites would manage in a real tussle, without a bank of torture irons and a set of pervertedly inventive assistants, was less clear. I suppose somehow I trusted him. Maybe he even had some faith in me.
We met up again at Fountain Court that night. By then it was late. Before we set about comparisons we ate. I had pan-fried some sliced sausage which I stirred into a bean and leek braise, lightly flavored with aniseed, which Helena had prepared. Looking quizzical, she accepted my suggestion to lay a spare bowl for Anacrites. As Helena put a wand to a couple of oil lamps, I could see she was touched by his pleasure at being allowed for the first time to join our domestic life.
I winced. The bastard really wanted to be part of the family. He was yearning to be accepted, both at home and at work. What a creep.
Once we reported results, a pattern emerged. Parallel accusations and synchronized unhelpfulness. Saturninus had blamed Calliopus for Rumex's death-a crude act of revenge for his dead lion. Calliopus had denied that; according to him Saturninus had good reason himself to kill off his prize gladiator: Rumex had been having an affair with Euphrasia.
"Euphrasia? Rumex pronged his own lanista's wife?"
"Easy access to the storecupboard," cracked Anacrites.
It certainly made sense of our conversation with the other two gladiators and their hints about Saturninus not wanting to look too closely at the female admirers who pursued Rumex. Calliopus had put a real bloom on the story, even telling Anacrites that in the days when they briefly worked together, his rival's wife had flaunted herself at him. He made her out to be a trollop and Saturninus to be furious, bitter, vindictive, and without doubt prone to violence.
Helena looked dour. She and I had witnessed the supposed adulteress at home, standing up to her husband and teasingly defying his wishes when it suited her. Helena would merely describe that as having an independent streak.
"So is this yet another doe-eyed dame with a bit of brashness in her character, who sleeps with muscle-men for excitement? Or has the beautiful, gentle, utterly unflawed Euphrasia just been slandered appallingly?"
"I'll go and ask her," announced Helena Justina bluntly. Anacrites and I exchanged a faintly nervous glance.