Two For The Lions

Tripolitania: May A. D. 74

Fifty

TRIPOLITANIA.

Among all the bumptious provinces in the Empire, Tripolitania led by a long head. The Three Towns have a history of independence that is positively shocking. The only thing remotely in their favor, in my view, was the fact that they were not Greek.

They were never through and through Carthaginian either. This accounts for their self-willed attitude; when Carthage foundered, they were laughing. First established by Phoenicians, sure enough, and possibly recolonized on later occasions from Carthage itself, nonetheless the three great seashore cities had consistently retained their independent status. When Rome smashed the power of Carthage they could claim to be sufficiently separate to avoid punishment. While Carthage was torn down, its populace enslaved, its religion banned, its fields sewn with salt, and its aristocracy fined into oblivion, the Three Towns pleaded innocent and claimed immunity. Tripolitania had never had to surrender formally. It had never been made a military zone. It was not colonized by Roman military veterans. Although there were legal circuit visits, it did not even have a regular administrative presence from the office of the governor of Proconsular Africa, under whose jurisdiction this region fell in theory.

Tripolitania was now Punic, going on Roman. With every appearance of sincerity its people were giving themselves Roman town planning, Roman inscriptions, and what passed for Roman names. The Three Towns were collectively known as the Emporia, and that summed them up: an international trade center. It follows that they were all crammed with well-dressed, thriving ethnic millionaires.

My party was clean and civilized, but when we landed at Sabratha we felt like ragged tinkers with no business to be there.

Two points need to be mentioned. First point: Sabratha is the One Town without a harbor. When I say "landed" I mean our ship beached itself on the strand unexpectedly and very violently with a horrid rending noise. The captain, who had become a close friend of my brother-in-law Famia, was-we discovered after the abrupt landing-nowhere near sober at the time.

Second point: Although we landed at Sabratha, I had given the captain very precise orders to sail somewhere else.

It seemed clear enough to me; it ought to be my decision. I was in charge of our group. What's more, I had found the vessel at Apollonia, I haggled and commissioned her, then I arranged the loading of the splendid Libyan stock Famia had somehow managed to buy for the Greens. Given that I supported the Blues, this was pretty magnanimous. It is true that Famia had actually paid for the ship. In the end, in the crucial matter of winning the captain's confidence, Famia's amphorae were what carried weight. By bargaining hard for the horses he had managed to leave enough Green funds over for a substantial number of amphorae.

Famia wanted to go to Sabratha because he thought horses were brought there from the interior oases by the desert tribes. He had emptied Cyrenaïca, but was still buying. The Greens had always been profligate. And the more horses he bought, the more banker's orders he could cash, releasing more cash for wine.

The significant tribe from the interior was that of the Garamantes, those whose thrashing by the Roman commander Valerius Festus had already been discussed by Justinus and me when we thought they might have captured us. In view of their very recent defeat it was likely that they had ceased trading, at least temporarily. However, from the great oasis of Cydame caravans still wound their way to Sabratha bearing gold, carbuncles, ivory, cloth, leather, dye stuffs, marble, rare woods, and slaves, not to mention exotic animals. The town's commercial emblem was an elephant.

I was after men who traded in wild beasts, but elephants did not come into it, thank the gods.

"Famia," I had said back in Apollonia, speaking slowly and pleasantly, lest I offend or confuse the drunken bastard, "I need to go to Oea and I need to go to Lepcis. Either will do to start with, though we shall reach Lepcis first. Sabratha is the one place we can leave out."

"All right, Marcus," Famia had replied, smiling in that aggravating way all drunks do when they are about to forget everything you have said. As soon as my back was turned the slippery deviant must have begun palling up with the captain, a swine who turned out to be just as bad as Famia.

When I felt the jolt as we scraped up the rocks and sand at Sabratha, I emerged from below where I had been paralyzed with seasickness; I had to grip my hands to keep them from squeezing my brother-in-law's throat. Now I knew why the journey had seemed endless. It ought to have been over days before.

It was absolutely pointless trying to remonstrate. I had now realized Famia floated in a state of incurable inebriation, never totally sobering up. His daily intake propelled him into wilder moods or duller troughs, but he never let himself hit the real world. If I belted him into oblivion as I wanted to do, when we returned to Rome he would moan to my sister and then Maia would hate me.

I felt helpless. I had lost some of my natural supporters too. As Justinus had requested, we had left him behind at Berenice. When we put him off, everything between him and Claudia had still seemed set for tragedy. Then, when he had unloaded his meager luggage and bade farewell to the rest of us on the quayside, he had marched up to the young lady.

"You had better kiss me good-bye then," we had heard him say to her quietly. Claudia thought twice, then pecked him on the cheek, bouncing off again rapidly.

Army-trained for speedy reactions, Camillus Justinus seized the advantage and got one arm around her. "No, I meant properly-"

His steadiness pressurized her so Claudia had to do it. He made the kiss last a long time, holding her about as close as possible without actually committing an impropriety. He had the sense to hang on until she gave up resisting and burst into tears. Consoling her as she wept on his shoulder, Justinus signaled that he intended to keep her with him and for us to collect Claudia's belongings. Then he started talking to her in a low voice.

"Jupiter, I've seen what happens when Quintus has a chat with a girl who secretly thinks he's wonderful!"

Helena paused on the way to pack Claudia's luggage for her. She gave me a piercing look. On reflection, I could not remember if I had ever told Helena about her brother disappearing up the tower in the German forest with the prophetess who subsequently left him lovelorn. I saw him come down from the tower later, visibly altered-and it had been easy to guess why. "Perhaps he's apologizing," Helena suggested caustically.

Claudia, far from passive even when she was crying her heart out, interrupted Justinus with a long, fierce argument, the gist of which I could not catch. He answered, then she tried to hold off from him, striking aggravated blows on his chest with the palms of her hands until he was forced to step back by degrees almost to the edge of the harbor. She could not bring herself to shove him into the water, and they both knew it.

Justinus let Claudia rant at him until she fell silent. He asked a question. She nodded. Still balanced rather precariously on the edge of the quay, they put their arms around each other. I noticed his face was white, as if he knew he was condemning himself to trouble, but perhaps he thought the trouble he already knew about was better than any other sort.

I myself suppressed a grin, thinking about the fortune Justinus had just corralled. My nephew Gaius mimed being violently sick into the harbor at the soppy scene he had just witnessed. Helena went and sat by herself in the prow of the ship, stricken by seeing her younger brother adopt a life of his own.

The rest of us reboarded. We cast off. Justinus called out that they would try to catch us up before we left Lepcis.

I still thought they were doomed. But people had said that about Helena and me. It had given us a good reason to stick it out. Good omens let you down. Bad ones give you something to fight against.

"Sabratha seems a very attractive city," Helena tried to mollify me as I absorbed the mistake Famia had then landed on us. That was before she found out there was a Sanctuary of Tanit, causing her to take a tighter grip on both the baby and my nephew Gaius.

"I'm sure the rumors of child sacrifice are simply designed to give Tanit a notorious aura and increase her authority."

"Oh yes," scoffed Helena. Rumors of revolting religious rites can appall the most sensible girls.

"No doubt the reason for all those tiny sarcophagi is that those who revere the Punic gods also love little children dearly."

"And have the bad luck to lose a lot of them at a very similar age… What are we going to do, Marcus?"

Helena was losing her courage. Travelers always hit low moments. Enduring a long journey, only to find at the very moment you expect to arrive that you are actually two hundred miles away from your destination (and have to go backwards) can reduce the bravest soul to despair.

"Let's hope Scilla won't mind me turning up a week late." Scilla had insisted on making her own way to Lepcis Magna-an example of the wayward attitude that made me suspicious of her as a client. "We can either try to persuade Famia to sail back again-or leave him looking at horses' teeth, hope one of them bites him, and book another ship ourselves. While we're here let's look around like tourists," I offered. It was my responsibility to make available to my family the Empire's rich variety of cultural experience.

"Oh not another lousy foreign forum!" muttered Gaius. "And I can do without any more funny foreign temples, thanks a lot."

Like a decent paterfamilias I ignored the boy. His parents dealt with arguments by swiping him: I wished to set him an example of benign tolerance. Gaius had yet to be impressed by that, but I was a patient man.

Like most cities in the narrow hinterland of North Africa, Sabratha had a superb setting right on the waterfront, where there was a strong smell of fish. Houses, shops, and baths almost merged with the deep, deep blue ocean. The cheapest of them were built of unclad local stone, which was a reddish limestone of the most porous kind, readily pocketed with holes. The civic center also played to the sea views. The spacious, airy forum was not only foreign in tinge as Gaius feared, but its main temple-to Liber Pater, a Punic deity he definitely viewed askance-had partly tumbled down in a recent earthquake and was not yet rebuilt. We tried not to think about earthquakes. We had enough problems.

We prowled about like lost souls. At one end of the forum were the Curia, Capitolium, and a Temple of Serapis.

"Ooh look, Gaius-another funny foreign shrine." We climbed its base and sat there, all tired and dispirited.

Gaius amused himself making a rude noise. "Uncle Marcus, you're not going to be thwarted by that fat bastard Famia?"

"Of course not," I lied, wondering where I could buy a spicy meat rissole and whether in this new town it would give me any new kinds of bellyache. I spotted a stall, and fetched fishcakes for all of us. We ate them like disreputable tourists, an experience which left me covered with oil.

"When you eat you get more food on you than Nux," Helena commented. I wiped my mouth very carefully before I kissed her-a politeness which always reduced her to giggles. She leaned against me wearily. "I suppose you are just sitting here waiting for a scantily dressed female acrobat to come along."

"If it's one of my old Tripolitanian girlfriends she'll be a hundred and on crutches by now."

"That sounds like a good old Tripolitanian lie… There is one thing that you could do," Helena suggested.

"What-gaze around at this splendid, salt-tanged city with its jostling merchants and shippers and landowners, all totally disinterested in me or my problems, then cut my throat?"

Helena patted my knee. "Hanno comes from Sabratha. Since we are here, why not find out where he lives?"

"Hanno isn't part of my mission for the new client," I said.

So we all jumped up and made enquiries straightaway.

Fifty-one

UNLIKE THE GREEK stiffs of Cyrene, the easygoing millionaires of Sabratha looked to the western end of the Inner Sea for their profits, which were obviously magnificent. Their thoroughly modern trade was with Sicily, Spain, Gaul, and of course Italy; their prized commodities were not only the exotics brought in from the desert in caravans, but local olive oil, fish-pickle, and pottery. The streets of their fine city had become conduits for barter, crowded with shoving groups of many nationalities. It was clear that the old town on the seaboard would not long satisfy the wealthy, and those who were not already planning to expand into a more spacious area would be demanding smarter suburbs in the near future. It was the kind of town that within a couple of generations would become unrecognizable.

For the present, however, those who could afford the best lived east of the forum. In Sabratha the best was palatial. Hanno had a swank mansion with a Hellenistic ground plan but tip-top Roman decor. From the street door we passed through a small corridor to a courtyard surrounded by columns. A huge room spanned the far side of the yard, where plasterers on a trestle were remodeling a faded fresco of the Four Seasons into Our Master Courageously Hunting: Libyan lions, out-of-scale panthers, and a rather surprised spotty snake (with a dado of doves on a fountain and little bunny rabbits eating shrubs). Swags of deep-dyed curtaining brightened the doorways to side rooms. Hanno's taste in marble was extraordinary, and the low table where visitors deposited their sun hats was a huge slab of African hardwood polished so you could check today's deterioration in your pimples while you waited for the steward to report who had arrived.

He was not reporting to Hanno himself; Hanno was out of town. Still hunting, no doubt. His sister would be informed we notables had called. We could not seriously expect her to appear. However, she did.

Hanno's sister was a confident, stately, dark-skinned woman in her late forties wearing a bright turquoise robe. Her walk was slow, her head held high. A granular gold necklace that must have been as long as a hippodrome weighed down a bosom that was naturally formed to act as a platform for the contents of a very select jewel casket. A column of gem-set bangles occupied her left arm; her right was swathed in a multicolored shawl which she waved about. She was surprisingly cheery as she greeted us. What she said we could not tell, for like her brother she spoke Punic.

More practical and accommodating than Hanno, as soon as she realized the problem, she broke into a broad grin and sent for her interpreter. He was a small, slim, olivine, whiskery slave of eastern extraction in an off-white tunic: large sandals flapping on medium-sized feet, sturdy legs, quick eyes, and a mildly grumbling manner. He was evidently one of the family, his mutterings tolerated with a graceful wave of his mistress's hand.

Refreshments were produced. My companions tucked in; I apologized, especially for young Gaius. Hanno's sister, whose name was Myrrha, chucked Gaius under the chin (not something I would have risked), laughed a lot, and said she knew about boys; she had a nephew too.

I alluded to business in Lepcis and Oea, making a joke of my enforced visit here. We all laughed. The slave passed on my glowing compliments about Hanno, and my regret not to have found him at home. Then the man relayed back various courtesies from Myrrha to us. It was all tastefully polite. I could think of better ways to waste an afternoon.

As a rather forced silence fell in due course, Helena caught my eye to say we ought to leave. The statuesque Myrrha must have noticed, for she rose in response. Far from thanking the harsh gods of this neighborhood for her release from an unwanted bunch of foreigners, she then said that Hanno would be calling in at Lepcis Magna, for business reasons-something about hearing the results of a land survey. She, Myrrha, was about to take her own ship up the coast to meet her brother and would be delighted to carry us as well.

I consulted Helena. The interpreter, who seemed to do whatever he felt like, thought this was too boring to translate, so while we were muttering he dived into what Gaius had left on our refreshment tray. Myrrha, who was a stern disciplinarian apparently, gave the slave a piece of her mind. He just stared back defiantly.

Deep in the crannies of my heat- and travel-exhausted brain a memory stirred. I had been half conscious that this stately, straight-backed female seemed familiar. Suddenly I remembered why. I had seen her before, on an occasion when she had been expounding strong views in that formidable style to someone else. Her mention of owning her own sea transport also jogged my memory.

The last time I saw her was in Rome. It had been at the exercise yard at Calliopus' barracks on the Portuensis Road. She had been arguing then too-with a handsome young stud I had assumed must be her lover: but Hanno's sister must also be the woman who soon afterwards paid Calliopus for the release of that gladiator-the young bestiarius from Sabratha whom Calliopus had accused of killing Leonidas.

I turned to the slave. "The nephew Myrrha mentioned-does he have a name?"

"It's Iddibal," he told me, while the woman I had once refused to believe could be Iddibal's auntie looked on and smiled.

"And he's Hanno's son?"

"Yes of course."

I said that since his father had done me so many kindnesses, I would love to meet Hanno's boy sometime, and his aunt replied through her offhand interpreter that if we sailed up to Lepcis with her that would be a good opportunity because Iddibal had already gone there to meet up with his papa.

Fifty-two

MYRRHA 'S SHIP WAS an extremely large, rather elderly transport that we learned had been used in the past for taking beasts to Rome. Like her brother, and sometimes in partnership with him, she engaged in the export of animals for the amphitheater-though according to her she herself was a shy provincial who never left Sabratha. Because of the language barrier, conversations with her were rare, but once when we happened to have the interpreter to hand I asked, "The arena's a family occupation? Does your nephew also help Hanno in the wild beast trade?"

Yes, came the reply. Iddibal was in his twenties, a great hunter, and he relished the family business.

"No plans to send him to be polished up in Rome then?"

No, lied Auntie Myrrha blithely; Iddibal was a homeboy. We all smiled and said how wonderful it was, in our restless age, when young men were satisfied with their heritage.

Everything was extremely friendly, though I feared that would not last. Once we reached Lepcis and Myrrha started talking to Hanno and Iddibal, she would find out that I was the Census examiner. They would all realize that I knew Iddibal had worked for Calliopus. The only possible explanation was that he had been infiltrated into the rival establishment incognito-and that he was there to cause trouble. Once they conferred, this powerful family would realize that I knew more about their secret commercial activities than they liked to have revealed. Myrrha would probably be furious. Hanno, I thought, could become very dangerous indeed.

I decided to relax while we were aboard the aunt's ship. Once we disembarked I would be my own man again. When we were leaving Sabratha I had made Famia promise that as soon as he was tired of horse buying he would come back to Lepcis and pick us up. Even if he failed to show, when I had sorted out the business Scilla wanted, Helena and I could pay for our own passage home.

Sorting out the business for Scilla had suddenly acquired a new dimension. Allowance was needed for Hanno's influence-especially since according to Calliopus Iddibal had been tied up with whatever happened to Leonidas. Still, I could handle that.

I assumed that Calliopus had never known that Iddibal was a rival's son. Iddibal would never have left the barracks alive otherwise. In retrospect, it looked to me as if the young man might have been sent to Rome by his family specifically to foment a war between Calliopus and Saturninus. Public strife between those two would make them look unsound; when tenders were invited for the new amphitheater, Hanno would be able to clean up. Even if Pomponius Urtica had lived and had been prepared to back Saturninus with special patronage, the dirty tricks war would have deterred him. Pomponius would not have wanted to stain his own reputation by any association with such goings-on.

Sending in his son to cause provocation would have been a good ploy on Hanno's part, though risky to Iddibal personally. Apart from having to take part in mock hunts in the venatio, discovery would have put him at Calliopus' mercy. And once he signed up, he was stuck. He was trapped for life unless somebody could rescue him. As soon as he had aroused sufficient jealousy between the other two men-by inciting incidents like the escaped leopard and the ostrich poisoning, if nothing worse-then his father must have wanted to extract him as quickly as possible. But in theory that was impossible.

Iddibal could simply have run away. With outside help, it could have been arranged. Anacrites and I had known that his aunt had had money with her in Rome, and at least one servant (her present interpreter, I reckoned), plus a very fast ship waiting on the coast. But since Iddibal had become a gladiator, he was also a slave. That was a legal condition into which he could volunteer to put himself-but from which he could not then choose to withdraw. Only Calliopus could free him. If he ran off, Iddibal would be an outlaw for life.

His aunt must have been a stranger to Calliopus (well, she had told me she was a home-bird), whereas Hanno would certainly have been well known to him. So Myrrha must have volunteered to go to Rome to help the youth. The question was, especially since she obviously had to pay through the nose for his unorthodox release, how much did his family think Iddibal had achieved by then?

I was in no doubt now that Hanno wanted the two other lanistae to tear each other apart, while he watched from the sidelines and took over their leavings. So against all the odds, my enforced trip to Sabratha had given me a lead. Whatever went on last winter back in Rome, I reckoned Hanno's stirring partially explained how it all blew up.

That made me determined to interview young Iddibal.

Fifty-three

FOR THE SAFETY of my family, I decided that as soon as possible I must shed Myrrha and distance myself from Hanno. The chance to do it occurred unexpectedly; choppy seas forced us to put in at Oea and rest up for half a day.

This was a bonus, offering me a chance to see Calliopus. I set off hotfoot into town and after hours of searching found his house, only to learn he too was away from home. Tripolitanian beast exporters seemed to spend a great deal of time on the hoof.

"A Roman took the master up coast on business," said a slave.

"Is the mistress here? Her name's Artemisia, isn't it?"

"She went with him."

"Where have they gone?"

"Lepcis."

Brilliant. Scilla was paying me to fix meetings for her with both Calliopus and Saturninus. We had expected they would have to be tackled individually-but Calliopus had preempted me of his own accord. If he was in Lepcis we could deal with both at once. If only all jobs were this easy. (On the other hand, if Scilla ran into them both in Lepcis before I arrived there, it struck me I might lose my fee.)

"Who was this man your master went with?"

"Don't know."

"He must have had a name?"

"Romanus."

Right. I was none the wiser, and irritated as well now.

"What did he say?"

"My master's old partner is to appear in court on a charge; my master has to give evidence."

This sounded suspiciously close to what I was supposed to arrange myself. The mad thought crossed my mind that "Romanus" could be Scilla herself in masculine disguise. She had the spirit-but of course, she liked to claim she was respectable. "What, is Calliopus on a charge too?"

"Just a witness." That could be a ruse to get him there.

"For or against?"

The slave looked disgusted. "Against, man! They hate each other. My master would never have gone otherwise."

What a wonderful scenario. If I had wanted a way to set the two men up, this was the perfect scheme; tell Calliopus he could help prosecute Saturninus. I wished I had thought of it.

So who did? Who was this mysterious character with the summons, and what, if any, was his interest in my case?

I walked back to the harbor. It was dark by now. The breeze that had driven us to shore lashed cold on my face but it was fading. I needed to consider my sudden feelings of uncertainty. The harbor had a long, attractive waterfront; I went for a stroll. Approaching me in the opposite direction came a man who looked obviously Roman. Like me he was mooching idly beside the ocean, in a deep, pensive mood.

No one else was about. We must have both reached the point of knowing that our private thoughts were leading nowhere. We both stopped. He looked at me. I looked at him. He was an upright figure, slightly too much flesh, sharp haircut, clean-shaven, bearing himself like a soldier though with too many years out of action to be an army professional.

"Good evening." He spoke with an unmistakable Basilica Julia accent. The greeting alone told me he was freeborn, patrician, tutor-educated, army-trained, imperially patronized, and statue-endowed. Wealth, ancestors, and senatorial self-confidence yodeled from his vowels.

"Evening, sir." I made a quiet legionary salute.

Two Romans far from our native city, protocol allowed us to accept this chance of exchanging news from home.

It was necessary to introduce ourselves.

"Excuse me, sir. You seem like the proverbial ‘ one of us'-your name is not Romanus, I suppose?"

"Rutilius Gallicus." He sounded alarmed. Whoops. Titles are a sensitive matter. I had just accused a highly bred patrician of being a gutter rat with just one name. Still, the highbred one was out ambulating a harbor without his guards and flunkies. You could argue he had asked for it.

"Didius Falco," I returned. Then I hastened to reassure him that I could tell he was a man of rank. "Are you connected with the provincial governor in some way, sir?"

"Special envoy status. I'm surveying land boundaries." He grinned, looking eager to astonish me. "I have heard of you!" My face fell. "I've a message from Vespasian," he told me. "This is obviously of grave national importance: if I see you out here, Didius Falco, I am to instruct you to return to Rome for an interview about the Sacred Geese."

After I finished laughing, I had to tell him enough for him to realize just what an administrative shambles was involved. He took it well. He was a sensible, down-to-earth type of administrator himself, which must be why some vengeful clerk had sent him out here on a fool's errand to separate the rebellious landowners of Lepcis and Oea.

"I've just been here in Oea to receive representations from the top men." He sounded low. "Hopeless. I need to be out of here very fast tomorrow before they realize I'm coming down in favor of Lepcis. The plan is to announce my results at Lepcis, where the happy winners will ensure I'm not torn apart."

"What's the problem?"

"The towns were up in arms during the civil war. Nothing to do with Vespasian's accession-they just took advantage of the general chaos to fight a private battle over territory. Oea called in the Garamantes to help, and Lepcis was besieged. No doubt about it, Oea caused the trouble, so when I draw the new official lines I'll be hammering them."

"Lepcis gets the advantage?"

"It had to be one or the other, and Lepcis has the moral right."

"Time to flee from Oea!" I agreed. "How are you going?"

"On my ship," said Rutilius Gallicus. "If Lepcis is where you're heading, can I offer you a lift?"

On rare occasions you do meet officials who serve some use. Some will even help without having to be greased with a backhander first.

I managed to slide my party and their luggage off Myrrha's old boat while she and her people were at their evening meal. When it was all fixed, I told the interpreter that I had met an official I knew and hooked up with him. Rutilius Gallicus had a fast caravel that would soon outstrip Myrrha's bum-heavy hulk, and to help matters even further his fearless captain slipped anchor and took off by night.

"I know why I'm doing a flit. What's your hurry, Falco?" Rutilius asked curiously. I told him a little of the background to the dirty tricks war. He grasped the point immediately. "Struggling for dominance. This all runs parallel to the problems I came to adjudicate-" Rutilius was settling in for a lecture, not that I minded. I was at sea; my concentration was fixed on avoiding being ill. He could talk all night so long as it distracted me. We were out on deck, feeling the breeze as we leaned on the rail. "None of the Three Towns has access to enough fertile land. They occupy this coastal strip, with a high jebel protecting them from the desert. It makes a good climate-well, a better one than the arid interior-but they are stuck on a small plain between the mountains and the sea, plus only whatever they can irrigate inland."

"So what's their economy, sir? I thought they relied on trade?"

"Well they need to produce food, but in addition, Lepcis and Oea are trying to build up an olive oil industry. Africa Proconsularis proper is a grain basket, as I'm sure you know-I heard one estimate that Africa provides a third of all the corn we need in Rome. Here it's not suitable for so much cereal production, but olive trees do thrive and they need very little effort. I can see a time when Tripolitania will outstrip all the traditional outlets-Greece, Italy, Baetica."

"So where are these olive groves?"

"Inland, a lot of them. The locals have a very refined system of irrigation, and I've calculated on maybe a thousand or more farms totally geared to production of oil-hardly any living quarters, just huge milling equipment. But as I say, there is not enough land, even with careful resource management. Hence the fighting."

"Oea and Lepcis slogged it out, and Oea brought in the tribes? That was what caused Valerius Festus to pursue the Garamantes back into the desert?"

"Useful move. Lets them know who's in charge. We don't want to have to install a military presence too far south, purely to control nomads in the sand dunes. Pins down too many troops. Waste of effort and cash."

"Quite."

"As for your wild beast merchants, their problem is probably related to the land famine. Families who own too little ground to match their ambitions with produce are hunting the beasts to supplement their incomes."

"I think they enjoy it and are good at it too. What's driving them at present is the chance to make a huge profit when the new amphitheater opens."

"Exactly," said Rutilius. "But that's a long-term thing. The Flavian Amphitheater has a planned construction timetable of what-ten years? I've seen the design drawings. If it comes off, it will be a beautiful thing but simply quarrying the stone out on the Via Tiburtina will take time."

"They have had to build a whole new road to take the weight of the marble carts."

"There you are. You don't build one of the new wonders of the world overnight. While these beast suppliers are waiting to cash in, their business is extremely expensive, and since the Statilius Taurus arena burned down it's one with few immediate rewards. Capture, keeping the creatures, shipping them-all difficult and fiendishly pricey. They want to keep their organizations up to strength because the year the new amphitheater opens they will be working flat out. But I can tell you, your fellows are all in hock up to their earlobes, with no hope of balancing their budgets for a long time."

"They aren't doing too badly!" He didn't know I had seen their census returns. "Do you know the men I mean, sir?"

"I think so. I have had to meet and greet anyone who is anyone."

"Not to mention all the lesser dogs who just think they're big?"

"You obviously have a feel for government."

"Vespasian has been known to use me as an ad hoc diplomat."

Rutilius paused. "I know," he said. So he had been briefed. That was curious.

"And I was involved with the Census," I told him.

He pretended to gulp. "Oh you're that Falco!" I was certain he already knew. "I hope you're not out here to investigate me."

"Why?" I put to him in a light tone. "Is there something on your conscience?"

Rutilius left the personal question unanswered, implying he was innocent. "Is that how you worked? Offering people a chance to come clean, in return for a fair deal?"

"Eventually. We had to hammer a few subjects, but once word went around most chose to negotiate a settlement before we even started. These Tripolitanian beast importers formed our first caseload."

"Who were ‘we'?"

"I worked in partnership."

I fell silent, thinking how pleasant it was, not to have to think about Anacrites.

Then Rutilius, whose information had already surprised me, said something even more curious: "Someone else asked me about the beast importers recently."

"Who was that?"

"I presume you know, since you mentioned him."

"You've lost me."

"When we first met you asked if ‘Romanus' was my name."

"Somebody in Oea mentioned him. Have you encountered this person?"

"Once. He asked for an interview."

"Who is he? What's he like?"

Rutilius frowned. "He didn't really explain himself, and I could not decide what to make of him."

"So what was his story?"

"Well, that was the odd thing. After he had gone I realized he had never said what it was all about. He had got into my office with a general air of authority. He just wanted to know what I could tell him about a group of lanistae who had attracted interest."

"Interest from whom?"

"He never said. My feeling was, he was some sort of commercial informer."

"So were his questions specific?"

"No. In fact I couldn't see why I had let myself be bothered to speak to him, so I gave him a couple of addresses and got rid of him."

"Whose addresses?"

"Well, since we were in Lepcis at the time, your fellow Saturninus was one."

This all sounded suspiciously like some agent of Hanno's hard at work. That could well explain why Hanno was coming to Lepcis, "on business" as Myrrha had put it. She had mentioned the land survey, but maybe he wanted to reconnoiter with this new provocateur. Suppose Hanno had arranged to have Calliopus lured to Lepcis on some trumped-up legal excuse-and was intending a showdown with both rivals?

Whatever the truth of it, Scilla's wish to meet both men together could now be put in hand-with Hanno himself also available. It certainly looked as if Lepcis was the place to be.

"And did you see ‘Romanus' again?" I asked Rutilius.

"No. Though I wanted to, because of my errand for Vespasian. After he left, one of my clerks told me he had been asking if they had seen anything of you."

Fifty-four

LEPCIS MAGNA DID have a harbor. Arriving by sea from Oea, we had sailed past the slight promontory where the civic center is handsomely sited, out towards a stadium which we could see right on the water's edge, then we turned back slightly into the port with a clear run. The harbor entrance seemed a bit narrow, but once that was negotiated we found ourselves in a lagoon at the end of a wadi, protected by various islands and rocks. One day someone with a great deal of money might come along and provide proper moles, wharfs, and maybe a lighthouse, though it would be a substantial project and it was hard to imagine what kind of influential big nut would think it worth the bother.

Things could not have worked out better: I wanted to interview Iddibal, and since he was waiting for his father he was out on the quayside looking at ships coming in. I had been told he was in Lepcis, though he was not expecting me. I was down the gangplank and able to back him into a wine bar before he even remembered who I was.

Rutilius Gallicus was taking Helena and the rest of my party to the large house he lived in. That was one great advantage of having a girlfriend whose father was a senator; every time we met another senator abroad, the new one felt obliged to be polite in case Camillus Verus was someone he ought to cultivate. Helena's father did know Vespasian well. That was always useful to mention if we needed help, especially in a strange city where I felt we might be heading into a dangerous situation.

"In view of your Sacred Geese connection, I'm delighted to offer hospitality and protection!" Rutilius was presumably joking; I smiled as if I had every idea what he meant about the holy honkers, then left him to arrange transport for our baggage while I dealt with the bestiarius.

Iddibal was much as I remembered him-strong, youthful, and well proportioned-though not of course wearing a gladiator's bare chest and bindings; instead he had on a long-sleeved, brightly colored African-style tunic and a small round cap. Now he was a free man he had adorned himself with bracelets and baubles. He looked healthy and fit. He showed a slight unease at meeting me again, though not as much as he ought to, and not as much as he was going to experience once I tackled him.

"Falco," I reminded him courteously. I knew that unlike his father and aunt, he could understand and speak Latin; the next generation. Iddibal's sons would probably move to Rome. Well, they would unless he ended up with a capital conviction as a result of what we discussed now. "I've met your father on a couple of occasions, since I saw you in Rome. Your aunt too."

On this basis we pretended to be happy social acquaintances, and I bought us both a drink. It was a small one; I was in informing mode. We sat outside, gazing at the dramatic blue sea. Iddibal must have sensed he was in trouble; he left his beaker undrunk, simply twirling it on the table nervously. He stopped himself asking what I wanted, so I let him guess for quite a long period.

"We can do this the easy way," I said suddenly, "or I can have you placed under arrest."

The young man thought about leaping up and making a run for it. I remained motionless. He would see sense. There was nowhere to go. His father was due; he had to stay in Lepcis. I doubted he knew the town well. Where could he hide? Besides, he had no idea what I had just accused him of. For all he knew it was a mad mistake, and he should just try to laugh it off.

"What is the charge?" he decided to croak.

"Rumex was killed. It was the night before you bolted with your aunt's kind help."

At once Iddibal gave a quiet laugh, almost to himself. He seemed relieved. "Rumex? I knew of Rumex; he was famous. I never even met the man."

"You both worked in the arena."

"For different lanistae-and in different skills. The venatio hunters and the fighters don't mix."

He looked at me. I gazed back, with a calm appearance that was meant to suggest I had an open mind. "Calliopus is coming to Lepcis, did you know?"

He had not been aware of it.

"Who's Romanus?" I demanded.

"Never heard of him." It sounded genuine. If "Romanus" did work for his father, Hanno must be keeping whatever he was now planning to himself.

"You're not safe in this city," I warned. However good Iddibal was with a hunting spear, he was at risk when surrounded by enemies on their home ground. Saturninus probably had just as good a reason to turn on him as Calliopus. "Iddibal, I know you were in Rome to cause trouble between your father's rivals. I imagine neither of them has yet realized what you were up to. I bet they don't even know you are Hanno's son-or that Hanno is quietly destroying them while they fight among themselves."

"You intend to tell them?" Iddibal demanded proudly.

"I just want to find out what happened. I have a client with an interest in some of it-though perhaps not in what you did. So tell me how far your involvement extended."

"I'll admit nothing."

"Foolish." I drained my drink with an air of finality and banged down the cup.

The sudden action unsettled him. "What do you want to know?" This young man was tough in some ways, but inexperienced in being interrogated. Fellows with well-known, very wealthy fathers don't have to put up with being stopped and searched by the local watch. He wouldn't have lasted an hour on the Aventine. He had not learned how to bluff, let alone how to lie.

"You stirred up Calliopus to various acts of sabotage? I don't suppose you had to inspire Saturninus; he would simply respond to the other man's stupidity. When did it all start?"

"As soon as I signed up. About six months before I first saw you."

"How did you play it?"

"When Calliopus was moaning about Saturninus, which he often did, I would suggest ways to get back at him. We made his men drunk just before fights. We sent presents to his gladiators, that purported to come from women-then we reported the items as stolen. The vigiles turned over Saturninus' premises; we then vanished and there was nobody to press the charge. It did no harm; it just caused inconvenience."

"Especially for the vigiles!"

"Well, them! Who cares?"

"You should do-if you're an honest man." That was overpious but it worried Iddibal. "What else?"

"When things hotted up, some of us went to Saturninus' cages and let out his leopardess."

"Then in return, the ostrich was poisoned-after which Rumex was killed. A hit for Saturninus, then one for Calliopus-and since you were thinking up the other incidents, the finger of suspicion falls on you for Rumex too. But the serious trouble started with the dead lion. Are you implicated in what happened to Leonidas?"

"No."

"Calliopus always said you were."

"No."

"You'd better tell me what happened."

"Buxus told Calliopus that Saturninus had made an approach to borrow a lion. Calliopus himself thought up working a switch. All the rest of us were told to take early nights and stay in our cells."

"I bet you all peeked! What exactly went on that night?"

Iddibal smiled and confessed, "Buxus was supposed to pretend he never heard a thing. He was bribed by Saturninus to lie low-Buxus and Calliopus split the cash, I think. Saturninus sent his men, who had been told where to find the spare key to the menagerie."

"Under Mercury's hat?"

Iddibal raised his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

"Never mind. The borrowers had been told they were getting Draco, the wild lion, but Leonidas was put in Draco's cage instead. So it all went wrong, and he ended up dead. Did you look out later when the corpse was being returned?"

"No. I heard them at it, but that was hours afterwards and I was in bed. In fact they woke me up. Saturninus' men were hopeless; they made far too much noise. If we hadn't already known what was going on, the alarm would have been raised. Next day, when we knew the lion was dead and they had been panicking, we could understand their clumsiness. At the time we all grinned to ourselves at how inept they were, then we rolled over and went back to sleep."

"I don't suppose Saturninus and his people got much rest," I said.

"Calliopus thought Saturninus had killed Leonidas deliberately. Did he?" asked Iddibal.

"Almost certainly not-though I don't suppose he cared when it happened. His main concern was how it looked for him if news got out that he had arranged a private show. It had to be hushed up, especially in view of an ex-praetor being hurt. Pomponius was very badly mauled; in fact, he's now dead."

"So are you investigating this officially?" Iddibal asked, seeming worried. He must realize an ex-praetor's death would not go overlooked.

"People close to the ex-praetor have appealed to the Emperor. They want compensation. Whoever is held responsible could face a hefty financial penalty." That made Iddibal wince. "Why did Calliopus keep blaming you afterwards?"

He shrugged. "It was a ploy."

"How?"

"Partly to make it look like internal business, when you kept poking about."

"Try another excuse-make it a better one."

"Also, to explain to the others why he let my aunt buy me out."

"So why did he allow that?"

Iddibal looked annoyed. Either he was an extremely good actor, or it was for real. "She paid a huge amount. Why else?"

I signaled a waiter who brought us more wine. Iddibal condescended to drink his first beaker, obviously feeling he needed it. When the waiter had gone back inside I asked quietly, "Why don't you just tell me the truth? That Calliopus wanted to escalate the war with Saturninus, so he asked you to kill Rumex?"

"Yes, he did ask." I was astonished that Iddibal admitted it.

"And?"

"I refused to do it. I'm not mad." I was inclined to believe him. Had he accepted the job and carried out the gladiator's murder, Iddibal would not have told me he was ever approached.

"Someone did it."

"Not me."

"You will have to prove that, Iddibal."

"How can I? I knew nothing about Rumex being dead until you told me just now. You say it was the night before I left Rome? I was in the barracks all evening-until my aunt came with my manumission; then I went straight to Ostia with her. Fast," he explained insistently, "in case there was any comeback from Calliopus. Until Aunt Myrrha came, I was doing normal things, casual things. Other people will have seen me there, but they work for Calliopus. If you start stirring and he learns I was working for Papa, he'll be furious; then none of his staff will give me an alibi."

Panic had gripped him, but being intelligent, he at once started to work out his defense. "Can you prove it was me? Of course not. Nobody can have seen me, since I was not the killer. Can there be any other evidence? What weapon was used?"

"A small knife."

"A hunting knife?"

"I would say not actually."

"You don't have it?"

"By the time I saw the corpse, the knife was missing." It was possible Saturninus had removed it, though there was no obvious reason why he should. Anacrites and I had asked him; Saturninus had told us the weapon had never been found. We saw no reason to disbelieve him. "The general view is that the killer took the knife away with him."

"Any other evidence?" Iddibal was cheering up.

"No."

"So I'm in the clear."

"No. You are a suspect. You were working incognito, which you admit was in order to cause trouble. You left Rome hastily straight after the murder. You have just told me Calliopus did ask you to kill Rumex. This is certainly enough for me to hand you to an enquiring magistrate."

He took a deep breath. "It looks bad." I liked his honesty. "Are you arresting me?"

"Not yet."

"I want to talk to my father."

"He is expected, I'm told. What's he coming for?"

"A meeting."

"With whom?"

"Saturninus, primarily."

"What about?"

"They do talk."

"Regularly?"

"Not often."

"Saturninus is pretty gregarious?"

"He likes to have a lot of dealings with a lot of men."

"He can live on good terms with his rivals?"

"He can live with anyone."

"Unlike Calliopus?"

"No. That one prefers to go into a corner and brood."

"He'll be brooding rather heavily if he finds out who you are!"

"He's not supposed to find out."

"If you had known Calliopus would be coming-"

"I wouldn't be here."

"So what now?"

"When my father's ship arrives, I shall skip aboard it and lie low until we leave."

"Back to Sabratha?"

"That's where we live."

"Don't be smart with me. How much did your aunt pay for your release from slavery?"

"I don't know the amount. She told me it was a high price. I didn't nag her for the details; I felt responsible."

"Why? Was going undercover your idea?"

"No. We were all in on it. The plan had been for me to do a moonlit flit, but in the end I wanted to be bought out properly. I cannot be a runaway; it would make me a hostage for the rest of my life."

"Why did Calliopus pick you as a person to ask to kill Rumex?"

"A bribe. My aunt had already been to see him, and he knew I wanted to leave. If I killed Rumex, he said I could have my release in return." Iddibal looked embarrassed. "I have to admit, even my aunt thought I should do it. Obviously it would have saved her a great deal of money."

"Assuming you were not caught! When I was auditing Calliopus, I saw you and Myrrha arguing one night. Was that about killing Rumex?"

"Yes."

"So she asked you to do what Calliopus wanted, and according to you, you refused."

Iddibal wanted to protest, but he recognized I was goading him. Hunting was a game he knew. "Yes, I refused," he reiterated quietly, keeping his cool.

"Nice Aunt Myrrha then agreed after all to find the money, and she found so much that Calliopus released you on the spot. Has this situation caused you any difficulties with your family since you came home?"

"No. My aunt and father have been very good about it. We are a close and happy family." Iddibal stared at the ground, suddenly subdued. "I wish I had never got into all this."

"It must have seemed like a brilliant adventure."

"True."

"You don't realize how complicated and dark that sort of adventure will become."

"True again."

I quite liked him. I didn't know whether I could believe him, but he was not sly, nor did he feign outrage when I asked him fair questions. And he had not tried to run away.

Of course running away was not Iddibal's style. We had established that he preferred to be bought out. No doubt if I ever found any grounds to take him before a magistrate, the close happy family would rally round again and buy him out of that too. I had the inexorable feeling that I was wasting my time even trying to progress against these folks.

I told Iddibal I was staying with the special envoy who was surveying land. That had a nice official ring. I gave the young man a long, hard look, then issued the usual wonderful warning about not leaving town without telling me first.

He was young enough to assure me earnestly that, of course, he would do no such thing. He was naive enough to look as if he really meant what he said.

Fifty-five

THE AIR WAS hot and dry. I walked to the north shore and up to the forum. Whereas the principal building materials in Cyrenaïca had been red-toned, Tripolitanian cities were gold and gray. Lepcis Magna hugged the coast so closely that when I entered the forum I could still hear the sea, surging against low white sand dunes behind me. There should have been bustle that would have masked the noise of the surf, but the place was dead.

The civic center must date from the very beginning of the Empire, for the main temple was dedicated to Rome and Augustus. It stood in a cramped row with those of Liber Pater and Hercules-an old-fashioned, very provincial set to site so prominently. Perhaps this was not the real heart of Lepcis, however; the forum seemed to have been placed where it would be bypassed by those in the know. I looked across the square flagstones to the basilica and curia. Nothing doing. For one of the world's great commercial entrepôts, this was a sleepy hole. I then crossed the sunbaked open space and enquired at the basilica if they had any upcoming case in which Saturninus was involved? No. Calliopus of Oea? No. Did they know of a subpoena deliverer called Romanus? No, again.

The main temple, now opposite me as I emerged, had reassuringly familiar slim, smooth, Ionic columns, though even they had been given odd little floral sprigs between the volutes. I walked back to it and checked for messages: none. I left word myself of where I was staying in case either Scilla or Justinus turned up. I wanted to leave another message for somebody, but not here.

I retraced my steps down the silent side street between the temples and took the road into town. This was busier. Keeping to the shade on the left-hand side as it climbed slightly away from the shore, I passed or was passed by various laden mules and cheerful children pushing mountainously piled handcarts. Lockup shops and modest dwellings lined the streets, which were laid out in a neat enough grid. Activity was increasing the farther I walked. Eventually I came to the theater, and near it the market area where at last the hum was all I had expected in one of the great cities of the Emporia.

The main provisions market boasted two elegant pavilions, one round and drum-shaped with arches, one octagonal with a Corinthian colonnade-possibly built by different benefactors who had independent views on effect. On a long-winded inscription, however, a certain Tapepius Rufus claimed responsibility for the whole edifice; maybe he had quarreled with his architect halfway.

Beneath the kiosks' shade every kind of sale was being conducted on flat-topped stone tables, with the emphasis on domestic trade. Peas, lentils, and other pulses were piled in dry heaps; figs and dates were set out on fruit stalls; both raw almonds and cakes made from almonds and honey were temptingly available. There were fish. There were cereals. It was the wrong time of year for grapes, but I saw vine leaves, both ready-stuffed or strung together in brine to take home and stuff as you chose. Butchers, advertising with crude pictures of cows, pigs, camels, and goats, were honing their knives on a lion-footed bench in the weights and measures corner, while the weights and measures inspectors craned their necks over a hot game of draughts scratched on the ground.

Two streets away another Lepcis millionaire had built another commercial enclosure, this one with a dedication to Venus of Chalcis, where it looked as if large export contracts were being organized by evil, toothless, leather-skinned old negotiators who had no time to eat and no inclination to shave. No doubt this was the exchange for big business: olive oil, fish sauce, mass-market pottery and wild beasts, plus the exotics that came in from the nomads: heavy baulks of ivory, negro slaves, gemstones, and strange wild birds and animals. I found a banker who would honor my letter of introduction. Immediately I had funds on my person, a tout tried to sell me an elephant.

Seeing a lone male of foreign origin, persons enquired very helpfully whether I had need of a brothel. I smiled and refused. Some then went so far as to recommend their own sisters as clean, willing, and available.

I returned to the main market. There I found a pillar with some free doodling space and scratched up:

ROMANUS: SEE FALCO AT THE HOUSE OF RUTILIUS

If you sound as if you know people, sometimes they believe it is true. Besides, by now I had a disconcerting feeling that Romanus must indeed be an old acquaintance. If so, it was bad news.

I went to a bathhouse to test the local atmosphere. I got myself shaved, just as badly as anywhere else in the Empire. The theater was another Tapepius Rufus bequest, elegant in style and positioned with stunning views over the sea. I looked at the program: not much happening there. No point, since the big draw in Lepcis was the coming end-of-harvest Games in the arena outside town. Those were advertising that ever popular program, "to be announced," though I noticed they were to be presided over by my host, the visiting Roman dignitary, Rutilius Gallicus. I wondered if anyone had told him about that yet.

I had done enough for a first scout around. It was time to resume contact with my family before they became tetchy being polite to the envoy, while I was out enjoying myself.

I followed the directions Rutilius had given me to the lavish maritime villa some local personage had made available to him (no doubt hoping to court popularity for Lepcis when the surveyor was apportioning land). The setup seemed secure. In case of trouble over his report, Rutilius had been assigned a squad of military bodyguards; he had also brought his own small domestic staff. All he needed for his own comfort now were a few politically neutral houseguests he could talk to, and we had provided those.

I told him he had to wave the white napkin at the Games; he groaned.

For the next few days I spent my working time trying to pin down the three lanistae I was studying. Saturninus was the easiest to locate. After all, he lived here. Rutilius gave me his address and I marked the house. Saturninus himself appeared the first day I was on watch outside. It was a shock to have come right across the dolphin-filled Mediterranean to find myself scrutinizing a suspect I last encountered months before in Rome.

He looked the same, but wearing loose, bright nomad robes-stylishly in keeping with his home province. Short, muscular, broken-nosed, balding, confident, urbane. Beringed to the point that I felt an austere Roman distrust of him. Still, I had always recoiled from his entrepreneurial attitude. He was not my type. That did not necessarily make him a criminal.

He swanned past without noticing me. I was lying in the road with a big hat over my eyes, near a tethered donkey that I pretended was in my charge. I was doing my best not to fall asleep, though sloth was beckoning. At least now that my subject had made his move I had to bestir myself and follow him.

He came and went: forum (briefly); market (longer); baths (longer still); his local gladiatorial barracks (an interminable stay). Whenever he moved around in public places he made himself available to men of substance. He mingled. He laughed and chatted. He leaned down and spoke to little boys who were out with their fathers. He diced idly; he dallied coarsely with waitresses. He sat at tavern tables watching the world go by, so the passing world could come across and greet him like an uncle who had presents to hand out.

Presumably at his barracks he trained fighters just as he had done in Rome, though on a more limited scale. The outlets here were hardly the same as the great imperial festivals. But his men would appear at the next Lepcis Games. That might be worth watching.

Calliopus took longer to weed out. It was Helena who found him eventually; she heard his wife mentioned by name at the women's baths. Artemisia had never met my lass, so she would not recognize her; Helena took a chance that it was the right person and followed her home.

"She is quite young, slim, absolutely beautiful."

"Sounds like one of my old girlfriends," I commented. Very foolishly.

Later (in fact quite a long time later as I then had some domestic repair work to attend to), I watched the rented apartment that Helena had identified and saw Calliopus go out for his own ablutions that afternoon. Another old face: wide nose, flappy ears, thin, neat, crinkle-haired.

He and his wife led a much quieter life than the Saturninus ménage, presumably because in Lepcis they knew nobody. They sat out in the sun, went for meals in local chop houses, shopped gently. They gave the impression they were waiting for someone or something. I thought Calliopus looked worried, but then he had always been the tall, lanky kind who bit his nails over things others take in their stride.

The young wife was stunning, though desperately quiet.

I had sent Gaius down to the harbor to watch for when Hanno arrived. His ship now rode at anchor next to that of his sister Myrrha amongst the teeming merchant vessels in the lagoon. Iddibal had been glimpsed aboard. Hanno and Myrrha made occasional expeditions to the market, leading a colorful parade of their staff. The insubordinate interpreter who had conversed on my behalf was with them.

Hanno did a great deal of business in the Chalcidicum. It looked as if he was a tough haggler. Sometimes harsh words were exchanged, and although it usually ended amicably with slapped palms sealing the contract, I reckoned Hanno was not popular.

So they were all here. None of the three men appeared to make any attempt to meet the others.

We had Saturninus and Calliopus, just as Scilla had wanted, and I could offer her Hanno, together with the news that his machinations had stirred up the stupid rivalry that caused the death of Pomponius. My only problem was, Scilla herself had still not appeared. She had insisted on coming to Lepcis in her own way and in her own time. After my long detour to Sabratha, thanks to Famia, I had expected her to have arrived here ahead of me. If so, there was no sign of her.

This was tricky. I could not guarantee that any of the parties would remain here long. I suspected that in view of their professional interest Hanno and Calliopus were just hanging on for the Games. I was loath to make contact with any of them on Scilla's behalf until she showed. I would certainly not initiate the court case she had talked about. I had known enough clients; I was prepared now for the single-minded Scilla to set me up in a difficult situation, then vanish without a trace. Without paying me either, of course.

I had not forgotten that in my capacity as Census auditor I had made both Calliopus and Saturninus pay huge tax bills. They must both loathe me. I was none too keen on loafing around in their home province, just waiting for them to notice me, remember the financial pain I had caused, and decide to have me thrashed.

Famia had not bothered to follow us here as I had asked him to. What a surprise.

"I've had enough of this," I told Helena. "If Scilla hasn't presented herself here by the end of the Games, we'll pack up and go home. You and I have our own lives to lead."

"Besides," she laughed, "you have been recalled to talk about those geese."

"Never mind the bloody birds. Vespasian has agreed to pay me a delightful amount for the Census and I want to start enjoying it."

"You'll have to face Anacrites."

"No trouble. He earned a packet too. He should have no complaints. Anyway, he ought to be fit again by now; he can go back to his old post."

"Ah, but he really liked working with you, Marcus! It's been the high spot of his life."

I growled. "You're a tease-and Anacrites is dumped."

"Are you really going to let my brother work with you if he comes to Rome?"

"A privilege. I always liked Quintus."

"I'm glad. I had an idea, Marcus. I talked about it to Claudia while she and I were waiting for you two to come back from your silphium jaunt, but it was when things between her and Quintus were so strained. That's why I never mentioned it…" She tailed off, which was not Helena's style.

"What idea?" I asked suspiciously.

"If Quintus and Claudia ever get married, Claudia and I should buy a shared house for us all to live in."

"I shall have enough money for you and I to live in comfort," I retorted stiffly.

"Quintus won't."

"That's his fault."

Helena sighed.

"Sharing only leads to arguments," I said.

"I had in mind," Helena proposed, "a house that would be big enough to seem like different properties. Separate wings-but common areas where Claudia and I could sit and mutter together when you and Quintus had gone out."

"If you want to moan about me, darling, you shall be given the right facilities!"

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think-" Inspiration hit me. "I had better not commit myself to anything until I discover what the bother is about these Sacred Geese."

"Chicken!" quipped Helena.

Things might have turned very awkward but just then one of our host's staff-who all seemed wary of my group-nervously announced that Helena had a visitor. Jumpy, for the reasons I have outlined, I asked tersely who it was. Assuming I was a stern paterfamilias who expected to vet his poor wife's every move (what a clown!), the slave told me with great diffidence that it was only a woman, one Euphrasia, wife to Saturninus, a principal figure in Lepcis social life. Helena Justina placed her feet neatly on a kickstool, folded her hands over her girdle, then looked at me meekly and enquiringly. I gravely granted permission for her to accept this call. Helena thanked me for my forbearance, addressing me in a gentle voice, while her huge brown eyes flashed sheer wickedness.

I whipped outside the room where she was sitting, and hid myself where I could overhear.

Fifty-six

"MY DEAR,HOW delightful!"

"What an unexpected privilege!"

"How do you come to be here?"

"How did you realize that I was?"

"My husband spotted some message scrawled up at the market about Falco being in this house-are you aware that my husband and I live in this city?"

"Well, I must have known-how thrilling! We have been having a terrible time-Falco has dragged me everywhere in Africa."

"Official business?"

"Oh Euphrasia, I don't ask!"

I choked, as Helena pretended to be a downtrodden, weary, excluded wife. If Euphrasia remembered the dinner party we attended, she cannot have been fooled.

"Is it to do with his Census work?" Euphrasia was intending to press the point, however hard Helena feigned disinterest.

I peeked through a door crack. Helena had her back to me, which was fortunate as it prevented any danger that one of us would start giggling. Euphrasia, resplendent in glowing stripes of scarlet and purple, a triumph of rich murex dyes, lolled in a long cane chair. She looked relaxed, though those handsome eyes were sharp and she displayed an inner tension that intrigued me. I wondered if Saturninus had sent her here, or whether he even knew that she had come.

Refreshments were sent for. Then the baby was sent for too. Julia Junilla let herself be passed around, kissed, pinched and tickled, had her little tunic straightened, had her fine wisps of hair ruffled, then when she was placed on a floor rug, she produced a bravura display of crawling and playing with dolls. Instead of screaming with disgust she hiccupped cutely. My daughter was a star.

"The darling! How old is she?"

"Not quite one." Julia's birthday was ten days away; another reason to try to reach home beforehand and placate her two doting grandmothers.

"She's charming-and so intelligent!"

"Takes after her father," said Helena, knowing I would be listening. I half expected her to go on with a few teasing insults, but she was probably preoccupied with wondering about the reason for Euphrasia's call.

"And how is dear Falco?"

"When I ever get to see him, he seems his usual self-deep in causes and schemes as usual." Even from my hiding place I thought Euphrasia's eyes narrowed. Helena would be close enough to tell for sure. "And how are you and your husband, Euphrasia?"

"Oh much happier. We had to get away from Rome, you know, Helena. All that squabbling and double-dealing was too much." That comment would include the domestic aftereffects of Euphrasia's affair with Rumex, no doubt. "The atmosphere in the provinces is far more pleasant; we may stay here permanently now-"

Helena was reclining gracefully in a similar chair to her guest. I could see one of her bare arms dangling casually. Its familiar smooth curve raised the hairs on my neck as I thought about tracing my finger along her skin in the way that made her arch her back and laugh… "Can your husband run his business from Tripolitania?"

"Oh yes. Anyway, I want him to retire." Women always say that, though not many are prepared to put up with cutting back on the housekeeping. "He's done enough. So what brings Falco to Lepcis Magna?"

Helena finally took pity: "He's working for a private client."

"Anyone I know?"

"Oh nothing terribly exciting. It's just a commission for a woman who needs help to bring a lawsuit, I believe."

"It seems a long way for you to come."

"We were out here for family reasons," Helena replied reassuringly.

Euphrasia ignored that. "I'm fascinated… however would your husband find a client in a strange province? Did he advertise?"

"Not at all." Helena was perfectly calm, in marked contrast to the other woman's obvious edginess. "We were on holiday. The client found us. She was somebody who had heard of Falco in Rome."

Euphrasia could no longer bear the suspense and came out with her question bluntly: "He's not working for that hard trout who was involved with Pomponius Urtica?"

"Do you mean Scilla?" asked Helena innocently.

"I know she wants to cause trouble," Euphrasia said, backing off slightly and becoming more offhand again. "She has been harassing my husband. I dare say she's been on at Calliopus too. We know he's in Lepcis," Euphrasia continued, now speaking bitterly. "With that wife of his, I hear. Artemisia has had a lot to answer for!"

"Why would that be?" asked Helena, in quiet astonishment. As far as we knew, all Artemisia had done was to let herself be married to Calliopus, a man who reckoned that being wealthy meant owning a full set of everything-including a mistress called Saccarina in Borealis Street. Euphrasia's accusatory tone seemed uncalled for. Mind you, I had now seen that Artemisia was young and beautiful, which many another woman would find unforgivable.

"Oh never mind her," Euphrasia said dismissively. "If Artemisia takes chances, Calliopus puts her right with his fist. If you ask me," she leaned forward, looking earnest, "Scilla's the one who intends to cause serious trouble. She's the maggot to watch."

"I quite liked her," Helena commented, resisting Euphrasia's condemnation.

"You're too tolerant. She's trying to force a confrontation with my husband and Calliopus. We're certain she's persuaded that dreadful man Hanno to back her."

"She had a terrible experience when the lion attacked her lover," Helena remonstrated gently. "I'm sure it wasn't her fault. I don't believe she ever asked for a private display in her honor. It seems to have been her fiancé's idea; she disapproved of it. He made a misjudgment, a typical male error. It's very sad for Scilla that Pomponius died that way."

"You know quite a lot about her then?" Euphrasia asked narrowly.

"She approached me first. Falco was off on a jaunt with my brother, so in a way I vetted her. As I say, I did feel for her. Some compensation for her loss would seem to be desirable."

There was a short silence.

"I was there of course," Euphrasia barked.

"Where, Euphrasia?" Helena may not have grasped immediately what she meant. I could tell she soon remembered that Saturninus had told me the four evening diners at the intended private show had been Pomponius and Scilla, plus himself-and also his wife. We should have asked Euphrasia for her version before this.

"At Pomponius' house. When the lion got loose."

"You saw what happened then?" Helena replied quietly.

"Oh yes. I shan't say any more; my husband would be furious. It was agreed that nothing would be said. Pomponius wanted it that way."

"I don't understand."

"Naturally, it was to protect her. Scilla, I mean. Pomponius was loyal, you have to give him that. When he realized he was dying, he was more insistent than ever. She had enough of a reputation without all Rome hearing about the lion incident."

"Well, Pomponius is dead now-"

"Stupid man!" Euphrasia snarled. "Don't ask me about it," she repeated. "But Scilla could tell you. Before you start feeling sorry for that little madam, Helena Justina, you should make her admit the truth. Ask Scilla," commanded Euphrasia resoundingly, "who really killed that lion!"

She swept to her feet. As she did so, she must have disturbed something, a small golden creature which darted along a skirting not far from where the baby was inspecting her own pink little toes on the floor.

"Is that a mouse?" Helena gasped.

"No, a scorpion."

I walked into the room, like a husband just returning from a morning on the quayside. Keeping up the charade, I let my face register all the right things: surprise at seeing Euphrasia, alarm at Helena's set white face, rapid reaction to the emergency.

I scooped up the baby; passed her to Helena; moved Helena out of the way; pushed past Euphrasia. I seized a vase and dropped it over the scorpion. Helena had closed her eyes, rigid with shock.

"Helena once had a bad scorpion sting," I explained tersely.

I shepherded them all from the room then went back to deal with the scuttling thing. After I had battered it to pieces, taking revenge for what the other had done to the precious girl I loved, I sat on my haunches in private for a moment, remembering how Helena nearly died.

I went out to find her. Holding her and Julia, hushing them, even I trembled.

"It's all right, Marcus."

"We'll go home."

"No; it's all right."

When we had settled down again, we realized that in the panic Euphrasia had taken her chance to avoid awkward questions; she had slipped away.

We could not ask my client what Euphrasia had meant, because Scilla still failed to appear.

Then, out of the blue next day, the elusive Scilla wrote to me. The letter was found on the doorstep in the morning, so there was no messenger to trace. It appeared she was now in Lepcis, though as usual, she was coy about her address.

She confessed that when she arrived here (which must have been some time ago) after she failed to find me she had hired someone else. She did not specify Romanus, though I reckoned it was him. He had managed to contact the two men for her, and there were plans for a settlement. I could send a bill to the house of Pomponius Urtica in Rome to cover any expenses I myself had incurred so far. My services were no longer required.

Paid off, eh?

Not me, Scilla. My clients were always losing heart and backing away; it was a hazard of the job. The mud they stirred up often took them by surprise and caused a rethink. It was not worth pressurizing them once they lost the initial impetus.

Nor, when a case had once attracted my interest was I ever in the habit of allowing myself to abandon it. I would stop work when I chose. Which meant, when I had satisfied my own curiosity.

Fifty-seven

THE NIGHT BEFORE the Games, Rutilius and I took a quiet walk out to the amphitheater.

We crossed the wadi by the harbor, then hiked along the beach, alternately hopping on rocky outcrops and sinking into soft white sand.

"This is hard going," Rutilius complained, stretching his calf muscles. "I'll arrange transport tomorrow. Will Helena want to come?"

I picked up a piece of cuttlefish. "Yes, sir. She says she's afraid I may end up in the arena fighting somebody."

"Is it likely?" He sounded shocked.

"I'm not stupid." Playing at gladiators meant permanent disgrace, with legal penalties.

All three lanistae were bound to attend the Games. I was expecting some sort of showdown: Helena Justina knew that. There was no point trying to hide it from her; she was far too sensitive. I was prepared for anything. So, therefore, was Helena.

"The work you get involved in can be dangerous?" Rutilius asked. "So what might be in store for us tomorrow, may I ask?"

"Sir, I don't know. Nothing, maybe."

Perhaps, but I was not alone in suspecting a crisis; this trip to reconnoiter the layout had been his idea. He looked calm, but I reckoned Rutilius Gallicus, special envoy of Vespasian, was as keyed up as me.

He had his own troubles. He had surveyed the land between Lepcis and Oea and was ready to announce results. "I'm just the latest sucker in a traditional line," he told me as we approached the stadium. Which we came to first. "Boundaries have been a source of bitter contention for a long time. There was a famous event when Carthage and Cyrenaïca were in dispute. Two pairs of brothers set out simultaneously running from Lepcis and Cyrene. Where they met was the new border; unfortunately the Greeks of Cyrene accused the two brothers from Lepcis of cheating. To prove their innocence they demanded to be buried alive."

"Olympus! Did it happen?"

"It did. There's a grand old commemorative arch over the roadway to this day… I have felt, Falco, the same fate may be waiting to ambush me!"

"Rome, sir, will applaud your sacrifice."

"Oh good. That will make it all worthwhile."

I liked him. The men Vespasian chose to establish order in the Empire were of a dry, down-to-earth type. They got on with the job, fairly and quickly, undeterred by incipient unpopularity.

"It's a good province," he said. "I'm not the first to come out to Africa Proconsularis and feel a tug. The place attracts strong loyalty."

"It's Mediterranean. Warm; honest; cheerful. Nicely exotic, yet still smacks of home."

"Needs a good sorting," Rutilius exclaimed.

"Helena is compiling a set of recommendations that she wants to hand in to the Emperor."

"Really? Did he ask you to do that?" Rutilius sounded surprised again.

I grinned. "He didn't ask. That won't stop Helena Justina ensuring he's told. And she is covering Cyrenaïca where we were first. She has listed everything from restoring the amphitheater at Apollonia to rebuilding the earthquake-damaged temple in the forum at Sabratha. She likes to be comprehensive. She's tackled the fight business as well. When they open the new Flavian Amphitheater, Helena thinks it should all come under state control: everything from gladiatorial training to the import of beasts. The legions should supervise provincial collection of wild animals. Imperial agents should be in control." I happened to know Helena had had the wonderful idea of suggesting that Anacrites should be put in charge of presenting the position papers on new policy. It would be a ten-year job-and would certainly keep him away from me.

"That all?" asked Rutilius dryly.

"No, sir. To complete the picture, she recommends that chief men from Africa be admitted to the Senate, as has already happened with other provinces."

"Great gods. It's all good stuff-but do you seriously expect Vespasian to accept this from a woman?"

"No, sir. I'll sign the report. He'll think it's from me." That was no better to a man like Rutilius. I was an Aventine pleb, hardly decent material for the Emperor's inner cabinet.

"You make suggestions like these every time you go abroad?"

"If there seems anything to recommend."

"And it all gets put into effect?"

"Oh no!" I laughed, reassuring him that the world he knew was not turning upside down. "You know what happens up on the Palatine: the scroll is simply filed away. But maybe in twenty years' time or so, some of the items that Helena thought important will float to the top of an agenda in some short-of-work secretariat."

Rutilius shook his head in disbelief.

We had reached the stadium. It lay parallel to the shore, swept by brisk sea breezes, one of the finest locations possible. It looked a good course, and a well-used one apparently.

We walked slowly across the racetrack. At present the low evening sun and the sound of the sea at our backs gave the place a peaceful air, though when the whole town came out here to fill the rows of seats, the atmosphere would be totally different. "Tomorrow, in the amphitheater, at this show I have to supervise-" Rutilius paused.

"The show you've been stuck with," I grinned.

"Which I will be honored to preside over!" he sighed. "Under my auspices anyway, they are planning a program of paired gladiators. As far as I can see, nothing exceptional. That's preceded by a criminal execution, some halfwit blasphemer getting his due ad bestias."

"A capital crime? Doesn't that need the approval of the governor, sir?"

"The case caused a bit of a crisis. I got drawn in, and it was expedient to say I hold the governor's remit while I'm here. It all blew up this morning, and on top of the land survey it was set to cause a riot. We already have too many people from the rival cities in town at present-things could get ugly tomorrow."

"So what's the capital case?"

"Totally unacceptable. Some lout passing through drank himself into a stupor, then woke up in the forum and started insulting the local gods. Terribly embarrassing. Attempts were made to restrain him, but he just started bollocking Hannibal and all his descendants at the top of his voice. He was whacked on the head, rescued from the mob, and dragged before the nearest person in authority-I found myself in that unfortunate role. It was an issue, of course: Rome's attitude to the Punic element. I had no choice. So tomorrow there's dinner for the lions."

"Has a beast been provided?"

"Saturninus just happened to have one," replied Rutilius.

"I had better warn Helena."

"Not keen? Neither am I. Ask her to shut her eyes and endure it, if she will. She'll be sitting in my party, right in full view; things have to look good. They say it's a fierce animal; the business should be swift."

We had now come to a covered walkway that linked the stadium to the arena. The light was fading but we took a chance and marched briskly through a tall, arched corridor. It was probably just intended for pedestrians, though it offered possibilities for joint presentations using both venues. The scope and placing of their auditoria suggested the people of Lepcis had a sophisticated love of being entertained, and demanded a high standard.

Emerging into the amphitheater, a gracious ellipse cut into a hillside, we found workers hard at it, consolidating and raking the white sand on the arena floor. Tomorrow the pristine results of their careful labors would be violently scuffed up and blood-soaked. After a look, I consulted Rutilius, then we set out to climb the rows of seats. Somebody on the top level called my name.

"Who's that, Falco?"

"Wonderful! It's Camillus Justinus, Helena's younger brother. He has been looking for the Gardens of the Hesperides to impress his ladylove-I had hoped he might catch up with us."

"I've heard of him," said Rutilius, puffing as we speeded up our climb. "Didn't he cause some trouble, running off with a young woman?"

"He might have got away with stealing the girl, sir-but he ran off with her money too, and there was a lot of it. I'm taking him home to be spanked."

"Quite right."

Having formally assumed a proper attitude, the envoy joined me in greeting Justinus with great friendliness.

We found a way we could return to town along the top of the dunes, to avoid the beach. The first unfamiliar African stars winked overhead as we marched along, exchanging news.

"Everything all right with Claudia?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" Justinus had the grace to grin. "I've seen Famia's horse transport in the lagoon today, Marcus, though no sign of him."

"He'll be in a wine shop. Well, it sounds as though we're all set to sail home then."

Briefly I toyed with the idea of forgetting the Games, finding Famia, and slipping off straightaway. I was ready to see Rome again. Julia's first birthday ought to be celebrated at home. And anyway, why should we stay? I had no client employing me.

Justinus provided the answer: "Have you heard the rumor running wild? There's a needle-match planned for tomorrow's Games. Saturninus, Calliopus, and Hanno have agreed to arrange a special three-sided bout."

"What! How's that?"

"It's all rather mysterious, but I heard that each is putting up a gladiator for a fight to the death. It will be the final event-something to make the rival groups from the different towns really yell their heads off."

The tingle I had felt all day increased. "Hades! That sounds as if this could degenerate into an occasion when the amphitheater erupts."

"You haven't heard the best. The part that will interest you, Marcus, is that this bout is supposed to settle a legal claim. There's an unusual twist-whichever lanista owns the last man left alive has agreed to pay compensation to a certain Scilla in a suit she has against them all."

"Io! That means they'll want to lose, surely?"

Justinus laughed. "All three of them are supposed to be putting up some complete no-hoper so it turns into a comedy. The fighters won't want to die-but for once their lanistae will be trying to persuade them to go down."

"Oh very colorful."

"From what I heard in the marketplace, there is a curious interest in the deadbeats."

"Do they have names?" asked Rutilius, just beating me to it.

"None that I heard. All sorts of rumors are flying-freaks with two heads each are the favorite suggestion. Fascinating, eh?"

"Sounds enough to crank up interest," I said.

"It's high," Justinus confirmed. "Large bets being taken, perfectly openly."

"This is it then," I said. I was speaking to no one in particular, though both of my companions must have known just what I meant.

Somewhere in Lepcis that night menagerie keepers would be starving a lion.

Somewhere too, gladiators of various qualities were enjoying the traditional lavish eve-of-fight meal. It was their privilege-and could be their curse. It was often the clincher when the following day dawned; they would be tempted to enjoy all they could, since it might be their last chance. But indulge too much, and that would count against them in the ring.

On the way back through town Justinus and I did make a feeble attempt to get into the main local training school-the Saturninus spread-with a view to inspecting the men at their feast. Members of the public were being barred. We thought it best not to make an issue. For one thing, I reckoned any special combatants would be shut away somewhere secret.

I spent an uneasy night. To save Helena worrying, I pretended to sleep perfectly peacefully. All the time, thoughts churned in my head. I was damned sure whatever happened, this special bout the three lanistae had planned was not intended to be fair. Each of them would be going into it with his own evil plans.

From the president's box it would be impossible to intervene in any emergency. Justinus and I had racked our brains wondering how we could overcome that. The only useful place to be was out in the ring-but I had had to promise Helena I would not in any circumstances go out there to fight.

Fifty-eight

ABLAZE OF SUNLIGHT swathed the arena from the first hour. Slowly the stone seats and the brilliant white sand on the arena floor began to warm up. As the crowd started to assemble, the sound of the ocean was lost, though we could still smell the ocean on the salty air that dried our faces and made our hair stiff and lank.

Justinus and I had gone early. Rutilius would arrive much later, ceremonially. We thought we were prompt yet other people had beaten us to it, though the atmosphere remained relaxed. Even at that stage, however, the holiday mood had extra tension caused by the presence of contingents from Oea and Sabratha.

Admission was free, but the ticketmen were in place, ready to hand out the tokens which assigned places in the various tiers and wedges of seats. Cushions for the front row seats were being unladen from mules. Smoke rose lazily from fires on the beach where hot tidbits were being cooked by food sellers. Wineskins and amphorae had been brought in large quantities. Snack sellers were hoping for a lucrative day.

Country dwellers, drawn by the spectacle and the chance of making sales of their produce and crafts, had turned up on horses and the occasional camel, and were squatting on the beach. Some had even pitched long, dark, desert tents. And keen folk from town were meandering up the shore and along other paths even as we ourselves arrived, looking for friends to greet or betting touts to haggle with. Playbills appeared; we got hold of one, but apart from the professional fighters who were listed by name and fighting style, the special bout was only described as a "combat of three novices."

After the first arrivals had strolled up, some still eating their breakfasts, the influx suddenly increased and the atmosphere pulsated. The citizens of Lepcis were now pouring forth, some dressed in white in the formal Roman manner (as we were), others robed in brilliant colors. Women in their best finery, bejeweled, incredibly coiffed, saucily veiled or lurking under parasols, were carried here in litters or forced to walk by frugal husbands. Children scampered free or clung shyly to parents. Men wandered about making contacts, perhaps with male business acquaintances, perhaps even with forward women who ought not to have been available. Ushers finally appeared-far too late to make much impact, though no one seemed to care.

The rows of seats were filling fast. Cheeks, foreheads, and bald pates were already shining up and reddening in the sun. Bare-armed beauties would look like lobsters this evening. An elderly man was carried off on a stretcher, overcome before the event even started. A fine haze of unguents, perspiration, fried squid, and garlic gently assaulted our nostrils.

The hum of noise rose, then fell off expectantly. Rutilius Gallicus arrived.

Toga-clad and wearing a wreath to which he must be officially entitled, he took his seat, received with warm applause. The citizens of Lepcis were well aware he had given them territorial preference over Sabratha, and particularly Oea. There were a few jeers, presumably from the visitors, immediately swamped by another surge of appreciation from the victorious Lepcitanians.

Justinus and I slipped into our seats beside Claudia and Helena. We had the best view available. Rutilius had extended his favor to allow us, as his houseguests, to share his plot like equals. This put us in prime position-with cushions-among the three front rows of the nobility, priests, and dignitaries who were enthroned on their hereditary wide marble seats. Behind us the massed crowds craned their necks from the plain benches that would give them stiff buttocks and backache by the end of the day.

I spotted Euphrasia amongst the elegantly turned out town councilors and their wives. She looked extremely expensive in a grand set of gold hardwear and near-sheer indigo drapes. To my surprise she had Artemisia, Calliopus' handsome young wife, on her left and the expansive shape of Hanno's sister Myrrha on her right. Any public display of close affinity usually masks an intended coup. So that looked good news. The three lanistae were presumably off somewhere preparing their gladiators. I wondered where Scilla was. I could not believe she would not be observing today's activity; especially as the special bout was so important for her compensation claim.

Rutilius had to leave his seat again. A parade of statues of local gods, crudely disguised under the names of Roman ones, heralded a few brisk religious formalities. He took part with suitable gravity, slitting open a chicken so its entrails could be surveyed. His manner was quiet and extremely efficient as he then pronounced the omens good and the procedures all in order. This enabled the Games to start.

Immediately preparations rushed ahead for the execution of the man caught raving against the gods yesterday. Veils were now wrapped discreetly around syncretized Jupiter Ammon and around Milk'ashtart and Shadrapa, ancient eastern deities who apparently passed themselves off as Punic variants of Hercules and Liber Pater or Bacchus. A huge chorus of booing went up as an armed guard dragged in the criminal. His crimes were posted up, though without the dignity of naming him-assuming anyone had even bothered to find out who this ranting foreigner was. He was shaven-headed and filthy. The man had been beaten up last night in prison, without doubt. He hung limply in the arms of his captors, either unconscious from the beating or still drunk. Both maybe.

"He's way out of it. That's a relief."

Barely glancing at the slumped figure, I turned to talk to Helena. She sat, purse-lipped, with her hands clasped in her lap and with downcast eyes. I heard the trundling noise as a low-wheeled platform was brought. The victim, stripped naked, was being tied to a stake on this conveyance, which had a shin-high guard shaped like a low chariot front. Every move brought a new surge of angry noise from the crowd. I dropped one hand reassuringly over Helena's clenched fists.

"Soon be over," muttered Rutilius, soothing her like a surgeon while maintaining his smile for the crowd.

The little cart was pushed out into the ring. Attendants poked it forwards with long poles. From nowhere a lion had been released. Needing little encouragement it ran out towards the man at the stake. Helena closed her eyes. The animal seemed to hesitate. At the roar from the crowd, the prisoner finally revived, raised his head, saw the lion and shrieked. The hysterical voice caught my attention, shockingly familiar.

A sea breeze dragged at the veil covering one of the statues, causing it to flutter free. The attendants pushed the cart closer to the lion. The lion took a closer interest. One of the guards cracked a whip. The prisoner looked up at the statue of Shadrapa, then yelled defiantly, "Stuff your Carthaginian gods-and stuff bloody one-eyed Hannibal!"

The lion leapt on him.

I was on my feet. I now knew his voice, his Aventine intonation, the shape of his head, his stupidity, his raving prejudice-everything. There was nothing I could do. I could never have reached him. He was too far away. There was no way to get there. A thirteen-foot-high smooth-sided marble barrier kept wild beasts from invading the audience and kept the spectators out of the ring. The whole crowd rose in a standing ovation, shouting out their indignation at the blasphemy and their approval of the kill. Seconds later the lion was tearing the man to pieces, while I fell back holding my head in my hands.

"Oh dear gods… Oh no, oh no!"

"Falco?"

"It's my brother-in-law."

Famia was dead.

Fifty-nine

GUILT AND DREAD were beginning their inexorable descent on me as I shoved my way to the backstage area. What was left of Famia's bloody corpse had been dragged out, still hanging from the cart. The sated lion had been retrieved with the customary efficiency; with its jowls dripping red, it was already caged, and about to be whisked away down the covered tunnel. After an execution beasts were removed from sight very speedily. I heard somebody laugh. The amphitheater staff were in a happy mood.

Gagging, I made a family claim for the body, though there would be little to cremate at a funeral.

Rutilius had warned me to be careful what I said. His caution was unnecessary. Famia's appalling outcry still rang in my ears. I would do what was proper here for my own people at home, though probably no one would thank me. I had no wish to add to the insult that had been offered locally.

How could I ever explain this to Maia-my favorite sister-and her nice, well-brought-up children? Marius, who wanted to teach rhetoric. Ancus, with the big ears and the shy smile. Thea, the pretty, funny one. Little Cloelia, who had never seen her father for what he was and who doggedly worshiped him. I knew what they would think. I thought it too. He came out here with me. Without me, he would never have left Rome. It was my fault.

"Marcus." Camillus Justinus was at my shoulder now. "Anything to do?"

"Don't look."

"Right." Utterly sensible like most of his family, he gripped me by the arm and wheeled me away from where I had stood rooted to the spot. I heard him speaking in a low voice to whoever was in charge. Money changed hands. Helena and Claudia must have given him a purse. Arrangements were concluded. The remains were to go to an undertaker. What was needed would be done.

What was needed should have happened a long time ago. Famia should have been dried out. Neither his wife nor I had had the time nor the will to do it. Maia was long past trying.

Well, that burden was over now. But I knew the tragedy had hardly started yet.

I wanted to go.

I would have to extricate Helena. Leaving the presidential seats was bad form. Two of us had already abandoned Rutilius very publicly. He might not be too displeased, knowing the circumstances, though the crowd certainly would. In Rome showing disinterest in the expensive bloodshed of the arena caused the kind of unpopularity that even Emperors feared.

"We have to go back, Marcus." Justinus spoke quietly and calmly, the approved way of dealing with a man in shock. "Apart from our diplomatic duty, we don't want to get crucified!"

"I don't need you looking after me."

"I wouldn't dare suggest it. But we owe it to Rutilius to respect appearances."

"Rutilius condemned him."

"Rutilius had no choice."

"True." I was a fair man. My brother-in-law had just been mauled to death in front of me, but I knew the rules: cheer loudly, and say he asked for it. "Even if Rutilius had known the man was related to me, insulting Hannibal in his home province isn't allowed. Blaspheming the gods like that would have got him flogged even at home… Don't worry. I shall return looking shifty, like a man who has just had to run out after being taken short."

"Tact," agreed Justinus, walking me steadily back to my seat. "Wonderful feature of civic life. Dear gods, now don't let anybody offer us a friendly dip in their honeyed nuts…"

Although we meant to do the right thing, we were forestalled in rejoining the happy crowd. As we passed the end of the tunnel nearest the amphitheater, we realized the next phase of the Games had now begun. The bloody sand had been raked clean; the tracks made by the cart as it was dragged out had been smoothed over. The huge doors were open and the procession of gladiators was entering the ring. They passed right in front of us, and we felt drawn to follow them as far as the great rectangular gateway through which they all marched.

It was a sight of mingled grandeur and bad taste, as always. Fed, exercised, and honed to a high pitch of fitness, the huge men who fought professionally strode out, to be greeted by a tremendous roar. Trumpets and horns were blasting away. The fighters were dressed ceremonially, each in a gold-embroidered cloth-of-purple Greek military cloak. Oiled, and showing off their muscles, they strutted forth in order of the program. Their names were hailed. They acknowledged this arrogantly with upheld arms, turning to either side of the crowd, buoyed up by a surge of energy.

They made a stately circuit, showing themselves to every portion of the audience. They were attended by their lanistae, all in crisp white tunics striped over the shoulders with narrow colored braid, and bearing long staves. Amongst them I spotted Saturninus, parading to roars from the locals. Attendants came on, carrying salvers on which large purses of prize money bulged. The slaves who raked and brushed the sand attempted a ragged goose-step in a shaky line, holding their implements on their shoulders like ceremonial spears; others led on the horses which would be used in mounted combats, manes burnished and harnesses glittering with enamel disks. Finally in walked an eerie figure portraying the mystical judge of the Underworld, Rhadamanthus, in a tight somber tunic, long supple boots, and the sinister beaked mask of a bird; he was followed by his hard-hearted crony, Hermes Psycopompus-the black messenger with the fiercely heated snaky staff, a branding iron with which he would prod the inert, to discover whether they were really dead, simply unconscious-or feigning.

Crowded in the doorway with a group of arena staff, Justinus and I could see Rutilius on his feet as he supervised the drawing of lots. Fighters of equal experience would be pitted against one another, but that still left the actual draw at each level; this now took place. Some of the pairings were popular and drew enthusiastic cheers; others produced good-humored groans. Eventually the program was all settled, and the weapons to be used were presented formally to the president. Inspecting the swords, Rutilius took his time. This improved the mood of the crowd even further because it showed he knew what he was about; he even rejected one or two after testing their edges.

All through these formalities, the fighters in the ring were showing off. Their warm-up consisted of straightforward muscle exercises with plenty of grunts and knee bends, plus feats of balance and tricks with javelins. One or two hurled their shields aloft and caught them spectacularly. All made great play of feinting and parrying with practice weapons, some lost in total private concentration, others miming attacks on each other, playing up real or imagined enmities. A few egotistical amateurs from the crowd went down to the arena and joined them, wanting to look big.

When the weapons had been approved, attendants carried them from the president's tribunal to be distributed. The warm-up ended. More trumpets blared. The procession formed again as all those who were not in the first bout made to leave. The gladiators marched around the whole ellipse once more, this time deafening the president with the time-honored shout: "Those about to die salute you!"

Rutilius acknowledged them. He looked tired.

Out came most of the gladiators again through the great doorway. We stepped aside hastily. They were heavy and huge-thighed, not men to be trampled by. Behind them someone bawled the formal incitement to the first pair: "Approach!"

The hum of noise subsided. A Thracian and a myrmillon in a fish-crested helmet circled each other warily. The long day's professional slaughter had begun.

Justinus and I turned away, still intending to resume our seats. Then, coming from the tunnel, we saw a young man, running fast.

"That's Hanno's son. It's Iddibal."

Stung into action, I was the first to waylay him and demand what was wrong. Iddibal seemed hysterical. "It's Auntie Myrrha! She's been attacked-"

My heart lurched. Things were starting to happen. "Show us!" I commanded him. Then Justinus and I took him by an arm each and pretty well dragged him to where he had found his injured aunt.

Sixty

WE SHOUTED FOR a doctor, but as soon as we examined her we reckoned Myrrha was done for. Justinus exchanged a look with me, discreetly shaking his head. We pulled Iddibal away to the side of the tunnel on the pretext of allowing the medical staff space.

"What was your aunt doing here?" I could not remember seeing Myrrha leave her seat. My last sighting had been with Euphrasia, looking like any substantial matron stuck there for the day, with a packet of dates in her well-beringed hand and a large white kerchief shading her pinned and rolled hair.

Staring over my shoulder to where Myrrha lay, Iddibal trembled. We had found the woman lying against the wall of the tunnel near its far exit at the stadium end. She had made no sound since we reached her. There was blood soaking her robe and now spreading on the sandy floor. Somebody had slashed her right across the throat; she must have seen the attack coming and had tried to fend it off. Her hands and arms were cut too. There was even a knife scratch on one cheek. Judging from a long trail of blood spots, she had staggered out here, coming from the stadium, wrapping her marine blue stole around her wounded throat in an attempt to staunch the blood.

Now she was fading fast, though Iddibal had not accepted it. I knew Myrrha would never recover consciousness.

"Why was she here?" I urged him a second time.

"Our novice fighter is being armed in the stadium."

"Why the stadium?"

"For secrecy."

Justinus touched my arm and went to take a look.

"Who's your fighter?" The frightened nephew had gone limp on me. "Who, Iddibal?"

"Just a slave."

"Whose slave?"

"One of her own that Aunt Myrrha had taken a dislike to. Nobody. Just a nobody."

I pulled Iddibal more upright and rammed him back against the wall. Then I loosened my hold on him, to seem more friendly. He was dressed in holiday style, even more colorful than the last time I saw him. A long tunic in shades of green and saffron. A wide belt around it. A couple of finger rings and a gold chain.

"That's a nice chain, Iddibal." Its workmanship looked familiar. "Any others at home?"

Bemused and troubled, he answered numbly, "It's not my favorite. I lost that when all this began…"

"When and how?"

"In Rome."

"Where, Iddibal?"

"I left my best clothes with my aunt when I signed on with Calliopus-" He was still straining to look past me to where a doctor was crouched over his aunt. "After I was manumitted, I found the chain was gone."

"What did your aunt say?"

"She had to assume somebody had stolen it. In fact, the slave we're putting up today was the only suspect; Aunt Myrrha told that to father and me last night when she suggested him for the bout-"

"Theft sounds a good reason to get rid of him, yes." I bet Myrrha had had another motive. I had a filthy feeling about this so-called thief, and what Myrrha really knew about her nephew's chain. I tugged at the one Iddibal was now wearing. "Same style as this, was it? The one you lost in Rome?"

"Similar."

"I may have seen it once."

At that Iddibal roused himself. He must have interpreted my ominous tone. "Who had it?"

"Somebody gave it to Rumex, the night he was killed."

He seemed astonished. "How can that be?"

The doctor attending Myrrha stood up. "She's gone," he called. Iddibal abandoned me and rushed over to the corpse. The doctor was holding out an object he had found among Myrrha's clothing; since the nephew was grief-stricken the man gave it to me. It was a small knife, with a bone handle and straight blade, such as a domestic slave might use for sharpening styli.

"Seen this before, Iddibal?"

"I don't know. I don't care-for heaven's sake, Falco-leave me alone!"

Justinus came back.

"Marcus." He stepped close to talk privately. "They have an area where their novice is being hidden from the public. I insisted they let me see him; he's nothing much. Sitting quietly in his armor, inside a small tent."

"Alone?"

"Yes. But Myrrha went in to speak to him a short time ago. The attendants are outside, playing dice, and took no notice-he was her slave, apparently. They saw Myrrha leave, heading fast towards the tunnel with her head wrapped up. They thought no more about it."

"Did you mention that she had been hurt?"

"No."

"What's the name of their gladiator?"

"Fidelis, they say."

"I thought it might be!"

Iddibal looked up. Tearstained and haggard yet no longer so distraught, he rose from his knees beside the sticken figure of his aunt. "That's his knife," he told me, rediscovering himself. "Fidelis was her interpreter."

My voice must have been grim: "A man of that name ran errands as a messenger in Rome. I have an idea your aunt then used him for something very serious. Iddibal, you aren't going to like this but you'll have to face up to it: I don't believe Myrrha ever paid over any money for your release from Calliopus."

"What?"

"When she heard from you that Calliopus wanted Rumex dead, she offered to do the job you had refused. I think she used Fidelis. He took your lost chain to the Saturninus barracks, to offer as a supposed gift. Rumex let him bring it close, then as he put it on he was stabbed in the throat. Unlike Myrrha who must have been wary today, Rumex was caught off guard. On that occasion the slave was able to kill neatly and take his weapon home."

"I don't believe it," said Iddibal. People never do. Then they think things through.

"Myrrha must have decided Fidelis knew too much," Justinus followed up gently. "So she planned to have him killed in the arena today to silence him."

"Perhaps once he killed Rumex, Fidelis became too cocky," I suggested, remembering his attitude when we met them at Sabratha.

"For some stupid reason, she visited him-perhaps to apologize." Justinus was a nice lad. I thought it more likely that Myrrha had been taunting the condemned slave. "He stabbed her, and she must have been too shocked to call for help-"

"Impossible to do so," I said. "She had set him up to kill Rumex; she was guilty too. She needed to keep that secret."

So, fatally wounded, though perhaps unaware of just how grave her condition was, Myrrha had proudly walked away. She collapsed. Now she was dead.

I was all set to visit Fidelis myself and interrogate the bastard. But Fidelis would keep. He had nothing to tell me, really; I was now sure I knew exactly what he had done, and how he was now being made to pay for his faithful service to Myrrha. From the way Justinus described him sitting quietly, it sounded as though Fidelis himself understood that discovery had come and was resigned to his fate. He was a slave. If he died in the arena, that was only where a trial judge would send him anyway.

I had something else to think about. Somebody walked out towards us and stopped on seeing the body. A female voice exclaimed in cultured but callous tones, "What-Myrrha dead? My word, it looks as if we're set to have a bloody day. What fun!"

Then, Scilla, my ex-client, deigned to recognize me.

"I want a word with you, Falco! What have you done to my agent?"

"I thought I was your agent."

Scilla shrugged her shoulders under a full-length purple cloak. "You failed to put in an appearance so I found someone else to do my work."

"Romanus?"

"That's just an alias."

"I thought so. So who is he?"

She blinked, and avoided telling me. "The point is- where is he, Falco? I sent him to see Calliopus last night and he's vanished."

I had little sympathy. "Better ask Calliopus then."

She smiled, far too coyly for my liking. "I might do that later!"

Then Scilla turned on her heel and loped off towards the amphitheater. Her mass of brown hair was today tightly plaited. The cloak she was clutching around her covered the rest of the outfit, but as she walked away from us she released her hold and let it billow out dramatically. When the garment swung loose, I noticed she was bare-legged and wearing boots.

Sixty-one

I TOLD THE ARENA staff to move Myrrha's body out of sight as discreetly as they could. Justinus and I started to walk slowly back to the arena, taking Iddibal with us.

"Iddibal, who set up the special mystery bout your father's holding with the others later? Was it Scilla?"

"Yes. She had met Papa when he was hunting in Cyrenaïca. He was interested in her feud with the other lanistae."

"I bet he was! Does Scilla realize that Hanno has been actively involved in stirring up trouble between Saturninus and Calliopus in Rome?"

"How could she?"

"Your father keeps his machinations quiet, but she has an enquiry agent working for her."

"You?"

"No. I don't know who he is." Well, that was my official line.

Scilla was up to no good here, planning new mischief. Iddibal thought so too, and perhaps troubled by his father's involvement with her, he decided to warn me: "Scilla has convinced Saturninus and Calliopus that this bout is a way to settle her legal claim-but Papa is certain it's a blind. She's hoping to use the occasion to get back at them in some more dramatic way."

We had reached the arena approach. In the past few minutes Saturninus and his men had set up an enclosure. Like Hanno with Fidelis in the stadium, he was keeping his chosen fighter from public view; portable screens had been erected. Around them a large group of his men now stood looking ugly-easy enough, for they were brutal types. We glimpsed Saturninus himself ducking behind the screens-with Scilla at his side.

"Hello!" I muttered.

"Surely not?" said Justinus, but like me he must have noticed her boots a few minutes earlier.

"She has a wild reputation-for a dubious hobby."

"And we've just found out what it is?"

"Scilla is a girl who wants to play at being one of the boys. What do you say, Iddibal?"

He was showing professional distaste. "There always are women who like to shock society by attending a training palaestra. If she's taking part as one of the novice fighters, that's very bad form-"

"And it makes a nonsense of her pretense that this bout is a legal device."

"It's a fight to the death," scoffed Justinus in disgust. "She'll get herself killed!"

I wondered who she was hoping to finish off at the same time.

Just then, the great door swung open. The noise of the crowd roared out, then a man's body was pulled through towards us by a horse, using a rope and a savage hook. Rhadamanthus escorted the dead gladiator from the ring; Hermes must have touched him with the hot caduceus, leaving a livid red mark on his upper arm.

The Lord of the Underworld pushed up his beaked mask and swore in Latin with a heavy Punic accent; someone handed him a small cup of wine. Hermes scratched his leg dopily. Close to, they were an uncouth pair of roughnecks. Off-duty shellfish catchers, by the looks and smell of them.

"Justus," said Hermes, noticing our interest and nodding at the prone Thracian who was being unhooked. A small round shield was thrown out of the ring after him. His curved scimitar followed; Rhadamanthus kicked it so it lay with the shield.

"Hopeless." One of the thin, seedy slaves who raked the sand decided we needed a commentary. There is always some spark wanting to say what's going on when you can see that perfectly well for yourself. "No class. Only lasted a couple of strokes. Waste of everyone's time."

I had had an idea. I turned to the man with the beak. "Want a break? Cool off-enjoy your drink."

"No peace for the King of the Dead!" Rhadamanthus laughed.

"You could send in an understudy-nip inside the tunnel with me, and swap clothes. Give me your mallet for the rest of the morning, and I'll make it worth your while."

"You don't want this job," Rhadamanthus tried to warn me, really earnest in his wish to spare me a tedious experience. He clung to the ceremonial mallet with which he claimed the dead. "Nobody loves you. You get no credit, and it's damned hot in the gear."

Justinus thought I was being stupid, so he weighed in to supervise. "Helena said you were not to fight."

"Who me? I'll just be the jolly fellow who counts out the dead." I had a feeling we were about to see rather a lot of them.

"I'm not happy about what you're proposing, Marcus."

"Learn to like it. Getting into trouble is the way Falco & Partner operate. How about this, Rhadamanthus? Suppose you and the mighty Hermes sit offside with a flagon during the special bout, and let my partner and me go out to officiate for that one, masked and anonymous?"

"Will there be any comeback?"

"Why should there be?"

First we returned to our seats, taking Iddibal; that would keep him from telling his father what Fidelis had done. The slave was doomed now, for one murder or another. I wanted to see what had been engineered for him in the ring.

We had to sit through the remaining professional bouts. There were more of these than we had realized, though not all ended in a fatality. My mind was racing; I hardly paid any attention to the fights. At Lepcis Magna the full range was offered, but I had lost any enthusiasm I had ever felt.

In their red apronlike loincloths and wide belts, gladiators came and went that morning. Myrmillons with fish-topped helmets and gallic arms tussled against Thracians; secutors ran light-footed after unarmored, unhelmeted retarii, who turned in mid-flight like startled birds and disabled their pursuers, wielding their tridents with the tiny pronged heads, not much bigger than kitchen toasting forks but capable of dealing horrific injuries to a man whose sword arm had been tied up in a flung net. Gladiators fought two-handed with a pair of swords; fought from chariots; fought from horseback with light hunting spears; even fought with lassos. A hoplomachus, covered by a full body-height shield, was booed for remaining too static, his regular swipes from behind his protection bored the crowd; they preferred faster action, though the fighters themselves knew it was best to conserve as much strength as possible. They were likely to be overcome by the heat and tiredness just as much as by their opponents. With blood and sweat making their grip slide, or blinding them, they had to struggle on, just hoping the other man was equally unfortunate and that they could both be sent off in a draw.

Most escaped alive. It was too expensive to lose them. The lanistae dancing around them crying encouragement were also watching keenly to ensure no one was killed unnecessarily. The choreographed movements became almost an elaborate joke, with the crowd sometimes jeering sarcastically, in the full knowledge that they were witnessing the proverbial "fix." Only the betting touts could lose by that-and they somehow knew enough to avoid bankruptcy.

Eventually we reached the mock-comic partnership of two men in fully enclosed helmets. This was the last of the professional pairings. While they blundered about blind, swiping at one another ineffectually, Justinus and I rose from our seats again.

"What are you up to?"

"Nothing, dear heart."

That was him, bluffing Claudia. Helena had simply glared at me, too wise even to ask.

As I stood waiting for Justinus to move first, I happened to glance over to where Euphrasia sat, with Calliopus' gorgeous young wife Artemisia. They made a strange contrast. Euphrasia in her flashy, diaphanous robe, looked every inch a daredevil who would have had an affair with Rumex. Young Artemisia was covered up to the neck and even half veiled: just as a husband might want her to be turned out. Not many very beautiful girls would stand for it.

I turned back to Iddibal, who sat hunched beside Helena, hardly aware of what was happening around him. "Iddibal, why was Calliopus so determined to have Rumex dispatched-surely it was not just part of the dirty tricks war?"

The young man shook his head. "No; Calliopus hated Rumex."

I wondered now if Artemisia had been sent to the villa at Surrentum in December not just to stop her nagging about her husband's mistress, but actually as a punishment. Helena caught my drift; I guessed she too was remembering how Euphrasia had said to her that Calliopus' wife had a lot to answer for and that he probably hit her. Helena exclaimed in a low voice, "Calliopus is a desperately jealous man, a brooder and a plotter, a completely unforgiving type. Can it be that Artemisia was one of the women involved with Rumex?"

"They had an affair," confirmed Iddibal with a slight shrug, as though everyone knew as much. "Calliopus was after Rumex from a purely personal motive. It had nothing to do with business."

My eyes met Helena's and we both sighed: a crime of passion, after all.

I looked again at where Artemisia sat so quiet and subdued, just like a woman whose husband had badly beaten her. Bruising could well explain the long sleeves and high neckline-not to mention her cowed attitude. Her face and figure were breathtaking, though her eyes were vacant. I wondered whether that had always been the case, or whether her spirit had been knocked out of her. Whatever trouble she had caused, Artemisia was without question one of the victims now.

Justinus and I reached the amphitheater's main entrance again. We waited for our cronies to come out to work their exchange with us.

In the ring, the two groping andabates were still slowly circling. Fully protected by armored links of mail, the blind combatants had been trained to maneuver like sponge divers in deep water, each step or gesture taken with immense care, all the while keyed up for any sound that would locate the man opposite. They could only defeat him by swiping through the links of his mail suit-hard enough to achieve even if they had been able to see. I always expected them to survive unharmed, yet time and again one triumphed, whacking apart the metal segments to destroy a limb or pierce an organ.

It happened that day, as usual. The blind fighters were chosen for being swift on their feet and dexterous, yet immensely strong. Once one did hit home, it was generally a good blow. The thwack resounded all over the arena, heard even in the highest seats from where the combatants looked like tiny toys. As soon as he had found his mark, he would strike hard again repeatedly. So Rhadamanthus was soon tapping a corpse with his mallet, and once again the dead meat was towed out.

We changed clothes with Rhadamanthus and Hermes very quickly.

"Shamble a bit or we'll be spotted as fakes," I advised Justinus. Then I took charge of the long-handled Etruscan mallet and he solemnly grasped the caduceus, which came with a small boy holding a brazier in which the snaky stick was heated up for use.

The heat off the sand swamped us, as we waited for the rakemen to smooth a clear path for our entry. The soft boots I had had to wear were springy even on the loose surface. The beaked mask made it difficult to see; my vision was impeded sideways and I had to get used to moving my head round physically if I needed to look left or right. We were bound to be spotted by Helena and Claudia; Hermes goes unmasked so we knew they would recognize Justinus immediately.

There was a short interval before the special event. Justinus and I paced around the ring, accustoming ourselves to the space and atmosphere. Nobody bothered us, or took any notice at all.

Vigorous trumpets announced the next set. A herald proclaimed the terms: "Three; fighting severally and without reprieve." Exultant cheers. There was no mention that the victor's lanistae had to pay Scilla's lawsuit-though everybody knew. What they might not know was that Scilla had decided to take a hand in the fight herself. But in an already crammed and exotic program, here was something a touch different. Because the three lanistae came from different Tripolitanian towns, a huge murmur went up and the atmosphere sizzled with rivalry.

Justinus and I stationed ourselves together at the side of the arena while the combatants marched in and their names were at last announced.

First, the Sabratha contingent. No surprises there. Hanno led in Fidelis. This was the undersized, unappealing slave I had encountered at Myrrha's house, now dressed up for his execution like a retiarius. It was a fatal role for an untrained man and from his expression he knew it. He wore the red loincloth, cinched around his scrawny frame by a heavy belt. He was completely unarmed except for one leather sleeve reinforced with narrow metal plates on his left arm; it was finished with a tall, solid shoulder-piece, the weight of which threatened to buckle him. He had on the same large sandals he always wore. He carried the net in an untidy clump, as if he knew it was pointless; he gripped the trident so nervously his knuckles were white.

Next the party representing Oea. Calliopus, tall, thin, and glowering with tension, brought in his man.

"Romanus!" cried the herald. That was a surprise.

I stared at the fellow closely. Age indeterminate, height ordinary, legs medium, chest nothing. He was to fight as a secutor. At least this meant he had some protection-a half-cylindrical greave on his left shin, a leather arm guard and a long rectangular shield, decorated with crude stars and circles; his weapon was a short sword, which he did hold as if somebody had taught him what to do with steel. The traditional crested helmet, with two eyeholes in a solid front, hid his face from view eerily.

Scilla had said she sent her agent to see Calliopus. Had he seized the man and compelled him to fight? Romanus walked quietly; he seemed a willing contender. If he was some kind of agent, whatever was he thinking of getting himself into this?

Finally Saturninus, the local trainer; clearly a popular character. Even before the herald's announcement, the crowd gasped. The champion he brought would be regarded as outrageous; it was a woman.

"Scilla!"

Escorting her, Saturninus made a wide, self-mocking gesture as if saying that under pressure he had allowed her to defend her cause herself. There were cynical laughs in reply. The local crowd leered, while the smaller contingents from Oea and Sabratha mocked the Lepcis champion.

Instead of just a loincloth she wore a short tunic for decency, with a normal gladiator's swordbelt hugging her waist. Boots. Two shin guards. A round buckler and curved sickle-shaped sword-she was assuming the role of a Thracian. Her helmet, customized perhaps, looked light but strong, with a grille she had opened so the crowd could see her face as she strutted in proudly.

Her big moment. It was unlikely she had ever appeared in an arena previously, though bouts between women did happen. They were greeted with a mixture of scandalized contempt and prurience. Women who attended gymnasia to exercise were held in the lowest regard in Rome. No wonder Pomponius had wanted to keep any further taint of unsuitable behavior away from his betrothed after Leonidas died. He would have tried to excuse her passion as a misguided hobby-though he had still wanted to impress her by staging that fatal private show. At least now I could see why he had thought it would appeal to her. One aspect of this brutal muddle at last made sense.

When women did fight in the arena, they were always put against other women. To the Roman mind that was bad enough. Nobody would even contemplate pitting a female against men. Still, at least one of Scilla's opponents today was a slave and "Romanus" must surely be of low origin to have ended up here. But she had damned herself; even if she could survive the fighting, she was now socially untouchable. As to the fight, every man present would tell you, she stood no chance.

Suddenly, worrying alarums rang. There was no time to pursue the thought that raced through my mind, however. The fight was about to start.

"Approach!"

The three gladiators, such as they were, took up three points of a triangle at first. This was fighting severally-that is, not in fixed pairs. Unless their lanistae allowed two of them to cooperate and together batter the third, that meant one would probably stand back while two others fought each other first.

So it transpired. I had expected a long period of prowling around, while all three hoped to be the last in action, saving their strength. Instead, the woman chose her mark. She began at once: Scilla snapped shut the grille of her helmet and took on Fidelis.

He was always the victim figure, likely to be attacked hard by both the others early on. Unarmed, he had no alternative but to run. First, he fled across the arena to the far end. Scilla pursued him yet held back from attack; she was toying with the slave. Doomed by Myrrha, nobody had given him any advice. He had no idea how to deal with the netman's equipment. The dangerous skills that would normally make such a match an equal combat were cruelly denied him.

He did not want to die, though. Since he must, he decided it would be with a flourish. He swung at Scilla with the net, and somehow managed a half-decent sweep, even clinging onto the cord that surrounded the bulk of his net. He had cast it over one of her shoulders-unfortunately for him the wrong one; instead of her sword arm he had hampered her left side, tangling up her shield. Scilla just let it fall. Sufficient free play remained for the weight of the round shield to drag the net off her. It caught once on her belt but she shook herself violently and it fell free. Fidelis lost his hold on the cord. She was then facing Fidelis unprotected, and his trident had a longer reach than her curved sword, but she showed no fear. She skated rapidly backwards, yet she was laughing-still taunting him. Her confidence was astonishing.

He advanced, with an awkward, unattractive lope. She retreated farther back, towards us. She was deft on her feet; he was clumsy. He plunged the trident at her, missing badly. She swept her sword at it, but somehow he snatched it back. She skipped several strides backwards again-then stopped abruptly. Fidelis had run in too close. The head of his trident passed by her harmlessly. Left-handed, Scilla fearlessly grabbed the shaft and pulled towards herself hard. She jerked her sword into Fidelis with a vicious blow. He fell at once.

Scilla stepped away, her blade dripping blood.

Fidelis was clearly still alive. Hanno and Saturninus, who had been sidelined, neither attempting to encourage their fighters with the usual prancing around, now raced up to inspect the damage. Fidelis was raising an arm, one finger up. It was the standard appeal to the crowd for mercy. In a fight without quarter this should not be allowed.

Some of the unruly audience began to drum their heels and give the thumbs-up sign, themselves appealing to the president to grant Fidelis his life.

Rutilius stood up. He must have thought fast. He signaled that he passed the judgment to Hanno, as the lanista whose man was down. Hanno swept an arm viciously sideways, indicating death.

With a coolness that made people gasp, Scilla at once stepped forwards and delivered a death blow straight at the base of the prone man's neck. Fidelis had never been trained as real gladiators were to take the force without flinching; yet he had no time to disgrace himself. A murmur of real shock ran around the crowd.

A brief glance passed between Scilla and Saturninus. According to the secret agenda of this combat, Fidelis had always been intended to die. From his intimacy with the Pomponius ménage, Saturninus probably knew that Scilla had been trained to fight. But he cannot have been expecting that she would prove quite so efficient and merciless. Or did he?

Ask Scilla who really killed that lion! Euphrasia had urged Helena. Dear gods. Of course! Saturninus already knew what I now finally realized.

Scilla herself had said Rumex had been decrepit; all his fights, she claimed, were fixed. Such a man would not even have tried to tackle the beast when Leonidas broke loose. As he fatally mauled her lover, Scilla had yelled at him to make him leave his prey. Then, I had no doubt at all, it was Scilla who had grabbed a spear and followed the lion into the garden. She had speared Leonidas herself.

Sixty-two

A SHORT TRUMPET blast warned all those present that the rites of the dead must be followed. Justinus and I paced out across the sand to where Fidelis lay. Everyone stood back.

He was done for. Justinus touched him only lightly with the caduceus, though even then the waft of burnt human flesh was off-putting. I struck Fidelis soundly with my mallet, claiming his soul for Hades. We followed as he was taken from the arena, stretchered off this time. Apparently since these three combatants were not professionals they were to be accorded gentler treatment than the toughs we had seen dragged away previously. I felt a wry pride that under my auspices as the Judge of the Underworld, the ceremonies were more civilized.

As soon as we had seen out the corpse we turned back from the doorway into the arena. I had a bad taste, sickened by the merciless behavior Scilla had exhibited. This was more than a legitimate quest for vengeance. The woman had no sense of proportion, as well as no sense of shame.

Justinus signaled the protagonists to recommence. Scilla was already under attack. While she had been preening for the crowd, Romanus, whoever he was, had had the nous to interpose himself so she was cut off from her buckler where it still lay tangled in the net. I saw him kick it farther towards the barrier. He was on guard, well positioned-head up, eyes no doubt watchful behind his helmet visor, sword point at the correct height, big shield held close to the body. A textbook stance-or trying too hard, perhaps.

Scilla pulled back her shoulders and crouched, on the alert. This new situation clearly posed a far bigger challenge than Fidelis. She looked eager, completely unafraid.

Hanno retired slightly now that his champion was dead. I wondered what he was thinking. Did he already know what Scilla was planning? Calliopus had moved forward to support Romanus, who ignored the lanista stalwartly.

The crowd had become menacing. There were rival chants from small groups of troublemakers. A lot of people were on their feet, in a frenzy at the sight of a woman fighting against a man. The wall of noise seemed almost physical.

The two fighters exchanged a few feints. It was very programmed: they looked like novices in their first lesson, practicing at their trainer's command. Scilla tried fighting back harder. Her sword flirted rapidly, several times crashing on her opponent's shield. He parried competently, standing his ground. Suddenly Scilla rushed him, then performed an astonishing somersault. Being of female weight and so lightly armored, she was able to flip over acrobatically as most gladiators never could. She passed Romanus, and retrieved her shield, wheedling it with one hand until it came free from the net in which Fidelis had caught it.

At once, she turned and pursued Romanus in the classic Thracian style-holding the small shield at chin height, horizontally, while the sharp sickle-shaped blade of her sword was poised at hip level. Scilla's sword whipped back and forth as she pressed forwards. Fierce shaking movements of the shield sought to disconcert her opponent. Saturninus, showing real or feigned enthusiasm as her lanista, ululated excitedly. The crowd joined in with more satirical cries.

Romanus fought back with some ability, though I had no great hopes of him. The girl was fiercely driven, surely not just by her desire for revenge for Pomponius-but by some extra urge to make a big display of feminine prowess. I did not believe she would be satisfied with the death of Fidelis, someone else's slave. I doubted that her fight with Romanus was personal either.

Who was this Romanus? Did Scilla herself know? If he was her agent, who had lured Calliopus here from Oea, how had he let himself be made Calliopus' booby today? Had Calliopus taken against him over the story about a court summons to denounce Saturninus, then had he imprisoned the messenger, and used threats to force him to fulfill this role today?

I had a horrible feeling I knew why "Romanus" was in the arena. I even felt I should find a way to get him out of his predicament. There was no way I could do it.

They battled for longer than I had thought possible. Scilla took a wound to one calf. It bled profusely; it must have hurt too, but she refused to acknowledge it. Romanus was acting ruffled now. In the helmet with the solid face guard it was impossible to gauge his expression, but he was moving more jerkily. Scilla appeared to have boundless energy. He was carrying a greater weight of arms and must be feeling the heat. At one point they drifted apart by accident and he had a chance to catch his breath for a second. I noticed him shake his head, like a swimmer with water in his ears. If sweat ran down behind the eyeholes, inside his helmet, he would be fighting blind.

Something about him was increasingly familiar.

They rejoined battle. It was a sharp, angry exchange this time. He pressed her back across the sand. When on form he showed greater strength, but sustaining it for more than short bursts seemed to defeat him. She seemed to have more experience and technical skill. The crowd fell almost silent, gripped with awe and anticipation. Suddenly Romanus stumbled. One foot slid from under him; he was on his back. He must have twisted his leg; he could not rise. He had managed to support himself one-handed, with his elbow bent. Scilla let out a shrill crow of triumph. Standing over him, she turned to the crowd again, arms high, sword poised. She was about to deliver the death blow again.

There was uproar. Calliopus ran to his man. Scilla whipped around towards where Romanus lay, her eyes still on the tiers of seats where now everyone was on their feet, and bellowing their lungs out. With a furious blow, the woman struck. She had not looked-or so it seemed. A man cried out. A man then died. But instead of Romanus, it was Calliopus.

As before, Scilla leapt back, holding her sword aloft in victory. That she had killed the wrong man made no difference to her. I saw Saturninus move; he knew he would be her next target.

"That was deliberate!" Justinus gasped.

Then he gasped again. People in the crowd shrieked. As the woman wheeled away triumphantly, Romanus astonished them: he launched himself upright from ground level, and stood on his feet again.

It was a move I knew. Glaucus called it "Trainer's Cheat." He did it when a pupil grew too cocky and was sure he had won a practice fight. My trainer would wait until his pupil turned away, then jump up, clinch an arm around his throat, and lay the edge of his own blade hard against the idiot's throat.

That was exactly what Romanus did. Only he was not using a wooden practice sword-and he did not stop. He cut deep with all his strength, and almost severed Scilla's neck.

Sixty-three

ROMANUS LAID HER down, then he stepped back. There was blood everywhere.

I was already striding out across the sand, Justinus at my heels. With medical detachment we claimed Calliopus for Hades, then repeated the procedure for the girl.

It ought to be all over. With Scilla dead, her claim for compensation fell. But despite the unrelenting parade of death already placed before them, the crowd were baying for more. For one thing, the big bets today would have been on all three novices ending up dead. Besides, the rivalry between supporters from the Three Towns had flared into jeers of abuse. The noise became appalling; it was terrifying too.

Saturninus, the grim professional, did not hesitate: he raised an arm, palm flat. The crowd began to drum their heels and shout in unison. Saturninus picked up the long stave which he had been using in his professional role; he brandished and then broke it. After that he pulled off over his head the uniform white tunic that all lanistae wore in the ring. Then he pointed to Romanus as if telling him to wait where he was. The gesture was plain. He was taking on the task: Saturninus was intending to fight Romanus and give the crowd one final thrill.

To renewed, better-tempered applause, Saturninus was already walking off to arm himself. Of all the three lanistae, he had the most direct experience-a professional ex-gladiator who had survived to win his freedom. Here, he was the local hero too, with most of the crowd behind him. Romanus stood no chance.

The crowd reseated themselves amidst a loud hum of discussion. There had to be a short unprogrammed intermission while Saturninus armed. Justinus and I wheeled slowly around as the latest corpses were removed.

"Clean the ring," I called, summoning the rakemen. This was not in the remit of the beaked Rhadamanthus, but as always a command spoken with authority got results.

Officials had surrounded Romanus; he was being given a water flask.

First I walked over to Hanno, followed by Justinus. Hanno was standing aloof, no longer needed for the action since Fidelis died, yet still formally part of the show.

"It's Didius Falco." From behind the beaked mask Hanno recognized my voice, I think, though he made no sign. I said to Justinus, "Translate for me, Hermes! Tell him, I know he colluded with Scilla to arrange this fight. Calliopus is dead; if Romanus now kills Saturninus, Hanno will have his heart's desire."

Hanno looked annoyed when we spoke to him, but he replied and Justinus translated back to me: "I just push an idea along, here and there."

"Oh yes. Nothing illegal."

"If other people do the work, that is for their consciences."

"Time to learn Latin. You will be going to Rome far more often now."

"Why do you think that?"

"When the new amphitheater opens."

"Yes," Hanno agreed, smiling. "That is quite likely."

I felt annoyed by his complacency. Justinus was still doggedly translating as I changed tack: "Do you know why your sister wanted Fidelis dead?"

"He had stolen from my son."

"No-tell him, Quintus. Myrrha had Fidelis kill Rumex. What's very neat is that before he was marched out here to be silenced, Fidelis had killed Myrrha too."

Justinus made the statement in Punic, then had no need to translate how Hanno reacted. He was deeply shocked. He stared hard at us as if to see if what we had said could be trusted, then he strode from the arena.

Yes, I thought. When the great new amphitheater opened, the businessman from Sabratha would still clean up financially-but today he had been stopped in his stride for a moment. That could only be healthy for him and his son.

Saturninus must be returning; there was an expectant hum.

Time was running out. Romanus was now standing alone. As I approached, he spoke to me: "Falco!" croaked a desperate voice from out of my nightmares. "Falco; it's me!"

"You bastard," I answered, without any surprise. "How did you get Glaucus to accept you at the gym? If there's one person I don't want to see at my private bathhouse, frankly-Anacrites-it's you!"

The men sweeping the final marks from the sand worked around us.

Behind the owl-eyed helmet, I now detected Anacrites' familiar pale gray irises. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

"I can guess that." I was furious. "When I left you in Rome, you decided that you would solve my case-that's the case you had said we should abandon. You were contacted by Scilla. Either you said no at first, or she took against you and went to Cyrene to hire me instead. You came out to Tripolitania of your own accord-"

"Falco, we are a partnership!"

I felt sick. "I was already hired by the woman; you were trying to compete! You met Scilla again in Lepcis, helped her lure Calliopus here-and now you have killed her. That was not very sensible; she'll never pay her bill! And however did you end up fighting, you fool?"

"Calliopus saw through my disguise. He had me set upon and imprisoned. He said I could either be killed straightaway and dumped in a gutter, or I could fight today and at least stand a chance-Falco, how can I get out of this?"

"Too late, you idiot. Anacrites, when they brought you into the ring you should have appealed to Rutilius. You're a free man, sold into the arena against your will-why go along with it?"

"Scilla had told me she was going to fight for Saturninus. I guessed she intended to somehow try to kill both him and Calliopus. I thought if I was out here, I might be able to intervene-Falco," said Anacrites plaintively, "I thought that it was what you would do yourself."

Dear gods. The madman wanted to be me.

The crowd was baying for the final contest. There was no way I could rescue him, even assuming I wanted to.

"I can't help you," I told him. "It's now you against Saturninus and if you try to back out, Lepcis Magna will riot."

He was being brave, damn him: "Ah well, I enjoyed working with you, partner."

I tried to find a joke in return. "You'll have to trust in the old stories-all the fights are fixed-"

"And the referee is blind!"

I turned on my heel. Justinus followed me. I took two strides then turned back with one final desperate quip. "If you get wounded, remember Thalia's performing dog: lie still and play dead."

To my horror Anacrites then held out his hand to me. He would be killed here in a few minutes; I had no alternative. I shook hands, just like a partner wishing him good luck. A partner who knew no luck in the world could possibly help him now.

Saturninus had prepared himself with a professional's efficiency. Over his embroidered loincloth, his belt was a wide, champion's effort. He wore one greave, an arm protector, and a carved, rectangular shield. His helmet was a pair to that worn by Anacrites. His bare chest and limbs looked oiled. He swept out across the arena, visibly fresh. An expert. The local man. Undefeatable.

I stared up at the massed faces, twenty-five or so rows of them. The crowd was murmuring feverishly. Then silence fell.

I expected it to be short. It was nearly so short most people missed it. Saturninus took up his guard. Anacrites was facing him, though probably not yet concentrating. With a loud yell, a heavy stamp forwards, and a powerful sword-stroke, Saturninus struck Anacrites' own sword from his hand. Now, Anacrites was not even armed.

Anacrites went straight in. Even Saturninus must have been startled. Anacrites plunged forwards and pushed his opponent, shield against shield. Good try. Almost an army move. Saturninus may not have expected this, but he reached around and stabbed inwards. Anacrites dragged himself sideways away from the blow but kept close, so they wheeled. Carried on by the momentum and still locked together, they continued to push each other in a wild stumbling circle while Saturninus hacked with his sword. Anacrites was already covered in Scilla's blood, but new streams of his own were flowing. I could hardly bear to watch.

Anacrites fell. He at once raised his finger, appealing for compassion. Saturninus stepped back, looking contemptuous. In the crowd I saw a few thumbs up and fluttering white handkerchiefs, though nowhere near enough. I dared not look at Rutilius. Saturninus took his own decision; in the time-honored move, he bent to hoick up his opponent's helmet by the chin, exposing his throat. He was about to give Anacrites the death blow.

Suddenly Saturninus reeled back. His sword fell to the sand. He had recoiled from Anacrites and was bent forwards, clutching his stomach. Blood welled between his fingers. I could not see the weapon, but I recognized his action-familiar to anyone who has seen a tavern brawl. He had been stabbed in the bowels with a knife.

Anacrites was the Chief Spy. No one should have expected a clean fight.

Saturninus made a desperate effort. He stumbled forwards, caught up his sword again, then fell onto Anacrites. The sword seemed to go in somewhere, but the knife found another target too. They both lay still.

There was uproar again, but even the crowd had seen enough by now. Justinus and I walked out to the corpses as steadily as we could. We pulled them apart. There was no sign of life. I found the knife Anacrites had used and managed to slide it up my sleeve unseen. We made a show of performing a formal inspection, then I tapped both bodies briskly with the mallet and signaled for bearers. Saturninus was afforded the honor of a stretcher. "Romanus," as a stranger, was towed from the ring faceup and feetfirst, with the back of his helmet dragging on the bloody sand. The only way he could have left was as a corpse. Had he survived the fight, the outraged crowd would have torn him apart.

Sixty-four

AFTER THE NECESSARY salutes to the president, I set off for the great doorway, with Justinus close behind me. The hubbub continued in the arena as we walked outside.

We surveyed the grim row of bloody bodies. I pushed up the beaked mask I wore, feeling as if my legs would give way.

Justinus looked at me somberly. "Your partnerships seem to get wound up rather roughly."

"He brought it on himself. Always consult your colleague-who will dissuade you from sheer stupidity."

I forced myself to walk over to the line of carcasses. Groaning at the effort, I knelt down. More gently than he would have expected, I released the helmet from Anacrites and laid it to one side. His face was as white as the time I found him with a smashed head, as close to dying as anybody could have been and yet survive.

"I shall have to tell my mother about this. We'd better make sure he's really gone this time. Hermes-" Justinus stepped forwards with the snaky staff. "Right: give him a quick shove somewhere with your hot caduceus."

A pair of pale gray eyes opened, very wide. As Justinus knelt down to touch the "corpse," a resounding yell of terror rose to the Tripolitanian skies.

I smiled to myself resignedly. Anacrites was still alive.