Two For The Lions (31 page)

LX

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.

LXI

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 Cyrenaica. 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, Hill 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.