Authors: Lindsey Davis
V
THE NEXT DAY, having boned up on what Calliopus
said
he was worth, we went back to his training barracks to take his operation apart.
The man himself hardly looked as if he was engaged in the trade of death and cruelty. He was a tall, thin, neat fellow with a well-trimmed head of dark, crinkled hair, big ears, flared nostrils, and enough of a suntan to suggest foreign extraction though he blended in well. An immigrant from south of Carthage, if you closed your eyes he could have been Suburra-born. His Latin was colloquial, its accent pure Circus Maximus, unmarred by elocution training. He wore plain white tunics with just enough finger jeweler to imply he was humanly vain. A wide boy, one who had made good by hard work and who conducted himself with a decorous manner. The kind Rome loves to hate.
He was the right age to have worked his way up from anywhere. He could have learned all sorts of business practices along the way. He saw to us himself. It implied that he could only afford a small group of slaves, who all had their own work to do and could not be spared for us.
Since I had seen his manpower schedules, I knew differently; he wanted to keep personal control over anything Anacrites and I were told. He seemed friendly and incurious. We knew what to make of that.
His establishment comprised a small palaestra where his men were trained, and a menagerie. Because of the animals, the aediles had made him stay out of Rome, on the Via Portuensis, way over the river. At least it was the right side of town for us, but in all other respects it was a damned nuisance. To avoid the Transtiberina rough quarter we had to persuade a skiffman to row us across from the Emporium to the Portuensis Gate. From there it was a short sprint past the Sanctuary of the Syrian Gods, which put us in an exotic mood, and then on past a Sanctuary of Hercules.
We had kept our first visit brief Yesterday we met our subject, looked at his lion in a rather unsafely chewed wooden cage, then grabbed some documents to get to grips with. Today things would get tough.
Anacrites was supposed to be primed to conduct the initial interview. My own study of the records had told me Calliopus currently owned eleven gladiators. They were "bestiarii" of the professional grade. By that I mean they were not simply criminals shoved into the ring in pairs to kill one another during the morning warm-up sessions, with the last survivor dispatched by an attendant; these were eleven properly trained and armed animal fighters. Professionals like them give a good show but try to be "sent back"--that is, returned to the tunnels alive after each bout. They have to fight again, but they hope one day the crowd will shout for them to receive a large reward and perhaps their freedom.
"Not many survive?" I asked Calliopus, putting him at ease as we settled in.
"Oh more than you think, especially among the bestiarii. You have to have survivors. The hope of money and fame is what keeps them coming up to join. For young lads from poor backgrounds it may be their one chance to succeed in life."
"I expect you know, everyone thinks the fights are fixed."
"So I believe," said Calliopus noncommittally.
He probably also knew the other theory every self-respecting Roman mutters whenever the president of the Games waves his pesky white handkerchief to interfere with the action: the referee is blind.
One reason this lanista's gladiators were regarded as feeble specimens was that he really specialized in mock hunts: the part of the Games which is called the venatio. He owned various large wild anin13ls whom he would set free in the arena in staged settings, then his men pursued them either on horseback or on foot, killing as few as they could get away with while still pleasing the crowd. Sometimes the beasts fought each other, in unlikely combinations--elephants against bulls, or panthers against lions. Sometimes a man and a beast were pitted one to one. Bestiarii, however, were little more than expert hunters. The crowd despised them compared with the Thracians, myrmillons and retarii, the fighters of various types who were intended to end up dead on the sand themselves.
"Oh we lose the odd man, Falco. The hunts need to look dangerous."
That did not square with events I had watched where reluctant animals had to be lured to their fate by banging shields loudly or waving fiery brands.
"So you like your four-footed stock to be ferocious. And you collect them in Tripolitania?"
"Mainly. My agents scour the whole of North Africa--Numidia, Cyrenaica, even Egypt."
"The animals cost a lot to find, house and feed?"
Calliopus gave me a narrow look. "Where's this leading, Falco?"
We had announced that Anacrites would ask the first questions, but I was happy to start in like this myself; it unsettled Calliopus who felt unsure whether the interview had yet begun formally. It unsettled Anacrites too, come to that.
Time to be frank: "The Censors have asked my partner and me to conduct what we call a lifestyle check."
"A what?"
"Oh you know. They wonder how you can manage to own that pretty villa at Surrentum when you say your business is running at a loss."
"I declared my Surrentum villa!" Calliopus protested
That, of course, had been his mistake. Property on the Bay of Neapolis runs at a premium. Villas on the cliffs with sparkling views across the shimmering blue to Capreae are the mark of millionaires from consular families, ex-imperial slaves from the petitions bureau, and the more successful blackmailers.
"Very proper," I soothed him. "Of course Vespasian and Titus are sure you're not one of those evil bastards who plead piteously that they work in a field which has heavy overheads, while at the same time they are maintaining troops of thoroughbreds in the Circus of Nero and driving chariots with go-faster spokes and gilt finials. What wheels do you run, by the way?" I asked innocently.
"I have a family-style mule-drawn conveyance and a litter for the personal use of my wife," said Calliopus in a hurt tone, obviously making rapid plans to sell his boy racer quadriga and it quartet of zippy Spanish greys.
"Most frugal. But you know the sort of thing that causes excitement in the bureaucracy. Big carriages, as I said. Large gambling stakes. Flash tunics. Noisy confederates. Nights out entertaining girls who provide unusual services. Nothing you could ever be accused of: I realize." The lanista blushed. I carried on blithely: "Pentellic marble nudes. Mistresses of the type who can speak five languages and judge a cabochon-cut sapphire, who are kept in discreet penthouses up Saffron Street."
He cleared his throat nervously. I made a note to discover the mistress. A job for Anacrites, perhaps; he seemed to have nothing to say for himself. The woman might only have mastered two or three lingos, one of them merely shopping-list Greek, but she was bound to have wheedled out of her lover a little apartment "to keep mother in", and Calliopus would probably have his foolish name on the transfer deed.
What a great deal of mire there was to uncover in the course of our noble work. Dear gods, how deceitful my fellow citizens were (thought I, contentedly).
There was no sign yet that Calliopus intended to offer us inducements to leave him alone. It suited Falco & Partner at present. We were not yet that type of audit team. We intended to nail him; it was his hard luck. We wanted to start with a genuine high strike rate and a matching income for the Treasury, in order to prove to Vespasian and Titus that we were worth employing.
It would also alert the general population that being investigated by us was dangerous, so people on our list might like to reach an early settlement.
"So you own eleven gladiators," Anacrites weighed in finally. "How do you acquire them, may I ask? Do you purchase them?"
A rare look of anxiety crossed Calliopus' face as he worked out that this question would precede one that asked where the purchase money came from. "Some."
"Are they slaves?" continued Anacrites.
"Some."
"Sold to you by their masters?"
"Yes."
"In what circumstances?"
"They will normally be troublemakers who have offended the master or else he just thinks they look tough and decides to convert them to cash."
You pay a lot for them?"
"Not often. But people always hope we will."
"You also acquire foreign captives? Do you have to pay for them?"
"Yes; they belong to the state originally."
"Are they regularly available?"
"In times of war."
"That market could dry up if our new Emperor installs a glorious period of peace. . . Where will you look then?"
"Men come forward."
"They choose this life?"
"Some people are desperate for money."
"You pay them a lot?"
"I pay them nothing--only their bread."
"Is that enough to hold them?"
"If they could not eat before. There is an initial enrolment fee paid to free men who volunteer."
"How much?"
"Two thousand sesterces."
Anacrites raised his eyebrows. "That's not much more than the Emperor pays poets who recite a good ode at a concert! Is it reasonable for men signing their lives away?"
"It's more than most have ever seen."
"Not a large figure, however, in return for slavery and death. And when they join, they have to sign a contract?"
"They bind themselves to me."
"For how long?"
"For ever. Unless they win the wooden sword and are made free. But once they have been successful, even those who win the biggest prizes tend to grow restless and rejoin."
"On the same terms?"
"No; the recommissioning fee is six times the original."
"Twelve thousand?"
"And of course they expect to garner more prizes; they believe themselves winners."
"Well that won't be for ever!"
Calliopus smiled quietly. "No."
Anacrites stretched himself: looking thoughtful. He conducted an unforced style of interview, making copious notes in a large, loose hand. His manner was calm, as if merely familiarizing himself with the local scenery. It was not what I had expected. Still, to become Chief Spy he must have been successful once.
Calliopus, we had already decided, had been advised by his accountant to co-operate where it was unavoidable, but never to volunteer anything. Once Anacrites had started him talking, a drawn-out pause threw him. "Of course I can see what you're after," he burbled. "You wonder how I can afford to make these purchases, when I told the Censors most of my outgoings were long-term ones with no immediate returns."
"Training your gladiators," Anacrites agreed, making no comment on the guilty gush of extra information.
"It takes years!"
"During which time you have to pay for their board?"
"And provide trainers, doctors, armourers--"
"Then they may die on their first public outing."
"Mine is a high-risk enterprise, yes."
I leant forwards, interrupting. "I never met a businessman who didn't make that claim!"
Anacrites laughed, more with Calliopus than me, still winning his confidence. We were going to play this like nice fellows, implying that nothing the suspect said mattered. No tutting and head-shaking. Just smiles, pleasantries, sympathy with all his problems--then writing a report that would kick the poor victim to Hades.
"What do you do for capital?" 1 asked.
"I am paid for supplying men and beasts for the venatio. Plus, if we stage an actual fight, some prize money."
"I thought the winning gladiator took the purse?"
"A lanista receives his own share."
Much bigger than the fighter's, no doubt. "Enough for a villa with views to Neapolis? Well, no doubt that represents years of work." Calliopus wanted to speak but I carried on regardless. We had him on the run. "Given that you have accrued your rewards over a long period, we did wonder whether when you prepared your return for the Census there might have been any other items of estate outside Rome, perhaps, or properties which you have owned for so long they slipped your memory--which were inadvertently omitted from your tax declaration?"
I had made it sound as though we knew something. Calliopus managed not to gulp. "I will look at the scrolls again to make quite sure--"
Falco & Partner were both nodding at Calliopus (and preparing to take down his confession) when he was given an unexpected reprieve.
A hot, tousled slave with dung on his boots rushed into the room. For a moment he squirmed in embarrassment, unwilling to speak to Calliopus in our presence. Anacrites and I politely put our heads together, pretending to discuss our next move, whilst in fact we listened in.
We caught some mumbled words about something terrible having happened, and an urgent request for Calliopus to attend the menagerie. He cursed angrily. Then he jumped to his feet. For a moment he stared at us, debating what to say.
"We have a death." His tone was curt; clearly he was annoyed about it. The loss, I deduced, would be expensive. "I need to investigate. You can come if you want."
Anacrites, easily able to look off colour nowadays, said he would remain in the office; even a bad spy knows when to take a chance to search the premises. Then Calliopus informed me that whatever had happened had struck down his lion, Leonidas.
VI
The menagerie was a long, low, roofed area. A series of big cages, the size of slave cubicules, ran along one side; from these came odd rustling sounds and suddenly a deep grunt from another large animal of some kind, maybe a bear. Opposite the cages were smaller pens with lower bars, mainly empty. At one end four uncaged ostriches were ogling us while Buxus tried feebly to restrain their curiosity by offering them a bowl of grain. They were taller than him and determined to be nosy, like ghouls craning their necks when someone has been run over by a waggon.
Leonidas was lying in his cage, not far from where he had been when I saw him yesterday. This time his head was turned away from us.
"We need more light."
Calliopus, sounding terse, called for torches. "We keep it dim to pacify the beasts."
"Can we go in?" I put a hand on one bar of the cages. It felt stronger than I expected from its gnawed appearance; the contraption was wooden, though reinforced with metal. A short length of chain kept the door fastened, secured by a closed padlock. Apparently the keys were kept in the office; Calliopus yelled to a slave to run for them.
Buxus abandoned his nursemaiding task and joined us, still jostled by the long-legged birds.
"You can go in. He's safe. He's dead, definitely." He nodded to a flyblown carcass inside the cage. "He's never touched his breakfast!"
"You fed hi this morning?"
"Just a tidbit to keep him going." It looked like a whole goat. "I called him; he was lying just like that. I just thought he was asleep. Poor thing must already have gone and I never realized."
"So you left him to finish his snooze, as you thought?"
"That's right. When I came back later to bring some corn for the daft birds here, I thought he seemed quiet. When I checked I knew he hadn't moved. There were flies all over him, and not even a twitch of his tail. I even poked him with a long stick. Then I said to myself:
he's gone all right
."
The torches and keys arrived together. Calliopus roused himself and jingled the keys on a huge ring, with difficulty sorting out the right one. He shook his head. "Once you take them from their natural habitat these creatures are vulnerable. Now you can see what I'm up against, Falco. People like you"--he meant people who queried his financial probity--"don't realize how delicate this business is. The animals can pop off overnight, and we never know why."
"I can see you kept him in the best possible conditions." I entered rather carefully. Like all cages it had become sordid, but the straw bedding was thick. There was a large trough of water, and the goat carcass, though Buxus was already towing that off for some other beast's snack, shoving aside the ostriches who had followed him, then closing the cage door to keep them out.
The unkind thought struck me that Leonidas was now heading for the same fate as the goat who had been intended for his breakfast. As soon as interest in him waned, he too would be served up to some cannibalistic crony.
Close up he was bigger than I had realized. His coat was brown, his untidy mane black His powerful back legs were tucked neatly either side of him, his front paws stretched out like a sphinx, his fat tail curled like a domestic cat's with its black tassel neatly aligned with his body. His great head was nose down against the back of the cage. The smell of dead lion had not yet supplanted the smells he accrued in his living quarters when alive. Those were pretty strong
Buxus offered to open the lion's huge mouth and exhibit his teeth for me. Since this was closer than I ever wanted to be to a live lion, I agreed politely. I always welcome new experiences. Calliopus stood watching, frowning over his loss as he reckoned up what replacing Leonidas would cost him. The keeper bent over the prone animal. I heard him mutter some only half-ironic endearment. Gripping the rough mane with both hands, Buxus heaved hard to turn the lion over towards us.
Then he let out a cry of real disgust. Calliopus and I took a moment to respond, then we stepped closer to look. We smelt the powerful reek of lion. We saw blood, on the straw and in the matted fur. Then we noticed something else: from the great beast's chest protruded the splintered handle of a broken spear.
"Somebody's done for him!" raged Buxus. "Some bastard's gone and murdered Leonidas!"