"We're a friendly group."

"And the crowd likes something to yell out as the creatures go to their deaths?"

"Right."

"What's happened to Leonidas, now he's dead?"

They knew I had a particular interest, because of Thurius. They must have guessed I had worked out for myself that the dead lion's carcass would become cheap fodder for some other animal. "Don't ask, Falco!"

I was not intending to stick my neck out here. Not in a place where even a keeper could completely vanish without a trace. I had heard that crocodiles chew you up boots, belt, and all. A hungry lion would probably clean his plate nicely too.

I wondered how many casualties had there been at this barracks? And had any of the victims ever died other than accidentally? This would be a good place to dispose of an unwanted corpse. Was Leonidas simply the latest in a line? And if so, why?

Feeling gloomy, I returned to the office where Anacrites had undergone one of his unpredictable mood swings and was now eager to please. To get my own back I pretended not to notice his welcoming smile, but wrote steadily on my tablet until he could bear it no longer and jumped up to see what I was doing. "That's poetry!"

"I'm a poet." It was an old ode I was scribbling to annoy him, but he assumed I had just composed it at speed while he watched. He was so easy to fool it was hardly worth the effort.

"You're a man of many parts, Falco."

"Thanks." I wanted to hold a formal reading of my work one day, but I was not telling him that. There would be enough hecklers if I invited my family and real friends.

"You wrote all those lines just now?"

"I can handle words."

"No one will argue with that, Falco."

"Sounds like an insult."

"You talk too much."

"So everyone tells me. Now talk yourself: earlier you mentioned some new information. If we are to stand a chance in partnership we have to share. Are you going to cough?"

Anacrites wanted to look like the serious, responsible partner, so he felt forced to come clean: "Last night, someone brought a letter to your mother's house which purports to say who killed your friend Leonidas."

I noted the cautious administrator's way he insisted it was only "purported" information. He was so mealymouthed I could kick him. "And who does the purporter allege that to be?"

"It said ‘Rumex did for that lion.' Interesting, eh?"

"Interesting, if true. It's too much to hope we know who Rumex is?"

"Never heard of him." Chief Spies never know anything. Or anyone.

"Who brought the note?" He looked at me, wanting for some perverted reason to be difficult. "Anacrites, I'm well aware my mother pretends to be deaf when it suits her, but if any stranger is crazy enough to approach her door-especially after dark on a murky evening in winter-she pops out and grabs them before they can blink. So whose earlobe did she twist off last night?"

"It was a slave who said a stranger had paid him a copper to bring the tablet."

"I suppose he swore it was a man he never saw in his life before?"

"Yes, that old line."

"Did you get the slave's name?"

"Fidelis."

"Oh a ‘trusty fellow'! Sounds too good to be true."

"A pseudonym, I thought," mused Anacrites. He liked to be suspicious of everything.

"Description?"

"Slim build, underaverage height, very dark coloring, stubbly jaw, off-white tunic."

"No dead eye, or his name tattooed in woad? Rome is full of identical slaves. Could be any one of a million."

"Could be," replied Anacrites. "But it isn't. I was Chief Spy remember: I followed him home."

Surprised at his initiative, I made out I was unimpressed. "No more than you should have done. So where did the mysterious trail take you, sleuth?"

My partner gave me a knowing look. "Straight back here," he said.

Fifteen

WITH ONE ACCORD we rose to our feet and went out to search the establishment. We found plenty of slaves, mostly smelling of stables, but none Anacrites could identify.

"Do we demand that Calliopus should produce him, Falco?"

"You're not a Palace torturer now. Leave it. He'll say he doesn't recognize your description as any slave he owns. And he'll imply you're a romancer."

Anacrites looked offended. Typical of a spy. We informers may be reviled by everyone but at least we have the guts to acknowledge how our reputation stinks. Some of us even occasionally admit that the profession has asked for it.

"How long did you wait outside after he got here?" I asked.

"Wait?" Anacrites looked puzzled.

"Forget it." He was a typical spy all right-absolutely amateur.

The messenger belonged elsewhere. Still, if he had turned up here once to contact somebody, he might come again.

"So what now, Falco? We need to interview this Rumex."

"Sorry to be logical, but we need to find him first."

"Aren't you anxious we'll lose the lead?"

"Somebody assumes we know who he is. So he'll probably come crawling out from under his stone if we just carry on as normal. Anyway, you were the one who said we were not to be sidetracked. If somebody's trying to give us something else to think about we don't have to comply like lambs. Let's go back to the office and concentrate on our tax report."

As we turned away to do just that, we ran into the bestiarius called Iddibal.

"Who is your fabulous lady admirer?" I chaffed him.

The young bastard looked me straight in the eye and claimed that the woman was his auntie. I looked straight back at him like an informer who had supposed that antique story went out with the Punic Wars.

"Know anyone called Rumex?" Anacrites then asked him casually.

"Why, who's he? Your bathhouse back scratcher?" Iddibal sneered and went on his way.

I noticed a change in Iddibal. He seemed harder, and as if he were harboring some new streak of bitterness. As he walked off in the direction of the throwing range Calliopus emerged from a side room and said something to him in a very sharp voice. Maybe that explained it. Maybe Calliopus had pulled Iddibal up for the affair with his so-called aunt.

We waited for Calliopus to join us, then asked him the Rumex question. "Not one of my boys," he answered, as if he assumed it was a gladiator. He should have known we knew it was not one of his troop, or the man's name would have been on the list of personnel he had given us-assuming the version he was offering to the Censors was accurate. He drew himself up for what looked like a prepared speech. "About Leonidas-you've no need to involve yourselves. I've looked into what happened. Some of the lads were playing up that night and the lion was let out for a bit of a lark. He turned troublesome, and they had to put him down. Naturally nobody wanted to own up. They knew I would be furious. That's all. It's an internal matter. Iddibal was the ringleader, and I'll be getting rid of him."

Anacrites gazed at him. For once I could imagine how it had felt in Nero's day to be interrogated by the Praetorian Guards in the bowels of the Palace with the notorious Quaestionarii in attendance, bringing their imaginative range of torture implements. "Internal? That's odd," Anacrites commented frostily. "We have received further information about the death of Leonidas, which doesn't square with that. He was killed by this man Rumex, apparently-though now you tell us Rumex is not one of your boys!"

"Save him having to be got rid of as you're planning for Iddibal," I said. Proposing a dubious fate for Rumex was, as it turned out later, a poignant piece of augury.

The lanista huffed and puffed for a moment, then thought of something urgent he had to run off and do.