"I am investigating the suspicious death of the man-eating lion, Leonidas. Do you know anything about it, please?"

"No, sir."

"He was taken from his quarters at night, speared, and mysteriously returned."

"No, sir," repeated Rumex, though my last remark had been a statement not a question. If he had been this slow at following on in the arena he would have been a one-fight phenomenon.

"I have been told that Leonidas was killed by you. Is that correct?"

"No, sir."

"Had you ever actually seen him?"

"No, sir."

"Can you remember where you were and what you were doing the night before last?"

Rumex wanted to give me his usual answer but realized that would sound damning. His eyes tried to look at his trainer for advice, but he managed to keep his gaze fixed "honestly" on me.

"I can answer that, Falco," Saturninus intervened. Rumex looked grateful. "Rumex was with me all night." I thought that did startle Rumex; perhaps then it was true. "I took him to a small dinner party at the house of an ex-praetor." If I was supposed to be impressed by rank it failed.

"Showing him off?" I asked, implying that Saturninus was too delicate to say so.

He smiled, acknowledging us both as men of the world. "People are always eager to meet Rumex."

I turned to Rumex, who had been thinking he was safe from further questioning. "And did you give the ex-praetor a private demonstration of your fabulous prowess?"

I had been making conversation but this time he looked horrified.

His trainer inserted smoothly, "A few standing press-ups and feints with a practice sword always go down well."

I glanced at each in turn. I had hit a nerve, clearly. I absorbed the implications. Could Leonidas have been murdered in a senior magistrate's house? Was Saturninus present at the time? "I'm sorry, Saturninus; I'll have to insist on a name for your host that night."

"Of course, Falco. I'd like to send word to the man before I mention him to a stranger. Just a courtesy." Neat.

"I can insist that you don't alert him."

"With a man of his rank, surely there can be no objection?" Saturninus was already making one of his little trips to the door to give murmured orders to a runner.

I let him win. I was not confident that I could withstand a formal complaint of harassment from a praetor. Vespasian would take it amiss even if I had evidence against the man-and I had none. Well, not at this stage. His rank didn't daunt me, but I would have to be certain first.

It was an interesting development. One minute I was checking dodgy ledgers amongst society's dregs, the next I wanted to view the social diary of somebody one step down from consul-and what's more, he was being rather obviously warned about my interest.

"Who else was present at your dinner with the mystery man?" I asked, keeping it casual.

The lanista matched my tone: "Oh it was quite informal."

"Friends?"

I felt he was trying not to tell me, though he was skilled enough to give way when there was no alternative. "Me and my wife-with just the praetor and a ladyfriend." Dinners at big men's houses tended to be nearer the classic number of nine sitting down. This foursome was oddly cozy, if true.

"You're moving in enviable circles. I'm dying to ask you how it came about."

"A business connection." Saturninus knew how to make anything sound natural.

I pretended to be more amateur than I was: "I thought senators were rather limited in their freedom to engage in commerce?" They were forbidden to do it, in fact. However they could engage their freedmen as go-betweens, and many did.

"Oh it's nothing commercial," Saturninus was quick to respond. "We met when he was organizing the Games." That was a formal responsibility of the praetors in their year as magistrates. To end up friendly with one particular lanista could look like an abuse of patronage-but some members of government do assume that abusing their position is the whole purpose of holding high office. Proving that money had changed hands illegally would be next to impossible-and even if I discovered it had happened, most praetors would genuinely fail to understand my complaint.

"Wonderful to think you have maintained such good relationships after his term of office," I said. Saturninus gave me a bland smile. "So-your messenger must have had time to purvey the politenesses by now. Can I have the ex-praetor's name?"

"Pomponius Urtica," said Saturninus, as if he really loved assisting me. I made a point of taking out a note tablet and writing it down. Unfazed, Saturninus volunteered spellings. Equally calmly I pressed him to give the ex-praetor's home address.

It was understood I had reached the limits of this interview. Without consulting me, the lanista dismissed Rumex. The big gladiator slipped from the room.

"Thank you for your help," I said to Saturninus. This was all a nice game.

"I have enjoyed our talk," he replied, as if it had been just a tight set of draughts. Then he startled me by adding, "You seem an interesting character. My wife is very keen on entertaining. Perhaps you would accept an invitation to dine with us tomorrow night? With your guest of choice," he suggested, in a very civilized manner leaving me free to bring a wife, a prostitute, or a bug-eyed little boy masseur from the baths.

It was folly for a state auditor to fraternize with the subjects of his current investigation. Naturally I said yes.

Twenty-two

POMPONIUS URTICA LIVED on the Pincian. His mansion lay up on the high ground to the east of the Via Flaminia, way out past the Mausoleum of Augustus. Nice district. Patrician open spaces, with panoramic views that were interrupted only by tall, elderly pine trees where doves cooed. Beautiful sunsets over the Tiber. Miles from the racket of the Forum. Clean air, peaceful atmosphere, stunning property, gracious neighbors: wonderful for the smart elite who inhabited that fine district-and miserably inconvenient for the rest of us if we came visiting.

Urtica himself had it easy. When he needed to travel down to conduct public business he would be carried in a big litter borne by well-matched, well-tempered slaves with unfaltering steps. He never had to get his boots dirty in the dust and donkey droppings, and he could while away the hour the journey took each way with a little light reading as he reclined on downy cushions. He may have been equipped with a hip flask and a packet of sweet toast. For added entertainment no doubt he sometimes squashed in some flirty flute girl with a big bust.

I walked. I had nothing and no one to sustain me. Winter had turned the dust in the roads to mud, and the donkey droppings had mingled with the mud, leaving loose lumps among the slurry like half-stirred polenta in a caupona that the aediles were about to close down.

I found the lush praetorian abode. It took some time since all the ostentatious Pincian spreads were pretty much identical and all were sited up extremely long approach roads too. At Urtica's I was told by the door porter that his master was away from home. This was no surprise. The slave did not say, though I readily deduced, that even had his master been there (which was perfectly possible) I would not have been allowed in. My fine informer's intuition told me that an order had been given to reject any tired lag who called himself Didius Falco. I did not cause offense at that elegant mansion by proffering my Palace pass. It had been a long hard day already. I spared myself the embarrassment.

I walked all the way back into town. I bought myself a hot pancake and a cup of flavored wine, but on that nippy winter's afternoon companionship was hard to find. All the flirty flute girls seemed to be visiting their aunties in Ostia.