We were partners now. Absolutely pals.

It was time to leave.

As we all stirred ourselves, Anacrites suddenly bent forwards as if on an impulse (though nothing he ever did was without some sly calculation). He drew back the coverlet from Rumex's face and gazed down somberly once more. Trying to prize out one last revelation, he was pretending to feel some ghastly fascination with the stiffening corpse.

Drama had never been my style. I walked quietly from the room.

Anacrites rejoined me without comment, followed by the dead man's two friends, whom I sensed would now guard him in an extremely subdued spirit. Whatever murky business was stirring in the world of the arena, Rumex was free of all pressure and all danger now. That might not be so for his colleagues.

We said our good-byes, Anacrites and I showing decent regret. The two gladiators saluted us with dignity. Only when I glanced back as we walked off down the corridor did I realize that the scene had affected them much more than we had understood. The big overweight one was leaning on the wall covering his eyes, obviously weeping. The other had turned away, green in the face, helplessly throwing up.

They were trained to accept bloody massacre in the ring. But for a man to be slain all unprepared in his bed was, for them, a deeply disturbing event.

It had churned me up too. Added to the anger I had first felt over Leonidas I felt a grim determination to expose whatever sordid business had now caused another death.

Thirty-four

IKNEW WHAT I intended to do. I was uncertain about Anacrites. I should have remembered that although spies often cause death indirectly, and often deliberately order it, they rarely have to look the results in the face. So he surprised me. Outside the barracks gate I paused, ready to tell him to lose himself while I took up the questioning.

He faced me. Those murky, grayish eyes met mine. His expression was grim.

"One each?" he asked.

I pulled out a coin and spun. He got Calliopus; I took Saturninus.

Without conferring we set off separately to interrogate the rival Tripolitanians. I had my normal methods at my disposal; how Anacrites would manage in a real tussle, without a bank of torture irons and a set of pervertedly inventive assistants, was less clear. I suppose somehow I trusted him. Maybe he even had some faith in me.

We met up again at Fountain Court that night. By then it was late. Before we set about comparisons we ate. I had pan-fried some sliced sausage which I stirred into a bean and leek braise, lightly flavored with aniseed, which Helena had prepared. Looking quizzical, she accepted my suggestion to lay a spare bowl for Anacrites. As Helena put a wand to a couple of oil lamps, I could see she was touched by his pleasure at being allowed for the first time to join our domestic life.

I winced. The bastard really wanted to be part of the family. He was yearning to be accepted, both at home and at work. What a creep.

Once we reported results, a pattern emerged. Parallel accusations and synchronized unhelpfulness. Saturninus had blamed Calliopus for Rumex's death-a crude act of revenge for his dead lion. Calliopus had denied that; according to him Saturninus had good reason himself to kill off his prize gladiator: Rumex had been having an affair with Euphrasia.

"Euphrasia? Rumex pronged his own lanista's wife?"

"Easy access to the storecupboard," cracked Anacrites.

It certainly made sense of our conversation with the other two gladiators and their hints about Saturninus not wanting to look too closely at the female admirers who pursued Rumex. Calliopus had put a real bloom on the story, even telling Anacrites that in the days when they briefly worked together, his rival's wife had flaunted herself at him. He made her out to be a trollop and Saturninus to be furious, bitter, vindictive, and without doubt prone to violence.

Helena looked dour. She and I had witnessed the supposed adulteress at home, standing up to her husband and teasingly defying his wishes when it suited her. Helena would merely describe that as having an independent streak.

"So is this yet another doe-eyed dame with a bit of brashness in her character, who sleeps with muscle-men for excitement? Or has the beautiful, gentle, utterly unflawed Euphrasia just been slandered appallingly?"

"I'll go and ask her," announced Helena Justina bluntly. Anacrites and I exchanged a faintly nervous glance.

Meanwhile I told how Saturninus had taken a different tack, making out that Calliopus was an unstable figure nursing ludicrous jealousies. He jumped to mad conclusions. He fired off on outrageous schemes for revenge when nothing had been done to him. His barracks was struggling, he refused to admit it, and-if we believed Saturninus, who explained it most reasonably-Calliopus had lost his grip on reality. He too was portrayed as being capable of murder, naturally.

I had asked Saturninus himself why he had removed the original minders from Rumex and locked up the corpse. He wheeled out a plausible tale that he needed to keep the deceased hero's room secure from looters and trophy hunters while he had a chance to interrogate the men-who were, after all, his slaves-and to punish their slack vigilance. I asked to interview them. They were produced: flogged, subdued, and unable to tell me anything of use.

I then suggested that Saturninus call in the vigiles, since it was a case of unnatural death. He nodded vaguely. When I made it clear I intended to report it myself, he responded at once, sending out a messenger hotfoot to the local guardhouse. As usual, wrongfooting this man was impossible.

As I discussed all this with Anacrites and Helena I was feeling depressed. Deep pessimism descended on me. Bad signs were already there. The feuding Tripolitanians would supply motives for one another until our hair fell out. What they said about each other could be entirely true or just as false; their hometown rivalry and their failed business ventures were motives for mutual hatred. Even if neither of them were really involved in the death of Rumex, accusations and counteraccusations would fly.

There were inconsistencies. Calliopus had always struck Anacrites and me as too well organized to engage in impetuous spite; besides, although his business was smaller than his rival's, we knew he was not struggling financially. As for sexual jealousy, in my opinion Saturninus was fully in control of his domestic life, with a long-term wife from his native shore; if they ran into difficulties he seemed more likely to reach an accommodation with Euphrasia than to explode over a fling, even one with a slave.

I think I knew, even that night, where we would end up. The vigiles would discover nothing to link either man to the crime. Neither would we. Nobody else would be implicated in the killing either.

Helena did visit Euphrasia. To our surprise the woman readily admitted having slept with Rumex. She pointed out she was not alone in that. She seemed to regard having first pick of her husband's men as a perk of her position. She said Saturninus did not like it, though however deeply he cared he had no need to stab the gladiator. He could have matched Rumex in a public fight without quarter, a fight to the death-and earned money from it too. Besides, as an ex-fighter himself, his weapon was not the dainty blade that had been used on Rumex but a short sword, the gladium. Saturninus also would have killed with the arena death thrust.

"That's through the neck, of course," commented Anacrites.