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 enrollment 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?"

"Forever. 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 forever!"

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 cooperate 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, armorers-"

"Then they may die on their first public outing."

"Mine is a high-risk enterprise, yes."

I leaned 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?" I 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 color 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.

Six

THE MENAGERIE WAS a long, low, roofed area. A series of big cages, the size of slave cubicles, 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 wagon.

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 cage. 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 him that meat 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."