"Death's a hard lesson," I commented.

"My sources dispute that," Amicus insisted.

"Your sources are lying. I saw the corpse, remember."

Amicus gave me a distasteful look; it was fine for him to haul men to the brink of death, screaming in agony, crippled forever and mentally destroyed, but he disapproved of me for inspecting so many who had actually died.

He was starting to annoy me. "Come on-An accident?'" I scoffed.

"The lawyer must have tutored them! Verovolcus was shoved in and drowned."

"The barber-"

I laughed harshly. "Oh, your strong-willed resistant razorman!"

The torturer grinned. He liked to think he was ascetic, but he was showing intense enjoyment. "The barber was a kitten once I found the right trick…"

"Don't tell me."

"Ah, Falco, you are too sensitive. He overheard Florius and the other top man discussing the incident afterwards. Apparently, Florius goes for the shaved-head look, to fool people he's a hard bastard."

"Not when I knew him," I growled.

"Florius maintained what had happened was horseplay; he said they all went away laughing, expecting that the Briton would just climb out, embarrassed and wet. He was astonished later, when he heard that Verovolcus had been found dead."

"All a terrible mistake; my client is shocked… You sound like his lawyer again."

"Oh, don't be cruel, Falco."

"Sorry! I don't like insulting experts-but I'm on the Verovolcus murder for the old King. I cannot tell Togidubnus his retainer died as a result of a lighthearted game going wrong."

"Just tell him Florius did it, then." Morality came in subtle shades among torturers. "He must be guilty of other crimes, Falco. And you have a witness who says he ordered this one."

"What do you know about my witness?" I asked apprehensively.

"You've been careless. You were given information by a female gladiator called Amazonia, at a bar called the Cradle in the Tree."

I was horrified. "Don't tell me it's one of the gang's establishments? But I thought of that; I checked the name. What has a rocking cradle to do with Jupiter?"

Amicus was literate, a reader and learner, more knowledgeable than me about myths. He liked showing off too: "By ancient tradition, the god Jupiter was the son of a deity, Cronos. Cronos used to eat his children a vicious way to avoid a prophecy that he would one day be displaced by his own son. Jupiter's mother hid the newborn baby in a golden cradle hung in a tree between the earth and sky, so he could not be found by his jealous father, anywhere on land or sea."

"Oh shit!"

"You and the girl were overheard, Falco."

"Then she is in danger…"

"Of course, you could never produce a gladiatrix in court. Even so, Florius will want to wipe her out." Amicus seemed to regard this outcome far more phlegmatically than I did.

"I have to warn her-fast!"

"One more thing." The torturer's manner became as dour as I had seen it. "This Florius also knows of a Roman officer who is tailing him. Falco, is that you?"

"No. It's a member of the vigiles."

Amicus approved of the vigiles as much as he disapproved of me. Petronius was professional, a salaried paramilitary, on a par with the torturer himself; I was an informer, so just a low-class liability. My new equestrian ringjust made me a jumped-up fake. "Florius has sworn to get him." Amicus had seen my face. "Friend of yours, is he?"

"The best."

I was rushing to fetch equipment when I met Helena. As if she had read my mind, she was hurrying toward me, carrying my sword. Behind her followed that distinctive member of the gladiator group, the girl who wanted to be a boy. Or whoever.

"Marcus! Chloris may be in difficulty-"

"We need your help," said the flat-chested androgynous sprite with the limpid eyes.

"Tell me what's happened!" As I spoke, Helena was helping me buckle on the sword.

"That man who wants to take us over has asked for a meeting with Amazonia. She's getting nervous about him. She thinks he might turn violent."

"She's right," I replied grimly. "He's called Florius. He leads one of Rome's worst criminal gangs-they are extremely dangerous. What's more, Florius knows that she gave me a statement against him."

The messenger squeaked, "Well, she tried stalling him. But now he's saying he will lean on the arena programmers. We will never get billing again unless we cooperate. She had to do something about it. She arranged to meet him at the arena this afternoon."

"Has she gone there? Did she go alone?"

"I don't know…"

"Fetch all your group! She will need anyone who can fight." To Helena I muttered, "Florius is likely to turn up mob-handed. Tell the governor and your uncle. We shall need troops. If they don't trust the garrison, ask them to send auxiliaries from their personal bodyguards."

Helena was pale. "What about Petronius?"

"Tell him what's up if you see him. But he has been on watch at that so-called office in the brothel by the baths. I bet Petro has known all along it was a regular haunt for Florius. If I know my boy, he'll see Florius leave and he'll tail him."

"I'll go myself and tell Petro," Helena decided.

I had no time to argue. "Well, be very careful. Take Albia; she knows where it is."

XLII

The arena lay in the northwestern sector of town. It was brand-new. Around it was a bare area where nobody yet lived or worked. On rough land on the town side stood a row of market-style stalls, their counters mostly covered at present, though when there was a show they would undoubtedly all be manned by conniving peddlers. One or two doggedly offered light snacks and statuettes of gladiators, even though today there were only a few casual sightseers milling about. A bear on a chain, probably nothing to do with the arena beasts, was being sadly paraded near an entrance gate. His teeth had been drawn. No self-respecting organizer would put him in the ring. Deprived of his fangs, he was starving to death.

A janitor was letting in the curious to "see the arena" for a small tip. Word must have circulated that the girl gladiators were practicing. The usual sex-mad men with no work to do and no shame had ambled up for a squint at the muscles and short skirts. It looked as if these oddballs came to drool on a daily basis.

Dear gods, there were even tourists. We needed to clear these people. No chance. The strollers would refuse to leave, once they sniffed out that an official operation was in train. People are nuts. They forget their own safety and want to gawp. And it would be obvious we had the place staked out. Oh Hades. Oh double Hades. Florius wouldn't come anywhere near if he noticed a reception party.

This Londinium amphitheater was nothing compared with the massive monument that Vespasian was creating as his personal gift to the people of Rome. The Emperor had drained the lake of Nero's Golden House and was planning the largest place of entertainment in the world. At home, we had four teams of masons working flat out. A whole quarry had been opened on the road to Tibur; two hundred ox carts every day blocked the city highway as they hauled in the Travertine marble for cladding. The southern end of the forum was chaos, had been since the Emperor's accession, would be for years yet. All the slaves captured in the pacification of Judaea were being worked to death.

By contrast, Londinium's toy arena stood in a bleak spot and was made of wood. I expected it to look as if it had been knocked together by a couple of leisure-time carpenters, but it was an expert job. These sturdy hewn timbers were no doubt a treasure-house of the single dovetail corner and the spiked half lap joint. We Romans had taught Britain the concept of an organized timber trade; we introduced decent sawyers, but also brought prefabricated building frames that could be rapidly assembled on site. The army started it; some forts came as kits-precut timbers and their fixing nails-ready to be thrown up in the face of the barbarians, seemingly overnight. A permanent armed force of any significance acquired its arena to keep the lads happy. This edifice signified that Londinium was now a legitimate part of the Empire and definitely on the up.