Lindsey Davis - Two for Lions

"You think Leonidas was taken somewhere in this cart, Falco?"

"I bet he was."

"That's terrible."

I gave Buxus a sharp look. He seemed deeply unhappy, though I could not tell whether he was simply grieving for his lost big cat, or whether he was uncomfortable with my discovery and line of questioning. "He was taken away-and then brought back dead, Buxus. What's puzzling me, is how anyone could have extracted him from his normal cage without you hearing the commotion?"

"It's a real puzzle," the keeper said sorrowfully.

I kept my eyes boring into him. "He would have been quiet enough when he came back with the spear in him, but whoever delivered the corpse may well have been panicking. I doubt if they were able to stop themselves making some noise."

"I just can't understand it," Buxus agreed. A barefaced lie. "I don't think you're trying." He feigned not to notice my dangerously low tone.

I left the wheeled cage where it was. Someone else in this deceitful establishment could put it away again. Then something caught my eye, against the side wall of the shed. I pulled up what seemed to be a bundle of straw. What had attracted my attention were twined strands binding it into a definite form. "This is a straw man-or what's left of him." The crude shape had been savaged and torn. The ties at the tops of its legs were still in place but the shoulder bindings were broken. One of the arms and the head had been ripped off altogether. Half the straw of the body had been pulled away and the rest was all over the place. As I held the pathetic remains, they fell into two pieces. "Poor fellow's been thoroughly ravaged! You use these as decoys, don't you?"

"In the ring," said Buxus, still playing the unhelpful misery.

"You throw them in to draw the beasts' attention, and sometimes to madden them?"

"Yes, Falco."

Some extremely maddened creature had torn at the manikin I was holding. "What's this wrecked one doing here?"

"Must be just an old one," said Buxus, managing to find the innocent expression I had no faith in.

I looked around. Everywhere was neat. This was a yard where items were routinely stacked, counted, inventoried, and put away. Anything that was broken would be replaced or repaired. The straw men were kept on ceiling hooks in the same shack as the safety poles. All the used decoys that currently dangled there had been rebound to a reasonable shape.

I tucked the two halves of the dismembered figure under my arm, making a big point of confiscating the evidence. "On two occasions last night there must have been quite a commotion near Leonidas' cage-when he was fetched, and when he was brought home. You claim you missed all of it. So are you now going to tell me, Buxus, where you really were that evening?"

"I was here in bed," he repeated. "I was here and I heard nothing."

I was a good Roman citizen. No matter how brazenly he was defying me, I knew better than to beat up another citizen's slave.

WHEN WE RETURNED to the main area Buxus pointedly involved himself in his work while I took a last look around the cages. He surrounded himself with the four ostriches, who nuzzled close, lifting their feet with the exaggerated delicacy of any farmyard fowls. "Watch yourself, Falco; they can give a hefty kick."

Kicking was not their only talent; one of them took a fancy to the wavy-edged braid around the neck of my tunic and kept leaning over my shoulder to give it a peck. The keeper made no attempt to control the pestilential things, and I soon gave up my sleuthing, which was undoubtedly what he had hoped.

I walked back to the office, still holding the scraps of the straw man. Anacrites was talking to Calliopus. They both eyed my trophy. I propped up the pieces on a stool and said nothing about it.

"Calliopus, your lion was taken out on an excursion last night, and not-presumably-because his doctor had recommended fresh air carriage trips."

"That's impossible," the lanista assured me. When I described the evidence he merely scowled.

"You did not sanction the trip?"

"Of course not, Falco. Don't be ridiculous."

"Does it cause you concern that somebody made Leonidas their plaything on an illicit night out?"

"Of course it does."

"Any idea who might have done it?"

"None at all."

"It must have been someone who felt confident about handling lions."

"Mindless thieves."

"Yet thoughtful enough to bring Leonidas back."

"Madness," moaned Calliopus, burying any real feelings in a show of theatrical woe. "It's incomprehensible!"

"Had it ever happened before to your knowledge?"

"Certainly not. And it won't happen again."

"Well not now Leonidas is dead!" provided Anacrites. His sense of humor was infantile.

I tried ignoring my partner, which was always the safest way to deal with him except when he was actually hiring hitmen and had been seen writing my name on a scroll. Then I watched him very closely indeed.

"Buxus has not been very helpful, Calliopus. I wanted him to give me some clues as to how the lion could have been pinched-and, indeed, put back in his cage afterwards-without anybody noticing."

"I'll speak to Buxus," Calliopus fussed. "Please leave this business to me, Falco. I really don't see why you have to involve yourself." Behind his back, Anacrites nodded agreement vigorously.

I gave Calliopus my threatening auditor's sneer. "Oh we always take a keen interest in anything peculiar that happens while we are carrying out a lifestyle check!"

"Whether it seems relevant or not," added Anacrites, pleasantly aiming to strike fear into the interviewee. He was a good civil servant after all.

Calliopus shot us a filthy look and bustled off.

I seated myself quietly and began making memos for myself about the lion's death. I held my tablet up at an angle so Anacrites had to guess what my scratchings were about.

He had worked alone for too long. He had been a man who kept his own council with perverted secrecy. Once he joined me he had braced himself to be companionable, but he then found it unbearable to share an office with someone who refused to talk to him. "Are you intending to carry on with the Censor's enquiry, Falco?" It was like doing your school homework with a fidgety younger brother. "Or are you giving up our paid assignment for this silly Circus interlude?"

"May as well do both."

I kept my eyes down. When I finished the notes that I actually wanted, I fooled him by drawing stickmen with busy scratches of my stylus. I completed three different sets of gladiators in combat, together with gesticulating lanistae urging on their efforts. My thinking time ended. I drew a sharp breath, as if I had reached some great conclusion. Then I squashed out the doodles with the flat end of my stylus, which was a shame because some had artistic merit.

I spun around to a pile of scrolls we were supposed to have scrutinized already, and spent the whole afternoon unwinding and rewinding them though never taking notes. Anacrites managed to stop himself asking what I was up to. Without even trying I managed to keep it to myself.

In fact I was re-examining the dockets and price lists for the animals Calliopus imported. We had previously looked at what he paid for them individually, and his overall cash flow for the menagerie account. All that had been aimed at deciding his true personal worth. Now I wanted to acquire a more general understanding of how the importation business worked. Where the beasts came from. In what numbers and what condition. And what it might mean to Calliopus first to buy a lion with the wrong pedigree for the venatio-and then to have him mysteriously killed.

Most of his animals came via his hometown of Oea in the province of Tripolitania. They were delivered by one regular shipper, who was probably his third cousin. All the shipments were put together over there at the menagerie which Anacrites and I had doubts about, the one which allegedly belonged to Calliopus' "brother," the "brother" whose existence we thought might be faked. We had certainly failed to find any scribbled notes from him saying, "What are the women like in Rome?" or "Mother had another bad turn last week" -let alone that old family favorite "Please send more money." If he was real, he seemed strangely unfraternal in making a nuisance of himself.