Lindsey Davis - Two For The Lions

"In the excitement, no doubt!" Camillus senior gave me a sharp look. "So, Marcus; you're the horticulture expert." I refrained from protesting that my only connection was one grandfather who ran a market garden where I had sometimes stayed in childhood. "I've been told the crazy story about looking for silphium. What chance is there that Justinus will actually rediscover this magic herb?"

"Slim, sir."

"Thought so. I gather it was all grazed out years ago. I shouldn't imagine the shepherds who have let the silphium be eaten will welcome an offer to reclaim their grazing fields and turn them back into a big herb garden. I don't suppose you fancy a trip across the Internal Sea?"

I looked sorrowful. "I'm rather too busy tied up with my Census work, I'm afraid" As you know, it's very important that I do well and establish myself."

He held my gaze rather longer than I found comfortable but then his expression changed to a more indulgent one. He rolled up the mapskin briskly. "Well! I expect it will be sorted out."

"Leave the map," Helena offered. "I'll make a copy and send it to Quintus when we write. At least he'll know where he is then."

"He knows where he is," her father quipped bitterly. "In deep trouble. I can't help him; it would be insulting to his brother. Perhaps I should send my gardener to look after him. When Claudia's emeralds run out he's going to have to be damned quick with his search for the precious herb cuttings."

To change the subject, I introduced the story of Leonidas Helena wanted to know whether I had succeeded in meeting Rumex after she and Maia were turned away.

"Turned away?" asked her father.

I rushed into how I had met Saturninus and his prizefighter, hoping to avoid worrying the senator with his daughter's scandalous attempt to meet a gladiator. "Rumex is a typical hulk: immaculate body and brain like an ox, but he speaks slowly and carefully, as if he thinks himself a philosopher. The trainer, Saturninus, is a more interesting character-" I decided not to mention that Helena and I were to dine with the lanista the next day. "Incidentally, sir, Saturninus has given an alibi for Rumex by saying that when Leonidas was killed they were together at the house of an ex-praetor called Pomponius Urtica. Have you come across the man?"

Camillus smiled. "His name is in the news these days."

"Anything I should know?"

"He is being touted as the man to organise the opening of the new amphitheatre."

I sucked my teeth. "Convenient!"

"Improper for him to favour a particular lanista, though." "When did impropriety stop a praetor jumping in? Do you know what kind of man he is?"

"Keen on the Games," said Camillus, adding in his dry way, "within respectable limits, naturally! In his year of office there were no complaints about his magistracy, nor about how he ran the shows he organised. His private life is only slightly soiled," he said, as if we assumed that most senators were famous for rampant debauchery. "He's been married a couple of times, I believe; some time ago perhaps, because his children are grown up. At present he leads a single life."

"Meaning? Women? Boys?"

"Well, one of the other reasons his name features publicly is that he hooked himself up recently with a girl who has a rather wild reputation."

"You're a demon for gossip, Papa!" marveled Helena. Her father looked endearingly pleased with himself: "I can even tell you she's called Scilla."

I grinned. "And what form is Scilla's wildness supposed to take?"

This time Camillus Verus reddened a little. "Whatever form is usual, no doubt! I'm afraid I lead too quiet a life to know."

He was a lovely man.

After her father had gone Helena Justina unrolled his map again.

"Look!" she said, pointing part way between Carthage and Cyrene, to a spot on the Tripolitanian coastline. "Here's Oea and here's Lepcis Magna." She gazed at me disingenuously. "Aren't they the two towns where Saturninus and Calliopus have their roots?"

"How lucky for me," I commented, "That neither of them lives there any longer, so I can pursue my enquiries in comfort, here in Rome!"

Two problems had to be dealt with the next morning: finding a clean tunic without too many moth-holes for my dinner engagement, and responding to the whines of my dear business partner Anacrites about where I had vanished to the previous day. They were about equal in difficulty.

I wanted to wear my old favourite green tunic, until I held it up by the shoulders and had an honest look. It was neither so thick in the nap as I thought, nor so smart. There was a long run from the corner of the neckline, where the threads always give out if you lead an active life. And it was sized for a younger, leaner man. No alternative: the new thing that Helena had been trying to introduce to my wardrobe would have to be tried on. It was russet. I hate that colour. The tunic was warm, well designed, a good fit, the right length, and ornamented with two long stripes of braid. Dear gods, I hated it.

Very nice," I lied.

"That's you sorted then," she said.

I managed to drop it on the floor where Nux could use it all day as a dog basket. That should give it some character.

Nux took one sniff, then turned away in disgust. She wouldn't stay in the house with it. She came out with me.

Anacrites took longer to pacify. We were in Calliopus' upstairs office at the barracks. "Falco, where did you get to--?"

"Be quiet, and I'll tell you."

"Is that your dog?"

"Yes." Nux, who could tell who ranked with squirrels and cats, growled as if she was about to fly at Anacrites with her teeth bared. "Just being friendly," I assured him unfeelingly.

I did him the honour of telling him everything of my adventure yesterday. Famia's theory. The escaped leopard. Thalia's theory. Saturninus. And Rumex.

I held back on Urtica, and his nymph Scilla. Anacrites was a Palace spy. Unless I kept him on a tight rein, he was liable to rush off screaming treachery to a bank of scribes with poison in their inkwells. No point in libelling an ex-praetor in triplicate until I was certain he deserved it. And no point in confusing my partner with too much of the truth.

"None of this gets you anywhere," Anacrites decided. "So a gladiator can't remember where he was one night what's new? Some of the lanistae dislike each other-well, we could have guessed that. There's no harm in honest rivalry; competition encourages quality."

"Next you'll be saying that Leonidas is just a tragic victim of circumstance who was in the wrong cage at the wrong time, and that in business you have to allow for sustainable loss."

Very true," he remarked.

"Anacrites, a man who has had his head bashed in once, should learn not to make people angry-" I gave up.

"Did you get any further with the figures on Calliopus? Where is the bastard, anyway? He usually sites himself three inches behind us to overhear what we may say."

Calliopus had so far failed to put in an appearance that day. Anacrites, who had arrived there before me and asked about it, said piously, "There is a rumour he is stuck at home, having a bust-up with his wife."

"So we were right to suspect a mistress!"

"Saccarina," replied Anacrites. "I wormed it out of that keeper called Buxus. Her boudoir appears to be by an inn called the Octopus, in Borealis Street. Should be easy to discover whose name is on the tenancy agreement" Then we've got him. But we were right to suspect he was hiding more than the mistress, Falco."

He produced a schedule from a satchel he carried about with him. It was the list of discrepancies between what Calliopus had declared to the Censors, and extra properties we had identified. "He's in shit," Anacrites gloated, ever the fair-minded investigator. "The only thing we ought to find out before we shop him, is whether the so-called brother in Tripolitania really exists. If not, and if the family outlet for beasts at Oea really belongs to Calliopus himself; I reckon there will be a five digit sum in this for us."