There was a broad table in the room, heaped with scrolls and sheets of papyrus. There were stacks of bronze plates upon which were inscribed the pedigrees of horses, some of them going back centuries. Around the table were seated several equites, a few freedmen secretaries, and a distinguished man who wore the strange, spindle-topped cap and other insignia of a flamen. This, as it turned out, was Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Niger, the Flamen Martialis. He was here in his capacity as high priest of Mars to oversee the choosing of the horses to run in the race of the October Horse. It was rare to encounter a flamen away from his home except when he was performing his sacerdotal functions because the flamines were so surrounded by ritual taboos that life was difficult for them. The highest priesthood of them all, Flamen Dialis, had been vacant for twenty-four years because nobody wanted it.
"Decimus Flavius was a most energetic director of the company," said one of the equites. "It came as a great shock to us all when he was so foully murdered."
"Under what circumstances was he found?" I asked.
"A cleaner found him over there in the circus," said Priscus. "He left here yesterday evening, just before dark. His home is just on the other side of the circus and he usually walked home that way."
"Would you be so good as to summon the cleaner?" I requested. A slave was dispatched to find the man. "Was the murder weapon left at the scene?"
"Yes, it's right here," said one of the directors. He reached into a box and rummaged among scraps of papyrus, ribbons and broken wax seals, and withdrew a knife, handing it to me. It was an unusual weapon, with a blade about eight inches long, straight for most of its length, then curving abruptly near the tip, doubling back to form a hook. It was keen on both edges. Someone had wiped the blade clean. There was no cross guard and the grip was of plain horn.
"This is a charioteer's knife, is it not?" I asked. Since a charioteer's reins are knotted around his waist, he has only a few seconds to cut himself loose after being thrown. Thus he may avoid being dragged to death or dashed against the arena wall or against the spina. If he succeeds in this, he need only fear being trampled by the other horses.
"It is," Priscus affirmed.
"Might he have been killed by a charioteer, then?" I asked.
"Charioteers only carry these knives when they are racing," said a director. "A dresser tucks one in the driver's body bindings just before he gets into his chariot."
"There are hundreds of them in our supply rooms," Priscus said. "But there must be thousands out in the city. The race enthusiasts beg them from victorious drivers and carry them for luck. They bribe track attendants to get them knives that charioteers have successfully freed themselves with. You know how superstitious those people are." This seemed to be another dead end as far as the murder weapon was concerned.
"Do any of you know if Flavius was in the business of lending money at interest?"
"I know that he was not," Priscus said. "At least, not in recent years. He made his fortune breeding horses, and here at the circus. He lost heavily after Lucullus's cutting the debt of the Asian cities, and swore he'd never lend money again." Thus was my theory that moneylenders were being systematically eradicated further undercut.
The cleaner arrived and, thanking the directors, I excused myself. I kept the knife and tucked it into my tunic belt. I was acquiring quite a collection of these sinister souvenirs. Its shape was highly specialized, which made it seem an odd choice for a murder weapon. A straight dagger or a sica made far more sense. Perhaps this murder had been unplanned.
"It was over here, master." The slave was a middle-aged man with a Bruttian accent. The Bruttians are worthless people, as all Romans know. Bruttium surrendered to Hannibal without a fight. They make adequate slaves, though. "I was taking some trash to this heap that's going to be hauled away sometime around Saturnalia."
We were walking beneath the wooden arcades of the circus. The great structure above us creaked and groaned as the morning sun warmed it. Despite that, the gloom belowstairs was deep. Some light came in through the arches, but the nearby buildings allowed little light to reach them. We turned from the main arcade into a short tunnel that ended at a great heap of trash of the sort that only a circus accumulates: broken spokes and other wreckage of the flimsy racing chariots, wax tablets recording bets flung down and smashed by enraged losers, polishing rags discarded by handlers, straw packing left by vendors and a multitude of other trash, probably a year's worth of it.
"He was right here," the slave said, pointing to a large, dark stain at the foot of the trash heap. It seemed an odd place for a prosperous eques to die. The others seemed to have been murdered in places that made some sense. Might he have been killed outside, in the arcade, and dragged in here? But there was no trail of blood, as there surely would have been in such a case. He must have been killed right on that spot. Perhaps he had been waylaid outside and forced into this tunnel.
"Who works in this area at night?" I asked the slave.
"Nobody. When it's not a race day, the circus is empty by late afternoon. We slaves must be in our barracks by dusk and there is no cause for freemen to be here. Maybe a few whores are here after dark."
I knew it would be worse than useless to canvass the area, asking if anyone had happened to notice a murder being committed. Few people are out of their homes after dark in the fall, and those who are seldom like to cooperate with the authorities.
I dismissed the slave and stood there for a while, pondering. My perplexity only deepened. I turned and walked out of the short tunnel and all but collided with a pair of young men, both of whom were bearded.
My hand slid beneath my toga and I gripped the handle of the charioteer's dagger. They stared at me, as astonished as I was. Then a woman pushed in front of them. In the poor light I had not noticed her standing behind the two.
"Is it Decius Metellus?" The light was poor but I knew the voice.
"Aurelia?" I said. It was she. Even in her heavy wool stola and in dim light, her luxuriant form was unmistakable. She had drawn her palla over her head, and I could not make out her expression.
"Decius, how odd to meet you here! Let me introduce my companions, Marcus Thorius and Quintus Valgius. They are friends of my stepfather. Gentlemen, this is Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, quaestor of the treasury." There was a slight edge to her voice as she addressed the two, as if reminding them to be on their best behavior.
"I am always happy to encounter you," I assured her, "any time and under any circumstances. Gentlemen, good day to you." They nodded rather churlishly. Both seemed to be about twenty years old. With their identical stubbled scalps and bushy beards they looked like a pair of Greek wrestling instructors.
"What brings you to the circus on a dull morning, Decius?" she asked.
"One of those murders that the city is so enthralled with," I said. "I had to come down here to make some inquiries. The victim was a director of the Reds. I came here to see the murder site."
"Oh, was it here?" she said, peering past me into the dark tunnel.
"There's nothing to see," I said. "Just a rather large but ordinary bloodstain. What brings you here?"
"We came to see Silverwing exercise," she said. "Paris will be racing him for the Whites in the next races. Quintus knows everything about the White stables."
"Silverwing has raced as inside trace horse for six years," Valgius said. "He has won 237 races." He recited this with a fanatical gleam in his eye. I knew the type. He would know the records and pedigrees of hundreds of horses. I have always loved the races, but there are limits. People like Valgius could be as boring as Cato.
"Would you care to join us?" Aurelia asked. The two men looked sour-faced but I was a long way from caring what they thought.
"Most certainly," I said. I fell in beside her as we walked toward one of the galleries that gave access to the stands.