Just then, the great door swung open. The noise of the crowd roared out, then a man's body was pulled through towards us by a horse, using a rope and a savage hook. Rhadamanthus escorted the dead gladiator from the ring; Hermes must have touched him with the hot caduceus, leaving a livid red mark on his upper arm.
The Lord of the Underworld pushed up his beaked mask and swore in Latin with a heavy Punic accent; someone handed him a small cup of wine. Hermes scratched his leg dopily. Close to, they were an uncouth pair of roughnecks. Off-duty shellfish catchers, by the looks and smell of them.
"Justus," said Hermes, noticing our interest and nodding at the prone Thracian who was being unhooked. A small round shield was thrown out of the ring after him. His curved scimitar followed; Rhadamanthus kicked it so it lay with the shield.
"Hopeless." One of the thin, seedy slaves who raked the sand decided we needed a commentary. There is always some spark wanting to say what's going on when you can see that perfectly well for yourself. "No class. Only lasted a couple of strokes. Waste of everyone's time."
I had had an idea. I turned to the man with the beak. "Want a break? Cool off-enjoy your drink."
"No peace for the King of the Dead!" Rhadamanthus laughed.
"You could send in an understudy-nip inside the tunnel with me, and swap clothes. Give me your mallet for the rest of the morning, and I'll make it worth your while."
"You don't want this job," Rhadamanthus tried to warn me, really earnest in his wish to spare me a tedious experience. He clung to the ceremonial mallet with which he claimed the dead. "Nobody loves you. You get no credit, and it's damned hot in the gear."
Justinus thought I was being stupid, so he weighed in to supervise. "Helena said you were not to fight."
"Who me? I'll just be the jolly fellow who counts out the dead." I had a feeling we were about to see rather a lot of them.
"I'm not happy about what you're proposing, Marcus."
"Learn to like it. Getting into trouble is the way Falco & Partner operate. How about this, Rhadamanthus? Suppose you and the mighty Hermes sit offside with a flagon during the special bout, and let my partner and me go out to officiate for that one, masked and anonymous?"
"Will there be any comeback?"
"Why should there be?"
First we returned to our seats, taking Iddibal; that would keep him from telling his father what Fidelis had done. The slave was doomed now, for one murder or another. I wanted to see what had been engineered for him in the ring.
We had to sit through the remaining professional bouts. There were more of these than we had realized, though not all ended in a fatality. My mind was racing; I hardly paid any attention to the fights. At Lepcis Magna the full range was offered, but I had lost any enthusiasm I had ever felt.
In their red apronlike loincloths and wide belts, gladiators came and went that morning. Myrmillons with fish-topped helmets and gallic arms tussled against Thracians; secutors ran light-footed after unarmored, unhelmeted retarii, who turned in mid-flight like startled birds and disabled their pursuers, wielding their tridents with the tiny pronged heads, not much bigger than kitchen toasting forks but capable of dealing horrific injuries to a man whose sword arm had been tied up in a flung net. Gladiators fought two-handed with a pair of swords; fought from chariots; fought from horseback with light hunting spears; even fought with lassos. A hoplomachus, covered by a full body-height shield, was booed for remaining too static, his regular swipes from behind his protection bored the crowd; they preferred faster action, though the fighters themselves knew it was best to conserve as much strength as possible. They were likely to be overcome by the heat and tiredness just as much as by their opponents. With blood and sweat making their grip slide, or blinding them, they had to struggle on, just hoping the other man was equally unfortunate and that they could both be sent off in a draw.
Most escaped alive. It was too expensive to lose them. The lanistae dancing around them crying encouragement were also watching keenly to ensure no one was killed unnecessarily. The choreographed movements became almost an elaborate joke, with the crowd sometimes jeering sarcastically, in the full knowledge that they were witnessing the proverbial "fix." Only the betting touts could lose by that-and they somehow knew enough to avoid bankruptcy.
Eventually we reached the mock-comic partnership of two men in fully enclosed helmets. This was the last of the professional pairings. While they blundered about blind, swiping at one another ineffectually, Justinus and I rose from our seats again.
"What are you up to?"
"Nothing, dear heart."
That was him, bluffing Claudia. Helena had simply glared at me, too wise even to ask.
As I stood waiting for Justinus to move first, I happened to glance over to where Euphrasia sat, with Calliopus' gorgeous young wife Artemisia. They made a strange contrast. Euphrasia in her flashy, diaphanous robe, looked every inch a daredevil who would have had an affair with Rumex. Young Artemisia was covered up to the neck and even half veiled: just as a husband might want her to be turned out. Not many very beautiful girls would stand for it.
I turned back to Iddibal, who sat hunched beside Helena, hardly aware of what was happening around him. "Iddibal, why was Calliopus so determined to have Rumex dispatched-surely it was not just part of the dirty tricks war?"
The young man shook his head. "No; Calliopus hated Rumex."
I wondered now if Artemisia had been sent to the villa at Surrentum in December not just to stop her nagging about her husband's mistress, but actually as a punishment. Helena caught my drift; I guessed she too was remembering how Euphrasia had said to her that Calliopus' wife had a lot to answer for and that he probably hit her. Helena exclaimed in a low voice, "Calliopus is a desperately jealous man, a brooder and a plotter, a completely unforgiving type. Can it be that Artemisia was one of the women involved with Rumex?"
"They had an affair," confirmed Iddibal with a slight shrug, as though everyone knew as much. "Calliopus was after Rumex from a purely personal motive. It had nothing to do with business."
My eyes met Helena's and we both sighed: a crime of passion, after all.
I looked again at where Artemisia sat so quiet and subdued, just like a woman whose husband had badly beaten her. Bruising could well explain the long sleeves and high neckline-not to mention her cowed attitude. Her face and figure were breathtaking, though her eyes were vacant. I wondered whether that had always been the case, or whether her spirit had been knocked out of her. Whatever trouble she had caused, Artemisia was without question one of the victims now.
Justinus and I reached the amphitheater's main entrance again. We waited for our cronies to come out to work their exchange with us.
In the ring, the two groping andabates were still slowly circling. Fully protected by armored links of mail, the blind combatants had been trained to maneuver like sponge divers in deep water, each step or gesture taken with immense care, all the while keyed up for any sound that would locate the man opposite. They could only defeat him by swiping through the links of his mail suit-hard enough to achieve even if they had been able to see. I always expected them to survive unharmed, yet time and again one triumphed, whacking apart the metal segments to destroy a limb or pierce an organ.
It happened that day, as usual. The blind fighters were chosen for being swift on their feet and dexterous, yet immensely strong. Once one did hit home, it was generally a good blow. The thwack resounded all over the arena, heard even in the highest seats from where the combatants looked like tiny toys. As soon as he had found his mark, he would strike hard again repeatedly. So Rhadamanthus was soon tapping a corpse with his mallet, and once again the dead meat was towed out.