I had something else to think about. Somebody walked out towards us and stopped on seeing the body. A female voice exclaimed in cultured but callous tones, “What-Myrrha dead? My word, it looks as if we're set to have a bloody day. What fun!”
Then, Scilla, my ex-client, deigned to recognize me.
“I want a word with you, Falco! What have you done to my agent?”
“I thought I was your agent.”
Scilla shrugged her shoulders under a full-length purple cloak. “You failed to put in an appearance so I found someone else to do my work.”
“Romanus?”
“That's just an alias.”
“I thought so. So who is he?”
She blinked, and avoided telling me. “The point is-where is he, Falco? I sent him to see Calliopus last night and he's vanished.”
I had little sympathy. “Better ask Calliopus then.”
She smiled, far too coyly for my liking. “I might do that later!”
Then Scilla turned on her heel and loped off towards the amphitheater. Her mass of brown hair was today tightly plaited. The cloak she was clutching around her covered the rest of the outfit, but as she walked away from us she released her hold and let it billow out dramatically. When the garment swung loose, I noticed she was bare-legged and wearing boots.
61
I TOLD THE ARENA staff to move Myrrha's body out of sight as discreetly as they could. Justinus and I started to walk slowly back to the arena, taking Iddibal with us.
“Iddibal, who set up the special mystery bout your father's holding with the others later? Was it Scilla?”
“Yes. She had met Papa when he was hunting in Cyrena?ca. He was interested in her feud with the other lanistae.”
“I bet he was! Does Scilla realize that Hanno has been actively involved in stirring up trouble between Saturninus and Calliopus in Rome?”
“How could she?”
“Your father keeps his machinations quiet, but she has an enquiry agent working for her.”
“You?”
“No. I don't know who he is.” Well, that was my official line.
Scilla was up to no good here, planning new mischief. Iddibal thought so too, and perhaps troubled by his father's involvement with her, he decided to warn me: “scilla has convinced Saturninus and Calliopus that this bout is a way to settle her legal claim-but Papa is certain it's a blind. She's hoping to use the occasion to get back at them in some more dramatic way.”
We had reached the arena approach. In the past few minutes Saturninus and his men had set up an enclosure. Like Hanno with Fidelis in the stadium, he was keeping his chosen fighter from public view; portable screens had been erected. Around them a large group of his men now stood looking ugly-easy enough, for they were brutal types. We glimpsed Saturninus himself ducking behind the screens-with Scilla at his side.
“Hello!” I muttered.
“Surely not?” said Justinus, but like me he must have noticed her boots a few minutes earlier.
“She has a wild reputation-for a dubious hobby.”
“And we've just found out what it is?”
“Scilla is a girl who wants to play at being one of the boys. What do you say, Iddibal?”
He was showing professional distaste. “There always are women who like to shock society by attending a training palaestra. If she's taking part as one of the novice fighters, that's very bad form-”
“And it makes a nonsense of her pretense that this bout is a legal device.”
“It's a fight to the death,” scoffed Justinus in disgust. “She'll get herself killed!”
I wondered who she was hoping to finish off at the same time.
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.