of him."
Anacrites gazed at him. For once I could imagine how it had felt in Nero's day to be interrogated by the Praetorian Guards in the bowels of the Palace with the notorious Quaestionarii in attendance, bringing their imaginative range of torture implements. "Internal? That's odd," Anacrites commented frostily. "We have received further information about the death of Leonidas, which doesn't square with that. He was killed by this man Rumex, apparently--though now you tell us Rumex is not one of your boys!"
"Save him having to be got rid of as you're planning for Iddibal," 1 said. Proposing a dubious fate for Rumex was, as it turned out later, a poignant piece of augury.
The lanista huffed and puffed for a moment, then thought of something urgent he had to run off and do.
Anacrites waited until we were back in the office and had the place to ourselves.
"So that's that, Falco. We may not have heard the whole story, but the lion's death need not trouble us any more."
"Whatever you want," I answered, with the smile I keep for butchers who sell last week's meat as fresh. "Still, it was good of you to defend my viewpoint when Calliopus was so obviously fibbing."
"Partners stick together," Anacrites assured me glibly. "Now let's finish taking the cheat apart for his financial misdemeanours, shall we?"
I stuck with the audit report like a good boy until lunchtime. As soon as my partner had sunk his jaws into one of my mother's homecooked rissoles and was preoccupied with mopping the squidged gravy from the front of his tunic, I let out a curse and pretended Helena had forgotten to give me any fish-pickle to sauce up my cold sausage, so I would have to go and scrounge some. If Anacrites was only half a spy he must have guessed I was bunking off to interview someone else about the lion.
I really did mean to go back to auditing later. Unfortunately one or two little adventures got in the way.
XVI
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW FAMIA worked--if you can call it that at the chariot-horse stables used by the Green team. We had nothing in common; I supported the Blues. Once, many years back, Famia had actually done something sensible; that was when he married Maia. She was the best of my sisters, whose one aberration had been her alliance with him. Jove knows how he persuaded her. Famia had made Maia a drudge, fathered four children just to prove he knew what his plunger was for, then gave up the struggle and set himself the easy target of an early death from drink. He must be pretty close to his goal now.
He was a short, fat, squint-eyed, florid-faced, devious drone whose profession was administering linctus to racehorses: the kind of disaster only the Greens could rely on. Even the knock-kneed nags who pulled their cranky carriagework knew how to avoid Famia's ministrations. They kicked so hard when they saw him approaching he was lucky never to have been castrated with his own equine ball-snipper. When I found him, a mean-looking grey was rearing up and savagely lashing out with his hooves in response to a sesame sweetie that Famia was coaxing him to take; it was no doubt dosed with jollop from a sinister black pottery bottle that had already been kicked over in the fray.
Seeing me, Famia promptly gave up. The horse whinneyed sneeringly.
"Need some help?"
"Push off, Falco!"
Well that saved me from having my fingers bitten off while pretending I could whisper sweet nothings in a stallion's ear. Bluff would be wasted on Famia anyway. If I did make the grey swallow his medicine, Famia would take the credit himself
"I want some information, Famia."
"And I want a drink." I had come prepared to bribe him.
"Oh thanks, Marcus!"
"You ought to level off"
"I will--when I've had this one."
Talking to Famia was like trying to clean your ear with a very bulky sponge. You told yourself the procedure would work, but you could waste hours screwing up your fist without managing to poke anything down the hole.
"You sound like Petronius," I
Anacrites gazed at him. For once I could imagine how it had felt in Nero's day to be interrogated by the Praetorian Guards in the bowels of the Palace with the notorious Quaestionarii in attendance, bringing their imaginative range of torture implements. "Internal? That's odd," Anacrites commented frostily. "We have received further information about the death of Leonidas, which doesn't square with that. He was killed by this man Rumex, apparently--though now you tell us Rumex is not one of your boys!"
"Save him having to be got rid of as you're planning for Iddibal," 1 said. Proposing a dubious fate for Rumex was, as it turned out later, a poignant piece of augury.
The lanista huffed and puffed for a moment, then thought of something urgent he had to run off and do.
Anacrites waited until we were back in the office and had the place to ourselves.
"So that's that, Falco. We may not have heard the whole story, but the lion's death need not trouble us any more."
"Whatever you want," I answered, with the smile I keep for butchers who sell last week's meat as fresh. "Still, it was good of you to defend my viewpoint when Calliopus was so obviously fibbing."
"Partners stick together," Anacrites assured me glibly. "Now let's finish taking the cheat apart for his financial misdemeanours, shall we?"
I stuck with the audit report like a good boy until lunchtime. As soon as my partner had sunk his jaws into one of my mother's homecooked rissoles and was preoccupied with mopping the squidged gravy from the front of his tunic, I let out a curse and pretended Helena had forgotten to give me any fish-pickle to sauce up my cold sausage, so I would have to go and scrounge some. If Anacrites was only half a spy he must have guessed I was bunking off to interview someone else about the lion.
I really did mean to go back to auditing later. Unfortunately one or two little adventures got in the way.
XVI
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW FAMIA worked--if you can call it that at the chariot-horse stables used by the Green team. We had nothing in common; I supported the Blues. Once, many years back, Famia had actually done something sensible; that was when he married Maia. She was the best of my sisters, whose one aberration had been her alliance with him. Jove knows how he persuaded her. Famia had made Maia a drudge, fathered four children just to prove he knew what his plunger was for, then gave up the struggle and set himself the easy target of an early death from drink. He must be pretty close to his goal now.
He was a short, fat, squint-eyed, florid-faced, devious drone whose profession was administering linctus to racehorses: the kind of disaster only the Greens could rely on. Even the knock-kneed nags who pulled their cranky carriagework knew how to avoid Famia's ministrations. They kicked so hard when they saw him approaching he was lucky never to have been castrated with his own equine ball-snipper. When I found him, a mean-looking grey was rearing up and savagely lashing out with his hooves in response to a sesame sweetie that Famia was coaxing him to take; it was no doubt dosed with jollop from a sinister black pottery bottle that had already been kicked over in the fray.
Seeing me, Famia promptly gave up. The horse whinneyed sneeringly.
"Need some help?"
"Push off, Falco!"
Well that saved me from having my fingers bitten off while pretending I could whisper sweet nothings in a stallion's ear. Bluff would be wasted on Famia anyway. If I did make the grey swallow his medicine, Famia would take the credit himself
"I want some information, Famia."
"And I want a drink." I had come prepared to bribe him.
"Oh thanks, Marcus!"
"You ought to level off"
"I will--when I've had this one."
Talking to Famia was like trying to clean your ear with a very bulky sponge. You told yourself the procedure would work, but you could waste hours screwing up your fist without managing to poke anything down the hole.
"You sound like Petronius," I
Similar Books
