The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (9 page)

I smiled uncertainly, not entirely sure the man was joking. “Still, I’d like to have a look at the gladiators.”

“In a bit. Show you the armoury first. Explain how I do business.” He led me into a long, low shed festooned with chains, upon which were hung all manner of helmets, greaves, swords, shields and tridents. There were also a number of devices I didn’t recognize, including some tubes made of metal and wood that looked as if they might fit into a man’s mouth. Ahala saw me looking at them, but offered no explanation. Some of the weapons also looked a bit odd to me. I reached out to touch a hanging sword, but Ahala seized my wrist.

“You’ll cut yourself,” he grumbled, then ushered me to the far end of the shed, where a trio of smiths in leather aprons were hammering a red-hot piece of metal.

“You make your own weapons?” I asked.

“Sometimes. A customized fit can make the difference between a good fighter and a great one. Mostly I keep these fellows busy with repairs and alterations. I like to keep the armoury in tip-top shape.”

He led me past the smiths, into another shed where carpenters were whittling wood into pegs. “Amphitheatre seeds, I call those,” said Ahala with a laugh. “Some of the
people who hire me want a temporary arena built especially for the games. Maybe they need to seat a hundred people, maybe a thousand. My carpenters can throw up a decent amphitheatre practically overnight, provided there’s a good source of local timber. Client pays for the materials, of course. But I’ve found it saves time and considerable expense if I’ve got nails and pegs ready to go. All a part of a complete package.”

I nodded. “I’d never thought of that – the added expense of erecting a place to put on the games.”

Ahala shrugged. “Funeral games don’t come cheap.”

We passed through a small slaughterhouse where the carcass of a sheep had been hung for butchering. Certain parts of previously slaughtered animals that might normally have been discarded had been saved and hung to dry. I stepped towards the back corner of the room to have a closer look, but Ahala gripped my elbow.

“You wanted to see the fighters. Step this way.”

He led me to a gate in the inner palisade, lifted the bar and opened the narrow door. “That way, to your right, are the barracks, where they eat and sleep. The training area is this way. Visitor coming!” he shouted. We walked through a covered passage and emerged on a sandy square open to the sky, where five pairs of men abruptly pulled apart and raised their wooden practice swords in a salute to their
lanista
.

“Carry on!” barked Ahala.

The men resumed their mock-battles, banging swords against shields.

“I thought . . .”

“You thought we’d be above them, looking down, like in an amphitheatre?” said Ahala.

“Yes.”

He chuckled. “We don’t stage exhibition bouts here. Only
way to see the training area is to walk right in. Stand closer if you want. Smell the sweat. Look them eye-to-eye.”

I felt acutely vulnerable. I was used to seeing gladiators at a distance, in the arena. To stand among them, with nothing between them and me, was like entering a cage full of wild animals. Even the shortest man among them was a head taller than me. All ten wore helmets, but were otherwise naked. Apparently they were training to receive blows to the head, because their rhythmic exercise consisted of exchanging repeated blows to each other’s helmets. The blows were relatively gentle, but the racket was unnerving.

From his physique, I thought I recognized at least one of the gladiators from the games at Saturnia, the bull-necked Thracian who had triumphed in the opening bout. About the others I was less sure.

“I wonder, do you have any Nubians among your men?”

Ahala raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“There was a Nubian that day in Saturnia, a
retiarius
. Cicero took particular note of him – ‘just the sort of exotic touch to ensure a memorable day,’ he said.”

Ahala nodded. “A
retiarius
? Ah, yes, I remember now. That fellow’s dead, of course. But it just so happens that I
do
have another Nubian in the troupe. Tall, strapping fellow like the one you saw.”

“Also a
retiarius
?”

“He can fight with net and trident, certainly. All my gladiators are trained to be versatile. They can fight in whatever style you wish.”

“Yes, it’s all about giving the spectators what they want, isn’t it? Delivering a thrill and an eyeful.” I watched the practising pairs of gladiators advance and retreat, advance and retreat with the rhythmic precision of acrobats. “Can I see this Nubian?” I said.

“See him train, you mean?”

“Yes, why not?”

Ahala called to an assistant. “Bring the Nubian. This man wants to see him train with net and trident.” He turned back to me. “While we wait, I’ll explain how I calculate my prices, depending on the size of funeral games you need . . .”

For the next few moments I had to struggle to keep my face a blank; I’d never imagined that funeral games could be so costly. To be sure, a
lanista
faced considerable expenses, but I suspected that Ahala was making a considerable profit as well. Was that why Zanziba had come to him, because Ahala had the wherewithal to pay him handsomely?

“Are they all slaves?” I asked, interrupting Ahala as he was reciting a complicated formula for payment on instalment plans.

“What’s that?”

“Your gladiators – are they all slaves? One hears occasionally of free men who hire themselves out as gladiators. They make good money, I’m told. Have their choice of women, too.”

“Are you thinking of taking it up?” He looked me up and down and laughed, rather unkindly, I thought.

“No. I’m merely curious. That Nubian who fought in Saturnia, for example –”

“Who cares about him?” snapped Ahala. “Gone to Hades!” He scowled, then brightened. “Ah, here’s his replacement.”

Seen at such close quarters, the
retiarius
who entered the training area was a magnificent specimen of a man, tall and broad and elegantly proportioned. He immediately engaged in a mock combat with the gladiator who had accompanied him, putting on a lively demonstration for my benefit. Was it the same Nubian I had seen in Saturnia? I thought so – or was I doing what I had accused Zuleika of doing, seeing what I wanted or expected to see?

“Enough fighting!” I said. “I want to see his face.”

“His face?” Ahala stared at me, perplexed.

“I’ve seen a Nubian fight – I’ve seen one die, at Saturnia – but I’ve never seen one this close, face-to-face. Indulge my curiosity,
lanista
. Show me the fellow’s face.”

“Very well.” At Ahala’s signal, the gladiators drew apart. Ahala beckoned the Nubian to come to us. “Take off your helmet,” he said.

The Nubian put aside his weapons, removed his helmet and stood naked before me. I had never seen the face of the Nubian who fought in Saturnia. I had never seen Zanziba’s face. But those two brown eyes which stared back at me – had I seen before? Were they Zuleika’s soulful eyes, set in a man’s face? Was this the face of her brother Zanziba? The high cheekbones were much the same, as were the broad nose and forehead. But I could not be sure.

“What is your name, gladiator?”

He hesitated, as slaves not used to being addressed by strangers often do. He glanced at Ahala, then looked straight ahead. “Chiron,” he said.

“Like the centaur? A good name for a gladiator, I suppose. Were you born with that name?”

Again he hesitated and glanced at Ahala. “I don’t know.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“How odd. And how long have you been at this camp, with Ahala as your
lanista
?”

“I . . .”

“Enough of this!” snapped Ahala. “Can’t you see the fellow’s simple-minded? But he’s a damned good fighter, I guarantee. If you want the personal history of each and every gladiator, put some sesterces on my table first and hire them! Now the tour is over. I’ve other things to do. If your friend Cicero or some of his rich clients have need of funeral games,
they’ll know where to find me. You men, get back to your training. Gordianus, allow me to show you the way out.”

As the gate to the compound slammed shut behind me, the dogs, silent throughout my visit, recommenced their barking.

“It’s him!” insisted Zuleika. “It must be. Describe him again, Gordianus.”

“Zuleika, I’ve described the man to you a dozen times. Neither of us can say if it was Zanziba I saw, or not.”

“It
was
him. I know it was. But if he died in Saturnia, how can be alive now?”

“That’s a very good question. But I have a suspicion . . .”

“You know something you’re not telling me. You saw something, there in the compound!”

“Perhaps. I’ll have to go back and have another look, to be sure.”

“When?”

I sighed, looking around the little room we had been given to share at the hostel in Ravenna. It was a plain room with two hard beds, a small lamp and a single chamber pot, but to my weary eyes, as the long summer day faded to twilight, it looked very inviting. “Tonight, I suppose. Might as well get it over with.”

“What if the
lanista
won’t let you in?”

“I don’t intend to ask him.”

“You’re going to sneak in? But how?”

“I do have
some
experience at this sort of thing, Zuleika. I noticed a particular spot in the palisade where the posts are a bit shorter than elsewhere. If I climb over at that point, and manage not to impale myself, I think I can drop right onto the roof of the slaughterhouse. From there I can easily climb down –”

“But the dogs! You heard dogs barking. The man on the road said a dog tore a slave’s leg off.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, the dogs do pose a challenge. But I think I know, from the sound of their barking, where their kennel is located. That’s why I bought those pieces of meat at the butcher shop near the forum this afternoon; and why I travel with that small pouch full of various powders and potions. In my line of work, you never know when you might have need of a powerful soporific. A few pieces of steak, generously dusted with pulverized harpy root and tossed over the palisade . . .”

“But even if you put the dogs to sleep, there are all those gladiators, men who’ve been trained to kill –”

“I shall carry a dagger for self-defence.”

“A dagger! From the way you describe Ahala, the
lanista
himself could kill you with his bare hands.” She shook her head. “You’ll be taking a terrible risk, Gordianus.”

“That’s what you’re paying me for, Zuleika.”

“I should go with you.”

“Absolutely not!

Some distance from the compound, I tethered my horse to a stunted tree and proceeded on foot. Hours past midnight, the half-moon was low in the sky. It shed just enough light for me to cautiously pick my way, while casting ample shadows to offer concealment.

The compound was quiet and dark; gladiators need their sleep. As I drew near the palisade, one of the dogs began to bark. I tossed bits of steak over the wall. The barking immediately ceased, followed by slavering sounds, followed by silence.

The climb over the palisade was easier than I expected. A running start, a quick scamper up the rough bark of the poles, a leap of faith over the sharp spikes, and I landed solidly atop the roof of the slaughterhouse, making only a faint, plunking noise. I paused for breath, listening intently.
From outside the compound I heard a quiet, scurrying noise – some nocturnal animal, I presumed – but within the compound there was only a deep silence.

I climbed off the roof and proceeded quickly to the gate that opened into the inner compound, where the gladiators were quartered. As I suspected, it was unbarred. At night, the men inside were free to come and go at will.

I returned to the slaughterhouse and stepped inside. As I had thought, the organs I had seen hanging to dry in the back corner were bladders harvested from slaughtered beasts. I took one down and examined it in the moonlight. Ahala was a frugal man; this bladder already had been used at least once, and was ready to be used again. The opening had been stitched shut but then carefully unstitched; a gash in the side had been repaired with some particularly fine stitch work. The inside of the bladder had been thoroughly cleaned, but by the moonlight I thought I could nonetheless discern bits of dried blood within.

I left the slaughterhouse and made my way to the armoury shed, by night a hanging forest of weird shapes. Navigating through the darkness amid dangling helmets and swords, I located one of the peculiar wood and metal tubes I had noticed earlier. I hefted the object in my hand, then put it in my mouth. I blew through it, cautiously, quietly – and even so, gave myself a fright, so uncanny was the gurgling death-rattle that emerged from the tube.

It frightened the other person in the shed, as well; for I was not alone. A silhouette behind me gave a start, whirled about and collided with a hanging helmet. The helmet knocked against a shield with a loud, clanging noise. The silhouette staggered back and collided with more pieces of hanging armour, knocking some from their hooks and sending them clattering across the floor.

The cacophony roused at least one of the drugged canines.
From the kennel I heard a blood-curdling howl. A moment later, a man began to shout an alarm.

“Gordianus! Where are you?” The stumbling, confused silhouette had a voice.

“Zuleika! I told you not to follow me!”

“All these hanging swords, like a bloody maze – Hades! I’ve cut myself . . .”

Perhaps it was her blood that attracted the beast. I saw its silhouette enter from the direction of the kennels and careen towards us, like a missile shot from a sling. The snarling creature took a flying leap and knocked Zuleika to the ground. She screamed.

Suddenly there were others in the armoury – not dogs, but men. “Was that a woman?” one of them muttered.

The dog snarled. Zuleika screamed again.

“Zuleika!” I cried.

“Did he say . . .
Zuleika
?” One of the men – tall, broad, majestic in silhouette – broke away from the others and ran towards her. Seizing a hanging trident, he drove it into the snarling dog – then gave a cry of exasperation and cast the trident aside. “Numa’s balls, I grabbed one of the fakes! Somebody hand me a
real
weapon!”