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“Greed's all they know.” That was rich, from him.
“Is their rivalry hotting up? Is there a trainers' war looming?”
“They are always at it, Falco.” Some dregs of intelligence had been warmed up by the wine. He was almost capable of holding a useful conversation. “But yes, they do reckon the new arena means really big shows in the offing. That's good news for us all. There has been no word about how it will be organised though.”
“What do you think?”
I had sensed rightly that Famia was bursting with a pet theory: “I reckon the damned lanistae with their carefully guarded sources for wild animals and their private cliques of fighters will be in for a big shock. If you ask me-oh of course you did ask me-”
“Enjoy your joke.”
“Well, I bet everything gets taken over and run by the state.”
‘Vespasian's an organizer,” I agreed. “He's presenting the Flavian Amphitheatre as his gin to the populace: the benign Emperor affectionately saluting the Senate and People of Rome. We all know what that entails. SPQR stands for official catastrophe. Public slaves, committees, consular control.”
‘Vespasian has two sons, both young men,” Famia said, stabbing the air with his thumb for emphasis. “He's the first Emperor in living memory to possess that advantage-he comes equipped with his own Gan1es committee. He'll be giving the world a magnificent show-and you mark my words: the whole affair will be run from an office in the Golden House, headed up by Titus and Domitian.”
“A Palace scheme?” I was thinking that if nobody had yet formulated this plan, I might do myself some good by suggesting it to Vespasian. Better still, I would suggest it to Titus Caesar, so he had a chance to propose it formally, getting ahead of his younger brother before Domitian knew what was happening. Titus was the main heir, the coming man. His gratitude was something I liked to cultivate. “You could be right, Famia.”
“I know I'm right. They're going to take everything out of the hands of the private lanistae, on the grounds that the new amphitheatre is too important to be left to unregulated private enterprise.”
“And once the state organization is in place, you reckon it will become permanent?”
“A right cock-up.” Famia's idea of political commentary tended to follow routine lines. The four charioteering factions were funded by private sponsorship, but there was always talk of them being state run; it might never happen but Famia and all his colleagues had developed fixed prejudices in advance.
“Imperial control: beasts caught by the legions and shipped by the national fleets; gladiators trained in army style barracks; Palace clerks ru
“That means paid for by the hard-earned silver I had to cough up for the bloody Census tax.” With luck, Famia had not yet heard how I was currently employed.
My brother-in-law was reaching the point where he wanted to confide to me the troubles of his private life. I reckoned they were all his fault; anyway, I was on my sister's side. I interrupted his moans to ask if he could tell me anything about Calliopus, or better still about Saturninus, the rival who seemed to feature rather large in my suspect's business life. Famia claimed the beast importers and gladiatorial bashers were strangers to all in his more refined racetrack sphere. I managed not to choke with laughter.
By chance I happened to mention the Tripolitanian co
“Numidia-Libya-they're all that way, aren't they?”
“Roughly. But I thought good steeds came from Spain, Famia?”
“The best of all come from bloody Parthia, actually. This huge fellow”-indicating the grey who had spurned his medicine-“is from Cappadocia; he'll have Parthian or Median ancestors in his bloodline. Gives him the power to drag a chariot round the bends on the outside of the team. You're the best, aren't you, boy?” The grey showed his teeth ferociously; Famia decided against patting him. So much for being good with animals. “After that, Spain and Africa rank about equal. Libyan horses are famous for toughness and endurance. That's good in a race. You don't want a pretty four that prances up to the starring gate but can only manage a quick sprint. You need a team that can hang on solidly for seven laps.”
“Right.” I managed not to tease him by suggesting, you mean like the Blues have? “I suppose the horse shippers are probably the same lot who bring in big cats and other exotics for the venatio?”
‘Reckon so, Falco. Which may mean that I know a supplier who can tell you what you want to find out. Whatever that may be.”
I let him jeer. That's what you expect from family. As usual I myself felt rather vague about what I was really looking for, but I spared Famia my uncertainty and just thanked him for offering to introduce me to his hypothetical pal. He would probably forget all about it, so I did not trouble to be too effusive.
“By the way, have you ever heard of a character called Rumex?”
Famia looked at me as if I was mad. “Where have you been, Falco?”
He obviously knew more than I did but before he could tell me, he was stopped by a slave, wild-eyed with excitement, who rushed into the stables, saw Famia, and shrieked, “You've got to come at once and bring a rope!”
“What's up?”
“An escaped leopard's up on the roof of the Saepta Julia!”
17
FAMIA DID NOT bother finding a rope. Like most chronic drinkers, his intake hardly affected him. He was alert enough to know this was not the same as catching horses. Apprehending a leopard would involve rather more than approaching in a sly ma
When we got there, and saw the size and menace of the beast-a leopardess, in fact-I was damned sure I didn't want to be involved. She was lying on the roof with her fat tail dangling like a Greek epsilon, occasionally snarling when the crowd below a
Someone was going to get killed. One glance at the leopardess's narrow eyes told me she had decided it would not be her.
She was a beautiful animal. Sometimes the long sea voyage across the Internal Sea, not to mention the stress of captivity, leaves arena cats looking the worse for wear.
This one was as healthy as she was finely marked. Her spotted fur was thick and her muscle tone at its peak. She was lithe, bo
It was safest to leave her alone in full view. The Saepta Julia enclosure was only two stories high. However she got up there, she could as easily get down again and be away. Everyone should have stood well back, keeping quiet, while some wild beast expert with equipment was fetched.
Instead, the vigiles had taken charge. They ought to have cleared the streets and contained the situation. Instead they were like boys who had found a snake curled up under a portico and were wondering what they could make it do. To my horror, they dragged up their syphon engine and prepared to squirt a cold douche at the leopardess to frighten her down. They were the Seventh Cohort. Idiots. They patrolled the Transtiberina, which was crammed with foreigners and itinerants. They were only adept at beating up frightened immigrants, many of whom did not even know Latin and took to their heels rather than discuss life and fate with the vigiles. The Seventh had never learned to think.