Free The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits by Mike Ashley (ed) Page B

and the sound of men laughing, not in a harsh or mean-spirited way, but quite boisterously. I approached a door in the palisade, but had no chance to knock; on the other side, so close and with such ferocity that I jerked back and my heart skipped a beat, dogs began to barkand jump against the gate, scraping their claws against the wood.
    A shouting voice chastised the dogs, who stopped barking. A peep-hole opened in the gate, so high up that I assumed the man beyond was standing on a stool. Two blood-shot eyes peered down at me.
    “Who are you and what do you want?”
    “Is this the gladiator camp of Ahala?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Are you Ahala?”
    “Who’s asking?”
    “My name is Gordianus. I’ve come all the way from Rome.”
    “Have you, indeed?”
    “I saw some of your gladiators perform at Saturnia a while back.”
    “Did you, now?”
    “I was most impressed.”
    “Were you?”
    “More to the point,” I said, improvising, “my good friend Marcus Tullius Cicero was impressed.”
    “Cicero, you say?”
    “You’ve heard of him, I presume? Cicero’s a man to be reckoned with, a rising politician and a very famous advocate who handles the legal affairs of some of the most powerful families in Rome.”
    The man lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t think much of politicians and lawyers.”
    “No? Well, as a rule, Cicero doesn’t think much of funeral games. But he thought your men put on quite a show.” So far, everything I had said was true; when lying, I have found it best to begin with the truth and embellish only as necessary. “In his line of work, Cicero is frequently called upon to advise the bereaved. On legal matters such as wills, youunderstand. But they often ask his advice about all sorts of other things – such as who to call upon to produce a truly memorable afternoon of funeral games.”
    “I see. So this Cicero thought my boys put on a memorable show?”
    “He did indeed. And as I happened to be coming to Ravenna on business of my own, and as you happen to have your camp here, I promised my good friend Cicero that I would call on you if I had a chance, to see what sort of operation you run – how many gladiators you’ve got, how long you’ve been in business, how much you charge, that sort of thing.”
    The man nodded. The peep-hole banged shut. The barking resumed, but receded into the distance, as if someone were dragging the dogs elsewhere. A bolt was thrown back. The gate swung open.
    “Ahala –
lanista
– at your service.” I had assumed the speaker was standing on something to reach the peephole, but I was wrong. Towering over me was a grizzled, hulking giant of a man. He looked like a gladiator himself, though few gladiators live long enough to attain such a magnificent mane of grey hair. Was Ahala the exception? It was not entirely unheard of for a fighter to survive long enough to buy his freedom and become a professional trainer; it was far less common for such a survivor to become the owner of a cadre of gladiators, as Ahala apparently was. Whatever his origins and history, he was obviously smarter than his lumbering physique and terse manner might suggest.
    “Come in,” he said. “Have a look around.”
    The compound within the palisade included several barn-like buildings set close together, separated by garden plots and pens for horses, goats and sheep.
    “You raise livestock,” I said.
    “Gladiators eat a lot of meat.”
    “And you grow your own garlic, I see.”
    “Gives the fellows extra strength.”
    “So I’ve heard.” Whole treatises had been written about the proper care and feeding of gladiators.
    At a shouted command, the clatter of wooden weapons resumed. The noise seemed to come from beyond another palisade of sharpened stakes. “This is the outer compound,” Ahala explained. “Gladiators are kept in the inner compound. Safer that way, especially for visitors like you. Wouldn’t want you to end up with your skull decorating that gate out