Read Online The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits by Mike Ashley (ed) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Ashley (ed)
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a considerable sum, enough to buy my freedom and more. And with it came a letter – not in Zanziba’s hand, because neither of us had ever learned to read or write, but written for him by the banker who transmitted the money.”
“What did the letter say?”
“Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Then read it for yourself.” Zuleika handed me a worn and tattered scrap of parchment.
Beloved Sister, I am in Italy, among the Romans. I have become a gladiator, a man who fights to the death to honour the Roman dead. It is a strange thing to be. The Romans profess to despise our kind, yet all the men want to buy us drinks in the taverns and all the women want to sleep with us. I despise this life, but it is the only way a freedman can earn the sort of money we need. It is a hard, cruel life, not fit for an animal, and it comes to a terrible end. Do not follow or try to find me. Forget me. Find your way back to our homeland, if you can. Live free, sister. I, too, shall live free, and though I may die young, I shall die a free man. Your loving brother, Zanziba.
I handed the scrap of parchment back to her. “Your brother told you not to come to Italy.”
“How could I not come? Zanziba hadn’t forgotten me, after all. I was not going to forget him. As soon as I was able, I booked passage on a ship to Rome.”
“Travel is expensive.”
“I paid for the fare from the money Zanziba sent me.”
“Surely he meant for you to live off that money.”
“Here in Rome I make my own living.” She raised herchin high. The haughty angle flattered her. She was beautiful; she was exotic; she was obviously clever. I could well imagine that Zuleika was able to demand a high fee for the pleasure of her company.
“You came to Rome. And then?”
“I looked for Zanziba, of course. I started with the banker who’d sent the money. He sent me to a gladiator camp near Neapolis. I talked to the man who owned the camp – the trainer, what you Romans call a
lanista
. He told me Zanziba had fought with his troupe of gladiators for a while, but had long since moved on. The
lanista
didn’t know where. Most gladiators are captives or slaves, but Zanziba was a free agent; he went where the money was best. I followed his trail by rumour and hearsay. I came to one dead-end after another, and each time I had to start all over again. If you’re as good as people say, Gordianus the Finder, I could have used the skills of a man like you to track him down.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how many gladiator camps there are in Italy?”
“Scores, I should imagine.”
“Hundreds, scattered all over the countryside! Over the last few months I’ve travelled the length and breadth of Italy, looking for Zanziba without luck, until . . . until a man who knew Zanziba told me that he was fighting for a
lanista
named Ahala who runs a camp in Ravenna. But the man said I needn’t bother going all the way to Ravenna, because Ahala’s gladiators would be fighting at funeral games the very next day up in Saturnia.”
“At the funeral of Sextus Thorius,” I said.
“Yes. I wasn’t able to leave Rome until the next morning. I travelled all day. I arrived just when Zanziba’s match was beginning – excited, fearful, out of breath. Just in time to see –”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Of course.”
“But he wore a helmet.”
She shook her head. “With or without the helmet, I’d have known him. By his limbs and legs. By the way he
moved
. ‘Zanziba must have wings hidden between those massive shoulders,’ the master in Alexandria used to say . . .” Her voice trembled and her eyes glittered with tears. “After all my travels, all my searching, I arrived just in time to see my brother die!”
I lowered my eyes, remembering the scene: the Nubian flat on his chest, the Gaul with his sword poised to strike, the uncertain magistrate, the raucous crowd, the death-blow, the fountain of blood . . .
“I’m sorry you had to
“What did the letter say?”
“Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Then read it for yourself.” Zuleika handed me a worn and tattered scrap of parchment.
Beloved Sister, I am in Italy, among the Romans. I have become a gladiator, a man who fights to the death to honour the Roman dead. It is a strange thing to be. The Romans profess to despise our kind, yet all the men want to buy us drinks in the taverns and all the women want to sleep with us. I despise this life, but it is the only way a freedman can earn the sort of money we need. It is a hard, cruel life, not fit for an animal, and it comes to a terrible end. Do not follow or try to find me. Forget me. Find your way back to our homeland, if you can. Live free, sister. I, too, shall live free, and though I may die young, I shall die a free man. Your loving brother, Zanziba.
I handed the scrap of parchment back to her. “Your brother told you not to come to Italy.”
“How could I not come? Zanziba hadn’t forgotten me, after all. I was not going to forget him. As soon as I was able, I booked passage on a ship to Rome.”
“Travel is expensive.”
“I paid for the fare from the money Zanziba sent me.”
“Surely he meant for you to live off that money.”
“Here in Rome I make my own living.” She raised herchin high. The haughty angle flattered her. She was beautiful; she was exotic; she was obviously clever. I could well imagine that Zuleika was able to demand a high fee for the pleasure of her company.
“You came to Rome. And then?”
“I looked for Zanziba, of course. I started with the banker who’d sent the money. He sent me to a gladiator camp near Neapolis. I talked to the man who owned the camp – the trainer, what you Romans call a
lanista
. He told me Zanziba had fought with his troupe of gladiators for a while, but had long since moved on. The
lanista
didn’t know where. Most gladiators are captives or slaves, but Zanziba was a free agent; he went where the money was best. I followed his trail by rumour and hearsay. I came to one dead-end after another, and each time I had to start all over again. If you’re as good as people say, Gordianus the Finder, I could have used the skills of a man like you to track him down.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how many gladiator camps there are in Italy?”
“Scores, I should imagine.”
“Hundreds, scattered all over the countryside! Over the last few months I’ve travelled the length and breadth of Italy, looking for Zanziba without luck, until . . . until a man who knew Zanziba told me that he was fighting for a
lanista
named Ahala who runs a camp in Ravenna. But the man said I needn’t bother going all the way to Ravenna, because Ahala’s gladiators would be fighting at funeral games the very next day up in Saturnia.”
“At the funeral of Sextus Thorius,” I said.
“Yes. I wasn’t able to leave Rome until the next morning. I travelled all day. I arrived just when Zanziba’s match was beginning – excited, fearful, out of breath. Just in time to see –”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Of course.”
“But he wore a helmet.”
She shook her head. “With or without the helmet, I’d have known him. By his limbs and legs. By the way he
moved
. ‘Zanziba must have wings hidden between those massive shoulders,’ the master in Alexandria used to say . . .” Her voice trembled and her eyes glittered with tears. “After all my travels, all my searching, I arrived just in time to see my brother die!”
I lowered my eyes, remembering the scene: the Nubian flat on his chest, the Gaul with his sword poised to strike, the uncertain magistrate, the raucous crowd, the death-blow, the fountain of blood . . .
“I’m sorry you had to
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