Lycon considered the enraged tiger. The huge cat had killed one of his men and maimed another for life before they had him safely caged. But even the tiger’s rage at capture paled at the determined fury he showed toward Vonones’ strange find.
“Well, I’ll leave you to him, then,” the beastcatcher said, giving up on the mystery. “I’m crossing over to Ostia to see my old mate, Vulpes. Tomorrow I’ll be by to pick up my money, so try to stay out of reach of that thing’s claws until then.”
“You could have gone on with it,” Vulpes told him. “You could have made a fortune in the arena.”
Lycon tore off a chunk of bread and sopped it with greasy gravy. “I could have got killed—or crippled for life.”
He immediately regretted his choice of words, but his host only laughed. The tavern owner’s left arm was a stump, and that he walked at all was a testament to the man’s fortitude. Lycon had seen him after they dragged him from the wreck of his chariot. The surgeons doubted Vulpes would last the night, but that was twenty-five years ago.
“No, it was stupidity that brought me down,” Vulpes said. “Or greed. I knew my chances of forcing through on that turn, but it was that or the race. Well, I was lucky. I lived through it and had enough of my winnings saved to open a wine shop here in Ostia. I get by.
“But you,” and he stabbed a thick finger into Lycon’s grey-stubbled face. “You were too good, too smart. You could have been rich. A few years was all you needed. You were as good with a sword as any man who’s ever set foot in the arena—fast, and you knew how to handle yourself. All those years you spent against the barbarians seasoned you. Not like these swaggering bullies the crowds dote on these days—gutless slaves and flashy thugs who learned their trade in dark alleys! Pit a combat-hardened veteran against this sort of trash, and see whose lauded favorite gets dragged off by his heels!”
Vulpes downed a cup of his wares and glared about the tavern truculently. None of his few customers was paying attention.
Lycon ruefully watched his host refill their cups with wine and water. He wished his friend would let old memories lie. Vulpes, he noted, was getting red-faced and paunchy as the wineskins he sold here. Nor, Lycon mused, running a hand over his close-cropped scalp, was he himself as young as back then. At least he stayed fit, he told himself—but then, Vulpes could hardly be faulted for inaction.
Tall for a Greek, Lycon had only grown leaner and harder with the years. His face still scowled in hawk-like intensity; his features resembled seasoned leather stretched tightly over sharp angles. Spirit and sinew had lost nothing in toughness as Lycon drew closer to fifty, and his men still talked of the voyage of a few years past when he nursed an injured polar bear on deck, while waves broke over the bow and left a film of ice as they slipped back.
Vulpes rumbled on. “But you, my philosophic Greek, found the arena a bore. Just walked away and left it all. Been skulking around the most forsaken corners of the world for—what is it, more than twenty years now? Risking your life to haul back savage beasts that barely make your expenses when you sell them. And you could be living easy in a villa near Rome!”
“Maybe this is what I wanted,” Lycon protested. “Besides, I’ve got Zoe and the kids to come home to in Rome—maybe not a villa, but we do all right.” He tried to push away memories of sand and sweat and the smell of blood and the sound of death and an ocean’s roar of voices howling to watch men die for their amusement.
Vulpes was scarcely troubling to add water to their wine. “Maybe what you wanted!” he scoffed. “Well, what do you want, my moody Greek?”
“I’m my own master. Maybe I’m not rich, but I’ve journeyed to lands Odysseus never dreamed of, and I’ve captured stranger beasts than the Huntress ever loosed arrow after.”