The Song of the Gladiator (13 page)

Claudia sighed, opened the door and went into the cellar. ‘Let us say,’ she spoke loudly, pretending to be in a schoolroom, ‘that the thief enters.’ She walked to the edge of the circle and stretched out to touch the chain, but couldn’t reach. She climbed on to a stool but that too was fruitless. She recalled the long sword Burrus carried. ‘He could have used that,’ she whispered excitedly. Burrus could have drawn the chain towards him using his own weapon and taken the Holy Sword from its hook. Claudia climbed down from the stool and looked back towards the door. Four problems remained. First, Burrus would need the cooperation of the two guards outside. Secondly, there was the problem of the keys. Thirdly, what would Burrus do with the sword once he had stolen it? Finally, and most importantly, Burrus would have known he would face the Empress’s fury.

Claudia sat down and considered this. Helena would be angry, but there again she would have no proof. The Empress was correct. Burrus often acted like a naughty schoolboy and accepted being lashed by her tongue as part of his military service. Was that why Helena had assembled them all this morning, to give them a tongue-lashing they would never forget? Did she suspect the mercenaries and hope she would frighten them into returning the Holy Sword?

Claudia cocked her head at the sound on the steps outside. She walked back through the door to see Timothaeus coming down, slowly, carefully, like an old man. He still looked anxious-eyed and troubled.

‘I always come here.’ He sniffed. ‘I always think that perhaps I’ll return here and discover the sword has been restored.’ He sat down on the bottom step, where Claudia joined him. ‘It’s not there, is it?’ he asked dolefully.

‘No, it isn’t.’ Claudia grasped his arm. She rather liked this red-faced official on the verge of tears. ‘Tell me,’ she continued quickly, ‘are you sure there’s no trickery involved? I mean, when you locked the door, are you sure you locked it?’

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Timothaeus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t trust those Germans as far as I can spit. No, I was very careful, we always went through the same ceremony. I locked the door, then tried it. Only then did Burrus insert his key.’

‘Ah.’ Claudia realised her theory held no water. ‘Could the keys be copied?’

‘I wore mine on a chain round my neck,’ Timothaeus declared, ‘and, to be fair, so did Burrus. However, I can only speak for myself when I say that wherever I went, the key went too. We were never separated.’

Claudia thanked him, rose and went to her own quarters, where she changed, donning a dark green silver-edged tunic, a robe of a similar colour clasped round her shoulders, a leather belt about her waist. At the back of this hung a sheath for the sharp knife she intended to take everywhere for as long as she remained in the Villa Pulchra. She slipped her feet into boot sandals and took from her jewellery casket a small finger ring, one of the few heirlooms from her mother. She touched the painting of the purple chalice as if to remind herself, then hurried out to the servants’ refectory, which adjoined the imperial kitchens.

She had to fight for her food, bullying the heavy-eyed cook for bread, cheese and honey, a goblet of watered beer and some rather dried grapes. Constantine loved his food, and the kitchens were once again busy, the cooks, scullions and maids preparing another repast for the Emperor and his court. Claudia sat at one end at the long communal table and hastily finished her food. The other servants avoided her. She knew the reason. They viewed her as a spy, but she took no offence because that was the truth. She, of course, was sure that the Emperor, not to mention the likes of Rufinus and Chrysis, also had their agents here listening to gossip and collecting information to pass to their masters.

When she had finished her meal, she wandered into the gorgeous atrium, with its marbled walls, exquisite paintings and eye-catching mosaics. She stopped before the shrine built into one of the walls where the Lares and Penates, the household gods, were venerated. She studied the tabernacle and the statues it contained. A bronze tripod stood before these, flames flickering up from a bed of charcoal laced with a fine covering of incense. The smoke rose, white and fragrant. Claudia watched it disappear. Did it go somewhere else, she wondered, or just vanish? Was that what happened to prayers? Did anyone listen? Or were they just gusts of incense, all show and no substance? She closed her eyes and prayed, she didn’t know to whom, but she expressed her love for Felix, her dead brother, for her parents, for Polybius, Murranus, Poppaoe and all those bound up in her life.

‘Are you ready?’

Claudia opened her eyes and turned round, so quickly she felt rather giddy. She had thought she was alone, but Timothaeus, Burrus and Gaius stood behind her.

‘Are you going?’ Gaius smiled, his freshly shaved face gleaming with oil. He was dressed in a simple white tunic, a sword belt casually draped over one shoulder, a toga on the other, ready to dress more formally if the Emperor appeared.

‘The debate,’ Timothaeus explained. ‘It’s going to take place in the peristyle garden.’

Claudia smiled. In fact, she had forgotten. Now she remembered the steward breathlessly informing her the previous evening how the Empress was keen for the philosophers to meet and openly debate the issues between them.

‘We have been discussing the Holy Sword.’ Gaius grinned, nudging Burrus playfully. The German looked more composed. His icy blue eyes, no longer tear-filled, were studying Claudia carefully.

‘Why have you been discussing it?’ she enquired. ‘Do you have a theory about its disappearance?’

‘I wish to the gods we had,’ Gaius replied. ‘But the Empress has asked us to think, reflect and remember.’

The Captain talked like a schoolboy declining a verb, though his voice was rich with sarcasm and his eyes full of laughter.

‘Well, we’ll do that,’ Gaius pulled a face, ‘while we get the life bored out of us.’

Claudia joined them and the others drifting out into the peristyle garden. Purple-draped chairs had been set before the fountain and slaves were hurriedly putting up awnings to protect the imperial heads from the summer sun. Scribes in white robes, fingers stained with ink, were busy before the thrones, laying down cushions and preparing writing pallets. On either side of the long glistening pool were stools for the speakers, with a large podium directly facing the imperial presence. Everyone else had to find their own place, either in the garden or in the colonnaded walks. Porters carrying parasols moved amongst the flower beds or called in high-pitched voices for slaves to bring more refreshments.

Claudia moved back into the atrium. It would take some time for everyone to gather, and Constantine was notorious for his lateness, especially after an imperial banquet. As she wandered down a corridor, she started at a touch to her elbow, and spun round. Sylvester was standing at the doorway of a chamber, beckoning her in. She glanced quickly round and followed him into the furnished room. On the wall to her right was a portrait of two young girls looking out of a window, and on the other two were scenes from Etruscan history. The window was high and rather narrow. Sylvester led her over to a corner stool and perched on one end, indicating she should sit next to him.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, gesturing around.

‘An empty room,’ Claudia laughed.

‘No, a deaf room.’ Sylvester’s lined face broke into a smile. ‘The Empress claims it is one of those few chambers with no secret panels or gaps.’

‘In which case,’ Claudia retorted, ‘there must be at least a dozen.’

Sylvester smiled and patted her on the arm.

‘You’re going to the debate?’

‘I’ll stay as long as I can keep awake,’ she replied.

‘Oh, I think you’ll stay awake,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘There’s going to be fun this morning; allegations will be made.’

‘About theology?’

‘No.’ Sylvester splayed his fingers as if examining his nails. ‘Not theology, but treachery, betrayal and murder.’

Murranus sat in the She-Asses tavern and lifted the goblet, a gift from Polybius and Poppaoe which was always kept in a special place. Polybius described it as the best Samian ware, and it boasted a Cretan motif depicting young men and women leaping over high-horned bulls. Murranus tapped the rim of the goblet and winked rather drunkenly at Polybius.

‘That’s very hard, you know. Years ago I fought in the Venatio. What do you think was the fiercest animal?’

‘A bull,’ Polybius slurred.

‘Correct,’ Murranus agreed. ‘The big cats can be cowards, elephants are not fighters, but a bull is worse than a bear. They come at you so fast. People are actually surprised at their speed, you can never tell which way their heads are going to go. I have great admiration for these boys and girls who used to leap the bulls in Crete.’

‘It’s only a story,’ Polybius mumbled.

‘No it isn’t. I’ve been to Crete.’ Murranus leaned across the table. ‘I’ve seen other drawings. More importantly, I’ve actually seen a boy leap a bull. That took courage and skill!’

Murranus sipped the wine; the best Falernian, Polybius had assured him. It certainly tasted delicious. He smiled at Polybius, who had just refilled his cup. The landlord tapped the side of his nose and put a finger to his lips, a sign that Murranus shouldn’t relish the wine too loudly or the others would demand some. The tavern was full of the regulars. Simon the Stoic had recently purchased a pet mongoose; as Fortunatus the Fornicator had remarked, he had to have someone to talk to. Petronius the Pimp was trying to seduce Danuta the Dancer, whilst the Ladies of Lesbos, an acrobatic troupe, were now seated around the Syrian girls, a group of dark-eyed, flimsily dressed performers who had taken drinks from the Ladies but were making it very clear they were not for sale. Oceanus rested one elbow on the counter, staring dreamy-eyed at Januaria, who sat braiding her hair, leaning forward every so often so Oceanus could get a good view of her full ripe breasts.

Murranus studied the rest of the customers, then stared up at the charred timber ceiling. Was the roll of ham hanging there next to a bag of onions really moving, or had he drunk too much? The truth was that Murranus had become maudlin. He was missing Claudia and had openly wondered if he should visit the Villa Pulchra. Polybius had shaken his head.

‘You know that’s not possible. You will not be allowed in, and you must prepare for the fight. Spicerius is not only growing stronger, he is training hard and intends to be the victor . . .’

Polybius paused as the door was flung open and a group entered the tavern. They stood for a while with the light behind them, then moved into the eating room.

‘Oh no,’ Polybius groaned. ‘The Dacians!’

Murranus looked up. The Dacians were, in the main, one of the ugliest street gangs from the slums, led by the most garishly dressed creature, who came tripping along the tavern floor in high-heeled pat-tens, hips swaying like a woman. At first it was hard to distinguish what sex he really was; he was dressed in a voluminous gown with a bright blond wig framing a large head, yet the face was masculine, hard and strong, though painted as vividly as any courtesan’s: eyebrows plucked and darkened, cheeks both whitened and rouged, lips fully carmined. The Dacian leader moved in a jingle of bangles, whilst the sachets of perfume hanging around his neck gave off the most alluring fragrance. He paused and glared around the tavern, eyelids blinking.

‘I want you to go.’ The voice was high-pitched, like that of a eunuch. He clapped his hands. ‘I want you to go now!’

The eating room soon emptied. The Dacians moved to stand round Polybius and Murranus.

‘I’m Dacius.’ The blond-wigged leader sat down opposite Murranus, fingers fluttering. ‘But you know that,’ he lisped as he examined his henna-painted nails.

The gladiator didn’t move, but sat grasping his wine cup, staring at this grotesque. He had met Dacius before, in the slums and back streets as well as at the gladiator school, where the gang would come and watch the fighters so as to assess strengths and weaknesses. The Dacians were involved in a number of illicit pursuits: prostitution, abduction, murder and kidnap, but they were principally money-lenders who charged high interest and liked to finance their loans through judiciously placed bets. In fact, they controlled a great deal of the gambling in the slums around the Flavian Gate.

Dacius pointed a finger in Murranus’s face.

‘You are a very naughty boy! You were supposed to kill Spicerius.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ Dacius pouted. ‘I had a great deal of money riding on you. It was obvious Spicerius was vulnerable; why didn’t you strike?’

‘I’m a gladiator, not a murderer. More importantly, I’m not a poisoner.’ Murranus’s anger was mounting; he didn’t like either Dacius or his companions. ‘Was it you who was responsible for the powders in Spicerius’s drink?’