The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 10

As they left the Ludus Magnus, Murranus stifled his own disquiet as he tried to reassure Spicerius. Once they’d turned off the main via, going down the many side streets and alleyways, conversation proved impossible. Murranus thought of Claudia and wondered when she would return. He’d heard the chatter, the gossip, the tittle-tattle of messengers and servants that all was not well at the Villa Pulchra, though he could make little sense of it. Rumours swirled about killings and fires whilst news had seeped through of some attack upon the villa. Such gossip was now being discussed in the forum, whilst, from acquaintances and friends in the city garrisons, Murranus had learnt that coastal defences were being strengthened and war galleys had put to sea, even though this was during the height of summer and a time of peace.

Murranus reflected on all this as he led Spicerius through the noisy trading areas. Business had begun shortly before dawn, and the lucky wine merchants had taken over the porticoes in the colonnades, tying their flagons and flasks to pillars so as to advertise their stock. The butchers and fish sellers were also busy. Barbers had set up stalls under the trees, waving their cushioned stools and touting for business. The itinerant cooks, with their mobile stoves in one barrow and slabs of bloody meat in another, moved about looking for a suitable place to stand and sell well away from the watchful eye of the Vigiles. The successful ones had already taken over the prime places and were doing a vigorous trade, offering grilled meats sprinkled in spice, ‘hot to the taste’, and wrapped in fig leaves. Water sellers shouted for custom claiming their buckets were full of the purest water drawn from a newly found spring in the countryside outside Rome. Traders, festooned in their cheap blue trinkets to advertise their products, offered to barter two or three items with a packet of sulphur matches thrown in for free.

Murranus edged round these and down a side street where he had once taken lodgings. The place hadn’t changed. The stench of the latrine, cesspit and midden heap mingled with the smell of herbal oil, sizzling sausages, coarse bread and stewed vegetables. They crossed a dusty square, where a ragged schoolmaster declaimed a poem; a host of children grouped round him under a tree echoed back, shouting above the hammering and the clattering from their fathers’ workshops around the square. The beggars, genuine and false, swarmed like flies over a turd. Drunkards and roisterers from the previous night, holding aching heads and queasy stomachs, lurked about looking for shade and some water. A few recognised the gladiators. Murranus was happy to ignore them by standing aside to let an expensive funeral cortège go by, with its flute players, horn blowers, actors in their masks, professional mourners and a gaggle of shaven-haired priests who chanted so fast no one knew what they were saying. Two funeral processions of the poorer sort hurried along behind, the corpses resting on tawdry wheelbarrows, the mourners eager to share the free pomp of the wealthier procession.

Murranus and Spicerius were now in the slums, where the streets and alleyways spread out like tunnels in a rabbit warren. Shadows lurked in doorways, prostitutes whispered for custom; pimps, fingering their knives, gestured them over. Fights and squabbles were commonplace; men and women armed with skillets, ladles, hammers and clubs brawled in doorways or rolled across the street pummelling each other. The hubbub fell silent as an execution group, led by an officer with medals gleaming on his chest, escorted four prisoners, murderers and housebreakers, to the Place of Slaughter beyond the gates. The prisoners, stripped naked except for a breech-clout, carried their own crossbeam against which they would be crucified, to hang and die under the sun.

Once this grim procession had passed, the tumult recommenced, with tanners and fullers offering free drinks of water to those who would piss in their pots so the urine could be used in the treatment of leather. Many of these petty tradesmen were keen supporters of the games and were quick to recognise Murranus and Spicerius, although their cheers were muted by shouts of ‘Fix!’ and ‘Coward!’. Thankfully the insults were shouted in a number of tongues and dialects; the slums held every type of inhabitant of the Empire, from Britain in the far west to the Caspian Sea in the east. Now and again Murranus glanced at Spicerius, who still looked troubled and anxious. Murranus too felt uneasy. Spicerius was usually arrogant and distant, full of himself, boasting of his own powers; and yet since the notorious incident, he had become quiet and withdrawn. He would actively seek Murranus out, and was obviously grateful that Murranus had not exploited his weakness in the arena. Protection, Murranus thought; that was what Spicerius seemed to want, as if he had been secretly threatened and menaced and believed Murranus could shelter him. Spicerius was now a frequent visitor to the She-Asses, and the only people from his own entourage whom he seemed pleased to see were the old military doctor Valens and the boisterous, ever-colourful Agrippina.

As they reached the end of a narrow street, a flash of colour caught Murranus’s eye, and he glanced at a shadowy doorway to his right. A warlock and his witch stood there, faces painted, necklaces and bones around their necks. Squatting between them was an ugly Egyptian baboon on a silver chain, while a trained crow, with gleaming eye and sharp beak, rested on the warlock’s shoulder. They looked like macabre statues, with yellow rings round their eyes and blue paint on their cheeks. The man lifted a small black flabellum, a fan made out of raven wing, beckoning them across. Murranus spat in their direction and moved on.

He was relieved to reach the She-Asses tavern, with its cheery-faced Hermes and its small votive statue to the god Priapus just inside the doorway. Polybius, followed by Poppaoe, bustled out of the kitchen to welcome them. The rest of the customers greeted them with shouts and cheery toasts. They had all gathered from their various trades to quench their thirst and feed their hunger. Simon the Stoic sat perched on a stool chattering to a dusty-garbed wandering scholar. Simon had, apparently, bought him a drink, and was now busy boring him to death. Petronius the Pimp was informing the rest of the customers, to hoots of laughter, that if they had hairy arses he could sell them a powder which would get rid of the excess hair, as well as a polish to wax their bottoms. Of course no one believed him, so Petronius explained to his disbelieving audience that he had found the cure whilst serving in the ranks, where he had won the Hasta Pura for distinguished service. This second revelation was greeted with ‘Prove it!’ and ‘Where is the little silver spear?’ Draco, a grizzled veteran from an apartment three storeys above, led the attack. The old man always carried a draconarius, an imitation feather-tailed standard, maintaining that he had carried such an insignia across the Danube and could list all the tribes on its southern bank, if anyone cared to listen — which very few did.

Murranus, chatting to Polybius and shouting out greetings, deliberately delayed in the eating hall. He wanted Spicerius to feel at home, to be cheered and comforted by this motley collection of rogues and eccentrics. Januaria came sidling up, hips swaying, forcing her way through, glancing moon-eyed at Spicerius. Murranus asked Polybius if he had heard from Claudia. The landlord shook his head and replied that he had heard rumours, some sort of trouble, but didn’t know any details, and would Murranus like to come through to the garden? Polybius kept this privilege for what he called his ‘treasured guests’, as well as those individuals, such as the local police, whom he wanted to talk to well away from keen eyes and sharp ears.

He led them through the eating hall and out past the kitchens. Murranus’s mouth watered at the smell of savoury meat and onion sizzling in a spiced sauce. They were taken across the grass, past the small dovecote, to what Polybius grandly called his orchard, a shady nook with stone benches and a small carp pond. For the umpteenth time, and Murranus hadn’t the heart to stop him, Polybius described his vegetable garden and herb plots, rich with lettuce and onions, chervil, coriander, fennel and parsley, and talked expansively of deepening the orchard so that he could produce quinces and damsons. He offered to show them around his small vineyard, but Murranus laughed, slapped him on the shoulder and said they would be satisfied with a platter of meat and a jug of wine. The two gladiators sat in the shade whilst Polybius served them, still chattering about his wine, swearing by his penis that it was the best in Rome. Once he had gone, Murranus lifted his goblet in toast.

‘Peace,’ he whispered. ‘At least until we meet.’

Spicerius drank deep. ‘I saw them,’ he murmured. ‘You know what I’m talking about, the warlock and his witch.’ He suppressed a shiver. ‘I made a hex against them.’

‘Stop thinking such black thoughts,’ Murranus teased. ‘Save yourself for the fight.’

‘One of us will die there.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Murranus answered cheerfully.

Spicerius glanced away. ‘I want to tell you something, Murranus.’ He put down his wine goblet and stretched out his right arm. ‘You see this tattoo, the purple chalice? I told you it was worn by members of a drinking club.’

‘And I believed you.’

‘And so you should. I’m going to have this washed off — I will not wear it again. You see, Murranus, beneath the chalice some men wear a circle that denotes something else: these men attend special brothels where they can be violent with children.’

Murranus stared in disbelief.

‘You know, the world we live in, Murranus, the deeper you go, the filthier it gets. I like my women, especially the rich, plump ones, but some things, well, they’re like streets you just don’t go down. The man who attacked your Claudia, I expect he was one of those. After we met last time I could see she was deeply upset, so I made a few enquiries. It’s the sort of thing that is well hidden, the type of house frequented by quite wealthy men, be they gladiators or senators.’ He shook his head. ‘This is all I know.’

‘And the incident?’ Murranus asked. ‘The poisoning?’

‘I am not sure,’ Spicerius replied. ‘That wine wasn’t poisoned, even though it was later found tainted. I’m sure I was poisoned before I drank it. Anyway, you’ve heard the rumours, Murranus? They’re betting this time for you to win against me but not against Meleager.’

Murranus could see his friend was on the verge of sinking into another black mood. He asked him again about the purple chalice tattoo, but Spicerius declared he had told him everything he could, so Murranus changed the subject. Spicerius ate well but drank sparingly, and when Murranus questioned him, he laughed and explained he was saving himself for the evening, when Agrippina had promised to join him for their own special celebrations. Polybius, who had come to collect the platters and overheard this, now acted like a conspirator, tipping his nose, winking at Spicerius and declaring that the room was ready when he was.

The afternoon wore on. Spicerius began to doze, so he took his wine and went up to what Polybius dramatically described as the ‘Venus Chamber’. Intrigued, Murranus decided to follow him. The room was on the second floor, overlooking the garden, and boasted a large bed with stout ends, a thick mattress and a bolster all covered in pink and gold. A rather blotched mirror stood on a decorated square chest. The floor was of polished wood, a rare form of timber. Polybius explained that he had discovered it when he first bought the place and decided to polish it up. The walls were lime-washed, and Murranus had to stifle a laugh as he stared at the crude paintings which Polybius was so proud of. A fat, bloated Venus cavorted in a garden surrounded by even plumper cherubs, who looked so heavy they would find it impossible to fly.

Spicerius went and sat on the bed, and Murranus returned to the garden and sat in the shade. He soon felt the effects of the wine and the lazy summer heat, and drifted off to sleep, his eyes growing heavy as he watched a resplendent butterfly flutter amongst the flowers. He started awake sometime later. He realised it must be late afternoon, for the breeze had strengthened and the shadows grown longer. Yes, he had felt something else: his hair had been tugged! He whirled around.

‘Claudia!’ He jumped to his feet, left the stone chair and grabbed her up. ‘When did you. .’

‘Let me breathe!’ she gasped.

He released her, and she sat down on the grass, plucking at the blades, quickly describing what had happened at the Villa Pulchra and how she had asked the Empress’s permission to leave.

‘They are all coming back anyway.’ She smiled back. ‘In four days’ time you meet Spicerius. Oh, by the way, where is he?’

‘Fast asleep, I think. Anyway, tell me again what happened.’

Claudia repeated everything about the murders, the fire and the assault. She vaguely referred to meeting Meleager, but made no mention of who he really was and the hideous damage he had wrought in her life. She decided that would wait. She wanted to be careful; after all, there were other problems to address. For a while they discussed the doings at the Villa Pulchra and the events at Capua. Murranus explained how he knew the town boasted a large Christian community, many of whom had suffered under Diocletian. The people she described he had also met, but they were merely passing acquaintances, though he was intrigued when Claudia made her final revelation about the pattern of the betting, and how Chrysis had wagered thousands of sestercii on him.

‘It’s all a mystery.’ Murranus rubbed his face. ‘It always happens with the games. This gladiator is a favourite, this one isn’t, and interference, to help the money on its way, is common enough. But listen to my news.’ He described the visit of the Dacians, Spicerius’s forebodings and his own anxieties.

‘Will it be a fight to the death?’ Claudia asked.

‘I doubt it,’ Murranus replied. ‘On a good day Spicerius and I are equally matched. We’ll put up a good show. If either of us goes down, the crowd will not demand our deaths; the same goes for Meleager. We are not in this for blood but for the Crown of Victory.’ He caressed Claudia’s face. ‘And don’t worry about the betting. You tell your uncle, not to mention Chrysis, to put everything they have on me; they won’t be disappointed. Now,’ he cupped her face in his hands, ‘why have you really come back?’

‘Well, the court was returning.’

‘No, the real reason.’

‘To see you.’ She grinned. ‘I also want to talk to Sallust the Searcher. It’s time I had a little help. Oh, by the way,’ she pointed back to the tavern, ‘Uncle has a new helper. He’s called Narcissus the Neat. He’s the man I described to you. There’s nothing for him at the Villa Pulchra and he knows no one in Rome, so I-’

‘Murranus!’

The woman’s voice carried across the garden. The gladiator groaned as Agrippina came tripping over in a beautiful white linen gown, a multicoloured stole across her shoulders. Once again every item of jewellery, be it bracelet or earring, glowed a deep red.

‘Murranus!’ She flounced her long dressed hair, gingerly touching her exquisitely painted face, her perfume drowning every other smell. ‘Murranus.’ She held her hands on her hips, totally ignoring Claudia. ‘Tell that oaf Polybius I want to see Spicerius.’

‘He’s in his chamber, fast asleep,’ Murranus replied. ‘I left him there, he’s expecting you.’

‘Well, I’m rather late. I’ve been up there, but the door’s locked, there’s no answer. That oaf is too busy laughing with his customers about waxing people’s bottoms.’

‘That oaf,’ Claudia replied, springing to her feet, ‘is my uncle. We are very particular who visits our tavern, so you’d better follow me.’

They went into the eating hall, where Polybius, leaning against one of the wooden pillars, was offering Petronius the opportunity to wax his arse. Claudia grabbed her uncle by the arm and whispered in his ear; he sighed, mopped his brow and led her up the stairs. They stood outside the Venus Chamber, knocking and hammering. Claudia glanced along the passageway. Narcissus was standing at the top of the landing, looking rather frightened. Claudia realised how unused he must be to the noise of a tavern. Oceanus came up, pushing people aside. Claudia felt a tingle of excitement in her stomach. Something was wrong, she could tell that from Murranus’s face, whilst Oceanus shook his head in disbelief, claiming he was sure Spicerius hadn’t left.

The door was tried again, and eventually Polybius ordered Oceanus and Murranus to break it down. They first used their shoulders, until Polybius intervened, warning Murranus not to injure himself, so a log was brought up from the cellar. The door was hammered until it sprang back on its leather hinges. Claudia made sure she was first into the room. Spicerius lay sprawled on the bed, the wine goblet beside him. He was half sitting up against the bolsters, face to one side, mouth gaping, eyes staring.

‘By the balls of a pig,’ Polybius groaned. ‘Oh no, not here.’

Claudia climbed on to the bed. Spicerius had lost all his warrior’s elegance and grandeur; he had the grey, lined face of an old man, and a white dribble of dried saliva stained the corner of his mouth. She felt his arm. The flesh was cold. Agrippina was screaming. Other customers were coming up. Claudia got off the bed wiping her hands, then picked up the goblet and sniffed the bittersweet tang. Taking advantage of the upset and chaos, she quickly searched the bed and the floor around but could detect nothing except a square piece of parchment with love symbols on it. It was yellowing and wrinkled, caught amongst the folds of the mattress.

‘We’ll have to call the bloody police,’ Polybius groaned. ‘There’ll be questions and more questions.’

Claudia told her uncle to take the shrieking Agrippina downstairs, and asked Murranus to send in Narcissus then guard the passageway and let no one through. She could feel the anger boiling within her. She felt like screaming, not only at the danger which threatened her beloved, but at the way this horrid death had upset all her plans. As soon as she had arrived at the She-Asses, she had asked Polybius to send one of the kitchen boys to fetch Sallust the Searcher. She realised that, in the case of the Holy Sword, she only had a little time to prove her suspicions and get the relic back. She stared at the corpse, felt guilty at her angry thoughts, slumped down on the edge of the bed and clasped Spicerius’s hand, brushing his cold, hard fingers with her thumb.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered, ‘and if your shade lingers nearby, I wish you well in whatever journey you take.’

She tried to forget her own troubles, experiencing a deep sadness at the brutal death of this young man, once so full of pride, vigour and courage.

‘You deserved a better death,’ Claudia gripped the fingers, ‘than dying alone in a tavern chamber with no glory or praise ringing in your ears.’

She became aware of Narcissus standing in the doorway, so she moved to hide her face. She must remember the deep comradeship which existed between gladiators. Murranus had regarded this man as his friend. She must do everything to help.

Claudia scrutinised the corpse carefully. Spicerius’s face was full of the ugliness of a violent, sudden death: the muscles of his cheeks and chin were hardening, his eyes rolled back, his mouth was gaping, the lips forward as if Spicerius still wished to retch and vomit. The gladiator was dressed in a simple tunic; his belt and sandals lay on the floor. She pulled these close, picked up the cup and once again sniffed that bittersweet smell. What was it? She stuck her nose in again and offered it to Narcissus, gesturing at him to keep it.

Outside, Murranus was pacing up and down like a sentry on duty. In the eating hall below, Agrippina was still shrieking and wailing. Claudia cocked her head and listened intently. The tenor of that spoilt, rich hussy was beginning to change. Was grief giving way to anger? Was she shouting curses? Making allegations? Would Murranus or Polybius be accused?

Claudia stared round the tawdry chamber, so different from the Villa Pulchra. It now seemed an age since she and Narcissus had left. Claudia had obtained permission from the Augusta, pointing out that she could do more good in Rome, where the court was about to return, than by staying at the villa. She had also begged Helena to keep the rest of the philosophers close and not allow them to return home until this mystery had been resolved. The Augusta’s reply had been ugly, ungracious and hard. She’d dismissed Claudia with a flick of her fingers, telling her to get back to her slum and, as she withdrew, followed her to the chamber door bellowing how it was a pity that some of her servants did not serve her as well as she served them. Once she was out of sight, Claudia had made a rude gesture in the direction of the imperial apartments before scurrying off to her own chamber to hastily pack her belongings. Narcissus had followed her like a shadow, only too eager to flee the villa and reach Rome, but now, he was not so sure, uncertain and frightened of the future. Claudia closed her eyes. It was important to keep Narcissus near to her.

‘Almonds!’

Claudia let go of the dead man’s hand.

‘Almonds!’ Narcissus repeated. He thrust the cup at her. ‘Bittersweet,’ he explained. ‘The juice from certain seeds can be the deadliest poison; it has an almond taste.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’ve cut more corpses than you have pieces of meat, mistress.’ Narcissus gabbled on. ‘But where will I stay, what will I do, how will I-’

‘Almonds,’ Claudia retorted, lifting her hand. ‘Forget about the rest, Narcissus. You’re going to sleep here and get a good meal, so don’t worry, just tell me about almonds.’

‘Milk of almonds.’ Narcissus pulled a face. ‘That’s what we call it in Syria. It’s not really milk, more a juice; they gather it from certain seeds, I mean the poison, and distil it. It’s got many strengths.’ He leaned down, face all solemn. ‘I can’t tell you, mistress, how many times I’ve cut open the corpses of men and women and smelt that bittersweet odour! Oh, I don’t say much, but I know! Go down to the slums, ask the locust men, the warlocks, the poison boys, they’ll tell you all about it. You take a sip of that, a really good sip, and all your troubles are over. Do you know, mistress, there are poisons which will stop your heart in the blink of an eye.’ Narcissus went round the bed. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you that; just look at the poor bastard’s face. The skin’s all mottled, with a slightly blueish tinge, the throat muscles are constricted, the skin’s hard to the touch as if he’s been dead for hours. But you just wait,’ he warned, ‘in a few hours the blotches will appear.’ Narcissus felt the back of the gladiator’s head. ‘Ah, I thought as much. Slightly bruised; it’s where he banged his head in his death throes.’

‘Would death have been swift?’

‘Like an arrow to the heart, mistress. Some jerking, some convulsions, the pain would have been hideous, but don’t let’s leave him like this.’

Claudia helped pull the corpse down by its feet so it lay straight. She started as a gasp of air escaped from the dead man’s lungs.

‘He’s not been dead long.’ Narcissus pointed to the cup. ‘A nice goblet of sweet wine, fruity and tangy. I heard Polybius say he had served the stuff. Now, mistress, before you ask, that’s just the drink to hide the taste. But never mind the dead, what about the living? Your Murranus, he’s the one you told me about on the way here? Well, gladiator or not, champion or not, he’s in deep trouble. Wasn’t he supposed to face-’

Claudia got to her feet and, snapping at Narcissus to keep quiet, began a thorough search of the chamber. She scrutinised the corpse and Spicerius’s purse and clothing, but apart from some coins, a dagger, personal jewellery and a good-luck amulet she could find nothing. She knew there were no secrets to this chamber, whilst it was ridiculous to imagine anyone climbing through the window. So what had really happened? Suicide or murder? The only thing she had found was that love charm written on a piece of parchment. She picked this up and looked at it again. It displayed a crudely drawn heart with, above and beneath it, the words ‘Amor vincit Agrippinam’ and ‘Amor vincit Spicerium’. ‘Love conquers Agrippina’, ‘Love conquers Spicerius’. She felt the parchment with her thumb, sniffed it, but the only smell was Agrippina’s heavy perfume. Exasperated, Claudia sat down on a stool.

‘Nothing!’ she snapped. ‘Narcissus, go and get Polybius and Murranus. Tell Oceanus — you’ve met him, the big fat one — to guard the stairs. Just ask my uncle and Murranus to join me here.’

A short while later both men entered the room. Claudia tried to close the door but it was useless. She noticed the bolts at top and bottom were heavy and stout.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she urged, going back to sit on the bed.

Polybius and Murranus explained how they had entertained Spicerius in the orchard. They had eaten and drunk. Spicerius had seemed a little withdrawn but was looking forward to seeing Agrippina. He had taken his wine and come up to the Venus Chamber to have a little sleep before his girlfriend arrived.

‘And no one came up,’ Polybius warned. ‘Before you start, Claudia, no servant, no member of this tavern climbed those stairs. If Spicerius wanted something, he could send for it. I did get concerned he had gone so quiet, but there again, it is not for me to disturb someone.’

‘Nothing suspicious happened?’

‘Nothing,’ Polybius retorted. ‘No one can enter that garden without me knowing, and we had no suspicious characters. I mean,’ he grinned, ‘apart from our usual clientele this afternoon.’

‘Murranus?’ Claudia turned. The gladiator was leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Could Spicerius have committed suicide?’

‘No, he was a warrior, Claudia, he would take his chances in the arena. All he was frightened about was another accident, poor bastard.’

‘So he was murdered,’ Claudia concluded. ‘Somehow someone got into this room and poured poison into his goblet. Yet that’s impossible; as you say, Spicerius was a warrior, he would have challenged anyone who came in.’

‘More importantly, I would have known about it.’ Polybius groaned. ‘You know what they’re going to say, Claudia, don’t you?’ He glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows. ‘They are going to allege that I, or Murranus, or both, put that poison in his cup before he left the orchard. That silly bitch downstairs is already beginning to sing that song.’

‘Ignore her.’

‘I’d love to,’ Polybius moaned, ‘but there’s an ugly crowd gathering, both inside and outside.’

‘I liked Spicerius,’ Murranus shouted. ‘I didn’t kill him, he didn’t commit suicide, but they say his blood is on my hands.’ He stood breathing deeply. ‘Now I’m up against Meleager, and all the money will be on him. Oh, by the way, there was a man at the foot of the stairs listening intently. Every so often he would go and bellow at the servants in the kitchen, telling them the news.’

‘Oh, him!’ Polybius’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Mercury the messenger, the teller of tales, the herald of the people.’ He clapped Murranus on the shoulder. ‘If Mercury’s got hold of this tale, then by nightfall half of Rome will know it. Anyway, let’s go down and face the bastards.’

There was a knock at the door; Valens, the old military physician, stepped through. He bowed at Claudia and, holding his threadbare cloak about him, crossed to stand by the bed, staring down at the corpse. Claudia watched him intently and realised from the shaking of his shoulders and the way he wiped his cheeks that Valens was crying. She was also certain that he was making Christian signs with his fingers. He glanced quickly at her over his shoulder, then moved so his back was completely to her. He leaned over, whispered something into Spicerius’s ear and touched him on his brow, eyes and mouth. Afterwards, he stood rocking backwards and forwards, chanting a prayer Claudia couldn’t understand, then he gave a great sigh and assumed the role of a doctor, examining both the corpse and the goblet. When he had finished, he picked up a stool and sat opposite Claudia.

‘What happened?’ he murmured.

There was no pretence or imitation with this man; he had a blunt honesty which appealed to Claudia, so she told him everything she’d learned. When she had finished, Valens nodded in agreement.

‘Your diagnosis is correct, mistress. I just wish I knew why Spicerius was so anxious, and yet,’ he cleared his throat, ‘at the same time I do. I know it sounds a contradiction, but have you noticed anything different about him?’

Claudia stared at the corpse.

‘His face,’ Valens explained. ‘He stopped wearing make-up; that was one small change. I agree with you, he would never take his own life. What happened in the arena that day truly frightened him; one of Rome’s best gladiators lost his power, his strength, so suddenly, so dangerously, without any warning or explanation. You see, Claudia, people like your Murranus expect death in a certain way. I once had a patient who truly believed he would die of the flux, and when his heart gave way he was truly shocked. Spicerius was the same. He thought he’d die after some heroic struggle, not retching on the sand like some pathetic drunk.’ Valens got up, kicking back the stool. ‘He was so looking forward to today; he regarded Murranus as a brother and liked to be with him. He wanted to see Agrippina and spend the night roistering.’

‘Did he love Agrippina?’

‘She’s a shameless hussy, but yes,’ Valens patted Claudia on the head, ‘in his own way I think he did, but his anxieties. .’ Valens’s voice trailed off and his hand fell to his groin. ‘Spicerius’s fears troubled him. He’d lost his virility; he said if he won against Murranus he might well retire.’

‘His virility?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yes, for a while.’ Valens grinned. ‘It often happens to men, nothing serious. Ah well, I shall wait for the Vigiles, then collect his corpse. I’ll take it back to Sisium; it’s a small village near Capua, have you ever visited it?’

‘No.’

Valens walked to the door. ‘Ah, here they come.’ He turned back.

The Vigiles had arrived. Claudia heard their heavy boots on the stairs, and a short while later the local police commander, Saturninus, accompanied by his leather-clad acolytes, marched into the room, together with Polybius, who indicated with his head that she should leave. Claudia realised what would happen. The Vigiles would group round the corpse, demand goblets of the tavern’s best wine, take a bribe from Polybius so they would declare that the death had had nothing to do with him, then march off to their next piece of mischief.

Claudia slipped down the stairs into the hubbub of the eating room. The usual customers were grouped round Murranus, but Claudia noticed a gang of strangers at the far end sitting close to Agrippina and comforting her. Oceanus had also come down and was standing guard at the door, shouting that the tavern was overflowing so other customers would have to wait. From the noise outside Claudia realised the local alleyway mob had been roused and people were gathering to see what had happened as well as sniff out any profit for themselves. Murranus beckoned her over, but Claudia ignored him and walked straight to Agrippina, pushing her way through the group.

‘Mistress.’ She tapped Agrippina on the shoulder. ‘I need a word with you.’

‘I don’t talk to kitchen wenches or tavern maids.’

Claudia bent down and whispered in her ear. Agrippina shot to her feet, face all troubled.

‘I. . er. . I. .’ she stammered.

‘In the garden,’ Claudia offered, and turned away, not waiting for a reply.

The light was fading, dusk creeping in like a mist. Claudia walked across the lawn, sat on a turf seat and patted the place next to her.

‘I never realised you actually knew the Augusta.’ Agrippina sat down in a gust of perfume, fastidiously hitching up her robe so that the grass wouldn’t brush it.

‘More importantly,’ Claudia retorted, ‘the Augusta knows me. Now, as regards Spicerius, I’m truly sorry he’s died. I liked him and so did Murranus. If you start screaming allegations or making foul accusations you can’t prove, I will appeal to the Augusta for justice.’

‘I’m upset,’ Agrippina whined.

‘Shut up! Did you ever find out what happened to Spicerius in the arena — I mean, the cause?’ The other woman shook her head. ‘Or this afternoon?’

‘You know as much as I do.’ Agrippina pushed her night-black hair away from her face. ‘I saw Spicerius last night, I agreed to meet him here. I was sorry I was delayed. When I came, he was dead.’ Her voice broke. ‘Murdered.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘Well, look, a healthy man, a gladiator. . I came to this tavern to meet a lover, not a corpse. I’ve answered your questions, I cannot say any more.’

Agrippina got to her feet. Claudia waved her hand and let her go. What was the use, she thought, the hussy would only tell her what she wanted. Claudia sat half listening to the noise of the tavern, allowing herself to be lulled by the green coolness of the garden. A sudden roar from the tavern made her realise things had gone from bad to worse, and she hastened back inside. The eating hall was now set to become an arena. At the kitchen door stood Murranus and Polybius, whilst at the far end, and still spilling through the main entrance, were a group led by a man dressed garishly like a whore, wafting his face with a pink fan. The new arrivals had apparently entered the tavern immediately after the Vigiles had left, and their leader now stood languidly, one hand resting on Agrippina’s shoulder. Round him ranged his gang of bullyboys and their hangers-on, pimps and gaudily garbed prostitutes of every nationality. Polybius was roaring at him to leave.

‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand me, Dacius? You and your gang of degenerates.’

‘Or else what?’ Dacius tripped forward in his high-heeled sandals. He looked grotesque; not comical, but very dangerous, a man of shifting shadows with his masculine face and his very feminine wig; his swagger saucy yet his body hard and muscular; his voice lisping but the tone ugly and threatening. Claudia had met him and his like before, scum from the sewers, swirling through the slums like some poison, polluting everything they touched. She was fearful about their presence. Their arrival appeared a little too swift. Was it that they were expecting news? Or were they here to provoke Murranus, whose hot temper was well known? The gladiator had now picked up a cleaver and a pan lid. Anyone else would have looked comical, but Murranus was highly dangerous. Claudia didn’t like the way Dacius kept swaying from side to side, taunting Murranus and every so often glancing at Agrippina, who simpered back. The more she watched, the more convinced Claudia became that Agrippina had had a hand in the poisoning of Spicerius both this time and before; yet what proof did she have? More importantly, what cruel trap had they set for Murranus? Would they accuse him of murder and unsettle his wits, disturb his concentration?

Dacius raised his hand, shutting and opening that ridiculous fan, and his gang fell silent.

‘You see, my dear,’ he drawled, jabbing the fan in Murranus’s direction, ‘whatever you do, dear boy, no matter how you glare, people are going to say. .’ he dropped the fan back to his chin and stared up at the ceiling, ‘yes, that’s what they’ll say, that you were frightened of Spicerius.’

‘That’s a lie, you’re camel shit!’

Dacius laughed like a mare neighing in its stable. ‘Dear boy, they’ll say you were the last man to drink with him, you invited him here. What I want to know is how you will deal with Meleager.’ He stepped forward, folding back the right sleeve of his gown. Claudia glimpsed the purple chalice tattoo and the ring beneath it. She would have leapt to her feet but Murranus distracted her by lunging at Dacius, only to be blocked and pulled back by Polybius and Oceanus. The mood in the tavern grew tense, hands fell to knives; those who wished to avoid the fight were already crawling away.

‘Prove me wrong,’ taunted Dacius. ‘Perform some feat, strangle a lion with your bare hands.’

‘I’ll strangle you!’

‘Prove your innocence,’ Dacius taunted, and the refrain was taken up by his henchmen: ‘Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!’

‘I’ll prove it,’ Murranus retorted, pushing Polybius away. ‘On the day of the fight, the very day I meet Meleager, I’ll take part in a Venatio; I’ll confront and kill any animal you choose to release against me. I’ll offer it as a gift to Spicerius’s shade and a vindication of my innocence.’

Murranus’s words were greeted with a loud roar. Claudia put her face in her hands. The trap had been baited, Murranus had stepped in, and now it had snapped shut.

In the Martyrs’ Gallery, one of the largest passageways in the catacombs beneath the cemetery where St Sebastian the soldier had been shot to death, Presbyter Sylvester stood gazing in puzzlement at the desecrated grave. This was a most sacred place, the repository for the remains of those savagely executed during Diocletian’s recent persecution. The walls on either side of the gallery were a honeycomb of broad shelves, about a yard wide, the same deep. The remains of those slain in the Flavian amphitheatre were brought here, identified where possible, blessed with a sprinkling of holy water, incensed, and placed in a tomb. The grave was then crudely plastered over and, where possible, signs were scratched into the plaster identifying the occupant, their status, and the year they died, with some pious inscription carved beneath. These holy men and women were to be venerated, their remains honoured until Christ brought them back to life on the Last Day, when he would appear in glory for the Great Judgement.

Sylvester stared up and down the passageway, now lit by lamps and torches: an eerie, sombre place, full of strange echoes, as if the ghosts of the dead were calling to each other; a place of mystery, yet one of peace, a sharp contrast to the last few hours in the lives of the occupants who lay there. The catacombs were now unused, deserted, many people reluctant to return to a place which still rang with memories of the days of terror. Who would break in and remove dusty bones and skulls?

‘Why? When? Who?’ Sylvester turned in exasperation to the Guardian of the Tombs, a pinched-faced elderly scribe with ink-stained skin, yet a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. The scribe had apologised profusely for bringing the presbyter here, but what else could he do? Why had a simple tomb been broken into? It contained no treasure. He had already expressed his fears that although the cemetery was a holy place where martyrs were buried, it was also a place of black magic, where witches and warlocks gathered to perform bloody sacrifice under a brooding moon.

‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.

‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’

Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.

‘Magister!’

Sylvester walked back. He took an oil lamp from a niche and crouched down to examine the cracked plaster. Pieces were missing and some of it had crumbled, but the scribe had done a good job. Sylvester traced the inscriptions with his finger.

‘Lucius et Octavia ex Capua, Christiani,’ he read. ‘Christians from Capua.’ He traced the date on the plaster and realised it must have been the last year of Diocletian’s reign, some four years ago. ‘Do you know who they were?’

The scribe wearily got to his feet. ‘In my office,’ he explained, ‘I have, as you know, Magister, a list of Christians in each town, while Lord Chrysis has handed over the names of the proscripti, those who were condemned by the state. I will have to check these.’

Sylvester nodded. They walked back along the gallery to a small cavern which the scribe grandly described as his ‘writing office’. When the catacombs had been handed over to the care of the Bishop of Rome, Sylvester had immediately set up guardians and scribes to look after this sacred place and collect every document which might identify those buried here. During the persecution, people had been dragged from their homes in the dead of night, condemned without trial, killed immediately or dispatched to the arena. He had begged for imperial documents, and although some of these had been destroyed, deliberately so, the rest had been handed over, and the chief scribe took particular pride in the way he had organised these. They were now filed in reed baskets, long boxes and chests.

Lamps were lit, and the scribe organised his helpers to search for the necessary documents. Sylvester sat within the doorway, staring across at a crude drawing on the wall of Christ in triumph. This cavern had once been a holy place where the bread and wine had been changed into the Body and Blood of Christ. Once again Sylvester marvelled at how quickly things had changed. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the psalm for the evening, but instead he dozed off, and was shaken awake by the scribe.

‘Magister, we have found something very strange. We have no evidence for any Christians, man and wife, brother and sister, from Capua bearing those names. However, we do have a list of prisoners here. It is four years old and contains the names of Lucius and Octavia, farmers. More importantly, the documents say they had no heirs or family.’

‘So their holding was forfeit to the state?’

‘Precisely, Magister. Consequently, when the Edict of Toleration was issued, two years ago, all such property was granted back to the Church as compensation.’

Sylvester tapped a sandalled foot. ‘What is this?’ he whispered. ‘A man and woman, probably husband and wife, of whom we have no knowledge, yet they were obviously killed as Christians and their property confiscated. They were brought here to be buried and now their bones have been removed. Look,’ he got to his feet, ‘you have a messenger? I want this information sent to the woman known as Claudia, staying at the She-Asses tavern near the Flavian Gate. .’