The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 2

The She-Asses tavern, on the edge of Rome’s not so salubrious quarter, near the Flavian Gate, was ablaze with light. The tavern occupied the ground floor of an insula or apartment block near the decaying temple of the Crown of Venus. It was a spacious hostelry with a fine main door, nailed to which was a placard listing what was on the menu, which wines and beers were served, as well as a stark warning to gamblers, fighters, sorcerers and travelling tinkers that they were banned from trading under pain of a broken nose. Above the door perched a carved statue of Minerva which Polybius had ‘borrowed’ from the nearby temple, whilst on the top of each doorpost squatted a grinning Hermes. Oceanus had appropriated these on a long-term loan from a bath house the police had closed down for acting as a brothel without paying them their dues. Inside the main folding door, Polybius had transformed what used to be the atrium into a spacious high-ceilinged eating room. The counter stood at one end and at the other what Polybius grandiloquently termed ‘the garden door’. The room was lit by oil lamps, rush lights and lanterns hanging from wall and ceiling hooks.

This particular evening, after the games had finished, the small carved tables had been pushed together and ringed with makeshift couches and stools. Pride of place was taken by a stern-faced Murranus, lounging on Polybius’s one and only proper couch. Claudia sprawled on cushioned stools to Murranus’s right. Polybius, his few hairs greased to circle his balding head like an athlete’s wreath, shared a broad, throne-like chair with his plump, pretty wife, Poppaoe, whom Polybius always called his ‘little ripe plum’. Simon the Stoic, sitting opposite, could only silently agree as he stared lustfully at Poppaoe’s full ripe breasts straining against her low blue-edged gown.

All the regulars had been invited, even Saturninus, the bleary-eyed commander of the local Vigiles, who acted as watchmen, firefighters, police and, as Polybius grumbled, unofficial tax collectors. The wine had circulated, both red and white. Polybius claimed they were Falernian, from northern Campania; Claudia suspected the jars were from the local market and the wine from the vines Poppaoe tended in the large garden behind the She-Asses. Polybius had certainly savoured every cup. Now, flush-faced, he lurched to his feet and, in an attempt to make Murranus smile, bellowed out the doggerel words:

He glanced sharply at the sober-faced Murranus, then picked up a pair of small cymbals and clashed for silence. ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he declared and before anyone could object, he had walked into the centre of the dining circle and, ignoring Poppaoe’s warning glance, launched into his tale.

‘Once there was a poor carpenter who had a wife who loved bed sport. Day and night, whatever the weather, she was ripe for it.’ Polybius raised his hands at the jeers this provoked. ‘She had a lover whom she would most royally entertain when her husband was gone. One day she and lover boy were at their pleasures when husband unexpectedly arrived home. Her lover had no choice but to hide in a large, empty but very dirty wine vat standing in the bedroom corner. He was safely hidden away when the husband came into the room. The wife immediately started stripping the bed. “What are you doing here?” she shouted. “You lazy good-for-nothing! I’m working my fingers to the bone and you arrive home without a penny for a crust.”

‘“There’s no work,” her husband replied, pointing to the corner, “but I’ve just sold that wine vat for seven denarii, so you can help me clean and remove it.”

‘“You idiot,” the quick-witted wife retorted. “Seven denarii? I’ve just sold it for twelve. The buyer’s inside it, checking to see if it’s all right.” On cue, lover boy pops his head up. “I’ll take it!” he shouts. “On one condition. You,” he pointed to the husband, “get in here and clean it.”

‘So husband climbs in and starts to clean the wine vat whilst lover boy and the lady of the house return to their pleasures, with the poor husband being encouraged by his wife’s shouts, which he thinks are directions to clean the vat as thoroughly as possible. .’

Polybius’s audience collapsed in laughter.

‘Is this a true story?’ Festus the Fornicator shouted.

‘Yes,’ Polybius retorted.

‘Which means,’ Petronius the Pimp bellowed, ‘you must have been either the man on the bed or the husband in the wine vat!’

Petronius ducked as Poppaoe threw a piece of meat at him. Polybius lurched back to his seat, and the guests turned to chatter with their neighbours as well as enjoy the fresh crates of wine Polybius sent round, followed by dishes of fried liver and coriander, pork in a piquant sauce and bowls of herb purée with walnuts.

‘It’ll never happen,’ Polybius bawled at Murranus in one final attempt to draw the gladiator from his sombre mood.

‘It has happened,’ Murranus whispered to Claudia. She sipped at her watered wine and, stretching out, cupped Murranus’s cheek in her small hand.

‘Tell me again.’

‘We were in the arena, I was fighting well, you saw that.’

‘No I didn’t,’ Claudia retorted. ‘I’d closed my eyes.’

‘Spicerius began to sway, then he collapsed. I thought he was dead till he began to vomit. By the tits of a pig, I’ve never seen a man vomit like that. By the time they had got him back through the Gate of Life, whatever he had taken he’d spat most of it out. May the gods be thanked for that old soldier doctor; he made Spicerius take salt water and he continued to vomit. He kept slapping Spicerius’s face, telling him not to go to sleep. I have never seen so much water poured down a throat.’

‘Poisoned?’ Claudia asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Murranus replied. ‘The doctor inspected the vomit, said it stank like a sewer pit. It may have been belladonna, foxglove, or just something to make Spicerius sleep. The doctor said he was very lucky; because he has a constitution like an ox, he survived. But now they are blaming me. Spicerius’s wine cup was tainted — they found grains of a powder at the bottom of it — but mine was free, as was the wine left in the jug.’

Murranus indicated with his thumb. ‘But of course things are not helped by the fact that Polybius is my supporter and he brought the wine down. To cut a long story short, I am being blamed for drugging Spicerius. They say I could be guilty of attempted murder.’

‘But that’s untrue,’ Claudius replied heatedly. ‘The cup was on the table, all sorts of people were milling about, Polybius told me that. Anyway, what will happen now?’

‘Next week Rufinus is to stage special games in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. I will fight again. This time there will be no wine, and it will be a fight to the finish!’

‘Why don’t you give it up?’ Claudia pleaded.

‘I will one day, when I’m Victor Ludorum and receive the crown.’

‘But there’s one more fight after Spicerius?’

‘Ah yes, one more. Spicerius, or I, must face Meleager, the Marvel of a Million Cities.’

‘And is he?’

‘No, that’s just what he calls himself, but he’s a cunning-eyed bastard. He’ll laugh his head off when he hears the news.’

‘There’s no real damage done.’ Claudia touched Murranus on the tip of his nose. ‘They have no proof you poisoned the wine and you’ll both fight again. By the way, how is Spicerius?’

‘He’s much better this evening; rather quiet when I visited, but said he didn’t hold me responsible. He clasped my hand and claimed he was still the better man.’

‘He could have taken it himself,’ Claudia declared. ‘He wouldn’t be the first gladiator to try some magical powder. But come, smile, Uncle is really trying to do his best.’

‘And what are you doing?’ Murranus leaned closer and, ignoring Januaria’s jealous hiss, removed a smudge of grease from the corner of Claudia’s mouth with his napkin. She smiled dazzlingly and silently wished that the handsome green-eyed, red-haired fighter would be satisfied, retire and always stay with her.

‘What are you thinking, little one?’ Murranus whispered. ‘Are you still looking for the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist? You told me he was probably a soldier serving in an Illyrian regiment. Didn’t you say Rufinus the banker knew something about him? Is that why you are working in the palace?’

‘I’m a scurrier.’ Claudia smiled. ‘The Empress’s messenger maid.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ Murranus lowered his voice so the hubbub of their companions swept over them. ‘Are you a spy, Claudia? One of the Agentes?’

‘Why, Murranus.’ Claudia fluttered her eyelids.

‘Are you?’

She paused as the door opened and a pedlar entered, a tray slung round his neck full of trinkets, Egyptian scarabs, medals of Isis and packets of sulphur matches. He stretched out his claw-like hand full of denarii and bellowed for a drink, any drink. He caught Claudia’s gaze. ‘And some fish,’ he added cheekily. ‘I’ve walked the Via Appia, up and down, set up shop just near the tombstones on the third mile.’ He gave a cracked-toothed smile. ‘You know the place, where the Christians say Sebastian was shot to death with arrows. I’ll be back there tomorrow, about the sixth hour, so I need food and a good night’s sleep.’ He bawled on and on until a servant brought him a small jug of wine and a dish of diced fish. The pedlar glanced quickly at Claudia again before retreating into a corner.

Claudia looked away. Sylvester had sent his message. She had to be in the catacombs the following morning, amongst the gravestones of the cemetery near the third milestone along the Appian Way. .

Claudia woke long before dawn. She always slept well in her small chamber above the tavern. Poppaoe had done her best to make the room comfortable and pleasing, with the tapestry of leaping ibex on the wall, a bronze tripod table, an acacia-wood stool and a carved Egyptian chest where she could store her belongings. Claudia rose and went to the spring in the garden which lay at the centre of the insula. The breeze was cool, the sun had yet to rise, so the garden was still fresh before the humidity and heat set in. She washed herself carefully, then returned to her chamber to put on clean undergarments, a green tunic with an embroidered hem, and a dark brown cloak which she used to hide the dagger in the belt around her waist. She grabbed her staff and broad-brimmed hat and went down to the kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed pot boy served her some of yesterday’s meal in the small bread room which lay off the kitchen. She drank some watered wine then, telling the pot boy to go back to bed, opened one of the shutters, climbed up and lowered herself down.

She looked to the right and left. There was no one there. No beggar pretending to doze or a drunk urinating against the wall. The street was deserted. She hurried along towards the main thoroughfare. The water carriers and street sweepers were out; schoolchildren were being forced down to the local school room, where a travelling teacher would teach them the rudiments of mathematics and the alphabet. Men going to the baths walked briskly or were carried in their sedan chairs, their slaves hastening behind with baskets of strigils, combs, towels, jars of perfume and flasks of oil. The hucksters were preparing for a day’s trading. Barbers had set up their stools, hot water and brushes at the ready. Cooks, their saucepans full of sausages, fired their mobile stoves, hoping the smell of spiced meat would whet the appetite of passers-by. In the workshops, craftsmen started to hammer. The usual din of the day was beginning.

The street was being cleared of carts, according to Caesar’s law, except for those of builders bringing in masonry and timber. The crowds were out. Here and there the fairground people, with their strange tricks, tales and lurid appearances, were preparing to entertain; already a viper trainer had attracted a small audience. Windows were open, shutters being pulled back, chamber pots emptied, flower baskets hung, and barrows of refuse thrust out of doors to be taken down to the local midden heap. A squad of soldiers swung by, weapons clattering, the red-eyed auxiliaries, with their blue shields and leather helmets, eager to return to their barracks after a long night’s duty. Claudia recalled Murranus, fast asleep in the guest room overlooking the garden, and felt a pang of sorrow at the misfortune facing her friend.

Claudia had fallen asleep trying to picture in her mind that dark, macabre tunnel where Murranus had been standing waiting with Spicerius to enter the arena. She had questioned the gladiator most carefully before turning on Polybius and Oceanus. She believed that someone had tried to weaken Murranus’s opponent, hoping Murranus would kill him before the effect of the potion made itself felt. She knew a great deal about gladiators. Spicerius, a true professional, had probably not eaten since the cena libera the previous evening. On the morning of the fight he would empty his bowels and probably chew nothing more than a dry husk. He would be excited and tense; the wine and the potion must have curdled his stomach so that he vomited them out before any real damage was done. So who was responsible? She had been most forceful with her uncle. Polybius could be as cunning as a serpent and had a finger in every pie, yet he had protested his innocence. Was it Murranus himself? Claudia drove away a mongrel yapping at her and shook her head. Murranus was a killer, a fighter, but he was honourable, not perverse or corrupt; a man who fought because he could not find anything else to do, except dream of owning a tavern like the She-Asses.

Claudia reached the main thoroughfare leading down to the gates. She’d kept to the edge, dodging people coming in and out. At the city gate one of the guards whistled at her and asked to see more of her legs. She made an obscene gesture and, with the guard’s laughter ringing in her ears, hurried through the gates and on to the Via Appia. The crowds thronged busily, merchants, traders, pedlars, travelling musicians. Only once did she stop, to watch a troupe of actors, their faces hidden behind grotesque masks, bodies garbed in gaudy robes, perform and sing as they went up to the city. Two little boys, satyr masks pushed back on their heads, tried to coax coins for their begging baskets. Claudia walked purposefully on. She remembered being part of such a troupe travelling up and down Italy, from its southern tip to the approaches to the cold mountains in the north. She had enjoyed herself, but the manager had drunk the profits so she had returned home. Nevertheless, she had received an education of sorts. She could read and write, speak the lingua franca of the cities and had a nose for mischief. She could act and mime and knew, line for line, the poetry and plays of Ovid, Terence and Seneca.

Occasionally Claudia paused as if to adjust the strap on her sandal or take her hat off so the breeze might cool the sweat on her brow. As she did so, she glanced around, looking for anyone who might be following her. On one occasion she retraced her footsteps, and when she reached a line of tombs and graves which spread out on both sides of the road, she wandered into them as if to inspect some monument or read an inscription. She was satisfied no one was following her. She passed the third mile station and found the trackway leading into what Sylvester now called the Cemetery of St Sebastian. Claudia knew nothing of Christian saints except that here, during the great persecution, the Christians had dug and developed underground passageways and tunnels, hacking out the porous rock which stretched beneath the outskirts of Rome. She found the usual tomb chest and entered, fumbling in the agreed place for the oil lamp and packet of sulphur matches. After a great deal of scraping, the lamp was lit. She put it in the lantern horn, took off her hat, placed this at the top of the steps and carefully climbed down into the silent musty darkness.

Every time she visited the catacombs, she thought how much she hated the place. She wasn’t afraid of demons or ghosts; it was just the oppressive silence, the walls closing in. She reached the bottom; the tunnel here was about two yards wide, the ceiling well above her head, the floor of beaten earth sure under her feet. She walked carefully, holding the lantern out, her walking cane tapping the ground, echoing like a drum-beat. She turned a corner and entered the Christian burial place. Here, on ledges in the wall, protected by a thin coating of makeshift plaster, lay the Christian dead. Most had died naturally; others were the victims of persecution: strangled, decapitated, or in some cases just the pathetic remains of what had been left after they had been thrown to the wild beasts in the amphitheatre. Roughly carved inscriptions as well as Christian graffiti covered the walls, some with the usual Chi and Rho, a cross, or prayers to St Peter and St Paul. Claudia knew these signs by heart; they were her guide to which tunnel to follow, which passageway to enter. At last she reached the tomb of Philomena, ‘Virgin and Martyr’, so the graffiti proclaimed, and sat down on a marble bench stolen from the cemetery above. This was a junction of three tunnels, a safe place, where Claudia and Sylvester could hear anyone who approached and so take another way out.

Claudia put her stick carefully against the marble seat and waited. She checked the lantern; there was plenty of oil in the container and the wick was strong. She leaned against the cold stone, dabbing the sweat from her face, and wondered what Sylvester wanted. He had told her about some meeting out at the Villa Pulchra that she would have to go to; the Empress Helena would need her. Claudia was more worried about Murranus. She wondered if Rufinus the banker could throw any light on the attempt on Spicerius.

At last she heard a sound, a clatter, the usual sign whenever Sylvester approached. She cupped her hand to her mouth, whistled sharply and then waited for the three whistles in reply. She breathed a sigh of relief: Sylvester was here. A shadow moved down one of the tunnels, and the silver-haired priest, his lean, tired face wreathed in a smile, emerged from the darkness. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Sylvester sat down next to Claudia and, opening a napkin, shared the bread and figs he had brought, as well as the small flask of wine.

‘Why do we meet here?’ Claudia asked between mouthfuls. ‘The danger has passed.’

‘The danger is never past, Claudia, there is always danger. We Christians are tolerated, not approved; we have only begun the journey.’ Sylvester took a piece of cheese and broke it in his hands. ‘There’s also danger for you, Claudia. You spy for the Bishop of Rome, but you also spy for the Empress.’

‘I never have, never would, betray either.’

‘One day you might. Choices have to be made, crossroads reached. Your father would have approved of what you are doing.’

‘My father is dead.’

‘He was one of us.’

‘Whether he was one of you or not, he would still have hunted down and killed the man who raped his daughter and murdered his son.’ Claudia turned on the marble bench, still half listening for any sound from the tunnels. ‘I don’t come to you, Sylvester, because I love you or your faith. If you remember, I came to you for help, and you promised you would find that man.’ Claudia tried to keep the pleading out of her voice. ‘The assassin with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist.’

‘Claudia, we are helping you. Your assailant had a purple chalice tattoo, the mark of those who follow the rites of Dionysius, the drinkers of the grape, who worship the demons Bacchus and Pan. They include officials, priests and soldiers, a powerful sect.’

‘Magister, with all due respect, I couldn’t care if the man worshipped the Emperor’s arse.’

Sylvester laughed drily and patted her on the hand. ‘I have news for you, Claudia, though perhaps it’s not very good. Rufinus, the banker, claimed such a man was serving with the Illyrian regiment. Well, I’ll tell you this, half the regiment wear such a mark.’ He pressed a finger against his lips. ‘I have done careful research on your behalf. You were not the only one to be attacked and raped; you were lucky to escape with your life.’

‘My brother didn’t.’

‘Hush now. The man who attacked you may have wanted you to see that tattoo, to distract you. It might have been a cover for other criminal activities, a symbol which could be washed off later. No, no, Claudia, listen, you know about tattoos, I could have one inscribed on my arm which I can never remove. I can also ask an artist to copy such a one, as easy to remove as a linen cloth from your neck.’

Claudia moaned softly. Darkness hung all around her; only the lamp flickered. She’d never thought of that, she had been so convinced that one day she would find a man with a tattoo which couldn’t be hidden. Sylvester’s intelligence was always good, yet she remembered her assailant. She always would: his smell, his touch, his voice. She took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shiver.

‘I’m sorry, Claudia, but you must consider the possibility of what I’ve said. There are other alleyways and streets we can search. Close your eyes. I know it’s hard, but that evening on the banks of the Tiber, your brother was collecting shells, wasn’t he?’

Claudia closed her eyes and nodded.

‘And the man approached you,’ Sylvester continued. ‘He killed Felix because he wanted no witnesses, nobody to protect you. Imagine him fighting, his body, the muscles of his arms, back and stomach.’ Claudia did so, and felt sick. She was back beside the river again, the sun setting, that man lurching over. She could recall his legs, the muscles of his calves, the strong arms like a vice of steel, the hot, wine-laden breath.

‘Soldier or priest?’ Sylvester asked abruptly, squeezing her wrist tightly.

‘Soldier,’ Claudia retorted. ‘Yes, he must have been a soldier. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; it was like fighting an armoured man.’

‘Good,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘Here’s a man drunk, wandering the riverside, he doesn’t care whether he’s caught, he wants his pleasure. What he did was hideous, but he also ran a great risk. Tell me, Claudia, why should a soldier do that? Think of the soldiers in Rome. Most of them are flabby; even those called back from the frontier soon put on weight, let the muscles run to fat.’

Claudia felt a thrill of excitement. Sylvester had been a lawyer; she always respected the sharpness of his thought, the logic of his argument. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

‘We’re talking about an athlete, aren’t we? Someone who is in constant training?’

‘No, Claudia, we are talking about a fighter. You described to me in great detail what happened; I told you to do that, to clear your mind, purge your soul.’ Sylvester made a circular movement with his fingers. ‘Could your attacker, the murderer of your brother, be a gladiator?’

He half smiled at the hiss of disapproval from Claudia. ‘No, no,’ he added gently, pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. ‘Claudia, reflect! Gladiators are killers, often lonely men. Oh, they are hero-worshipped, but only because they have killed someone. They are in constant training. The women who worship them are either whores or degenerates from court. No,’ his smile widened, ‘I’m not talking about you and Murranus; he is very fortunate! I’m talking about those who hang about the gladiator schools and want nothing more than to give their bodies. Next time you mix with Murranus’s friends look at them carefully, consider what I’ve said. Was your attacker looking for fresh prey? An innocent maid? Some respectable young woman, a change from the usual? It’s common enough.’ Sylvester sighed. ‘As the Lord of Light knows!’

Claudia stared at the far wall as if fascinated by the graffiti there: figures of men and women joining hands around a table and, underneath, Christian symbols about eternal life. She noticed the Alpha and Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet, the symbols of the Christian God. She was distracted by what Sylvester had said. Sometime soon, when she was in a darkened room by herself, she would meditate, reflect on what he had said. She felt a spark of excitement, a secret thrill, as if she realised she was on the verge of the truth.

Sylvester broke off another piece of cheese, popped it in his mouth and walked over to examine the graffiti. Claudia sighed noisily.

‘Why am I here this morning? Why now?’

‘The Villa Pulchra, at Tibur,’ Sylvester replied, eager to change the subject. ‘Two matters of importance. The Empress Helena, as you may know, is collecting Christian relics. She seems to have a passion for them; her agents are scouring the countryside around Jerusalem searching for the True Cross. The Empress Helena believes she has found the sword used in the execution of the apostle St Paul. She has put it on show in a special room in the Villa Pulchra, a sort of exhibition when certain philosophers, the rhetoricians from Capua, debate matters of doctrine.’

‘And?’

‘To cut a long story short, yesterday afternoon, or so our agents tell us, the sword disappeared. The chamber or cellar has no secret entrances, and it was guarded by mercenaries. The door could only be opened by two keys. Timothaeus the steward held one of these, Burrus, the scruffy German who adores Helena, the other. Anyway,’ Sylvester bit into a fig, ‘yesterday afternoon Timothaeus, as usual, decided to check on the sword. The door was opened. Burrus, because he is frightened of the place, stayed outside. Timothaeus went in. Burrus heard a thump and a cry but dismissed this. A short while later he peered in. Timothaeus was lying by the circle of sand.’

‘Circle of sand?’

‘Yes, you will see, it stretches beneath where the sword hung from a chain. Only yesterday afternoon, the chain was empty. The sword was gone.’

‘And Timothaeus?’

‘Burrus thought he was dead, but the man had simply fallen in a faint. The alarm was raised, the guards called, Timothaeus was removed and the chamber searched. But no sword was found. A true miracle.’ Sylvester grinned. ‘Timothaeus believes that because of the squabbling between Christians, the Angel of the Lord came and removed the sword.’

‘Of course, it was stolen?’

‘So it seems, but by whom, why and how are truly a mystery. The Augusta will not be pleased. She will send for you. In fact, I’m sure that a message or messenger will have already arrived at the She-Asses ordering you to the Villa Pulchra.’

‘But there’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘Oh yes, there’s always something else. The Emperor has invited six rhetoricians, self-proclaimed philosophers, from the School of Oratory at Capua, a prestigious academy where many scholars study theology and philosophy and perfect their public speaking skills. It’s now become a thorn in the side for us, as the Arian heresy flourishes there. One of its most skilled advocates is a scholar called Justin.’

‘What is the bone of contention?’

‘The bone, Claudia? Why, the truth of our faith. Who is God? How does God act?’

‘I’m not a philosopher, I’m certainly not a Christian.’

‘No, you’re better,’ Sylvester retorted. ‘You are a woman of integrity with a keen mind and sharp wits. This is what we believe, Claudia. Our God is a triune God, three persons in one. The Father, pure spirit, sees an image of himself; that image is the Son, eternal and real, like the Father but not the Father. For all eternity the Father has always coexisted with His image. He loves that image and the love which exists between them is another person, the Spirit. Three persons but one God. Our faith teaches that the Son became incarnate, Jesus Christ, God yet man, confined yet infinite. The Arians, however, preach a different faith which would destroy the Trinity and reduce Christ to some glorified angel.’

‘And?’

‘The Arians must not win the debate. I will be joining you at the Villa Pulchra, Claudia, to persuade the Empress to give us her support. I want the Arian heresy to be destroyed and our unity maintained.’

‘What happens if they resist?’

Sylvester rubbed his cheeks with his hands. ‘More stringent methods might be necessary; a diseased limb must be cut off.’

‘You mean, you’ll have them killed? You Christians who love each other?’

‘Heresy in our Church is like treason in the State.’

‘But what about the love of Christ?’ Claudia teased.

‘Let Christ love them,’ Sylvester replied tartly. ‘The Church must survive, but that is only one half of the problem.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘On the one hand we have men like Timothaeus the steward; he is orthodox to the point of fanaticism. He doesn’t like the debate, he thinks the Arians should shut up or be silenced. On the other side are the likes of Chrysis, Constantine’s agent and chamberlain, a pagan born and bred. He rejoices at these divisions amongst the Christians; he will ridicule the debate, try and cast us all as agitators.’

‘But there’ll be your Bishop’s representative, the one who will defend orthodox teaching?’

‘Oh yes,’ Sylvester laughed sharply, ‘and he might do more harm than good. Athanasius is hot-tempered, a true firebrand.’

‘Do you think any of these philosophers could have stolen the sword? They were present when the relic disappeared?’

‘It’s possible. They could have seen it as something sacred to Christianity, not to be put on show by pagans. Others could have stolen it, soldiers, officials. Chrysis was coming and going to the villa; he would like nothing better than to upset the Christians. Or,’ Sylvester took a deep breath, ‘it could have been an ordinary thief, attracted by the ivory hilt or the sparkling ruby. But that’s not important, Claudia.’ Sylvester gestured around. ‘What do we care about graves, relics, philosophical debate? The Church is leaving the catacombs, it must remain strong. At this moment in time we are tolerated, not accepted. One day we shall be. We shall be the Empire. Can you imagine it, Claudia?’ he whispered. ‘Church and State, working as one, the City of God?’ His voice trailed away and he sat dreaming his own dreams of Empire before recollecting where he was. ‘I understand your friend Murranus is in difficulties?’

‘Murranus is always in difficulties.’ Claudia got to her feet, picked up her cloak and staff. ‘So we meet again at the Villa Pulchra?’

‘I’m leaving for there now.’ Sylvester smiled up at her. ‘I’ll arrive within the hour and see what mischief is planned.’

‘Mischief?’

‘Just a feeling. .’ Sylvester rose to his feet and gestured to one of the tunnels. ‘I’ll leave by another route. Safe journey.

‘Oh, Claudia?’ She turned.

‘Yes, Magister?’

‘When you met Murranus for the first time,’ Sylvester walked over, measuring his footsteps carefully, ‘was it by accident or design? Did he seek you out or did you him?’ He raised a hand in a gesture of peace. ‘Think about that.’

Claudia did so as she raced hot-faced through the tunnel, holding the lantern up, aware of the pool of light moving around her. Sylvester’s words had unsettled her. She was in the Kingdom of the Dead; behind these plastered walls lay the remains of those who had died violent deaths. Almost unbidden, her nightmares returned, of racing along tunnels like this, chased by her assailant with a purple chalice tattooed on his wrist. She could hear his breathing, and somewhere in the distance Felix was also fleeing, little legs moving fast. She wanted to reach him, but hands and arms came through the wall to grab at her. Claudia stopped at a corner.

‘Don’t be a stupid hussy!’ she whispered. ‘Be more frightened of the living than the dead.’

She strained her ears; there was no sound, and she walked purposefully on. When she reached the steps, she replaced the lantern and found her hat had not been moved. She put it on and climbed up into the sunlight. Gripping her staff, she walked amongst the tombs. An old beggar woman, cloaked in black, hiding in the shadows, stood up abruptly, claw-like hands begging for alms. Claudia recalled the witches and warlocks who frequented this place to sacrifice a black cock at midnight. She would have screamed abuse, but the old woman’s face was seamed by time and her eyes were a milky white.

‘Just a denarii,’ the beggar lisped, ‘some money for some wine.’

Claudia handed across two coins and hurried on. She joined the crowds thronging along the Via Appia, losing herself amongst them, relaxing at the usual smell of dirt, freshly baked bread, spiced meat and the ever-pervasive stench of oil. The travellers to the city were breaking their fast, so the cooks and food sellers, water carriers and wine pedlars were doing a roaring trade. Claudia slaked her thirst whilst gossiping to a farmer laden with two crates full of squabbling ducks. She asked him about his small farm and the prospect of a good harvest. The farmer, flattered by such attention, chatted like a magpie whilst Claudia stared back, narrow-eyed, along the way she had come.

Once inside the city, Claudia left the broad thoroughfare into a warren of side streets. She was in a quarter she knew; the dyers and the tanners, the merchants behind their stalls, all those who frequented the She-Asses shouted out their greetings. Claudia hastily replied but her mind was still full of what Sylvester had told her, particularly about Murranus.

She found the She-Asses quiet. Oceanus informed her that Polybius was still sleeping off the effects of the night before, whilst Poppaoe had gone down to the marketplace.

‘You know who I want?’

‘He’s out in the garden, little one.’ Oceanus said, leaning down. ‘He’s got very special visitors.’

Claudia’s heart almost skipped a beat. However, Murranus wasn’t entertaining a lady of the city but a young athlete with a sharp sardonic face and black bushy hair. Next to him squatted a grizzled old man who was allowing a tamed snake to wind itself around his arm. From the staff on the table, with its emblem of Aesculapius, Claudia reckoned he must be a physician. Murranus had his back to her; his visitor leaned over, tapping him on the arm, and pointed. The gladiator sprang to his feet. Instinctively Claudia looked at his wrist and felt guilty: there was no tattoo there. Murranus wasn’t a rapist, a child-killer! She was not so convinced about her admirer’s visitor. He was of medium height, with mocking eyes and cynical lips. A man who had a beautiful body, and revelled in his glorious physique.

‘You know who this is?’ Murranus rubbed his hands. ‘Spicerius, you remember Spicerius? No one forgets Spicerius.’

Claudia nodded, mouth open but nothing to say. Spicerius was staring at her coolly, carefully examining her from head to toe as if she was a slave in the market. The insult was quite studied, then he hastily apologised, rose, grasped Claudia’s hand and lifted it to his lips.

‘A beautiful name, Claudia.’ His light blue eyes were full of mockery. ‘A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.’

He let her hand drop.

‘Murranus, you didn’t tell me about her, at least not in detail.’ For a short while there was laughter, then Spicerius introduced his old friend Valens, formerly physician in the Tenth Pannonian legion. Oceanus brought out some drinks and strips of honeyed bread, and they all sat down on the grass in the shade of a tree. But behind the laughter and jokes, Spicerius was studying Murranus carefully, as if trying to memorise every detail. Now and again, his darting eyes shifted to Claudia. The gladiator had not yet returned to full health. On whispered instructions from his physician, Spicerius ate and drank very frugally. He noticed Claudia watching him.

‘I came to make my peace with Murranus.’ He smiled.

‘Why so quickly?’ Claudia asked. ‘Some people claim he tried to poison you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Spicerius laughed, ‘and there’s one good way of finding out. .’ He paused, clutching his stomach. Claudia noticed how his face was painted, delicately, like that of a woman. Nevertheless, this couldn’t hide the shadows around his eyes or the drawn look to his cheeks, or the way his eyelids kept fluttering as if he was still in some discomfort.

‘He’s talking about the betting.’ Murranus spoke up. ‘Polybius and I have proved that neither of us laid wagers on who would win. If we had, Spicerius here might think we were trying to help the odds.’

‘And I saw nothing.’ Spicerius shook his head. ‘I was in the tunnel, waiting. The wine cups were filled. I never saw Murranus’s hand go near my cup. In fact I saw nobody’s. I’m always very careful. It’s not the first time a drink has been spiked or food tainted; all sorts of nasty games are played.’ He turned his wrist to show Claudia a scar; and she stared in horror at the purple chalice tattoo which his leather brace couldn’t conceal. She drew back; Murranus followed her gaze.

‘What’s the matter?’ Valens, the doctor, spoke up. ‘What’s the matter with you, woman? You look as if you have seen a ghost.’

Claudia half rose to her feet, knocking over the bowl of bread and honey, kicking aside the jug of beer. Murranus grasped her wrist.

‘Claudia, it’s not what you think. .’ But she broke free and, spinning on her heel, ran back into the tavern.