The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 6

Claudia left the cellar and returned to the peristyle gardens. She watched servants pruning the luxuriant rose bushes which grew along a trellis dividing the lawn from the shady colonnade. A slave came and asked her if she wanted anything from the kitchen. Claudia smiled her thanks. A short while later another slave appeared bearing a tray with a well-stocked platter of smoked fish and vine leaves, savoury barley, eggs poached in wine, and a slice of cheese and pastry pie, as well as two goblets of white wine.

‘Two?’ Claudia lifted her head, shading her eyes against the sun. She recognised the slave as the same one she’d questioned near the ruined House of Mourning.

‘You wish to drink with me?’

The man’s tired face broke into a smile.

‘I would dearly love so, mistress. I apologise for my impudence, but you have a kind face and a generous heart.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Narcissus. I am, by nation, a Syrian.’ Without being invited, he sat down next to Claudia. ‘I was by profession an embalmer. I looked after the dead until I was swept up in a stupid revolt just outside Damascus.’

Claudia pushed the wine cup into his hands.

‘You know how it is,’ Narcissus continued woefully. ‘Some idiot begins a fight. The innocent are drawn in, the legions arrive, the leaders are crucified and the rest are sold to slavery, end of story.’ His face grew even more lugubrious. ‘I used to be known as Narcissus the Neat, I was so skilled in my trade! I was especially proud of my precision in preparing a corpse. I always broke the nose bone with the greatest of ease and drew the brains out without creating too much mess.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Claudia interrupted, staring at the food. ‘But how did you become involved in the revolt?’

Narcissus drained his goblet, and Claudia emptied hers into his. The slave relaxed sipping at the second goblet of wine, staring at Claudia like a hungry puppy.

‘To answer your question, mistress, I lived five miles outside of Damascus. This madman appeared, calling himself Simon the Saviour, a great sombre-faced brute. He had been to Egypt and learnt a few tricks. He promised that those who believed in him would live for ever beyond the Far Horizon; they would die but, if they were followers of the god Osiris and were buried according to the sacred rite, they would not only live for ever but would be able to come back and assume different forms.’

‘Surely you didn’t believe that nonsense?’

‘No, I didn’t. But my wife did, though that was because she was sleeping with Simon, our so-called Saviour.’

Narcissus paused, watching a crowd of courtiers cluster in the colonnade. They had surrounded Athanasius, congratulating him in their high-pitched voices.

‘I had no choice,’ Narcissus continued. ‘Some people answer to God; I answered to a higher authority, my wife. Anyway,’ he blew his cheeks out, ‘Simon said he needed me because I was an embalmer. The stupid fanatic seized a fort on the edge of the desert and proclaimed that the Day of the Far Horizon had arrived. We raised the standard of Osiris and defied the local governor. He sent troops, a tribune with a force of foot and cavalry. My wife was killed, Simon the Saviour impaled.’ Narcissus sniffed. ‘That gave me some satisfaction, even though I ended up on the slave block.’ He looked at the platter of food and swallowed hard. Claudia heard his stomach grumble.

‘Eat,’ she ordered, handing it over, ‘and I mean eat. You are my guest, Narcissus, I’ll take responsibility.’

The slave needed no second bidding and attacked the food like a ravenous wolf. Claudia got to her feet, went over to a side table laid out in the shade and brought back another jug of wine. Narcissus was busy stuffing food into his mouth. Claudia felt a deep compassion for this middle-aged man, who was so hungry he had forgotten his status in order to fill his belly. Some of the courtiers were looking at her strangely; a pompous chamberlain, a eunuch, came waddling over. Claudia told him to stay well away.

‘If you wanted food,’ Claudia whispered, ‘you should have asked, but there again,’ she patted his shoulder, ‘I should have noticed.’

‘I wasn’t just hungry,’ he replied between mouthfuls. ‘I wanted to tell you about the fires.’

‘Yes, I know, the House of Mourning was burnt.’

‘No, the fires,’ he repeated. ‘I have to tell someone what I saw. Last night, as I’ve said, I ate well and drank deep, on not very good ale. I became truly drunk and fell asleep just behind the latrines. I was roused by the clamour caused by the House of Mourning burning. I jumped up and ran round; the flames had caught hold. Gods, I thought, they’ll blame me! I’ll be for the stake or the cross, so I fled. I jumped the wall and ran to the top of the hill. This villa is built on the side where the ground has been levelled off. Anyways,’ Narcissus wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘there I sat, staring at the stars above me, wondering what I should do. If I ran away they’d certainly blame me. Indeed, I had nothing to fear by staying. I had witnesses to say where I was, and the House of Mourning was left safe. There was no lamp there, no oil, nothing which could cause such a blaze. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d-’

‘And?’ Claudia interrupted.

‘I calmed down. I stared up at the stars, the air was cool and sweet. I closed my eyes. I swear I could smell the jonquil which grew so rich and profuse in the valley where I played when I was a boy. Anyway,’ Narcissus hurried on, ‘I opened my eyes. From where I sat, I could still see the House of Mourning, but, staring out over the countryside, I glimpsed other fires.’

‘What?’ Claudia exclaimed.

‘Other fires, mistress. They weren’t blazing when I first arrived, I’m sure of that. But staring into the darkness, I could see one in the middle distance, then another a little further on. At the time I didn’t think anything about it. I thought they were harvest fires, but there’s been no harvest yet. Such blazes aren’t lit for at least another two months. Then I thought about Simon the Saviour.’

‘What about him?’ Claudia tried to curb her exasperation.

‘That was what he did when the revolt started. He lit beacon fires, piles of brushwood oiled and flamed. He called them the Lights of Heaven, much good it did him.’

Claudia stared around the exquisite, sophisticated garden. The peristyle was now filling up as more courtiers and officials wandered down to eat from the banqueting tables and take their rest in the coolness and fragrance of this lovely garden. She felt a shiver of fear. Something about Narcissus’s account stirred her own memories of the previous evening. She recalled walking over to that sycamore tree where the imperial family were sitting. That was it! The night breeze had been blowing against her, in the direction of the burning House of Mourning, yet she still smelt wood smoke. What if Narcissus was correct? Was the House of Mourning a beacon light? A signal to someone outside which was then sent on? During her travels up and down Italy, as a member of the acting troupe, Claudia had seen the marching armies and heard the clash of battle. She recalled the dark hills further north, the beacon fires burning in the dead of night as the armies of Rome manoeuvred to face each other in bloody confrontation.

‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘did you look the other way?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were sitting on the hill staring down at the villa, yes? That lies to the south. Were there fires to the east and west, or behind you to the north? I’m giving rough calculations,’ she added. ‘Were the fires you saw in a direct line beneath you or all around you?’

‘No, all before me, I could see nothing to the right or left. By the way, I’ve worked here for five years, I know my directions.’

Claudia’s unease deepened. Narcissus was correct. Why were such fires blazing at the height of summer? According to him they were not brushwood or forest fires caused by the heat, but deliberately lit. If they were beacon fires, what was it all about? She racked her brains; there were no great feasts or celebrations. Should she tell the Augusta? Yet what if she was wrong? Claudia stood up.

‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Where to? What for?’

‘For a summer’s day’s ride. Go down to the stables and ask the grooms, on the authority of Claudia, messenger of the Augusta, to prepare my horse — it’s a gentle cob — and a mount for you.’

‘I prefer to walk,’ Narcissus grumbled. ‘That’s how I was captured! Instead of running away, I stole a horse and fell off.’ Muttering to himself, the slave hurried from the garden.

Claudia returned to her own chamber. All was in order. She filled her purse with some coins and collected her hat. A short while later, a water pannikin slung over the cob’s saddle-horn, she and Narcissus left by a side gate. The villa was now falling silent as the imperial family and guests took their rest against the heat of the day. The same was true of the guards beyond the wall. Claudia noticed that these were few and far between and had retreated into the shade of the trees. She reined in and stared back. Narcissus, walking beside her, swinging a staff, stopped and gazed curiously up at her.

‘Are you frightened?’

‘No, just cautious. Tell me,’ Claudia continued, ‘did you know when the Emperor was about to arrive?’

‘No, everyone was in quite a state. The kitchen master asked the Captain of the Guard, but he didn’t know. The Emperor comes and goes like the breeze. All the stewards and chamberlains had been told was that, once the games were over, the Emperor would leave Rome.’ Narcissus shrugged. ‘It was business as usual until that sword was stolen. By the Lord of Light,’ he sighed, ‘what a commotion! People running here and there. You know, I was ordered to help carry that fat steward Timothaeus from the cellar. White as snow he was, I thought he’d died. Oh well, I reflected, here’s another whose nose I’ll have to break-’

‘Thank you,’ Claudia intervened hastily.

When they reached the crossroads they turned on to a track towards where Narcissus had seen the first fire. The slave had become lost in his own thoughts, comforted by a full belly and the wine singing in his blood. He smiled contentedly, humming a tune under his breath. The countryside basked in the summer sun. They passed avenues of lime, plane and sycamore trees; occasionally they caught a glimpse of the red-brown earth, of green pastures turning yellow under the boiling sun. Fields of corn, barley and rye ripened in the summer’s warmth. They passed small farmsteads where the air reeked with the stench of manure, milk and hay. The silence was broken by the bark of a dog or the strident call of a goose. Swallows, buzzards, starlings and sparrows swooped above them, darting in and out of the trees, and the constant chatter of the crickets was broken occasionally by the whine of some other insect or the monotonous buzzing of bees.

Claudia felt her eyes grow heavy. She wasn’t the best of horse riders, yet the saddle was strong and the horse was gentle. For a while she dozed. She just hoped that Narcissus had a good memory as well as a sharp sense of direction.

‘I’m sure it was here.’ Narcissus shook her awake. They had reached a stretch of arable land to the left of the track, lying fallow as the season passed.

Claudia dismounted, leapt across the narrow ditch and walked into the field. At the far end, a hedgerow divided it from the next strip of land. The ground was hard and crusty underfoot. An occasional bird pecked at the soil.

‘I’m sure it was here,’ Narcissus repeated. ‘We’ve just passed a farmhouse. I remember staring at it. Shouldn’t we hobble your horse?’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Claudia shouted over her shoulder. ‘She’s found some grass, so she’s content.’

They walked across the field, Claudia slipping on uneven soil, broken by little ridges and the occasional gap. At first she thought Narcissus was mistaken until the ground dipped slightly and they reached a circle of ash and scraps of burnt wood. Crouching down, Claudia dug her hands into the earth and lifted a mixture of soil and ash. The stench of oil was pungent. She rose, brushing her hands, and stared round. The field, with its broad, silent expanse, appeared more threatening. Anyone could be watching them from the trees.

‘It’s best if we go,’ she whispered, ‘and walk fast, Narcissus.’

Claudia almost ran back to the track, the sun beating down, sweat breaking out, her mouth turning strangely dry. When she reached the line of trees, she rested in the shade.

‘We came at a good time,’ she observed. ‘Everyone is sleeping.’

‘Shouldn’t we question the farmer?’

‘We would only arouse suspicion.’ Claudia pointed out across the field. ‘There’s no reason for that fire, none whatsoever. I expect the farmer had little to do with it. Imagine, at the dead of night, Narcissus! Someone piled brushwood and gorse along the edge of this field. Once darkness fell, they dragged it out, soaked it with oil and thrust in a torch. I wonder. .’ and before Narcissus could stop her, Claudia ran back across the field, head down, shoulders hunched, as if fearful of some bowman hiding amongst the trees.

Narcissus caught up with her as she reached the burnt patch of earth and turned round in the direction from which they had come. Her view was partially blocked by the trees and the heat haze of summer. She strained her eyes and, moving backwards and forwards, glimpsed the rooftops of the Villa Pulchra.

‘At the dead of night,’ she whispered, ‘the blaze from the House of Mourning could be seen.’

‘They could also see our villa from other places,’ Narcissus agreed. ‘They wouldn’t have to stand just here.’

They hurried back, and Claudia mounted her horse, turning its head towards the Villa Pulchra.

‘Shouldn’t we see where the other fires were lit?’ Narcissus was enjoying his summer’s walk with this very kind but mysterious young woman.

‘I’ve seen enough!’ Claudia retorted. ‘I know what I have to do.’

They hastened back to the villa, washed their hands and faces and immediately went to the Augusta’s quarters. The entrances and doorways were protected by Burrus’s guards, most of them asleep. Narcissus grew nervous and began to shake. Claudia could even hear his teeth chatter. The chamberlain informed her that the Empress was sleeping and must not be disturbed, but Claudia insisted, and a short while later she and Narcissus were ushered into the Empress’s bedchamber. Helena had been lying on a couch on a dais beneath a window. She was dressed in a simple white tunic, her black hair falling loose around her shoulders. She now sat on an ornate padded stool, her feet bare, rubbing her cheeks and trying to stifle a yawn. Claudia noticed the scars on the Empress’s bare left arm, as well as how strong her wrists and ankles appeared.

‘When I was young, Claudia, I was an athlete,’ Helena declared, following Claudia’s gaze. ‘I also went on campaign with my dear late husband. On one occasion our tent was attacked.’ She rubbed the scars on her arm. ‘Anyway, you’ve roused me from my sleep, little mouse, so you must have brought me some tidbits. Who’s your companion?’

Claudia and Narcissus knelt on the floor. Narcissus was trembling so much the Empress gave him a goblet of wine and told him to drink it quickly, before gesturing at Claudia to sit down. At first Helena looked sleepy-eyed, but the more Claudia spoke the more alert she became. Now and again the Empress would glance at Narcissus, who would nod in agreement. Claudia related exactly what Narcissus had told her, and described their journey to that lonely field and the remains of the beacon fire.

‘I agree,’ the Augusta declared as soon as Claudia had finished. ‘This is no coincidence.’ She walked over and patted Narcissus’s head as she would a dog. ‘You have done very well. You shall be freed.’

Narcissus immediately fainted, toppling to the floor with a crash. Claudia knelt down beside the prostrate man, pressing the back of her hand against the blood pulse, listening to his breathing. Then, opening his mouth, she poked in a finger to detect any obstruction.

‘He’s all right.’ Helena knelt smiling on his other side. ‘Come, Claudia, let’s make him comfortable.’

They turned Narcissus on his side, placing a blanket beneath his head and another over him.

‘Poor man,’ Helena declared. ‘He has drunk too much wine, followed by a long hot walk in the sun, and now his life has just been changed. He’ll sleep for a while, you look after him. I’ll give you some money for him, but that’ll have to wait. Come over here.’

Helena led her across to a table covered in scrolls. She searched amongst these and brought out a map of the Middle Sea depicting the main ports of Italy, Asia Minor and Greece.

‘During the recent games,’ the Empress explained, ‘I received reports from a spy that Licinius, Emperor of the Eastern Empire, had sent a battle group of warships, triremes and support vessels into the Bay of Corinth. He is also strengthening the garrisons of Greece. Now, of course, according to the protocol signed between us, Licinius has to inform us of such manoeuvres. He claims to be mustering his forces against a powerful pirate fleet which attacked some merchantmen.’

‘Are you fearing an invasion?’ Claudia asked.

‘No.’ Helena shook her head. ‘Licinius isn’t capable of that, though he’s steeped in treachery. I suspect he’s planning a surprise.’ She took out a local map, tracing the short distance between the Villa Pulchra and the Italian coast. ‘If you are correct, Claudia, and I think you are, a whole series of fires were lit in a direct line starting at the Villa Pulchra and ending just above the cliffs on the seashore. I know what you are going to say, little one: we should alert the Emperor, have troops moved into the area. But what’s wrong with that?’

‘We don’t know who the traitor is and we’ll only alarm him — or her.’

‘Precisely.’ Helena smiled. ‘I think it’s best if you leave that to me and my noble contingent of German heroes. Now, let’s get Narcissus removed.’

Helena summoned servants, who brought a stretcher. Claudia had the still prostrate corpse-embalmer taken back to her own chamber and placed on the bed. The chamberlain who escorted them there tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Leave him for a while,’ he whispered. ‘I shall sit with him. The Augusta wants words with you.’

By the time Claudia had returned to Helena’s bedchamber, the Empress had changed and was wrapping a purple shawl around her shoulders. Servants in the adjoining chamber were laying out robes, mirrors, combs and pots of perfume. Constantine had decreed that there would be another imperial banquet that night. Helena kicked the door closed with one sandalled foot and beckoned Claudia to sit next to her on a stool. The Empress pushed her face only a few inches from Claudia’s, studying her carefully.

‘I can be trusted,’ Claudia whispered.

‘I know you can, mouse. What worries me is who else can I trust? We have the business of the missing sword, the death of Dionysius, the destruction of the House of Mourning; now we have a traitor in our midst and it could be anyone. Narcissus has earned his freedom. What he saw were beacon lights, and I suspect they stretch down to the coast. Somewhere to the south, hiding from our searchers and lookouts, lurks a war trireme, its sail reefed, oars down, probably supported by supply ships and flying false colours. I suspect a cohort is to be landed and this villa attacked. If I alert the harbour masters and port commanders, this warship will simply vanish. If I tell my son, he’ll go back to Rome or send out a fleet, and the traitor will simply bide his time and strike again.’

‘But you are in danger.’

‘No, no.’ Helena’s face became flushed with excitement. ‘We are playing a game, Claudia, as dangerous as any your Murranus faces in the arena. At Nicomedia in the East, Licinius, our rival, sits and plots, or should I say, lounges and plots,’ Helena added drily. ‘He’s received information that his great rival Constantine has gone to his summer residence not far from the coast, and has decided to strike. I shall frustrate that and, at the same time, show my beloved son that Licinius has to be destroyed.’

‘You want war, don’t you?’ Claudia stared at this middle-aged woman. Once again the legions would march and the world echo with the clash of empires. ‘You want war,’ she repeated.

‘No, Claudia, I want peace. I want those who write history to talk of the great Pax Augusta, a time when the world slept, when the harvest grew and was collected, when people lived in peace.’ Helena leaned a little closer in a gust of fragrant perfume and sweet wine. ‘A new Empire, Claudia, with a new line of Emperors, a new state religion which binds everyone together. We will never have that whilst Licinius and his gang strut the East and look for an opening. That’s the way of the world,’ Helena added wearily. ‘Wars don’t begin,’ she stared round, ‘in the council chambers of kings and princes, but often in boudoirs like this where a single decision is made and the die is cast. Now, little one,’ she pressed a finger against Claudia’s lips, ‘keep these sealed. Tell no one, trust me, and make sure Narcissus enjoys his freedom.’

Claudia left the Empress’s quarters and walked back to her own chamber. She stopped at a window embrasure and looked out at the flowers. Their scent was heavy, and even the bees and butterflies seemed to be overcome by such a fragrant opiate, a warm, lazy place ablaze with colour. She stared at a bust of some long-forgotten Emperor gazing sightlessly from its plinth. She walked over and read its inscription, short and terse, giving glory to the ‘Divine Hadrian’. She studied the heavily bearded and moustached face, the sharp nose, the eyes carved as if the Emperor was looking upwards, a fashion sculptors had imitated from the many carvings and paintings of Alexander the Great.

‘I wonder,’ Claudia murmured, ‘if in a hundred years someone will stare at a bust of the Augusta?’

She recalled the Empress’s impassioned speech, and for a moment she was pricked by suspicion about the Augusta’s intentions. Was Helena merely a spectator in all that was happening? Or was she, once again, controlling events? Claudia dismissed this as unworthy. She remembered Narcissus and hurried back to her own chamber. The chamberlain announced that the embalmer was still asleep, so Claudia sent for the court leech, who came shuffling along with a phial of pungent oil. He half dragged Narcissus up, pushed the oil beneath his nose and gently slapped his face. Narcissus wakened with a shake of his head, eyes fluttering. The leech examined him carefully, telling him to open his mouth, feeling the blood pulse in his neck and dragging down the folds of skin beneath his eyes, all the time keeping up a commentary to himself.

‘Shall I bring some wine?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yes, yes, that’ll be very nice,’ the leech replied. When it arrived, the fellow promptly drank it, declared the patient was in better shape than he was and left. Narcissus pulled himself up.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he gasped, sinking back on the bed. ‘I truly don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’ Claudia smiled. ‘Your observations were most valuable; you are a free man, Narcissus.’

He stared at her, then burst into tears.

‘What shall I do? What shall I do?’ he wailed. ‘I cannot go back to Damascus. All my kith and kin are dead, those who survived will only think I’m a spy. I know nobody in Rome, I’ve got no money.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Claudia was about to berate him when there was a knock on the door and an official entered, one of the Emperor’s pretty boys, with black curly hair and smooth face. He was garbed in a skimpy tunic which showed his long legs off to their best effect.

‘Claudia?’ He looked her up and down, glanced at Narcissus sprawled on the bed, and sniggered behind splayed fingers, the nails of which were painted a bright scarlet. Around his wrist was fastened the leather strap displaying the seal of an official nuntius, or messenger, of the Imperial Chancery. He handed over a scroll and a small leather pouch, which clinked as it fell into Claudia’s hand. ‘I think,’ he lisped, ‘this is for your friend,’ and he flounced out.

Claudia broke the seal, undid the scroll and read the opening words: ‘Helena Augusta, Beloved Mother. .’ The usual phrases followed. Claudia handed it to Narcissus. ‘Your freedom,’ she declared, ‘and some coins to help you on your way.’

She grasped Narcissus’s hand; the man was still shaking, staring down at the scroll and bag of coins lying in his lap.

‘You can lodge with my uncle,’ she offered. ‘He owns a tavern near the Flavian Gate.’

Narcissus’s eyes welled up.

‘Oh, no,’ she protested, ‘don’t start crying again, you can do that later. Until we leave here you are to be my companion; there must be some small chamber nearby.’ Her smile widened. ‘You are already my friend and I want some help.’

Narcissus opened his mouth to wail, glimpsed Claudia’s determined look and forced a smile.

‘Whatever you say.’

Claudia brought him a fresh goblet of wine. The passageway outside was now busy with servants hurrying to and fro with platters of fruit and jugs of wine as the imperial guests roused themselves from their slumbers. She let Narcissus drain the cup.

‘Narcissus, never mind your good fortune. I want you to remember Dionysius’s corpse. You are an embalmer, you are skilled in scrutinising the dead; was there anything,’ Claudia searched for the words, ‘significant, exceptional about it?’

Narcissus scratched his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he declared. ‘All I can remember is a corpse slit, gashed and drenched in blood. I did wonder whether, as Dionysius was an Arian, there were special burial rites, I mean different from the orthodox. Ah.’ Narcissus lifted a hand. ‘No, no, there was something! There were more cuts on the right side of the corpse than the left. Does that mean the killer was right-handed? And the blow to the head was on the right side as well. Isn’t it true, Claudia, that a killer will approach from the side he is used to; a left-handed man will attack me from the left. .?’

‘I don’t know,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘I never thought of that. I should ask Murranus, but there again, most people are right-handed. Anything else?’ she added.

‘Some of the wounds looked like crosses, you know, lines scored across each other. The body was put on a slab and I remember loosening the cords, but by then I’d had enough and left soon afterwards. By the way, who is Murranus?’

‘He’s a gladiator, a friend of mine. Listen, Narcissus, you deal with the human body,’ Claudia smiled, ‘the dead rather than the living; do you know anything about poisons and their effect?’

‘Oh yes.’ Narcissus’s tired face came to life. ‘Some poisons are very easy to hide. You’d think the victim died of a seizure or some internal wound, but the organs of a corpse never lie. When you take out a heart that’s black and shrivelled or a stomach which stinks like a sewer, you do wonder how that person truly died. Oh, indeed,’ he continued, ‘I’ve many a time embalmed a poor man whose organs had changed colour or reeked like a camel pen, then watched the grieving widow and wondered what the truth really was. Why do you ask?’

Claudia described what had happened in the arena: how Spicerius had drunk the poisoned wine; how he had collapsed and the finger of suspicion had been pointed at her friend Murranus. She also told Narcissus what the army physician had said. Narcissus nodded in agreement.

‘Don’t forget, my dear,’ he waggled a finger in her face, ‘many poisons, in very small quantities, can actually do you good. They can clean the blood and purify the humours, purge the stomach of excess waste, even remove blemishes such as warts. Spicerius must ask himself, did he take a powder or a food containing such a substance? Not enough to kill him, but, I would say, midway between the beneficial properties of that substance and its most noxious-’

Narcissus was about to continue when the door suddenly opened. Claudia turned round. At first she thought it was some court official coming to summon her back to the Augusta. Taken by surprise, she could only watch, as in a dream, the oil lamp fall to the floor and smash, the oil spilling out, the flame from the wick racing across. For a few seconds she could merely gape in horror. Narcissus was no better, until the full enormity of what had happened hit him: that seeping oil, the flames growing hungrier as they caught hold of the linen drapes around the bed and licked greedily at the leg of a wooden stool.

Claudia jumped to her feet, and picking up her bag, cloak and hat, screamed at Narcissus to take the Empress’s scroll and pouch, then pushed him towards the window. .

Septimus, disciple of Athanasius, stalwart of the orthodox party, lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling of cream-coloured plaster. He liked that colour, so soothing. Sometimes the vivid colours of this imperial villa, not to mention the guards standing around, brought back memories he would prefer to forget. Septimus had dined well. He had been watching Claudia chatter like a squirrel to that slave and idly wondered what she could find so interesting in him. After all, Septimus was sure that ‘little Claudia’, as Athanasius called her, had been brought to the villa to keep an eye on them, rather than the slaves.

Septimus was pleased at the way things were going. Athanasius had the upper hand. Justin was discomforted, and Dionysius was dead. He was glad about that and dismissed any guilty thoughts. Dionysius had known so much about him and his past. They had grown up together in Capua, attended the same school and converted to the new faith without any regret. They thought they would live in peace until the horrors of Hell were loosed. Dionysius thought they would be safe — after all, they were of good family — but he had miscalculated and they had been rounded up by Diocletian’s agents. The doors to their houses had been broken open at the dead of night, armed men spilling into the atrium. The cellars and gardens had been searched and, of course, they had found enough evidence. Tight collars had been put about their necks, hands bound, and they had been dragged and pushed through the dark and bundled into carts.

Septimus would never forget that bone-jarring ride through the freezing night. They had been given no respite, their pleas and cries ignored, hoods pulled over their heads. He and Dionysius had only recognised each other by their voices; they did not know any of the other prisoners. They had been bundled out of the cart in a chilling dawn, the smoke and flame from the torches of their escort pluming about them, then pushed down yawning, hideous tunnels. Only then did Septimus realise, in his fear-crazed state, that they were within the bowels of the great Flavian amphitheatre, possible victims for the games.

Septimus knew all about heaven, the place of the Christ Lord, but the priest who had converted him had also described the torments of Hell. On that terrifying morning Septimus half believed he had died and was being exposed to the terrors of eternal darkness. They had been kept in a cavern which reeked of wild animals, the roars and snarls of which echoed threateningly through the darkness. The hours seemed to drag; they were given no food or drink. Septimus, overcome with exhaustion, had fallen asleep, only to be woken by the crowds roaring like the thunder of an angry sea. Black-masked guards had appeared, their hoods were removed and they were hurried along the filthy tunnels to the gaping Gate of Death, which stretched out to the great amphitheatre, ablaze with sunlight.

Septimus could only stand and watch as the horrors of the day unfolded. Men, women and children were pushed out to be hunted by wild beasts, brought down by panther, lion and tiger or gored and tossed by furiously stamping wide-horned bulls. He had watched other human beings being torn to pieces so that the golden sand of the arena became as bloody and messy as a butcher’s stall. Yet this was only to whet the appetite of the mob. Septimus had been thrust aside as other victims, dressed in cloaks of tar and pitch and fastened to poles on moving platforms, had been pushed into the arena and lit by bowmen with flaming arrows, turning the victims into screaming, living torches.

Eventually Septimus fainted, only to be kicked awake, a coarse wine-skin bag pushed between his lips. He thought his turn had come and, looking around, glimpsed Dionysius, so overcome with fear he had lost all control over his bowels and bladder. Nevertheless, as the dreadful day continued, neither he nor his companion was thrust out with the rest. Instead, when the games were over, they had been taken back to a cell deep beneath the amphitheatre and visited by shadowy-faced men. They had made him an offer: life and freedom, protection against the macabre sights he had seen, on one condition. He must tell them everything he knew about the Christian community at Capua, then continue to give information, leaving it at certain specified places around the town when instructed. Septimus had agreed. He had fallen to his knees and begged for his life. His captors had dealt him a good beating, to convince the others back at Capua that he had not been treated tenderly. He had also been given a good meal, a purse of coins and released with letters of protection.

Once he had returned to Capua, Septimus explained how he had withstood the torture, refused to break and was released for lack of evidence. He was regarded as a hero, fêted and honoured, being given a prominent place in the Christian assembly. A week later Dionysius returned with a similar story. The two men hardly ever spoke, avoided each other’s company and never again referred to what had happened in those dark caves beneath the earth. The persecution had raged. Septimus had done his share of betrayal until the civil war had broken out. The authorities were no longer concerned about Christians but who was to rule in Rome. By then, Septimus had won a reputation as an orator and scholar, whilst Dionysius had espoused the teaching of Arius. Septimus liked that. It gave a name to their enmity, it separated them; until Dionysius had opened secret negotiations with the orthodox party and Septimus had begun to wonder how much he knew.

Septimus felt his belly grip with fear. He started in pain at the cramp in his left leg. He pulled himself up and became aware of the cries and shouts, the patter of running feet from outside. He hastily put on his sandals, grabbed a cloak, and ran out into the passageway. Servants were hurrying along. One was carrying a bucket of water. From deeper in the palace echoed the clash of cymbals and shouts of ‘Fire!’ Septimus decided to find out what was happening, but he and the rest were stopped by guards in the corridor leading to the imperial apartments. An officer brusquely informed him how a fire had broken out in one of the chambers but that no one had been hurt and the blaze had been quickly controlled.

Septimus walked away. He returned to his own room and found a scrawled note pushed under the door. He rubbed it between his fingers, screwed the piece of parchment up and thrust it into his wallet. He then left his chamber and, walking as nonchalantly as he could, went through the palace and out to the latrines. He opened the door and went in. They were empty.

‘Are you here?’ Septimus called.

A shadow moved from his right. Septimus didn’t turn quickly enough to escape the stunning blow to his head, which sent him crashing to the ground in a heap. He was half unconscious, aware of being dragged across the tiled floor. He tried to move his hands but they were already bound. The terrors of what had happened before, his nightmares from years past returned to haunt him. A door opened and Septimus was dragged down into the darkness. He felt his belt and wallet removed. He was aware of a mustiness, a cloying warmth, the smell of stagnant water. He tried to groan and became conscious of the gag pushed into his mouth. Dionysius! Was the same thing happening to him?

Pains shot through his head, his body was sweat-soaked, the harsh breathing of his captor echoed ominously. Septimus was thrust against a pillar, ropes tied around him. He had lost his robe and now his tunic was ripped apart. Behind him he could hear shuffling feet, and someone gasping for breath, as if they had run fast over a long distance. A whip cracked, and Septimus screamed silently as the first lash cut across his exposed back.