The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 7

The galley which usually patrolled the Straits of Byzantium as the Glory of Corinth had been painted black. Its red-gold taff-rail had been covered over, as had the gold-embossed griffin’s head on the stern, and the eagle with spread wings and the Horus Eye on the jutting prow. Its reefed sails were black, whilst its crew had been trained to row with muffled oars. The galley had slipped from the main battle fleet exploiting the late summer weather to leave the Aegean and enter the Middle Sea. It had stood off Sicily, then moved along the Italian shoreline, making careful use of deserted coves and inlets. If danger threatened, false flags and standards were raised. To the curious, it was just another war galley patrolling the coast against pirates. Well supplied with water and stores, the galley had taken up its agreed position on the appointed day and waited for the signal. At last it had come, a series of beacon lights clearly seen from the sea. The captain of the galley had moved his craft in, lean and low in the water like some sinister wolf slinking towards a sheep pen. The sea was calm and the pilot knew all about the currents and hidden dangers, so they successfully beached the galley at dusk.

The soldiers and marines, dressed in breeches and tunics under coats of mail, now prepared to move inland. They had all been selected for their loyalty and training. They were veterans, skilled in the ambushing and killing of bandits and outlaws in the Taurus Mountains near the Cilician Gates. They were armed with bows, arrows and long curved swords, with roundel shields slung over their backs, on their heads reinforced leather helmets with nose guards and earflaps. Some carried makeshift ladders, long poles with rods either side, as well as grappling irons, tubs of pitch and small pots of fire. They ate their meal of hard bread, dried fruits and salted meat and took a gulp from the small water bottle each man carried before moving forward.

Once they’d reached the sand hills they paused for a while to finish their preparations and sent their skirmishers forward into the trees. These scouts, Vandal mercenaries, silenced all life in the lonely farmsteads and cottages, cutting the throats of all they met, butchering the dogs and helping themselves to any plunder. The officers had studied their maps of the area most closely. The countryside around the Villa Pulchra was fairly deserted, the result of successive imperial decrees. This helped them, as did the information they’d received about the villa’s security. It was under the command of Gaius Tullius, a veteran officer of Constantine who shared his command with Burrus, commander of the great bitch Helena’s guard. The attackers had been given strict instructions. Constantine and his mother were to be assassinated, the likes of Burrus, Rufinus, Chrysis and Gaius Tullius taken prisoner, along with the priest Sylvester and the leader of the orthodox party, Athanasius. Everyone else was to be put to the sword.

The attacking force moved deeper into the woods. Climbing the slopes, they reached a glade, where they regrouped and rested, sharing out the paltry spoils of their plunder. They drank some more water and moved on. After a great deal of trekking they reached the approaches to the villa. Occasionally they would come across guards on picket duty, but these were few and sleepy-eyed, and soon disposed of. The undergrowth outside the villa was thick, so they were forced to use the only track. The captain in charge had no choice in the matter, yet he guessed something was wrong. He could feel it in the prickling of the sweat along his back. Was it the silence of the woods? The absence of any owl hoot or flurry amongst the undergrowth? Had the animals also sensed something threatening and fled? Now and again the captain would pause, listening for the sounds of the night. He looked back. All he could see in the faint moonlight was a bobbing line of men. Despite his suspicions, he was totally unaware of the dark, hulking shadows following his men either side of the path. These shapes, used to the pitch darkness of the German forests, slipped like hunting wolves through the bracken, grouping round the end of the column. As the line of attackers moved more quickly, stragglers began to appear, and the silent shadows took these, a hand about the mouth, a knife across the throat. .

Claudia gazed round the opulent triclinium of the Villa Pulchra. The gold-edged couches were arranged in a horseshoe fashion, and before each was a long, low table of polished Lebanese cedar inlaid with strips of ebony and ivory. The tables were covered with small, fine gold dishes containing portions of beef casserole, hare in sweet sauce, ham in red wine and fennel, fried liver, baked plaice and spiced trout. On a piece of stiffened papyrus, its top and bottom embossed with imperial and Christian insignia, Constantine’s personal chef had explained the menu with phrases such as: ‘If they are young, hares are to be eaten in a sweetish sauce of pepper, a little cumin, and ginger. .’

Claudia had eaten enough, and had drunk the blood-red Falernian wine, at least seventy years old or so the menu declared, mixed heavily with the slightly warm water served to each guest in little jugs. The chamber was lit by chandeliers, each holding six oil lamps in alabaster jars of various colours. The wheels on which these lamps stood had been lowered as far as possible to provide enough light, their fragrance mingling with the perfume from the pots of incense, vervins, maidenhair and frankincense as well as the countless baskets of flowers which ranged along the walls.

The guests had been entertained by various artists and musicians. Now the villa poet was quoting Ovid’s sonnet: ‘Since you are so beautiful, I cannot demand you to be faithful’. Very few of the guests were paying attention, busy with their own conversations or staring rather drunkenly into their cups. In the centre of the horseshoe Constantine was arguing fiercely with his mother. He looked agitated. Helena was holding a water jug, remonstrating with her son about how much he was drinking. Timothaeus was standing anxiously behind the imperial couches. Claudia would have liked to have caught his eye and summoned him over, but the steward appeared ill at ease. Chrysis sprawled, whispering to the pretty boy who shared his couch. Athanasius and Justin, the respective party leaders, were deliberately separated, even though this cosy supper party was being held in their honour. Across from her, Gaius Tullius, his toga slipping on to the floor, yawned in the face of an elderly senator. The Captain glanced quickly across, winked, then turned back to the old fool, who was boring everyone with his denunciations about what was happening in the baths of Rome.

Claudia sat at one end of the horseshoe arrangement. From here she could see the musicians, who had tried their best but had now given up and were gorging themselves on wine and scraps taken from the tables. Directly across from her, at the other end of the horseshoe, was a tall, dark-haired man who had remained silent and tense. Claudia had seen Rufinus get up and go round to talk quietly to him. The stranger was sour-faced, with deep-set eyes, and moved restlessly on his couch. He was not a courtier despite the expensive robes; his face, arms and legs, burnt dark by the sun, glistened with oil. Claudia noticed the scars peeping out from beneath the sleeves and hem of his tunic and concluded he must either be a soldier or a gladiator, as he possessed that same restlessness Murranus did.

Claudia looked away. She was bored, tired, yet still anxious after that violent attack. She recalled the door being opened, the oil lamp tossed in, smashing on the floor to create a puddle of oil and flame. If she had been asleep on the bed, that bowl would have turned the sheets into her funeral pyre. Why had her attacker done this? She closed her eyes and recalled every detail. She had been sitting talking to Narcissus, and the door had opened quickly. That was it! Most of the villa’s guests had retired to their beds during the heat of the day. The would-be assassin thought she would do the same. He had brought that oil lamp, waited until the passageway was empty and opened the door. He had not calculated on someone being with her. He — and Claudia, recalling the grotesque in the cellar, could only conclude it was a man — must have panicked at the sound of voices, and instead of taking more care and aiming the bowl directly at the bed, had simply tossed it in. The assassin had been frustrated, yet had caused enough confusion to send her and Narcissus fleeing through the window. The small chamber was of hard stone, with a few sticks of wooden furniture, so servants had soon brought the blaze under control with heavy cloaks and buckets of dry sand. Claudia and Narcissus had sheltered in the garden. She had told her companion to keep quiet while she informed a chamberlain that the fire was the result of an accident. In truth, however, her tormentor was hunting her, and Claudia wondered if the Augusta knew the facts of the matter. Every so often during the meal Helena would glance across at her, eyebrows drawn together as if curious or perplexed about something.

Claudia gazed around the chamber. Which one of these guests was responsible? Chrysis, who disliked her? The philosophers? Athanasius had approached her just before the meal, rather angry that he couldn’t find his colleague Septimus. Claudia felt tempted to take another sip of wine to calm her nerves, but she didn’t wish to become drunk. Rufinus, on the couch next to her, tried to converse with her, but his wife Fulvia Julia had sensed this and kept cooing like a wood pigeon, demanding her husband’s attention.

Claudia decided to study a painting on the far wall of the triclinium. The dining room was grandly called the Chamber of Mars because its walls were decorated with war-like themes extolling the glory of Rome. The one opposite showed a prosperous country being laid waste. Enemy battalions were being massacred. Men were running away or being taken prisoner, the walls of a town lay smashed by siege engines, its ramparts stormed in a sea of blood, the defenders, unable to resist, lifting their hands in surrender. A cherry hit the table before her. Claudia glanced across. Sylvester was looking at her questioningly, as if he too was curious about the events which had taken place. Claudia gave him a quick smile. The Roman presbyter, like everyone else in this room, was to be regarded with suspicion. Aye, Claudia reflected, not to mention those outside, even woe-faced Narcissus. Claudia pinched her nostrils. There was something not quite right about Narcissus the Neat, something he had said, but she could not place what it was.

The murmur of the conversation died, the poet had withdrawn, having been tossed a silver piece by the Emperor. Chrysis, the chamberlain, took the floor; he was immediately greeted by a round of applause. Claudia suspected what was about to happen. Chrysis was a former actor, a propagandist, ever ready to proclaim fresh scandals about Licinius, Emperor of the East, and his corrupt court at Nicomedia. ‘Fresh news from the East.’ Chrysis spread his hands. ‘Licinius is organising raffles. At his dinner parties he gives out lucky chances written on spoons. It can be ten camels, ten flies, a pound of steak or even dead dogs. I think he is running out of money.’ He gestured with his hands for his audience not to laugh. ‘The man’s mad. He insists on eating fish in a blue sauce. He harnesses four huge dogs to his chariot, and listen, when he gets drunk, he locks his friends in their bedrooms then, at the dead of night, sends in lions, leopards and bears.’

‘I might start that here,’ Constantine shouted in a burst of laughter. ‘What would you like, Chrysis, a bear or a panther?’

‘Excellency,’ Chrysis shook his head, ‘Licinius is bankrupt. He is sending his hangers-on frogs, scorpions, snakes and other hideous reptiles, he is trapping flies in jars and calling them tamed bees.’ Chrysis now had the attention of everyone in the chamber; this was not a game. The chamberlain was deliberately ridiculing Constantine’s rival, raising the temperature of the court, another prick of encouragement for Constantine to try his chances in the East.

Claudia watched the Empress. Helena hadn’t eaten or drunk anything. Claudia suddenly realised someone was missing: Helena’s shadow, the man who had first recruited Claudia for the imperial service, the Christian priest and scribe Anastasius. Why had the Empress left him in Rome? What else was happening? Were there other dangers like those beacon lights? Claudia wondered why the Empress had quarrelled with her son. Moreover, since the poet had left, messengers had been coming in and out of the chamber as if informing Helena about something important happening elsewhere in the villa. Claudia stared round and suppressed a shiver. Helena had taken over the supper party. Before it had even begun she had insisted that everyone had to stay and be entertained. Was there a sinister reason behind that?

‘Licinius is going to die soon.’ Chrysis was now in full flow. ‘It’s been predicted by a Syrian priest that he will die violently. So he has prepared twisted ropes of purple silk so he can hang himself if necessary, and a golden sword on which he can fall when the day of judgement arrives.’ Chrysis was now staring hard-eyed at his imperial master. ‘Licinius expects death. They say he has poisons hidden away in amethysts and emeralds. He has built a very high tower with gold and jewelled slabs beneath on to which he can throw himself. Perhaps it is time, your Excellency,’ he finished with a flourish, ‘that Licinius was encouraged to play more meaningfully with these toys.’

His words were greeted by a thunderous roar of approval. Goblets were raised in toast. Constantine stared round, his heavy-jowled face flushed, nodding in agreement. The musicians struck up a tune, but they were so drunk Chrysis told them to shut up. Rufinus the banker used the occasion to turn back to Claudia.

‘Are you still worried about Murranus?’

‘I am,’ she smiled, ‘and intrigued by what Chrysis said. Did you really think Murranus would kill a man clearly incapacitated?’

Rufinus shrugged. ‘That’s the law of the amphitheatre, Claudia. I’ve seen gladiators trip or fall ill; it’s not saved them from death. But I’ll tell you something,’ he gave a lopsided grin, ‘or I’ll repeat myself. There’s big money being moved around, a great deal going on Murranus to win.’

‘But that’s not the end of it,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘He will have to face Meleager the Magnificent, the Marvel of a Million Cities.’

‘Would you like to meet him?’ Rufinus asked. ‘Meleager? He’s been in the villa since you arrived. Meleager,’ Rufinus called across to the dark-haired stranger Claudia had noticed earlier. ‘You best come over here, I want to introduce someone to you.’

Meleager slid from the couch and came across. He was tall, and just the way he walked reminded Claudia of a panther in a cage. He was thick-set and heavily built but moved as gracefully as any dancer. He crouched down before Rufinus and stared at Claudia. He had deep, close-set eyes, high cheek bones, a slightly twisted nose, and thin lips above a firm chin. His black hair had been cut and dressed to cover a hideous scar close to his left ear. Claudia looked at his wrist; there was no purple tattoo.

‘Meleager, can I introduce young Claudia, messenger and maid of the Augusta, dear friend of Murranus, whom you shall meet in the arena?’

‘My lady.’ Meleager took Claudia’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Your friend has won a great reputation. I hope to meet him at the games held in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. My lady, are you well?’

Claudia’s mouth had gone dry. She wanted Meleager to let go of her hand. She didn’t want him to know how cold she had gone. He might not have had any tattoo on his wrist, but up close she recognised that voice, she recalled the smell, a mixture of perfume and sweat; even his touch was familiar. This was the man who had raped her, the killer of poor Felix.

‘I. .’ Claudia’s eyelids fluttered. She prayed she wouldn’t faint. The room was moving. ‘Do you know something,’ she laughed, withdrawing her hand quickly, ‘I’ve drunk far too much wine, I need to be sick.’ And, scrambling off the couch, she fled the chamber.

She didn’t know where she was going. She raced past guards and sentries, ignoring the challenge of an officer. She ran down a colonnaded walk, climbed a wall and fled into the darkness. She reached a tree and felt she could go no further. Her legs were growing heavy and a terrible pain pounded in the back of her head. She felt as if her breath had stopped and, falling to her knees, she was violently sick. As she retched she wiped the hand that Meleager had held, to brush away not just his touch but the very skin. She continued to be sick until her belly was empty; the acid bubbled at the back of her throat but she felt better. She moved away and lay face-down on the grass. It was wet and cool, just like that sand where she and Felix had been playing. He had been hunting for shells when the shadow had appeared. She began to cry, just letting the tears come.

‘Claudia! Claudia!’ She felt her hair being stroked, and tensed. A hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her gently over; she didn’t resist but let herself flop, and stared up at an anxious-faced Sylvester. He took off his cloak, put it over her and sat beside her, plucking at the grass.

‘I saw you leave. The others thought you were going to be sick. Claudia, you are never sick, you are never drunk! What happened there? Meleager thinks he frightened you.’

‘He did,’ Claudia replied, and struggled to sit up. She took Sylvester’s cloak and wrapped it round her shoulders. ‘He terrified me, Magister. He’s the one!’

‘The one?’

‘The man who raped me and killed my brother.’

‘Impossible! You saw the tattoo?’

‘It’s been washed off.’ Claudia felt her strength returning. ‘I know it’s him, I’ll never forget his smell, that voice. .’

‘Hush now.’ Sylvester took her face in his hands. ‘I’m a priest of Christ, Claudia, so what I’m going to say is hard. You must pretend, as you have done since that terrifying night. If justice is to be done, then let God take care of it. I swear by His Holy name that He will. Meleager is a gladiator. If he suspects, even for a few seconds, that you know who he truly is, then you are in very grave danger. No, no.’ He pressed his fingers against Claudia’s lips. ‘Claudia, I beg you by all that is holy, hide your face and curb your heart! I swear that if God does not act, I will. I owe you that.’ He took his fingers away. ‘Think, Claudia,’ he added, his words hissing through the darkness, ‘think of yourself, and of Felix!’

Claudia stared into the night. The pain was going, her stomach was empty and she felt hungry. So many thoughts milled about. Sylvester was stroking her hair just like her father used to. She leaned against his hand.

‘Help me up,’ she whispered, ‘then I’ll help myself.’

Claudia, unsteady on her feet, walked into the darkness and paused. She turned, cocking her head slightly.

‘What was that?’ she asked. ‘Did you hear it, Magister?’ She tried to sift the noises of the night. ‘The clash of weapons, cries and yells?’

Sylvester listened intently. Claudia heard the sounds again. They were coming from somewhere to the south, beyond the villa walls.

‘What is happening?’ She was glad of the distraction. She listened again but the sounds had faded. She recalled those beacon fires, Helena poring over the maps. ‘What is going on, Sylvester?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sylvester shrugged. ‘In the early evening Augusta was very busy. Have you noticed Anastasius is missing? She has left him to watch things in Rome. She has also sent an urgent message to the main German camp not far away. Did you observe her at the supper party? She was very distracted. She didn’t want anyone to leave the triclinium. In fact,’ Sylvester smiled through the darkness, ‘it was she who told me to follow you.’

‘Well, I’m safe and I will go and change.’ Claudia lifted her hand. ‘Sylvester, I thank you. I will act on your advice and,’ she added, ‘keep a still tongue in my head.’

Claudia reached the palace and went straight to her old chamber. Its door hung loose, and one side was badly scorched. She took a lamp and went inside. The floor was covered by a carpet of sand and ash and she had to probe with the half-burnt leg of a stool to ensure nothing was left. She was busy prodding when she recalled the sand in the cellar.

‘Of course,’ she whispered, ‘it must be that!’ She stood staring at the ash, then collected a few items still useable and went along to her new chamber.

Helena had been most generous — this room was more spacious. Scenes from a vineyard decorated the walls: dark green bushes with ochre-red trellises covered with snaking gold branches from which full purple grapes hung. Children collected them in heaped baskets. The painting on the next wall showed the workers in the wine press. Claudia again recalled wading through the sand in that cellar as she tried to flee from her attacker. The stuccoed ceiling was emblazoned with a brilliant picture of Phoebus in his chariot, whilst the mosaic on the floor depicted a young boy playing a flute. The bed was one of the couches taken from the triclinium. The rest of the furniture, stools and small tables, were gifts from the Empress’s stores. New clothes and robes had also been provided. Claudia washed her face in a gleaming bowl, stripped and dressed again. She glanced in the copper-edged mirror, plucked at her cheeks, tidied her hair and sprinkled some of the perfume Murranus had brought her after he had won his last fight.

When she returned to the triclinium, she was relieved to discover her presence had hardly been missed. Athanasius was loudly demanding the whereabouts of Septimus. Chrysis the chamberlain was drunk; he had already been sick and listened bleary-eyed as he shared the couch of the strident orator. Constantine was talking to Rufinus, heads close together like fellow conspirators. Helena was missing. Claudia retook her own seat. She glanced quickly at Meleager, but he hardly spared her a glance; too busy playing the love dove with Rufinus’s wife. Claudia controlled her anger. She felt like crossing the floor and confronting him. Her eye caught a sharp meat knife on the table, and she brushed it with her fingers. It would be so easy to grasp it, run across and plunge it into that bull-like neck! She was about to pick it up when a cherry hit her on the side of her face. She glanced up. Sylvester was staring across, shaking his head.

Claudia withdrew her hand. What could she do? She thought of Murranus moving like a dancer across the sand in the school of gladiators. She felt her empty stomach lurch and a slight flutter of her heart. She pulled across a platter of food, then started at the braying sound of a war horn. The noise and clatter in the triclinium died away. Gaius Tullius sprang to his feet. Constantine lurched from his couch, sitting on its edge, eyes popping, mouth open. The doors were flung open and Helena entered. She whispered to her son, who would have sprung to his feet, but the Empress, standing behind him, pressed firmly on his shoulder.

‘My lords, ladies, fellow guests.’ She smiled sweetly around. ‘The alarm has been raised. This villa is under attack, but,’ her voice rose to a shout, ‘everything is under control. I ask you to return to your own chambers and stay there. My son and I, with others,’ she glared at Claudia, ‘will remain behind.’

She raised a hand, snapping her fingers. Burrus and a contingent of Germans entered the chamber. From the blood on Burrus’s arms, the mud splattered on his face, the dirt and gorse which clung to his clothes, it was obvious that he had just returned from a savage affray. More of his guard entered. Gaius Tullius made to protest, but Helena barked at him to go about his duties, then clapped her hands. ‘Come now,’ she shouted. ‘You all have your orders!’

The triclinium soon emptied, except for Constantine, Helena, Chrysis, who looked fit for nothing, the priest Sylvester, Rufinus and Claudia. More mercenaries entered, some of them newcomers from the camp which lay halfway between Rome and the Villa Pulchra. Constantine raised a hand, now intent on listening to the trumpets and horns, the sounds of running feet in the corridor outside.

‘It is useless,’ Helena snapped. ‘Such preparations are now useless. I have everything under control.’ She picked up her cloak, which was lying over the edge of her couch. ‘I’ve given strict instructions, the gates are not to be opened.’

‘Why not!’ Constantine yelled like a little boy. ‘My soldiers. .’

‘Son,’ Helena lowered her voice, but the others in the room could still hear, ‘the gates will remain closed until I say. At this moment in time, this hour of treachery, we do not know who we will be letting out, and if the gates remain closed, we will at least have some control over those who are let in. Now come, none of your bawling or shouting, it will do no good.’

Helena swept from the chamber, the rest following. Constantine kept pace with his mother, muttering obscenities under his breath. They were ringed by Burrus’s men, who carried shields and drawn swords. The imperial staff officers standing in the corridors could only gaze helplessly on. They looked to the Emperor for a sign, but Constantine was no fool; drunk or not, he knew his mother was speaking sense. This was the hour of treachery and he trusted her implicitly.

They crossed the peristyle garden, through the atrium, where the oil lamps still glowed before the household gods, and started down the main path, past gardens and groves, to the gate. The area before this was now aglow with lighted braziers and small bonfires, and more of Burrus’s men clustered around, guarding the gate with a ring of steel. Pitch torches spluttered on their stands along the parapet of the curtain wall. The steps to this were also guarded, the Germans swiftly standing aside as Helena swept up, her son stumbling behind her. At the top, the strong night breeze whipped their hair and fluttered their cloaks; Claudia had to protect her face against the sparks from the crackling torches. She glanced up. Storm clouds were gathering, moving fast together, blotting out the stars. Beneath her, guarding the external approaches to the gate, a contingent of Germans formed a horseshoe pattern, shields up, ready for any enemy. They looked ominous and sinister, their shadows long and shifting in the light from the roaring bonfire.

Helena called for silence. All chatter died, and Claudia heard it, a low, distant clamour coming from the darkness of the trees. At first she thought it was armed men massing for attack, until she heard the clash of weapons and faint cries, and glimpsed a glow of burning amongst the trees. A fierce bloody fight was taking place in the woods stretching down to the coast, warrior against warrior, in the pitch darkness of night.

‘We have them!’ Helena exulted. ‘My boys have caught them in the dark amongst the trees. To them that’s Germany and the enemy are the Legions of Varus.’

‘It’s bad luck,’ Chrysis slurred, ‘to talk of that.’ He was immediately told to shut up.

‘Mother, dearest,’ Constantine rasped, ‘I need an explanation, a drink, or both.’

The Emperor would have continued, but the clamour of battle grew more distinct. Claudia realised why the sounds of the fight had not been heard in the villa. Burrus’s Germans must have trapped the enemy deep in the woods, driving them back to the coast. She also appreciated Helena’s reluctance to share her knowledge of the attack or order the dispatch of imperial troops. The men dying in the woods had been brought here by a traitor; the real enemy was within. Constantine was Emperor because his troops had hailed him as such. He would not be the first to be overthrown by those close to him. On this issue Helena had instructed her son, pointing out that virtually every single Emperor who had been assassinated had been killed by those very close to him.

‘I feel sick,’ Chrysis moaned. ‘It’s like standing on the deck of a ship.’

Claudia watched the fat chamberlain hurry down the steps into the gardens, where the imperial garrison was beginning to muster under the direction of their officers. He headed into the bushes, and Claudia wondered if he had been plotting. She heard Helena exclaim and turned back. The Empress was pointing to where a tongue of flame was shooting against the blackness.

‘Someone was carrying a pot of oil or a bucket of pitch,’ Helena murmured.

The clamour and yells were now dying. Claudia was leaning against the wall, staring into the night, when the quiet was abruptly broken by a strange chanting. She recognised a favourite battle song of the mercenaries. Dark figures emerged from the trees, racing towards the gates; others carrying torches followed more slowly. A few of the figures danced like demons in the light, whirling round, leaping up and down, shaking the bundles in their hands. As they approached, Claudia realised these bundles were in fact severed heads. Other figures, a veritable flood, were emerging from the wood. Burrus, who had been guarding the gate, now went out to greet his companions, who clustered beneath the curtain wall staring devotedly up at their mistress. They saluted her with a clash of swords, raucous shouts and frenetic dancing, all the time shaking their grisly trophies. Other figures came more slowly up behind this group, and Claudia saw they were guarding a few prisoners.

The Augusta, leaning against the wall, her face and shoulders illuminated by a gleaming torch held by her son, lifted her hands in greeting and shouted that they were a horde of ruffians but she loved them dearly.

‘Let them in,’ Helena sighed, pushing herself away from the wall. ‘Let my lovely boys come in. Let them drink and eat to their hearts’ content, then it’ll be time for their beds.’

The gates were thrown open and the Germans swaggered in. Helena declared she could not stand any more of their salutations.

‘Now’s the time to think and talk,’ she snapped. ‘Claudia, tend to me. Son, praise the boys. Tell them that you kiss and hug them individually, promise them fresh meats and deep-bowled cups of wine. Order Burrus to bring the prisoners to the council chamber.’

A short while later, Helena, sitting on a stool next to her son, Claudia crouching beside her, waited for the arrival of Burrus and his prisoners. Rufinus, Chrysis and Sylvester had also been invited to this splendid chamber with scenes from the history of Rome decorating the walls under its domed ceiling, the star-painted plaster reflected in the sheen of the pure marble floor beneath. The windows were unshuttered and, because the hypocaust was sealed for the summer, the chamber was warmed by dishes of glowing charcoal and lit by countless lamps which a slave was tending. Gaius and his officers stood guard at the door. They stepped aside as Burrus and his captives swept into the chamber.

The barbarians looked ferocious and sinister, with their tangled hair and beards, faces, arms and weapons still splattered with blood. They dragged three prisoners with them, young men, cut and dirty, stripped to their loincloths, hands bound behind them. These were forced to kneel and give their names and ranks. One was a simple soldier, the other two were officers, decurions, from the garrison at Athens.

Helena snapped at Burrus to deliver his report, warning him not to brag. The German obeyed, describing how the attackers had made a mistake in following the path. He had killed their stragglers, rolling the line up like a piece of string until launching an all-out assault, surrounding them and carrying out bloody slaughter. Some of the attackers had fled back to the beach, where the galley had been protected by a line of archers. Burrus did not wish to expose his men and retreated, watching from the sand hills as the galley with its crew drifted back out to sea.

‘But it was beached?’ Constantine demanded.

‘No, Excellency.’ Burrus shook his head. ‘They had already dragged it back into the water. It was too dangerous to attack.’

Helena turned to the prisoners, but they could tell her very little. They described how the galley had left the main battle fleet and lurked off the Italian coast until the captain had taken their ship in. They had been told what to attack and nothing more.

‘Kill them!’ Chrysis slurred. ‘Take them outside and crucify them.’

Helena raised her hand. She got up from her stool and crouched in front of the prisoners.

‘Are you Roman citizens?’ she asked.

The two officers nodded, but the soldier was a mere hireling.

Helena unpinned a paper-thin silver brooch from her gown. She whispered to her son, who smiled and nodded in agreement, then handed the brooch to Burrus.

‘Break it in two,’ she ordered. ‘Go on,’ she urged, ‘do as I say.’

The German took the brooch, snapped it and handed both pieces back to Helena. She crouched in front of one of the officers and placed half of the brooch on the ground before him.

‘You’re not going to die,’ she said. ‘You are all going to be washed and fed, given a fresh set of clothes, a hot meal and some soft straw for a bed. Tomorrow morning my mercenaries will take you down to the nearest port. You can take whatever ship you want back to Corinth or Piraeus, on one condition: you tell Licinius that the attack failed, and that I will root out the traitor. You will give him a gift, half of this silver brooch, and tell him, don’t forget this, that one day soon my son will come to claim that half of the brooch back.’