The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 8

Claudia rose early next morning and went immediately to the small chancery room between the atrium and the peristyle garden. The storm had broken during the night, the flower beds and paving stones were saturated and the sky still looked greyish dull. Claudia reckoned it must be at least an hour before sunrise. Slaves were slowly mustering, beginning the routine of the day, tidying the gardens and clearing food from the triclinium. The villa had turned into an armed camp: sentries had been doubled, soldiers patrolled the colonnades, archers had been posted on rooftops and the upper storeys of buildings. Helena’s Germans had spent the hours of darkness roistering boisterously but were still able to patrol the gardens. They had set up camp around the gates and were now busy taunting the regular soldiers. Claudia could hear their shouts and guffaws of laughter even from the chancery room.

She slipped in, closed the door and hastily collected a writing pallet, styli, strips of ready parchment, ink pots, a pumice stone and a sand shaker. She put these carefully into her leather scribe’s bag and went into the kitchen to beg a small jug of watered beer and a platter of yesterday’s bread, some hard cheese and ripe plums. Once she’d eaten, she returned to her own chamber, secured the door, cleared a corner and squatted down cross-legged, the writing tray across her lap. She positioned the ink pot on the floor, sharpened a stylus, soaked the tip and began to write down the problems confronting her.

Gladius Sanctus — The Holy Sword

Primo:

The sword hung on a chain above a broad circle of sand. The chain could only be moved away from the centre by someone with a long pole, spear or sword. They might still have to stand on the sand, which would be disturbed. The door was guarded by two Germans, the keys held by Timothaeus and Burrus.

Secundo:

On the day in question, Timothaeus entered the chamber. The sword had gone. Timothaeus fainted and was carried out. No one else was there. The Germans were terrified at what they regarded as a holy place. The cellar was searched carefully by Gaius Tullius. Nothing was found. Nothing was out of place, although the sand had been disturbed due to Timothaeus fainting. Now the steward was lifted out on a stretcher; he could scarcely have hidden the sword on him — that would have been noticed. If he had taken in a rod or hook, that too would have been observed. The only thing he carried was a lantern horn scarcely big enough to hide anything in. If the sword or implement was hidden in the cellar, Gaius Tullius would have found it in his search.

Tertio:

The door to the cellar had two locks, the keys held separately. From everything I observed and heard there was no evidence of any trickery here.

Quarto:

Narcissus was one of those who helped carry Timothaeus’s stretcher out of the cellar.

Claudia drew a line and made a second heading:

Dionysius

Then she nibbled the end of the stylus and stared at the wall. The philosopher’s death was the key to so much mystery; that and the burning of the House of Mourning. She dipped her stylus and began to write.

Primo:

Dionysius had gone to the orchard to think, to be alone. Or had he been invited there? He was sitting with his back to the tree when he was stunned by a blow to the head. Once weakened, he was apparently gagged and bound, dragged into the trees, pegged out like a lion skin, cut countless times and allowed to bleed to death.

Secundo:

Dionysius’s corpse was moved to the House of Mourning, joining that of an old beggar man. According to all the evidence, the cords and gag were removed but nothing remarkable was noticed.

Tertio:

Later that same day, after darkness, the House of Mourning was consumed by a ferocious fire. Did the killer burn the corpse to hide some mistake, some clue to his identity? Was it to start the beacon fire, or both? Such arson would have been easy to arrange. A cord leading to a cluster of oil skins which was lit whilst the perpetrator fled into the darkness. Yet would oil burn so fiercely as to create such an inferno?

Claudia remembered searching amongst the ruins. She had caught a certain sweetness but had put this down to some accident with the fire. Who was the arsonist? Gaius Tullius had been with her, but only the gods knew where everyone else was. Claudia paused. There was something about that fire she had missed, something she couldn’t place. Recalling her suspicions about Narcissus, she sighed and returned to her task.

Quarto:

The motive behind Dionysius’s death. Was it the result of bad blood between the orthodox and Arian parties, or did it have its origins in the betrayals which took place some ten years ago when Diocletian launched his savage persecution of the Christian faith and singled out Capua for special attention? The orators now live lives of apparent probity but what about their past? Are they hiding secret sins? Are they frightened of old crimes catching them out? Or was Dionysius’s death the work of someone like Chrysis, a dyed-in-the wool pagan? He would love to turn this public debate into a bloody arena where the Christians could tear each other to pieces in front of the Emperor and bring their religion into public disrepute.

Quinto:

Why kill Dionysius in such a gruesome fashion? A knife thrust, a garrotte string, a barbed arrow or a cup of poison would have been just as effective. What did the killer intend? Was the method chosen to inflict as much pain as possible? What could prompt such malice?

Sexto:

Finally, is there any connection between the theft of the sword and Dionysius’s death?

Claudia picked up a new stylus, drew a line and made a further entry:

The Traitor

Primo:

The assault on the villa last night was launched from a galley which came in from the sea to land a corps of assassins. The galley was signalled to by a series of beacon fires started here in the villa, which means the attack was planned, Licinius was given precise information about when and where the Emperor and his mother were staying, but that was common knowledge. Constantine’s love for the Villa Pulchra is well known. He published his intentions to come here. The galley must have stayed off the coast and waited for the signal that the Emperor had actually arrived.

Secundo:

Are Dionysius’s killer and the traitor the same person? Was the sword stolen to hand over to Licinius, who could use it to ridicule the Emperor’s mother? Had the arsonist always plotted to use the House of Mourning as a beacon light?

Claudia closed her eyes. Logic dictated a connection, she thought, but where was the evidence?

Tertio:

Was the attack the work of Licinius, Emperor in the East? Probably, yet as Chrysis illustrated at the supper party, there are those at court eager to seek a casus belli, a reason to go to war and make Constantine Imperator Orbis, Emperor of the World.

Claudia put the stylus down and leaned back, stretching out her legs to ease the cramp. She recalled the fierce discussion in the council chamber after the prisoners had been removed. Constantine had been furious that his mother had taken full responsibility for defending the villa. He had been supported by his officers, and even Rufinus had nodded in agreement. Helena, however, had remained calm and composed, arguing that the attack, by definition, was secret, composed of a modest force which, if surprised, could be defeated. The attackers would have had to move through woodland, during the dead of night. Such conditions were most favourable to her Germans. Finally, and on this point Helena would not concede, there was a traitor in the villa. If the attackers had been warned, they would have withdrawn and waited for another day. As it was, she had frustrated the attack and sent a powerful reply to Licinius. Sharp discussion had followed, but Helena had won the day.

Constantine then raised a question which had also concerned Claudia. If the House of Mourning had been fired by the traitor who had lit the other beacon lights, who was missing from the villa that night? Gaius Tullius went to check, returning sometime later, whilst Helena was still arguing with her son, to report that no one had left, although he could not be certain as most of the guards on picket duty had been massacred during the assault.

Claudia’s stylus skimmed across the piece of parchment. She sanded it and moved to a new piece. Outside she could hear voices and realised the villa was stirring. She got up and stretched, then crouched back into the corner, making herself comfortable. She picked up the writing tray and wrote the final heading.

Spicerius, Murranus, Meleager

Primo:

People are intrigued as to why Murranus didn’t close to kill his weakened opponent, but that is Murranus, the way he fights. Spicerius was poisoned, but the potion was not strong enough to kill him. Was the wine poisoned? Or was it some other method? Was Spicerius weakened so Murranus could kill him easily? Was the poisoning an act of personal vengeance against Spicerius, or even against Murranus? Or was it just the result of heavy betting? Yet why were these wagers being laid unless Murranus was going to win?

Claudia chewed on her lip. In a few days’ time Murranus would fight Spicerius, and if victorious face Meleager. She wrote down that fateful name and scored a line beneath it time and time again. She could feel a surge of emotion, not so much hot and angry, more cold and calculating. She felt like a swordsman studying an opponent, watching for his weakness, wondering where to strike. She threw the stylus down to distract herself, and tried to review what she had written, but she kept going back to that dreadful meeting. Had Meleager recognised her? Rufinus said he had been in the villa some time. Was it he who had attacked her? Drawn that crude painting on the wall?

Claudia suddenly found it difficult to breathe, as if someone was pressing on her chest. She got to her feet, rolled the pieces of parchment into a scroll and squeezed them into the square wallet on her belt. She left the chamber to walk the corridor. She passed one of the guards and paused, thinking about the oil lamp that had been thrown into her room. Who was allowed into the imperial quarters? A slave hurried by carrying two jugs of water; such individuals were let through without a second glance. Was that what her attacker had done? Pretended to be a servant or slave? She continued walking and found herself in the peristyle garden. The sun was beginning to rise, drying the paving stones, flooding that beautiful garden with light which glimmered in the pool and reflected on the marble pillars. The flowerbeds seemed to come to life in a dazzle of colour, the birdsong was clear from the bushes and shrubs around the garden. Claudia found a dry seat and sat down facing the rising sun. She half closed her eyes, drinking in the beauty.

‘Good morning, Claudia.’ She started as Athanasius, his face heavy with sleep, sat down beside her. ‘I’m sorry if I made you jump. I rose early. All this excitement from last night. What happened?’

Claudia told him about the attack, keeping the details as vague as possible. Athanasius, hitching his robe around his shoulders, listened with a half-smile as he realised she wouldn’t tell him much.

‘I’m searching for Septimus,’ he said when she had finished. ‘I haven’t seen him at all. I’m a little worried. Where could he be?’

Claudia kept silent; she really wanted to be alone.

‘Oh, sometimes he wanders off.’ Athanasius nudged her playfully. ‘He too likes to be alone. What a beautiful place. I remember the debate here and, afterwards, you talking to that slave.’

Claudia stiffened.

‘You know the one.’ Athanasius kept his voice level. ‘He is responsible for the House of Mourning. Last night, at the supper party, I tried to make friends with Justin and, to be fair, he tried to do the same. He said something very curious about that slave. .’

‘Narcissus?’

‘Ah, yes, Narcissus. Justin believed he’d seen him before, in Capua, a slave of a rather large Christian family. The head of the house was a funeral manager. Justin was sure Narcissus worked for him.’

Claudia tried to suppress her shiver.

‘And there’s something else. The afternoon Dionysius died-’

‘Murdered,’ Claudia retorted, ‘Dionysius was murdered.’

‘Ah yes, so he was. Well, I went down to the House of Mourning. The windows on either side were shuttered whilst the door was locked from the inside. In the Christian tradition, it is a just and holy thing to pray for the dead. I wanted to kneel by Dionysius’s corpse and recite a few prayers. I was surprised the door was locked, so I knocked and knocked until my knuckles turned sore. Eventually the door opened, and Narcissus stood there looking very guilty. He claimed to have fallen asleep. I told him to stand aside and went in. I glanced around, but there was nothing amiss. The old man lay wrapped in his sacking, Dionysius was stretched out on his slab like a piece of meat. Now there was something about that chamber. . I have been to Egypt, Claudia, I visited the Necropolis on the West Bank of the Nile. I’ve been to their embalmers’ shops; that’s what it smelled like.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’

Athanasius closed his eyes. ‘A large chest in the far corner, nothing else. After I’d finished my prayers, I went out.’

‘Did you notice anything untoward? Please, Athanasius, think.’

‘Just the corpses. Dionysius looked dreadful, mouth gaping, eyes half open. He looked as if he’d been soaked in blood. One thing I did notice, the ropes and gag the killer had used were piled on the floor just beneath the slab. When Justin was trying to be friendly last night, I told him how I’d been to the House of Mourning to pay my respects, and how the fire had had nothing to do with me. Justin didn’t accept that; however, he did say that he too had gone down there to pray. This time the House of Mourning was locked from the outside and the slave Narcissus was sleeping under a sycamore tree, a beer jug next to him. Justin also demanded to see the corpse; Narcissus wasn’t very pleasant about it.’

Athanasius got to his feet.

‘Do you remember the poems of Juvenal?’ He smiled down at Claudia. ‘He once posed a question: who shall guard the guards?’

‘And?’ Claudia asked.

‘In your case, little one,’ Athanasius bent down, ‘you must ask the question: who spies on the spies?’

The philosopher walked away.

‘Claudia?’

She whirled round. Burrus and Gaius Tullius were standing at the entrance to the peristyle garden. The German was dressed in his shaggy fur cloak; Gaius had put on a leather breastplate, a sword belt wrapped round his waist, marching boots on his feet. He carried a helmet under his arm which displayed the imperial scarlet and black plume. He beckoned with his hand.

‘Claudia, the Augusta has asked me to seek you out.’

She got to her feet and walked over.

‘We are to walk the track down to the coast. The Augusta was quite specific. You are to accompany us. She says you have sharp eyes and perhaps will see things we would miss.’

‘Not in a forest she won’t,’ Burrus grumbled.

‘Do you want to collect your cloak?’ The Captain ignored the German’s interruption. ‘Before we leave I want to show you something.’ And, spinning on his heel, Gaius Tullius marched away, leaving Claudia and Burrus no choice but to hurry on behind. They skirted the palace going across to the ruined House of Mourning. Gaius didn’t stop there but led them both into a clump of sycamore trees, a rather wild, untended part of the garden where the unruly brambles and gorse stretched up to the curtain wall. He pushed his way through these, Burrus behind opening a path for Claudia.

At one point Claudia paused and squatted down to examine some bones, lamb and beef, with dried scraps of meat still clinging to them. Nearby, rolled up in a ball, was a soiled napkin and, under a thorn bush, an earthenware wine jug.

‘Someone’s been feasting.’

Gaius came back to stand over her. ‘The servants are always stealing away to eat the food they’ve filched, but that’s not important. Come on. .’

They reached a small clearing just before the wall. Gaius pointed to the strong, reinforced Syrian bow lying on the ground, an empty quiver and, beside it, an earthenware pot blackened by fire.

‘I found these this morning,’ he explained, ‘or rather, my men and I did. We decided to search the grounds for anything suspicious. There was always the possibility that one of the attackers had broken through and might be hiding here.’

Claudia went across and picked up the bow. The wood and cord were soaked, as were the quiver and the earthenware pot, which still reeked of pitch and fire.

‘This must have been here some time,’ she murmured. ‘What do you think, Gaius?’

The Captain’s smooth-shaven face showed the strain of the previous night, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

‘I wish the Augusta had trusted us,’ he replied, as if talking to himself. ‘I mean no offence, Burrus.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I suppose I’m trying to prove myself. I suspect the bow, the quiver and pot of fire were used by the traitor. The House of Mourning was not a beacon fire, but on the night it was destroyed, the traitor used the confusion to loose fire arrows into the air.’

Claudia, squatting down, stared at the bow and the wall, then back in the direction they had come. What Gaius said made sense, but it still left the question of who had started the beacon fires.

‘Burrus!’ She beckoned the mercenary forward. ‘We will not be walking through the woods. No, no, Gaius,’ she held up her hand, ‘I will explain to the Augusta. I want you to send your best men into the woods, Burrus. I want them to stay away from where the battle took place. Tell them,’ she gestured with her hand, ‘to scour the area to the left of the path as you leave the villa.’

‘What are they looking for?’ Burrus asked.

‘Signs of encampment, perhaps two or three men living in the woods. They must have left a camp fire, dug a small latrine pit. They were probably soldiers, or perhaps even travelling tinkers or pedlars. If they did set up camp it would be fairly recent. Search for fire pits, scraps of clothing or food.’

Burrus nodded and hurried off.

‘And me?’ Gaius grinned. ‘Do you have orders for me?’

‘Yes, Captain, in fact I do.’

She paused as Athanasius’s voice drifted across the grass. ‘Septimus? Septimus?’

‘He’s been searching for him,’ Gaius groaned. ‘Knowing these philosophers, Septimus is probably sleeping it off somewhere.’

‘I want you to find Timothaeus,’ Claudia declared. ‘I want to talk with him about the wanderer in the woods.’

‘The old man who was found dead on the track outside the villa?’

‘The same,’ Claudia replied.

As Gaius strode off, Claudia went back to re-examine the bow and quiver and the small pot used to carry fire. She was now genuinely puzzled and intrigued why Narcissus would lie. He had told her he had left the House of Mourning, filled his stomach, drunk too much and gone to sleep it off some distance away. She now believed he was lying and wondered why. But there again, she reflected grimly, she had a number of questions for her new-found friend.

A short while later Gaius came marching back, Timothaeus hastening beside him. The steward looked rather ill and unkempt, his face unshaven, his tunic stained.

‘Sit down on the grass.’

‘It’s wet,’ Timothaeus declared. ‘Haven’t you forgotten, Claudia, it rained last night?’

She shrugged and sat on a marble seat, inviting Gaius to join them.

‘The wanderer in the woods,’ she began. ‘The old man found dead near the villa shortly before the Emperor arrived.’

‘That’s right,’ the steward agreed, blinking wearily. ‘Don’t you remember, Gaius, I came and saw you about him. The old man was a nuisance.’ Timothaeus turned back to Claudia. ‘He wandered the woods and often came to the villa to beg for scraps. He was well known to the farmers around here, though there aren’t many of these left now,’ he added mournfully. ‘I understand our attackers slaughtered everyone who couldn’t flee. We should have crucified those prisoners.’ His fingers flew to his lips. ‘Crucified!’ he muttered. ‘I’m a Christian, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

‘Tell me about the wanderer in the woods,’ Claudia insisted.

‘One of the guards found the old man on the track.’ Timothaeus tapped the left side of his face. ‘He had bruises all along here. Sometimes he was drunk, I thought he’d had a fall or fit. Isn’t that right, Gaius?’

The Captain agreed. ‘At any other time,’ he drawled, ‘we would have tossed such a corpse into the undergrowth, but I felt sorry for him. The villa has a burial pit just beyond the eastern wall. I had the corpse taken to the House of Mourning and wrapped in a shroud. Timothaeus here,’ he added sardonically, ‘as a Christian, claimed it was a pious act to bury the dead, say a prayer and pour a libation over the grave.’

‘Are you a Christian,’ Claudia asked Gaius, ‘or any of your family?’

‘Go through the records, Claudia. I didn’t take part in the persecution, but my family are no friends of the Christians. Nevertheless,’ Gaius patted Timothaeus on the shoulder, ‘some I like. Timothaeus is a good fellow. Anyway, my man declared what he had found, and Timothaeus asked for my help. I had the wanderer brought in; his body was dirty, the head all bloodied.’

‘Could he have been murdered?’ Claudia asked.

Gaius made a face. ‘Possibly. But who would want to kill an old man? All I can remember is that he stank worse than a dog pit. The Emperor arrived in the early afternoon, just after we found the body.’ Gaius moved his head from side to side. ‘It was taken to the death house and then the fun began: Dionysius’s murder.’

‘Timothaeus, you said. .’ Claudia paused; she wanted to be precise as possible, ‘you claimed the wanderer in the woods was a nuisance?’

‘Well, he had been for the last few days before he died. Mistress, I don’t know whether he had a fall or was attacked. I had his body taken up because I felt guilty. The old fellow kept knocking at the gate saying he wished to see the Emperor. I told him to bugger off.’ Timothaeus looked wistfully at her. ‘Perhaps I should have been kinder? We didn’t really look at his corpse, did we, Gaius? The soldiers wrapped him in a shroud, no more than a piece of sacking, put it on a stretcher and brought it in.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Gaius asked.

Claudia stared at the ruined House of Mourning.

‘What sort of people were taken there?’

‘Now and again,’ Timothaeus replied, ‘the occasional guest dies. Anybody with family, well, we hold the corpse until kith and kin come and claim it. As for the rest,’ he rubbed his eyes, ‘usually servants, household slaves. They are put there and later buried or burnt.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, mistress, I have duties, and so does Gaius.’

They both drifted away. Claudia got to her feet and walked over to the sycamore tree where the Emperor had sheltered on the night of the fire. She walked back to examine the remains of the meal strewn on the hard-packed earth. She also noticed how, here and there, the ground had been dug up, but now it was baked hard.

‘Claudia!’

She got to her feet, brushing off the dust, and peeped around a bush. Narcissus was walking up and down, arms flailing. ‘Claudia!’

‘Just the person!’ she whispered. She stepped from behind the bush and tiptoed quietly up to Narcissus, pushing him hard on the shoulder. He whirled round.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Claudia.’

‘And I’ve been looking for you!’ She smiled back. ‘Come, sit and talk with me!’ She patted his arm. ‘I thought I was a good actress but, Narcissus, your acting ability is equal to mine.’

‘What do you mean?’ he spluttered. ‘Claudia, now is not the time for teasing. I want to know where I’m going to live. How long are you staying at the villa?’

‘Never mind that.’ Claudia gestured to the garden seat. ‘I want to talk to you about the wanderer in the woods. No, Narcissus, don’t start trembling or crying. You knew the old man?’

‘Of course,’ he muttered, avoiding her gaze. ‘Everyone knew him. But I’m frightened. Claudia, what happened last night?’

‘You know what happened, Narcissus: the villa was attacked. The beacon lights? You were the one who saw them, weren’t you?’ She noticed how flushed he’d become. ‘The wanderer in the woods, do you think he was murdered?’ She grabbed his wrist and dug her nails in. ‘Don’t lie, Narcissus. You examined his corpse, as you examine all the bodies taken into the House of Mourning. Some of those you don’t dare to touch, but as for others, don’t you practise your embalming skills on them?’

Narcissus refused to reply.

‘Do you know something?’ Claudia continued blithely. ‘I think you’ve been telling me lies about a lot of things.’

‘I. .’

‘Oh, don’t start acting. You’re an embalmer from Syria who became involved in a revolt and were sold into slavery. Yes?’

Narcissus nodded.

‘You were dispatched to Italy and. .’

‘I came here.’

Claudia slapped his face. ‘I’ll slap you again if you lie. I liked you, Narcissus, but I don’t really know who you are. You’ve been at this villa some time, haven’t you? You know people like Timothaeus. You also know me, and you owe me a great deal, so let’s have the truth.’

‘I arrived in Italy,’ Narcissus began slowly. ‘I was put up for sale in Tarentum.’

‘Capua,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘Don’t forget Capua, Narcissus.’

‘Well, yes,’ he continued hastily. ‘I was sold to a farmer who regarded me as next to useless, so I ended up on the slave block, where I was bought by a Christian family.’

‘Ah,’ Claudia smiled, ‘and you’re a Christian, aren’t you, Narcissus? I’m sure you are a convert.’ She patted his arm. ‘You made a mistake. You actually wondered if there was a different funeral rite for the Arians as opposed to the orthodox. Strange, I thought, how come a pagan slave, a man immersed in the burial rites of Egypt, is so knowledgeable about orthodox Christians and Arians? Who knows,’ she peered at him round-eyed, ‘you may have made other slips.’ Claudia was pleased; she wasn’t ready to confront Narcissus on everything, but her remark had truly frightened him. ‘You were saying?’ she urged.

‘My new master was a funeral manager. He was kindly, with a large family, boys and girls. They lived in a villa on the edge of the town, a lovely place, mistress, gardens and orchards, olive groves and a vineyard. He made his own wine; it tasted very good. I was so happy. What my master wanted, I wanted. I accepted the White Christ. I would believe anything my master did. I was often used by him as a messenger, as a trusted confidant. He admired my embalming skills. He used to laugh, slap me on the shoulder and claim I made the most grotesque corpse kissable. On the Sabbath day, just before the evening meal, his villa became the meeting place for Christians. Their priests, who received what they call the laying on of hands, would come to celebrate the Agape, the Eucharist, what they term the love feast: the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine. They believe it’s the Body and Blood of Christ.

‘Now, my master was very wealthy. He was patron of the oratory school in the town; he liked nothing better than to invite speakers to his villa for the Agape. After the ceremony was over we would have supper out under the stars, the night air sweet with the perfume of hyacinth. The speakers would entertain us debating some topic or other. On other occasions my master would take his entire household down to the school to watch the orators declaim.’ Narcissus put his face in his hands. ‘An idyllic time! Virgil would have sung about it in his poetry.’

‘And?’ Claudia asked.

‘Oh, I met everyone there. The school of oratory at Capua was famous; even Chrysis came, to improve his speaking and public presentation. He considered himself a new Cicero. He loved to quote the Pro Milone or the Contra Catilinam and other speeches of the great orator. I’m not too sure,’ Narcissus screwed his eyes up, ‘I think Chrysis had to leave, some scandal about paying fees, or in his case, not paying them.’

‘And Gaius Tullius?’

Narcissus shook his head. ‘I’ve talked to him. He spent most of his time in Gaul or Britain. He is a pagan through and through and can’t see what all the fuss is about. I never met him until I came here.’

‘And the steward Timothaeus?’

‘He never came, but I understand he had a brother there.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He disappeared during the persecution. Timothaeus doesn’t know whether he fled, was arrested or killed.’ Narcissus shrugged. ‘No one knows! The rest of the speakers were there, Athanasius, Dionysius and the rest. They were young then, learning the art of public speaking, being trained to deliver a speech with a pebble in their mouth or recite without notes. Looking back, they were all puffed up as barnyard cocks. Justin regarded himself as the new Demosthenes.’

‘You’re an educated man, Narcissus, you know all the names.’

‘My master was a great scholar. He educated me, he let me read his library.’

‘Then it all ended?’

‘Yes, it all ended,’ Narcissus declared wearily. ‘I loved that family, mistress. My master promised me my freedom, planned to have me as a business partner. We could have cornered the trade in that town. You should have seen his warehouses. He had the best funeral paraphernalia: masks, fans, caskets, even his own group of musicians. Diocletian ended all that. He issued his edict, Christianity was once again proscribed, its scriptures and symbols banned.’ Narcissus began to cry, sobbing quietly. Claudia noticed his fists clenched in balls, the veins in his arms standing out like tight cords. This man, she reflected, could kill. And what about Timothaeus? He had had a brother in Capua who apparently disappeared. Chrysis? He was a different matter. He was always known for his sticky fingers, reluctant to pay his debts.

As Narcissus sobbed, he reminded Claudia of a child, his tears being those of anger rather than sorrow.

‘My master’s family,’ he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, ‘were denounced. The soldiers came in the dead of night, they found a copy of the Christian scriptures, the Chi and Rho and the icthus sign, the fish, the letters of which, as you know, stand for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour of the World”. I was there shivering in the dark when the soldiers pushed this symbol into my master’s face asking him to renounce it. He refused, as did his family. They were all taken up, bound and tied, pushed out of the door and into a cart. I was ignored; you see, I was a slave, I didn’t exist. I was left like a ghost in that empty house. I stayed there for about four days. People came asking what had happened. I couldn’t believe it! I saw it in their eyes: I was the traitor, I had betrayed my master. So I fled, and hid out in the countryside.’

‘How did you survive?’

‘I knew about the Christian community, names and places. Once I was in hiding, fleeing for my life, I was accepted as one of them, but I faced many dangers. I could be branded as a traitor by the Christians or a runaway slave by the authorities. If I was captured I could expect the cross or end up facing some great bear in the arena. One of the farmers I sheltered with told me how the authorities had now made a tally of my master’s possessions. I was on it but missing. They wanted me.’ Narcissus held his hands up. ‘Mistress, I swear I never betrayed them, but I knew if I was captured I would be tortured. I lurked out in the countryside,’ he blew his cheeks out, ‘oh, two or three years, then I was passed north and given shelter in the catacombs. I looked after the graves of the dead. The years passed quickly. I came to the attention of the presbyter Sylvester and confessed my whole story to him.’

‘I’m sure you did.’ Claudia smiled thinly. ‘And Sylvester arranged for you to come here?’

‘Yes, mistress, because of Constantine’s Edict of Toleration. Our new Emperor made it very clear: runaway slaves had to recognise their status and surrender to the authorities. Sylvester explained he could do nothing for me but soften the blow. He would arrange a good post; sure enough, I was presented to Chrysis and dispatched here.’

‘So you haven’t been here five years?’ Claudia smiled.

‘Of course not.’

Claudia studied him closely. She believed Narcissus was telling the truth, or at least part of it. She could also understand the Augusta’s generosity towards this Syrian embalmer. Helena knew everything and would have learned all about Narcissus’s previous life.

‘You’re a spy, aren’t you?’ Claudia asked. ‘Sylvester made that one of his conditions. Anything you learn you pass on to Timothaeus or someone like me; that’s why you approached me in the garden in the first place. Sylvester does nothing without setting a price, which is always the same: the advancement of the Christian community. It’s good to have a spy at the Villa Pulchra.’

‘Just information,’ Narcissus protested. ‘I know what I saw that night, I mean the beacon fires. I swore an oath of loyalty to Sylvester and I kept it. At that time, sitting out under the stars, I didn’t realise that what I had seen was so important.’

‘Who did betray your master?’

Claudia had deliberately changed the questioning, and for a moment she caught the shift in Narcissus’s eyes, a hard, calculating look. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you must have made enquiries. People talk. Names,’ she snapped, ‘you must have overheard names?’

‘Dionysius, Septimus.’ Narcissus was now solemn.

‘Did you dishonour Dionysius’s corpse?’

‘I spat in its face.’

‘What else did you do, Narcissus? Did you examine that old man, the wanderer in the woods?’

‘I. .’

Claudia raised her hand threateningly. ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

‘I think so.’ Narcissus looked away. ‘Yes, I think so. He was covered in dirt and dust, some bleeding to the side of his head. He had thick shaggy hair. His skull was stoved in, but there again, it could have been an accident.’

‘You practise your art, don’t you?’ Claudia asked. ‘You’re an embalmer skilled in the Osirian rites, drawing out the brains and entrails. You did that to the wanderer in the woods, as you’ve practised before on corpses of slaves.’

‘No one knows,’ Narcissus confessed. ‘I felt I had to do it to help them on their journey, and to keep my art alive. What harm did I do? Who cares about some old slave?’

‘You bury the waste in the woods, don’t you? I’ve seen the places where you hide it. More importantly, you had a chest in the House of Mourning filled with resin oil and other combustibles. That was your little kingdom, which is why you never left it. You locked the door and slept underneath the nearby sycamore tree, where you were when the fire broke out. You thought you’d be blamed, so you fled in the night. You were terrified in case they found out what you kept there and what you did. Now, Narcissus, that’s all in the past. On that particular night, did you see anything suspicious?’

‘I was frightened,’ he pleaded. ‘Those orators coming to visit the corpse. . I never expected that. I took a jug of beer and drank too deeply. When I woke up, the fire. .’ He sprang to his feet. ‘I’ve got duties. .’

‘No you haven’t, Narcissus. You are no longer a slave, but a free man.’ She grasped him by the wrist. ‘I have other questions for you, but for the time being, they will wait. Don’t run off.’

Claudia basked in the sunshine reflecting on what Narcissus had said. Slowly but surely she was collecting the pieces. She started up at the clash of weapons. Burrus and a group of his mercenaries came swaggering across, bringing with them a young man. His hair was tousled, and he was dressed in a dark tunic bound round the middle by a cord. Burrus was treating him gently, his great paw on his shoulder, but the young man was clearly terrified, and if the German had taken his hand away he would have bolted like a hare.

‘We found it!’ The Germans ringed Claudia, and the young man they’d escorted fell to his knees before her.

‘Found what?’ Claudia squinted up at them.

‘Traces of camp fires, about two or three men camping out in the woods for some time. A water bottle, scraps of food and clothing.’

‘And who’s he?’

The young man knelt, teeth chattering, eyes all startled.

‘Speak.’ Burrus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Tell the mistress what you saw.’

The young man gabbled in a dialect Claudia found difficult to follow; she had to ask him to slow down and repeat what he had said. However, he was still distracted by fear, and only when Claudia offered a coin did he begin to talk more slowly. She established that he was a farm worker from a nearby estate who had fled when the attack had been launched on his master’s house. He had come in from the field, glimpsed figures leave the tree-line and race towards the main door of the farm. He had stood terrified as he heard the clash of weapons, the muted screams.

Burrus punched him on the shoulder. ‘No, not that. Tell the mistress what you saw!’

The young man declared how, on the night the House of Mourning had been burned, he had been out in the fields hoping to catch some game. He gave an accurate description of the field Claudia had visited: lonely, lying fallow under the moonlight and ringed by trees. He had been about to cross it when, through the dark, he glimpsed a fire burning. He’d sat and watched it flare, then decided to withdraw and tell his master, but all they found the next morning were burnt embers so they dismissed it as the work of poachers or people hiding out in the woods.

Claudia thanked the young man, gave him the coin and dismissed him. She expected Burrus to move away, but the German stood staring around.

‘Where’s he gone?’ he asked abruptly. ‘The one who walks so quietly?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Claudia replied testily.

‘Gaius,’ Burrus explained. ‘I want to apologise.’ He peered down at Claudia. ‘Gaius is a good soldier, but he is deeply upset that the Empress didn’t trust him. I’ve got to explain.’ He snapped his fingers and left to continue his search.

Claudia stood up, stretched and decided to go back to the villa. She was approaching a side entrance when she heard her name called. Sylvester stood in a portico, beckoning her over.

‘I was hoping I would meet you.’

Claudia leaned against a pillar, aware of its coolness.

‘How do you feel?’ Sylvester sounded solicitous. ‘I mean, about Meleager. Don’t be frightened of him, Claudia. God’s justice is like a hound, it always finds its prey. You’re amongst friends here. Anyway, Meleager has gone, he’s left for Rome.’

Claudia felt herself relax, taking a deep breath. She was dreading meeting that gladiator again.

‘So many unexpected things have happened.’ Sylvester shook his head.

‘Did you plan all this?’ Claudia asked wearily.

‘How could I plan such chaos?’ Sylvester replied, staring over her shoulder. She turned and glimpsed Justin hurrying by.

‘Well?’ She turned back. ‘We have all the people here: Timothaeus, Narcissus, Athanasius.’

‘I never thought murder would join us,’ Sylvester replied, ‘or treason.’

‘Why did you arrange this?’ Claudia asked. ‘Why ask orators from Capua, why not from some other city? There are similar schools in towns all over Italy.’

‘Capua was chosen for two reasons. First, Athanasius is, perhaps, our greatest orator. Secondly. .’ Sylvester caught her by the arm and led her deep into the shadows, ‘Militiades, the Bishop of Rome, had relatives, blood kin, who were caught up in the last persecution. They too came from Capua. He thought the debate might bring the matters to the fore, information might surface, some clarification of what happened so many years ago. So many people died in Capua, Claudia, but that’s in the past.’ Sylvester sighed. ‘Militiades believes we will win the argument. I suppose,’ he added, ‘my Bishop hoped that this debate would show that the Arian party were the House of Traitors and Betrayers, but of course, life is not so simple. I did warn him about that. The persecution is over, but the blood feuds continue.’

‘I know Narcissus is one of yours. The same is true of Timothaeus?’

‘Of course. A good man, very devout. Timothaeus even questions whether he should serve in a pagan household.’

‘You don’t really care, do you?’ Claudia retorted. ‘You and Militiades, you brought people together whose lives are full of shadows and ghosts. You must have known that those shadows would surface. All the rivalry, all the grudges.’

‘I do care,’ Sylvester replied. ‘A purging, a cleansing is very good. The Faith, our religion, must triumph. I said there were two reasons why this debate took place. In truth, there is a third, the cause and origin of it all.’ He curled his fingers into a fist. ‘We have Helena, the Augusta, and soon we shall have her son. Can’t you see, Claudia, the real reason for this debate? We actually rejoice in the divisions, the acrimony, the rivalry. We want it like that. We want the Augusta to intervene, to become one of us, to support the Bishop of Rome. It’s not just enough that Helena supports the Christian faith. Look, there are more divisions amongst Christians than there are fleas on a dog, but Rome holds everything together. One day we want people to see that an attack upon the Church is an attack upon the Empire, whilst an attack on the Empire is an attack upon us.’

Claudia stared at this clever priest who hid a cunning brain behind his gentle face and kind eyes.

‘That’s what it’s all about,’ she whispered. ‘You want Helena to support the Bishop of Rome, right or wrong; you see yourselves as co-Caesars, the spiritual arm of the Empire. Helena will rule in favour of Militiades, and what the Empress says has the force of law. The Bishop of Rome and the Emperor will become indistinguishable. Christianity will be a state religion and Militiades its high priest. Some day you will anoint the Emperor, but you won’t stop there, will you, Sylvester? Everything will come full circle; perhaps one day it will be the Bishop of Rome who decides who wears the purple, who dons the diadem.’

‘Dreams,’ Sylvester smiled, ‘dreams of glory, Claudia, of God’s kingdom being established on Earth. Helena has reached an understanding with us. We want a conclusion that will bind us together. We want her to rule in our favour so our teaching becomes an imperial edict. Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘one thing that certainly wasn’t planned, or expected, was that attack. What have you learned?’

Claudia glanced up at a carving of a face at the top of a pillar, a cherub with pursed lips and full-blown cheeks, its head surrounded by vine leaves. Idly she wondered how many in the villa fully realised what Sylvester was plotting.

‘Claudia?’ Sylvester asked.

‘The attack came from Licinius,’ she replied. ‘He dispatched a galley to the Italian coast but he already had agents in the countryside outside the villa. These lit the beacon fires once they had received the signal from here. The woods are thick and dense, and Licinius’s agents could lurk safely whilst they were waiting for the agreed sign. However, what they didn’t know, what they hadn’t counted on, was the wanderer in the woods, an old man who travelled these parts. I expect he became aware of these strangers and came to the villa to report what he had seen. Unfortunately for him, our traitor or his accomplices learned what he was gabbling about and had him killed. The rest you know: the fires were lit, the galley came in and the troops were landed. Are you pleased, Sylvester?’

‘At an attack on the Emperor? Of course not.’

‘You know what I mean,’ she taunted. ‘Constantine now has a reason for war. Is that part of your dream, your clever design? For Constantine to march east, to issue edicts of toleration there. You’ll be busy then, won’t you, with your legion of agents, stirring up trouble in the eastern provinces, preparing the way for your Saviour?’

Sylvester just laughed, raised his hand in greeting and walked away.

Justin, leader of the Arian party, had seen Claudia and Sylvester close in conversation. He truly wondered what they were talking about but was desperate to reach the latrines. Once there, he was pleased to find they were empty, except for the villa cat, a sinewy black creature which fled through one of the half-open windows. Justin took a seat at the far end, staring mournfully across at the mosaics on the far wall. He did not feel well, his stomach was upset, and the rich food and wine of the previous night had not helped. He was also anxious. He should not have accepted the invitation to this debate. He was trapped. He had come here expecting discussion, but Athanasius was at his best, Sylvester had the ear of the Augusta, and now Justin was caught by ghosts from the past. Athanasius was not only a brilliant orator but also the only one amongst the philosophers who was blameless. After all, as Athanasius liked to point out, after Diocletian had launched his persecution, Athanasius had eventually fled north, well away from Capua, while the rest had been caught up in the net.

Absent-mindedly, still absorbed in the problems that beset him, Justin cleaned himself with a sponge on the end of a stick, and went into the small lavarium to wash his hands and face. He had left the latrines and was passing a low red-bricked building with stairs leading down to a cellar door when he heard a voice echoing up the steps.

‘Justin, Justin.’

He stopped, recognising the building as something to do with the hypocaust; perhaps a place where fuel was stored.

‘Justin.’

He heard a creak and, stepping to his right, peered down the steps. The door at the bottom was now open.

‘Justin.’

The voice was eager, as if the person had found something. So absorbed was he with his problems that Justin forgot about Dionysius, or the fact that Septimus was missing. He went quickly down the steps and through the doorway; he was aware of a lamp glowing, of shadows flickering in the cavernous room. Someone was standing close to a pillar at the far end. He paused, and his assailant struck him on the back of the head.