Queen of the Night

Chapter 7

Omnia Romae cum pretio.

Everything in Rome comes with a price.

Juvenal, Satires

Claudia groaned and turned back to the girl. She was plump and very pretty, but now her face was tear-streaked and dirty, her hair a tangled mess, the tunic she wore stained and frayed, her legs and arms cut and bruised. Claudia forced the young woman to kneel well away from the bloodstains and, cupping her face in her hands, stared at her. Antonia was about to start screaming again. Claudia smacked her gently on the cheek.

'You are safe,' she whispered. 'I am Claudia,- these are German guards sent by the Augusta. How long have you been here?'

Claudia could make no sense of what the young woman told her. Antonia was shocked, horrified, talking as if in her sleep about dark passageways, men who touched her, that severed head in her lap. In the end they took her back into the city, Burrus using his authority at the city gates to hire a litter. The young woman was carried up to the Palatine Palace, where Senator Carinus, together with the Augusta and other leading courtiers, were waiting to receive her. In an adjoining chamber Claudia quickly described what had happened. Helena cursed like a trooper at the fate of Chaerea and vowed vengeance on his killers, but snapped how that would just have to wait. Claudia told her about the attack by the Inferni, how Burrus had intervened, the fire, then finding Antonia.

'They must have seen you,' Helena declared, walking up and down.

Claudia sat still on the bench.

'They must have seen you and decided to take Chaerea's head and burn his corpse to distract you. What hour was it?'

'Shortly before the eighth,' Claudia replied wearily. 'I don't really know.'

'They must have guessed you were coming,' Helena repeated. 'Now we'll have to wait.'

Claudia was refused permission to leave the palace but had to kick her heels in either the imperial gardens or one of the small refectories adjoining the kitchens. Slaves brought food and wine but she had little appetite. She learned from a chamberlain that the Lady Antonia had been stripped, bathed, anointed and perfumed, given a sip of drugged wine and put to sleep.

Later that day, Senator Carinus, one arm round his daughter, who now looked much refreshed, joined Claudia and the Augusta in a small enclosed garden. They sat in a flowered arbour. Carinus was eager to leave, but Helena was insistent that Antonia answer Claudia's questions. At first the young woman found it difficult to speak. She shook her head and blinked. Now and again she would lapse into silence or stare at her father as if recognising him for the first time. Claudia recognised the symptoms of shock, of sleep deprivation. She spoke softly, gently, pointing out that she needed Antonia's help, and at last the young woman, fortified by a cup of white Falernian, answered her questions, though she could give very little information. She had been taken from her father's garden, blindfolded, gagged, bound hand and foot and carried somewhere. It was always dark and cold. She was given food, something to drink and a slop bucket to serve as a latrine. She talked about one man fondling her and of him being killed; about her own terrors and fears. Helena intervened. Did Antonia know anything about the death of Chaerea, whose severed head had been placed in her lap? Antonia shook her head.

'There was some commotion last night,' she said, 'but they gave me some drugged wine. I woke once. Men were shouting and dogs howling, that is all I remember. This morning they came and told me that if I behaved I was to be freed. My father had paid the ransom. I was pulled to my feet and taken along tunnels. Some were narrow, others broad; now and again the stones scored my arms and feet, then I was out into the fresh air. It smelled so good, the sun was on my face. I was pushed ever so gently and taken to where you found me.' She gestured at Claudia, i was told to count to ten eight times, and only then was I to lift the blindfold. I was terrified, I don't know if I counted or not. I smelled the smoke, that hideous stench. Something was put in my lap. I could feel the wetness through my tunic' She stopped, fingers to her mouth. 'I thought it was a wineskin, something to drink or eat. I lifted my wrists and forced the blindfold off, and saw those dead eyes staring up at me, the gaping mouth.' Antonia staggered to her feet and ran off to retch and vomit behind a bush.

'I think she has said enough.' Senator Carinus leaned forward. 'Augusta, Claudia, I must take my child home.'

'In a short while,' Claudia murmured. 'There are other questions I must ask.' She got up, went over to Antonia and patted her gently on the shoulder. 'You've been very brave,' she whispered. 'It's all over now, but there are a few more questions I must ask. You know Theodore is dead?'

Antonia nodded, wiping her mouth.

'Come.' Claudia slipped her arm through Antonia's, but instead of returning to Senator Carinus, they walked across the lawns. 'Look around, Antonia: the plants, the roses, the flowers; see that peacock over there with its tail extended in such beautiful colours. Stare up at the sky. Don't you feel the evening breeze? It's all yours again.'

'Theodore,' Antonia asked. 'Was he killed defending me?'

'No, no.' Claudia swiftly described what had happened. Antonia began to cry again and Claudia hugged her close. 'I want to avenge his death as well. Tell me, Antonia, did Theodore remove the mask of one of your attackers?'

'No, no, he didn't!' Antonia replied. 'He leapt forward but was knocked down. By then I was seized and they were thrusting a gag into my mouth while the blindfold came down across my eyes, but no mask was taken off. Why do you ask?'

'Theodore claimed differently.' Claudia half smiled. 'He said that he removed one of the kidnapper's masks. That may be why he was murdered, because he recognised somebody'

'Well he didn't!' Antonia snapped. 'That was Theodore! He was forever telling stories, always telling lies.'

'What other lies did he tell you?' Claudia asked.

'Oh, where he'd been, where he came from.'

'Let me ask you another question.' They paused under the outstretched branches of a sycamore tree; above them songbirds in gilded cages sang hauntingly as if grieving over their imprisonment. 'Is there anything Theodore did not lie about, anything constant in his life, family or friends?' Claudia made the young woman sit down on a bench fitted against the trunk of a tree, and squatted before her. 'Please, Antonia, was there anything constant?'

'Theodore believed everybody loved him, including me. He was a ladies' man. He boasted about what plays he knew, which stage manager would help him, how one day all Rome would know his name, but yes, there was one constant. He had great devotion to the Lady of Gleefulness, of Joy, I forget her name.'

'Hathor of the White Walls.'

'Yes, that's it, Hathor of the White Walls. He was always talking about his devotion to her. How she'd favoured him in his career, how pleased he was that he had found a temple dedicated to her in Rome. He repeated that time and again.' She smiled ruefully. 'On reflection, perhaps that was the only truthful thing he said.'

'Thank you.' Claudia got to her feet, brushing twigs and grass from her tunic. 'One more question, Antonia.' 'Mistress, I am very tired.'

'You are sure that you were imprisoned in the catacombs?'

'It must have been.' Antonia shook her head. 'When I was freed, I only walked a short distance. Perhaps no more than from here,' she pointed across at the palace buildings, 'to there, then I was out in the sun.'

'Anything else?' Claudia enquired. 'Smell, taste, touch, voices?'

'Just one voice,' Antonia replied. 'I'll never forget it, threatening, telling me what to do.'

Claudia left the palace and made her way back into the city. Daylight was fading, traders were closing up shop, the taverns and eating houses were busy. Just as she entered the Flavian quarter, Claudia noticed a man dressed in goatskins, with unkempt beard, hair and moustache, standing on a stone plinth, in one hand a staff, in the other a crude wooden cross. She paused and stared at him. The man was addressing passers-by, few of whom paid him attention, but Claudia caught his words.

'Man is conceived with tainted blood,' this fanatic claimed, 'through the ardour of lechery.' On and on he ranted. Such preachers were becoming common in Rome, religious fanatics inveighing against anything and everything.

Claudia moved on, pushing dispiritedly through the noisy throng. At the corner of the street leading down to the She Asses tavern, Torquatus the Tonsor was busy putting his implements into a leather sack: razors, knives, hair-pluckers, whetstone, leather straps, oils, unguents, powders and creams. He stored these all carefully away. Claudia watched him neatly tie the string around the neck of the sack before clearing away the folding stool and table. 'Torquatus?'

He glanced up and peered at her.

'Why, it's Claudia, what do you want?'

'I'd like to buy you a drink.' Claudia indicated with her head towards the tavern standing on the corner of an alleyway, the House of a Thousand Dreams.

Torquatus grinned and, putting his fingers to his mouth, gave a sharp whistle. Two boys came hurrying over. He handed them his sack, table and stool and instructed them to remain under the sycamore tree until he returned, then he and Claudia entered the tavern, a dingy hole with narrow windows above the counter at the far end. It smelled like a stable. In the centre stretched a deep pit where two blood-spattered cocks, cheered on by their respective owners, fought like gladiators with beak and spurred claw; their screeching cut the ear as they turned in a whirl of feathers and puffs of dust. Torquatus led Claudia out through the rear door into a quiet garden with a range of drinking arbours tastefully fashioned out of pine logs and festooned with crawling ivy and wild flowers. A lawn stretched the full length of the garden. In the centre, a gracefully carved fountain displayed three marble dolphins, mouths open to the sky, through which water spurted.

'The best of both worlds.' Torquatus grinned at Claudia's surprise. He ordered jugs of wine and water and cups of crushed apple juice. The raucous sounds from the tavern echoed faintly. Claudia relaxed in the last golden burst of sunlight, relishing the evening breeze as it brushed the flowerbeds, and wafted fragrance towards her. 'What do you want, Claudia?'

'I know what you want.' Claudia sipped at the apple juice. Torquatus, moon-faced under his matted, straw-coloured hair, gazed back all innocent, lower lip jutting out, one finger scratching at the dimple on his clean-shaven cheek. 'You want the She Asses Tavern. You've lent Uncle Polybius money, he can't pay you, and now you wish to foreclose-'

'I did lend Polybius money,' Torquatus interrupted. 'He heard of my recent business venture.' 'What was it?'

'To import spices from Punt-' 'Ye gods!'

'The venture was not successful; our ship sank. Polybius owed me his share, I advanced that for him.'

'And now you think you have my uncle cornered?' Claudia demanded. She stared at this most skilful teller of tales. She'd always liked Torquatus, a character of the quarter, ever friendly and cheerful with his never-ending list of tales and a catalogue of medical cures which even an imperial physician would envy. She immediately regretted her words when she saw the look of hurt in Torquatus' eyes.

'Claudia, Claudia.' Torquatus took a deep drink of his wine before adding some water. 'You're tired. I know you have other business.'

He gazed at her meaningfully, and Claudia wondered if he was also employed by the Empress.

'Your uncle doesn't owe me any money. He's paid it back, thanks to the Great Miracle at the She Asses.'

Claudia sighed with relief. 'I am sorry!' She put her hand across the table. 'Torquatus, you know Polybius; he's attracted to mischief as a cat to cream.'

Torquatus clasped her hand gently. 'Of course, I would love to own the She Asses. It's in a prime location, it has a good eating room with a well-furnished kitchen and a garden that's even better than this. However, Polybius has repaid every single denarius. He owes me nothing, thanks to the Great Miracle.'

Claudia sat back in her seat and stared at the shadows lengthening across the grass.

'But of course Polybius,' Torquatus continued, 'literally jumps from pot to fire and back into the pot again. You've heard about Ophelion?'

Claudia suppressed a shiver of fear and sat up straight. Of course she knew Ophelion! He was one of Helena's most trusted spies, a snooper, a collector of trifles, a born eavesdropper, sharp of eye and keen of wit.

'What about him?' she asked tersely.

'Well, he's been snooping around.' Torquatus leaned closer. 'He has been making very careful enquiries about the corpse found at your uncle's tavern.'

'But you know the result,' Claudia declared. 'The Empress herself has paid Polybius; she recognised the body as that belonging to a virgin martyr, a manifest miracle by God.'

Torquatus grinned at the sarcasm in Claudia's voice. i hope so,' he declared, and leaned across the table. 'I'm a friend, Claudia, I mean you well. I like Polybius, he's a rogue born and bred. As you say, he has a natural penchant for mischief. May the Lord of Light help him,' Torquatus' voice turned hard, 'if he has fooled the Empress. Can you imagine, Claudia,' he paused and grimaced, 'whatever your relationship with the Empress, if your uncle has fooled her, or lied to her, the punishment would be great.'

'What has Ophelion been asking?' Claudia asked.

'The usual questions,' Torquatus replied. 'He is digging in the past, any young girl around here who disappeared, you know how it is…'

Claudia bit her lip and watched the butterflies hovering near the fountain. 'But that is ridiculous,' she murmured. 'Young women disappear from the slums every month and no one cares.'

'I am not concerned about those,' Torquatus replied quickly. 'All Ophelion needs is to find one. You must remember, Claudia, the authorities now have their corpse, and they will examine it carefully.'

Claudia finished the fresh apple juice,- she was going to take a sip of wine but changed her mind. 'Can you help me, Torquatus?'

'Any way I can.'

'You seem to know a great deal about medicine.' Claudia edged closer. 'Is there any logical explanation for what Venutus discovered?'

'I've thought of that myself.' Torquatus ran his finger round the rim of his cup. i cannot think of any, but the imperial libraries hold many manuscripts. Perhaps you should look there?'

Claudia finished her drink, thanked Torquatus and left the tavern. She found the She Asses rather quiet; it was still daytime, and many of the usual customers were either busy about their usual mischief, sleeping off what they'd drunk during the day or waiting until dark so they could slip through the street without being spotted by some sharp-eyed Vigiles who might remember a misdemeanour they'd committed. The eating room was swept and clean-smelling, the ovens in the kitchens cold. Januaria the servant girl sat on the steps leading into the garden,- she declared that Poppaoe and Polybius had retired against the heat of the day. Claudia was about to go up to her own chamber when Januaria called her name and pointed down the garden.

'I am sorry, mistress, you have two visitors.'

Claudia found Sallust the Searcher sitting under the shade of a tree sharing a jug of spiced wine with a squat, thickset man seated across the table opposite him. Sallust looked the same as ever, dressed in shabby, dusty clothes; he had a lined face under a shock of white hair, his tired, rheumy eyes forced a smile, while his podgy nose sniffed the air as if he was still searching for something. Sallust, however, was not what he looked,- he was in fact a very prosperous searcher-out-of-things, a man who could find anything in Rome if he was paid enough. He had backed the wrong side in the recent civil war between Constantine and Maxentius, but due to Polybius and Claudia had regained imperial favour. With his extended family, Sallust had amassed a fortune which was belied by his personal appearance, his austere eating habits and his shabby attire.

The Searcher clasped Claudia's hand as if he were her physician, nodding understandingly as Claudia apologised for keeping him waiting, and then introduced his guest. Celades was of medium height, thickset, with a dark face, though most of this was hidden by a tangle of white hair and a luxurious beard and moustache. He greeted Claudia in a guttural voice. Sallust explained that Celades was a Pict, a former slave, now a freedman.

'Indeed, so free,' Sallust concluded, 'that he is able to do anything. His patron has died so Celades is now looking for fresh employment.'

Claudia asked both men to relax and refilled their cups, adding that she'd drunk enough herself but was pleased to see Sallust. She enquired after his family, his cousins, brothers, uncles, sisters, sons and daughters, all of whom helped him in his searches throughout Rome. At last the conversation turned to the business in hand. Claudia asked Sallust if he'd heard about the kidnappings. Sallust nodded.

'Of course,' he murmured, 'everyone has.'

'And have you ever been hired to look for the hostages?'

Sallust shook his head. 'Not the pond I'd fish in,' he declared. 'Too dangerous.'

'What do you mean?' Claudia asked.

'Well…' Sallust paused, searching for his words.

Claudia glanced quickly at Celades, a gentle man with tired eyes and full lips, his nose slightly twisted. She realised the moustache and beard hid a deep scar along his right cheek which ran under his chin and down to his neck.

'Yes, that's it.' Sallust spoke up. 'Whoever is organising these kidnappings is a gang-leader – I stay well away from that. Anyway,' he sighed, 'here is Celades, former Pictish warrior, captured south of the Great Wall fourteen years ago and brought to Rome. He was sold as a slave to the house of Valerius Gratus, where he excelled himself as a cook. Freed by a grateful master, Celades was about to set himself up as a chef when his would-be patron abruptly died. Valerius' son and heir has no interest in him and refuses to support him. So Celades has bought his own stove and grill to become an itinerant chef. He is well known in the Coelian Hill quarter.' Sallust gestured with his hand. 'When Presbyster Sylvester asked me to find someone from the Pictish nation, it wasn't hard. My family have often been nourished by the best of his dishes; an excellent cook.' He added wistfully, 'Very good indeed.'

Claudia stared curiously; the Pict gazed sadly back. He had tried to present himself as cleanly and tidily as possible, but his tunic was frayed and stained. She noticed a burn mark on his left arm smeared with grease, probably goose fat.

'You weren't always called Celades?' She smiled.

The Pict grinned back in a fine display of hard white teeth, some sharpened like those of a dog. 'My tribal name is Ogadimla,' he declared harshly. 'I come from a clan which lived far to the north of the Great Wall.' He paused and shrugged, i wasn't much of a warrior.' He smiled again, 'Oh, I can tell you fearsome stories, but the truth is, our chieftain, a fool born and bred, relished my cooking.' Celades paused as if collecting his thoughts. His command of the lingua franca was excellent, although he had difficulty with certain letters and words. 'My chief liked his food, so I was always included in the war band. Oh, I looked a sight.' He tugged at his beard. 'This was black as night. I painted my face and body. I could grunt like a boar, snarl like a wolf.' He abruptly lunged forward, face towards Claudia, and roared. 'Be as fearsome as a bear.'

Claudia laughed and clapped her hands.

'Anyway, by your reckoning, fourteen, fifteen years ago, our tribe heard how the Romans south of the wall were still fighting amongst themselves, so cattle, women and treasures were all to be had. War bands were already returning laden with loot, and our chieftain thought he would try his hand. So south wc trotted, brave warriors all. As we approached the Great Wall, the fort was deserted, the gates open. We slipped through, down into the open countryside but there really was little to be had. We journeyed on, travelling in the morning or late at night, keeping away from the highways and the roads. Now and again we came across the occasional deserted villa, which we looted. We all wanted to go back, there was something very wrong, but our chieftain was insistent: he'd declared he'd return home laden with riches, and that was what he intended.

'Our end came soon enough, and it wasn't the Romans. We struck east to the coast, hoping to attack the fishing villages or the occasional villa, and were ambushed by a group of pirates. We fled, and that was the beginning of our troubles. We'd had enough of playing the warrior,- we wanted to go back to our village, so we retreated north, but of course we were weakened and became lost. Eventually we encountered a troop of Roman cavalry scouring the countryside, and you can guess what happened. We were caught out in the open; there was nothing we could do. I'd had enough of fighting. I simply threw down my club and crouched on the ground. The Romans came back, tied ropes round me and I became a slave, sold to this person or that. At first they thought I was a fearsome warrior, but I soon proved my skill at cooking. Anyway, the troops were leaving, the civil war was coming to an end. I was slave to a tribune working in the military kitchens, and he took me back to Rome, but he didn't want me, so he sold me on. Valerius bought me, the only truly good man I've ever met.' The Pict added sorrowfully, 'A kindly man. He actually taught me the Roman method of cooking. I excelled, but now he's dead, and once again I am wandering under heaven.'

'Has Sallust told you why I wanted to meet you?'

Celades, lower lip jutting out, shook his head. 'Perhaps you want to hire a cook?'

Claudia glanced back over her shoulder at the tavern; a thought occurred to her.

'Perhaps I do,' she smiled back, 'but first let me tell you the reason for this meeting.' She quickly described the murder of the three veterans and the abuse inflicted on their corpses. Celades heard her out, now and again grunting to himself.

'What do you want me to do, mistress?' he asked when she'd finished. 'I am no assassin. I've told you I am not a warrior.'

'Is that the Pictish way of abusing the enemy dead?' Claudia asked.

'Yes and no. Let me tell you. First, mistress, I've heard of this story.'

Claudia leaned forward. 'You mean about the Golden Maid?'

'Oh yes.' Celades nodded. 'Don't forget, although we lived out in the heathland, the tribes were constantly trading with each other. To the west, across the sea, were the Scoti; often they were red-haired, while we Picts are as dark as our own souls. We traded with the Scoti, made treaties and marriage alliances. Some of their women,' he added wistfully, 'were truly beautiful, totally different from ours, fair-skinned, blue-eyed, hair like the sun. We heard about a chieftain who'd married one of these princesses, but it was one story amongst many. At the time, all the tribes were looking hungrily south, hoping for rich pickings.'

'And the murders?' Claudia asked. 'The castration?'

'Killing is all the same under God's sky,' Celades replied. 'It doesn't really matter, does it?' He raised his eyebrows. 'A cut to the throat, a slit belly, a hand hacked off, it always ends the same, cold as a piece of pork on a butcher's slab. I've done with my warrior ways, mistress, I don't want to fight. I don't even want to see another corpse.'

'But these murders, the abuse?' Claudia insisted.

'Well, to answer your question bluntly…' Celades picked up his goblet, sipped from it and smacked his lips. 'If you really want to know, mistress, such abominations were carried out by our womenfolk on prisoners. You see, the Romans often came pillaging and burning. If they captured one of our women, they'd rape her, so if we captured one of them, a rare enough event, or indeed anyone we considered guilty of rape or sexual abuse, we'd hand them over to the women of the tribe, who'd kill them and then castrate them. So, the person you are looking for has invoked the blood feud. He, or she, believes those men are responsible for heinous crimes, especially rape, against themselves or someone they love, someone tied to them by blood.'

'But here, in Rome? Do you know of any Picts?' Claudia asked. 'I mean amongst the slave population or freedmen?'

Celades shook his head. 'I'll be honest, mistress. I have no desire to talk to anyone from my people. If I thought there was a Pict sitting in your tavern, I'd do everything I could to avoid him or her.'

Claudia nodded, distracted by the song of a thrush. She heard sounds from the tavern. Was that Polybius' voice? She stared up at the sky, wondering what Murranus would be doing.

'Mistress,' Celades sat forward, 'do you know of anyone who would hire or need a Pictish cook? I am skilled in everything.'

'What is your speciality, Celades?'

'Fried liver from livestock, especially fattened on figs,-that's how the athletes like to eat it. It's best to avoid the liver of a pig, it's coarser than calves' or lambs', and I prefer frying rather than grilling; the meat tends to stay succulent and fresh. Mix it with mint, coriander, salt and you have a fine dish. What my people would call narifa.'

'Narifai' Claudia queried.

'Victory!' Celades grinned. 'Victory served up, victory for the senses, for the stomach, for the tongue, for the palate. So, mistress, do you know of anybody who needs a cook?'

'Yes, I think I do.' Claudia smiled. 'Celades, come with me!'

The veteran Secundus stared at the tympanum above the porticoed entrance to the luxurious baths at General Aurelian's villa. Dawn was imminent, the eastern sky lit up a red-gold; a breeze, soft and cool, whispered among the trees, spreading the perfume from the flower banks. Secundus could just make out the carving of the extravagant roundel containing a fearsome head with flowing hair and beard, all surrounded by winged Victories and helmetcd Tritons. He climbed up the steps and into the shadow-filled portico. He pulled at the bolts on the top and bottom of the door and walked into the darkness. A mixture of smells greeted him: soap, oil, perfume and salted water. He took a taper and lit the row of oil lamps in their copper containers before the carving of the Four Seasons, dominated by the goddess Luna. He lit more oil lamps, noticing how they were carved in the shape of proud stags, the antlers spreading out, the space in between for the wick and oil. He would rest a while,- after all, Crispus had not yet arrived and it was still very early.

Secundus had slept badly. He wanted to reflect, recollect himself and think about last night's meeting with General Aurelian. Both he and Crispus had been summoned into the villa's library, where his old commander sat behind a desk, as he used to behind that table in the imperial pavilion. Aurelian had greeted them coldly and barked one question after another. Secundus and Crispus had prepared their story very carefully. They described the macabre events so many years ago at that mile fort along the windswept wall in the north of Britain. They conjured up the loneliness, the desolation, the brooding weather, the sudden storms and the fear of attack. They described how Postulus and Stathylus had clashed over the woman, the so-called Golden Maid. How Postulus' drinking had become worse, and he had begun cursing and swearing, leaving all commands to Stathylus.

The General had heard them out, muttering under his breath as he nodded, that eagle-like face brooding as if summoning up the ghosts from the past. Crispus and Secundus would not tell the full truth. How they had not really been sent out scouting, but decided to escape the tension and the growing sense of menace in that fort; nor did they want to talk about the woman. She had been truly beautiful, really no more than a girl, but she'd captivated Postulus and Stathylus. Most of the garrison realised it would end in bloodshed, and they'd all been very worried. They were cut off, not another soldier in sight, just that desolate heathland. They'd even heard reports that villas and farms many miles to the south were deserted. In the end they had been secretly relieved that Stathylus had taken the law into his own hands, leaving their drink-sodden officer on his own in the abandoned mile castle. Postulus had been killed whilst they'd wreaked vengeance on the Picts, then galloped south as fast as they could. It was a pity the girl had died. Aurelian had questioned them about that. They didn't talk about the torture of the chieftain, how the maid was brought to watch his final agonies, or that she'd lost her wits and killed herself.

The old general had seemed satisfied with their answers, but he had clearly been talking to that interfering little nobody, Claudia. He kept coming back to the same question: had any Picts survived that massacre? Crispus and Secundus spoke the truth; they'd scoured the moorlands, nobody had escaped. They'd piled the dead high, soaked them in cheap oil and burned them. They thought the interrogation was over, then Aurelian had turned to the question of Petilius. Why had he been so insistent on trying to see him? Crispus and Secundus, relieved to tell the truth, replied they did not know. Petilius was never one to confide in others. The old general had concluded that they were good soldiers. He was concerned that their companions had been killed, so he had decided to look after them; after all, he needed good servants, and what better than former companions, men who'd stood with him in the battle line? He would care for them; they'd share a room, eat in the kitchens, be responsible for cleaning the baths and receive fresh livery and an allowance.

Afterwards Crispus and Secundus had congratulated themselves on their good fortune; there was little for them in Rome, whilst the General had assured them that they could stay at the villa as long as they wished. They'd gone down to the kitchens, where Crispus had drunk so deeply that Secundus found it difficult to rouse him this morning. After fitful, nightmare-filled dreams, Secundus had grown tired of lying on the cot bed. He'd got up, splashed some water over his face and was now here. They were to sweep and scour, check the water, go downstairs into the cellar and clear the hypocaust. General Aurelian had assured them that the baths would not be needed until the day after next.

He had ordered them to be closed down so that the water could be purified, the filters emptied and cleaned, every tile, as he put it, scrubbed to gleaming. Secundus put his face in his hands and wondered how long this would last. Surely Aurelian and that little busybody Claudia would find out who was behind these murders? Ah well, he wouldn't start work yet, not until Crispus arrived.

He jumped as the door was flung open. A woman, dressed in a long tunic, sandals on her feet, a veil about her head, came rushing in carrying a jar, muttering to herself. She didn't notice Secundus, but continued on across the vestibule, up the steps, pulling open the door leading into the first pool. Secundus heard the crash as the pot was dropped, followed by an exclamation. Cursing beneath his breath and forgetful of all warnings, he sprang to his feet and hurried up the steps. As he opened the door, he blundered straight on to the knife, which pierced his belly. He tried to step back, but his attacker followed, the veil a mask across her face. Only her eyes were visible. The hideous pain spread from his chest and down his legs. Blood was bubbling at the back of his throat. He stretched out his hand. He was growing so weak; he felt hot, yet cold. He slumped to his knees, staring fixedly at those familiar eyes. He now knew what it was that Petilius had seen. He felt the knife drawn out; he heard the suck as the blood spurted out of his belly wound. Secundus realised he was a dead man. The figure before him disappeared, then his head was yanked savagely back and a dagger sliced his throat.

A short while later Crispus hurried up the bath steps. He felt hot and sweaty, slightly sick. He'd drunk too much wine the night before, yet he wanted to keep in the General's good books. As he entered the vestibule, he noticed the lamps glowing before the fresco of the Four Seasons in those strange candle stands carved like stags. In the flickering light they looked rather sinister.

'Secundus,' he shouted, looking around. The door leading into the pool was half open. He hurried up the steps, into the wet darkness. The sun had not yet risen, so the windows on either side only allowed in a grey light. Crispus paused and stared in horror at the pool, where a body floated face down. It was Secundus, his blood billowing out like a red cloud around him. Something was lashed to his right hand. The body turned slightly. Crispus glimpsed staring eyes and a gaping mouth; more blood was flowing out of the wound in Secundus' throat and from between his legs.

As Crispus panicked and opened the door to flee, a figure seemed to spring from the darkness, a lithe form, face hidden, a smell of perfume. The dagger went straight into his belly, again and again. His attacker danced away, light and swift, silent as a shadow. Crispus, groaning at the pain in his stomach, staggered down the steps and collapsed to his knees. He looked around, but could see no one. As he stared down in horror at the blood spurting out, he felt a blow to the back of his head. He crashed forward, face hitting the hard marble floor, and someone was beside him, lifting his head, holding a dagger to the side of his throat…

Murranus and Alexander left the villa long before dawn. They'd taken their horses from the stables, saddled them, and, with two grooms walking before and two behind, gone down the snaking trackway through the villa gates, opened by a sleepy-eyed porter, and out on to the country road. Murranus still felt tired, and his head ached slightly, not that he'd drunk much the night before, but he had slept badly in his new quarters, whilst Alexander, although a very pleasant young man, was full of questions about this and that. Murranus had hardly finished dressing, splashing water over his face and snatching at the bread, cheese and olives the servant had brought, when Alexander, his freshly shaved face oiled, sandals on his feet, sword belt strapped proudly round him, arrived to ask a new spate of questions. Murranus realised that to keep this young man quiet he would have to keep him moving. The evening before, he'd asked General Aurelian's permission to take Alexander down to one of the gladiatorial schools in Rome, where they could practise with wooden swords and shields. Murranus hoped the journey would distract his protege, but Alexander, fired with curiosity, had a further litany of questions. At first Murranus found it difficult to reply; at last he decided to take the initiative. He grasped the reins of his horse, trying to close out the sounds of the countryside coming to life, the birds singing in the hedgerows, the wood pigeons cooing so insistently. The morning mist was thinning, the sky turning red-gold, and a cool breeze brought the smell of the farm, manured fields and wet grass. Murranus had decided to leave early so they could avoid the heat and bustle of the city and practise long before noon. Now, to divert his zealous pupil, he launched into his famous lecture about the Thracian gladiator confronting the retairius, the net-man.

'You see,' Murranus gathered the reins in one hand, holding up the other to demand silence from Alexander, 'the net-man is dangerous not because of the trident but because of the net; people often forget that! The trident is sharp, three-pronged, and the novice watches that, but it's the net which will trap him, it is the net that will kill.'

Alexander, however, was not so easily quietened and immediately interrupted with a description of his last visit to the games. Murranus grunted absent-mindedly, half listening as he looked out across the fields on either side. The soil was bare of any crops, baked hard under the sun. He wondered what it was like to be a farmer. Perhaps that was what he and Claudia should do: leave the bustle of the city and buy a small farm out in the countryside, grow crops, raise livestock, well away from the intrigues of the court and the constant mischief of the She Asses tavern.

Murranus looked around; he felt safe and secure. The two servants in front of them were walking briskly, the two behind, holding staffs, were playing some sort of game, trying to rap each other's ankles. Murranus glanced ahead, where the road narrowed between two dense clumps of trees. In the field to his right, a farmer was at his plough, the two oxen straining under the yoke. The farmer probably wanted to use the coolness of the day, finish the back-breaking work before the heat really made itself felt. Murranus smiled wryly. Perhaps he wouldn't be a farmer!

A flock of birds broke out of the trees and went crying and whirling above him. A prickle of fear cooled the sweat on his neck. The birds wheeled and turned but there seemed nothing wrong. The farmer was leaning over his plough, the oxen still straining. Murranus shouted at the servants walking ahead to be vigilant and, turning in the saddle, scowled at the two young grooms still clicking their sticks together. They entered the dark shade of the clump of trees. Murranus stared through the greenery. Now the farmer was resting on the plough, but he wasn't dressed like a farmer, no homespun tunic; wasn't that a leather kilt and a sword belt he wore?

Murranus reined in, shouting a warning to the servants ahead, but it was too late. They spun round. One of them immediately took an arrow in the back, the other in the neck; both collapsed, coughing on their own blood. The two young grooms behind, instead of retreating, almost hurried into a hail of arrows as demon-like figures, armed with swords, clubs and axes, swirled out of the trees. Murranus grasped the reins of Alexander's horse. The attackers in their grotesque masks milled about them. Murranus and Alexander drew their swords, lashing out, but it was futile. They were pressed together, the men closing in, clubs and daggers falling. Murranus, threatened by one attacker, heard a gasp and glanced round in alarm. Alexander, staring at him white-faced, eyes black pools of despair, was clutching at terrible wounds in his thigh and stomach. The young man opened his mouth to speak, then lurched to one side and fell off his horse. The red mist of battle fury descended. Murranus lashed out. His attackers pressed in, a thick pole swung at him, and in avoiding that, Murranus ignored the other from behind. A sickening blow to the side of his head sent him swaying in the saddle. The shouted clamour echoed distantly, almost drowned by the roaring in his ears as he slipped with a crash to the pebbled trackway…

Claudia was breaking her fast in the garden when the sweaty-faced messenger arrived at the She Asses with the hideous news that Alexander, General Aurelian's only son, had been stabbed and murdered in an ambush on a country road outside the villa. Four servants had also been killed, and Murranus had been injured, whilst General Aurelian and his wife Urbana were beside themselves with grief. Claudia pushed away her platter and cup, and listened in freezing horror as the servant described the attack, the death of the young heir, the murder of the four escorts and Murranus' head injuries; how the gladiator had survived, stumbling back to the villa with Alexander's corpse before he collapsed. The messenger also described the deaths of the two veterans, gruesomely murdered at the baths in the gardens of the villa. Claudia felt her own fears about to burst out, but she could neither scream nor cry. She wanted to crawl off to her own chamber and hide, but she had to sit, breathing quickly, as the messenger declared that Lady Urbana needed her. The Empress herself was also journeying to the villa. Polybius, who overheard the conversation, offered to accompany her. Claudia did not refuse, simply adding that Oceanus had better come too, heavily armed.

They hired horses from a nearby stable and made then way through the morning streets. Claudia was aware of nothing. She did not hear the passers-by shouting salutations or the noise and clatter as stalls and booths were opened. The creak and screech of winches on building sites, the myriad different colours as the crowds surged out to greet the day meant nothing to her. She wanted only to reach Aurelian's villa, ensure that Murranus was well, and try and make sense of the horrors that had occurred. She uttered not a single word on the journey, and looked neither to the left or the right, unaware that she'd even passed the city gates or of the countryside spreading around her. Polybius tried to draw her into conversation, but Claudia remained steadfastly silent.

When they reached Aurelian's villa, the signs of mourning were already displayed. Cypress branches had been placed on top of the pillars, black drapes hung over the gates; the porter was heavy-eyed, clothes rent, his tear-streaked face stained with ash. The same was true of every servant they met as they made their way along the trackway on to the great open space before the magnificently colonnaded villa, now turned into a haunt of nightmares.