The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 1

‘Iugula! Kill him!’ The roar from the mob in the crowded, dusty, flea-infested amphitheatre thundered up to the sky. The day was turning very hot. The summer sun, a veritable demon in the blue sky, beat down on the spectators, who had whetted their appetite for blood and now bayed for more. In the amphitheatre two men fought for their lives, slipping and slithering on the sand, bodies drenched in sweat, limbs screaming with pain, throats as dry as the very sand they kicked up.

The Editor, or Promoter, of the Games, the banker Rufinus, had done his best to keep the tens of thousands of his invited guests as cool as possible. A great woollen awning, drenched in water, had been pulled across the top of the amphitheatre by a complicated system of pulleys and ropes to provide meagre shade, whilst perfumed water, drawn up by special pumps, had sprayed some coolness on the crowd. However, Rufinus need not have worried. Heat, thirst, dust and the merciless sun were no obstacle to the mob’s hunger for blood. Many of them had been there since before dawn, filing into the yellow-ochre and black vomitoria, the cavernous tunnels which divided into a series of smaller ones and took the spectators up to their ticketed places. Each arrival carried the prized piece of bone bearing the number allocated to him. Many of these had been distributed free by the Promoter. Rufinus was doing his best to please Rome’s mob, not for himself, but for the new Emperor Constantine, who had seized the imperial purple some eighteen months previously and was now settling down to enjoy the fruits of his victory.

Across the amphitheatre, above the podium, rose the brilliantly decorated imperial box, its front, sides and balustrade draped in costly purple cloths over which gold-painted ivy had been carefully twisted. The crowd was so busy watching the two gladiators fight, they were hardly aware of Rufinus, who sat next to his Emperor, or the person on the other side of Constantine, ‘Helena Augusta atque Pia Mater’, the Emperor’s ‘Noble and Holy Mother’.

The Emperor himself was ignoring the games, his heavy-jowled faced all screwed up in concentration: tongue jutting out from the corner of his mouth, he balanced a writing tray in his lap and read the various documents his Imperial Chamberlain, the fat-faced Chrysis, passed for perusal. Helena was similarly occupied, studying reports handed to her by her personal secretary, Anastasius, the Christian priest. Helena employed Anastasius not only because of his links with the new faith, but also because he was a man of learning, skilled in the Greek and Hebrew tongues. Above all, he was most discreet; he could not speak, as his tongue had been plucked out by the imperial torturers during the recent persecutions.

Helena stared down at the piece of parchment resting on her lap, the report of a spy on the city council in Corinth about certain naval manoeuvres. She kneaded her thigh with her fingers, a common enough gesture when her teeming mind was considering some problem. Her beloved son was now Emperor, at least of the Western Empire, but at Nicomedia lurked the upstart Licinius, self-proclaimed Emperor of the East. Helena narrowed her eyes and stared down at the gladiators in the amphitheatre.

‘One of them is in trouble,’ she whispered to herself. She leaned against the balustrade. Yes, the Retiarius, the golden-haired net man, had suffered a bloody wound to his right shoulder and was slowing down.

Helena stared at the gladiators but her mind was distracted. If the truth be known, her son, Constantine, and Licinius were themselves gladiators, fighting for the greatest prize in the world, an empire which stretched from the Great Western Ocean to the Black Sea, from the searingly hot sands of north Africa to the icy forests which fringed the Rhine. At the moment, the pair were circling each other, looking for a weakness. Sooner or later — and sooner rather than later — Constantine would have to close with his opponent. Would his armies march east, or would Licinius invade the West? Could Licinius’s troops be bought, the officials of his court seduced from their allegiance?

Helena gnawed at her lip. Would it be easier to poison Licinius, a few grains of powder mixed with his wine? But what would happen then? Some other upstart? She studied the report again. Licinius was definitely up to something with this increased activity at his court, and what was his fleet doing, massing in the Bay of Corinth? Manoeuvres? Or preparing for battle? Beside her, Constantine hastily slurped his wine, and Helena nudged him with her elbow. Her son, as he always did, turned and pretended to scowl, but that did not concern Helena. She prided herself on her icy demeanour and calm nerve; that was the way she’d dealt with Constantine’s father, not to mention upstart priests and mutinous army officers. She would act as she always did, as mistress of the Empire.

Helena’s grey hair was coiffed in the traditional fashion, and a purple gold-fringed shawl was draped around her shoulders, contrasting sharply with her simple snow-white linen gown. She deliberately wore no jewellery except for an amethyst ring on the little finger of her left hand. She had kicked off her costly Spanish sandals and now savoured the cool perfumed foot bath a slave had brought. As a veteran of her husband’s and son’s military campaigns, she never forgot the old soldier’s advice: ‘If you want to stay cool, slap water on the back of your neck and stick your feet in a cold bath.’ She wore no make-up, no paint on her long face with its high cheekbones, deep-set dark eyes and snub nose over a full mouth and firm chin. She saw no point in such decoration; she wanted to be severe and appear as such. Some whispered she had no taste; after all, wasn’t she the daughter of an innkeeper? Helena paid no heed to such gossip, and her only concession to fashion was to shave her eyebrows and put a little carmine on her lips. She was keen to imitate the warrior matrons of ancient Rome. More importantly, as she confessed to her son, in public the heat made even the costliest cosmetics run.

Helena peered around at the ladies behind her and smiled dazzlingly. Silly bitches, their faces now looked like German warriors! Ah well. She turned back, flexed her toes and gave her son another nudge. She had told him a thousand times never to pick his nose in public! Another document was brought. She clutched the arm of Anastasius, speaking slowly so that he could read her lips. He replied quickly with hand signs which Helena hoped only she could understand. She glanced around the amphitheatre. Good, the mob was still screaming at the poor bastard stretched out on the red-gold sand of the arena. Helena preferred the crowd to stare at the fighters rather than at the imperial box. She nudged her son to pay more attention. The crowd didn’t like it if they thought the great ones, the Lords of the Purple, were not revelling in the carnage and bloodshed of the show.

‘Constantine?’

The Emperor, in deep conversation with Rufinus, ignored her.

‘Beloved son?’ The Emperor still kept his back to her. ‘Constantine!’ Helena bellowed. ‘Don’t turn your back on me! Stop whispering to Rufinus and keep an eye on the crowd.’

‘Mother.’ Constantine turned, his heavy face showing an unacceptable unshaven stubble, his forehead, beneath the fringe of dark cropped hair, laced with sweat, his dark blue eyes tired and red-rimmed.

‘Constantine, you have been drinking, too many late nights with your officers.’

He glanced up sharply as the roar of the crowd subsided. He saw the reason why: the fallen gladiator had made the most of the respite and was now rolling away from his opponent, who had been caught off guard. He’d thought the net man was finished and had been staring at the imperial box. Now the net man was back on his feet and the mob became absorbed as the fierce struggle was renewed.

‘Priests,’ Constantine whispered hoarsely.

‘What about them?’ Helena was now all attention. She didn’t care any more if Constantine ignored the crowd.

‘Christian priests,’ Constantine grated. ‘They are at it again, Mother. The Christians are fighting over matters of obscure doctrine.’

‘Mere words!’ Helena scoffed.

‘There was a riot at Ostia,’ Constantine declared, ‘between the adherents of two sects. Apparently they are fighting over the substance of God. Is Jesus Christ, who became man, of the same substance as, and equal to, God the Father?’ Constantine’s stubby fingers scratched at the sweat on his face. ‘They want me to resolve the matter, yet I don’t understand a bloody word of it. Perhaps we should get the silly bastards to fight it out in the arena.’

‘Constantine!’

‘My apologies, Mother.’

‘Don’t drink too much.’

‘Of course not, Mother.’

Constantine sighed, turned away and stretched out his cup for a page to fill with purple wine.

Helena shook her head and gazed out across the arena. The awning, caught by a breeze, flapped and ruffled. Helena stared at the crowd. This was the Empire. In the lower tiers of the amphitheatre, separated by walls from the rest, sat the white-garbed aristocracy, and above them the dark tunics of the lower sort, with the poor of the slums at the very top. They’re the problem, Helena reflected, picking up her fan and shaking it vigorously, the tens upon tens of thousands of poor in Rome and all the great cities of the Empire. How were they to be united, bound together? Worship of the Emperor? Yet there’d been civil war for decades. Christianity? Helena smiled.

The new faith was now emerging from the catacombs of Rome with its revolutionary radical teaching that God had become man, been crucified and risen from the dead. Christ brought a new message that all men were equal. Eternal life was promised to everyone, even a slave, if he or she followed the teaching of the Crucified One. What other faith promised that? Former Emperors had viewed Christianity as a threat and persecuted it vigorously. Constantine had changed all that. An ambitious general, he had brought his legions from Britain to challenge the old Emperor, Maxentius, and had defeated him at the battle of the Milvian Bridge. That was where it had all begun!

Helena fanned herself vigorously. She had always wondered at the truth behind the story. She’d pestered her son to tell her, time and again, what had truly happened. Constantine was a sun worshipper, if he believed in anything. Nevertheless, before that fateful battle, he had dreamed that Christ had appeared to him and ordered him to have his soldiers wear the Chi and Rho symbols on their shields, the first two letters in Greek of ‘Christos’, the Anointed One, Jesus of Nazareth. The next day Constantine had had another vision, of a cross, black against a fiery sun, underneath it the words ‘In this sign you will conquer’. Had he really seen a vision, or was it just his fanciful imagination? Constantine could act the rough soldier, be as coarse as a mule, yet he was also a dreamer. As a boy he would have fits, become withdrawn, as if staring at something Helena couldn’t see.

Helena snapped the fan shut. The vision had been true! Her son had been proclaimed Emperor of the West, Master of Rome. He had exterminated his opponents. One day he would march east, bring that drunken ninny Licinius to battle, utterly destroy him and proclaim himself ‘Imperator totius mundi’, Emperor of the entire world.

For all his visions, Constantine had not ostensibly changed: he still acted the foul-mouthed, sweaty soldier, who gulped his wine, ate too much and liked to slap the bottoms of courtesans. Nevertheless, in his own way he had changed, become more dependent on Helena. Once his legions had swept into Rome, she and Anastasius had been given charge of the ‘Agentes in Rebus’, that horde of spies and secret agents which the Empire controlled both within and beyond its borders. Helena had seized the reins of power, determined to strengthen her son’s rule, eager to reach an understanding with the powerful Christian faith. If she could control that, she could control the mob. She had opened secret talks with Militiades, the Christian leader in Rome, and with his lieutenant, the silver-haired, golden-tongued priest Sylvester. Perhaps, in time, the Empire could reach accommodation with this radical faith.

‘Mother, Mother.’ Constantine leaned across, shaking her arm. ‘Mother, you mustn’t go to sleep.’

‘I’m not sleeping,’ she snapped. ‘I’m looking forward to leaving this flea-ridden heat. I want to get out of Rome.’ She glared at her son. ‘We should move soon. .’

‘Ah, the Villa Pulchra,’ Constantine teased. ‘The beautiful villa, cooled by the hill breezes. Don’t worry, Mother, we’ll be there soon.’ He winked. ‘And you can bring all your friends with you.’

Helena knew to whom he was referring. Constantine had granted toleration to the Christians, but now the new faith had produced problems of its own. Helena ground her teeth. Problems, there were always problems.

‘Mother, look.’ Constantine was determined to tease Helena. ‘The fighting is coming to an end.’

The blond Retiarius in his red and silver-fringed kilt had not been fortunate. Dressed in his white padded leg armour, similar padding protecting his left arm, the shoulder above covered by a gleaming bronze plate, he was trying to bring the fight to an abrupt end. He had taken his net, fastened to his left arm, and flung it in a widening arc. Equipped with weights on the rim, the two-yard net should have trapped his opponent, a Thracian, who was garbed in heavy armour, on his head a visored helmet with a red and yellow horse-hair plume. But the Thracian had been faster. Wary of the net and the speed of his lighter-armed opponent, he had kept shuffling back so that when the net came stretching out he caught it on his rounded shield and tried to pull his opponent on to his pointed sword. The Retiarius quickly dropped his trident, drew the knife from his embroidered belt and cut himself free. Then he picked up the trident in both hands, retreating up against the podium wall. The Thracian followed, feet kicking up the golden sand. The net man was finished; he was now trapped. The crowd roared for the fight to be brought to an end but the Thracian remained cautious. The heat was intense. Neither man had drunk for hours, and the net man was bleeding profusely, losing his strength. The Retiarius panicked. He could feel himself weakening and lunged, aiming his weapon at the Thracian’s chest. The Thracian knocked it aside with such force the trident was sent spinning, then thrust his sword deep into the net man’s neck. The fight was over. The net man slumped to the sand, blood pumping from his wounds. This time the Thracian wanted to make sure. He stood over his opponent whilst the mob roared.

‘Hoc habet! Hoc habet!’ Let him have it!

The Thracian knew the rules; he was a gladiator not a butcher. He watched the life-light fade from his opponent’s eyes, his body jerk in the final death throes, before lifting his sword and shield to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Elated, the Thracian did a lap of honour, every so often stopping to raise his weapons, revelling in the coins and flowers being showered upon him.

The iron-barred gates to the tunnels beneath the podium were opened and a ghastly figure emerged wearing the terracotta mask of Lord Charon, the Ferryman of the Dead. He was escorted by another attendant dressed as Mercury, the Shepherd of Souls. While the Thracian received the acclamation of the mob, these two ghoulish figures approached the dead gladiator. Mercury carried a red-hot iron bar, with which he prodded the fallen man to ensure he was dead, whilst Charon struck the prostrate figure on the head with his mallet to proclaim ownership and confirm death. A group of stretcher-bearers hastened on, and while the victor surrendered his weapons to the Lanista, his manager, his dead opponent was dragged off. His body would be stripped, whatever blood was wiped off would be drained into containers and sold as a cure for epilepsy, and the rest of his mangled remains would either be tossed into some obscure grave or hacked up as food for the wild animals.

In the imperial box Helena sat back in her throne chair. The crowd, its blood lust now satisfied, was being diverted to other things as they waited for the great game of the day: the contest between Spicerius, the most famous net man in Italy, and Murranus, the Secutor, the darling of the Roman mob. Both gladiators were skilled, with a string of victories to their names. Both had received the rudis, the wooden sword of freedom, and both hoped, by the time the period of these games had finished, to receive the Corona, the crown, as Victor Ludorum, champion of the games.

In the amphitheatre the sand was being raked, turned over and dusted with sparkling grit. Attendants armed with buckets of water washed the blood stains from the marble-walled podium. In the various tiers above, the crowd moved like murmuring surf. Some hurried away to buy a drink or something to eat. Others, eager not to lose their place, shouted and bawled at the traders selling cheap wine and bitter ale, spiced sausages, honey cakes, smoked fish, sesame biscuits and even sugared figs coated in vine leaves. Musicians with trumpets tried to create music but no one really listened.

Helena sipped at a goblet of chilled white wine and leaned over in her chair, eavesdropping on her son, who’d drunk so much he was now virtually shouting, sharing his business with all in the imperial box.

‘See how these Christians love each other, eh, Rufinus?’ Constantine joked. ‘They are at each other’s throats over whether their Christ is equal to God the Father.’

Helena, however, did not regard this as funny. She needed the Christians and strove to understand their triune god. She had tried to grasp the basics. Apparently their God was three in one, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Son had become man, Jesus of Nazareth, yet he still remained equal to the Father, of the same substance as Him. However, a group of Christians led by a scholar called Arius believed Jesus was not equal, not of the same substance as the Father. Militiades, Bishop of Rome, had decreed this was heresy, and appealed to Helena for her son to intervene.

Helena mopped her face with a perfumed cloth. She’d had her way. Despite his mockery, Constantine owed a debt to the new religion. He had decided to celebrate his birthday by spending a week at the Villa Pulchra to the south of Rome, and had invited representatives of both Christian factions to debate the matter before him. A group of rhetoricians, public speakers, from the school in Capua had been cited by the Bishop of Rome as an example of this vexatious problem. The school was riven by the heresy, some following the teaching of Arius, others the orthodox line that Father, Son and Holy Spirit were of the same substance. Helena was astonished at how intense the theological rivalries at Capua had become. The violence over the issues was such that scholars came to their debating hall armed with swords and shields; they even had body-guards to protect them. Outside, a mob would gather, some shouting that Son was equal to Father, others that he was not. Houses had been attacked, mud and filth brought into the debating hall so opponents could be pelted. There had even been attacks at night and savage knife fights in the taverns and eating houses.

Constantine, totally mystified, had ordered three rhetoricians from either side to attend him at the Villa Pulchra. Helena closed her eyes and sighed. Constantine loved practical jokes, and liked nothing better than watching people engage in heated debate. That was fine as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t start roaring with laughter. Helena had done her very best to sweeten the occasion by offering lavish hospitality and the opportunity for these visiting scholars to inspect and venerate a great Christian relic, the Holy Sword, a Roman gladius miraculously preserved over the centuries, the very sword used in the execution of the Christian apostle Paul by the Emperor Nero. Now that was one thing which fascinated Helena! She had a passion for such finds and was busy collecting Christian relics. She was still searching for the Crown of Thorns thrust on to the head of the tortured Christ during his passion, the spear which had pierced his side, and the nails which had fastened the Christian Saviour to his Cross. The Holy Sword had been Helena’s greatest find so far. It would be displayed at the villa; it might even remind the Christian scholars of the need for unity.

‘Now! Now! Now!’ the crowd howled. It had slaked its thirst, satisfied its hunger and wanted the fight between Murranus and Spicerius to begin.

Helena put her cup down and turned. Behind her sat officials, notables, priests and Vestal Virgins. The latter were distinguishable by their Greek gowns with heavy over-folds, their hair hidden by white and red woollen ribbons wrapped closely round their heads and tied at the back with the ends hanging over their shoulders. But Helena wasn’t interested in them. She peered across at the far corner of the box, where a young woman sat on a stool placed advantageously on a raised tier so as to obtain a good view of the arena below. Helena winked at Claudia, her little mouse, her scurrier, her most proficient of spies. She wagered that hardly anyone in the box would have noticed Claudia, with her boyish figure and close-cropped black hair. Her skin was ivory pale, her features regular; if she possessed any beauty it was those large, lustrous eyes with their calm, unblinking gaze. She wore no paint or jewellery; just a round-necked tunic which fell beneath her knees, and on her feet stout boot sandals like those of a soldier.

Helena mouthed the words ‘little mouse’, which was acknowledged by a quick twisted smile and a bob of the head. Helena returned to her reflections. Claudia would be helpful in the problems the Emperor faced; that shrewd little mouse, that most perfect of agents, with her nose for mischief! She was a child of the slums, a former actress; she could act the lady if she wanted to but she rarely did. She did not like to be noticed, and that made her both valuable and dangerous. People chattered as if she wasn’t there, and she had a sharp eye for observing little incongruities and idiosyncrasies. Was Claudia a Christian? Helena wondered. There was certainly some link between her and the priest Sylvester, as there was with Rufinus. Perhaps the banker had promised to help Claudia find the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist who had raped her two years ago after murdering her simple-minded brother Felix. Strange, Helena reflected, that Claudia had accepted her invitation to the games; the girl had declared she did not like such occasions, but wasn’t she sweet on one of the gladiators?

‘Augusta, may I join you?’ Fulvia Julia, Rufinus’s wife, was standing next to her; beside her hovered a household slave carrying a stool.

‘Of course.’ Helena’s smile was as false as Fulvia Julia’s.

‘Very good.’ Fulvia Julia sat down. ‘Augusta,’ she cooed, tapping the arm of Helena’s chair, ‘you’re so brave, refusing to wear jewellery or paint. It’s so. .’ the bitch shrilled with laughter, ‘so basic!’

‘Haven’t you read Ovid’s Remedies of Love?’ Helena smiled. ‘He says all is concealed by gems, gold and paint.’ She leaned closer. ‘A false woman is the least part of herself.’

‘Oh! Augusta, you’re so knowledgeable. Now,’ Fulvia Julia clapped her hands and pointed at the arena, ‘who do you think is going to be killed?’

Murranus the Gladiator, standing in the darkness of the tunnel entrance beneath the amphitheatre, was asking himself the same question. He’d prayed before a statue of Mars, and sprinkled some incense over the flame, mixing in a tuft of red hair from his close-cropped head. He had bathed his eyes against the dust and dabbed on a little black kohl, which emphasised their blueness. He was ready for the contest. He and his opponent were free men, so they could carry their own weapons; they would not have to wait until they entered the arena. They were here by choice. Murranus shook his head. He was here because he had to be; this was the only thing he could do — fight.

Murranus squinted out at the sunlight. He was Frisian by stock, but really nothing more than another fighting man from the slums with no kith or kin. Fortunata, his sister, was dead, and his only friends were his companions at the She-Asses tavern. He had bounced the tavern wench, Januaria, but as for his heart. . Well, he grimaced, little Claudia would know all about that.

He gazed round the tunnel. Its walls, painted a macabre yellow and black, were covered by graffiti, the last words and signs of other gladiators who’d waited here before the Gate of Life, the blinding light of the arena beckoning them on. Would this be the day he died? Murranus was the victor of at least a dozen fights. He had lost only two, being judged ‘Amissus’, defeated but allowed to live.

‘Are you ready, Murranus?’ Polybius, Claudia’s uncle, and keeper of the She-Asses tavern, gestured at the table where his armour was piled. Polybius was full-faced, with mischievous eyes. He now tried to look sad, rubbing the end of his fat nose and pulling down his laughing mouth as if Murranus had already lost the contest.

‘I’m the one who’s fighting,’ Murranus joked.

Polybius patted the sweat-soaked hair on his own balding head, then rubbed his grubby hands on his dark blue tunic.

‘I wish you weren’t!’ Oceanus came out of the shadows. He was a former gladiator, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, with arms and legs as stout as pillars. Claiming it was better to have an empty garden than a few straggling flowers, he shaved his pate every day and rubbed in cheap oil so that, as Polybius said, it gleamed like a fresh pigeon’s egg. He had only one ear, which sported a huge brass ring; the other had been bitten off in a contest. Oceanus had dried it out, pickled it in brine and now it hung on a cord slung round his neck.

Others from the tavern gathered around. Simon the Stoic, the self-proclaimed philosopher, was garbed in his usual shabby cloak. Today his mournful face was even more lugubrious, his bitter lips ready to recite some tragic line. Murranus wanted to be alone, but they were only trying to help; at least they distracted him from the blood stains on the floor, as well as those two ghouls, Charon and Mercury, standing with their backs to the wall, staring at him as if he was a bullock primed for the slaughter. Outside, the chanting of the crowd thundered ominously, but when it subsided the strident music ruffled Murranus’s nerves and made the sweat break out on the back of his neck. He wished the waiting was over.

‘I’m ready,’ he declared. He moved across to the table and stripped. Oceanus washed his body with a sponge soaked in cold water, dried him off and began to rub in oil. Once he had finished, Murranus wrapped a triangular loincloth about his waist, pulling the end up between his legs and pushing it through a knot at the front. Next came the thick belt with its golden stitching. Murranus jogged up and down, bulging out his stomach muscles. Once he had pronounced himself satisfied, he put on a leather guard over his left arm, followed by the embossed bronzed leg guards over their thick linen padding. Oceanus made sure all the straps were tied securely and rubbed more oil on Murranus’s bare feet, thighs, chest and right arm. The gladiator picked up his stout stabbing sword and oblong legionnaire’s shield, weighing them carefully, checking all was well. Finally the visored helmet, with a panther carved on top sporting a blue-black horse-hair crest, was handed to him. Its straps and buckles were sound, and Murranus slipped it over his head, making sure it sat comfortably, peering through the eye holes at his friends standing in a semicircle around him.

‘Pray for me, my friends.’ His voice sounded muffled. ‘Let fortune be with me.’

He took the helmet off and grinned, although his stomach churned and a muscle in his right thigh trembled. Murranus had made his farewells the night before at the Cena Libera, the Free Supper, where gladiators due to appear in the arena the next day celebrated what might be their last night alive. He turned at the sound of voices, and saw a gang of young men, their faces painted, hair dyed, eyelids fluttering, come tripping down the tunnel. Oceanus drove them back.

‘Perverts!’ Oceanus jibed. ‘The only way they can get a hard-on is by watching a man getting ready to die.’

Murranus laughed, eager to lessen the tension. He told them about how such perverts, both male and female, clustered round the Gate of Life to pester and taunt the Noxii, criminals condemned to be thrown to the beasts; how these degenerates would often push their bodies up against the manacled prisoners. On one occasion a former Emperor had issued secret orders that when the Noxii were driven out, these perverts should also be pushed out to face the wild beasts. Murranus’s story provoked merriment, abruptly cut short by loud laughter echoing along the tunnel.

‘Spicerius,’ Polybius declared, ‘and all his entourage.’

The net man came swaggering out of the darkness, tall and lithe, quick on his feet, his bushy black hair kept in place by a red headband. He was already armed, resplendent in his silver loincloth with his gold-embroidered belt, a wickedly pointed dagger pushed through a ring just near the buckle. Gold-coloured padding protected his legs and left arm; an ornamented arm guard on his right displayed a snarling lion on the front with bulls’ heads around the rim. He wore a silver cord about his neck from which hung a lion’s tooth. Spicerius claimed to have killed its owner with his bare hands. As soon as he deigned to notice Murranus, he lifted the pointed trident and dangled the net tied to his left hand.

‘Come on, Murranus, come and get it.’

Murranus put his helmet down and walked over. He scrutinised the net man carefully, those quickly darting close-set eyes, that smirking mouth. He noticed how Spicerius, as was his custom, had painted his face and drawn deep-green kohl rings around his eyes. His lips were carmined and he stank of some expensive perfume. Spicerius thrust his face closer, eyes fluttering.

‘Kiss, kiss, Murranus?’

The young woman on Spicerius’s left shrieked with laughter, so loud Murranus suspected she was drunk.

‘This is Agrippina.’ Spicerius introduced her. ‘A noble daughter of a noble family.’

Agrippina was tall and willowy, her black hair tied up in a net, a gesture of comradeship with her boyfriend. The snow-white linen wrap around her shoulders did little to hide the plunging neckline of her gown. She wore mullet-red shoes, and earrings, bracelets and bangles of the same colour, as if proclaiming her love for the colour of blood.

‘I’ve come to kiss Spicerius goodbye,’ she announced pertly. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘on second thoughts, just to wish him well. I’ll proudly kiss him on his return!’

‘Kiss my arse!’ Oceanus bellowed from where he stood behind Murranus. Spicerius moved to confront him but Murranus blocked his way.

‘There’ll be time soon enough,’ he murmured.

‘Aye,’ the net man replied, lowering his trident to rest under his arm, ‘there’ll soon be time for everything.’

The Director of the Games, all flustered and sweaty, came forward, gesturing at a tray bearing a flagon of wine and two cups on the shabby table against the wall. He beckoned the gladiators forward and filled the earthenware cups. Each took one and toasted his opponent.

‘Usque ad mortem,’ Murranus declared.

‘Usque ad mortem,’ Spicerius replied. ‘To the death.’

They drained their cups and returned to their entourages for the final preparations. The Director was standing at the Gate of Life, gesturing with his hands. A strident blast of trumpets silenced the crowd, and both gladiators returned for one more drink. Spicerius checked the net tied to his wrist whilst Murranus lowered his helmet on his head.

‘Now,’ a voice bellowed.

They walked out of the darkness into the blazing light. Trumpets shrilled, cymbals clashed, the crowd thundered its applause whilst the heat caught them like a blast from a fiery oven. The musicians, sand-rakers and cleaners had disappeared. Murranus walked carefully across the sand, Spicerius keeping pace. They stopped before the imperial box and gave the salute, and a figure high above them lifted his hand in languid reply. Both gladiators turned, saluted each other and quickly drew apart. The clamour of the crowd subsided into a whispering chatter as so-called experts delivered their judgements on the combatants.

Murranus tried not to be distracted. Claudia was in the imperial box; he wished she wasn’t. He did not feel good and tried to shake off his fears. He had visited a magician, who had sacrificed a dove in a pool of water and prayed that all the gods would assist Murranus. Murranus did not want to die. He had to be Victor Ludorum and receive the gladiator’s crown. Spicerius was still moving away, drawing free of the wall, which could impede his net. Murranus followed slowly. Spicerius began that strange dance all net men did, moving swiftly to the right then the left, trying to detect whether his opponent’s view was blocked or hampered. Murranus brought up sword and shield. He ignored the net and trident, but watched Spicerius’s face, those eyes: which way would he go?

Murranus’s bare feet caught something in the sand. He stepped back and looked down: a severed arm overlooked by the rakers, a grisly reminder of the beast hunt earlier that day. Spicerius hadn’t noticed it. Murranus moved forward quickly and pretended to stumble. Spicerius darted back, net whirling above his head. Murranus quickly retreated, and the net fell short. Murranus rushed in. Spicerius was faster, thrusting his trident towards Murranus’s face. He quickly drew away. The crowd roared their approval. Spicerius was dancing again, showing off. He came in too close and paid the price, a cut to his right thigh which warned him off. Murranus ignored the applause and followed Spicerius, but something was wrong: the wound he had inflicted was superficial, yet the net man was blinking, shaking his head. Was this a trap? Murranus cautiously paced forward, then stopped. Spicerius no longer crouched. He was standing up straight, staring at his opponent, eyes puzzled, mouth moving. The trident dropped from his hands. He took a step forward, tangling his feet in the net, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

For the briefest moment there was silence, shattered by a roar of disapproval. The crowd had come for blood, not to see someone collapse in the sand. The Gate of Life opened, and Mercury hurried across with his red-hot iron. He jabbed Spicerius’s leg, but the net man only groaned, tried to move, then lay still. Charon turned the body over. Spicerius’s face was pale, his eyelids fluttering, and he was coughing and spluttering. Charon turned him back and Spicerius began to vomit.

‘Poison!’ The word seemed to carry like a bird whirring round the amphitheatre.

Murranus walked away just as the booing began. He strode towards the Gate of Life. The Director of the Games had already picked up one of the wine goblets and was waving it around.

Gaius, principal centurion in the Imperial Comitatus, the cavalry escort which always guarded the Emperor, bit into a soft golden apple. He closed his eyes and savoured the sweet juices. Gaius was sitting in the cool colonnade which overlooked the peristyle garden of the Villa Pulchra. He was deep in thought; he had so much to reflect on, so much to do, so little time to do it. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes. This was a very pleasant change from the musty barracks and hot stable yards of the imperial palaces. He was relieved not to have to wear the imperial dress uniform; instead he could relax in a cool embroidered tunic and short toga, although beneath the folds of that robe he wore a narrow leather belt with a long stabbing dagger in an embroidered sheath.

Gaius had been born not far from this very villa. He claimed he was Roman, though some said his ancestors were Spaniards, which accounted for his dark good looks and fiery temper. He had not yet reached thirty and was already one of Constantine’s most trusted officers. He had received the crown of bravery for his courage at the battle of the Milvian Bridge and his ruthless pursuit of the enemy when it retreated. However, he still couldn’t believe his luck at being brought here for such a meeting. Of course, he hadn’t objected and good-naturedly received the envious congratulations of his fellow officers. He had left Rome a few days ago, escorting the carts and pack ponies, the long lines of slaves and servants, bringing goods from the Palatine palace to this imperial villa. It had been so refreshing to leave the city, travelling along the Via Latina before taking the country roads to Tibur and Constantine’s summer residence.

This great villa, with a large farm attached, stretched across the brow of the Alban Hills, a place of dark green woods, pastures and meadows, all fertilised by the cool, sparkling Anio River. The villa was protected by its own curtain wall with guard towers and a wide fortified gate. Inside stretched a veritable paradise of gardens, sparkling fountains, man-made channels and rivulets, garlanded porticoes and shaded colonnades. The villa boasted avenues of cypresses, olives and pine trees which, the garrulous old gardener had assured Gaius, were watered with wine. Elm and holm-oak flourished, as well as shrubs such as myrtle, box, oleander, laurel and bay. Around the villa were sweet-smelling orchards of apple, pear, peach and cherry, and beds of roses, lilies and violets, whilst exotic lotus blossom floated on pools and fish ponds.

Once the carts were unpacked and the sumpter ponies unburdened, Gaius had spent the last two days wandering the villa. Its entrance hall or atrium was breathtaking in its beauty, with its long pool beneath an open sunlight, gorgeously carved pillars and vividly painted wall frescoes. The triclinium, or dining room, was just as luxurious, as were the various chambers and rest rooms for the imperial family and their court. Every luxury and need was catered for. The villa had its own kitchen, bake houses, vineyards and wine cellars. There was even a latrine with twenty marble seats at the far side of the villa, near the wall which divided it from the farm, which was a small estate in itself with its stables, pig pens, chicken coops, dovecotes and vegetable gardens.

Gaius had his own chamber beyond the peristyle, rather narrow but it did possess a large window, a carved chest, a stool, a small table and a comfortable cot bed. There was even a wall tapestry depicting Aeneas fleeing Troy, whilst the floor mosaic was of a dolphin’s head thrusting up through sky-blue waves. Gaius had little to do but plan and plot while ensuring his guards were vigilant. The preparations for the arrival of the Purple Lords were not for him; those were left to the chamberlains and stewards. Gaius was in charge of security, and he had scrupulously memorised the plan of the villa. Only one distraction concerned him: the other soldiers. These were not from the imperial regiments; merely German mercenaries in their baggy trousers and tunics, their ruddy faces almost hidden beneath straggling hair and moustaches. The Germans were friendly enough, under the command of Burrus, Emperor Helena’s personal bodyguard. They’d arrived two weeks ago in order to guard what they called in their broken Latin the ‘Sanctus Gladius’, the Holy Sword, apparently a great Christian relic which the Empress had found near the grave of Paul, one of the first leaders of the Christian Church. Paul had been decapitated by the Emperor Nero some two hundred and fifty years earlier; the faithful had obtained the sword which severed his neck and kept it in a secret place. Gaius regarded it all as childish trickery but the Germans were overcome by awe and took their task seriously.

Gaius scratched at a cut on his arm and gazed down at the golden carp nosing lazily amongst the reeds. He couldn’t believe a sword had been preserved for over two hundred years, but there again, everything was changing. Gaius narrowed his eyes in disdain. The Christians. . well, they swarmed like rats spilling out of their sewers and underground caverns. When they were not nosing where they shouldn’t, they were busy fighting each other. Gaius tapped his foot impatiently. He and the other officers did not like how this coward’s faith was replacing the glories of Mithras. Was this what they had fought for? Their allegiance was to Rome, yet the Augusta was insistent that that bloody sword had become more precious than an imperial standard. Burrus had told him all about the so-called relic; the German was garrulous, especially after he had drunk a few cups of the heavy wine of Lesbos, and had confessed to Gaius how he took his task most seriously, out of awe, as well as love for his Empress.

‘She feeds me so well,’ Burrus had slurred. ‘Dormice,’ he continued. ‘I never thought I’d like them, but, soaked in honey, with a sprinkling of sesame seeds. .’ He stroked his stomach appreciatively. He was not so polite about the arrival of the philosophers, however. ‘Christians,’ he jeered, ‘with nothing better to do than chatter like jays. The sword has been brought here to impress them.’

‘Where’s it kept?’ Gaius had asked.

‘Just behind the atrium,’ Burrus confided, ‘stands a door with steps leading down to a cellar. Apparently the builder of this villa had hoped to create an ice house by plastering the walls and laying a cement floor with a great circle of earth in the centre where the ice tub would stand. It was a dismal failure, so the cavernous chamber was turned into a strong room where the owner could keep his treasure. Now,’ Burrus leaned closer in a heavy gust of wine, ‘there,’ he stumbled over the words, ‘is the Locus Sacer, the Sacred Place.’

Timothaeus, Chief Steward of the villa, a self-confessed Christian who wore the fish symbol around his neck, had nodded in agreement. The steward, with his jovial red face and infectious laugh, always joined their little suppers. He never took offence at Burrus’s contempt for Christians, but always warned that the mercenary should be careful, for surely one day the Empress Helena would be baptised and received in the only true faith? The German had grunted his disapproval and started asking questions about this great Paul, before offering to show Gaius the renowned relic. The steward had accompanied them down the steps to the iron-studded cellar door. At each side of this squatted two of Burrus’s men, looking rather fearsome in the dancing light of the pitch torches pushed into wall brackets above them. They rose, swaying drunkenly.

‘Is your leg better?’ one of them asked Timothaeus.

‘Oh yes,’ the steward replied hurriedly. ‘Now, Burrus, your key. .’

Apparently there were two locks to the door, each served by a different key. Burrus held one, Timothaeus the other. The mercenary inserted his and turned it; the steward followed suit and swung open the door to the sacred place. The inside of the cellar was dark, reeking of incense and beeswax. Gaius stepped over the threshold and stared around.

The chamber was long and cavernous, a place of shifting shadows due to the candles in their translucent alabaster jars fixed in niches along the walls. The ceiling was high, ribbed by stout beams supporting the floor above. In the centre stretched a huge circle of sand sprinkled with gold dust and edged with polished bricks arranged in a dog’s-tooth fashion. Pots of incense displaying the Chi and Rho of the Christian faith were placed around the circle, the crackling charcoal sending up fragrant gusts of incense. The object of all this veneration hung on a stout chain from a rafter beam: the Holy Sword of the legionary who had executed St Paul. Around the stone-rimmed circle were prayer stools for the faithful to sit or kneel whenever they came to venerate the sacred relic.

‘Where’s Burrus?’ Gaius asked. Timothaeus had followed him in, but the German had stayed chattering to his companions outside.

‘He’s frightened,’ the steward whispered. ‘This is a sacred place. Burrus is frightened of the Christian angels.’ Gaius grunted and walked to the edge of the circle.

The sword was an old legionary weapon, now replaced as standard issue by the long curved sword Gaius had used during his military career. He studied the relic with great interest. The hilt was of pure ivory, a sparkling ruby on the pommel; its blade, designed for stabbing, was two-edged, with a ridge down the centre, and had been polished so it shone like a mirror. Gaius could understand why the room had been chosen. The sword was on full display and you could walk right round it, but the smooth sand would betray any footprint, whilst the sword hung more than an arm’s length from where he stood. At the bottom of the chain was a sharp ugly hook to which the ring on the end of the hilt had been attached.

Gaius studied the sword, more out of curiosity than anything else. He found it difficult to accept that it was as old as Timothaeus claimed.

‘The hilt has probably been replaced,’ the steward hastily assured him, ‘but its blade certainly bestowed on our blessed Paul the glorious palm of martyrdom. .’

Now Gaius stared down at the carp amongst the reeds. He had soon lost interest in the sword and couldn’t understand the growing interest of the Emperor in such matters. He’d heard the Emperor joke how his August mother was busy ransacking the Empire in her hunger for relics. The philosophers, the rhetoricians invited from Capua were deeply interested in the sword. Gaius had studied what he secretly called ‘those loathsome creatures’ ever since their arrival the day before yesterday. He had taken a personal dislike to all of them; they had no redeeming virtues, and their appearance and manner confirmed all he’d learned about them. A true nest of vipers! Of course, they had visited the sword as soon as they had arrived. According to Timothaeus, their fingers had positively itched, although the steward didn’t know if it was the sacredness of the relic or the gleaming ruby in its ivory hilt which attracted them. All veneration had soon disappeared though, as the rhetoricians started to squabble about St Paul’s teaching on Christ. Timothaeus had been truly scandalised, grumbling that if they were not prudent the good Lord would send a plague or pestilence to unite them against the common danger.

Voices echoed along the peristyle. Gaius closed his eyes. It was the rhetoricians, braying like asses! Justin, leader of the Arian delegation, came into the garden, bony finger waggling as he lectured his two companions on some obscure point of theology.

‘What we have got to decide,’ he declared, ‘is whether Jesus Christ is of the same substance as the Father, or can he only be likened to the Father?’

His two companions nodded wisely. Gaius glared at them, but of course, he was a mere soldier; in their eyes he didn’t exist. Justin was fat, with bulbous eyes and a mouth like a fish. Gaius stared down at the carp. No, he reasoned, that was an insult to the fish. Justin was a bloated frog. He liked to describe himself as ascetic, so he insisted on wearing a shabby tunic which reeked of the stables and sandals which would look scruffy on a beggar. His two companions, Dionysius and Malachus, were plain young men, both balding. They tried to imitate the Greeks with their sparse moustache and beards, eyes screwed up in concentration, lips half open as if ready to declare some great truth hidden from the rest of mankind.

They drifted away and Gaius lay down in the shade of a laurel bush and wondered what would happen. Memories came and went. When they were boys he and Spicerius used to visit a rich old man with a garden like this. He wondered idly what his former comrade would make of it all. Before long he had drifted off to sleep.

He was woken some time later, the shadows lenghtening, by the clash of cymbals, loud cries and shouts. At first, in his half-sleep, Gaius thought the villa was being attacked. Burrus came running into the garden, throwing his hands up in the air, then fell to his knees and began to howl like a dog.

‘By all that is light,’ Gaius muttered. He jumped to his feet and ordered the German to shut up.

‘The sword,’ Burrus wailed, ‘the Holy Sword is gone! And Timothaeus is dead!’