The Song of the Gladiator (18 page)

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

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

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

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

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

‘Shall I bring some wine?’ Claudia asked.

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

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

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

He stared at her, then burst into tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Narcissus’s eyes welled up.

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

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

‘Whatever you say.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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