The Song of the Gladiator (21 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But it was beached?’ Constantine demanded.

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

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

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

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

‘Are you Roman citizens?’ she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claudia drew a line and made a second heading:

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

 

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