The Song of the Gladiator (26 page)

‘Yes, I do,’ Claudia replied. ‘Tell me, the Christian martyr Paul, the great preacher, how did he die? Where is he buried?’

‘Paul was both a Jew and a Roman citizen,’ Sylvester replied. ‘He was brought to Rome to face charges late in Nero’s reign. Blessed Paul’s opponents had the ear of Nero’s mistress and the death sentence was passed against him. Unlike the saintly Peter, who was crucified upside down, Paul claimed the rights of a Roman citizen, and was sentenced to decapitation. He was taken from his prison to beyond the city walls, near a small fountain close to a cemetery on the road to Ostia. He was executed there, and his disciples later came and buried his body close by.’ Sylvester smiled wryly. ‘There’s already a monument in the making for him, a shrine. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Claudia walked away.

‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ Sylvester called after her. ‘The Emperor will be returning to Rome to celebrate his birthday and attend the games. I understand your Murranus will be fighting. If he vanquishes Spicerius, he will meet Meleager in the arena.’

‘He’s not my Murranus,’ Claudia retorted, coming back. ‘You’re telling me what I already know. What else do you want to tell me, priest?’

‘Meleager.’ Sylvester played with the ring on his little finger. ‘I made a few enquiries on your behalf. You’re correct. Meleager acts the reserved warrior but he’s a vicious fighter. A man who likes killing, not a professional like Burrus or Gaius. According to Rufinus, Meleager sometimes plays with his victims in the arena like a cat does with his prey. I just thought I would let you know. No, no,’ Sylvester slipped the ring on and off his finger, ‘not to frighten you. I wouldn’t do that. One interesting fact I’ve learnt, there may be a school of orators at Capua—’

‘But there’s also a school of gladiators, isn’t there?’ Claudia added quickly. ‘I’ve just remembered that. It’s a very famous school. Wasn’t that the place where Spartacus started his rebellion?’

Sylvester was watching her strangely. ‘Meleager was there,’ he replied, ‘when the persecution broke out. According to reports, and this is just chitter-chatter, he helped in the rounding up of Christians. He not only guarded them but was often present at their interrogation.’

‘In other words, he was a torturer?’

‘Yes, Claudia, you could say that.’ The presbyter walked away.

‘What should I do?’ Narcissus called out, gesturing at the corpses. ‘You can’t leave them here, they’ll begin to stink.’

Sylvester strolled over and whispered to him. Narcissus nodded and shouted for Burrus and his mercenaries to come and help him.

Claudia walked across the lawns, down the steps back into the store room. She picked up a stool and sat down, staring at the two pillars still flecked with blood. Flies buzzed over the cut, stained ropes and other splashes of blood on the floor. There were vents in the far wall which allowed in some light but, for the rest, there was nothing more than the glow thrown by the torches, which were now sputtering weakly, sending black tendrils of smoke into the air. She reflected on what Sylvester had told her. The murderer, who could be anyone, had enticed those two men away from the rest, stunned them, and dragged them here. She was certain their deaths had nothing to do with the theological debates taking place; it must be the past, but whose past?

Claudia rose and walked across to pick up a piece of rope. She studied the knot. It was nothing more extraordinary than a simple knot double tied. She wondered if the ropes left behind at Dionysius’s corpse had been the same. She heard a sound behind her, the slither of a footstep, and her hand went to the dagger sheath sewn against her belt. She turned quickly, plucking up the stool as if it was a shield, dagger out, turning sideways as Murranus had taught her. The murky light hid her visitor until he clicked his tongue.

‘Chrysis,’ she whispered, ‘what are you doing here?’

The chamberlain came forward. ‘Claudia, Claudia, what is this?’

‘Don’t creep up on me,’ Claudia warned. ‘Imperial chamberlain or not, Chrysis, you don’t like me and I don’t like sitting with my back to you.’

‘You’re far too suspicious,’ Chrysis whispered. ‘You’re a little bitch, Claudia, with a tart tongue and a hard heart.’

‘I always like being lectured by moralists.’ Claudia put the stool down.

‘I only came to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Capua.’

‘You were there?’

‘You know I was. You, with your darting eyes and twitching nose! I went there to learn how to speak, to get rid of my stammer and lisp. I ran out of money, so I helped myself to other people’s. In the end I couldn’t pay my bills, so I fled.’

‘Were you an informant, Chrysis? Did you give information against the Christians?’

‘Bitch!’

‘Well, did you?’ Claudia sat down on the stool.

‘None of your business.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I believe that anyone who was at Capua faces the risk of murder.’

‘Or could be a possible suspect.’

‘Claudia,’ Chrysis shuffled closer; she didn’t like his bulky body, or the way he was pretending to smile, ‘I want to be your friend. I came to give you information.’

‘What about?’

‘Meleager is from Capua.’

‘I know that,’ Claudia snapped.

‘Ah, but did you know that although the betting is very heavy on Murranus to beat Spicerius, it’s nothing compared to the money being wagered on Meleager to beat and kill Murranus.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claudia was about to re-sheathe the knife, but instead pointed it at the fat chamberlain.

‘Betting,’ Chrysis explained, drawing even closer, ‘is a strange world, Claudia. It’s like life at court; things are never what they appear to be. You can bet on doubles, or spread your wager in a variety of ways. Now, according to Rufinus and Meleager, who preens himself and cannot keep his mouth shut . . .’ Chrysis picked at his nose. ‘Oh, by the way, have you ever met him before? I had breakfast with Meleager this morning before he left, he’s sure he knows you, but couldn’t place from where and when.’

‘He’s mistaken.’

‘Anyway,’ Chrysis chattered on, ‘the news is that the money, bag after bag of sestercii, is being laid on Meleager. Now, such wagers can be simple: Murranus to win, Murranus to die, or Murranus to win against Spicerius but lose against Meleager. To cut through the tangle, Murranus is the favourite against Spicerius on one condition: that he loses to Meleager.’

Claudia’s stomach lurched, and her throat seemed so full she was unable to swallow.

‘So?’ she stuttered.

‘So,’ Chrysis explained, ‘let’s go back to Spicerius’s little accident, the day he felt faint in the arena. The money was on Murranus to kill him, leaving Murranus free to face Meleager. If that had happened . . . listen now, Claudia,’ Chrysis wagged his finger in her face, ‘Murranus would have been all upset, poor boy, accused of cheating, and perhaps when he stepped on to the sand to face Meleager, he might not have been, how do I put it, at his best.’

Claudia wished she could have some water, clean and fresh, to take the acid from her throat. Chrysis was a dangerous but knowledgeable man. He was frightened by the murders and probably trying to placate her. Claudia wetted her lips. Chrysis was merely voicing hints and possibilities that Claudia had already received from the likes of Helena. Spicerius was meant to die – Murranus could have killed him but would have entered the next bout a vilified, disgraced gladiator. A fighter in the arena needed to be confident.

‘Why didn’t Rufinus tell me all this?’

‘He would have done,’ Chrysis hunched his shoulders, ‘but all this clamour and upset has disturbed everyone. No wonder the Emperor wants to go back to Rome. He said it’s more peaceful there.’

‘And what do you think will happen to Murranus?’ Claudia asked.

The chamberlain pinched his nostrils, a common gesture whenever he was thinking deeply.

‘Two things occur to me, Claudia. First, something might still happen to Spicerius. Secondly, is Murranus still being put under threat, his peace of mind shattered? You know how it is? Professional men like Murranus train their minds as well as their bodies. They regard themselves as the victor; to do anything different is to court disaster.’

‘True.’ Claudia folded her arms against her chest. Murranus had told her how fighters taunted each other, trying to break their opponent’s will, to stir the heart and agitate the mind.

‘What you also have to worry about,’ Chrysis added, a hint of malice in his voice, ‘is that when they, whoever they are, are finished with Spicerius, will they move against Murranus? Rufinus thinks the same.’

Claudia stared at this fat chamberlain, with his bland face and a mind teeming like a box of worms.

‘So what you are implying,’ she spoke slowly, ‘is that something could still happen to Spicerius, and once he is out of the way, it will be Murranus’s turn. I wonder who they are?’

‘Someone who’s wagered a fortune,’ Chrysis muttered. ‘Lots and lots of money.’

Something in his voice alerted Claudia, the way he said ‘lots’, like a man who sees a good meal and whose mouth starts to water. She laughed.

‘You think it’s funny?’

‘No, you’re funny, Chrysis. You’ve come to tell me this because Rufinus told you to. More significantly, you’re a gambler. You’ve wagered heavily, haven’t you? You’ve taken every coin your little fat fingers could collect. Who are you backing, Chrysis?’ She got up. ‘Don’t come here pretending to be my friend. You are more concerned about your previous life in Capua being exposed. More importantly, you’re anxious about my Murranus.’

Up close, Claudia could see the chamberlian was sweating. She prodded him in the stomach with the hilt of her dagger.

‘You fat liar!’ she whispered.

Chrysis blinked and swallowed hard, like a schoolboy being reproved.

‘You’ve put all your money on Murranus, haven’t you?’

Chrysis nodded. ‘I’m frightened,’ he bleated. ‘I’m frightened of Murranus losing. I could lose at least ten thousand sestercii.’

‘By the light! What on earth made you do that?’

‘I didn’t know about Meleager. No, no, that’s not true. I’ve watched Murranus. You see, Claudia, he loves you, I know that. And a man who has someone to love wants to live, and so fights better. You’ve got to go back to Rome, Claudia, you’ve got to warn your man. If he goes down, so will I.’

Chrysis walked away. Claudia turned and stared at the rope heaped on the floor.

‘Mistress?’ Narcissus appeared in the doorway. ‘Mistress, what are you thinking about?’

‘About having a bath!’ Claudia snapped. ‘What do you think I’m thinking about, one problem after another.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘Go back to Rome, see Uncle Polybius. I think it’s time I had words with Sallust the Searcher . . .’

Murranus ducked and swiftly drew away, feet stamping the hot sand of the Ludus Magnus, the great gladiatorial school not far from the Flavian amphitheatre. The net man he was practising against danced after him, sandalled feet kicking up the sand, hoping the breeze would take it into Murranus’s face whilst he trailed his net, moving the wooden trident ready to smack Murranus in the throat or make a swift thrust to his exposed belly. Murranus felt the cloying heat. The helmet he was wearing had grown stifling, sand was seeping through the gaps for the eyes, ears and mouth, whilst the leather padding stuck to his face. The greaves on his legs seemed to have grown heavier; the shield straps were wet with sweat. He had deliberately asked for the bout to be in the full heat of the day and had chosen the school’s fastest net man, a Gaul from Narbonne, a true dancer who could shift like a shadow.

Through the slits of his helmet, Murranus watched his opponent move swiftly from side to side. He was trying to disconcert Murranus, striving to manoeuvre him so that he had his back to the sun. The net man had a piece of metal protecting his left arm which he deliberately used as a mirror to dazzle his opponent. Murranus recognised all these tricks; the net man would be watching carefully. If he could clog up the gaps in Murranus’s helmet, cake his mouth and nose with dust, dazzle his eyes, already blinking because of the sweat, he might have a chance to trap him with his net and bring him to the ground. Murranus moved away, cleaning his mouth with his tongue. He held the long shield up and gripped the wooden sword even tighter. He moved his helmet, caught the breeze and felt a little better. He was aware of the tiers of seats in the amphitheatre quickly filling up as the various collegia arrived to watch him fight. Spicerius was there, Meleager had just arrived; so had the Dacians, gathering like a swarm of flies to study his every move. Well, he would educate them.

The net man was moving in, his net ready to sail out like a spider’s web. Murranus darted forward but hastily retreated. Again he went in. Now he was concentrating hard; he no longer heard the moan of the crowd, he’d forgotten about the clammy helmet, the sweat soaking his face, the ache of his leg muscles or the pain in his right arm where he had received a vicious rap from the wooden trident. Indeed, Murranus was beginning to hum a song he had learned as a child. He was enjoying himself, this was his being, his very existence. All of life had come down to staring through that gap at a man who, under different circumstances, would try to kill him.

Murranus now had the measure of the moment. He settled to the fight, aware of the sheer music of this macabre dance. It thrilled his body, and his mind and heart were now set on victory. He’d made his decision. He knew which choice to follow; the die was cast. In the shuffling dance beforehand he had scrutinised the net man carefully, looking for his opponent’s mistakes. A little too quick for his own good, Murranus thought, too impetuous.

Murranus darted in, moving his shield to the left, sword flickering forward like a snake’s tongue. The net man shifted to close with him. Murranus retreated. The gladiator repeated the same manoeuvre until he was ready, then he lunged again, but this time he did not retreat, instead moving swiftly to the right. His opponent, surprised, let his net sail out, missing its target. Murranus darted in, using his shield like a battering ram, sending the trident spinning from the net man’s hand. The net man rolled in the sand, ready to spring up, but it was too late. Murranus was over him, knocking him on the back of the head, sending him face down on to the sand and thrusting the tip of his sword into the nape of his opponent’s neck. The net man lay silent as Murranus lifted his shield to acknowledge the cries and applause from the crowd, then stepped back, dropping shield and sword, and took off the plumed helmet. A slave ran across to remove the heavy leg greaves. Another brought a jar of water. Murranus sipped from this and poured some over his face, then pulled his opponent up and thrust the water jar into his hands.