The Song of the Gladiator (30 page)

‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.

‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’

Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.

‘Magister!’

Sylvester walked back. He took an oil lamp from a niche and crouched down to examine the cracked plaster. Pieces were missing and some of it had crumbled, but the scribe had done a good job. Sylvester traced the inscriptions with his finger.

‘Lucius et Octavia ex Capua, Christiani,’ he read. ‘Christians from Capua.’ He traced the date on the plaster and realised it must have been the last year of Diocletian’s reign, some four years ago. ‘Do you know who they were?’

The scribe wearily got to his feet. ‘In my office,’ he explained, ‘I have, as you know, Magister, a list of Christians in each town, while Lord Chrysis has handed over the names of the
proscripti
, those who were condemned by the state. I will have to check these.’

Sylvester nodded. They walked back along the gallery to a small cavern which the scribe grandly described as his ‘writing office’. When the catacombs had been handed over to the care of the Bishop of Rome, Sylvester had immediately set up guardians and scribes to look after this sacred place and collect every document which might identify those buried here. During the persecution, people had been dragged from their homes in the dead of night, condemned without trial, killed immediately or dispatched to the arena. He had begged for imperial documents, and although some of these had been destroyed, deliberately so, the rest had been handed over, and the chief scribe took particular pride in the way he had organised these. They were now filed in reed baskets, long boxes and chests.

Lamps were lit, and the scribe organised his helpers to search for the necessary documents. Sylvester sat within the doorway, staring across at a crude drawing on the wall of Christ in triumph. This cavern had once been a holy place where the bread and wine had been changed into the Body and Blood of Christ. Once again Sylvester marvelled at how quickly things had changed. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the psalm for the evening, but instead he dozed off, and was shaken awake by the scribe.

‘Magister, we have found something very strange. We have no evidence for any Christians, man and wife, brother and sister, from Capua bearing those names. However, we do have a list of prisoners here. It is four years old and contains the names of Lucius and Octavia, farmers. More importantly, the documents say they had no heirs or family.’

‘So their holding was forfeit to the state?’

‘Precisely, Magister. Consequently, when the Edict of Toleration was issued, two years ago, all such property was granted back to the Church as compensation.’

Sylvester tapped a sandalled foot. ‘What is this?’ he whispered. ‘A man and woman, probably husband and wife, of whom we have no knowledge, yet they were obviously killed as Christians and their property confiscated. They were brought here to be buried and now their bones have been removed. Look,’ he got to his feet, ‘you have a messenger? I want this information sent to the woman known as Claudia, staying at the She-Asses tavern near the Flavian Gate . . .’

Claudia sat in the garden. The morning mist still hung like a veil, and birds darted about, foraging amongst the long grass for crumbs and seeds. Caligula, the tavern cat, a true killer, came slinking out, but the birds recognised the danger and Caligula had to satisfy himself with glaring up at a tree, where a thrush sang its warning. Claudia watched the cat and wondered if death was like that, creeping out of the dark to seek its prey. Death had visited this tavern last night and taken Spicerius; had it sat in the corner gibbering while poor Murranus blundered into that trap? Dacius had clearly been delighted, taunting Murranus to repeat his promise, which of course he had. The die was now cast, the news would be all over Rome; there would be no turning back. In the end Polybius had forced Dacius and his gang back out into the streets, and only then did the enormity of what he had done dawn on Murranus.

‘You’ve offered to fight twice on the same day,’ Oceanus slurred as they drowned their sorrows in wine.

Polybius had urged Murranus to withdraw, but the gladiator was too stubborn. Poppaoe, all tearful, had asked what it meant, and Oceanus had explained. The games would start with criminals being executed, then in the afternoon there would be the Venatio, when a gladiator would face wild animals. Murranus had agreed to pit himself against some ferocious beast, and Dacius had chosen a bull, a ferocious, deadly animal which combined speed, cunning, strength and a determination to kill whatever confronted it.

Claudia had sat, face in hands, trying to control her trembling. She had seen these fighting bulls from Spain and North Africa, muscles rippling under sleek skins, powerful legs which could launch them into a ferocious charge, and, above all, those wide-spaced, cruelly tipped sharpened horns. A wild bull could move like the wind yet turn as fast as any coin spinning on the floor. Oceanus, full of wine and his own importance, had not spared them the details, describing how the bull could charge, feint, and use its horns like an expert swordsman would a pair of blades. Yet this was only half the danger. Murranus had to fight, escape unscathed and, an hour later, enter the arena to confront Meleager. That was the trap! Claudia recognised how crude but effective it was. Polybius had declared it was like weighing a runner down with weights: Spicerius’s death, its effect on Murranus, the baiting and accusations, the simpering Agrippina, and now the prospect of a ferocious battle before Murranus even met his opponent.

Claudia straightened up and took a deep breath. She felt sick with fear and anger, yet there was something else which she was reluctant to face. She had glimpsed the tattoo on Dacius’s wrist and recalled what Spicerius had told Murranus. If that was true, then Meleager and that degenerate from the slums were allies, even close friends. They meant to kill Murranus and had arranged the baiting so as to gamble on the future. Murranus would die so the likes of Dacius, Meleager and Agrippina could eat more delicacies, swill more wine and decorate their bodies with finer clothes and trinkets. It had all been planned from the beginning. Spicerius had been marked down for death and Murranus was the second ox for slaughter. And yet? Claudia ground the heel of her sandal into the grass. She had to face it, her own hate and desire for revenge throbbed loudly. She wanted Murranus to fight Meleager; she couldn’t ask for a better champion for herself and poor Felix. No greater vindicator or righter of wrongs. Over the last few days Claudia had made her decision. Meleager had to die. Murranus must kill him. There was no alternative, and if he didn’t, she would. So what could she do to help? She thought of Agrippina sitting like a pampered cat fed on cream, acting the victim with her wailing and lamentation, her pitiful glances as she tried to provoke sympathy and win support.

‘Bitch!’ Claudia breathed. ‘You painted bitch! You murderous whore! I’ll begin with you.’

Caligula came over, brushing itself against her legs. Claudia scratched the cat between the ears as she reflected on the other mysteries. The Holy Sword? Well, she smiled grimly, that would be a matter of catching the culprit red-handed. And as for the murders? Claudia narrowed her eyes and watched a blackbird, bolder than the rest, go hopping across the grass. The murders were, perhaps, not such a mystery; small items were beginning to prick her suspicions. She knew where Timothaeus was, and she also quietly vowed to keep an eye on Narcissus.

The tavern door opened behind her and Caligula streaked for the gap.

‘Claudia?’ Polybius, red-eyed and much the worse for drink, stood under the porch. ‘They’ve arrived, your visitors have come.’

She followed her uncle back into the tavern to where a man sat hunched near the door. On the other side of the door were a group all huddled, clustered together like mourners.

‘Sallust? Sallust the Searcher?’

The man pushed back his hood and undid the cord of his robe. Claudia was always fascinated by the old man’s face. It looked so commonplace: unshaven, watery-eyed, runny-nosed. The shock of white hair was unruly, the tunic he wore that of a peasant, the sandals bought second-hand from some army quartermaster. A pallid face with a snub nose, the eyes dark brown like those of a puppy, trusting and eager; not the face of a searcher of things, and as such it was his best disguise.

‘Why, Claudia!’ Sallust’s voice was just above a whisper. She grasped his hand. ‘It’s so good to see you. How long is it now?’

‘A few months. Would you like something to eat?’

‘Polybius is going to give me and my boys a jug of beer and a slice of pear tart. We eat very little, you know.’

Claudia sat down next to this searcher for things. Despite his appearance, or perhaps because of it, Sallust was the most expert of the men and women who watched and reported. During the recent civil war he had backed the wrong party. He’d been used by Maxentius and, when Constantine marched into Rome, had had to go into hiding. It was a long story, but Sallust, who knew Polybius from their military days, had appealed for help and Claudia had approached the presbyter Sylvester. A pardon and amnesty had been issued, confiscated property was returned and Sallust had become Claudia’s firm friend and ally. He had immediately returned to his searchings, aided and abetted by his extended family of sons, sons-in-law, kith and kin of many varieties.

Sallust didn’t work for the state but for private individuals. If a debt wasn’t paid or a wager withdrawn, a slave escaped, a child went missing or valuables disappeared, Sallust and his searchers would soon put that right. He had lost some of his wealth during the confusion following the civil war and was eager to make up his losses. He already owned a palatial town house within walking distance of the Palatine, as well as a restful villa out in the Campania. Sallust, however, liked to act the poor man, the nondescript, the person who could sit in a tavern and never be noticed or missed.

For a while Claudia just chattered about the She-Asses and Polybius’s garden, but Sallust gave her a grim reminder of what had happened the previous night, whispering that he and his family already knew about Spicerius’s death and Murranus’s boast.

‘Well, mistress?’ He drained his beer and gazed across at his huddle of relatives, busy filling their bellies with pear tart.

‘They’re so quiet!’ Claudia murmured.

‘Always like that,’ Sallust declared. ‘That’s how we do our business. Now, mistress, you asked to see me.’

‘Ah.’ Claudia edged a little closer. ‘I want to discuss three things with you: love tokens, a holy sword, and the town of Capua. Now . . .’ She paused at the knocking on the door. She got up, opened it and stared at the tinker with a tray slung round his neck. She would have immediately closed the door, but he lifted his hand, displaying the crude icthus ring on his middle finger.

‘I’m looking for the woman Claudia.’

‘I’m she.’

‘Are you?’ He peered closer. ‘You know the turnings?’

‘Across the cemetery to the tomb dedicated to Servilius.’ Claudia gave the agreed answer.

‘He sent you this.’ The tinker handed across a scroll, waggled his fingers and disappeared.

Claudia made her excuse to Sallust and went out to the garden, where she undid the scroll and read Sylvester’s message. She was so surprised she read it again.

‘What is this?’ she exclaimed, staring down at the carefully formed letters.

Sylvester had described a mystery involving a violated tomb and the remains of a man and a woman known as Lucius and Claudia, not listed as Christians but still martyred for that faith. Apparently they were a childless couple whose holdings had been forfeit to the State but which now, under the Edict of Toleration, had been restored to the Church. Claudia reflected on her own suspicions and returned to Sallust.