The Song of the Gladiator (5 page)

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!’

The She-Asses tavern, on the edge of Rome’s not so salubrious quarter, near the Flavian Gate, was ablaze with light. The tavern occupied the ground floor of an
insula
or apartment block near the decaying temple of the Crown of Venus. It was a spacious hostelry with a fine main door, nailed to which was a placard listing what was on the menu, which wines and beers were served, as well as a stark warning to gamblers, fighters, sorcerers and travelling tinkers that they were banned from trading under pain of a broken nose. Above the door perched a carved statue of Minerva which Polybius had ‘borrowed’ from the nearby temple, whilst on the top of each doorpost squatted a grinning Hermes. Oceanus had appropriated these on a long-term loan from a bath house the police had closed down for acting as a brothel without paying them their dues. Inside the main folding door, Polybius had transformed what used to be the atrium into a spacious high-ceilinged eating room. The counter stood at one end and at the other what Polybius grandiloquently termed ‘the garden door’. The room was lit by oil lamps, rush lights and lanterns hanging from wall and ceiling hooks.