The Song of the Gladiator (9 page)

Now they were going deeper into the trees, and the rope pulling him went slack. A blindfold was put across his eyes and his hands were freed. Dionysius tried to struggle, but it was fruitless. His opponent hummed quietly as he pegged the philosopher out against the ground and proceeded to slice his captive’s arms, legs and chest. Dionysius really believed the Manes had come. He was in a sea of pain, tossed here and there, his feverish mind drifting in and out of consciousness. He was back in Capua, in the schoolroom or walking out in the fields, until another cut brought him back to the tortured present. His body bucked against the ropes. His assailant was slicing his flesh as he would a piece of beef.

Eventually Dionysius lost consciousness and his assailant left him there, pegged on the ground, blood running out like rivulets across the lush green grass. It took him an hour to die.

His corpse was discovered by Gaius Tullius as he was doing his usual rounds with four of his men. They all gazed in horror at the blood-soaked body, the ground around saturated with a dark stain.

‘Fetch the Empress,’ Gaius ordered.

‘And his Excellency?’

‘I said the Empress,’ Gaius insisted. ‘The Augusta will know what to do.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Our Noble Emperor has taken a few cups of wine; he is with some of the maids and would not like to be disturbed.’

A short while later, the Empress, accompanied by her woebegone bodyguard, came striding through the trees. She gave an exclamation of horror, then walked round the corpse, noticing how the legs and arms were held taut, the rope tied to pegs driven into the ground.

‘How long, Captain?’ she asked.

Gaius, his sandals squelching on the grass, gathered up his gown, leaned down and pressed his hand against the dead man’s face.

‘At least two hours, possibly less.’ He ran his hand across the stomach. ‘This is hardly bloated with gas.’ He got to his feet. ‘Whoever killed him truly hated him. Augusta, shall I arrest the others?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘There is a physician in the villa,’ Burrus murmured.

‘Unless he can resurrect the dead, he is of no use here,’ Helena retorted. ‘I wonder—’

She broke off as Timothaeus the steward came hurrying up. He took one look at the corpse and turned away to retch. Helena walked over and patted him gently on the back.

‘I’m afraid,’ she murmured, ‘it is not your week, is it, Timothaeus? Now, be a good chap, take this hulking piece of meat,’ she gestured at Burrus, ‘and, when you have settled your stomach, go back to Rome, to the She-Asses near the Flavian Gate, and bring Claudia. I want her here tonight.’

Helena walked into the trees, breathing heavily. Yes, she thought, it’s time my little mouse was here, with her twitching nose and scurrying feet. She will help resolve these mysteries . . .

Murranus brought Claudia back to the garden. He grasped her hand and whispered to her not to be foolish. Claudia already felt embarrassed; after all, there were many men in Rome who wore that tattoo on their wrist. She had already met a few, so why such a violent reaction to Spicerius?

‘It’s because of Sylvester,’ she whispered.

‘Who?’ Murranus asked.

‘Nothing.’ Claudia remembered herself quickly. ‘Just a friend I talk to about my problems.’

‘I thought you had no friends except me.’

Claudia, in an attempt to distract him, smiled up at him. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’

Spicerius and Valens were still sitting in the shade. The gladiator rose as Claudia came back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Murranus did tell me what happened. I tried to hide my tattoo beneath the wrist guard.’ He squatted down as she did. ‘I know something of your background,’ he continued, ‘but this tattoo,’ he undid the wrist guard and displayed the design, ‘has only been done in the last six months.’

‘Do many gladiators wear it?’

‘Ask Murranus.’ Spicerius shrugged. ‘It’s common enough. It’s linked to the worship of Dionysius, the God of Wine.’ Claudia noticed how his eye teeth were sharpened like those of a wolf. ‘Dionysius and Eros,’ he continued. ‘What more can a gladiator expect from life?’

‘You’re not the only one!’ Valens, who had been studying her closely, spoke up. ‘I know of at least three girls from the slums, one as young as twelve, who were attacked and raped by a man with that tattoo. One of them claimed it was a gladiator, but there again,’ he patted Spicerius on the shoulder, ‘these men get blamed for everything. If a woman is raped or a man killed . . .’ He paused. ‘Yet I have found more honour amongst them than I have a group of priests.’

‘Is there a temple devoted to Dionysius?’ Claudia asked. ‘I mean, one where the sign is the purple chalice?’

Spicerius shook his head.

‘Many temples are dedicated to Dionysius or Bacchus, they are as common as fleas on a dog. No, it’s more of a sign that you are a wine worshipper, which can earn you comradeship at a drinking club.’ Spicerius paused and clutched his stomach. ‘Just a cramp.’ He winked. ‘I’ll be well enough to fight your man. This time, let the mob spare him.’

‘Last time,’ Claudia, embarrassed, was eager to change the subject, ‘when you drank the poisoned wine, you saw nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘I was in the tunnel,’ Spicerius replied, ‘near the Gate of Life. I wanted the contest to begin. I drank the wine.’ He tapped the tattoo on his wrist. ‘I know my wine, it cleanses my mouth and wets the back of my throat.’

‘Did you feel strange?’ Claudia asked.

Spicerius screwed his eyes up. ‘Ask your boyfriend here. Of course you feel strange before a fight. Your stomach pitches like a boat in a storm. Strange sounds echo in your ears. A drumming begins in your head. You want to run and shout and scream, but at the same time there is this icy coldness. You become aware of the smallest thing.’

‘And in the arena?’ Claudia asked.

‘I went out,’ Spicerius’s face grew smooth; he had lost that mask of cynical arrogance, ‘I really believed I had a chance. Suddenly I saw double, like you do when you have a knock on the head.’ He patted his stomach. ‘A fire was lit in my belly, I thought it would pass, but then my legs lost their strength. One thing I realised was that I had to vomit; if I didn’t, I would die.’ He turned and embraced Valens, drawing the old man close and kissing him on his head. ‘If it wasn’t for my good friend here, the great Spicerius would have died like some slave fainting with fear before a lion or panther.’

‘Somebody drugged you,’ Claudia insisted. ‘Why?’

‘Three reasons,’ Murranus intervened, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Somebody loves Murranus, or somebody hates Spicerius.’

‘And thirdly?’ Claudia asked.

‘Somebody wagered heavily that I would win. It certainly wasn’t me or anyone at this tavern.’

‘But you should have died.’ Claudia turned to Spicerius. ‘You weren’t meant to faint. Your secret attacker intended to kill you.’ She glanced at the old physician, who was chomping on his lips, face turned to the sun, though he had been studying her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

‘By the cock!’ Valens whispered. ‘You have a sharp one here, Murranus! Keen as a surgeon’s knife. You’re right, Spicerius should have died. Three things saved him. He has the constitution of an ox, he vomited the poison, and I was there to administer treatment. There’s one further . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Yes?’ Claudia asked. She was aware of how silent the garden had fallen. A butterfly flew between them, fluttering white in the light breeze.

‘He should have died,’ Valens murmured, ‘but the assassin made a mistake. He, or she, didn’t give him enough poison. It was sufficient to make him vomit, to cause the pain, but not enough to finish him off.’

‘Spicerius!’

Claudia turned. A young woman, black hair floating around her face like a veil, came tripping across the grass, the folds of her costly gown flapping around her, a shawl protecting her back and shoulders from the sun. Behind her an old slave carried a parasol and two fat cushions. The woman paused and turned on him.

‘Can’t you keep up, you old fool!’ she screamed. ‘And this parasol is supposed to shade me from the sun!’

‘Agrippina,’ Spicerius murmured.

The young woman ran up in a gust of perfume and, without being invited, crouched down, flinging her arms around Spicerius’s neck, kissing him hungrily on the side of his mouth and face before shrieking to the old slave to put the cushions down. Then she drew apart, made herself comfortable and gazed around, an impudent smile on her cheeky face.

As Agrippina blew a kiss at Murranus, Claudia tried to hide her stab of envy. The woman was truly beautiful. She had lovely expressive eyes in her ivory-skinned face, and her jewellery and earrings, all a blood red, glittered every time she moved, in a clatter of bangles and bracelets. She wore a wild flower in her hair and carried a perfumed napkin to cool the sweat on her neck and arms. She waggled her fingers at Valens but dismissed Claudia with a half-smile and a flick of her eyes.

‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere,’ she cooed, turning to Spicerius. ‘What on earth are you doing in a place like this?’

‘It’s my place,’ Claudia spoke up, ‘and I’m wondering what a person like you is doing here.’

The smile disappeared from Agrippina’s face. The old slave hastily retreated. Agrippina took a fan from a pocket in her robe, snapped it open, stared hard at Claudia and then burst out laughing. She took a bracelet from her wrist and thrust it into Claudia’s hand.

‘I’m such a bitch,’ she confessed, ‘and such a snob! I meant no offence.’

‘None taken,’ Claudia answered, slipping the bracelet on to her wrist. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Agrippina shook her head. ‘I’ve been drinking all morning. What have you been discussing?’

‘Who tried to kill Spicerius.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ Agrippina retorted. She leaned against her lover. ‘We observed the rules, didn’t we; we neither drank nor ate that morning. What Spicerius does, I always follow.’ Her eyes turned soft. ‘No offence, Murranus, but I truly thought Spicerius would win. My father is furious. I bet a fortune and lost.’

‘I thought all money was to be returned?’ Spicerius said.

Agrippina kissed him on his shoulder. ‘No, that’s what everyone is haggling about now. They will probably agree to hold the money until the next fight. Now listen, Spicerius, you must stay in the shade. Claudia – it is Claudia, isn’t it? Do you mind if I stay here? I will help you.’ She chattered on, talking so fast she hardly stopped to breathe.

Claudia excused herself, went across to the tavern and sent Oceanus out to see if all was well. She then returned to her own chamber. She drew the bolt across the door and lay down on the narrow cot bed. Polybius was now up, bellowing in the kitchens at whoever got in his way. Claudia’s mind drifted back to the catacombs earlier that day, and the tattoo on Spicerius’s wrist.

‘One day,’ she whispered, as her eyes grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.

She slept long and deep, and it was mid-afternoon before she woke. She splashed some water over her face and went down into the garden. Murranus and the rest were still there. They had decided to make a day of it playing dice and knuckle bones whilst ordering the best wine and food. Polybius of course, much the worse for drink, had been surly until he realised how wealthy Agrippina was. Now the cooks were busy roasting beef and goose, while in the cellars the tap boys were broaching the best casks. Claudia decided to join the company. Murranus was already deep in his cups and insisted on giving her the biggest hug and wine-drenched kisses. Claudia teased him back, and they were discussing the merits of Meleager the Magnificent when Polybius came hurrying out across the grass.

‘There’s a messenger from Tibur,’ he declared. ‘Claudia, you are to join the court at the Villa Pulchra.’

‘My, my, my,’ Murranus declared, ‘you do have powerful friends.’

Claudia pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I’m only a maid.’ She kissed Murranus full on the mouth before he could add anything else.

‘The imperial court?’ Spicerius lifted his cup. ‘When you get there, Claudia, give my love to the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Gaius Tullius. Tell him not to wear his airs and graces. I remember how, bare-arsed, we used to chase each other through the fields of Sisium. You won’t forget, will you?’

Claudia promised, and hurriedly followed her uncle back into the tavern. There she recognised the pop-eyed steward, Timothaeus, face all red, laughing at a doleful Burrus, dressed in his shabby armour, who was being teased by one of the pot boys. The huge German mercenary seemed to fill the room. He had ignored his taunter but was glaring at Simon the Stoic, who knew some German and hadn’t hesitated in using it to insult the visitor. Januaria, however, was suitably impressed. She had sidled over, plucking at the great bearskin which, despite the heat, Burrus had draped over his shoulders. Poppaoe came out of the kitchen, screaming abuse, and Januaria disappeared. Claudia greeted both the guests and clattered up the stairs to collect her cloak and hat and push a few possessions into a set of leather panniers.

When she came back downstairs, she kissed Poppaoe and Polybius goodbye, waved to the regular customers and went out to where a small crowd had gathered to gape at Burrus’s entourage. The mercenaries recognised Claudia and grunted at her. Anyone else would have regarded this as an insult, but Claudia knew that it was the warmest greeting these dour men would give. They had brought a gentle cob for her to ride. Burrus helped her mount, and they left for the city gates and the Via Latina.

The day’s business was finishing and people were streaming out of the city. The streets were packed, people shoving and pushing, the air riven with the chatter of different tongues, hordes of screaming children, and the hustle and bustle of the markets as stalls were cleared and put away for the night. Craftsmen in their workshops used the last hours of the summer day to finish their tasks. Outside the entrances to these shops and eating houses, pedlars and hustlers bawled, desperate to make a sale before sunset. The dusty air reeked of grease, tallow candle, burnt oil, incense, cooked meat, dried fish and, above all, the sweat of the hot, tired crowd. Soldiers from the garrisons mingled with customers at the wine booths and beer shops, reluctantly moving aside for the sedan chair or litter of a wealthy nobleman. Claudia loved such sights. People of various nationalities thronged around, Ethiopians and Nubians in their panther and leopard skins, Egyptian priests garbed in ostentatious white robes, shaven heads gleaming with oil, Syrians in their striped cloaks, dark bearded faces glistening with sweat. Of course, as the day faded, Rome’s underworld also came to life: the sorcerers and conjurors, the footpads and pickpockets, all brushed shoulders with dancers, whores and pimps as they came into the streets eager for mischief.