Chaerea the former slave would have disagreed with his imperial mistress in one respect: his senses were truly sharp, but the memories of the mines of Syracuse always came flooding back when he went hunting. Chaerea was very proud of his past. He had survived the mines, their murky, ill-lit galleries reeking of salt, where death could seize you in many ways: suffocation, hunger, thirst, a fall of rock, the sheer fatigue of hacking away, the cruelty of overseers or the savagery of your companions, who'd kill for a mouthful of stale bread or a cup of bitter water. A hideous time! The memories came surging back now as Chaerea slipped down the narrow, pebble-strewn gully beneath the tomb of the tribune Larcntius, who had seen service in Dacia a hundred years earlier. The sharp shale cut at Chaerea's legs but he reached the bottom softly. Oh yes, this did remind him of the mines! The blackness wrapped round him like a shroud; hot, foul air, the constant sense of menace, of lurking danger.
Chaerea squatted for a while, preparing himself. A small, wiry man, sharp eyes above sunken cheeks, his fingers were like claws, the muscles on his legs hard as whipcord. He had prepared himself well for this. He had studied and memorised the trackways beneath the ground. He had made an offering to the white Christ. The small sack he carried contained a lamp, some rope and a dagger. Chaerea was used to such adventures. Helena had often used him in the catacombs to search for precious objects and relics, but this was different. The Empress had warned him about that, and Chaerea was no fool. He knew about the kidnappings in Rome and realised that the cemetery was the kingdom of the Inferni, those men and women, driven from society, who lurked there to prey upon the vulnerable, anyone weak or stupid enough to enter. Chaerea had been promised a lavish reward, enough money to arrange a feast for himself and his friends and hire those plump young courtesans who could delight him so much. He had his heart set on that. His years beneath the ground in Sicily had made him wonder about the power of Christ, and when he had been released, he'd determined to enjoy himself as much as possible. He closed his eyes, calming his breathing, recalling the Empress' instructions. He was not here to free anybody, but simply to discover, search out and report back.
Chaerea had accompanied the Empress on her journeys through Italy and around the Empire in her search for Christian relics. He was secretly amused by her quest; what did it matter about holy bones or sacred objects? The dead were dead, it was the living that mattered. Now he opened his eyes. The blackness was similar to that of the mines, no lamps, no lights; his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Two trackways stretched before him, one to the left, one curved sharply to the right. Chaerea knew the one on the left led deeper into the catacombs; that was where the Christians had hidden. He doubted the abductors would conceal themselves there, so he took the path to the right, eyes and ears straining, searching for any sign of danger. He could have stood upright and walked, but he knew that was dangerous, so he crawled like a dog, edging his way forward carefully. Now and again he would pass crumbling skeletons, desiccated corpses which had slipped out of their recesses in the wall to break, snap and crunch under his careful tread. He pushed aside skulls, hardened bones; these did not concern him. It was no different from the mines, where the dead were buried where they fell.
He must have crawled for about an hour, cutting and grazing his hands, arms and knees, when he sensed a change. The air had been hot and murky, reeking of dust, but he now became conscious that it was fresher, and that other odours, out of place, mingled here: the smell of a burning oil lamp, of hot fat, grease, even perfume. Chaerea crawled on. On one occasion he paused, one hand on a skull, the other on a crumbling rib cage. He had reached another place of the dead, some long-forgotten cemetery, but he was sure he'd heard something. Was it from above ground, the belllike howl of a dog? He felt sweat pricking the nape of his neck and let it run. He always shaved his head, blackening the skin of his face, arms and legs so no light would catch the glint of sweat. He drew himself up against the wall, one hand on the ledge of an opened tomb, and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Yes, those fresh smells were back: sweat, tallow candle, oil lamp, fat. People had been here recently, congregating close by. He followed the tunnel, reminding himself to ignore those needle-thin runnels which branched off leading to dead ends.
Chaerea turned a corner and froze. Further on, deep in the tunnel, he caught the glow of a lamp for just a few seconds before it disappeared. He squatted down, moving slowly, feeling his way forward. When he reached the place where he'd seen the lamp, he turned a corner and crouched. Ahead was a deserted gallery where sconce torches had been lit and fixed into niches. Chaerea should have welcomed the light, but he hated it. He hadn't anticipated this. He edged forward, keeping close to the shadows. On either side of the tunnel rising above him were the recesses of ancient tombs, some still sealed by their plaster coverings, while others had crumbled, revealing piles of dusty bones, shards of pottery. Similar rubbish strewed the ground before him. Again he heard the sound of a dog, not the yip of a mongrel but the deep howl of some mastiff. He paused, biting his lip, wondering what to do. He knew he should retreat, he'd seen enough, but the prospect of even more silver and gold, of being lavishly rewarded, patronised by the Empress, made him thrust aside his usual caution.
Chaerea crawled on. He was now moving from one patch of shadow to another. He passed a small hallway and looked in: nothing, but a torch burning. Then he smelled it, the smoke from a brazier, and he heard the sound of voices echoing eerily along the gallery. He paused, opened the sack he carried and took out the long stabbing dagger. He coated the shining blade with dust and grasped its wire-coiled handle. His body was now soaked in sweat. He had reached a crossroads when he heard a moan to his left. He crossed quickly, edging his way along the wall, and reached the corner of one of those chambers where priests or mourners used to celebrate the funeral feast. He edged round and looked quickly inside. A torch burned in the corner, and a figure huddled beneath it, head covered with sacking. He peered closer and heard the clink of chains and a faint moan. As he stood wondering what to do, a sound behind made him whirl round. A figure stood at the crossroads, in one hand a sword glinting in the poor light, in the other a heavy club. The sound of the dogs drew closer.
Chaerea had no choice; he leapt forward, driving hard with his dagger. The man ducked. Chaerea did not stay to continue the struggle but turned and fled back the way he'd come. He dropped his sack and, grasping only the dagger, ran wildly, tripping over shards of bone, pieces of pottery. Now there was no subterfuge, no skill, he simply had to reach the place where he had come in and escape. Sounds and shouts rang out behind, but what froze his blood was the long-drawn-out howl of the dog. He was being hunted! He stumbled blindly on, slipping and slithering, only to realise he had taken a wrong turning. Where was he? He paused and felt the wall – nothing! He moved his hand and felt a carving, and his fingers made out the shape of Anubis, the jackal-faced God of the Dead. He racked his memory. He must be in the passageway described as the Gallery of the Night, heading towards an entrance deep in the cemetery known as the Gates of Hell. He cursed. He'd made a dreadful mistake in dropping that sack; the dogs would use it for scent.