‘Don’t be a stupid hussy!’ she whispered. ‘Be more frightened of the living than the dead.’
She strained her ears; there was no sound, and she walked purposefully on. When she reached the steps, she replaced the lantern and found her hat had not been moved. She put it on and climbed up into the sunlight. Gripping her staff, she walked amongst the tombs. An old beggar woman, cloaked in black, hiding in the shadows, stood up abruptly, claw-like hands begging for alms. Claudia recalled the witches and warlocks who frequented this place to sacrifice a black cock at midnight. She would have screamed abuse, but the old woman’s face was seamed by time and her eyes were a milky white.
‘Just a denarii,’ the beggar lisped, ‘some money for some wine.’
Claudia handed across two coins and hurried on. She joined the crowds thronging along the Via Appia, losing herself amongst them, relaxing at the usual smell of dirt, freshly baked bread, spiced meat and the ever-pervasive stench of oil. The travellers to the city were breaking their fast, so the cooks and food sellers, water carriers and wine pedlars were doing a roaring trade. Claudia slaked her thirst whilst gossiping to a farmer laden with two crates full of squabbling ducks. She asked him about his small farm and the prospect of a good harvest. The farmer, flattered by such attention, chatted like a magpie whilst Claudia stared back, narrow-eyed, along the way she had come.
Once inside the city, Claudia left the broad thoroughfare into a warren of side streets. She was in a quarter she knew; the dyers and the tanners, the merchants behind their stalls, all those who frequented the She-Asses shouted out their greetings. Claudia hastily replied but her mind was still full of what Sylvester had told her, particularly about Murranus.
She found the She-Asses quiet. Oceanus informed her that Polybius was still sleeping off the effects of the night before, whilst Poppaoe had gone down to the marketplace.
‘You know who I want?’
‘He’s out in the garden, little one.’ Oceanus said, leaning down. ‘He’s got very special visitors.’
Claudia’s heart almost skipped a beat. However, Murranus wasn’t entertaining a lady of the city but a young athlete with a sharp sardonic face and black bushy hair. Next to him squatted a grizzled old man who was allowing a tamed snake to wind itself around his arm. From the staff on the table, with its emblem of Aesculapius, Claudia reckoned he must be a physician. Murranus had his back to her; his visitor leaned over, tapping him on the arm, and pointed. The gladiator sprang to his feet. Instinctively Claudia looked at his wrist and felt guilty: there was no tattoo there. Murranus wasn’t a rapist, a child-killer! She was not so convinced about her admirer’s visitor. He was of medium height, with mocking eyes and cynical lips. A man who had a beautiful body, and revelled in his glorious physique.
‘You know who this is?’ Murranus rubbed his hands. ‘Spicerius, you remember Spicerius? No one forgets Spicerius.’
Claudia nodded, mouth open but nothing to say. Spicerius was staring at her coolly, carefully examining her from head to toe as if she was a slave in the market. The insult was quite studied, then he hastily apologised, rose, grasped Claudia’s hand and lifted it to his lips.
‘A beautiful name, Claudia.’ His light blue eyes were full of mockery. ‘A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.’
He let her hand drop.
‘Murranus, you didn’t tell me about her, at least not in detail.’ For a short while there was laughter, then Spicerius introduced his old friend Valens, formerly physician in the Tenth Pannonian legion. Oceanus brought out some drinks and strips of honeyed bread, and they all sat down on the grass in the shade of a tree. But behind the laughter and jokes, Spicerius was studying Murranus carefully, as if trying to memorise every detail. Now and again, his darting eyes shifted to Claudia. The gladiator had not yet returned to full health. On whispered instructions from his physician, Spicerius ate and drank very frugally. He noticed Claudia watching him.
‘I came to make my peace with Murranus.’ He smiled.
‘Why so quickly?’ Claudia asked. ‘Some people claim he tried to poison you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Spicerius laughed, ‘and there’s one good way of finding out. .’ He paused, clutching his stomach. Claudia noticed how his face was painted, delicately, like that of a woman. Nevertheless, this couldn’t hide the shadows around his eyes or the drawn look to his cheeks, or the way his eyelids kept fluttering as if he was still in some discomfort.
‘He’s talking about the betting.’ Murranus spoke up. ‘Polybius and I have proved that neither of us laid wagers on who would win. If we had, Spicerius here might think we were trying to help the odds.’
‘And I saw nothing.’ Spicerius shook his head. ‘I was in the tunnel, waiting. The wine cups were filled. I never saw Murranus’s hand go near my cup. In fact I saw nobody’s. I’m always very careful. It’s not the first time a drink has been spiked or food tainted; all sorts of nasty games are played.’ He turned his wrist to show Claudia a scar; and she stared in horror at the purple chalice tattoo which his leather brace couldn’t conceal. She drew back; Murranus followed her gaze.
‘What’s the matter?’ Valens, the doctor, spoke up. ‘What’s the matter with you, woman? You look as if you have seen a ghost.’
Claudia half rose to her feet, knocking over the bowl of bread and honey, kicking aside the jug of beer. Murranus grasped her wrist.
‘Claudia, it’s not what you think. .’ But she broke free and, spinning on her heel, ran back into the tavern.
Chapter 3
‘ Omnia Romae cum pretis.’ (‘Everything in Rome comes with a price-tag.’)
Dionysius, follower of Justin and not-so-ardent supporter of the teaching of Arius, was thinking about death: not his own, but death in general. The self-proclaimed philosopher was preparing a speech on that chilling phrase of the sophists: ‘I was not; I am; I am not; I don’t care’.
The Villa Pulchra lay quiet after all the excitement caused by the arrival of the Lords of the Purple in their palanquins and sedan chairs. The Emperor, of course, had arrived on horseback, clattering into the broad cobbled yard bawling for wine and a warm bath to cool the imperial arse. Carts and sumpter ponies had crowded in. Servants and slaves bowed down with burdens hurried around the villa with the furniture and furnishings and personal belongings of Constantine and his court. The kitchens had already been prepared, the oven fires lit, the baking house opened; now the smoke boiled from the kitchens like mist over the river. The air turned savoury with the dishes planned for that evening’s banquet: eggs poached in wine, beef casserole, hare in a sweet sauce, ham in a red wine and fennel gravy, baked plaice and oysters in vine leaves.
Dionysius’s mouth watered, his empty stomach grumbling at the prospect of such delicacies. He and the rest had been invited to the supper party and Dionysius wanted to impress everyone with something witty or thoughtful. He planned to recite his short speech on death, followed by some verses from Ovid, or Virgil’s Aeneid, perhaps a comparison between Homer and Herodotus? He walked deeper into the garden, entering the shade of the orchard. He hunched his shoulders and rolled his head, trying to release the tension in his neck. He was glad to be out of the sunlight. The villa had settled down for the afternoon rest, except for the Empress, who was prowling the corridors and passageways like a panther seeking its prey. The Holy Sword had gone, the blessed relic had disappeared.
Dionysius closed his eyes and shook his head. That stupid German had cried like a child whilst the Captain of the Guard, Gaius Tullius, trying to keep his face straight, had searched the villa and garden to no avail. Timothaeus the steward, white as a ghost, had quickly recovered, and at supper had told them all what had happened. How he had walked down to the Sacred Place to see the Holy Sword; how Burrus and he had unlocked the door and, as usual, the German had stayed outside to talk to his companions. Timothaeus remembered looking at the sand — it wasn’t disturbed — and only then, to his horror, did he notice that the sword was gone.