‘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!’
Chapter 2
‘Vita summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam.’
(‘The brevity of life stops us from far-reaching hope.’)
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.
This particular evening, after the games had finished, the small carved tables had been pushed together and ringed with makeshift couches and stools. Pride of place was taken by a stern-faced Murranus, lounging on Polybius’s one and only proper couch. Claudia sprawled on cushioned stools to Murranus’s right. Polybius, his few hairs greased to circle his balding head like an athlete’s wreath, shared a broad, throne-like chair with his plump, pretty wife, Poppaoe, whom Polybius always called his ‘little ripe plum’. Simon the Stoic, sitting opposite, could only silently agree as he stared lustfully at Poppaoe’s full ripe breasts straining against her low blue-edged gown.
All the regulars had been invited, even Saturninus, the bleary-eyed commander of the local Vigiles, who acted as watchmen, firefighters, police and, as Polybius grumbled, unofficial tax collectors. The wine had circulated, both red and white. Polybius claimed they were Falernian, from northern Campania; Claudia suspected the jars were from the local market and the wine from the vines Poppaoe tended in the large garden behind the She-Asses. Polybius had certainly savoured every cup. Now, flush-faced, he lurched to his feet and, in an attempt to make Murranus smile, bellowed out the doggerel words:
He glanced sharply at the sober-faced Murranus, then picked up a pair of small cymbals and clashed for silence. ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he declared and before anyone could object, he had walked into the centre of the dining circle and, ignoring Poppaoe’s warning glance, launched into his tale.
‘Once there was a poor carpenter who had a wife who loved bed sport. Day and night, whatever the weather, she was ripe for it.’ Polybius raised his hands at the jeers this provoked. ‘She had a lover whom she would most royally entertain when her husband was gone. One day she and lover boy were at their pleasures when husband unexpectedly arrived home. Her lover had no choice but to hide in a large, empty but very dirty wine vat standing in the bedroom corner. He was safely hidden away when the husband came into the room. The wife immediately started stripping the bed. “What are you doing here?” she shouted. “You lazy good-for-nothing! I’m working my fingers to the bone and you arrive home without a penny for a crust.”
‘“There’s no work,” her husband replied, pointing to the corner, “but I’ve just sold that wine vat for seven denarii, so you can help me clean and remove it.”
‘“You idiot,” the quick-witted wife retorted. “Seven denarii? I’ve just sold it for twelve. The buyer’s inside it, checking to see if it’s all right.” On cue, lover boy pops his head up. “I’ll take it!” he shouts. “On one condition. You,” he pointed to the husband, “get in here and clean it.”
‘So husband climbs in and starts to clean the wine vat whilst lover boy and the lady of the house return to their pleasures, with the poor husband being encouraged by his wife’s shouts, which he thinks are directions to clean the vat as thoroughly as possible. .’
Polybius’s audience collapsed in laughter.
‘Is this a true story?’ Festus the Fornicator shouted.
‘Yes,’ Polybius retorted.
‘Which means,’ Petronius the Pimp bellowed, ‘you must have been either the man on the bed or the husband in the wine vat!’
Petronius ducked as Poppaoe threw a piece of meat at him. Polybius lurched back to his seat, and the guests turned to chatter with their neighbours as well as enjoy the fresh crates of wine Polybius sent round, followed by dishes of fried liver and coriander, pork in a piquant sauce and bowls of herb purée with walnuts.
‘It’ll never happen,’ Polybius bawled at Murranus in one final attempt to draw the gladiator from his sombre mood.
‘It has happened,’ Murranus whispered to Claudia. She sipped at her watered wine and, stretching out, cupped Murranus’s cheek in her small hand.
‘Tell me again.’
‘We were in the arena, I was fighting well, you saw that.’
‘No I didn’t,’ Claudia retorted. ‘I’d closed my eyes.’
‘Spicerius began to sway, then he collapsed. I thought he was dead till he began to vomit. By the tits of a pig, I’ve never seen a man vomit like that. By the time they had got him back through the Gate of Life, whatever he had taken he’d spat most of it out. May the gods be thanked for that old soldier doctor; he made Spicerius take salt water and he continued to vomit. He kept slapping Spicerius’s face, telling him not to go to sleep. I have never seen so much water poured down a throat.’
‘Poisoned?’ Claudia asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Murranus replied. ‘The doctor inspected the vomit, said it stank like a sewer pit. It may have been belladonna, foxglove, or just something to make Spicerius sleep. The doctor said he was very lucky; because he has a constitution like an ox, he survived. But now they are blaming me. Spicerius’s wine cup was tainted — they found grains of a powder at the bottom of it — but mine was free, as was the wine left in the jug.’
Murranus indicated with his thumb. ‘But of course things are not helped by the fact that Polybius is my supporter and he brought the wine down. To cut a long story short, I am being blamed for drugging Spicerius. They say I could be guilty of attempted murder.’
‘But that’s untrue,’ Claudius replied heatedly. ‘The cup was on the table, all sorts of people were milling about, Polybius told me that. Anyway, what will happen now?’
‘Next week Rufinus is to stage special games in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. I will fight again. This time there will be no wine, and it will be a fight to the finish!’
‘Why don’t you give it up?’ Claudia pleaded.
‘I will one day, when I’m Victor Ludorum and receive the crown.’
‘But there’s one more fight after Spicerius?’
‘Ah yes, one more. Spicerius, or I, must face Meleager, the Marvel of a Million Cities.’
‘And is he?’
‘No, that’s just what he calls himself, but he’s a cunning-eyed bastard. He’ll laugh his head off when he hears the news.’