‘That oaf,’ Claudia replied, springing to her feet, ‘is my uncle. We are very particular who visits our tavern, so you’d better follow me.’
They went into the eating hall, where Polybius, leaning against one of the wooden pillars, was offering Petronius the opportunity to wax his arse. Claudia grabbed her uncle by the arm and whispered in his ear; he sighed, mopped his brow and led her up the stairs. They stood outside the Venus Chamber, knocking and hammering. Claudia glanced along the passageway. Narcissus was standing at the top of the landing, looking rather frightened. Claudia realised how unused he must be to the noise of a tavern. Oceanus came up, pushing people aside. Claudia felt a tingle of excitement in her stomach. Something was wrong, she could tell that from Murranus’s face, whilst Oceanus shook his head in disbelief, claiming he was sure Spicerius hadn’t left.
The door was tried again, and eventually Polybius ordered Oceanus and Murranus to break it down. They first used their shoulders, until Polybius intervened, warning Murranus not to injure himself, so a log was brought up from the cellar. The door was hammered until it sprang back on its leather hinges. Claudia made sure she was first into the room. Spicerius lay sprawled on the bed, the wine goblet beside him. He was half sitting up against the bolsters, face to one side, mouth gaping, eyes staring.
‘By the balls of a pig,’ Polybius groaned. ‘Oh no, not here.’
Claudia climbed on to the bed. Spicerius had lost all his warrior’s elegance and grandeur; he had the grey, lined face of an old man, and a white dribble of dried saliva stained the corner of his mouth. She felt his arm. The flesh was cold. Agrippina was screaming. Other customers were coming up. Claudia got off the bed wiping her hands, then picked up the goblet and sniffed the bittersweet tang. Taking advantage of the upset and chaos, she quickly searched the bed and the floor around but could detect nothing except a square piece of parchment with love symbols on it. It was yellowing and wrinkled, caught amongst the folds of the mattress.
‘We’ll have to call the bloody police,’ Polybius groaned. ‘There’ll be questions and more questions.’
Claudia told her uncle to take the shrieking Agrippina downstairs, and asked Murranus to send in Narcissus then guard the passageway and let no one through. She could feel the anger boiling within her. She felt like screaming, not only at the danger which threatened her beloved, but at the way this horrid death had upset all her plans. As soon as she had arrived at the She-Asses, she had asked Polybius to send one of the kitchen boys to fetch Sallust the Searcher. She realised that, in the case of the Holy Sword, she only had a little time to prove her suspicions and get the relic back. She stared at the corpse, felt guilty at her angry thoughts, slumped down on the edge of the bed and clasped Spicerius’s hand, brushing his cold, hard fingers with her thumb.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered, ‘and if your shade lingers nearby, I wish you well in whatever journey you take.’
She tried to forget her own troubles, experiencing a deep sadness at the brutal death of this young man, once so full of pride, vigour and courage.
‘You deserved a better death,’ Claudia gripped the fingers, ‘than dying alone in a tavern chamber with no glory or praise ringing in your ears.’
She became aware of Narcissus standing in the doorway, so she moved to hide her face. She must remember the deep comradeship which existed between gladiators. Murranus had regarded this man as his friend. She must do everything to help.
Claudia scrutinised the corpse carefully. Spicerius’s face was full of the ugliness of a violent, sudden death: the muscles of his cheeks and chin were hardening, his eyes rolled back, his mouth was gaping, the lips forward as if Spicerius still wished to retch and vomit. The gladiator was dressed in a simple tunic; his belt and sandals lay on the floor. She pulled these close, picked up the cup and once again sniffed that bittersweet smell. What was it? She stuck her nose in again and offered it to Narcissus, gesturing at him to keep it.
Outside, Murranus was pacing up and down like a sentry on duty. In the eating hall below, Agrippina was still shrieking and wailing. Claudia cocked her head and listened intently. The tenor of that spoilt, rich hussy was beginning to change. Was grief giving way to anger? Was she shouting curses? Making allegations? Would Murranus or Polybius be accused?
Claudia stared round the tawdry chamber, so different from the Villa Pulchra. It now seemed an age since she and Narcissus had left. Claudia had obtained permission from the Augusta, pointing out that she could do more good in Rome, where the court was about to return, than by staying at the villa. She had also begged Helena to keep the rest of the philosophers close and not allow them to return home until this mystery had been resolved. The Augusta’s reply had been ugly, ungracious and hard. She’d dismissed Claudia with a flick of her fingers, telling her to get back to her slum and, as she withdrew, followed her to the chamber door bellowing how it was a pity that some of her servants did not serve her as well as she served them. Once she was out of sight, Claudia had made a rude gesture in the direction of the imperial apartments before scurrying off to her own chamber to hastily pack her belongings. Narcissus had followed her like a shadow, only too eager to flee the villa and reach Rome, but now, he was not so sure, uncertain and frightened of the future. Claudia closed her eyes. It was important to keep Narcissus near to her.
‘Almonds!’
Claudia let go of the dead man’s hand.
‘Almonds!’ Narcissus repeated. He thrust the cup at her. ‘Bittersweet,’ he explained. ‘The juice from certain seeds can be the deadliest poison; it has an almond taste.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I’ve cut more corpses than you have pieces of meat, mistress.’ Narcissus gabbled on. ‘But where will I stay, what will I do, how will I-’
‘Almonds,’ Claudia retorted, lifting her hand. ‘Forget about the rest, Narcissus. You’re going to sleep here and get a good meal, so don’t worry, just tell me about almonds.’
‘Milk of almonds.’ Narcissus pulled a face. ‘That’s what we call it in Syria. It’s not really milk, more a juice; they gather it from certain seeds, I mean the poison, and distil it. It’s got many strengths.’ He leaned down, face all solemn. ‘I can’t tell you, mistress, how many times I’ve cut open the corpses of men and women and smelt that bittersweet odour! Oh, I don’t say much, but I know! Go down to the slums, ask the locust men, the warlocks, the poison boys, they’ll tell you all about it. You take a sip of that, a really good sip, and all your troubles are over. Do you know, mistress, there are poisons which will stop your heart in the blink of an eye.’ Narcissus went round the bed. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you that; just look at the poor bastard’s face. The skin’s all mottled, with a slightly blueish tinge, the throat muscles are constricted, the skin’s hard to the touch as if he’s been dead for hours. But you just wait,’ he warned, ‘in a few hours the blotches will appear.’ Narcissus felt the back of the gladiator’s head. ‘Ah, I thought as much. Slightly bruised; it’s where he banged his head in his death throes.’
‘Would death have been swift?’
‘Like an arrow to the heart, mistress. Some jerking, some convulsions, the pain would have been hideous, but don’t let’s leave him like this.’
Claudia helped pull the corpse down by its feet so it lay straight. She started as a gasp of air escaped from the dead man’s lungs.
‘He’s not been dead long.’ Narcissus pointed to the cup. ‘A nice goblet of sweet wine, fruity and tangy. I heard Polybius say he had served the stuff. Now, mistress, before you ask, that’s just the drink to hide the taste. But never mind the dead, what about the living? Your Murranus, he’s the one you told me about on the way here? Well, gladiator or not, champion or not, he’s in deep trouble. Wasn’t he supposed to face-’