‘I don’t talk to kitchen wenches or tavern maids.’
Claudia bent down and whispered in her ear. Agrippina shot to her feet, face all troubled.
‘I. . er. . I. .’ she stammered.
‘In the garden,’ Claudia offered, and turned away, not waiting for a reply.
The light was fading, dusk creeping in like a mist. Claudia walked across the lawn, sat on a turf seat and patted the place next to her.
‘I never realised you actually knew the Augusta.’ Agrippina sat down in a gust of perfume, fastidiously hitching up her robe so that the grass wouldn’t brush it.
‘More importantly,’ Claudia retorted, ‘the Augusta knows me. Now, as regards Spicerius, I’m truly sorry he’s died. I liked him and so did Murranus. If you start screaming allegations or making foul accusations you can’t prove, I will appeal to the Augusta for justice.’
‘I’m upset,’ Agrippina whined.
‘Shut up! Did you ever find out what happened to Spicerius in the arena — I mean, the cause?’ The other woman shook her head. ‘Or this afternoon?’
‘You know as much as I do.’ Agrippina pushed her night-black hair away from her face. ‘I saw Spicerius last night, I agreed to meet him here. I was sorry I was delayed. When I came, he was dead.’ Her voice broke. ‘Murdered.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Well, look, a healthy man, a gladiator. . I came to this tavern to meet a lover, not a corpse. I’ve answered your questions, I cannot say any more.’
Agrippina got to her feet. Claudia waved her hand and let her go. What was the use, she thought, the hussy would only tell her what she wanted. Claudia sat half listening to the noise of the tavern, allowing herself to be lulled by the green coolness of the garden. A sudden roar from the tavern made her realise things had gone from bad to worse, and she hastened back inside. The eating hall was now set to become an arena. At the kitchen door stood Murranus and Polybius, whilst at the far end, and still spilling through the main entrance, were a group led by a man dressed garishly like a whore, wafting his face with a pink fan. The new arrivals had apparently entered the tavern immediately after the Vigiles had left, and their leader now stood languidly, one hand resting on Agrippina’s shoulder. Round him ranged his gang of bullyboys and their hangers-on, pimps and gaudily garbed prostitutes of every nationality. Polybius was roaring at him to leave.
‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand me, Dacius? You and your gang of degenerates.’
‘Or else what?’ Dacius tripped forward in his high-heeled sandals. He looked grotesque; not comical, but very dangerous, a man of shifting shadows with his masculine face and his very feminine wig; his swagger saucy yet his body hard and muscular; his voice lisping but the tone ugly and threatening. Claudia had met him and his like before, scum from the sewers, swirling through the slums like some poison, polluting everything they touched. She was fearful about their presence. Their arrival appeared a little too swift. Was it that they were expecting news? Or were they here to provoke Murranus, whose hot temper was well known? The gladiator had now picked up a cleaver and a pan lid. Anyone else would have looked comical, but Murranus was highly dangerous. Claudia didn’t like the way Dacius kept swaying from side to side, taunting Murranus and every so often glancing at Agrippina, who simpered back. The more she watched, the more convinced Claudia became that Agrippina had had a hand in the poisoning of Spicerius both this time and before; yet what proof did she have? More importantly, what cruel trap had they set for Murranus? Would they accuse him of murder and unsettle his wits, disturb his concentration?
Dacius raised his hand, shutting and opening that ridiculous fan, and his gang fell silent.
‘You see, my dear,’ he drawled, jabbing the fan in Murranus’s direction, ‘whatever you do, dear boy, no matter how you glare, people are going to say. .’ he dropped the fan back to his chin and stared up at the ceiling, ‘yes, that’s what they’ll say, that you were frightened of Spicerius.’
‘That’s a lie, you’re camel shit!’
Dacius laughed like a mare neighing in its stable. ‘Dear boy, they’ll say you were the last man to drink with him, you invited him here. What I want to know is how you will deal with Meleager.’ He stepped forward, folding back the right sleeve of his gown. Claudia glimpsed the purple chalice tattoo and the ring beneath it. She would have leapt to her feet but Murranus distracted her by lunging at Dacius, only to be blocked and pulled back by Polybius and Oceanus. The mood in the tavern grew tense, hands fell to knives; those who wished to avoid the fight were already crawling away.
‘Prove me wrong,’ taunted Dacius. ‘Perform some feat, strangle a lion with your bare hands.’
‘I’ll strangle you!’
‘Prove your innocence,’ Dacius taunted, and the refrain was taken up by his henchmen: ‘Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!’
‘I’ll prove it,’ Murranus retorted, pushing Polybius away. ‘On the day of the fight, the very day I meet Meleager, I’ll take part in a Venatio; I’ll confront and kill any animal you choose to release against me. I’ll offer it as a gift to Spicerius’s shade and a vindication of my innocence.’
Murranus’s words were greeted with a loud roar. Claudia put her face in her hands. The trap had been baited, Murranus had stepped in, and now it had snapped shut.
In the Martyrs’ Gallery, one of the largest passageways in the catacombs beneath the cemetery where St Sebastian the soldier had been shot to death, Presbyter Sylvester stood gazing in puzzlement at the desecrated grave. This was a most sacred place, the repository for the remains of those savagely executed during Diocletian’s recent persecution. The walls on either side of the gallery were a honeycomb of broad shelves, about a yard wide, the same deep. The remains of those slain in the Flavian amphitheatre were brought here, identified where possible, blessed with a sprinkling of holy water, incensed, and placed in a tomb. The grave was then crudely plastered over and, where possible, signs were scratched into the plaster identifying the occupant, their status, and the year they died, with some pious inscription carved beneath. These holy men and women were to be venerated, their remains honoured until Christ brought them back to life on the Last Day, when he would appear in glory for the Great Judgement.
Sylvester stared up and down the passageway, now lit by lamps and torches: an eerie, sombre place, full of strange echoes, as if the ghosts of the dead were calling to each other; a place of mystery, yet one of peace, a sharp contrast to the last few hours in the lives of the occupants who lay there. The catacombs were now unused, deserted, many people reluctant to return to a place which still rang with memories of the days of terror. Who would break in and remove dusty bones and skulls?
‘Why? When? Who?’ Sylvester turned in exasperation to the Guardian of the Tombs, a pinched-faced elderly scribe with ink-stained skin, yet a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. The scribe had apologised profusely for bringing the presbyter here, but what else could he do? Why had a simple tomb been broken into? It contained no treasure. He had already expressed his fears that although the cemetery was a holy place where martyrs were buried, it was also a place of black magic, where witches and warlocks gathered to perform bloody sacrifice under a brooding moon.
‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.
‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’
Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.