by Paul Doherty
Carinus sat down on a stool, chewing his lip. If the truth be known, he hadn't really wanted this party, not with those abductions taking place in Rome. Wealthy young men and women snatched from their home or a street in the city, kept bound in the dark and only released for sacks of gold and silver. Who could be responsible for creating such fear? So serious had the crisis become that a delegation of senators had visited the Imperial Palace. They'd bowed low, given tactful speeches, conceded that times were violent but pointed out that this surge in crime involved their precious sons and daughters! Carinus had joined the last delegation. Emperor Constantine, God's Chosen, had sat glaring with bulbous eyes as the representatives of the Great Ones of Rome had demanded that the kidnappings and hostage-takings cease forthwith.
Constantine's wine-purpled face had deepened in colour as he fought to control his seething fury.
However, Carinus and his colleagues were equally wary of Helena, the Emperor's powerful mother, sitting on a high gold-encrusted stool to the right of her beloved son. As usual, Helena had been dressed demurely in a long-sleeved dalmaticus or tunic edged with purple, sandals on her feet, an embroidered stole about her shoulders. The Empress' greying hair was bound up from her face in a thick plait wrapped round her head,in the old-fashioned style and pinned with a diamond. No oil moistened, no paint or powder gilded that long, severe face with its sensuous lips, high cheekbones and expressive eyes which had turned agate-hard as Helena listened to their representations. Her only sign of agitation was the constant fiddling with her ivory-handled fan of brilliantly coloured peacock feathers. Every so often she would snap this open to cool herself, or summon forward Burrus, the burly captain of her German mercenaries, so she could sip from a clay beaker of water he held. Burrus was a fearsome figure with his shaggy hair, beard and moustache, light blue eyes glaring from a ruddy face. Despite the heat, he wore a grey fur cape across his motley armour. He reminded Carinus of a great bear from the northern forests which he'd brought to Rome to fight in the arena. In fact the more often he met Burrus, the more the similarity became apparent, both man and beast being highly dangerous and volatile. During the meeting, Burrus' stubby fingers kept caressing the hilt of his broadsword, as if he couldn't understand why his imperial mistress had to listen to these speeches. One word from
Helena and Burrus would have taken all their heads. Behind the Empress stood an innocuous, bland-faced but equally dangerous man, Anastasius, Helena's deaf-mute secretary. He was dressed in a simple white tunic with no jewellery except for the ring on the middle finger of his left hand, which proclaimed he enjoyed the full support of the August Ones.
During that meeting, the sweat had coursed down Carinus' body, due as much to fear as to the heat, especially when Aurelian Saturninus, undoubtedly spurred on by his viper-tongued wife Urbana, had talked about how the lawlessness could be construed as a sign of weakness in Constantine's government. Helena and her son might have emerged victorious after the recent battle at the Milvian Bridge; Constantine might have ended the civil war and destroyed his rival Maxentius, but, as the former General Aurelian trumpeted, power brought responsibility, not only on the borders of Rome, but along the streets and alleyways of the city. Helena's eyes had narrowed at that and Carinus had coughed loudly, a warning to the old general that he'd gone far enough.
Ah well! Carinus rose, opened the folding doors and stared across the exquisite paradise bathed in the light of the full moon. He walked out on to the terrace and picked up the alabaster cup of chilled white wine his valet had placed on the marbled table. For a moment he forgot his fears. This was what he called the 'natural' part of the garden, where his beehives, made out of hollowed bark and plaited osier twigs, stood next to the wild plants his bees preferred: thyme, saffron, crocus, lime, blossom, hyacinths, their fragrance spreading everywhere. Carinus gazed into the darkness broken by pools of light from the lamps and candles. Faint music still sounded but this was almost drowned by the laughter and chatter of Antonia's guests, replete with hare cooked in thyme sauce, spiced pork, dormice stuffed with honey, quail, duck and the best wines from the Senator's cellars. A girl's laugh, followed by a playful scream, echoed from the trees around the Artemis Fountain. As Carinus sipped his wine, he just hoped Antonia was safe and keeping that Greek actor Theodore at more than arm's length.
In fact, the laughter and screaming Carinus heard was that of his daughter, who had taken Theodore, an up-and-coming actor from the island of Cos, deep into the trees to the artificial glade around the cool, splashing waters of the Artemis Fountain. The circle of grass around the fountain, interspersed with coloured stone, was lit by a myriad of oil lamps in translucent jars. Nevertheless, despite the light and the open space, Antonia had assured Theodore they'd be alone, for this was her special place. Now naked except for a coronet of myrtle, orange blossom and verbena, Antonia sprawled on a cold marble bench as Theodore stripped naked to show her the love letters on his body, his present to her on her birthday. Antonia, drunk on the red and white wines of Campania, giggled as Theodore took a pot of ash and rubbed the grey powder into his skin, explaining how with the juice of tithymals he could draw any letters he wished and they would remain invisible until the ash revealed them.
'See,' Theodore walked over to the bench, 'this is the opening line from Seneca's Oedipus. Read it.'
Antonia, giggling, pushed her face near the muscle-hard stomach of this gorgeous actor and, in the light of the lamps, slowly read the words.
'Now night has fled. The fitful sun is back to rise.'
She glanced up coyly.
'To rise what?'
Theodore pointed down to the letters just above the hair in his crotch.
Antonia, wetting her lips, moved her face even closer and was about to read when she caught a movement behind Theodore.
'Go away!' she screamed.
Theodore whirled round. Dark shapes, like wraiths from Hades, slipped out of the darkness, a half-circle of cloaked figures, faces hidden behind grotesque masks, in their hands short stabbing swords and clubs.
'What!' Theodore sprang forward.
Antonia heard the hard smack of a fist and Theodore collapsed, lips bubbling on spurting blood. She opened her mouth to scream, but the night-wraiths were swifter. She was seized, a gag pushed into her mouth, a piece of sacking thrown over her head, her wrists and ankles bound. Then she was thrown over a muscular shoulder and a gloved hand smacked her plump bottom. Antonia wriggled; another, harder blow jarred her back and a hoarse voice ordered her to be silent or she'd be killed.
The kidnappers moved swiftly, silent as ghosts. Antonia was carried across the garden. She heard the undergrowth snapping and cracking and the distant sounds of the party. Theodore had yet to raise the alarm. The abductors stopped; Antonia was put down, turned around, made to feel dizzy and then dragged on. She was pushed against a hard wall, roughly hauled over it and the flight began again. This time she wasn't carried but pushed and shoved; now and again a dagger would prick her neck as a sign for her to remain quiet. She felt a deep sense of despair. She was out in the countryside. No one was here to save her!
The abductors knew their way well. Antonia's bare legs and feet were scored by brambles and gorse, but still they pushed her forward. When she complained about the pain in her side, they tied a rope around her hands and dragged her as if she was some captive in a triumphant procession. Now and again she heard the occasional sound, the creak of a cart, but otherwise silence, except for the breathing of her captors. She couldn't believe it! She'd heard of the kidnappings in Rome, but now it had happened to her, so swiftly, so quickly. How had they found their way through her father's gardens to her secret place at the Artemis Fountain? She was jerked on, and tried to make sense of where she was going but eventually gave up. She concentrated only on one thing: obeying her captors. She knew she'd be safe if she did that. At one point they stopped and allowed her to rest, and she was given a sip of water and some dried bread; then the horror continued.
Anton
ia was aware of orders being whispered, of men fanning out either side of her, but she had no sense of where she was going. She began to cry, pleading about the pain in her feet. A rough pair of sandals was given to her, the thongs tied and she was pulled on. Now she was no longer moving through countryside but stumbling over masonry, and she wondered where she was. She sensed the gang were becoming more vigilant now that the ground had changed. Eventually they stopped and Antonia was thrust down some steps. The air smelled mildewed and dry. She was in some sort of man-made tunnel. The air was cold, and she could feel sharp rocks on either side. Where could this be? What underground tunnels existed in Rome? The sewers? She stumbled and screamed as her hand felt a skull. She was in some sort of cemetery, perhaps the great catacombs which ranged under the Appian Way. Yes, that would make sense, — a few miles from her father's villa by a quick, secure route. Would she be imprisoned here? Sobbing and crying, she was pushed into a cavern and left there.
The leader of the abductors, drenched in sweat, the mask still firmly on his face, stared around.
'We have done what we had to.' He looked at his companions. There were twelve in all, and he counted them carefully making sure no one had been forgotten. 'Now we must wait,' he ordered. 'Those who are not of us may go.'
Some of the men left; those remaining squatted down, staring up at their leader.
'You must stay there.' He left the cavern and walked down the long, ill-lit gallery stretching into the darkness. He knew his visitor would be waiting for him there. He saw a torch move and paused. He must go no further. A figure stepped out of the darkness, a woman swathed in robes. He could smell her perfume.
'Did it go well?' The voice was soft but carrying. 'Were there any problems? Was anybody hurt?'
'There were no problems.' The leader felt as if his face was steaming hot beneath his mask; he wished he could take it off, but he knew the rules. 'The girl has been taken,' he continued. 'She is safe. We await the ransom.'
'Good.' The voice echoed. 'But I asked you, was anybody hurt?'
'She was with a man,' the leader replied. 'We heard them talking. He tried to resist but we pushed him to the ground.' 'You did not kill him?'
'No,' the leader replied. 'That was your order, no one was to be hurt.'
'Who was it?' the voice asked.
'An actor,' the leader replied. 'He tried to play the hero.' 'Leave the actor to me,' the voice whispered. 'I shall take care of him.'
On the same night as the attack at the Villa Carina, Lucius Pomosius, former veteran of the ala, the wing of cavalry attached to the Second Legion Augusta, left the latrines in the Street of Abundance, which ran off the main thoroughfare stretching down to the Colosseum. He stared drunkenly at the graffiti of crude election slogans painted on the wall of the alleyway, eerily illuminated by spluttering torches. Above these was a picture of Mercury in winged greaves, his helmet similarly winged, in one hand a spear shaped like a penis, in the other a bag of gold. The little god's cloak billowed out whilst his finger pointed to a place further down the street. Lucius tapped the painting, smiled and, one hand trailing the walls, made his way down towards the House of the Golden Cupids with its garish sign of two erect phalluses either side of the doorway.
Lucius paused. He really had drunk too much! He leaned against the wall and glanced back down the alleyway. He was certain he had been followed, and despite the wine had a pricking suspicion that he'd been watched ever since he'd left the upper room of the Lucia Gloriosa tavern where he and the other three surviving members of Vigiles Muri, the Guardians of the Wall, met every month. Tonight they'd gathered specially to discuss the brutal death of old Petilius, found on his bed with his throat slit, his belly cut and his penis slashed off and pushed into his hand. 'Awash in his own blood' was how Decurion Stathylus had described it: 'Floating on a sea of billowing scarlet.' Stathylus always liked to embroider his tales, but then he was a warrior-poet, a bard who liked to sing about his beautiful former mistress and remind them all of their days in Britain. How they'd manned the Wall and stared out over that sea of desolate grassland which stretched and billowed under lowering grey skies. Ah yes, those were the days!
Lucius stared at the graffiti chalked on the far wall: 'He who doesn't invite me to dinner is a barbarian.' He wished he hadn't been invited tonight. He had not wanted to discuss Petilius' gory death. It evoked memories of that night along the Wall when the Picts had been trapped and massacred. The night of their bona fortuna, as Stathylus liked to describe it. There had been a dozen of them then, but war, as well as the passage of the years, had depleted their number. Death was to be expected, but not Petilius', not dying like that! Who'd want to butcher a lecherous but harmless old man? Petilius was ugly and mean, and even the common whores haggled hard when they saw that miserable face, yet he'd been killed and castrated in a manner reminiscent of the Picts. Could there be some dark thread winding its way back into the murky past? Lucius secretly conceded there might be, but he didn't want to reflect on it. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to invoke the ghosts!
He wiped the sweat from his face and stared up at the narrow strip of sky between the overhanging buildings. He wished he was back on the Wall, away from the Vigiles, his comrades, away from the stink and the memories. He looked down the street at the pool of light before the House of the Golden Cupids. Should he take a cubicle downstairs where he could listen to the moans of the girls busy with their customers, or a private room upstairs?
'Sir?'
He turned quickly. The shadowy woman, hair veiled, wrists clinking with bracelets, moved closer. 'Sir, is it custom you want?'
Lucius shook his head, trying to clear the wine fumes. The woman's perfume was fragrantly sweet. She was dressed in gold-edged linen robes. He glimpsed sparkling eyes ringed with kohl, smiling lips parted in a sweet smile. A soft hand caressed his cheek. He grabbed her, and she seemed to melt into him. Lucius started in agony, his hands falling away.
He stared in shock at the woman, who'd stepped back, leaving the dagger deep in his belly. He staggered forward, falling to his knees, and tried to grasp the dagger, but his head was jerked back and a shearing-sharp blade slit his throat.
'They used to call those the Polluted Fields.'
Claudia, sitting on the top of the grassy knoll, moved a little deeper into the shade of the sycamore trees. She munched on a hunk of mushroom bread, took a sip of watered wine and dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then stared again at the desolate heath below her stretching either side of the Via Nomentena leading up to the Colline Gate. The view was almost hidden by the heat haze which had descended on Rome during that late summer's afternoon. The Via was now empty of carts, travellers, journeymen and merchants; even a cohort of infantry which had come plodding out through the city gate had decided to shelter in the shade of some lime trees.
'They still look polluted to me.'
Claudia turned and nipped the arm of her companion, Murranus, Victor Ludorum, Champion of the Games, wearer of the victorious laurel wreath.
'You're not even looking!' she accused.
The gladiator's smooth-shaven face broke into a smile which made him look even more boyish and mischievous.
Oh, Murranus! Claudia reflected. He looked so handsome in his dark blue tunic, long legs sprawled out as he sat with his back to an ancient holm oak. He stared at her, green eyes full of mischief as he scratched his close-cropped red hair and ran a muscular hand over his face, searching for the beads of sweat coursing down over the high cheekbones. His determined mouth and strong chin were now slack as he relaxed under the influence of the weak wine and the strong sun.
'You've got a square face today,' she teased, using her fingers to demonstrate. 'Your eyes don't look so large and your mouth isn't so fierce, your lips-'
'You enjoyed kissing me.' He stretched forward.
'I always do! Ah no!' Claudia playfully pushed Murranus back against the tree. He stuck his tongue out at her, and she felt her throat constrict and the
tears well. For a moment, for the briefest of moments, the playful gesture had reminded her of Felix, her brother, but that was all in the past. Felix was dead and life had gone surging on. The man who had murdered him then raped her, the ghoul who had haunted her dreams with his hard voice, that purple chalice tattooed on his wrist, had paid for his crime. Murranus had seen to that, taking the miscreant's life with his sword in the arena before a roaring crowd. Justice done, vengeance savoured. In the purple-draped imperial box above the arena, Constantinc, Helena and all the court had watched whilst the crowd bayed like a pack of savage dogs over that man, her enemy, dying on the sand below.
Claudia glanced away, turning her head as if to catch the breeze. Murranus studied her closely from under heavy-lidded eyes: her black hair, that sweet face, those sharp eyes. Was her skin olive or light ivory? He could never tell, but that was Claudia, she could change so quickly. She'd been an actress, part of a troupe, a very good one, wandering the roads of Italy. Eventually she'd returned to Rome to live with that scoundrel of an uncle Polybius, his pretty plump wife Poppaoe and all the lords and madams of Rome's underworld who made the She Asses tavern near the Flavian Gate their home, the centre of their lives. In a sense it was Murranus' home too.
He picked up the wine flask-Ind sipped the tasty juice. Claudia had brought him to this desolate spot, far away from the tumult of the tavern, so they could talk before the autumn games began. He just wished she wouldn't show that streak of stubbornness when they argued. Claudia could be so obstinate and yet so secretive! Only recently, during the last two weeks, had she grudgingly told him about her work for the Empress, as well as her dealings with the powerful Christian priest Sylvester. Murranus had pointed out that if he was in danger in the amphitheatre, she was exposed to even greater peril in the marbled gardens and stinking alleyways of Rome. They had argued so fiercely, yet all he wanted now was to stretch across and gather her in his arms. He wanted her to relax, to be passionate, not so precise, so organised. There she sat in her sensible dark green tunic with her sensible walking sandals firmly tied, the thongs fastened and secure. She wore little jewellery; only a ring on her finger and a graceful silver chain round her neck. Her thick hair lay neatly clipped at the nape of her neck, a parasol placed close beside her in case it grew too hot. Even the leather satchel in which she carried their meal was precisely positioned, the straps neatly folded, while the food she and Poppaoe had packed was spread in an orderly manner upon a linen cloth: the mushroom bread, the pot of herb and garlic pate, the sesame biscuits. Oh yes, that was Claudia, so precise! Murranus coughed and, leaning over, tickled the nape of her neck.
