The Song of the Gladiator

by Paul Doherty

  ‘So you haven’t been here five years?’ Claudia smiled.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Claudia studied him closely. She believed Narcissus was telling the truth, or at least part of it. She could also understand the Augusta’s generosity towards this Syrian embalmer. Helena knew everything and would have learned all about Narcissus’s previous life.

  ‘You’re a spy, aren’t you?’ Claudia asked. ‘Sylvester made that one of his conditions. Anything you learn you pass on to Timothaeus or someone like me; that’s why you approached me in the garden in the first place. Sylvester does nothing without setting a price, which is always the same: the advancement of the Christian community. It’s good to have a spy at the Villa Pulchra.’

  ‘Just information,’ Narcissus protested. ‘I know what I saw that night, I mean the beacon fires. I swore an oath of loyalty to Sylvester and I kept it. At that time, sitting out under the stars, I didn’t realise that what I had seen was so important.’

  ‘Who did betray your master?’

  Claudia had deliberately changed the questioning, and for a moment she caught the shift in Narcissus’s eyes, a hard, calculating look. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you must have made enquiries. People talk. Names,’ she snapped, ‘you must have overheard names?’

  ‘Dionysius, Septimus.’ Narcissus was now solemn.

  ‘Did you dishonour Dionysius’s corpse?’

  ‘I spat in its face.’

  ‘What else did you do, Narcissus? Did you examine that old man, the wanderer in the woods?’

  ‘I . . .’

  Claudia raised her hand threateningly. ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I think so.’ Narcissus looked away. ‘Yes, I think so. He was covered in dirt and dust, some bleeding to the side of his head. He had thick shaggy hair. His skull was stoved in, but there again, it could have been an accident.’

  ‘You practise your art, don’t you?’ Claudia asked. ‘You’re an embalmer skilled in the Osirian rites, drawing out the brains and entrails. You did that to the wanderer in the woods, as you’ve practised before on corpses of slaves.’

  ‘No one knows,’ Narcissus confessed. ‘I felt I had to do it to help them on their journey, and to keep my art alive. What harm did I do? Who cares about some old slave?’

  ‘You bury the waste in the woods, don’t you? I’ve seen the places where you hide it. More importantly, you had a chest in the House of Mourning filled with resin oil and other combustibles. That was your little kingdom, which is why you never left it. You locked the door and slept underneath the nearby sycamore tree, where you were when the fire broke out. You thought you’d be blamed, so you fled in the night. You were terrified in case they found out what you kept there and what you did. Now, Narcissus, that’s all in the past. On that particular night, did you see anything suspicious?’

  ‘I was frightened,’ he pleaded. ‘Those orators coming to visit the corpse . . . I never expected that. I took a jug of beer and drank too deeply. When I woke up, the fire . . .’ He sprang to his feet. ‘I’ve got duties . . .’

  ‘No you haven’t, Narcissus. You are no longer a slave, but a free man.’ She grasped him by the wrist. ‘I have other questions for you, but for the time being, they will wait. Don’t run off.’

  Claudia basked in the sunshine reflecting on what Narcissus had said. Slowly but surely she was collecting the pieces. She started up at the clash of weapons. Burrus and a group of his mercenaries came swaggering across, bringing with them a young man. His hair was tousled, and he was dressed in a dark tunic bound round the middle by a cord. Burrus was treating him gently, his great paw on his shoulder, but the young man was clearly terrified, and if the German had taken his hand away he would have bolted like a hare.

  ‘We found it!’ The Germans ringed Claudia, and the young man they’d escorted fell to his knees before her.

  ‘Found what?’ Claudia squinted up at them.

  ‘Traces of camp fires, about two or three men camping out in the woods for some time. A water bottle, scraps of food and clothing.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  The young man knelt, teeth chattering, eyes all startled.

  ‘Speak.’ Burrus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Tell the mistress what you saw.’

  The young man gabbled in a dialect Claudia found difficult to follow; she had to ask him to slow down and repeat what he had said. However, he was still distracted by fear, and only when Claudia offered a coin did he begin to talk more slowly. She established that he was a farm worker from a nearby estate who had fled when the attack had been launched on his master’s house. He had come in from the field, glimpsed figures leave the tree-line and race towards the main door of the farm. He had stood terrified as he heard the clash of weapons, the muted screams.

  Burrus punched him on the shoulder. ‘No, not that. Tell the mistress what you saw!’

  The young man declared how, on the night the House of Mourning had been burned, he had been out in the fields hoping to catch some game. He gave an accurate description of the field Claudia had visited: lonely, lying fallow under the moonlight and ringed by trees. He had been about to cross it when, through the dark, he glimpsed a fire burning. He’d sat and watched it flare, then decided to withdraw and tell his master, but all they found the next morning were burnt embers so they dismissed it as the work of poachers or people hiding out in the woods.

  Claudia thanked the young man, gave him the coin and dismissed him. She expected Burrus to move away, but the German stood staring around.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ he asked abruptly. ‘The one who walks so quietly?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Claudia replied testily.

  ‘Gaius,’ Burrus explained. ‘I want to apologise.’ He peered down at Claudia. ‘Gaius is a good soldier, but he is deeply upset that the Empress didn’t trust him. I’ve got to explain.’ He snapped his fingers and left to continue his search.

  Claudia stood up, stretched and decided to go back to the villa. She was approaching a side entrance when she heard her name called. Sylvester stood in a portico, beckoning her over.

  ‘I was hoping I would meet you.’

  Claudia leaned against a pillar, aware of its coolness.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Sylvester sounded solicitous. ‘I mean, about Meleager. Don’t be frightened of him, Claudia. God’s justice is like a hound, it always finds its prey. You’re amongst friends here. Anyway, Meleager has gone, he’s left for Rome.’

  Claudia felt herself relax, taking a deep breath. She was dreading meeting that gladiator again.

  ‘So many unexpected things have happened.’ Sylvester shook his head.

  ‘Did you plan all this?’ Claudia asked wearily.

  ‘How could I plan such chaos?’ Sylvester replied, staring over her shoulder. She turned and glimpsed Justin hurrying by.

  ‘Well?’ She turned back. ‘We have all the people here: Timothaeus, Narcissus, Athanasius.’

  ‘I never thought murder would join us,’ Sylvester replied, ‘or treason.’

  ‘Why did you arrange this?’ Claudia asked. ‘Why ask orators from Capua, why not from some other city? There are similar schools in towns all over Italy.’

  ‘Capua was chosen for two reasons. First, Athanasius is, perhaps, our greatest orator. Secondly . . .’ Sylvester caught her by the arm and led her deep into the shadows, ‘Militiades, the Bishop of Rome, had relatives, blood kin, who were caught up in the last persecution. They too came from Capua. He thought the debate might bring the matters to the fore, information might surface, some clarification of what happened so many years ago. So many people died in Capua, Claudia, but that’s in the past.’ Sylvester sighed. ‘Militiades believes we will win the argument. I suppose,’ he added, ‘my Bishop hoped that this debate would show that the Arian party were the House of Traitors and Betrayers, but of course, life is not so simple. I did warn him about that. The persecution is over, but the blood feuds continue.’

 
‘I know Narcissus is one of yours. The same is true of Timothaeus?’

  ‘Of course. A good man, very devout. Timothaeus even questions whether he should serve in a pagan household.’

  ‘You don’t really care, do you?’ Claudia retorted. ‘You and Militiades, you brought people together whose lives are full of shadows and ghosts. You must have known that those shadows would surface. All the rivalry, all the grudges.’

  ‘I do care,’ Sylvester replied. ‘A purging, a cleansing is very good. The Faith, our religion, must triumph. I said there were two reasons why this debate took place. In truth, there is a third, the cause and origin of it all.’ He curled his fingers into a fist. ‘We have Helena, the Augusta, and soon we shall have her son. Can’t you see, Claudia, the real reason for this debate? We actually rejoice in the divisions, the acrimony, the rivalry. We want it like that. We want the Augusta to intervene, to become one of us, to support the Bishop of Rome. It’s not just enough that Helena supports the Christian faith. Look, there are more divisions amongst Christians than there are fleas on a dog, but Rome holds everything together. One day we want people to see that an attack upon the Church is an attack upon the Empire, whilst an attack on the Empire is an attack upon us.’

  Claudia stared at this clever priest who hid a cunning brain behind his gentle face and kind eyes.

  ‘That’s what it’s all about,’ she whispered. ‘You want Helena to support the Bishop of Rome, right or wrong; you see yourselves as co-Caesars, the spiritual arm of the Empire. Helena will rule in favour of Militiades, and what the Empress says has the force of law. The Bishop of Rome and the Emperor will become indistinguishable. Christianity will be a state religion and Militiades its high priest. Some day you will anoint the Emperor, but you won’t stop there, will you, Sylvester? Everything will come full circle; perhaps one day it will be the Bishop of Rome who decides who wears the purple, who dons the diadem.’

  ‘Dreams,’ Sylvester smiled, ‘dreams of glory, Claudia, of God’s kingdom being established on Earth. Helena has reached an understanding with us. We want a conclusion that will bind us together. We want her to rule in our favour so our teaching becomes an imperial edict. Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘one thing that certainly wasn’t planned, or expected, was that attack. What have you learned?’

  Claudia glanced up at a carving of a face at the top of a pillar, a cherub with pursed lips and full-blown cheeks, its head surrounded by vine leaves. Idly she wondered how many in the villa fully realised what Sylvester was plotting.

  ‘Claudia?’ Sylvester asked.

  ‘The attack came from Licinius,’ she replied. ‘He dispatched a galley to the Italian coast but he already had agents in the countryside outside the villa. These lit the beacon fires once they had received the signal from here. The woods are thick and dense, and Licinius’s agents could lurk safely whilst they were waiting for the agreed sign. However, what they didn’t know, what they hadn’t counted on, was the wanderer in the woods, an old man who travelled these parts. I expect he became aware of these strangers and came to the villa to report what he had seen. Unfortunately for him, our traitor or his accomplices learned what he was gabbling about and had him killed. The rest you know: the fires were lit, the galley came in and the troops were landed. Are you pleased, Sylvester?’

  ‘At an attack on the Emperor? Of course not.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she taunted. ‘Constantine now has a reason for war. Is that part of your dream, your clever design? For Constantine to march east, to issue edicts of toleration there. You’ll be busy then, won’t you, with your legion of agents, stirring up trouble in the eastern provinces, preparing the way for your Saviour?’

  Sylvester just laughed, raised his hand in greeting and walked away.

  Justin, leader of the Arian party, had seen Claudia and Sylvester close in conversation. He truly wondered what they were talking about but was desperate to reach the latrines. Once there, he was pleased to find they were empty, except for the villa cat, a sinewy black creature which fled through one of the half-open windows. Justin took a seat at the far end, staring mournfully across at the mosaics on the far wall. He did not feel well, his stomach was upset, and the rich food and wine of the previous night had not helped. He was also anxious. He should not have accepted the invitation to this debate. He was trapped. He had come here expecting discussion, but Athanasius was at his best, Sylvester had the ear of the Augusta, and now Justin was caught by ghosts from the past. Athanasius was not only a brilliant orator but also the only one amongst the philosophers who was blameless. After all, as Athanasius liked to point out, after Diocletian had launched his persecution, Athanasius had eventually fled north, well away from Capua, while the rest had been caught up in the net.

  Absent-mindedly, still absorbed in the problems that beset him, Justin cleaned himself with a sponge on the end of a stick, and went into the small lavarium to wash his hands and face. He had left the latrines and was passing a low red-bricked building with stairs leading down to a cellar door when he heard a voice echoing up the steps.

  ‘Justin, Justin.’

  He stopped, recognising the building as something to do with the hypocaust; perhaps a place where fuel was stored.

  ‘Justin.’

  He heard a creak and, stepping to his right, peered down the steps. The door at the bottom was now open.

  ‘Justin.’

  The voice was eager, as if the person had found something. So absorbed was he with his problems that Justin forgot about Dionysius, or the fact that Septimus was missing. He went quickly down the steps and through the doorway; he was aware of a lamp glowing, of shadows flickering in the cavernous room. Someone was standing close to a pillar at the far end. He paused, and his assailant struck him on the back of the head.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Nemo repente fuit turpissimus.’ (‘No one ever becomes instantly depraved.’)

  Juvenal, Satires, II

  ‘Come on.’

  The principal chef of the imperial kitchens, Emperor Constantine’s favourite cook, grasped the hand of the young kitchen maid and pulled her down the steps leading to the cellar where wood and charcoal were stored under a low roof supported by stout stone pillars. The chef always liked to bring his concubines, as he called his conquests, down here, especially in summer when it was so quiet. He wiped his greasy face, drying his hands on his tunic, and looked appreciatively at the girl. She was olive-skinned, with thick black hair and beautiful arms and legs. The chef in charge of the entrées had already lain with her and provided a graphic description of her skill and enthusiasm, her determination to please. The principal chef had immediately gone to work seducing the young woman with promises of preferment in the kitchens and, perhaps, even the prospect of promotion to serving maid with permission to enter the imperial dining room. He also made sure she was given the freshest delicacies left over after an imperial meal. Already this morning she had been given first choice of food from the previous night: cheese and honey, slices of walnut and fig cake, dried pear pudding, as well as various meats soaked in their sauces.

  ‘Come on,’ he repeated, stretching out his hand and grasping hers.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the maid whispered, acting like a frightened fawn. The chef’s companion and friend had said she would protest like this, all coy and reluctant. She was certainly playing the part, gnawing her lip and standing so irresolute on the steps whilst he tugged gently on her hand.

  ‘Just persist,’ his friend had advised, ‘and you’ll enjoy a paradise of pleasures. Make sure it’s somewhere lonely, where no one can hear.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ The chef felt his stomach rumble with excitement. ‘We’ll kiss and cuddle, then go back to the kitchens for some honey water and pyramid cakes.’

  The maid, still acting the reluctant lady, followed him down the steps. She was quite determined to give this important man the best of times and win his favour. She would love to be in charge of some of the others, to be
given the best scraps and the driest and cleanest place to sleep.

  The chef opened the door and fumbled on the ledge for the sulphur matches, which he used to fire the cresset torches as well as the twin earthenware oil lamps with the carving of Pegasus on each dish. As he did this, the girl walked away, staring down the musty chamber.

  ‘There!’ The chef stood back; the two lamps were burning fiercely, and the cresset torches sputtered in a shower of sparks. Behind him the girl moaned.

  ‘Oh, it’ll soon be all right,’ the chef murmured. He felt a hand on his arm and grinned round at her. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’

  Even in the poor light her face had changed, all pale and drawn, her lower lip trembling. She pulled speechlessly at his arm and pointed down the cellar. As he followed her direction, his chin sagged and he gasped in amazement. He pulled the girl with him as he walked slowly forward.

  ‘In Apollo’s name,’ he breathed, ‘what is that?’

  The girl broke free, gave a muffled scream and fled through the half-open door. The chef was made of sterner stuff. A veteran of the Ninth Hispania, he had seen his fair share of corpses, gibbeted, crucified, burned in oil, limbs severed, or lying bloated and stinking on some godforsaken battlefield. Nevertheless, there was something grotesque in the gruesome spectacle at the far end of the chamber, which the poor light only made more horrifying. Two corpses had been lashed to pillars next to each other. The chef walked closer, peering through the gloom. He recognised both the philosophers, visitors from the school of Capua; the elder one had his head tilted up, eyes staring blindly.,

  ‘Justin,’ the chef whispered, ‘that’s your name.’ He spoke as if expecting the bloodied man to listen and reply, but Justin was dead. The old man had been stripped completely naked, his thin, bony body rendered all the more pathetic by his shrunken genitals, vein-streaked legs and dirty torso, which looked like the underside of a landed fish. The chef moved to one side. Justin had been gagged with a piece of leather, which still stuck out of his mouth. He had been shot to death at close range; the Syrian bow lay on the ground nearby, next to it a leather quiver empty of all its barbed, feathered arrows. Most of the shafts were embedded deep in Justin’s flesh, the rest were scattered to the right of the pillar.