Caesar's Sword (I): The Red Death

by David Pilling

  The music and voices suddenly grew louder and flowed into the night. A man stood in the doorway, short and powerfully-built, his face hidden under a hood. He said nothing, but I could feel his eyes fixed on me.

  “You must go inside,” said Elene. The sadness in her voice made me indignant.

  “I must do nothing,” I growled, and reached for the knife at my belt, “who are these people? Why do they want me so much?”

  Elene drifted to my side. “Don’t do anything foolish, Coel,” she said, “there is great danger here. You must give them what they ask.”

  I felt the warm brush of her lips against my cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered with a tremor in her voice. “When next we meet, it can only be as friends.”

  She hurried away, back towards the steps. Part of me screamed to go after her, but the doorway exerted a strange lure. My heart started to thump as I took a step towards it, and another.

  The doorman stepped aside to admit me. I spared him not a glance as I entered a narrow passage, lit by the flickering glow of a torch fixed to a sconce in the wall to my left. It ended in a stout timber door that trembled slightly under the sheer volume of noise from the chamber beyond. There was something uncontrolled and intimidating about that hellish cacophony, and for a moment I hesitated.

  “This is shameful,” I muttered, “I am Arthur’s heir.”

  Gathering the threads of my courage, I pushed the door open and stepped through into a large cellar with a vaulted ceiling. It was brightly lit by dozens of torches and candles and the leaping flames of a fire set in a stone hearth in the middle of the floor.

  The cellar was full of people. With the exception of the musicians hammering away at drums and pipes in one corner, most were in a state of undress, and all under the influence of drink and narcotics. Random heaps of brightly coloured cushions were scattered about the floor. Naked couples writhed and copulated on them, careless of privacy, men and women swapping partners as the fancy took them. The faces of both sexes were heavily rouged and painted, a hideous effect that both repelled and fascinated me. A few wore leather masks in the shape of fabulous beasts.

  One of the latter apparitions came lurching towards me, stark naked save for his mask, which was shaped like an eagle and had an immense curved beak. He carried an overflowing amphora of wine in each hand. This alone, along with his swagger, gave me some clue to his identity.

  “Welcome, Achilles!” cried Leo, his voice heavily slurred, “come to collect your proper reward, eh?”

  His grinning mouth was visible under the mask. Never had I felt such an urgent need to drive my fist into it. “I came because my lover has been threatened,” I replied curtly. “That was your doing, I presume?”

  “None of mine. I can do without your dull face at these orgies. Your presence was requested by another. I strongly recommend you have a drink and relax.”

  I declined his offer of wine. He shrugged and moved away, laughing as he almost tripped over a threesome.

  The pounding din of the music, combined with the heat and the shrieks of laughter and the muggy stench of furiously courting lovers, made my head swim. The wound in my skull started to throb, and I flopped down on a heap of spare cushions to rest and wait on events.

  Once the initial shock and thrill have passed, there is nothing quite as tedious as witnessing an orgy. I had no interest in taking part and politely rebuffed invitations to do so from several revolting individuals, male and female, their bodies still glistening with the marks of recent encounters.

  A clash of cymbals announced a halt in proceedings. The band fell mercifully silent, and those who were still capable peeled themselves off the floor and each other.

  The far end of the cellar was hidden by a heavy silk curtain. As the cymbals faded, this was ripped aside to reveal a wooden platform mounted on bricks, occupied by a male dwarf wearing an absurd parody of imperial dress: a long yellow robe and a diadem made of some cheap metal. His garish face-paint was beginning to run in the heat, making an already ugly visage almost too foul to look upon.

  “Friends and lovers,” he simpered in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, “I trust our little entertainment has proved adequate so far?”

  He was answered with drunken jeers and insults. The dwarf fluttered his little hands and ignored them. “You will be pleased to hear that your mistress has deigned to join us tonight,” he went on, “to perform for your delight and education. Grovel, you toads, for the Empress!”

  This was met by a smattering of applause, and I saw genuine eagerness sketched on the debauched faces around me. Another clash of cymbals sounded from the alcove beside the stage, accompanied by a roll of drums.

  The dwarf bowed and shuffled backwards offstage. From the opposite end emerged a woman. By the standards of the orgy she was fully-dressed in a black silken veil that covered the lower part of the face, and a black loincloth. Otherwise she was naked as a needle.

  Theodora was no more difficult to recognise than Leo. She had put on weight and muscle since I first came to the Hippodrome, and now resembled a female gymnast more than a dancer. The music started up again, only softer and more rhythmic, and she started to grind and gyrate about the stage, slapping her hips in time to the drums.

  In truth, it was pretty poor stuff. As a dancer she was far inferior to my Elene, and the sweating, fleshy lasciviousness of her routine held no charms for me. But then I was sober, and happily unaware of the dangerous influence this woman already wielded.

  Nor was I aware of the depravity of which she was capable. I had heard rumours over the years, of course, but most seemed so incredible I dismissed them as hearsay. That night in the cellar, my eyes were opened.

  Theodora’s dancing seemed to last an age, but finally the music faded and she flounced to a halt, soaked in sweat and greedily milking the applause of the spectators. Thinking that was the end of the entertainment, I rose to leave. Then the cymbals sounded again.

  At first I thought the wine and opiate fumes had affected me. The dwarf re-emerged from the alcove, leading a gigantic white tigress on a red leash attached to a golden collar around the beast’s neck. He showed no sign of fear, even though she could have snapped his neck with one swipe of her paw, but smirked and blew soft kisses to the audience.

  Frozen with shock, I fell back onto my seat. No-one else was capable of movement either, save the dwarf and Theodora.

  It was now that she performed her greatest trick. Having removed her veil and her loincloth, she stood in the middle of the stage and slowly bent backwards until her palms were laid flat on the stage. Dropping his leash, the dwarf skipped over to her and produced a drawstring purse from his belt. He opened the purse, dipped his hand inside and theatrically held it aloft to reveal its contents – gold dust, I thought initially, but then realised it was brown sugar.

  I watched in utter disbelief as the dwarf sprinkled the sugar onto Theodora’s exposed groin. When the last grain was deposited, he snapped his fingers at the tiger. She rose from her haunches and padded towards Theodora, who showed no alarm at the beast’s approach. Her eyes were closed and her painted lips parted, as if in anticipation of ecstasy.

  Not a sound could be heard in the cellar, save the rapid drumming of my pulse and the lapping of the tiger’s tongue as she licked the sugar from Theodora’s vulva.

  When every last grain was consumed, the tiger meekly allowed herself to be led away by the dwarf. Her eyes were slightly glazed, so I assume she had been drugged beforehand.

  Theodora straightened up and executed a graceful bow. This was the signal for the musicians to start playing again. They did so rather clumsily, and their hands shook as they plied their instruments.

  “Drink!” cried Theodora, raising her arms high, “dance, make love, give yourselves up to pleasure! Your Empress commands you!”

  A few of the more prudent spectators started to clap. The applause swiftly rose to a storm as Theodora bowed again and strode confidently offstage. The dwarf returned to gat
her up her discarded mask and loincloth. After that he moved among the revellers, who had resumed their previous debauchery with a rather forced enthusiasm. He stopped beside two of the younger men, big and well-muscled and probably handsome under their disfiguring face-paint, and tapped both of them on the shoulder. They obediently left their partners and disappeared into the alcove.

  Then the dwarf approached me. “Britannicus, the hero of the arena,” he piped, “your presence is required backstage.”

  “By Theodora?” I asked. He smirked and nodded.

  “Then you must send her my regards and apologies,” I said briskly, “I have no desire to see her, or to stay a moment longer in this hell-pit.”

  I made to rise, but the dwarf placed his little hand flat against my chest. “You are best advised to come,” he warned. “The Empress has picked you out to enjoy her favours. She cannot be denied. It is her custom to choose the strongest and most successful athletes to service her needs. I have chosen two of the finest already, but she is never less than satisfied with three stallions at a time. You should be honoured.”

  I felt sick. “I am dishonoured by her vile invitation, and Theodora is no Empress but a common prostitute. Take your greasy paw off me.”

  “You are making a grave mistake, young man,” he whined as he backed away, “why do you insist on being so pure? The Empress’s favour is far preferable to her displeasure.”

  I noticed that some of the revellers were looking at me with puzzled expressions. It was time to get out. “I am happy to risk it,” I said, and moved past him towards the door.

  There was a hiss of steel on leather. I spun around just in time to catch the dwarf’s wrist as he slid a dagger from a hidden sheath in his sleeve. He squealed as I crushed his soft wrist in my grip until the bones ground together, forcing him to drop the blade.

  “Vicious little brute,” I snarled, and gave him the back of my hand. He wailed and crumpled to the floor, blood spurting from his mouth and making an indescribable ruin of the already half-melted paint on his face.

  The music clattered to a halt. A man reached for the fallen dagger. I stamped on his hand, making him scream, and dived for the door. Shouts of alarm and outrage erupted behind me. Strong arms locked around my legs, trying to bear me to the floor. I drew my own knife and stabbed wildly. The arms slackened their grip and another scream resounded in my ears. I broke free, put my foot to the door and rushed through into the passage.

  There was nothing between me and freedom except the stocky figure of the doorkeeper. He was slow to turn as I pounded towards him and launched myself at his midriff. He grunted, and hot breath gusted into my face as I butted him in the chest and forced him back. I tried to stab him in the belly, but my knife got caught in the thick folds of his cloak.

  I heard the door fly open again, and the sound of angry voices and racing footsteps. The doorkeeper was monstrously strong, with arms like knotted steel that clamped around my ribs and refused to let go. Panic surged through me. In desperation I head-butted him again, and felt the crunch of bone and cartilage as his nose snapped. He groaned and fell onto his back. I took one last stab at him with my knife, missed, and scrambled away on all fours.

  The steps were just ahead, and beyond them the dim glow of harbour lights. There were people there, sailors and merchants and the like.

  Something rebounded off the wall to my left – I believe it was a knife – and then I was hurtling up the steps, yelling like an idiot and expecting to feel the sharp kiss of a blade in my back.

  It didn’t come, and I reached the safety of the crowds with no sign of pursuit. The naked degenerates in the cellar were hardly likely to chase me in public. I pushed and shoved and fought my way through the startled throng until I was several streets away and felt safe enough to pause for breath.

  A fortunate escape, you might think, but I had only delayed Theodora’s vengeance. To her, revenge was an exquisite dish, and one to be savoured over a long period.

  Chapter 10

  I spent the next few weeks living in fear of assassins, but life at the Hippodrome continued as normal. No-one mentioned the orgy in the cellar, even though Leo and a number of the athletes had been present. I was careful to say nothing about that night to anyone, not even Felix, and became more withdrawn than ever. I was miserable as well as afraid, for Elene deliberately avoided my company and refused to listen when I tried to speak with her. In the end she secretly quit the city, leaving no word as to where she had gone.

  In the meantime I was still chained to the arena, and obliged to take part in further races. My brief celebrity was thankfully forgotten as the exploits of other charioteers surpassed mine. I performed with deliberate caution, hanging back with the other stragglers and taking as few risks as possible. Aquila and Leo were dismayed by my apparent lack of effort, and for a time I hoped that they would expel me.

  To my great relief, Theodora fled the Hippodrome and Constantinople in the company of a Syrian official named Hecebolus, whom she had doubtless seduced during one of her private performances. He offered her a better life as his spouse, and in return she milked his promises and affection for all they were worth. She did not return to the city for four years.

  I thought I was rid of Theodora for good, but she left a reminder of the unsettled account between us. On the evening after she quit the city, the body of my dear friend Felix was discovered in an alleyway near the Golden Gate. His throat was split from ear to ear, and his tongue pulled through the dreadful wound. His murderers had dyed his tongue green, in a crude and successful attempt to place the blame on our rivals. Some half-hearted attempt was made at investigating his death, but the Emperor Anastasius was known to favour the Greens, and so it was quickly dropped.

  I had no doubt that Theodora was responsible for Felix’s death, and blamed myself for it. Had I accepted her invitation, disgusting though it was, he might have lived to a ripe age.

  I must turn from the memory of private sorrows to the general state of affairs in the Empire. These are vital to understanding how I finally obtained my freedom from the Hippodrome, and was able to resume my search for Caledfwlch.

  Anastasius finally died and was replaced by Justin, an extraordinary man who had risen from the ranks of the peasantry to Commander of the Excubitors, the Emperor’s personal guard. At the age of seventy he was still as crude and illiterate as when he fled his father’s pig-farm, but did have the advantages of vast wealth and the command of most of the troops in the city. This was enough to secure his election as Emperor, and so he was crowned Justin I.

  Justin might have achieved his life’s desire, but was too far gone in drink and years to do much with it. He delegated most of his duties to his nephew, Justinian, a clever and ambitious little man who was more than happy to labour at affairs of state while his uncle drank himself to death.

  The old Emperor came from hardy stock, and for years his liver survived everything he could throw at it. Much happened in that time. In the East, the thinly-spread imperial garrisons struggled to repel the endless attacks of Sassanid Persia on Roman territory. In Constantinople, the simmering hatred between the Blues and the Greens grew steadily worse, spiced by religious as well as political and sporting rivalries.

  Worst of all, Theodora returned to the capital. She came minus the Syrian lover who had abandoned her, and in the improbable guise of a respectable wool-spinner. She set up a little shop near the palace, where she sat on the step and made eyes at passing dignitaries. I didn’t believe the stories of her reformed character for a moment, and gave the shop a wide berth.

  As for myself, I was not expelled from the Hippodrome for my increasingly mediocre performances, but demoted from charioteer to a lowly assistant trainer. That was Aquila’s decision, one of the last he made before a fever broke down even his strong frame. His body was barely cold before Leo was elected the new chief overseer of the Blues, largely thanks to his long service and ability to offer generous bribes.

  Leo’s firs
t act was to enter into talks with his opposite number in the Greens. The nature of these talks was revealed to few outside his immediate circle. Certainly not to me, for reasons he made clear.

  “You could have been a good man, Britannicus,” he said - by which he meant I could have been his crony - “but your nerve went. A pity. These days you’re good for nothing but rubbing down horses and scolding trainees.”

  Now, if ever, I waited for Leo to make reference to that dreadful night in the cellar beside the Harbour of Julian. But he said nothing, and I knew from long experience how difficult it was to read anything in that crooked smile of his.

  “I am sorry to disappoint,” I replied humbly, hating myself and every word, “but am happy to serve the Blues to the best of my poor ability.”

  He sneered and left me to polish saddles. Leo and his underlings thought me harmless, at worst something of a fool, and took little account of how closely I watched them. I suspected some conspiracy with the Greens, and it didn’t take a wise man to detect the rising tide of discontent and resentment in the city. Justinian openly preferred the Blues, and his naked partiality, combined with the increasingly severe taxes that he and the Emperor’s ministers screwed out of the people, added fuel to the fire.

  In the midst of this dangerous and uncertain atmosphere, Theodora did something extraordinary. The demure wool-spinner was secretly weaving far more dark and complex webs, and in one of these she succeeded in entrapping Justinian.

  He, poor fool, became enamoured of Theodora’s beauty and wit. Before long he fell hopelessly in love with her, and wanted to make the former actress, prostitute and dancer his wife. The law prohibited Roman officials from marrying courtesans, but Justinian was not to be denied, and eventually had the law repealed.

  I witnessed these events with mounting horror. Justinian was in all likelihood destined to be the next Emperor, and Theodora would be his consort. That would make her the second most powerful person in the Empire, and in an ideal position to wreak vengeance on old enemies.