Queen of the Night ar-4

by Paul Doherty

  Chaerea had accompanied the Empress on her journeys through Italy and around the Empire in her search for Christian relics. He was secretly amused by her quest; what did it matter about holy bones or sacred objects? The dead were dead, it was the living that mattered. Now he opened his eyes. The blackness was similar to that of the mines, no lamps, no lights; his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Two trackways stretched before him, one to the left, one curved sharply to the right. Chaerea knew the one on the left led deeper into the catacombs; that was where the Christians had hidden. He doubted the abductors would conceal themselves there, so he took the path to the right, eyes and ears straining, searching for any sign of danger. He could have stood upright and walked, but he knew that was dangerous, so he crawled like a dog, edging his way forward carefully. Now and again he would pass crumbling skeletons, desiccated corpses which had slipped out of their recesses in the wall to break, snap and crunch under his careful tread. He pushed aside skulls, hardened bones; these did not concern him. It was no different from the mines, where the dead were buried where they fell.

  He must have crawled for about an hour, cutting and grazing his hands, arms and knees, when he sensed a change. The air had been hot and murky, reeking of dust, but he now became conscious that it was fresher, and that other odours, out of place, mingled here: the smell of a burning oil lamp, of hot fat, grease, even perfume. Chaerea crawled on. On one occasion he paused, one hand on a skull, the other on a crumbling rib cage. He had reached another place of the dead, some long-forgotten cemetery, but he was sure he'd heard something. Was it from above ground, the belllike howl of a dog? He felt sweat pricking the nape of his neck and let it run. He always shaved his head, blackening the skin of his face, arms and legs so no light would catch the glint of sweat. He drew himself up against the wall, one hand on the ledge of an opened tomb, and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Yes, those fresh smells were back: sweat, tallow candle, oil lamp, fat. People had been here recently, congregating close by. He followed the tunnel, reminding himself to ignore those needle-thin runnels which branched off leading to dead ends.

  Chaerea turned a corner and froze. Further on, deep in the tunnel, he caught the glow of a lamp for just a few seconds before it disappeared. He squatted down, moving slowly, feeling his way forward. When he reached the place where he'd seen the lamp, he turned a corner and crouched. Ahead was a deserted gallery where sconce torches had been lit and fixed into niches. Chaerea should have welcomed the light, but he hated it. He hadn't anticipated this. He edged forward, keeping close to the shadows. On either side of the tunnel rising above him were the recesses of ancient tombs, some still sealed by their plaster coverings, while others had crumbled, revealing piles of dusty bones, shards of pottery. Similar rubbish strewed the ground before him. Again he heard the sound of a dog, not the yip of a mongrel but the deep howl of some mastiff. He paused, biting his lip, wondering what to do. He knew he should retreat, he'd seen enough, but the prospect of even more silver and gold, of being lavishly rewarded, patronised by the Empress, made him thrust aside his usual caution.

  Chaerea crawled on. He was now moving from one patch of shadow to another. He passed a small hallway and looked in: nothing, but a torch burning. Then he smelled it, the smoke from a brazier, and he heard the sound of voices echoing eerily along the gallery. He paused, opened the sack he carried and took out the long stabbing dagger. He coated the shining blade with dust and grasped its wire-coiled handle. His body was now soaked in sweat. He had reached a crossroads when he heard a moan to his left. He crossed quickly, edging his way along the wall, and reached the corner of one of those chambers where priests or mourners used to celebrate the funeral feast. He edged round and looked quickly inside. A torch burned in the corner, and a figure huddled beneath it, head covered with sacking. He peered closer and heard the clink of chains and a faint moan. As he stood wondering what to do, a sound behind made him whirl round. A figure stood at the crossroads, in one hand a sword glinting in the poor light, in the other a heavy club. The sound of the dogs drew closer.

  Chaerea had no choice; he leapt forward, driving hard with his dagger. The man ducked. Chaerea did not stay to continue the struggle but turned and fled back the way he'd come. He dropped his sack and, grasping only the dagger, ran wildly, tripping over shards of bone, pieces of pottery. Now there was no subterfuge, no skill, he simply had to reach the place where he had come in and escape. Sounds and shouts rang out behind, but what froze his blood was the long-drawn-out howl of the dog. He was being hunted! He stumbled blindly on, slipping and slithering, only to realise he had taken a wrong turning. Where was he? He paused and felt the wall — nothing! He moved his hand and felt a carving, and his fingers made out the shape of Anubis, the jackal-faced God of the Dead. He racked his memory. He must be in the passageway described as the Gallery of the Night, heading towards an entrance deep in the cemetery known as the Gates of Hell. He cursed. He'd made a dreadful mistake in dropping that sack; the dogs would use it for scent.

  Chaerea raced on, memories flowing back about the mines, about that old witch cackling how he would die as she would, deep in the dark beneath the earth. He had always hoped that he would end his days with dignity, his friends grouped around him, his corpse embalmed, his feet towards the door, ready to be escorted with honour through the streets to be cremated, but that would not happen now. The air felt very hot, as if the Manes, the souls of the dead, had crossed back over that infernal river and were crowding around him. Chaerea paused, fighting for breath. The dogs were drawing closer. Eyes burning, mouth gasping, throat dry, he ran into a wall; he had made another wrong turn! He was lost! He turned. A pool of light was fast approaching, and Chaerea screamed at the sinister sight of the mastiffs loping towards him…

  Claudia stood on the broken steps leading up to the crumbling Temple of Minerva, which stood off a square near the Coelian Gate. The wooden door of the temple was flaking, the columns on either side chipped, their plaster cracked. In the colonnade to the right, a spell-caster squatted on a stool, a horrid-looking mask over her face. On the cloth before her lay a range of curse tablets, some prepared, others blank. The woman waited, metal pen in hand, a pot of ink open before her. Claudia walked up the steps.

  'Happy the man who remains far from the world of business.' The harsh voice behind the mask quoted a line from the poet Horace.

  'But who shall guard the guards?' Claudia replied with a famous verse from Juvenal.

  'He'll be here soon,' the guttural voice retorted.

  Claudia nodded, pushed open the door and walked into the long hall of the temple. It was a desperately shabby place. The pillars down each side were battered and chipped; the floor, once tiled, had been badly damaged by looters from the nearby tenement blocks. Nothing which could be removed remained, and the rest had been vandalised, the doors of the vestibule on either side of the sanctuary were badly scorched, whilst rats and vermin scurried in the shadows. Flies danced in the light pouring through the windows high in the wall. Claudia stood and looked round. Such places fascinated her; she was intrigued by the history of Rome. This place had once been a sanctuary of power thronged with worshippers, particularly the nearby fullers, who regarded it as a holy of holies, the shrine of Minerva, the patron goddess of their art. The shabby portico still displayed a battered chip carving of fullers trampling woollen cloth in a vat; above them floated an owl, the symbol of Minerva.

  Claudia studied this for a while, then walked up the left-hand portico. She was safe here: the spell-caster outside was one of Sylvester's spies, and there would be other men around the temple, Sylvester's guards. The Presbyter might not move through Rome with all the power of a consul, but he still had those he could whistle up to protect himself. Claudia stood by a pillar and smiled to herself. She was fascinated by that. Sylvester preached the word of the gentle Christ, and yet, not two years out of the catacombs, the Christians were beginning to surround themselves with all the trappings of power: spies, guard
s, wealth and places of worship.

  Claudia recalled the events of the previous night. Once Helena had left, Polybius and his cronies had begun to celebrate. Claudia was too tired and had retired immediately to bed, waking before dawn to wash and dress herself, break her fast in the kitchen and slip out here to the Temple of Minerva to meet Sylvester as he'd demanded in that cryptic note he'd pushed into her hand. She wondered what he wanted.

  'A place of death.'

  Claudia glanced up sharply. The figure at the far end of the portico, leaning against a pillar, walked slowly towards her. Sylvester's pace quickened as he approached, his face wreathed in a smile, hands out in friendship. Claudia met him and clasped his hands. Sylvester put an arm around her shoulder and gently guided her further up the temple.

  'A place of death, Claudia, but fascinating, isn't it?' He paused and gestured around. 'The old Rome is dying, and that's good.' He grinned. 'The ancients could never make up their minds which god to worship. Look.'

  He pointed to a fresco on the wall depicting the Egyptian God of the Sun, Horus, with a hawk's head, a sceptre in his right hand and an ankh, the symbol of life, in the other; to the left of this was a painting of the god Api with a crescent moon between his horns. They moved further down the temple to another faded scene celebrating Dionysus leading a procession of satyrs, cupids and panthers. In another fresco the wine god sprawled in a chariot pulled by a centaur whilst above this dancers were engaged in a frenzied ritual, robes open, cups in one hand, laurel wreaths in the other. The colours were faded but they vigorously celebrated the rites of one of Rome's favourite gods.

  'All dying.' Claudia caught the note of triumph in Sylvester's voice. 'The gods of Rome are dying. Soon there will only be the one true God.'

  'Is that why you brought me here?' Claudia asked. 'To gloat in triumph over old gods dying and new gods rising?'

  Sylvester laughed and squatted down at the base of a pillar, gesturing at Claudia to join him. He opened the small leather pannier looped around his neck and brought out a linen cloth, which he delicately unfolded. He broke the bread and cheese, then, dipping into the satchel again, brought out a wineskin. Claudia, hungry, ate quickly, taking drinks from the watered wine, still staring round this deserted place of worship.

  'You haven't answered my question,' she said.

  'You know why I have asked you here.' Sylvester paused between mouthfuls. 'The virgin martyr Fulgentia, — is she one of Uncle Polybius' tricks?'

  'I don't know,' Claudia replied.

  'If she is,' Sylvester wagged a warning finger, 'he'll feel the Empress' fury.'

  'We shall all feel the Empress' fury,' Claudia replied wearily. 'Presbyter, I cannot answer that. What Polybius has told the Empress seems to be the truth: the corpse was discovered in his garden.'

  'Very good, very good,' Sylvester soothed. 'But do tell me,' he glanced at her sharply, 'if the full truth emerges.'

  'What will happen to her corpse?' Claudia asked curiously. 'The Empress talked of a church.'

  'That's what I am telling you, Claudia. All over Rome, places like this are being given to us. Imperial palaces, old temples, including the Pantheon, will be blessed with the presence of the Christ Lord, and all this will be forgotten. Just as these frescos commemorate Dionysus, so our churches will be full of Christian art, of the Fish, the Keys, the memories of those who died for their faith, like Fulgentia or our great Apostles Peter and Paul.'

  'And you support that?' Claudia asked curiously. 'The Empress' hunger for relics? The manger Christ was born in, the clothing of the Apostles, the bodies of dead virgin martyrs?'

  'It all helps, Claudia,' Sylvester replied. 'Anything to fortify, strengthen, encourage the faith of the people, — miracles like that of Fulgentia are useful to us.'

  'But it is not just that,' Claudia said. 'You have brought me here for something else.'

  'Of course!'

  Sylvester folded the piece of linen and put it back in the leather satchel, then picked up the wineskin, and offered it to Claudia, who shook her head. He took another deep gulp and put the stopper back.

  'These abductions,' he began.

  Claudia was tempted to tell him to mind his own business, but she needed Sylvester as much as he needed her, to discover certain matters in the mind of the Empress.

  'Well?' he asked. 'I know the Empress has placed great trust in you, and these abductions worry her deeply.'

  'And why should they worry you, Presbyter?'

  'Because,' Sylvester took a deep breath, 'because whatever upsets the Empress and her son upsets the Church of Rome. Look at these paintings.' He waved around. 'They are made up of little scenes: a figure, a garden, a wine press, all brought to life and connected by the brush of the artist. So it is with Rome, Claudia. What concerns the Empress in one area might affect another.'

  'Do they have so much power,' Claudia asked, 'the powerful ones, the senators and their like?'

  'Not really,' Sylvester scratched the back of his neck, 'but they can be a distraction. Constantine, as you know, is building up his army, settling affairs at home so he can march east. There must be no delay. Licinius in Nicomedea must be brought to battle and destroyed. Constantine needs the support of these bankers, generals, merchants, men and women with great influence.'

  'And the Lady Urbana and her good friend Cassia?'

  'Ah.' Sylvester's face broke into a smile. 'If Helena is a committed Christian, so are Urbana and Cassia. True, both, how can I put it, enjoyed vivid lives, dramatic careers, before they converted, but those two are very powerful, particularly the Lady Urbana. She is more zealous in the Christian Way than even the Empress. You know about the Magdalena?'

  Claudia nodded.

  'Lady Urbana believes that Mary Magdalene may have married, and from her will spring a great dynasty of kings, but more importantly the Lady Urbana is searching the southern cities of Gaul for the corpse of Mary Magdalene to bring it back to Rome. If she did, it would be a veritable triumph, the body of a woman so close to Christ.'

  'Do you believe all this?' Claudia tried to keep the cynicism out of her voice. if the Lady Urbana believes it,' Sylvester retorted coldly, 'then she has my support. What you must do, Claudia, is make sure the Empress' business is brought to a successful conclusion.'

  Claudia got to her feet and tightened the cord around her waist, adjusting the needle-thin dagger sheath on her belt. She'd left her cloak at home and forgotten her walking stick. She felt strangely vulnerable staring down at this powerful priest who was studying her so closely; she also felt angry. Who was he to give her orders? She was not of his faith. She squatted down close to Sylvester and held his gaze.

  'Are you threatening me, priest? Why should I help you? Why should I keep you informed? Think on that.' She rose, spun on her heel and walked hot-faced towards the door.

  'Claudia,' Sylvester's voice was friendly, 'Claudia, let us not part in anger. Come back.' He paused. 'Murranus, Polybius…'

  'Murranus, Polybius,' she turned, 'what about them? Don't threaten me, Sylvester, I warn you, and don't threaten those I love. I will have you as my friend, my ally, but if you threaten me, you will be my enemy.'

  The priest chewed his lip. 'I wouldn't want that, Claudia.' He rose and came towards her, stretching out his hand and touching her lightly on the cheek. 'I have a great deal of respect and admiration for you and for what you've been through. I knew your father-'

  'Don't mention him!'

  'I will mention him, Claudia, because I have a responsibility for you. I tried to help you before and I will now. So listen carefully.' He grasped her hand and held it between his. 'I mean you well, Claudia. Your uncle Polybius is a great rogue; he likes to dabble in this and dabble in that. He is also borrowing money.'

  'What?'

  'You know Torquatus the Tonsor, the barber who sets up his stall near the She Asses tavern?' 'Of course.'

  'You also know that he has the ear of some quite powerful bankers, courtiers and senators. To be
blunt, Torquatus speculates…'

  'Oh no!' Claudia groaned.

  'Oh yes,' Sylvester retorted. 'Torquatus is a money-lender. He is not an evil man, but he has invited Polybius into certain business ventures which have failed. Polybius owes Torquatus a lot of money.'

  'Is he in any danger?' Claudia asked.

  'Not really' Sylvester narrowed his eyes. 'Torquatus is one of us, a Christian, — well, at least he shows the outward signs of being a Christian. He is really more interested in the She Asses tavern.'

  'Of course,' Claudia whispered. 'It's near his stall and-'

  'Precisely/ Sylvester agreed. 'Torquatus would love to own it. If Polybius gets deeper into debt, if he can't repay his loan, Torquatus might foreclose; that's why I asked you about Fulgentia. Polybius is not a villain, but he's a rogue. If he can worm his way out of mischief he will, although this time he is treading a very dangerous path. The beautifully preserved corpse of a young woman was found on his property. Now there may be another reason for that, but Polybius has sold it to the Empress as the mortal remains of a blessed virgin martyr, a miracle, proof of God's intervention in the affairs of men. If that was proved to be a deliberate lie, Polybius would suffer, despite whatever influence you have. So you must, I beg you, Claudia, make sure that Polybius is protected, that what has happened is the truth, built on rock and not on crumbling sand.'

  Claudia moved her head, easing the tension at the back of her neck. She felt like screaming, running out of the temple, going back to the She Asses tavern and confronting her uncle, but that would be futile. Unless she had proof, evidence of his roguery, Polybius would simply bluster.

  'And Murranus?' Claudia asked. 'What about him?'

  'Oh, Murranus,' Sylvester replied, 'champion gladiator, the glory of the amphitheatre.'