by Paul Doherty
‘Constantine?’
The Emperor, in deep conversation with Rufinus, ignored her.
‘Beloved son?’ The Emperor still kept his back to her. ‘Constantine!’ Helena bellowed. ‘Don’t turn your back on me! Stop whispering to Rufinus and keep an eye on the crowd.’
‘Mother.’ Constantine turned, his heavy face showing an unacceptable unshaven stubble, his forehead, beneath the fringe of dark cropped hair, laced with sweat, his dark blue eyes tired and red-rimmed.
‘Constantine, you have been drinking, too many late nights with your officers.’
He glanced up sharply as the roar of the crowd subsided. He saw the reason why: the fallen gladiator had made the most of the respite and was now rolling away from his opponent, who had been caught off guard. He’d thought the net man was finished and had been staring at the imperial box. Now the net man was back on his feet and the mob became absorbed as the fierce struggle was renewed.
‘Priests,’ Constantine whispered hoarsely.
‘What about them?’ Helena was now all attention. She didn’t care any more if Constantine ignored the crowd.
‘Christian priests,’ Constantine grated. ‘They are at it again, Mother. The Christians are fighting over matters of obscure doctrine.’
‘Mere words!’ Helena scoffed.
‘There was a riot at Ostia,’ Constantine declared, ‘between the adherents of two sects. Apparently they are fighting over the substance of God. Is Jesus Christ, who became man, of the same substance as, and equal to, God the Father?’ Constantine’s stubby fingers scratched at the sweat on his face. ‘They want me to resolve the matter, yet I don’t understand a bloody word of it. Perhaps we should get the silly bastards to fight it out in the arena.’
‘Constantine!’
‘My apologies, Mother.’
‘Don’t drink too much.’
‘Of course not, Mother.’
Constantine sighed, turned away and stretched out his cup for a page to fill with purple wine.
Helena shook her head and gazed out across the arena. The awning, caught by a breeze, flapped and ruffled. Helena stared at the crowd. This was the Empire. In the lower tiers of the amphitheatre, separated by walls from the rest, sat the white-garbed aristocracy, and above them the dark tunics of the lower sort, with the poor of the slums at the very top. They’re the problem, Helena reflected, picking up her fan and shaking it vigorously, the tens upon tens of thousands of poor in Rome and all the great cities of the Empire. How were they to be united, bound together? Worship of the Emperor? Yet there’d been civil war for decades. Christianity? Helena smiled.
The new faith was now emerging from the catacombs of Rome with its revolutionary radical teaching that God had become man, been crucified and risen from the dead. Christ brought a new message that all men were equal. Eternal life was promised to everyone, even a slave, if he or she followed the teaching of the Crucified One. What other faith promised that? Former Emperors had viewed Christianity as a threat and persecuted it vigorously. Constantine had changed all that. An ambitious general, he had brought his legions from Britain to challenge the old Emperor, Maxentius, and had defeated him at the battle of the Milvian Bridge. That was where it had all begun!
Helena fanned herself vigorously. She had always wondered at the truth behind the story. She’d pestered her son to tell her, time and again, what had truly happened. Constantine was a sun worshipper, if he believed in anything. Nevertheless, before that fateful battle, he had dreamed that Christ had appeared to him and ordered him to have his soldiers wear the Chi and Rho symbols on their shields, the first two letters in Greek of ‘Christos’, the Anointed One, Jesus of Nazareth. The next day Constantine had had another vision, of a cross, black against a fiery sun, underneath it the words ‘In this sign you will conquer’. Had he really seen a vision, or was it just his fanciful imagination? Constantine could act the rough soldier, be as coarse as a mule, yet he was also a dreamer. As a boy he would have fits, become withdrawn, as if staring at something Helena couldn’t see.
Helena snapped the fan shut. The vision had been true! Her son had been proclaimed Emperor of the West, Master of Rome. He had exterminated his opponents. One day he would march east, bring that drunken ninny Licinius to battle, utterly destroy him and proclaim himself ‘Imperator totius mundi’, Emperor of the entire world.
For all his visions, Constantine had not ostensibly changed: he still acted the foul-mouthed, sweaty soldier, who gulped his wine, ate too much and liked to slap the bottoms of courtesans. Nevertheless, in his own way he had changed, become more dependent on Helena. Once his legions had swept into Rome, she and Anastasius had been given charge of the ‘Agentes in Rebus’, that horde of spies and secret agents which the Empire controlled both within and beyond its borders. Helena had seized the reins of power, determined to strengthen her son’s rule, eager to reach an understanding with the powerful Christian faith. If she could control that, she could control the mob. She had opened secret talks with Militiades, the Christian leader in Rome, and with his lieutenant, the silver-haired, golden-tongued priest Sylvester. Perhaps, in time, the Empire could reach accommodation with this radical faith.
‘Mother, Mother.’ Constantine leaned across, shaking her arm. ‘Mother, you mustn’t go to sleep.’
‘I’m not sleeping,’ she snapped. ‘I’m looking forward to leaving this flea-ridden heat. I want to get out of Rome.’ She glared at her son. ‘We should move soon . . .’
‘Ah, the Villa Pulchra,’ Constantine teased. ‘The beautiful villa, cooled by the hill breezes. Don’t worry, Mother, we’ll be there soon.’ He winked. ‘And you can bring all your friends with you.’
Helena knew to whom he was referring. Constantine had granted toleration to the Christians, but now the new faith had produced problems of its own. Helena ground her teeth. Problems, there were always problems.
‘Mother, look.’ Constantine was determined to tease Helena. ‘The fighting is coming to an end.’
The blond Retiarius in his red and silver-fringed kilt had not been fortunate. Dressed in his white padded leg armour, similar padding protecting his left arm, the shoulder above covered by a gleaming bronze plate, he was trying to bring the fight to an abrupt end. He had taken his net, fastened to his left arm, and flung it in a widening arc. Equipped with weights on the rim, the two-yard net should have trapped his opponent, a Thracian, who was garbed in heavy armour, on his head a visored helmet with a red and yellow horse-hair plume. But the Thracian had been faster. Wary of the net and the speed of his lighter-armed opponent, he had kept shuffling back so that when the net came stretching out he caught it on his rounded shield and tried to pull his opponent on to his pointed sword. The Retiarius quickly dropped his trident, drew the knife from his embroidered belt and cut himself free. Then he picked up the trident in both hands, retreating up against the podium wall. The Thracian followed, feet kicking up the golden sand. The net man was finished; he was now trapped. The crowd roared for the fight to be brought to an end but the Thracian remained cautious. The heat was intense. Neither man had drunk for hours, and the net man was bleeding profusely, losing his strength. The Retiarius panicked. He could feel himself weakening and lunged, aiming his weapon at the Thracian’s chest. The Thracian knocked it aside with such force the trident was sent spinning, then thrust his sword deep into the net man’s neck. The fight was over. The net man slumped to the sand, blood pumping from his wounds. This time the Thracian wanted to make sure. He stood over his opponent whilst the mob roared.
‘Hoc habet! Hoc habet!’ Let him have it!
The Thracian knew the rules; he was a gladiator not a butcher. He watched the life-light fade from his opponent’s eyes, his body jerk in the final death throes, before lifting his sword and shield to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Elated, the Thracian did a lap of honour, every so often stopping to raise his weapons, revelling in the coins and flowers being showered upon him.
The iron-barred gates to t
he tunnels beneath the podium were opened and a ghastly figure emerged wearing the terracotta mask of Lord Charon, the Ferryman of the Dead. He was escorted by another attendant dressed as Mercury, the Shepherd of Souls. While the Thracian received the acclamation of the mob, these two ghoulish figures approached the dead gladiator. Mercury carried a red-hot iron bar, with which he prodded the fallen man to ensure he was dead, whilst Charon struck the prostrate figure on the head with his mallet to proclaim ownership and confirm death. A group of stretcher-bearers hastened on, and while the victor surrendered his weapons to the Lanista, his manager, his dead opponent was dragged off. His body would be stripped, whatever blood was wiped off would be drained into containers and sold as a cure for epilepsy, and the rest of his mangled remains would either be tossed into some obscure grave or hacked up as food for the wild animals.
In the imperial box Helena sat back in her throne chair. The crowd, its blood lust now satisfied, was being diverted to other things as they waited for the great game of the day: the contest between Spicerius, the most famous net man in Italy, and Murranus, the Secutor, the darling of the Roman mob. Both gladiators were skilled, with a string of victories to their names. Both had received the rudis, the wooden sword of freedom, and both hoped, by the time the period of these games had finished, to receive the Corona, the crown, as Victor Ludorum, champion of the games.
In the amphitheatre the sand was being raked, turned over and dusted with sparkling grit. Attendants armed with buckets of water washed the blood stains from the marble-walled podium. In the various tiers above, the crowd moved like murmuring surf. Some hurried away to buy a drink or something to eat. Others, eager not to lose their place, shouted and bawled at the traders selling cheap wine and bitter ale, spiced sausages, honey cakes, smoked fish, sesame biscuits and even sugared figs coated in vine leaves. Musicians with trumpets tried to create music but no one really listened.
Helena sipped at a goblet of chilled white wine and leaned over in her chair, eavesdropping on her son, who’d drunk so much he was now virtually shouting, sharing his business with all in the imperial box.
‘See how these Christians love each other, eh, Rufinus?’ Constantine joked. ‘They are at each other’s throats over whether their Christ is equal to God the Father.’
Helena, however, did not regard this as funny. She needed the Christians and strove to understand their triune god. She had tried to grasp the basics. Apparently their God was three in one, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Son had become man, Jesus of Nazareth, yet he still remained equal to the Father, of the same substance as Him. However, a group of Christians led by a scholar called Arius believed Jesus was not equal, not of the same substance as the Father. Militiades, Bishop of Rome, had decreed this was heresy, and appealed to Helena for her son to intervene.
Helena mopped her face with a perfumed cloth. She’d had her way. Despite his mockery, Constantine owed a debt to the new religion. He had decided to celebrate his birthday by spending a week at the Villa Pulchra to the south of Rome, and had invited representatives of both Christian factions to debate the matter before him. A group of rhetoricians, public speakers, from the school in Capua had been cited by the Bishop of Rome as an example of this vexatious problem. The school was riven by the heresy, some following the teaching of Arius, others the orthodox line that Father, Son and Holy Spirit were of the same substance. Helena was astonished at how intense the theological rivalries at Capua had become. The violence over the issues was such that scholars came to their debating hall armed with swords and shields; they even had body-guards to protect them. Outside, a mob would gather, some shouting that Son was equal to Father, others that he was not. Houses had been attacked, mud and filth brought into the debating hall so opponents could be pelted. There had even been attacks at night and savage knife fights in the taverns and eating houses.
Constantine, totally mystified, had ordered three rhetoricians from either side to attend him at the Villa Pulchra. Helena closed her eyes and sighed. Constantine loved practical jokes, and liked nothing better than watching people engage in heated debate. That was fine as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t start roaring with laughter. Helena had done her very best to sweeten the occasion by offering lavish hospitality and the opportunity for these visiting scholars to inspect and venerate a great Christian relic, the Holy Sword, a Roman gladius miraculously preserved over the centuries, the very sword used in the execution of the Christian apostle Paul by the Emperor Nero. Now that was one thing which fascinated Helena! She had a passion for such finds and was busy collecting Christian relics. She was still searching for the Crown of Thorns thrust on to the head of the tortured Christ during his passion, the spear which had pierced his side, and the nails which had fastened the Christian Saviour to his Cross. The Holy Sword had been Helena’s greatest find so far. It would be displayed at the villa; it might even remind the Christian scholars of the need for unity.
‘Now! Now! Now!’ the crowd howled. It had slaked its thirst, satisfied its hunger and wanted the fight between Murranus and Spicerius to begin.
Helena put her cup down and turned. Behind her sat officials, notables, priests and Vestal Virgins. The latter were distinguishable by their Greek gowns with heavy over-folds, their hair hidden by white and red woollen ribbons wrapped closely round their heads and tied at the back with the ends hanging over their shoulders. But Helena wasn’t interested in them. She peered across at the far corner of the box, where a young woman sat on a stool placed advantageously on a raised tier so as to obtain a good view of the arena below. Helena winked at Claudia, her little mouse, her scurrier, her most proficient of spies. She wagered that hardly anyone in the box would have noticed Claudia, with her boyish figure and close-cropped black hair. Her skin was ivory pale, her features regular; if she possessed any beauty it was those large, lustrous eyes with their calm, unblinking gaze. She wore no paint or jewellery; just a round-necked tunic which fell beneath her knees, and on her feet stout boot sandals like those of a soldier.
Helena mouthed the words ‘little mouse’, which was acknowledged by a quick twisted smile and a bob of the head. Helena returned to her reflections. Claudia would be helpful in the problems the Emperor faced; that shrewd little mouse, that most perfect of agents, with her nose for mischief! She was a child of the slums, a former actress; she could act the lady if she wanted to but she rarely did. She did not like to be noticed, and that made her both valuable and dangerous. People chattered as if she wasn’t there, and she had a sharp eye for observing little incongruities and idiosyncrasies. Was Claudia a Christian? Helena wondered. There was certainly some link between her and the priest Sylvester, as there was with Rufinus. Perhaps the banker had promised to help Claudia find the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist who had raped her two years ago after murdering her simple-minded brother Felix. Strange, Helena reflected, that Claudia had accepted her invitation to the games; the girl had declared she did not like such occasions, but wasn’t she sweet on one of the gladiators?
‘Augusta, may I join you?’ Fulvia Julia, Rufinus’s wife, was standing next to her; beside her hovered a household slave carrying a stool.
‘Of course.’ Helena’s smile was as false as Fulvia Julia’s.
‘Very good.’ Fulvia Julia sat down. ‘Augusta,’ she cooed, tapping the arm of Helena’s chair, ‘you’re so brave, refusing to wear jewellery or paint. It’s so . . .’ the bitch shrilled with laughter, ‘so basic!’
‘Haven’t you read Ovid’s Remedies of Love?’ Helena smiled. ‘He says all is concealed by gems, gold and paint.’ She leaned closer. ‘A false woman is the least part of herself.’
‘Oh! Augusta, you’re so knowledgeable. Now,’ Fulvia Julia clapped her hands and pointed at the arena, ‘who do you think is going to be killed?’
Murranus the Gladiator, standing in the darkness of the tunnel entrance beneath the amphitheatre, was asking himself the same question. He’d prayed before a statue of Mars, and sprin
kled some incense over the flame, mixing in a tuft of red hair from his close-cropped head. He had bathed his eyes against the dust and dabbed on a little black kohl, which emphasised their blueness. He was ready for the contest. He and his opponent were free men, so they could carry their own weapons; they would not have to wait until they entered the arena. They were here by choice. Murranus shook his head. He was here because he had to be; this was the only thing he could do – fight.
Murranus squinted out at the sunlight. He was Frisian by stock, but really nothing more than another fighting man from the slums with no kith or kin. Fortunata, his sister, was dead, and his only friends were his companions at the She-Asses tavern. He had bounced the tavern wench, Januaria, but as for his heart . . . Well, he grimaced, little Claudia would know all about that.
He gazed round the tunnel. Its walls, painted a macabre yellow and black, were covered by graffiti, the last words and signs of other gladiators who’d waited here before the Gate of Life, the blinding light of the arena beckoning them on. Would this be the day he died? Murranus was the victor of at least a dozen fights. He had lost only two, being judged ‘Amissus’, defeated but allowed to live.
‘Are you ready, Murranus?’ Polybius, Claudia’s uncle, and keeper of the She-Asses tavern, gestured at the table where his armour was piled. Polybius was full-faced, with mischievous eyes. He now tried to look sad, rubbing the end of his fat nose and pulling down his laughing mouth as if Murranus had already lost the contest.
‘I’m the one who’s fighting,’ Murranus joked.
Polybius patted the sweat-soaked hair on his own balding head, then rubbed his grubby hands on his dark blue tunic.