by Paul Doherty
The sword was an old legionary weapon, now replaced as standard issue by the long curved sword Gaius had used during his military career. He studied the relic with great interest. The hilt was of pure ivory, a sparkling ruby on the pommel; its blade, designed for stabbing, was two-edged, with a ridge down the centre, and had been polished so it shone like a mirror. Gaius could understand why the room had been chosen. The sword was on full display and you could walk right round it, but the smooth sand would betray any footprint, whilst the sword hung more than an arm’s length from where he stood. At the bottom of the chain was a sharp ugly hook to which the ring on the end of the hilt had been attached.
Gaius studied the sword, more out of curiosity than anything else. He found it difficult to accept that it was as old as Timothaeus claimed.
‘The hilt has probably been replaced,’ the steward hastily assured him, ‘but its blade certainly bestowed on our blessed Paul the glorious palm of martyrdom . . .’
Now Gaius stared down at the carp amongst the reeds. He had soon lost interest in the sword and couldn’t understand the growing interest of the Emperor in such matters. He’d heard the Emperor joke how his August mother was busy ransacking the Empire in her hunger for relics. The philosophers, the rhetoricians invited from Capua were deeply interested in the sword. Gaius had studied what he secretly called ‘those loathsome creatures’ ever since their arrival the day before yesterday. He had taken a personal dislike to all of them; they had no redeeming virtues, and their appearance and manner confirmed all he’d learned about them. A true nest of vipers! Of course, they had visited the sword as soon as they had arrived. According to Timothaeus, their fingers had positively itched, although the steward didn’t know if it was the sacredness of the relic or the gleaming ruby in its ivory hilt which attracted them. All veneration had soon disappeared though, as the rhetoricians started to squabble about St Paul’s teaching on Christ. Timothaeus had been truly scandalised, grumbling that if they were not prudent the good Lord would send a plague or pestilence to unite them against the common danger.
Voices echoed along the peristyle. Gaius closed his eyes. It was the rhetoricians, braying like asses! Justin, leader of the Arian delegation, came into the garden, bony finger waggling as he lectured his two companions on some obscure point of theology.
‘What we have got to decide,’ he declared, ‘is whether Jesus Christ is of the same substance as the Father, or can he only be likened to the Father?’
His two companions nodded wisely. Gaius glared at them, but of course, he was a mere soldier; in their eyes he didn’t exist. Justin was fat, with bulbous eyes and a mouth like a fish. Gaius stared down at the carp. No, he reasoned, that was an insult to the fish. Justin was a bloated frog. He liked to describe himself as ascetic, so he insisted on wearing a shabby tunic which reeked of the stables and sandals which would look scruffy on a beggar. His two companions, Dionysius and Malachus, were plain young men, both balding. They tried to imitate the Greeks with their sparse moustache and beards, eyes screwed up in concentration, lips half open as if ready to declare some great truth hidden from the rest of mankind.
They drifted away and Gaius lay down in the shade of a laurel bush and wondered what would happen. Memories came and went. When they were boys he and Spicerius used to visit a rich old man with a garden like this. He wondered idly what his former comrade would make of it all. Before long he had drifted off to sleep.
He was woken some time later, the shadows lenghtening, by the clash of cymbals, loud cries and shouts. At first, in his half-sleep, Gaius thought the villa was being attacked. Burrus came running into the garden, throwing his hands up in the air, then fell to his knees and began to howl like a dog.
‘By all that is light,’ Gaius muttered. He jumped to his feet and ordered the German to shut up.
‘The sword,’ Burrus wailed, ‘the Holy Sword is gone! And Timothaeus is dead!’
Chapter 2
‘Vita summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam.’
(‘The brevity of life stops us from far-reaching hope.’)
Horace, Odes, I.4
The She-Asses tavern, on the edge of Rome’s not so salubrious quarter, near the Flavian Gate, was ablaze with light. The tavern occupied the ground floor of an insula or apartment block near the decaying temple of the Crown of Venus. It was a spacious hostelry with a fine main door, nailed to which was a placard listing what was on the menu, which wines and beers were served, as well as a stark warning to gamblers, fighters, sorcerers and travelling tinkers that they were banned from trading under pain of a broken nose. Above the door perched a carved statue of Minerva which Polybius had ‘borrowed’ from the nearby temple, whilst on the top of each doorpost squatted a grinning Hermes. Oceanus had appropriated these on a long-term loan from a bath house the police had closed down for acting as a brothel without paying them their dues. Inside the main folding door, Polybius had transformed what used to be the atrium into a spacious high-ceilinged eating room. The counter stood at one end and at the other what Polybius grandiloquently termed ‘the garden door’. The room was lit by oil lamps, rush lights and lanterns hanging from wall and ceiling hooks.
This particular evening, after the games had finished, the small carved tables had been pushed together and ringed with makeshift couches and stools. Pride of place was taken by a stern-faced Murranus, lounging on Polybius’s one and only proper couch. Claudia sprawled on cushioned stools to Murranus’s right. Polybius, his few hairs greased to circle his balding head like an athlete’s wreath, shared a broad, throne-like chair with his plump, pretty wife, Poppaoe, whom Polybius always called his ‘little ripe plum’. Simon the Stoic, sitting opposite, could only silently agree as he stared lustfully at Poppaoe’s full ripe breasts straining against her low blue-edged gown.
All the regulars had been invited, even Saturninus, the bleary-eyed commander of the local Vigiles, who acted as watchmen, firefighters, police and, as Polybius grumbled, unofficial tax collectors. The wine had circulated, both red and white. Polybius claimed they were Falernian, from northern Campania; Claudia suspected the jars were from the local market and the wine from the vines Poppaoe tended in the large garden behind the She-Asses. Polybius had certainly savoured every cup. Now, flush-faced, he lurched to his feet and, in an attempt to make Murranus smile, bellowed out the doggerel words:
‘Look man is just a bag of bones,
Here today and gone tomorrow
Soon we’ll all be dead as stones
So let’s drink up and drown our sorrow.’
He glanced sharply at the sober-faced Murranus, then picked up a pair of small cymbals and clashed for silence. ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he declared and before anyone could object, he had walked into the centre of the dining circle and, ignoring Poppaoe’s warning glance, launched into his tale.
‘Once there was a poor carpenter who had a wife who loved bed sport. Day and night, whatever the weather, she was ripe for it.’ Polybius raised his hands at the jeers this provoked. ‘She had a lover whom she would most royally entertain when her husband was gone. One day she and lover boy were at their pleasures when husband unexpectedly arrived home. Her lover had no choice but to hide in a large, empty but very dirty wine vat standing in the bedroom corner. He was safely hidden away when the husband came into the room. The wife immediately started stripping the bed. “What are you doing here?” she shouted. “You lazy good-for-nothing! I’m working my fingers to the bone and you arrive home without a penny for a crust.”
‘“There’s no work,” her husband replied, pointing to the corner, “but I’ve just sold that wine vat for seven denarii, so you can help me clean and remove it.”
‘“You idiot,” the quick-witted wife retorted. “Seven denarii? I’ve just sold it for twelve. The buyer’s inside it, checking to see if it’s all right.” On cue, lover boy pops his head up. “I’ll take it!” he shouts. “On one condition. You,” he pointed to the husband, “get in here and clean it.”
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‘So husband climbs in and starts to clean the wine vat whilst lover boy and the lady of the house return to their pleasures, with the poor husband being encouraged by his wife’s shouts, which he thinks are directions to clean the vat as thoroughly as possible . . .’
Polybius’s audience collapsed in laughter.
‘Is this a true story?’ Festus the Fornicator shouted.
‘Yes,’ Polybius retorted.
‘Which means,’ Petronius the Pimp bellowed, ‘you must have been either the man on the bed or the husband in the wine vat!’
Petronius ducked as Poppaoe threw a piece of meat at him. Polybius lurched back to his seat, and the guests turned to chatter with their neighbours as well as enjoy the fresh crates of wine Polybius sent round, followed by dishes of fried liver and coriander, pork in a piquant sauce and bowls of herb purée with walnuts.
‘It’ll never happen,’ Polybius bawled at Murranus in one final attempt to draw the gladiator from his sombre mood.
‘It has happened,’ Murranus whispered to Claudia. She sipped at her watered wine and, stretching out, cupped Murranus’s cheek in her small hand.
‘Tell me again.’
‘We were in the arena, I was fighting well, you saw that.’
‘No I didn’t,’ Claudia retorted. ‘I’d closed my eyes.’
‘Spicerius began to sway, then he collapsed. I thought he was dead till he began to vomit. By the tits of a pig, I’ve never seen a man vomit like that. By the time they had got him back through the Gate of Life, whatever he had taken he’d spat most of it out. May the gods be thanked for that old soldier doctor; he made Spicerius take salt water and he continued to vomit. He kept slapping Spicerius’s face, telling him not to go to sleep. I have never seen so much water poured down a throat.’
‘Poisoned?’ Claudia asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Murranus replied. ‘The doctor inspected the vomit, said it stank like a sewer pit. It may have been belladonna, foxglove, or just something to make Spicerius sleep. The doctor said he was very lucky; because he has a constitution like an ox, he survived. But now they are blaming me. Spicerius’s wine cup was tainted – they found grains of a powder at the bottom of it – but mine was free, as was the wine left in the jug.’
Murranus indicated with his thumb. ‘But of course things are not helped by the fact that Polybius is my supporter and he brought the wine down. To cut a long story short, I am being blamed for drugging Spicerius. They say I could be guilty of attempted murder.’
‘But that’s untrue,’ Claudius replied heatedly. ‘The cup was on the table, all sorts of people were milling about, Polybius told me that. Anyway, what will happen now?’
‘Next week Rufinus is to stage special games in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. I will fight again. This time there will be no wine, and it will be a fight to the finish!’
‘Why don’t you give it up?’ Claudia pleaded.
‘I will one day, when I’m Victor Ludorum and receive the crown.’
‘But there’s one more fight after Spicerius?’
‘Ah yes, one more. Spicerius, or I, must face Meleager, the Marvel of a Million Cities.’
‘And is he?’
‘No, that’s just what he calls himself, but he’s a cunning-eyed bastard. He’ll laugh his head off when he hears the news.’
‘There’s no real damage done.’ Claudia touched Murranus on the tip of his nose. ‘They have no proof you poisoned the wine and you’ll both fight again. By the way, how is Spicerius?’
‘He’s much better this evening; rather quiet when I visited, but said he didn’t hold me responsible. He clasped my hand and claimed he was still the better man.’
‘He could have taken it himself,’ Claudia declared. ‘He wouldn’t be the first gladiator to try some magical powder. But come, smile, Uncle is really trying to do his best.’
‘And what are you doing?’ Murranus leaned closer and, ignoring Januaria’s jealous hiss, removed a smudge of grease from the corner of Claudia’s mouth with his napkin. She smiled dazzlingly and silently wished that the handsome green-eyed, red-haired fighter would be satisfied, retire and always stay with her.
‘What are you thinking, little one?’ Murranus whispered. ‘Are you still looking for the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist? You told me he was probably a soldier serving in an Illyrian regiment. Didn’t you say Rufinus the banker knew something about him? Is that why you are working in the palace?’
‘I’m a scurrier.’ Claudia smiled. ‘The Empress’s messenger maid.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ Murranus lowered his voice so the hubbub of their companions swept over them. ‘Are you a spy, Claudia? One of the Agentes?’
‘Why, Murranus.’ Claudia fluttered her eyelids.
‘Are you?’
She paused as the door opened and a pedlar entered, a tray slung round his neck full of trinkets, Egyptian scarabs, medals of Isis and packets of sulphur matches. He stretched out his claw-like hand full of denarii and bellowed for a drink, any drink. He caught Claudia’s gaze. ‘And some fish,’ he added cheekily. ‘I’ve walked the Via Appia, up and down, set up shop just near the tombstones on the third mile.’ He gave a cracked-toothed smile. ‘You know the place, where the Christians say Sebastian was shot to death with arrows. I’ll be back there tomorrow, about the sixth hour, so I need food and a good night’s sleep.’ He bawled on and on until a servant brought him a small jug of wine and a dish of diced fish. The pedlar glanced quickly at Claudia again before retreating into a corner.
Claudia looked away. Sylvester had sent his message. She had to be in the catacombs the following morning, amongst the gravestones of the cemetery near the third milestone along the Appian Way . . .
Claudia woke long before dawn. She always slept well in her small chamber above the tavern. Poppaoe had done her best to make the room comfortable and pleasing, with the tapestry of leaping ibex on the wall, a bronze tripod table, an acacia-wood stool and a carved Egyptian chest where she could store her belongings. Claudia rose and went to the spring in the garden which lay at the centre of the insula. The breeze was cool, the sun had yet to rise, so the garden was still fresh before the humidity and heat set in. She washed herself carefully, then returned to her chamber to put on clean undergarments, a green tunic with an embroidered hem, and a dark brown cloak which she used to hide the dagger in the belt around her waist. She grabbed her staff and broad-brimmed hat and went down to the kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed pot boy served her some of yesterday’s meal in the small bread room which lay off the kitchen. She drank some watered wine then, telling the pot boy to go back to bed, opened one of the shutters, climbed up and lowered herself down.
She looked to the right and left. There was no one there. No beggar pretending to doze or a drunk urinating against the wall. The street was deserted. She hurried along towards the main thoroughfare. The water carriers and street sweepers were out; schoolchildren were being forced down to the local school room, where a travelling teacher would teach them the rudiments of mathematics and the alphabet. Men going to the baths walked briskly or were carried in their sedan chairs, their slaves hastening behind with baskets of strigils, combs, towels, jars of perfume and flasks of oil. The hucksters were preparing for a day’s trading. Barbers had set up their stools, hot water and brushes at the ready. Cooks, their saucepans full of sausages, fired their mobile stoves, hoping the smell of spiced meat would whet the appetite of passers-by. In the workshops, craftsmen started to hammer. The usual din of the day was beginning.
The street was being cleared of carts, according to Caesar’s law, except for those of builders bringing in masonry and timber. The crowds were out. Here and there the fairground people, with their strange tricks, tales and lurid appearances, were preparing to entertain; already a viper trainer had attracted a small audience. Windows were open, shutters being pulled back, chamber pots emptied, flower baskets hung, and barrows of refuse thrust out of doors to be taken down to the l
ocal midden heap. A squad of soldiers swung by, weapons clattering, the red-eyed auxiliaries, with their blue shields and leather helmets, eager to return to their barracks after a long night’s duty. Claudia recalled Murranus, fast asleep in the guest room overlooking the garden, and felt a pang of sorrow at the misfortune facing her friend.
Claudia had fallen asleep trying to picture in her mind that dark, macabre tunnel where Murranus had been standing waiting with Spicerius to enter the arena. She had questioned the gladiator most carefully before turning on Polybius and Oceanus. She believed that someone had tried to weaken Murranus’s opponent, hoping Murranus would kill him before the effect of the potion made itself felt. She knew a great deal about gladiators. Spicerius, a true professional, had probably not eaten since the cena libera the previous evening. On the morning of the fight he would empty his bowels and probably chew nothing more than a dry husk. He would be excited and tense; the wine and the potion must have curdled his stomach so that he vomited them out before any real damage was done. So who was responsible? She had been most forceful with her uncle. Polybius could be as cunning as a serpent and had a finger in every pie, yet he had protested his innocence. Was it Murranus himself? Claudia drove away a mongrel yapping at her and shook her head. Murranus was a killer, a fighter, but he was honourable, not perverse or corrupt; a man who fought because he could not find anything else to do, except dream of owning a tavern like the She-Asses.
Claudia reached the main thoroughfare leading down to the gates. She’d kept to the edge, dodging people coming in and out. At the city gate one of the guards whistled at her and asked to see more of her legs. She made an obscene gesture and, with the guard’s laughter ringing in her ears, hurried through the gates and on to the Via Appia. The crowds thronged busily, merchants, traders, pedlars, travelling musicians. Only once did she stop, to watch a troupe of actors, their faces hidden behind grotesque masks, bodies garbed in gaudy robes, perform and sing as they went up to the city. Two little boys, satyr masks pushed back on their heads, tried to coax coins for their begging baskets. Claudia walked purposefully on. She remembered being part of such a troupe travelling up and down Italy, from its southern tip to the approaches to the cold mountains in the north. She had enjoyed herself, but the manager had drunk the profits so she had returned home. Nevertheless, she had received an education of sorts. She could read and write, speak the lingua franca of the cities and had a nose for mischief. She could act and mime and knew, line for line, the poetry and plays of Ovid, Terence and Seneca.