by Paul Doherty
‘By the cock!’ Valens whispered. ‘You have a sharp one here, Murranus! Keen as a surgeon’s knife. You’re right, Spicerius should have died. Three things saved him. He has the constitution of an ox, he vomited the poison, and I was there to administer treatment. There’s one further . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yes?’ Claudia asked. She was aware of how silent the garden had fallen. A butterfly flew between them, fluttering white in the light breeze.
‘He should have died,’ Valens murmured, ‘but the assassin made a mistake. He, or she, didn’t give him enough poison. It was sufficient to make him vomit, to cause the pain, but not enough to finish him off.’
‘Spicerius!’
Claudia turned. A young woman, black hair floating around her face like a veil, came tripping across the grass, the folds of her costly gown flapping around her, a shawl protecting her back and shoulders from the sun. Behind her an old slave carried a parasol and two fat cushions. The woman paused and turned on him.
‘Can’t you keep up, you old fool!’ she screamed. ‘And this parasol is supposed to shade me from the sun!’
‘Agrippina,’ Spicerius murmured.
The young woman ran up in a gust of perfume and, without being invited, crouched down, flinging her arms around Spicerius’s neck, kissing him hungrily on the side of his mouth and face before shrieking to the old slave to put the cushions down. Then she drew apart, made herself comfortable and gazed around, an impudent smile on her cheeky face.
As Agrippina blew a kiss at Murranus, Claudia tried to hide her stab of envy. The woman was truly beautiful. She had lovely expressive eyes in her ivory-skinned face, and her jewellery and earrings, all a blood red, glittered every time she moved, in a clatter of bangles and bracelets. She wore a wild flower in her hair and carried a perfumed napkin to cool the sweat on her neck and arms. She waggled her fingers at Valens but dismissed Claudia with a half-smile and a flick of her eyes.
‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere,’ she cooed, turning to Spicerius. ‘What on earth are you doing in a place like this?’
‘It’s my place,’ Claudia spoke up, ‘and I’m wondering what a person like you is doing here.’
The smile disappeared from Agrippina’s face. The old slave hastily retreated. Agrippina took a fan from a pocket in her robe, snapped it open, stared hard at Claudia and then burst out laughing. She took a bracelet from her wrist and thrust it into Claudia’s hand.
‘I’m such a bitch,’ she confessed, ‘and such a snob! I meant no offence.’
‘None taken,’ Claudia answered, slipping the bracelet on to her wrist. ‘Would you like some wine?’
Agrippina shook her head. ‘I’ve been drinking all morning. What have you been discussing?’
‘Who tried to kill Spicerius.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ Agrippina retorted. She leaned against her lover. ‘We observed the rules, didn’t we; we neither drank nor ate that morning. What Spicerius does, I always follow.’ Her eyes turned soft. ‘No offence, Murranus, but I truly thought Spicerius would win. My father is furious. I bet a fortune and lost.’
‘I thought all money was to be returned?’ Spicerius said.
Agrippina kissed him on his shoulder. ‘No, that’s what everyone is haggling about now. They will probably agree to hold the money until the next fight. Now listen, Spicerius, you must stay in the shade. Claudia – it is Claudia, isn’t it? Do you mind if I stay here? I will help you.’ She chattered on, talking so fast she hardly stopped to breathe.
Claudia excused herself, went across to the tavern and sent Oceanus out to see if all was well. She then returned to her own chamber. She drew the bolt across the door and lay down on the narrow cot bed. Polybius was now up, bellowing in the kitchens at whoever got in his way. Claudia’s mind drifted back to the catacombs earlier that day, and the tattoo on Spicerius’s wrist.
‘One day,’ she whispered, as her eyes grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.
She slept long and deep, and it was mid-afternoon before she woke. She splashed some water over her face and went down into the garden. Murranus and the rest were still there. They had decided to make a day of it playing dice and knuckle bones whilst ordering the best wine and food. Polybius of course, much the worse for drink, had been surly until he realised how wealthy Agrippina was. Now the cooks were busy roasting beef and goose, while in the cellars the tap boys were broaching the best casks. Claudia decided to join the company. Murranus was already deep in his cups and insisted on giving her the biggest hug and wine-drenched kisses. Claudia teased him back, and they were discussing the merits of Meleager the Magnificent when Polybius came hurrying out across the grass.
‘There’s a messenger from Tibur,’ he declared. ‘Claudia, you are to join the court at the Villa Pulchra.’
‘My, my, my,’ Murranus declared, ‘you do have powerful friends.’
Claudia pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I’m only a maid.’ She kissed Murranus full on the mouth before he could add anything else.
‘The imperial court?’ Spicerius lifted his cup. ‘When you get there, Claudia, give my love to the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Gaius Tullius. Tell him not to wear his airs and graces. I remember how, bare-arsed, we used to chase each other through the fields of Sisium. You won’t forget, will you?’
Claudia promised, and hurriedly followed her uncle back into the tavern. There she recognised the pop-eyed steward, Timothaeus, face all red, laughing at a doleful Burrus, dressed in his shabby armour, who was being teased by one of the pot boys. The huge German mercenary seemed to fill the room. He had ignored his taunter but was glaring at Simon the Stoic, who knew some German and hadn’t hesitated in using it to insult the visitor. Januaria, however, was suitably impressed. She had sidled over, plucking at the great bearskin which, despite the heat, Burrus had draped over his shoulders. Poppaoe came out of the kitchen, screaming abuse, and Januaria disappeared. Claudia greeted both the guests and clattered up the stairs to collect her cloak and hat and push a few possessions into a set of leather panniers.
When she came back downstairs, she kissed Poppaoe and Polybius goodbye, waved to the regular customers and went out to where a small crowd had gathered to gape at Burrus’s entourage. The mercenaries recognised Claudia and grunted at her. Anyone else would have regarded this as an insult, but Claudia knew that it was the warmest greeting these dour men would give. They had brought a gentle cob for her to ride. Burrus helped her mount, and they left for the city gates and the Via Latina.
The day’s business was finishing and people were streaming out of the city. The streets were packed, people shoving and pushing, the air riven with the chatter of different tongues, hordes of screaming children, and the hustle and bustle of the markets as stalls were cleared and put away for the night. Craftsmen in their workshops used the last hours of the summer day to finish their tasks. Outside the entrances to these shops and eating houses, pedlars and hustlers bawled, desperate to make a sale before sunset. The dusty air reeked of grease, tallow candle, burnt oil, incense, cooked meat, dried fish and, above all, the sweat of the hot, tired crowd. Soldiers from the garrisons mingled with customers at the wine booths and beer shops, reluctantly moving aside for the sedan chair or litter of a wealthy nobleman. Claudia loved such sights. People of various nationalities thronged around, Ethiopians and Nubians in their panther and leopard skins, Egyptian priests garbed in ostentatious white robes, shaven heads gleaming with oil, Syrians in their striped cloaks, dark bearded faces glistening with sweat. Of course, as the day faded, Rome’s underworld also came to life: the sorcerers and conjurors, the footpads and pickpockets, all brushed shoulders with dancers, whores and pimps as they came into the streets eager for mischief.
Claudia’s party skirted the main thoroughfare and crossed the square, where the Vigiles were fighting a gang of youths who’d flung a pig from the top floor of an apartment block. A mad old man now danced round the gory mess, chanting a garbled hymn. A group o
f gladiators were gathering on the steps of the temple to pay votive thanks to a god. Claudia wondered what Murranus would be doing that evening. Once across the square, Burrus and his escort moved to the front and forced their way on to a broad avenue lined by statues. They had to move slowly. They’d left the slums and were now on the main approach to the city gates. Here the crowds were even thicker, the wealthy carried by their slaves, the poor pushing some ancient relative wrapped in a blanket and placed in a wheel-barrow. They passed colonnaded walks and arrived at the city gates; these were guarded by Samaritan mercenaries who lounged against the walls or wooden posts wolf-whistling at any attractive woman. The noise, the dust, the heat and flies made any conversation impossible. Burrus was in a deep sulk, although Claudia could see Timothaeus was desperate to talk to her.
As they moved along the Via Latina, the buildings grew fewer, the smell of the countryside more fragrant. They passed the city cemeteries; the tombs rearing up, dark against the light blue sky, grim reminders of the brevity of life. Somewhere in the crowd a boy began to sing a lovely lilting tune, with sweet verses about a house with a welcoming table set out in the shade of an olive grove. Claudia listened intently but Timothaeus was now eager to make speed and produced his imperial pass to move more briskly through the crowds. At last they reached the crossroads, marked by soaring wooden poles with skulls placed at the base: a place of execution. Criminals would carry their cross bar here, against which they would be crucified. Someone had lit an oil lamp near the posts and placed beside it a bouquet of wild flowers. Claudia wondered about their significance as she reflected on what a topsyturvy world she lived in, where the Empire now did business with a religious sect whose God they had crucified. She recalled what Sylvester had said to her, and, studying Timothaeus’s anxious face, wondered what was awaiting at the Villa Pulchra. She quietly prayed, to any god who bothered to listen, that Murranus would take care of himself during her absence and keep out of mischief.
They paused to drink at a water fountain. Claudia revelled in the dark coolness of the laurel, cypress and olive trees, and the greenery, albeit scorched by the sun, of the bushes and grass stretching out either side of her. Birds swooped above them, whilst in the grass along the track crickets continued their busy song. Burrus grated an order and they remounted. They crossed brooks and streams, their horses’ hoofs clattering nervously. Now and again they would be greeted by servants and children running down a lane from a villa or farmstead.
After a while, Timothaeus pulled his horse back, drawing alongside Claudia’s. They had met before, at court, but Timothaeus, ignoring all protocol and etiquette, now chattered to her like some long-lost sister. Not pausing for a breath, he described in rushed sentences how the Holy Sword had been stolen, the uproar this had caused, followed by the brutal murder of Dionysius.
‘No one knows who did it!’ Timothaeus shook his head as if talking to himself. ‘No one at all, but I have a theory. I mean, if you are going to murder someone, why not just bang them on the back of the head and leave them. Not like that poor bugger. He was bound and dragged through the garden, pegged out like some criminal in the amphitheatre.’ He leaned across, eyes round with amazement. ‘He must have bled to death.’
‘And no one heard his screams?’
‘Gagged, he was, a piece of hard leather pushed into his mouth.’
‘You were talking about the murder. You have a theory?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Timothaeus gathered the reins with one hand, lowering his voice as if Burrus was an eavesdropper, but the German seemed more intent on finishing the wine skin he’d unhooked from his saddle horn. ‘I believe,’ the steward continued breathlessly, ‘that Dionysius was killed by those other philosophers. You know what a group of bitches they are, jealous about this, jealous about that! I expect they got into an argument and decided to kill him.’
‘In which case,’ Claudia smiled, ‘why didn’t they do as you describe, just hit him on the head and leave it at that?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Timothaeus screwed his face up in concentration, as he tried to reflect on that great mystery. Of course, he had his answer: how the philosophers were a cruel group of bitches. Claudia half listened, realising with a sinking heart that she was about to enter a snake pit. From what Timothaeus had told her, she had already concluded that Dionysius’s murder was not an act of passion but a cold, calculated, cruel act where the victim was made to suffer for as long as possible.
Burrus, who had finished the wine skin, and was desperate for more, now urged them into a gallop. The air was growing cooler, shadows laced the path and the red-gold sky was darkening. Eventually they reached the winding track leading up to the Villa Pulchra. Claudia had visited it many years ago, but she was still surprised by the grandeur and opulence of the buildings clustered on the brow of the hill. They passed guard posts, soldiers on picket duty crouching round their camp fires, a glowing avenue of flame stretching up to the main gate set in the soaring curtain wall. Timothaeus demanded entrance; an officer came out, passes were inspected and the gate swung open. They entered the courtyard, which reeked of the stables. Soldiers and servants lounged on benches, drinking and chattering as they played with knuckle bones and dice.
Claudia dismounted. Ostlers came to take her horse, and any aches or pains she felt were soon forgotten as Timothaeus led her on a hasty tour of the villa. First they visited the peristyle garden, exquisitely perfumed and lit by hundreds of oil lamps in their translucent alabaster jars, glowing like fireflies against the dusk. Claudia was aware of lush lawns, irrigated by narrow canals and overlooked by countless carved statues of gods and goddesses, nymphs and fauns. As she walked, she glimpsed fountains and pools of purity, reed-ringed carp ponds, colonnaded walks, marble walls and floors, gorgeous paintings, beautiful ornaments, brilliant-hued tapestries and delicate furniture. They went down corridors and galleries, guarded by soldiers from the imperial regiments as well as mercenaries from the personal comitatus of the Emperor and his mother. The kitchens, carving rooms, bakeries and pantries were busy with sweat-soaked servants hurrying around. The imperial banquet had already begun, the doors closed, so they kept well away from the triclinium where the Emperor and his guests ate and drank to the soft music of the imperial orchestra.
‘Dionysius’s death,’ Timothaeus commented sharply, ‘was certainly no excuse to spoil a good supper party.’
He took Claudia to the kitchens for a light meal of spiced sausages, damsons and a cup of chilled white wine. Afterwards he showed her to her chamber, a narrow closet containing a bed, a stool, a carved chest and a peg on the door to hang her clothes. She was allowed to wash and change before being taken to the Empress’s antechamber, a white-walled, marble-floored room, the brilliance of its colours deliberately emphasising the dark blue and red medallion paintings in the centre of each wall. Claudia sat on a couch and stared up at one of these paintings depicting some Emperor entering Rome in triumph. She was fascinated by the detail, the way the horses on the chariot turned their heads, so life-like she expected the animals to move and to hear the clatter of their hoofs or the crack of reins.
‘Well, little mouse!’
Claudia started. The Empress had opened the door and was leaning gracefully against it. Claudia jumped to her feet, and would have knelt, but the Empress, face rather flushed, grasped her by the hand and sat down beside her on the couch, staring up at the painting.
‘That’s supposed to be the great Caesar, Claudia, after he had conquered Egypt and brought Cleopatra back to Rome. I always look for her but can’t find her. The painting is fascinating, isn’t it? If you stare at it long enough you feel as if you are becoming part of the great triumph. Well, little one, you are now part of my world again and I want you to watch, study and listen. You had a pleasant journey? Good.’ Helena didn’t wait for a reply. ‘And how’s your Murranus? You should thank the gods that he didn’t kill Spicerius.’ She smiled at Claudia’s astonishment and kissed her gently on the brow. ‘Sometimes, litt
le mouse, you can be as cunning as a serpent, at other times as innocent as a dove. You hadn’t thought of that, had you?’
‘No, no, your Excellency.’
‘Augusta will do.’ Helena smiled, ‘Oh, forgive my friendliness. I drank one cup too many of Falernian. But yes,’ she caressed Claudia’s hand, ‘that’s where Murranus could have made a terrible mistake. It was obvious Spicerius was in difficulties. You saw me watching? I was fascinated. I even forgot the letter I was reading. Any other gladiator would have closed in, seized the moment, and that’s where the real trouble would have begun.’
‘And what would have happened?’ Claudia asked. She had forgotten her tiredness and the fact that she was in the presence of the Empress.
‘I don’t really know.’ Helena chewed the corner of her mouth. ‘That’s an interesting question. My son will know, I must ask him. But come.’ She got to her feet, dragging Claudia with her. ‘I’ve drunk too much and it’s hot in here.’ She gestured at the oil lamps on the table. ‘And if I keep staring at them, I’ll fall asleep.’
The Empress took her out into the small garden, one of those private paradises especially set aside for the imperial family, with a lawn, flowerbeds and marble seats around a fountain carved in the shape of Cupid carrying a fish. The garden was bounded by a high red-bricked wall with no gate, the only entrance being from inside the palace.
‘You see,’ Helena declared, sitting down on the marble bench with her back to the fountain, ‘you can sit here, chatter away and watch the entrance. Not like those other gardens, eh, where a spy can crouch under a bush or even up a tree? Oh yes,’ she laughed, ‘I’ve heard of that happening. Now, Claudia, forget about your gladiator and listen to what I have to say.’
The Empress’s description of the theft of the Holy Sword and the murder of Dionysius was similar to Timothaeus’s except that, as usual, Helena saw darker, more sinister motives.