by Paul Doherty
‘I wish to the gods we had,’ Gaius replied. ‘But the Empress has asked us to think, reflect and remember.’
The Captain talked like a schoolboy declining a verb, though his voice was rich with sarcasm and his eyes full of laughter.
‘Well, we’ll do that,’ Gaius pulled a face, ‘while we get the life bored out of us.’
Claudia joined them and the others drifting out into the peristyle garden. Purple-draped chairs had been set before the fountain and slaves were hurriedly putting up awnings to protect the imperial heads from the summer sun. Scribes in white robes, fingers stained with ink, were busy before the thrones, laying down cushions and preparing writing pallets. On either side of the long glistening pool were stools for the speakers, with a large podium directly facing the imperial presence. Everyone else had to find their own place, either in the garden or in the colonnaded walks. Porters carrying parasols moved amongst the flower beds or called in high-pitched voices for slaves to bring more refreshments.
Claudia moved back into the atrium. It would take some time for everyone to gather, and Constantine was notorious for his lateness, especially after an imperial banquet. As she wandered down a corridor, she started at a touch to her elbow, and spun round. Sylvester was standing at the doorway of a chamber, beckoning her in. She glanced quickly round and followed him into the furnished room. On the wall to her right was a portrait of two young girls looking out of a window, and on the other two were scenes from Etruscan history. The window was high and rather narrow. Sylvester led her over to a corner stool and perched on one end, indicating she should sit next to him.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, gesturing around.
‘An empty room,’ Claudia laughed.
‘No, a deaf room.’ Sylvester’s lined face broke into a smile. ‘The Empress claims it is one of those few chambers with no secret panels or gaps.’
‘In which case,’ Claudia retorted, ‘there must be at least a dozen.’
Sylvester smiled and patted her on the arm.
‘You’re going to the debate?’
‘I’ll stay as long as I can keep awake,’ she replied.
‘Oh, I think you’ll stay awake,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘There’s going to be fun this morning; allegations will be made.’
‘About theology?’
‘No.’ Sylvester splayed his fingers as if examining his nails. ‘Not theology, but treachery, betrayal and murder.’
Chapter 5
‘Furor Arma Ministrat.’ (‘Fury supplies the weapons.’)
Virgil, Aeneid, I
Murranus sat in the She-Asses tavern and lifted the goblet, a gift from Polybius and Poppaoe which was always kept in a special place. Polybius described it as the best Samian ware, and it boasted a Cretan motif depicting young men and women leaping over high-horned bulls. Murranus tapped the rim of the goblet and winked rather drunkenly at Polybius.
‘That’s very hard, you know. Years ago I fought in the Venatio. What do you think was the fiercest animal?’
‘A bull,’ Polybius slurred.
‘Correct,’ Murranus agreed. ‘The big cats can be cowards, elephants are not fighters, but a bull is worse than a bear. They come at you so fast. People are actually surprised at their speed, you can never tell which way their heads are going to go. I have great admiration for these boys and girls who used to leap the bulls in Crete.’
‘It’s only a story,’ Polybius mumbled.
‘No it isn’t. I’ve been to Crete.’ Murranus leaned across the table. ‘I’ve seen other drawings. More importantly, I’ve actually seen a boy leap a bull. That took courage and skill!’
Murranus sipped the wine; the best Falernian, Polybius had assured him. It certainly tasted delicious. He smiled at Polybius, who had just refilled his cup. The landlord tapped the side of his nose and put a finger to his lips, a sign that Murranus shouldn’t relish the wine too loudly or the others would demand some. The tavern was full of the regulars. Simon the Stoic had recently purchased a pet mongoose; as Fortunatus the Fornicator had remarked, he had to have someone to talk to. Petronius the Pimp was trying to seduce Danuta the Dancer, whilst the Ladies of Lesbos, an acrobatic troupe, were now seated around the Syrian girls, a group of dark-eyed, flimsily dressed performers who had taken drinks from the Ladies but were making it very clear they were not for sale. Oceanus rested one elbow on the counter, staring dreamy-eyed at Januaria, who sat braiding her hair, leaning forward every so often so Oceanus could get a good view of her full ripe breasts.
Murranus studied the rest of the customers, then stared up at the charred timber ceiling. Was the roll of ham hanging there next to a bag of onions really moving, or had he drunk too much? The truth was that Murranus had become maudlin. He was missing Claudia and had openly wondered if he should visit the Villa Pulchra. Polybius had shaken his head.
‘You know that’s not possible. You will not be allowed in, and you must prepare for the fight. Spicerius is not only growing stronger, he is training hard and intends to be the victor . . .’
Polybius paused as the door was flung open and a group entered the tavern. They stood for a while with the light behind them, then moved into the eating room.
‘Oh no,’ Polybius groaned. ‘The Dacians!’
Murranus looked up. The Dacians were, in the main, one of the ugliest street gangs from the slums, led by the most garishly dressed creature, who came tripping along the tavern floor in high-heeled pat-tens, hips swaying like a woman. At first it was hard to distinguish what sex he really was; he was dressed in a voluminous gown with a bright blond wig framing a large head, yet the face was masculine, hard and strong, though painted as vividly as any courtesan’s: eyebrows plucked and darkened, cheeks both whitened and rouged, lips fully carmined. The Dacian leader moved in a jingle of bangles, whilst the sachets of perfume hanging around his neck gave off the most alluring fragrance. He paused and glared around the tavern, eyelids blinking.
‘I want you to go.’ The voice was high-pitched, like that of a eunuch. He clapped his hands. ‘I want you to go now!’
The eating room soon emptied. The Dacians moved to stand round Polybius and Murranus.
‘I’m Dacius.’ The blond-wigged leader sat down opposite Murranus, fingers fluttering. ‘But you know that,’ he lisped as he examined his henna-painted nails.
The gladiator didn’t move, but sat grasping his wine cup, staring at this grotesque. He had met Dacius before, in the slums and back streets as well as at the gladiator school, where the gang would come and watch the fighters so as to assess strengths and weaknesses. The Dacians were involved in a number of illicit pursuits: prostitution, abduction, murder and kidnap, but they were principally money-lenders who charged high interest and liked to finance their loans through judiciously placed bets. In fact, they controlled a great deal of the gambling in the slums around the Flavian Gate.
Dacius pointed a finger in Murranus’s face.
‘You are a very naughty boy! You were supposed to kill Spicerius.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ Dacius pouted. ‘I had a great deal of money riding on you. It was obvious Spicerius was vulnerable; why didn’t you strike?’
‘I’m a gladiator, not a murderer. More importantly, I’m not a poisoner.’ Murranus’s anger was mounting; he didn’t like either Dacius or his companions. ‘Was it you who was responsible for the powders in Spicerius’s drink?’
‘Of course not!’ Dacius lisped. ‘That little bastard wouldn’t let me anywhere near him.’
‘Did you know he was going to be drugged?’ Murranus pushed his face closer. ‘You knew something was going to happen?’
‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’ Dacius waved his hands. ‘There was the great Spicerius staggering around like a drunk; you should have put your sword straight through his throat!’
‘I could see something was wrong,’ Murranus replied, ‘and, as I’ve said, I’m a fighter not a murderer.’ He blew a kiss
into Dacius’s face. ‘Next time you might win your bet, but it will be the result of a fair fight.’
‘Fair fight?’ Dacius raised his plucked eyebrows. ‘Fair or not, you’d better win!’
‘This is a lovely tavern.’ One of Dacius’s henchmen spoke up, a raw-faced man with a broken nose and slobbery lips. He patted Polybius on the arm. ‘You always have to be careful against fire, don’t you? You never know when one is going to break out.’ The oaf picked up Polybius’s cup and sipped from it. ‘And then, of course, there’s your comely niece – what’s her name, Claudia? She’s at the Villa Pulchra, isn’t she? We know she’s there, and we’ve got friends there who can—’
Murranus’s fist smashed on to the table. He grabbed the knife kept in a crack beneath the tabletop, knocked two of the Dacians aside and launched a furious assault on the oaf, who now hastily tried to retreat under a rain of blows and kicks. Eventually Murranus cornered him and grabbed him by the hair. Pressing the tip of the knife into his opponent’s fleshy throat, Murranus became aware of Poppaoe standing in the kitchen doorway, screaming. Other regulars now threw open the door and thronged in, overcoming their fear of this gang of roughnecks.
‘That will be enough,’ Dacius called out. ‘That will be enough, Murranus! Dear boy, do turn round.’
The gladiator did so. Dacius still sat at the table, but two of his gang had dragged Polybius to his feet, whilst another forced the tip of his dagger under the taverner’s chin.
‘Fair exchange is no robbery,’ Dacius lisped as he rose to his feet and came swaying across the room. He looked Murranus over from head to toe. ‘I must say, dear boy, you are very fast. I do hope, however, you will be just as fast in the arena.’
Snapping his fingers, Dacius swaggered out of the tavern. Polybius was sent flying towards his wife, while Murranus lowered his dagger, grabbed the oaf by the hair and, giving him a good kick in the backside, sent him staggering after the rest. Polybius ran across, barred the door then slid down to the ground, face in his hands.
‘Come on now.’ Murranus went across and helped him to his feet. ‘They’re just bullies; they croak like bullfrogs.’
‘They’re nasty,’ Polybius replied. ‘Even the rats in the sewer would give them a wide berth.’
Murranus helped him back to the table, went to console Poppaoe and brought back two clean goblets. He filled both and thrust one into Polybius’s hand, then sat down opposite.
‘Why didn’t you kill him? I mean Spicerius,’ Polybius said, lowering his cup. ‘Did you know anything about this before it started?’
‘Before any great fight,’ Murranus replied, ‘you hear rumours, but it’s mere chaff in the wind, nothing to worry about. Spicerius and I were both aware of large amounts of money changing hands. But why did Dacius bet on me, why were they so certain?’
‘It could be one person,’ Polybius replied. ‘Someone, somewhere, has put a large amount of money on you to win; the bet’s been frozen, so they send the Dacians in.’
‘No, no it’s more than that.’ Murranus dipped a finger into his wine and ran it round his lips. ‘Remember, Polybius, they are not only betting for me to win, but for Spicerius to lose. However, as little Claudia always tells me, life is never as simple as that . . .’
‘I thought this meeting,’ Claudia moved on the stool, ‘was about theology, your Jesus Christ being truly God?’
‘Claudia, Claudia,’ Sylvester patted her on the arm, ‘do you think we Christians are different from anyone else? There are two qualifications for joining our sect: the first is to acknowledge you are a sinner; the second is to realise that only the good Lord can change you. Our founder was, is,’ he corrected himself, ‘God, but our community is a collection of sinners.’ He struck his breast. ‘Myself included. We fight, we betray, we lust, we steal, we kill.’
‘Does Helena know this?’
‘Of course she does. However, Helena views the Christian Church as a means to invigorate the Empire and bind it closer together. Above all, she realises that the vast army of the poor regard our Church, with its promise of resurrection to Eternal Life, as their only comfort in this vale of tears. The Christian community,’ Sylvester continued, ‘has always been riven by dissent. Our Church is almost three hundred years old, but right from the start we have had betrayal and treachery. One of Christ’s own followers, Judas, betrayed him to crucifixion. Peter, who later came to Rome, denied ever knowing him.’
Claudia listened carefully. She had never confessed this to anyone, but although she didn’t accept the Christian religion, she was still fascinated by its teaching and, above all, its effect on the vast population of the poor of Rome.
‘Our Church,’ Sylvester held up his hands as if holding a bowl, ‘has come out of the catacombs; it no longer hides underground. The shadows are gone, but now is also the time to settle grievances, to fight for power, to claim a place in the sun. Ten years ago, the old Emperor, Diocletian, launched the most savage persecution of the Christian Church. Our followers were roped in from as far away as Britain and the borders of Persia. You must have heard about the hideous spectacles in the Flavian amphitheatre. Men, women and children torn to pieces by wild animals or subjected to the most humiliating death.’
‘I was a child,’ Claudia whispered. ‘I remember my father hiding Christian symbols. One morning, I think it was around the feast of Lupercalia, soldiers came to search our house.’
‘Your parents were most fortunate,’ Sylvester replied. ‘Others were not. When a Christian was arrested, he was given the opportunity to purge himself, to sprinkle incense before a statue of the Emperor or the Standards of Rome. Naturally, many people succumbed; faced with the terror of death, they took the easy way out.’
‘And what happened to those?’
‘They were given a new name, a term of derision, the “Lapsi”, the Fallen Ones. According to some members of our Church, these Lapsi should never be forgiven. Others, myself included, believe this is too harsh. The Lapsi should do penance, yes, but eventually be forgiven and re-admitted to the community.’
‘How does this affect our philosophers?’
Sylvester grinned sourly.
‘If you think the Lapsi are bad, they are not the worst. There is another group of sinners, nicknamed the Iscariots, after the man who betrayed Christ, Judas Iscariot. These are men and women who not only renounced their religion but offered, either for reward or to escape punishment, to lead the authorities to other Christian communities. Your father’s house was searched, Claudia, probably because of an informant.’ Sylvester drew a deep breath. ‘Now, during Diocletian’s persecution, the school of Capua was already marked down as a Christian community. Many of its teachers and scholars were known to be followers of Christ.’ He shrugged. ‘At least in theory. About six years ago, however, the authorities were given very precise information about where to search, who to look for, all the evidence they would need. At least forty people were arrested, thirty of whom were dispatched to Rome for execution.’
Claudia whistled under her breath.
‘Now according to Athanasius, such traitors are amongst the Arian group. This morning he is going to divert the Empress’s attention to this issue.’
‘But why?’ Claudia asked. ‘Constantine doesn’t care what happened six years ago. He is not a Christian and really couldn’t give a damn about a mealy-mouthed traitor in your community!’
‘Ah, yes,’ Sylvester sighed, ‘but Athanasius will argue that such traitors betrayed their own kind; they sent innocent men, women and children to their deaths. He might well argue that such people still lurk in the Christian community . . .’
‘I see.’ Claudia nodded. ‘And people who betray once will betray again?’
‘Precisely,’ Sylvester agreed. ‘Athanasius will hint that if such men and women are prepared to betray the Bishop of Rome, why not the Emperor of Rome?’
‘But Athanasius is one of yours. Why not just tell him to keep his mouth shut?’
; ‘We’ve already tried,’ Sylvester retorted. ‘You’ve met Athanasius, fiery-tempered and hot-eyed, but he’s only half the problem. He claims that Justin, the leader of the Arian party, will level the same accusations of betrayal at the orthodox party. What I want you to do, Claudia, is have a word with the Empress. I do not want to show my hand in public.’
‘But you’ve told me this for another reason, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Sylvester conceded. ‘Now you see, Claudia, how truly we Christians love each other! So much so,’ he added wryly, ‘that we are prepared to kill and maim. I only learned this morning about what is going to happen. I’ve heard rumours and it has to be stopped.’
‘And that other reason?’ Claudia asked.
Sylvester patted her on the shoulder and rose to his feet. ‘Dionysius’s murder may be connected to these allegations. I don’t know, but I have a feeling here,’ he tapped his hand on his chest, ‘that Dionysius may not be the last to die at the Villa Pulchra.’
When Sylvester had left, Claudia sat on the stool, staring down at her sandalled feet. Outside in the passageway she could hear talk and laughter as the court assembled in the peristyle garden. She got to her feet and left the chamber, forcing her way through the throng until she was out in the full blaze of sunlight. She sighed with relief; the Empress Helena now sat enthroned next to her son, but from the confusion amongst the scribes, Claudia gathered the debate had yet to begin. Pushing and shoving, excusing herself volubly, she made her way through the crowd. She reached the line of soldiers which protected any access to the imperial presence. A soldier brought up his shield. Claudia caught sight of Gaius and shouted his name. The officer came hurrying across, pulling forward the folds of his toga to shroud his head against the sun.
‘Why, Claudia,’ Gaius smiled down at her, ‘the Empress was wondering where you were.’
‘I need to speak to her urgently.’