The Song of the Gladiator

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Please.’ Claudia smiled. They obeyed. She confronted the two she thought of as the Sulkers, who stood, hands hanging down, glancing fearfully at her from under their eyebrows. She noticed the slight bulge in both their tunics which they only drew attention to by trying to pull their cloaks over. ‘Please,’ Claudia demanded, stretching out a hand, ‘let me see what you have.’

  The Sulkers shuffled their feet; Claudia snapped her fingers. The Sulkers shrugged, threw back their cloaks, and pulled up tunics to reveal hairy stomachs. Each drew out a beautiful ivory statue of the goddess Juno, dressed in the Greek fashion, standing upon a small hillock with a rose bush entwined around her ankles, in one hand a rod of lightning, in the other a cluster of grapes. Claudia balanced both figurines in her hands and stared round the group. Burrus gazed at her open-mouthed. The rest were staring up at the sky as if they were seeing it for the first time. The two Sulkers sank to their knees and put their faces in their hands, a gesture of their tribe, a plea for mercy.

  ‘What is this? What is this?’ The mercenaries stood aside as Gaius Tullius and a group of household officers came walking along the colonnade. They were not dressed in uniform but wore plain tunics over rather baggy breeches, sandal boots on their feet. Gaius carried a sword belt over his shoulder. The mercenaries became alarmed. There was little love between the regular army and what they scornfully termed the ‘auxiliaries’. ‘What is this?’ Gaius repeated, forcing his way through the throng, his handsome face all tense, eyes watchful.

  Claudia heard the scrape of steel as his companions drew their swords. One of the mercenaries, fearful of what was to happen, went for the dagger thrust in his belt, but Gaius smacked his hand away.

  ‘You have no authority to draw your swords here. Claudia?’ Gaius turned and stared down at the figurines she was holding. ‘I see.’ He took one of the statues out of her hands, turned and pushed it under Burrus’s nose. ‘Shall I tell you the penalty for theft from an imperial palace? Forty-nine lashes of the whip and possible crucifixion. I want the culprits!’

  ‘Captain, Captain.’

  Gaius turned.

  ‘Yes, Claudia?’

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake.’ Claudia deliberately spoke slowly so the Germans would understand her and not intervene. ‘These gentlemen were on patrol in the grounds. They found these figurines peeping out from beneath a bush, picked them up and brought them to me so I could find their rightful owner.’

  ‘Could you show me this bush?’

  ‘Captain,’ Claudia fluttered her eyelids, ‘you’re not trying to say I’m a liar? After all, you have the proof. I was holding the figurines, not them. And I certainly haven’t stolen them. I can prove my movements this morning. But if . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ Gaius replied hastily. He turned and slapped Burrus’s shoulder. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘the most fortunate of men.’ The escorts sheathed their swords, and Gaius bowed and walked away.

  Once they were out of sight, the Germans crowded in round Claudia. She was squeezed and hugged, lifted up and kissed on each cheek. She felt as if she had been taken over by a very friendly family of bears. The Germans grunted with pleasure. Some were laughing quietly, trying to hide their mirth, though the tears streamed down their cheeks. Burrus grabbed her by the shoulder and led her out of the colonnade and into the shadow of some very gnarled olive trees, part of an ancient grove included in the gardens when the villa was first built. Once they were away from the public gaze, he stood, hands on Claudia’s shoulders, beaming down at her. Then he spoke rapidly in German over his shoulder. The two Sulkers came forward one at a time, and each knelt at Claudia’s feet and, taking her hands, clasped them while they recited some oath, faces all solemn, eyes gleaming.

  ‘They are now yours,’ Burrus translated, ‘in peace and war. Blood and fire will be no deterrent. You’ve just acquired two brothers, Claudia.’

  She stared down at these new additions to her family, smiled and whispered her thanks. Once again the horde closed in for further communal squeezing. Claudia, breathless and feeling rather bruised, thrust the figurines into Burrus’s hands.

  ‘For the love of life,’ she swore an oath Burrus used, ‘take these bloody things back to where you found them and never, never do that again.’ She held his gaze. ‘Now you can do me a favour. I want you to come to the cellar where the Holy Sword hung.’

  They all followed her obediently along the colonnade, out across the gardens, through the peristyle court and down the steps leading to the cellar. At the bottom they would go no further but stood like children chattering amongst themselves. Burrus explained they still regarded the cellar as a sacred precinct haunted by Christian spirits.

  ‘Very well,’ Claudia sighed. ‘The rest of you brutes go back to the peristyle. Burrus, I want the two guards who were on duty the day the sword disappeared.’ Burrus rapped out orders. For a while there was confusion. The Germans didn’t really want to leave; they were quite fascinated by this wily little creature with the face of one of their wood elves who had managed to trick a powerful officer and so rescue two of their comrades. Nevertheless, after Burrus had shouted and slapped a few, they shuffled back up the steps. Claudia was not surprised that the two guards left were the Sulkers. They stood looking rather embarrassed, one staring at the wall as if fascinated by the brickwork, the other gazing at the floor as if he had lost something precious.

  ‘Burrus,’ Claudia tugged at the mercenary’s cloak, ‘did you take the sword?’

  He replied in a flurry of oaths, which his companions repeated.

  ‘Very well,’ Claudia declared. ‘Show me what happened that day.’

  The two guards took up position either side of the door, squatting down on their haunches. Burrus showed how Timothaeus had inserted his key and so had he.

  ‘And you’re sure the door was locked?’ Claudia asked.

  Burrus grunted a yes.

  ‘Now the door swings open.’ Claudia noticed the two Sulkers didn’t move, but Burrus jumped away as if someone was lurking in the darkness beyond. She went inside, and heard the door close behind her. She opened it and went back outside.

  ‘Are you sure that happened? I mean, the door was closed?’

  Burrus agreed.

  ‘Did Timothaeus carry a lamp?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the German retorted, using his hands to describe it. ‘One of those lantern horns.’

  ‘I see. Fetch me one.’

  The mercenary Captain hurried off and came back with a large lantern horn, its frame made of bronze, the four sides hard sheets of polished vellum. Claudia opened the latch; inside, an oil lamp was fixed to the centre. One of the guards brought a tinder, the lamp was lit and Claudia returned to the cellar. She picked up one of the stools, sat by the edge of the circle of sand and stared up at the empty hook. She closed her eyes. Timothaeus came in here, she thought, he fainted. She opened her eyes and dug her hand deep in the sand. What had happened? How had that sword disappeared?

  ‘Burrus,’ she called. The German wouldn’t answer, so Claudia went out. She asked if the cellar had been thoroughly searched after the theft. Burrus nodded.

  ‘I think so, but it was obvious the sword had gone.’

  ‘But had it?’ Claudia asked. Whilst sitting in the cellar, the seed of a new idea had taken root.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Probitas laudater et alget.’ (‘Honesty is praised and left out in the cold.’)

  Juvenal, Satires, I

  Claudia left the cellar and returned to the peristyle gardens. She watched servants pruning the luxuriant rose bushes which grew along a trellis dividing the lawn from the shady colonnade. A slave came and asked her if she wanted anything from the kitchen. Claudia smiled her thanks. A short while later another slave appeared bearing a tray with a well-stocked platter of smoked fish and vine leaves, savoury barley, eggs poached in wine, and a slice of cheese and pastry pie, as well as two goblets of white wine.

  ‘Two?’ Claudia lifted her head, s
hading her eyes against the sun. She recognised the slave as the same one she’d questioned near the ruined House of Mourning.

  ‘You wish to drink with me?’

  The man’s tired face broke into a smile.

  ‘I would dearly love so, mistress. I apologise for my impudence, but you have a kind face and a generous heart.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Narcissus. I am, by nation, a Syrian.’ Without being invited, he sat down next to Claudia. ‘I was by profession an embalmer. I looked after the dead until I was swept up in a stupid revolt just outside Damascus.’

  Claudia pushed the wine cup into his hands.

  ‘You know how it is,’ Narcissus continued woefully. ‘Some idiot begins a fight. The innocent are drawn in, the legions arrive, the leaders are crucified and the rest are sold to slavery, end of story.’ His face grew even more lugubrious. ‘I used to be known as Narcissus the Neat, I was so skilled in my trade! I was especially proud of my precision in preparing a corpse. I always broke the nose bone with the greatest of ease and drew the brains out without creating too much mess.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Claudia interrupted, staring at the food. ‘But how did you become involved in the revolt?’

  Narcissus drained his goblet, and Claudia emptied hers into his. The slave relaxed sipping at the second goblet of wine, staring at Claudia like a hungry puppy.

  ‘To answer your question, mistress, I lived five miles outside of Damascus. This madman appeared, calling himself Simon the Saviour, a great sombre-faced brute. He had been to Egypt and learnt a few tricks. He promised that those who believed in him would live for ever beyond the Far Horizon; they would die but, if they were followers of the god Osiris and were buried according to the sacred rite, they would not only live for ever but would be able to come back and assume different forms.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t believe that nonsense?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But my wife did, though that was because she was sleeping with Simon, our so-called Saviour.’

  Narcissus paused, watching a crowd of courtiers cluster in the colonnade. They had surrounded Athanasius, congratulating him in their high-pitched voices.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Narcissus continued. ‘Some people answer to God; I answered to a higher authority, my wife. Anyway,’ he blew his cheeks out, ‘Simon said he needed me because I was an embalmer. The stupid fanatic seized a fort on the edge of the desert and proclaimed that the Day of the Far Horizon had arrived. We raised the standard of Osiris and defied the local governor. He sent troops, a tribune with a force of foot and cavalry. My wife was killed, Simon the Saviour impaled.’ Narcissus sniffed. ‘That gave me some satisfaction, even though I ended up on the slave block.’ He looked at the platter of food and swallowed hard. Claudia heard his stomach grumble.

  ‘Eat,’ she ordered, handing it over, ‘and I mean eat. You are my guest, Narcissus, I’ll take responsibility.’

  The slave needed no second bidding and attacked the food like a ravenous wolf. Claudia got to her feet, went over to a side table laid out in the shade and brought back another jug of wine. Narcissus was busy stuffing food into his mouth. Claudia felt a deep compassion for this middle-aged man, who was so hungry he had forgotten his status in order to fill his belly. Some of the courtiers were looking at her strangely; a pompous chamberlain, a eunuch, came waddling over. Claudia told him to stay well away.

  ‘If you wanted food,’ Claudia whispered, ‘you should have asked, but there again,’ she patted his shoulder, ‘I should have noticed.’

  ‘I wasn’t just hungry,’ he replied between mouthfuls. ‘I wanted to tell you about the fires.’

  ‘Yes, I know, the House of Mourning was burnt.’

  ‘No, the fires,’ he repeated. ‘I have to tell someone what I saw. Last night, as I’ve said, I ate well and drank deep, on not very good ale. I became truly drunk and fell asleep just behind the latrines. I was roused by the clamour caused by the House of Mourning burning. I jumped up and ran round; the flames had caught hold. Gods, I thought, they’ll blame me! I’ll be for the stake or the cross, so I fled. I jumped the wall and ran to the top of the hill. This villa is built on the side where the ground has been levelled off. Anyways,’ Narcissus wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘there I sat, staring at the stars above me, wondering what I should do. If I ran away they’d certainly blame me. Indeed, I had nothing to fear by staying. I had witnesses to say where I was, and the House of Mourning was left safe. There was no lamp there, no oil, nothing which could cause such a blaze. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d—’

  ‘And?’ Claudia interrupted.

  ‘I calmed down. I stared up at the stars, the air was cool and sweet. I closed my eyes. I swear I could smell the jonquil which grew so rich and profuse in the valley where I played when I was a boy. Anyway,’ Narcissus hurried on, ‘I opened my eyes. From where I sat, I could still see the House of Mourning, but, staring out over the countryside, I glimpsed other fires.’

  ‘What?’ Claudia exclaimed.

  ‘Other fires, mistress. They weren’t blazing when I first arrived, I’m sure of that. But staring into the darkness, I could see one in the middle distance, then another a little further on. At the time I didn’t think anything about it. I thought they were harvest fires, but there’s been no harvest yet. Such blazes aren’t lit for at least another two months. Then I thought about Simon the Saviour.’

  ‘What about him?’ Claudia tried to curb her exasperation.

  ‘That was what he did when the revolt started. He lit beacon fires, piles of brushwood oiled and flamed. He called them the Lights of Heaven, much good it did him.’

  Claudia stared around the exquisite, sophisticated garden. The peristyle was now filling up as more courtiers and officials wandered down to eat from the banqueting tables and take their rest in the coolness and fragrance of this lovely garden. She felt a shiver of fear. Something about Narcissus’s account stirred her own memories of the previous evening. She recalled walking over to that sycamore tree where the imperial family were sitting. That was it! The night breeze had been blowing against her, in the direction of the burning House of Mourning, yet she still smelt wood smoke. What if Narcissus was correct? Was the House of Mourning a beacon light? A signal to someone outside which was then sent on? During her travels up and down Italy, as a member of the acting troupe, Claudia had seen the marching armies and heard the clash of battle. She recalled the dark hills further north, the beacon fires burning in the dead of night as the armies of Rome manoeuvred to face each other in bloody confrontation.

  ‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘did you look the other way?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were sitting on the hill staring down at the villa, yes? That lies to the south. Were there fires to the east and west, or behind you to the north? I’m giving rough calculations,’ she added. ‘Were the fires you saw in a direct line beneath you or all around you?’

  ‘No, all before me, I could see nothing to the right or left. By the way, I’ve worked here for five years, I know my directions.’

  Claudia’s unease deepened. Narcissus was correct. Why were such fires blazing at the height of summer? According to him they were not brushwood or forest fires caused by the heat, but deliberately lit. If they were beacon fires, what was it all about? She racked her brains; there were no great feasts or celebrations. Should she tell the Augusta? Yet what if she was wrong? Claudia stood up.

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘Where to? What for?’

  ‘For a summer’s day’s ride. Go down to the stables and ask the grooms, on the authority of Claudia, messenger of the Augusta, to prepare my horse – it’s a gentle cob – and a mount for you.’

  ‘I prefer to walk,’ Narcissus grumbled. ‘That’s how I was captured! Instead of running away, I stole a horse and fell off.’ Muttering to himself, the slave hurried from the garden.

  Claudia returned to her own chamber. All was in order. She f
illed her purse with some coins and collected her hat. A short while later, a water pannikin slung over the cob’s saddle-horn, she and Narcissus left by a side gate. The villa was now falling silent as the imperial family and guests took their rest against the heat of the day. The same was true of the guards beyond the wall. Claudia noticed that these were few and far between and had retreated into the shade of the trees. She reined in and stared back. Narcissus, walking beside her, swinging a staff, stopped and gazed curiously up at her.

  ‘Are you frightened?’

  ‘No, just cautious. Tell me,’ Claudia continued, ‘did you know when the Emperor was about to arrive?’

  ‘No, everyone was in quite a state. The kitchen master asked the Captain of the Guard, but he didn’t know. The Emperor comes and goes like the breeze. All the stewards and chamberlains had been told was that, once the games were over, the Emperor would leave Rome.’ Narcissus shrugged. ‘It was business as usual until that sword was stolen. By the Lord of Light,’ he sighed, ‘what a commotion! People running here and there. You know, I was ordered to help carry that fat steward Timothaeus from the cellar. White as snow he was, I thought he’d died. Oh well, I reflected, here’s another whose nose I’ll have to break—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Claudia intervened hastily.

  When they reached the crossroads they turned on to a track towards where Narcissus had seen the first fire. The slave had become lost in his own thoughts, comforted by a full belly and the wine singing in his blood. He smiled contentedly, humming a tune under his breath. The countryside basked in the summer sun. They passed avenues of lime, plane and sycamore trees; occasionally they caught a glimpse of the red-brown earth, of green pastures turning yellow under the boiling sun. Fields of corn, barley and rye ripened in the summer’s warmth. They passed small farmsteads where the air reeked with the stench of manure, milk and hay. The silence was broken by the bark of a dog or the strident call of a goose. Swallows, buzzards, starlings and sparrows swooped above them, darting in and out of the trees, and the constant chatter of the crickets was broken occasionally by the whine of some other insect or the monotonous buzzing of bees.