by Paul Doherty
‘Not a very good archer,’ the chef whispered. At least four or five of the shafts had missed their mark. Justin had been bound tightly by a thick oily rope which dug deep in the flesh but left enough bare expanse of skin to receive the deadly shafts. The chef, curious, went and stared into the dead man’s eyes, tilting the head forward. He recalled the old tale that the stare of a dead man often held what he had last gazed on. But Justin’s eyes were mere black spots rolled back in his head to display the blood-flecked whites.
The chef moved to the second corpse; he couldn’t remember his name, but recognised him as one of the orators. The younger man had also been stripped naked, then gagged and bound to the pillar. The chef pinched his nostrils. This man had apparently been dead for some time; the smell was offensive and the sight even more gruesome than the last. He had been stripped of all his garments, tied with his face to the pillar and flogged to death. An overseer’s whip lay nearby with its bronze handle, the leather flails embellished with two or three razor-sharp slivers of bronze, copper or bone. The chef had seen such whips before; in fact, he owned one himself which he used to threaten the kitchen boys, but of course he would never actually use such a cruel weapon. The dead man’s face was all bloodied where it had smashed into the pillar as his head rocked backwards and forwards during the flogging. The chef pressed the back of his hand to the neck of the corpse. It was cold, clammy, the muscles stone hard.
‘Two men,’ the chef murmured. He went back and touched Justin’s corpse. He remembered his days in military service. He had picked up enough corpses for the burial pit to conclude that the young man had been dead for at least twelve hours, but Justin’s corpse was not so hard and cold; he had probably been killed just after dawn.
The chef suddenly recalled what he was doing, but he didn’t want to run screaming like a chicken pursued by a flesher. He didn’t want to become the butt of jokes and ridicule; he must act the veteran. He turned and walked slowly back to the door. He prided himself on being an old soldier, used to the sight of blood and gore, yet . . . He threw one last glance over his shoulder at those grisly remains. Those two corpses, the way they hung and the manner of their death, what sort of malice and feverish hatred had brought that about?
‘Dead . . .’ Narcissus stared at the two corpses sprawled out on the grass beneath the outstretched branches of a soaring holm-oak. ‘Dead and rotting. Well,’ he stretched out a hand, ‘at least one of them is, mistress. You must tell the Augusta they should be consumed by fire.’
Claudia, holding a scented pomander to her nose, nodded vigorously in agreement. She stared at the corpses with the dappled shadows of the oak stretching over them. Such a beautiful day, such a lovely spot, with its fresh lawn sprinkled with wild flowers. A light breeze lessened the heat; out of the trees thrilled the song of a thrush, lucid and clear, ringing across the gardens. A green freshness surrounded these cadavers; it was like looking into a goblet which held a sickly brew. Two corpses, two beings, sharing the same substance in life as they did in death. She wondered what Athanasius would make of it. Were the Christians right? Did the substance known as Septimus and Justin survive their deaths? Did they beat upon the invisible yet eternal divide which separated them from the living, demanding justice from their God? Or had they disappeared like wisps of smoke from a spent fire? Or like the ghosts of Homer, fading spirits losing their strength as they sheltered in the darkness beyond life and the vital force ebbed from them?
‘I wonder?’ Claudia murmured.
‘What?’ Narcissus demanded.
‘Nothing.’ Claudia spread her hands. She didn’t want to share her thoughts about the true reason she found it so difficult to accept the teachings of Christ. One man rising from the dead she could accept, an awesome event, a horrendous struggle between life and death. Christ was like Apollo or Hercules, a hero of the world! A crucified man condemned as a criminal, coming back as the Lord of Life and Light to whom all things were subject. She could understand that, but the likes of Dionysius and Justin, with all their petty faults and stupid thoughts, the very pathetic way they had died? How could they survive? And all the others, the teeming masses of Rome, or the surging hordes of barbarians who ringed the frontiers of Rome’s Empire. Was each of them bound for immortality? Did they all carry the divine spark?
‘Mistress?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Claudia broke from her thoughts. ‘We have two corpses. You know all about corpses. Tell me what you’ve learnt.’
‘Septimus died first,’ Narcissus replied sonorously. ‘He’s been dead for at least twelve hours; the flesh is mortifying, the blood falling, he’s ripe for embalmment but all my oils and instruments were burned in the blaze and that’s the way he should go.’
‘Never mind that,’ Claudia retorted. ‘What about his death?’
‘He was first stunned like an ox for the slaughter by a blow to the head, then lashed to that pillar, gagged and flogged to death. The whiplash covered his entire body from neck to buttocks, though some blows fell as low as his knees and calves.’ Narcissus knelt by Septimus’s corpse. ‘The lash curls around the back and the sharp pieces become embedded in the soft flesh of the belly and groin.’
Claudia stared at the blue and red welts and sniffed once again at the pomander.
‘The assassin is ambidextrous,’ Narcissus continued blithely. ‘He became tired and changed hands. I say he, but it could be a woman. Now the whip is a fearsome weapon. I know,’ he added grimly, ‘I’ve had a taste of it myself. The leather strips and metal hooks tear at the flesh and injure all within, but the real effect is the shock and pain.’
‘And?’
‘Septimus probably did not feel the lash long; his heart gave way, I can tell that from his face. The skin is puffy and mottle-hued. I doubt if he lasted longer than a few minutes.’
‘And Justin?’
‘Again a savage knock to the back of the head. He was probably murdered some time after dawn. Well,’ Narcissus shrugged, ‘you saw him. He was stripped and lashed to that pillar, the archer stood close, the arrows are embedded deep. I would say the assassin stood no more than a yard away from his prisoner.’
Claudia looked at the corpse. Narcissus had first broken the arrow shafts, before digging out the fish-hook barbed points with a special knife borrowed from the kitchens.
‘He didn’t survive long,’ Narcissus added mournfully.
‘And the archer?’ Claudia asked.
‘Not a very good one! The assassin had to stand up close. He favoured the left hand; some of the arrows, as you know, were found to the right of the corpse.’
Claudia nodded absent-mindedly. She had talked to the chef, listening carefully to his graphic description, before examining the cellar. It was a dark, musty place with a store of charcoal and timber. It had been empty through the summer months, clean and tidied, and would not be filled until late autumn. She had found nothing to identify the killer, but realised why the store room had been chosen as the execution yard. It was some distance from the villa, but close to the latrines. The assassin must have been waiting for his two victims. In fact, the more Claudia reflected, the more certain she became that these two men had been chosen indiscriminately. The orators of Capua were, by nature, lonely men. They were also frightened, with a great deal to hide. Such men would brood, would want to be alone, and so were ideal victims. What she couldn’t understand was why. She had no real evidence for the motive, but, studying the malice the killer had shown, she strongly suspected that these two deaths, like that of Dionysius, were connected with what had happened in Capua during Diocletian’s savage persecution. The rest of the philosophers had accepted that, and were already making preparations to leave, frightened out of their wits at what had occurred.
The villa had been roused by the kitchen maid, who’d run through the gardens screaming her head off and, when stopped by the guards, was unable to give a coherent explanation of what she had seen. The chef, however, had been coolly nonchalant and had searc
hed out Gaius Tullius to raise the alarm. Helena herself had come down to the cellar, stared at the corpses and given vent to her fury, snapping at Athanasius and Sylvester that the debate was now over. She had also turned on Claudia, hissing her disapproval.
‘The Holy Sword has gone.’ Helena wiped a white fleck of spittle from the corner of her mouth. ‘Three of the orators are dead, my son is attacked. Little mouse, you know nothing. You’ve discovered nothing.’
Claudia knew better than to argue back; she had simply stood, head down, whilst Helena raged and fumed before stalking away.
Now Claudia walked back to the buildings and stared up at a cornice embellished with the face of a laughing Bacchus. Some distance away, Burrus and his guard were watching her intently. She heard a sound and whirled round. Sylvester, with Timothaeus trailing behind him, had appeared as if out of nowhere. The presbyter stood in the shadow of the oak, staring sadly down at the two corpses.
‘The devil is an assassin,’ he declared, not raising his head. ‘I wonder why Dionysius died in such a macabre way. And now these two. The killer certainly hated them.’
‘I agree,’ Claudia replied.
‘But the killer is also mocking our faith.’
‘What do you mean?’ Claudia asked.
‘Study your history, Claudia. Dionysius, Septimus and Justin all died deaths similar to those of our martyrs in the arena: cut and sliced, left to bleed to death; flogged senseless and exposed—’
‘And shot to death like Sebastian.’ Claudia finished the sentence.
‘Wouldn’t you agree, Timothaeus?’ Sylvester called over his shoulder. The sad-faced steward nodded in agreement.
‘Presbyter?’
‘Yes, Claudia.’
‘May I have a word in private?’
Sylvester walked over. Claudia plucked him by the sleeve and took him out of earshot of both Timothaeus and Narcissus.
‘Do you have anything to do with this?’ she asked. Sylvester glanced at her in shocked amazement.
‘With murder? Torture? Claudia, I intrigue, I plot, but I don’t kill.’
Claudia held his gaze. ‘Do you have any suspicions?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Sylvester bit his lower lip. ‘And the list is long. Every man or woman in this villa can be suspected.’ He glanced away. ‘It could be anyone,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Is the Emperor involved? A possibility. Athanasius? Some of his friends in Capua were killed during the persecution. Burrus? He’s a paid killer, he could be carrying out someone’s order. The same goes for Gaius Tullius. Chrysis? He went to Capua.’
‘Oh yes, what happened there?’ Claudia asked.
‘Chrysis didn’t pay his fees; there was also the question of items going missing. Rufinus?’ Sylvester shrugged. ‘Timothaeus? Narcissus?’ The names came tumbling out of the priest’s mouth. ‘But you want me to state more than the obvious, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Claudia replied. ‘Tell me, the Christian martyr Paul, the great preacher, how did he die? Where is he buried?’
‘Paul was both a Jew and a Roman citizen,’ Sylvester replied. ‘He was brought to Rome to face charges late in Nero’s reign. Blessed Paul’s opponents had the ear of Nero’s mistress and the death sentence was passed against him. Unlike the saintly Peter, who was crucified upside down, Paul claimed the rights of a Roman citizen, and was sentenced to decapitation. He was taken from his prison to beyond the city walls, near a small fountain close to a cemetery on the road to Ostia. He was executed there, and his disciples later came and buried his body close by.’ Sylvester smiled wryly. ‘There’s already a monument in the making for him, a shrine. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Claudia walked away.
‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ Sylvester called after her. ‘The Emperor will be returning to Rome to celebrate his birthday and attend the games. I understand your Murranus will be fighting. If he vanquishes Spicerius, he will meet Meleager in the arena.’
‘He’s not my Murranus,’ Claudia retorted, coming back. ‘You’re telling me what I already know. What else do you want to tell me, priest?’
‘Meleager.’ Sylvester played with the ring on his little finger. ‘I made a few enquiries on your behalf. You’re correct. Meleager acts the reserved warrior but he’s a vicious fighter. A man who likes killing, not a professional like Burrus or Gaius. According to Rufinus, Meleager sometimes plays with his victims in the arena like a cat does with his prey. I just thought I would let you know. No, no,’ Sylvester slipped the ring on and off his finger, ‘not to frighten you. I wouldn’t do that. One interesting fact I’ve learnt, there may be a school of orators at Capua—’
‘But there’s also a school of gladiators, isn’t there?’ Claudia added quickly. ‘I’ve just remembered that. It’s a very famous school. Wasn’t that the place where Spartacus started his rebellion?’
Sylvester was watching her strangely. ‘Meleager was there,’ he replied, ‘when the persecution broke out. According to reports, and this is just chitter-chatter, he helped in the rounding up of Christians. He not only guarded them but was often present at their interrogation.’
‘In other words, he was a torturer?’
‘Yes, Claudia, you could say that.’ The presbyter walked away.
‘What should I do?’ Narcissus called out, gesturing at the corpses. ‘You can’t leave them here, they’ll begin to stink.’
Sylvester strolled over and whispered to him. Narcissus nodded and shouted for Burrus and his mercenaries to come and help him.
Claudia walked across the lawns, down the steps back into the store room. She picked up a stool and sat down, staring at the two pillars still flecked with blood. Flies buzzed over the cut, stained ropes and other splashes of blood on the floor. There were vents in the far wall which allowed in some light but, for the rest, there was nothing more than the glow thrown by the torches, which were now sputtering weakly, sending black tendrils of smoke into the air. She reflected on what Sylvester had told her. The murderer, who could be anyone, had enticed those two men away from the rest, stunned them, and dragged them here. She was certain their deaths had nothing to do with the theological debates taking place; it must be the past, but whose past?
Claudia rose and walked across to pick up a piece of rope. She studied the knot. It was nothing more extraordinary than a simple knot double tied. She wondered if the ropes left behind at Dionysius’s corpse had been the same. She heard a sound behind her, the slither of a footstep, and her hand went to the dagger sheath sewn against her belt. She turned quickly, plucking up the stool as if it was a shield, dagger out, turning sideways as Murranus had taught her. The murky light hid her visitor until he clicked his tongue.
‘Chrysis,’ she whispered, ‘what are you doing here?’
The chamberlain came forward. ‘Claudia, Claudia, what is this?’
‘Don’t creep up on me,’ Claudia warned. ‘Imperial chamberlain or not, Chrysis, you don’t like me and I don’t like sitting with my back to you.’
‘You’re far too suspicious,’ Chrysis whispered. ‘You’re a little bitch, Claudia, with a tart tongue and a hard heart.’
‘I always like being lectured by moralists.’ Claudia put the stool down.
‘I only came to talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Capua.’
‘You were there?’
‘You know I was. You, with your darting eyes and twitching nose! I went there to learn how to speak, to get rid of my stammer and lisp. I ran out of money, so I helped myself to other people’s. In the end I couldn’t pay my bills, so I fled.’
‘Were you an informant, Chrysis? Did you give information against the Christians?’
‘Bitch!’
‘Well, did you?’ Claudia sat down on the stool.
‘None of your business.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Because I believe that anyone who was at Capua faces the risk of murder.’
‘Or could be a possible s
uspect.’
‘Claudia,’ Chrysis shuffled closer; she didn’t like his bulky body, or the way he was pretending to smile, ‘I want to be your friend. I came to give you information.’
‘What about?’
‘Meleager is from Capua.’
‘I know that,’ Claudia snapped.
‘Ah, but did you know that although the betting is very heavy on Murranus to beat Spicerius, it’s nothing compared to the money being wagered on Meleager to beat and kill Murranus.’
‘What do you mean?’ Claudia was about to re-sheathe the knife, but instead pointed it at the fat chamberlain.
‘Betting,’ Chrysis explained, drawing even closer, ‘is a strange world, Claudia. It’s like life at court; things are never what they appear to be. You can bet on doubles, or spread your wager in a variety of ways. Now, according to Rufinus and Meleager, who preens himself and cannot keep his mouth shut . . .’ Chrysis picked at his nose. ‘Oh, by the way, have you ever met him before? I had breakfast with Meleager this morning before he left, he’s sure he knows you, but couldn’t place from where and when.’
‘He’s mistaken.’
‘Anyway,’ Chrysis chattered on, ‘the news is that the money, bag after bag of sestercii, is being laid on Meleager. Now, such wagers can be simple: Murranus to win, Murranus to die, or Murranus to win against Spicerius but lose against Meleager. To cut through the tangle, Murranus is the favourite against Spicerius on one condition: that he loses to Meleager.’
Claudia’s stomach lurched, and her throat seemed so full she was unable to swallow.
‘So?’ she stuttered.
‘So,’ Chrysis explained, ‘let’s go back to Spicerius’s little accident, the day he felt faint in the arena. The money was on Murranus to kill him, leaving Murranus free to face Meleager. If that had happened . . . listen now, Claudia,’ Chrysis wagged his finger in her face, ‘Murranus would have been all upset, poor boy, accused of cheating, and perhaps when he stepped on to the sand to face Meleager, he might not have been, how do I put it, at his best.’