by Paul Doherty
‘And no one came up,’ Polybius warned. ‘Before you start, Claudia, no servant, no member of this tavern climbed those stairs. If Spicerius wanted something, he could send for it. I did get concerned he had gone so quiet, but there again, it is not for me to disturb someone.’
‘Nothing suspicious happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Polybius retorted. ‘No one can enter that garden without me knowing, and we had no suspicious characters. I mean,’ he grinned, ‘apart from our usual clientele this afternoon.’
‘Murranus?’ Claudia turned. The gladiator was leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Could Spicerius have committed suicide?’
‘No, he was a warrior, Claudia, he would take his chances in the arena. All he was frightened about was another accident, poor bastard.’
‘So he was murdered,’ Claudia concluded. ‘Somehow someone got into this room and poured poison into his goblet. Yet that’s impossible; as you say, Spicerius was a warrior, he would have challenged anyone who came in.’
‘More importantly, I would have known about it.’ Polybius groaned. ‘You know what they’re going to say, Claudia, don’t you?’ He glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows. ‘They are going to allege that I, or Murranus, or both, put that poison in his cup before he left the orchard. That silly bitch downstairs is already beginning to sing that song.’
‘Ignore her.’
‘I’d love to,’ Polybius moaned, ‘but there’s an ugly crowd gathering, both inside and outside.’
‘I liked Spicerius,’ Murranus shouted. ‘I didn’t kill him, he didn’t commit suicide, but they say his blood is on my hands.’ He stood breathing deeply. ‘Now I’m up against Meleager, and all the money will be on him. Oh, by the way, there was a man at the foot of the stairs listening intently. Every so often he would go and bellow at the servants in the kitchen, telling them the news.’
‘Oh, him!’ Polybius’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Mercury the messenger, the teller of tales, the herald of the people.’ He clapped Murranus on the shoulder. ‘If Mercury’s got hold of this tale, then by nightfall half of Rome will know it. Anyway, let’s go down and face the bastards.’
There was a knock at the door; Valens, the old military physician, stepped through. He bowed at Claudia and, holding his threadbare cloak about him, crossed to stand by the bed, staring down at the corpse. Claudia watched him intently and realised from the shaking of his shoulders and the way he wiped his cheeks that Valens was crying. She was also certain that he was making Christian signs with his fingers. He glanced quickly at her over his shoulder, then moved so his back was completely to her. He leaned over, whispered something into Spicerius’s ear and touched him on his brow, eyes and mouth. Afterwards, he stood rocking backwards and forwards, chanting a prayer Claudia couldn’t understand, then he gave a great sigh and assumed the role of a doctor, examining both the corpse and the goblet. When he had finished, he picked up a stool and sat opposite Claudia.
‘What happened?’ he murmured.
There was no pretence or imitation with this man; he had a blunt honesty which appealed to Claudia, so she told him everything she’d learned. When she had finished, Valens nodded in agreement.
‘Your diagnosis is correct, mistress. I just wish I knew why Spicerius was so anxious, and yet,’ he cleared his throat, ‘at the same time I do. I know it sounds a contradiction, but have you noticed anything different about him?’
Claudia stared at the corpse.
‘His face,’ Valens explained. ‘He stopped wearing make-up; that was one small change. I agree with you, he would never take his own life. What happened in the arena that day truly frightened him; one of Rome’s best gladiators lost his power, his strength, so suddenly, so dangerously, without any warning or explanation. You see, Claudia, people like your Murranus expect death in a certain way. I once had a patient who truly believed he would die of the flux, and when his heart gave way he was truly shocked. Spicerius was the same. He thought he’d die after some heroic struggle, not retching on the sand like some pathetic drunk.’ Valens got up, kicking back the stool. ‘He was so looking forward to today; he regarded Murranus as a brother and liked to be with him. He wanted to see Agrippina and spend the night roistering.’
‘Did he love Agrippina?’
‘She’s a shameless hussy, but yes,’ Valens patted Claudia on the head, ‘in his own way I think he did, but his anxieties . . .’ Valens’s voice trailed off and his hand fell to his groin. ‘Spicerius’s fears troubled him. He’d lost his virility; he said if he won against Murranus he might well retire.’
‘His virility?’ Claudia asked.
‘Yes, for a while.’ Valens grinned. ‘It often happens to men, nothing serious. Ah well, I shall wait for the Vigiles, then collect his corpse. I’ll take it back to Sisium; it’s a small village near Capua, have you ever visited it?’
‘No.’
Valens walked to the door. ‘Ah, here they come.’ He turned back.
The Vigiles had arrived. Claudia heard their heavy boots on the stairs, and a short while later the local police commander, Saturninus, accompanied by his leather-clad acolytes, marched into the room, together with Polybius, who indicated with his head that she should leave. Claudia realised what would happen. The Vigiles would group round the corpse, demand goblets of the tavern’s best wine, take a bribe from Polybius so they would declare that the death had had nothing to do with him, then march off to their next piece of mischief.
Claudia slipped down the stairs into the hubbub of the eating room. The usual customers were grouped round Murranus, but Claudia noticed a gang of strangers at the far end sitting close to Agrippina and comforting her. Oceanus had also come down and was standing guard at the door, shouting that the tavern was overflowing so other customers would have to wait. From the noise outside Claudia realised the local alleyway mob had been roused and people were gathering to see what had happened as well as sniff out any profit for themselves. Murranus beckoned her over, but Claudia ignored him and walked straight to Agrippina, pushing her way through the group.
‘Mistress.’ She tapped Agrippina on the shoulder. ‘I need a word with you.’
‘I don’t talk to kitchen wenches or tavern maids.’
Claudia bent down and whispered in her ear. Agrippina shot to her feet, face all troubled.
‘I . . . er . . . I . . .’ she stammered.
‘In the garden,’ Claudia offered, and turned away, not waiting for a reply.
The light was fading, dusk creeping in like a mist. Claudia walked across the lawn, sat on a turf seat and patted the place next to her.
‘I never realised you actually knew the Augusta.’ Agrippina sat down in a gust of perfume, fastidiously hitching up her robe so that the grass wouldn’t brush it.
‘More importantly,’ Claudia retorted, ‘the Augusta knows me. Now, as regards Spicerius, I’m truly sorry he’s died. I liked him and so did Murranus. If you start screaming allegations or making foul accusations you can’t prove, I will appeal to the Augusta for justice.’
‘I’m upset,’ Agrippina whined.
‘Shut up! Did you ever find out what happened to Spicerius in the arena – I mean, the cause?’ The other woman shook her head. ‘Or this afternoon?’
‘You know as much as I do.’ Agrippina pushed her night-black hair away from her face. ‘I saw Spicerius last night, I agreed to meet him here. I was sorry I was delayed. When I came, he was dead.’ Her voice broke. ‘Murdered.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Well, look, a healthy man, a gladiator . . . I came to this tavern to meet a lover, not a corpse. I’ve answered your questions, I cannot say any more.’
Agrippina got to her feet. Claudia waved her hand and let her go. What was the use, she thought, the hussy would only tell her what she wanted. Claudia sat half listening to the noise of the tavern, allowing herself to be lulled by the green coolness of the garden. A sudden roar from the tavern made her realise
things had gone from bad to worse, and she hastened back inside. The eating hall was now set to become an arena. At the kitchen door stood Murranus and Polybius, whilst at the far end, and still spilling through the main entrance, were a group led by a man dressed garishly like a whore, wafting his face with a pink fan. The new arrivals had apparently entered the tavern immediately after the Vigiles had left, and their leader now stood languidly, one hand resting on Agrippina’s shoulder. Round him ranged his gang of bullyboys and their hangers-on, pimps and gaudily garbed prostitutes of every nationality. Polybius was roaring at him to leave.
‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand me, Dacius? You and your gang of degenerates.’
‘Or else what?’ Dacius tripped forward in his high-heeled sandals. He looked grotesque; not comical, but very dangerous, a man of shifting shadows with his masculine face and his very feminine wig; his swagger saucy yet his body hard and muscular; his voice lisping but the tone ugly and threatening. Claudia had met him and his like before, scum from the sewers, swirling through the slums like some poison, polluting everything they touched. She was fearful about their presence. Their arrival appeared a little too swift. Was it that they were expecting news? Or were they here to provoke Murranus, whose hot temper was well known? The gladiator had now picked up a cleaver and a pan lid. Anyone else would have looked comical, but Murranus was highly dangerous. Claudia didn’t like the way Dacius kept swaying from side to side, taunting Murranus and every so often glancing at Agrippina, who simpered back. The more she watched, the more convinced Claudia became that Agrippina had had a hand in the poisoning of Spicerius both this time and before; yet what proof did she have? More importantly, what cruel trap had they set for Murranus? Would they accuse him of murder and unsettle his wits, disturb his concentration?
Dacius raised his hand, shutting and opening that ridiculous fan, and his gang fell silent.
‘You see, my dear,’ he drawled, jabbing the fan in Murranus’s direction, ‘whatever you do, dear boy, no matter how you glare, people are going to say . . .’ he dropped the fan back to his chin and stared up at the ceiling, ‘yes, that’s what they’ll say, that you were frightened of Spicerius.’
‘That’s a lie, you’re camel shit!’
Dacius laughed like a mare neighing in its stable. ‘Dear boy, they’ll say you were the last man to drink with him, you invited him here. What I want to know is how you will deal with Meleager.’ He stepped forward, folding back the right sleeve of his gown. Claudia glimpsed the purple chalice tattoo and the ring beneath it. She would have leapt to her feet but Murranus distracted her by lunging at Dacius, only to be blocked and pulled back by Polybius and Oceanus. The mood in the tavern grew tense, hands fell to knives; those who wished to avoid the fight were already crawling away.
‘Prove me wrong,’ taunted Dacius. ‘Perform some feat, strangle a lion with your bare hands.’
‘I’ll strangle you!’
‘Prove your innocence,’ Dacius taunted, and the refrain was taken up by his henchmen: ‘Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!’
‘I’ll prove it,’ Murranus retorted, pushing Polybius away. ‘On the day of the fight, the very day I meet Meleager, I’ll take part in a Venatio; I’ll confront and kill any animal you choose to release against me. I’ll offer it as a gift to Spicerius’s shade and a vindication of my innocence.’
Murranus’s words were greeted with a loud roar. Claudia put her face in her hands. The trap had been baited, Murranus had stepped in, and now it had snapped shut.
In the Martyrs’ Gallery, one of the largest passageways in the catacombs beneath the cemetery where St Sebastian the soldier had been shot to death, Presbyter Sylvester stood gazing in puzzlement at the desecrated grave. This was a most sacred place, the repository for the remains of those savagely executed during Diocletian’s recent persecution. The walls on either side of the gallery were a honeycomb of broad shelves, about a yard wide, the same deep. The remains of those slain in the Flavian amphitheatre were brought here, identified where possible, blessed with a sprinkling of holy water, incensed, and placed in a tomb. The grave was then crudely plastered over and, where possible, signs were scratched into the plaster identifying the occupant, their status, and the year they died, with some pious inscription carved beneath. These holy men and women were to be venerated, their remains honoured until Christ brought them back to life on the Last Day, when he would appear in glory for the Great Judgement.
Sylvester stared up and down the passageway, now lit by lamps and torches: an eerie, sombre place, full of strange echoes, as if the ghosts of the dead were calling to each other; a place of mystery, yet one of peace, a sharp contrast to the last few hours in the lives of the occupants who lay there. The catacombs were now unused, deserted, many people reluctant to return to a place which still rang with memories of the days of terror. Who would break in and remove dusty bones and skulls?
‘Why? When? Who?’ Sylvester turned in exasperation to the Guardian of the Tombs, a pinched-faced elderly scribe with ink-stained skin, yet a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. The scribe had apologised profusely for bringing the presbyter here, but what else could he do? Why had a simple tomb been broken into? It contained no treasure. He had already expressed his fears that although the cemetery was a holy place where martyrs were buried, it was also a place of black magic, where witches and warlocks gathered to perform bloody sacrifice under a brooding moon.
‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.
‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’
Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.
‘Magister!’
Sylvester walked back. He took an oil lamp from a niche and crouched down to examine the cracked plaster. Pieces were missing and some of it had crumbled, but the scribe had done a good job. Sylvester traced the inscriptions with his finger.
‘Lucius et Octavia ex Capua, Christiani,’ he read. ‘Christians from Capua.’ He traced the date on the plaster and realised it must have been the last year of Diocletian’s reign, some four years ago. ‘Do you know who they were?’
The scribe wearily got to his feet. ‘In my office,’ he explained, ‘I have, as you know, Magister, a list of Christians in each town, while Lord Chrysis has handed over the names of the proscripti, those who were condemned by the state. I will have to check these.’
Sylvester nodded. They walked back along the gallery to a small cavern which the scribe grandly described as his ‘writing office’. When the catacombs had been handed over to the care of the Bishop of Rome, Sylvester had immediately set up guardians and scribes to look after this sacred place and collect every document which might identify those buried here. During the persecution, people had been dragged from their homes in the dead of night, condemned without trial, killed immediately or dispatched to the arena. He had begged for imperial documents, and although some of these had been destroyed, deliberately so, the rest had been handed over, and the chief scribe took particular pride in the way he had organised these. They were now filed in reed baskets,
long boxes and chests.
Lamps were lit, and the scribe organised his helpers to search for the necessary documents. Sylvester sat within the doorway, staring across at a crude drawing on the wall of Christ in triumph. This cavern had once been a holy place where the bread and wine had been changed into the Body and Blood of Christ. Once again Sylvester marvelled at how quickly things had changed. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the psalm for the evening, but instead he dozed off, and was shaken awake by the scribe.
‘Magister, we have found something very strange. We have no evidence for any Christians, man and wife, brother and sister, from Capua bearing those names. However, we do have a list of prisoners here. It is four years old and contains the names of Lucius and Octavia, farmers. More importantly, the documents say they had no heirs or family.’
‘So their holding was forfeit to the state?’
‘Precisely, Magister. Consequently, when the Edict of Toleration was issued, two years ago, all such property was granted back to the Church as compensation.’
Sylvester tapped a sandalled foot. ‘What is this?’ he whispered. ‘A man and woman, probably husband and wife, of whom we have no knowledge, yet they were obviously killed as Christians and their property confiscated. They were brought here to be buried and now their bones have been removed. Look,’ he got to his feet, ‘you have a messenger? I want this information sent to the woman known as Claudia, staying at the She-Asses tavern near the Flavian Gate . . .’
Chapter 11
‘Dux atque Imperator Vitae Mortalium Animus est.’
(‘The Soul is the Leader and Ruler of Men’s Lives.’)
Sallust, Jugurtha, I
Claudia sat in the garden. The morning mist still hung like a veil, and birds darted about, foraging amongst the long grass for crumbs and seeds. Caligula, the tavern cat, a true killer, came slinking out, but the birds recognised the danger and Caligula had to satisfy himself with glaring up at a tree, where a thrush sang its warning. Claudia watched the cat and wondered if death was like that, creeping out of the dark to seek its prey. Death had visited this tavern last night and taken Spicerius; had it sat in the corner gibbering while poor Murranus blundered into that trap? Dacius had clearly been delighted, taunting Murranus to repeat his promise, which of course he had. The die was now cast, the news would be all over Rome; there would be no turning back. In the end Polybius had forced Dacius and his gang back out into the streets, and only then did the enormity of what he had done dawn on Murranus.