by Paul Doherty
‘You’ve offered to fight twice on the same day,’ Oceanus slurred as they drowned their sorrows in wine.
Polybius had urged Murranus to withdraw, but the gladiator was too stubborn. Poppaoe, all tearful, had asked what it meant, and Oceanus had explained. The games would start with criminals being executed, then in the afternoon there would be the Venatio, when a gladiator would face wild animals. Murranus had agreed to pit himself against some ferocious beast, and Dacius had chosen a bull, a ferocious, deadly animal which combined speed, cunning, strength and a determination to kill whatever confronted it.
Claudia had sat, face in hands, trying to control her trembling. She had seen these fighting bulls from Spain and North Africa, muscles rippling under sleek skins, powerful legs which could launch them into a ferocious charge, and, above all, those wide-spaced, cruelly tipped sharpened horns. A wild bull could move like the wind yet turn as fast as any coin spinning on the floor. Oceanus, full of wine and his own importance, had not spared them the details, describing how the bull could charge, feint, and use its horns like an expert swordsman would a pair of blades. Yet this was only half the danger. Murranus had to fight, escape unscathed and, an hour later, enter the arena to confront Meleager. That was the trap! Claudia recognised how crude but effective it was. Polybius had declared it was like weighing a runner down with weights: Spicerius’s death, its effect on Murranus, the baiting and accusations, the simpering Agrippina, and now the prospect of a ferocious battle before Murranus even met his opponent.
Claudia straightened up and took a deep breath. She felt sick with fear and anger, yet there was something else which she was reluctant to face. She had glimpsed the tattoo on Dacius’s wrist and recalled what Spicerius had told Murranus. If that was true, then Meleager and that degenerate from the slums were allies, even close friends. They meant to kill Murranus and had arranged the baiting so as to gamble on the future. Murranus would die so the likes of Dacius, Meleager and Agrippina could eat more delicacies, swill more wine and decorate their bodies with finer clothes and trinkets. It had all been planned from the beginning. Spicerius had been marked down for death and Murranus was the second ox for slaughter. And yet? Claudia ground the heel of her sandal into the grass. She had to face it, her own hate and desire for revenge throbbed loudly. She wanted Murranus to fight Meleager; she couldn’t ask for a better champion for herself and poor Felix. No greater vindicator or righter of wrongs. Over the last few days Claudia had made her decision. Meleager had to die. Murranus must kill him. There was no alternative, and if he didn’t, she would. So what could she do to help? She thought of Agrippina sitting like a pampered cat fed on cream, acting the victim with her wailing and lamentation, her pitiful glances as she tried to provoke sympathy and win support.
‘Bitch!’ Claudia breathed. ‘You painted bitch! You murderous whore! I’ll begin with you.’
Caligula came over, brushing itself against her legs. Claudia scratched the cat between the ears as she reflected on the other mysteries. The Holy Sword? Well, she smiled grimly, that would be a matter of catching the culprit red-handed. And as for the murders? Claudia narrowed her eyes and watched a blackbird, bolder than the rest, go hopping across the grass. The murders were, perhaps, not such a mystery; small items were beginning to prick her suspicions. She knew where Timothaeus was, and she also quietly vowed to keep an eye on Narcissus.
The tavern door opened behind her and Caligula streaked for the gap.
‘Claudia?’ Polybius, red-eyed and much the worse for drink, stood under the porch. ‘They’ve arrived, your visitors have come.’
She followed her uncle back into the tavern to where a man sat hunched near the door. On the other side of the door were a group all huddled, clustered together like mourners.
‘Sallust? Sallust the Searcher?’
The man pushed back his hood and undid the cord of his robe. Claudia was always fascinated by the old man’s face. It looked so commonplace: unshaven, watery-eyed, runny-nosed. The shock of white hair was unruly, the tunic he wore that of a peasant, the sandals bought second-hand from some army quartermaster. A pallid face with a snub nose, the eyes dark brown like those of a puppy, trusting and eager; not the face of a searcher of things, and as such it was his best disguise.
‘Why, Claudia!’ Sallust’s voice was just above a whisper. She grasped his hand. ‘It’s so good to see you. How long is it now?’
‘A few months. Would you like something to eat?’
‘Polybius is going to give me and my boys a jug of beer and a slice of pear tart. We eat very little, you know.’
Claudia sat down next to this searcher for things. Despite his appearance, or perhaps because of it, Sallust was the most expert of the men and women who watched and reported. During the recent civil war he had backed the wrong party. He’d been used by Maxentius and, when Constantine marched into Rome, had had to go into hiding. It was a long story, but Sallust, who knew Polybius from their military days, had appealed for help and Claudia had approached the presbyter Sylvester. A pardon and amnesty had been issued, confiscated property was returned and Sallust had become Claudia’s firm friend and ally. He had immediately returned to his searchings, aided and abetted by his extended family of sons, sons-in-law, kith and kin of many varieties.
Sallust didn’t work for the state but for private individuals. If a debt wasn’t paid or a wager withdrawn, a slave escaped, a child went missing or valuables disappeared, Sallust and his searchers would soon put that right. He had lost some of his wealth during the confusion following the civil war and was eager to make up his losses. He already owned a palatial town house within walking distance of the Palatine, as well as a restful villa out in the Campania. Sallust, however, liked to act the poor man, the nondescript, the person who could sit in a tavern and never be noticed or missed.
For a while Claudia just chattered about the She-Asses and Polybius’s garden, but Sallust gave her a grim reminder of what had happened the previous night, whispering that he and his family already knew about Spicerius’s death and Murranus’s boast.
‘Well, mistress?’ He drained his beer and gazed across at his huddle of relatives, busy filling their bellies with pear tart.
‘They’re so quiet!’ Claudia murmured.
‘Always like that,’ Sallust declared. ‘That’s how we do our business. Now, mistress, you asked to see me.’
‘Ah.’ Claudia edged a little closer. ‘I want to discuss three things with you: love tokens, a holy sword, and the town of Capua. Now . . .’ She paused at the knocking on the door. She got up, opened it and stared at the tinker with a tray slung round his neck. She would have immediately closed the door, but he lifted his hand, displaying the crude icthus ring on his middle finger.
‘I’m looking for the woman Claudia.’
‘I’m she.’
‘Are you?’ He peered closer. ‘You know the turnings?’
‘Across the cemetery to the tomb dedicated to Servilius.’ Claudia gave the agreed answer.
‘He sent you this.’ The tinker handed across a scroll, waggled his fingers and disappeared.
Claudia made her excuse to Sallust and went out to the garden, where she undid the scroll and read Sylvester’s message. She was so surprised she read it again.
‘What is this?’ she exclaimed, staring down at the carefully formed letters.
Sylvester had described a mystery involving a violated tomb and the remains of a man and a woman known as Lucius and Claudia, not listed as Christians but still martyred for that faith. Apparently they were a childless couple whose holdings had been forfeit to the State but which now, under the Edict of Toleration, had been restored to the Church. Claudia reflected on her own suspicions and returned to Sallust.
‘As I said,’ she smiled, sitting down, ‘love tokens, a holy sword and the town of Capua.’
Sallust listened carefully to the problems facing Claudia, asking a few questions as she spoke. An hour later, he and his entourage left, promising
to do what they could. The tavern was now stirring, and Claudia broke her own fast. Narcissus came down and sat in a corner, eating a bowl of yesterday’s meat and onions. Januaria sat next to him, all smiling and simpering. A short while later Murranus clattered down the stairs, complaining of a dry mouth and sore head. He wanted to be alone, to reflect on what had happened the previous day. He grunted greetings but said he had to hurry, wolfed down some bread soaked in milk, took a mouthful of beer, kissed Claudia on the brow and almost fled through the tavern door. Narcissus, tired of Januaria, came edging over.
‘Mistress,’ he asked plaintively, ‘what are we going to do?’
‘We are going to sit and moan,’ Claudia replied, mimicking his voice, ‘about having a soft bed, freedom, a purse of money, good food and a pretty girl to smile at you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Claudia snapped. ‘Go down to the stables and saddle my cob. If you want, saddle a mount for yourself. We are going back to the Villa Pulchra.’
‘Then I’ll walk, I don’t like horses.’
‘Please yourself,’ Claudia retorted. She was eager to do something rather than sit and let the terrors seize hold of her.
Claudia collected her cloak, belt and purse, pushed some bread and dried meat into a napkin, borrowed a leather bag from the kitchen and made her farewells. Narcissus didn’t object to her proposal; he walked beside her describing how horses made him seasick before asking her why she wanted to return to the villa, pointing out that no one would be there; Timothaeus and the rest would now be in the imperial palace on the Palatine. Claudia murmured, ‘Good, I hope they stay there,’ before returning to her own thoughts and the list of suspicions she’d drawn up last night as she had lain in bed waiting for sleep.
Their journey through the streets was quick; only a trickle of early-morning travellers were taking advantage of the good weather and the half-empty streets. For most of their journey down to the Flavian Gate they followed a cohort of lightly armed legionnaires tramping out to one of the small forts on the approaches to Rome. Narcissus commented on how there seemed to be more troops on the move, whilst Claudia privately wondered if Constantine had decided to retaliate against his rival in the East. She was glad to be free of the She-Asses. Murranus had placed himself in great danger, but she did not want to worsen matters with sharp advice and a tart tongue. She made herself as comfortable as possible in the saddle, half dozing as they left the busy streets with their noise and smell, on to the main via which ran through the Flavian Gate. They passed the place of the dead and Claudia wondered about Sylvester’s enigmatic message. She was sure Sallust would help with that. Beside her Narcissus hummed a love song Januaria had taught him, whilst swiping with his stick at the brambles and weeds on the side of the path.
They made good progress, only standing aside for imperial messengers who came thundering along the via with their military escort. Soon they left the main road and followed the winding country paths, past the pickets guarding the approach to the villa, now reduced to only two or three men squatting before a fire, more interested in their oatmeal than a traveller who carried an imperial pass. When they reached the villa, a yawning guard opened the gate and ushered them into the cobbled yard. An under-steward came down to greet them, all blustering and protesting, but the protests died on his lips when he recognised Claudia and the pass she carried. He listened with astonishment as Claudia demanded that he summon all the servants and what guards were left down to the yard as soon as possible. He made to protest, but smiled at the prospect of a silver coin and hastened away. Claudia knew that once the court had left the villa, the servants would enjoy themselves doing as little as possible, hiding away and finding whatever mischief they could to while away the boredom. They soon flocked down to the yard, full of curiosity at this visitor and what she proposed: kitchen maids, page boys, gardeners, cleaners and washerwomen. Claudia asked them to gather round. She opened her purse and took out five silver pieces, promising them that anyone who found a weapon of war, as she described it, in the countryside to the south of the villa would receive a lavish reward.
‘What do you mean,’ the under-steward shouted, ‘a weapon of war?’
‘You’ll know it when you see it,’ Claudia retorted. She was standing on an upturned barrel; she felt it sway beneath her, so she snapped her fingers and told Narcissus to steady it. ‘You’ve all heard about the attack on the villa and the direction it came from. There’s a path leading down through the woods. I want you to go along that, oh, no more than two hundred paces from the walls, and search for any weapon of war, a dagger, a spear, an arrow, a sword or a shield. Anything which looks suspicious. Now, you know what I mean.’ She indicated with her hand. ‘On the right of the path leading from the main gate are woods, trees, shrubbery. Just ignore these. I want you to form a line and search the ground to the left of the path. As I’ve said, go no further than two hundred paces deep.’
‘And what happens if we don’t find anything?’ a gardener shouted.
‘Then you’ll still be rewarded.’ Claudia smiled. ‘I’ll leave some money so you can have a feast, Oh, and by the way,’ she added sharply, ‘I won’t tolerate any nonsense.’ She glared at the guards lounging about. ‘I don’t want some weapon taken from the armoury and placed under a bush. I’m not as stupid as I look.’ She hardened her voice. ‘I’m here on the Empress’s orders. Those who do her will shall be rewarded.’ She let the threat hang in the air.
The under-steward soon had them all organised, aided and abetted by some of the guards. The day was a fine one, they had little to do and all were eager to earn the reward. Once they’d left, Claudia went to the cellar and the House of Mourning, studying them carefully before going back to the kitchen, with Narcissus trailing behind like a ghost. They sat outside in the small courtyard and divided the food between them. Claudia ate and listened as Narcissus described how he would work at the She-Asses in preparation for his return to the embalming trade.
‘There’ll be plenty of custom for you,’ Claudia remarked drily, ‘amongst those who live near the Flavian Gate, though I’m not too sure how you’ll get paid.’
Narcissus, however, would not be deflected, but gave a dramatic account of how Polybius might lend him the money and even be his business partner. He chattered so quickly that Claudia wondered if he was nervous about what she might know. She swilled the wine round her cup. She had begged it from the cask man in the kitchens, who was too busy, as he’d put it, ‘to go out with the rest and get involved in childish games’. Claudia noticed a fly floating on the top of the wine. She plucked this out and wiped other specks from the not-so-clean goblet. She stirred the wine with her finger but didn’t wipe it dry, so it became sticky. She rubbed it, looking at the hardened whitish grains, and recalled sitting beside Spicerius’s corpse the previous evening.
‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed.
‘What is?’
‘Never mind,’ Claudia replied and leaning back against the wall, she stared at the white doves on the red tower roof across the courtyard.
The heat grew intense, so they moved into the gardens to enjoy the coolness of their shade near a bubbling water fountain. The under-steward found them there; he was hot, rather dusty and none too pleased with what had been found.
‘There wasn’t much,’ he grumbled. ‘You’d best see for yourself.’
The rest of the servants were gathered in the stable courtyard and had laid their finds on a sheet stretched across the cobbles. There were pieces of strapping, a buckle, a weather-worn sheath, a javelin head, and even the rather battered handle of a sword, as well as scraps of leather and armoury. Claudia sifted through them. Some of the items must have been there for years, but others were clearly remains from the recent attack. She made sure that they had searched the area she had described. The servants, red-faced and perspiring, all loudly agreed that they had pushed their way through bracken and gorse but found very little. Claudia thanked them, and
handed over the five silver pieces and one more. She also authorised the under-steward to draw wine and food from the stores and feast at the villa’s expense all those who had searched.
It was well past noon, but despite Narcissus’s grumbles, Claudia decided it was cool enough to return to the city. They had an uneventful journey back, joining a convoy of wine merchants who’d heard about the games and were hastening to Rome in the hope of greater profit. The She-Asses was almost deserted. Claudia went up to her own chamber, took out a small writing casket and, as if she was listing items to buy, wrote down everything she’d discovered. Then she slept for a while, going down to join a taciturn Polybius for the evening meal. Her uncle announced mournfully that Murranus had decided to stay at the gladiator school, determined to train for the coming conflict.
The mood of the tavern had changed. The wine had worn off, the excitement had soured. Many of the customers secretly suspected Murranus had been trapped, his chances of victory greatly reduced. Claudia knew she would have to wait. She had gambled on Sallust the Searcher making a quick discovery, but it wasn’t until the following evening that he slipped into the tavern. Despite the warm weather, he still wore his cloak, and insisted on speaking to Claudia out in the garden, where no one could see or hear them. Only then did he undo the cloak and hand across the bundle.