Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

Eventually Dionysius lost consciousness and his assailant left him there, pegged on the ground, blood running out like rivulets across the lush green grass. It took him an hour to die.

His corpse was discovered by Gaius Tullius as he was doing his usual rounds with four of his men. They all gazed in horror at the blood-soaked body, the ground around saturated with a dark stain.

‘Fetch the Empress,’ Gaius ordered.

‘And his Excellency?’

‘I said the Empress,’ Gaius insisted. ‘The Augusta will know what to do.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Our Noble Emperor has taken a few cups of wine; he is with some of the maids and would not like to be disturbed.’

A short while later, the Empress, accompanied by her woebegone bodyguard, came striding through the trees. She gave an exclamation of horror, then walked round the corpse, noticing how the legs and arms were held taut, the rope tied to pegs driven into the ground.

‘How long, Captain?’ she asked.

Gaius, his sandals squelching on the grass, gathered up his gown, leaned down and pressed his hand against the dead man’s face.

‘At least two hours, possibly less.’ He ran his hand across the stomach. ‘This is hardly bloated with gas.’ He got to his feet. ‘Whoever killed him truly hated him. Augusta, shall I arrest the others?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘There is a physician in the villa,’ Burrus murmured.

‘Unless he can resurrect the dead, he is of no use here,’ Helena retorted. ‘I wonder-’

She broke off as Timothaeus the steward came hurrying up. He took one look at the corpse and turned away to retch. Helena walked over and patted him gently on the back.

‘I’m afraid,’ she murmured, ‘it is not your week, is it, Timothaeus? Now, be a good chap, take this hulking piece of meat,’ she gestured at Burrus, ‘and, when you have settled your stomach, go back to Rome, to the She-Asses near the Flavian Gate, and bring Claudia. I want her here tonight.’

Helena walked into the trees, breathing heavily. Yes, she thought, it’s time my little mouse was here, with her twitching nose and scurrying feet. She will help resolve these mysteries. .

Murranus brought Claudia back to the garden. He grasped her hand and whispered to her not to be foolish. Claudia already felt embarrassed; after all, there were many men in Rome who wore that tattoo on their wrist. She had already met a few, so why such a violent reaction to Spicerius?

‘It’s because of Sylvester,’ she whispered.

‘Who?’ Murranus asked.

‘Nothing.’ Claudia remembered herself quickly. ‘Just a friend I talk to about my problems.’

‘I thought you had no friends except me.’

Claudia, in an attempt to distract him, smiled up at him. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’

Spicerius and Valens were still sitting in the shade. The gladiator rose as Claudia came back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Murranus did tell me what happened. I tried to hide my tattoo beneath the wrist guard.’ He squatted down as she did. ‘I know something of your background,’ he continued, ‘but this tattoo,’ he undid the wrist guard and displayed the design, ‘has only been done in the last six months.’

‘Do many gladiators wear it?’

‘Ask Murranus.’ Spicerius shrugged. ‘It’s common enough. It’s linked to the worship of Dionysius, the God of Wine.’ Claudia noticed how his eye teeth were sharpened like those of a wolf. ‘Dionysius and Eros,’ he continued. ‘What more can a gladiator expect from life?’

‘You’re not the only one!’ Valens, who had been studying her closely, spoke up. ‘I know of at least three girls from the slums, one as young as twelve, who were attacked and raped by a man with that tattoo. One of them claimed it was a gladiator, but there again,’ he patted Spicerius on the shoulder, ‘these men get blamed for everything. If a woman is raped or a man killed. .’ He paused. ‘Yet I have found more honour amongst them than I have a group of priests.’

‘Is there a temple devoted to Dionysius?’ Claudia asked. ‘I mean, one where the sign is the purple chalice?’

Spicerius shook his head.

‘Many temples are dedicated to Dionysius or Bacchus, they are as common as fleas on a dog. No, it’s more of a sign that you are a wine worshipper, which can earn you comradeship at a drinking club.’ Spicerius paused and clutched his stomach. ‘Just a cramp.’ He winked. ‘I’ll be well enough to fight your man. This time, let the mob spare him.’

‘Last time,’ Claudia, embarrassed, was eager to change the subject, ‘when you drank the poisoned wine, you saw nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘I was in the tunnel,’ Spicerius replied, ‘near the Gate of Life. I wanted the contest to begin. I drank the wine.’ He tapped the tattoo on his wrist. ‘I know my wine, it cleanses my mouth and wets the back of my throat.’

‘Did you feel strange?’ Claudia asked.

Spicerius screwed his eyes up. ‘Ask your boyfriend here. Of course you feel strange before a fight. Your stomach pitches like a boat in a storm. Strange sounds echo in your ears. A drumming begins in your head. You want to run and shout and scream, but at the same time there is this icy coldness. You become aware of the smallest thing.’

‘And in the arena?’ Claudia asked.

‘I went out,’ Spicerius’s face grew smooth; he had lost that mask of cynical arrogance, ‘I really believed I had a chance. Suddenly I saw double, like you do when you have a knock on the head.’ He patted his stomach. ‘A fire was lit in my belly, I thought it would pass, but then my legs lost their strength. One thing I realised was that I had to vomit; if I didn’t, I would die.’ He turned and embraced Valens, drawing the old man close and kissing him on his head. ‘If it wasn’t for my good friend here, the great Spicerius would have died like some slave fainting with fear before a lion or panther.’

‘Somebody drugged you,’ Claudia insisted. ‘Why?’

‘Three reasons,’ Murranus intervened, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Somebody loves Murranus, or somebody hates Spicerius.’

‘And thirdly?’ Claudia asked.

‘Somebody wagered heavily that I would win. It certainly wasn’t me or anyone at this tavern.’

‘But you should have died.’ Claudia turned to Spicerius. ‘You weren’t meant to faint. Your secret attacker intended to kill you.’ She glanced at the old physician, who was chomping on his lips, face turned to the sun, though he had been studying her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

‘By the cock!’ Valens whispered. ‘You have a sharp one here, Murranus! Keen as a surgeon’s knife. You’re right, Spicerius should have died. Three things saved him. He has the constitution of an ox, he vomited the poison, and I was there to administer treatment. There’s one further. .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Yes?’ Claudia asked. She was aware of how silent the garden had fallen. A butterfly flew between them, fluttering white in the light breeze.

‘He should have died,’ Valens murmured, ‘but the assassin made a mistake. He, or she, didn’t give him enough poison. It was sufficient to make him vomit, to cause the pain, but not enough to finish him off.’

‘Spicerius!’

Claudia turned. A young woman, black hair floating around her face like a veil, came tripping across the grass, the folds of her costly gown flapping around her, a shawl protecting her back and shoulders from the sun. Behind her an old slave carried a parasol and two fat cushions. The woman paused and turned on him.

‘Can’t you keep up, you old fool!’ she screamed. ‘And this parasol is supposed to shade me from the sun!’

‘Agrippina,’ Spicerius murmured.