Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

The young woman ran up in a gust of perfume and, without being invited, crouched down, flinging her arms around Spicerius’s neck, kissing him hungrily on the side of his mouth and face before shrieking to the old slave to put the cushions down. Then she drew apart, made herself comfortable and gazed around, an impudent smile on her cheeky face.

As Agrippina blew a kiss at Murranus, Claudia tried to hide her stab of envy. The woman was truly beautiful. She had lovely expressive eyes in her ivory-skinned face, and her jewellery and earrings, all a blood red, glittered every time she moved, in a clatter of bangles and bracelets. She wore a wild flower in her hair and carried a perfumed napkin to cool the sweat on her neck and arms. She waggled her fingers at Valens but dismissed Claudia with a half-smile and a flick of her eyes.

‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere,’ she cooed, turning to Spicerius. ‘What on earth are you doing in a place like this?’

‘It’s my place,’ Claudia spoke up, ‘and I’m wondering what a person like you is doing here.’

The smile disappeared from Agrippina’s face. The old slave hastily retreated. Agrippina took a fan from a pocket in her robe, snapped it open, stared hard at Claudia and then burst out laughing. She took a bracelet from her wrist and thrust it into Claudia’s hand.

‘I’m such a bitch,’ she confessed, ‘and such a snob! I meant no offence.’

‘None taken,’ Claudia answered, slipping the bracelet on to her wrist. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Agrippina shook her head. ‘I’ve been drinking all morning. What have you been discussing?’

‘Who tried to kill Spicerius.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ Agrippina retorted. She leaned against her lover. ‘We observed the rules, didn’t we; we neither drank nor ate that morning. What Spicerius does, I always follow.’ Her eyes turned soft. ‘No offence, Murranus, but I truly thought Spicerius would win. My father is furious. I bet a fortune and lost.’

‘I thought all money was to be returned?’ Spicerius said.

Agrippina kissed him on his shoulder. ‘No, that’s what everyone is haggling about now. They will probably agree to hold the money until the next fight. Now listen, Spicerius, you must stay in the shade. Claudia — it is Claudia, isn’t it? Do you mind if I stay here? I will help you.’ She chattered on, talking so fast she hardly stopped to breathe.

Claudia excused herself, went across to the tavern and sent Oceanus out to see if all was well. She then returned to her own chamber. She drew the bolt across the door and lay down on the narrow cot bed. Polybius was now up, bellowing in the kitchens at whoever got in his way. Claudia’s mind drifted back to the catacombs earlier that day, and the tattoo on Spicerius’s wrist.

‘One day,’ she whispered, as her eyes grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.

She slept long and deep, and it was mid-afternoon before she woke. She splashed some water over her face and went down into the garden. Murranus and the rest were still there. They had decided to make a day of it playing dice and knuckle bones whilst ordering the best wine and food. Polybius of course, much the worse for drink, had been surly until he realised how wealthy Agrippina was. Now the cooks were busy roasting beef and goose, while in the cellars the tap boys were broaching the best casks. Claudia decided to join the company. Murranus was already deep in his cups and insisted on giving her the biggest hug and wine-drenched kisses. Claudia teased him back, and they were discussing the merits of Meleager the Magnificent when Polybius came hurrying out across the grass.

‘There’s a messenger from Tibur,’ he declared. ‘Claudia, you are to join the court at the Villa Pulchra.’

‘My, my, my,’ Murranus declared, ‘you do have powerful friends.’

Claudia pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I’m only a maid.’ She kissed Murranus full on the mouth before he could add anything else.

‘The imperial court?’ Spicerius lifted his cup. ‘When you get there, Claudia, give my love to the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Gaius Tullius. Tell him not to wear his airs and graces. I remember how, bare-arsed, we used to chase each other through the fields of Sisium. You won’t forget, will you?’

Claudia promised, and hurriedly followed her uncle back into the tavern. There she recognised the pop-eyed steward, Timothaeus, face all red, laughing at a doleful Burrus, dressed in his shabby armour, who was being teased by one of the pot boys. The huge German mercenary seemed to fill the room. He had ignored his taunter but was glaring at Simon the Stoic, who knew some German and hadn’t hesitated in using it to insult the visitor. Januaria, however, was suitably impressed. She had sidled over, plucking at the great bearskin which, despite the heat, Burrus had draped over his shoulders. Poppaoe came out of the kitchen, screaming abuse, and Januaria disappeared. Claudia greeted both the guests and clattered up the stairs to collect her cloak and hat and push a few possessions into a set of leather panniers.

When she came back downstairs, she kissed Poppaoe and Polybius goodbye, waved to the regular customers and went out to where a small crowd had gathered to gape at Burrus’s entourage. The mercenaries recognised Claudia and grunted at her. Anyone else would have regarded this as an insult, but Claudia knew that it was the warmest greeting these dour men would give. They had brought a gentle cob for her to ride. Burrus helped her mount, and they left for the city gates and the Via Latina.

The day’s business was finishing and people were streaming out of the city. The streets were packed, people shoving and pushing, the air riven with the chatter of different tongues, hordes of screaming children, and the hustle and bustle of the markets as stalls were cleared and put away for the night. Craftsmen in their workshops used the last hours of the summer day to finish their tasks. Outside the entrances to these shops and eating houses, pedlars and hustlers bawled, desperate to make a sale before sunset. The dusty air reeked of grease, tallow candle, burnt oil, incense, cooked meat, dried fish and, above all, the sweat of the hot, tired crowd. Soldiers from the garrisons mingled with customers at the wine booths and beer shops, reluctantly moving aside for the sedan chair or litter of a wealthy nobleman. Claudia loved such sights. People of various nationalities thronged around, Ethiopians and Nubians in their panther and leopard skins, Egyptian priests garbed in ostentatious white robes, shaven heads gleaming with oil, Syrians in their striped cloaks, dark bearded faces glistening with sweat. Of course, as the day faded, Rome’s underworld also came to life: the sorcerers and conjurors, the footpads and pickpockets, all brushed shoulders with dancers, whores and pimps as they came into the streets eager for mischief.

Claudia’s party skirted the main thoroughfare and crossed the square, where the Vigiles were fighting a gang of youths who’d flung a pig from the top floor of an apartment block. A mad old man now danced round the gory mess, chanting a garbled hymn. A group of gladiators were gathering on the steps of the temple to pay votive thanks to a god. Claudia wondered what Murranus would be doing that evening. Once across the square, Burrus and his escort moved to the front and forced their way on to a broad avenue lined by statues. They had to move slowly. They’d left the slums and were now on the main approach to the city gates. Here the crowds were even thicker, the wealthy carried by their slaves, the poor pushing some ancient relative wrapped in a blanket and placed in a wheel-barrow. They passed colonnaded walks and arrived at the city gates; these were guarded by Samaritan mercenaries who lounged against the walls or wooden posts wolf-whistling at any attractive woman. The noise, the dust, the heat and flies made any conversation impossible. Burrus was in a deep sulk, although Claudia could see Timothaeus was desperate to talk to her.