Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

As they moved along the Via Latina, the buildings grew fewer, the smell of the countryside more fragrant. They passed the city cemeteries; the tombs rearing up, dark against the light blue sky, grim reminders of the brevity of life. Somewhere in the crowd a boy began to sing a lovely lilting tune, with sweet verses about a house with a welcoming table set out in the shade of an olive grove. Claudia listened intently but Timothaeus was now eager to make speed and produced his imperial pass to move more briskly through the crowds. At last they reached the crossroads, marked by soaring wooden poles with skulls placed at the base: a place of execution. Criminals would carry their cross bar here, against which they would be crucified. Someone had lit an oil lamp near the posts and placed beside it a bouquet of wild flowers. Claudia wondered about their significance as she reflected on what a topsyturvy world she lived in, where the Empire now did business with a religious sect whose God they had crucified. She recalled what Sylvester had said to her, and, studying Timothaeus’s anxious face, wondered what was awaiting at the Villa Pulchra. She quietly prayed, to any god who bothered to listen, that Murranus would take care of himself during her absence and keep out of mischief.

They paused to drink at a water fountain. Claudia revelled in the dark coolness of the laurel, cypress and olive trees, and the greenery, albeit scorched by the sun, of the bushes and grass stretching out either side of her. Birds swooped above them, whilst in the grass along the track crickets continued their busy song. Burrus grated an order and they remounted. They crossed brooks and streams, their horses’ hoofs clattering nervously. Now and again they would be greeted by servants and children running down a lane from a villa or farmstead.

After a while, Timothaeus pulled his horse back, drawing alongside Claudia’s. They had met before, at court, but Timothaeus, ignoring all protocol and etiquette, now chattered to her like some long-lost sister. Not pausing for a breath, he described in rushed sentences how the Holy Sword had been stolen, the uproar this had caused, followed by the brutal murder of Dionysius.

‘No one knows who did it!’ Timothaeus shook his head as if talking to himself. ‘No one at all, but I have a theory. I mean, if you are going to murder someone, why not just bang them on the back of the head and leave them. Not like that poor bugger. He was bound and dragged through the garden, pegged out like some criminal in the amphitheatre.’ He leaned across, eyes round with amazement. ‘He must have bled to death.’

‘And no one heard his screams?’

‘Gagged, he was, a piece of hard leather pushed into his mouth.’

‘You were talking about the murder. You have a theory?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Timothaeus gathered the reins with one hand, lowering his voice as if Burrus was an eavesdropper, but the German seemed more intent on finishing the wine skin he’d unhooked from his saddle horn. ‘I believe,’ the steward continued breathlessly, ‘that Dionysius was killed by those other philosophers. You know what a group of bitches they are, jealous about this, jealous about that! I expect they got into an argument and decided to kill him.’

‘In which case,’ Claudia smiled, ‘why didn’t they do as you describe, just hit him on the head and leave it at that?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Timothaeus screwed his face up in concentration, as he tried to reflect on that great mystery. Of course, he had his answer: how the philosophers were a cruel group of bitches. Claudia half listened, realising with a sinking heart that she was about to enter a snake pit. From what Timothaeus had told her, she had already concluded that Dionysius’s murder was not an act of passion but a cold, calculated, cruel act where the victim was made to suffer for as long as possible.

Burrus, who had finished the wine skin, and was desperate for more, now urged them into a gallop. The air was growing cooler, shadows laced the path and the red-gold sky was darkening. Eventually they reached the winding track leading up to the Villa Pulchra. Claudia had visited it many years ago, but she was still surprised by the grandeur and opulence of the buildings clustered on the brow of the hill. They passed guard posts, soldiers on picket duty crouching round their camp fires, a glowing avenue of flame stretching up to the main gate set in the soaring curtain wall. Timothaeus demanded entrance; an officer came out, passes were inspected and the gate swung open. They entered the courtyard, which reeked of the stables. Soldiers and servants lounged on benches, drinking and chattering as they played with knuckle bones and dice.

Claudia dismounted. Ostlers came to take her horse, and any aches or pains she felt were soon forgotten as Timothaeus led her on a hasty tour of the villa. First they visited the peristyle garden, exquisitely perfumed and lit by hundreds of oil lamps in their translucent alabaster jars, glowing like fireflies against the dusk. Claudia was aware of lush lawns, irrigated by narrow canals and overlooked by countless carved statues of gods and goddesses, nymphs and fauns. As she walked, she glimpsed fountains and pools of purity, reed-ringed carp ponds, colonnaded walks, marble walls and floors, gorgeous paintings, beautiful ornaments, brilliant-hued tapestries and delicate furniture. They went down corridors and galleries, guarded by soldiers from the imperial regiments as well as mercenaries from the personal comitatus of the Emperor and his mother. The kitchens, carving rooms, bakeries and pantries were busy with sweat-soaked servants hurrying around. The imperial banquet had already begun, the doors closed, so they kept well away from the triclinium where the Emperor and his guests ate and drank to the soft music of the imperial orchestra.

‘Dionysius’s death,’ Timothaeus commented sharply, ‘was certainly no excuse to spoil a good supper party.’

He took Claudia to the kitchens for a light meal of spiced sausages, damsons and a cup of chilled white wine. Afterwards he showed her to her chamber, a narrow closet containing a bed, a stool, a carved chest and a peg on the door to hang her clothes. She was allowed to wash and change before being taken to the Empress’s antechamber, a white-walled, marble-floored room, the brilliance of its colours deliberately emphasising the dark blue and red medallion paintings in the centre of each wall. Claudia sat on a couch and stared up at one of these paintings depicting some Emperor entering Rome in triumph. She was fascinated by the detail, the way the horses on the chariot turned their heads, so life-like she expected the animals to move and to hear the clatter of their hoofs or the crack of reins.

‘Well, little mouse!’

Claudia started. The Empress had opened the door and was leaning gracefully against it. Claudia jumped to her feet, and would have knelt, but the Empress, face rather flushed, grasped her by the hand and sat down beside her on the couch, staring up at the painting.

‘That’s supposed to be the great Caesar, Claudia, after he had conquered Egypt and brought Cleopatra back to Rome. I always look for her but can’t find her. The painting is fascinating, isn’t it? If you stare at it long enough you feel as if you are becoming part of the great triumph. Well, little one, you are now part of my world again and I want you to watch, study and listen. You had a pleasant journey? Good.’ Helena didn’t wait for a reply. ‘And how’s your Murranus? You should thank the gods that he didn’t kill Spicerius.’ She smiled at Claudia’s astonishment and kissed her gently on the brow. ‘Sometimes, little mouse, you can be as cunning as a serpent, at other times as innocent as a dove. You hadn’t thought of that, had you?’