Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

Forgetting her terrors of the previous evening, Claudia borrowed a lantern and returned to the cellar, tripping quickly down the steps. She deliberately ignored what had happened previously and, crouching down, examined both locks, the first above the handle, the other beneath. Holding the lamp close, she examined the rim of the door and the lock but could detect no scraping, no sign of any tampering. Exasperated, she got to her feet. If her theory was correct, Burrus must have fooled Timothaeus into thinking that he had locked the door when he hadn’t.

Claudia sighed, opened the door and went into the cellar. ‘Let us say,’ she spoke loudly, pretending to be in a schoolroom, ‘that the thief enters.’ She walked to the edge of the circle and stretched out to touch the chain, but couldn’t reach. She climbed on to a stool but that too was fruitless. She recalled the long sword Burrus carried. ‘He could have used that,’ she whispered excitedly. Burrus could have drawn the chain towards him using his own weapon and taken the Holy Sword from its hook. Claudia climbed down from the stool and looked back towards the door. Four problems remained. First, Burrus would need the cooperation of the two guards outside. Secondly, there was the problem of the keys. Thirdly, what would Burrus do with the sword once he had stolen it? Finally, and most importantly, Burrus would have known he would face the Empress’s fury.

Claudia sat down and considered this. Helena would be angry, but there again she would have no proof. The Empress was correct. Burrus often acted like a naughty schoolboy and accepted being lashed by her tongue as part of his military service. Was that why Helena had assembled them all this morning, to give them a tongue-lashing they would never forget? Did she suspect the mercenaries and hope she would frighten them into returning the Holy Sword?

Claudia cocked her head at the sound on the steps outside. She walked back through the door to see Timothaeus coming down, slowly, carefully, like an old man. He still looked anxious-eyed and troubled.

‘I always come here.’ He sniffed. ‘I always think that perhaps I’ll return here and discover the sword has been restored.’ He sat down on the bottom step, where Claudia joined him. ‘It’s not there, is it?’ he asked dolefully.

‘No, it isn’t.’ Claudia grasped his arm. She rather liked this red-faced official on the verge of tears. ‘Tell me,’ she continued quickly, ‘are you sure there’s no trickery involved? I mean, when you locked the door, are you sure you locked it?’

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Timothaeus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t trust those Germans as far as I can spit. No, I was very careful, we always went through the same ceremony. I locked the door, then tried it. Only then did Burrus insert his key.’

‘Ah.’ Claudia realised her theory held no water. ‘Could the keys be copied?’

‘I wore mine on a chain round my neck,’ Timothaeus declared, ‘and, to be fair, so did Burrus. However, I can only speak for myself when I say that wherever I went, the key went too. We were never separated.’

Claudia thanked him, rose and went to her own quarters, where she changed, donning a dark green silver-edged tunic, a robe of a similar colour clasped round her shoulders, a leather belt about her waist. At the back of this hung a sheath for the sharp knife she intended to take everywhere for as long as she remained in the Villa Pulchra. She slipped her feet into boot sandals and took from her jewellery casket a small finger ring, one of the few heirlooms from her mother. She touched the painting of the purple chalice as if to remind herself, then hurried out to the servants’ refectory, which adjoined the imperial kitchens.

She had to fight for her food, bullying the heavy-eyed cook for bread, cheese and honey, a goblet of watered beer and some rather dried grapes. Constantine loved his food, and the kitchens were once again busy, the cooks, scullions and maids preparing another repast for the Emperor and his court. Claudia sat at one end at the long communal table and hastily finished her food. The other servants avoided her. She knew the reason. They viewed her as a spy, but she took no offence because that was the truth. She, of course, was sure that the Emperor, not to mention the likes of Rufinus and Chrysis, also had their agents here listening to gossip and collecting information to pass to their masters.

When she had finished her meal, she wandered into the gorgeous atrium, with its marbled walls, exquisite paintings and eye-catching mosaics. She stopped before the shrine built into one of the walls where the Lares and Penates, the household gods, were venerated. She studied the tabernacle and the statues it contained. A bronze tripod stood before these, flames flickering up from a bed of charcoal laced with a fine covering of incense. The smoke rose, white and fragrant. Claudia watched it disappear. Did it go somewhere else, she wondered, or just vanish? Was that what happened to prayers? Did anyone listen? Or were they just gusts of incense, all show and no substance? She closed her eyes and prayed, she didn’t know to whom, but she expressed her love for Felix, her dead brother, for her parents, for Polybius, Murranus, Poppaoe and all those bound up in her life.

‘Are you ready?’

Claudia opened her eyes and turned round, so quickly she felt rather giddy. She had thought she was alone, but Timothaeus, Burrus and Gaius stood behind her.

‘Are you going?’ Gaius smiled, his freshly shaved face gleaming with oil. He was dressed in a simple white tunic, a sword belt casually draped over one shoulder, a toga on the other, ready to dress more formally if the Emperor appeared.

‘The debate,’ Timothaeus explained. ‘It’s going to take place in the peristyle garden.’

Claudia smiled. In fact, she had forgotten. Now she remembered the steward breathlessly informing her the previous evening how the Empress was keen for the philosophers to meet and openly debate the issues between them.

‘We have been discussing the Holy Sword.’ Gaius grinned, nudging Burrus playfully. The German looked more composed. His icy blue eyes, no longer tear-filled, were studying Claudia carefully.

‘Why have you been discussing it?’ she enquired. ‘Do you have a theory about its disappearance?’

‘I wish to the gods we had,’ Gaius replied. ‘But the Empress has asked us to think, reflect and remember.’

The Captain talked like a schoolboy declining a verb, though his voice was rich with sarcasm and his eyes full of laughter.

‘Well, we’ll do that,’ Gaius pulled a face, ‘while we get the life bored out of us.’

Claudia joined them and the others drifting out into the peristyle garden. Purple-draped chairs had been set before the fountain and slaves were hurriedly putting up awnings to protect the imperial heads from the summer sun. Scribes in white robes, fingers stained with ink, were busy before the thrones, laying down cushions and preparing writing pallets. On either side of the long glistening pool were stools for the speakers, with a large podium directly facing the imperial presence. Everyone else had to find their own place, either in the garden or in the colonnaded walks. Porters carrying parasols moved amongst the flower beds or called in high-pitched voices for slaves to bring more refreshments.

Claudia moved back into the atrium. It would take some time for everyone to gather, and Constantine was notorious for his lateness, especially after an imperial banquet. As she wandered down a corridor, she started at a touch to her elbow, and spun round. Sylvester was standing at the doorway of a chamber, beckoning her in. She glanced quickly round and followed him into the furnished room. On the wall to her right was a portrait of two young girls looking out of a window, and on the other two were scenes from Etruscan history. The window was high and rather narrow. Sylvester led her over to a corner stool and perched on one end, indicating she should sit next to him.