Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

Sylvester patted her on the shoulder and rose to his feet. ‘Dionysius’s murder may be connected to these allegations. I don’t know, but I have a feeling here,’ he tapped his hand on his chest, ‘that Dionysius may not be the last to die at the Villa Pulchra.’

When Sylvester had left, Claudia sat on the stool, staring down at her sandalled feet. Outside in the passageway she could hear talk and laughter as the court assembled in the peristyle garden. She got to her feet and left the chamber, forcing her way through the throng until she was out in the full blaze of sunlight. She sighed with relief; the Empress Helena now sat enthroned next to her son, but from the confusion amongst the scribes, Claudia gathered the debate had yet to begin. Pushing and shoving, excusing herself volubly, she made her way through the crowd. She reached the line of soldiers which protected any access to the imperial presence. A soldier brought up his shield. Claudia caught sight of Gaius and shouted his name. The officer came hurrying across, pulling forward the folds of his toga to shroud his head against the sun.

‘Why, Claudia,’ Gaius smiled down at her, ‘the Empress was wondering where you were.’

‘I need to speak to her urgently.’

Gaius beckoned her through and, grasping her by the shoulder, steered her between the imperial thrones. Claudia crouched down to the Empress’s right.

‘Why, little mouse.’ Helena didn’t even move her head in acknowledgement. ‘I saw you coming. Have you been talking to Sylvester?’ She turned and winked at Claudia. ‘What did you think of my performance this morning? I just hope none of those lovely boys stole that holy relic, but that will have to wait. What do you want?’

Claudia told the Empress in short, sharp sentences how Sylvester had warned that the debate might be used by both parties to level the most serious allegations against each other. Helena heard her out, now and again nodding in agreement, then dismissed her with a flick of her fingers and turned to talk to her son.

From behind the imperial thrones, Claudia watched how Chrysis imposed order as the orators took their stools either side of the peristyle pool. The chamberlain’s introduction was short and slightly sardonic as he bowed mockingly to both sides. He was well aware of his audience. The Christians might be supported by the Emperor, but there were many in court who regarded the new sect with either amusement at best, or, in some cases, downright hostility. Chrysis was about to withdraw when the Emperor raised his hand and proclaimed in ringing tones that the meeting was to be about matters of theology and nothing else. He warned sharply that if any orator wandered from the agenda set before them, that speaker would face his most severe displeasure. The imperial proclamation caused consternation on both sides, a great deal of leaning and whispering.

‘We are waiting,’ Chrysis sang out, gesturing towards the podium. Athanasius rose to his feet, bowed to the Emperor and his mother, then climbed on to the podium, carefully arranging his sheets of vellum. He stared round at the various notables and sketched a dramatic cross in the air before pausing head down, as if in prayer. Claudia watched with interest. She herself often amused her uncle’s guests with mime or playing out some role from one of the great classics. She recognised another actor in Athanasius. He began slowly, body tensed, voice rather low, but then relaxed, his voice echoing rich and mellow. Athanasius was also a scholar with a deep knowledge of the Greek tongue, not some bare-arsed philosopher or sophist playing with words or posing questions without giving answers. He immediately impressed his audience with quotations from the classics, before turning to his main theme, defining in very technical terms the Trinity and its three persons, Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He presented the dogma as radical and revolutionary, and cited one of the great Christian writers, John, quoting, he claimed, the first line of an account of a man who had lived and worked with Christ, seen him die and witnessed his Resurrection.

‘John writes,’ Athanasius paused, one finger jabbing the air, ‘that our witness actually declares, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”’ His mellow voice concentrated on the Greek for ‘the Word’, Ολογος, and he emphasised this before moving on to other texts which showed that the Word became Flesh. Justin was eager to intervene, but Athanasius was now in full flow, quoting further from the Gospels as well as from the writings of John, to demonstrate that Christ had claimed that he and the Father were one.

Claudia listened intently, drawn by the power of Athanasius’s oratory as well as by his critical scholarship, which was making a deep impression on his audience. Even Constantine was listening carefully, whilst Helena was tapping her foot, a common gesture when she was pleased. Claudia studied the faces around her. She glimpsed Gaius Tullius, eyes closed in concentration, Timothaeus beaming with pride, whilst beside him Sylvester nodded in agreement. She wanted to stay and listen but decided this was the best time to visit the scene of Dionysius’s murder. She slipped away from the crowd, along a warren of passageways and out through the garden into the orchard beyond. She entered the trees and noticed scuff marks on the ground, but she couldn’t decide if these had anything to do with the murder or were the traces of those who found the corpse.

When she reached the place where the philosopher had died, the grass was dark-stained with blood, above which flies buzzed. In the branches overhead a bullfinch chirped noisily as if resentful of her presence. Claudia crouched down on her hands and knees, scrutinising the ground carefully. She found the small holes where the pegs had been driven in and could trace a faint outline of how the corpse had lain.

‘So you died here,’ she murmured to herself.

She retraced her steps, examining the ground carefully, until she reached an apple tree. The ground beneath it also bore marks of blood, and some distance away lay a moss-covered stone. She picked this up; it was heavy, yet she could carry it out into the pool of sunlight near a small bed of flowers. She placed the stone on the ground, running her fingers over it. The lichen had been disturbed, and she found traces of blood and a few hairs. Claudia squatted on the ground and stared at the apple tree.

‘So, Dionysius,’ she whispered. ‘You were sitting there, meditating or sleeping. Your assassin comes creeping like a shadow. You are stunned with a blow to the head from this stone.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Then you’re dragged deeper into the trees to be murdered.’

Claudia walked lightly forward. She made a slight noise, so she took off her sandals and found that she could move silently across the grass. Satisfied that she had learnt all she could, she moved into an adjoining garden and across the lawn to the burnt-out remains of the House of Mourning, now reduced to a pile of blackened rubble. Near by, a slave squatted on the ground, staring dolefully at the ruins.

‘What are you doing here?’ Claudia asked.

‘The Captain of the Guard told me to stay here until he has examined the ruins more carefully, but there’s nothing to examine.’

The man was narrow-faced, his cheeks and chin unshaven. He plucked at a loose thread on his dirty gown.

‘I hope they don’t blame me,’ he moaned. ‘That was my duty, you know, to watch the dead, to keep the House of Mourning clean and generally look after things.’

Claudia sat down next to him.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Tell me precisely, not about the old man’s corpse but the one who was murdered in the orchard.’