Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

‘Oh, he was a proper mess,’ the slave replied. ‘The Captain of the Guard brought his corpse in and told me to wash it. There was a terrible wound,’ he patted the left side of his head, ‘while his body was sliced, arms, legs and chest, even the soles of his feet. He must have died in great pain. His eyes were still open, and that awful gag in his mouth, a piece of leather used to keep a door open.’

‘And the bonds?’ Claudia asked. ‘The ropes,’ she explained, ‘used to bind the victim’s hand and feet?’

‘They were still attached to his wrists and ankles, tied very tightly they were. I had to slice them with a knife.’

‘And what did you do with them?’

‘I threw them on the floor. You see, mistress, I was getting hungry, and when you’ve washed one corpse, well, you can only take so much in one day. I didn’t want to miss my ration so I thought I would finish him this morning.’ The fellow rubbed his stomach. ‘Of course, we were being fed scraps from the kitchen, so I ate well and went to sleep. The next thing I know the House of Mourning is burning.’

Claudia gave him a coin from her purse, then she rose and walked across to the blackened remains of the mortuary. She was still carrying her sandals, so she put these on and stepped on to the smouldering stretch of ash. The building had been completely destroyed, timbers and stones mixed together, covered in a fine white dust and blackened ash. She had to step carefully among the rubble. Eventually she crouched down and, using her dagger, sifted through the debris. She caught the faint smell of oil and a strange sickly sweetness. The two corpses must have been consumed totally by the fire, along with everything else the House of Mourning contained.

She left the building, the slave watching her curiously as she walked its circumference. The fire had been quite self-contained, because the House of Mourning stood on a plinth of stone well away from the garden. The grass around was scorched, but Claudia could detect no sign that the fire had been started by a flickering brand or a pot of burning oil hastily thrown in. She entered the ruins again, and this time the slave came over to help her move charred bricks and pieces of timber, yet there was still nothing to be found.

Claudia thanked the man and went across to the gardens and into a small shaded portico, erected so imperial residents could shelter from the sun. On the breeze she heard the sound of voices, occasional clapping, and she realised the debate must still be going on. She lay down on the grass, staring up through the gaps in the portico’s roof at the blue sky, scored by the occasional white wisp of cloud. She and Felix used to love doing this; when she was by herself, Claudia almost felt as if her brother had returned and was stretched out beside her, eyes watching her devotedly, wondering what his beloved elder sister would plan next. She blinked away the tears and concentrated on the mysteries at the Villa Pulchra. She had no explanation for the sword which had disappeared, whilst as for Dionysius’s death, there were a number of theories for the motive in a villa packed with suspects. Beneath the polished façade of this elegant country estate swirled deep, dark passions as old memories and grudges surfaced. Yet what mystified Claudia most was the total destruction of the House of Mourning. She had, in the light of no other evidence, firmly concluded that the arson was not a further indignity against the hapless Dionysius; the assassin simply wished to destroy something which, if closely examined, might reveal his or her true identity. Claudia’s eyes grew heavy. She thought of returning to the debate, but within minutes was fast asleep.

When she started awake, she realised from the lengthening shadow of a nearby tree that she had been asleep for some time.

‘I’ve been watching you.’ Claudia whirled round. A shadowy figure emerged, half concealed by a tree trunk.

‘Who are you?’ Claudia tried to rise but tripped on her robe.

‘Here, let me help.’

She felt a hand grasp her arm and stared up at Athanasius, his eyes not so harsh now. She thanked him, a little embarrassed about her suspicions, as Athanasius brushed the blades of grass from her tunic.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’ Athanasius smiled. ‘I can see the debate had, at least, one good effect: you were fast asleep. After I deliver a speech, I always like to soothe my mind, cool the blood, so I go for a walk.’

‘Did you win?’ Claudia sat down on the grass, and Athanasius joined her.

‘Well, there wasn’t a vote.’ Athanasius chewed on his lip and stared at a point behind Claudia. He squinted. ‘No, there wasn’t a vote,’ he repeated, ‘but I think we made our point. Justin was unable to answer my authorities, the quotations from the scriptures. He became confused and rather garbled. I think we carried the day.’

‘Why did Dionysius offer to come over to your party?’

Athanasius shrugged. ‘Promotions, honours, wealth. He recognised the way the wind was blowing.’

‘So he could have been murdered by one of his own party?’

‘Or one of ours?’ Athanasius sniffed. ‘Religion is like politics, Claudia. We may all sing the same hymn but that doesn’t mean we like to be part of the choir. Dionysius might have provided us with information about possible traitors in our own ranks.’

‘Could he have been connected with the Lapsi?’

‘Ah!’ Athanasius smiled. ‘So you know all about that — I saw you whispering with the Augusta. I wondered where the information came from. No surprise that the Emperor issued his decree.’ He leaned forward, joining his hands as if in prayer. ‘You see, Claudia, the oratory school in Capua is quite famous. Many Christian families fled there eager to escape the persecution in Rome. When Diocletian launched his attack, Capua was especially singled out. The authorities moved spies and informants into the town. We suddenly received a new influx of would-be scholars, some of them genuine, others looking for mischief. By the way, I’m not saying you’re a spy.’

‘Oh, but you’re wrong, Magister.’ Claudia smiled. ‘I am a spy but not a traitor. There is a distinction.’

‘I don’t know what really happened,’ Athanasius continued. ‘We hid our sacred vessels away, and met at night in underground caverns or out in the countryside. We were safe, or thought we were, until all the demons of Hell were let loose. The raids grew more intense, more people were roped in. A troop of torturers arrived from Rome and the questioning began.’

‘Were you arrested?’

‘Yes, yes, I was. I was much younger then but I had powerful patrons and I had been taught my lesson well. If you are ever questioned, Claudia, do not remain silent but tell them a story, any story, as long as it holds together. I was released and fled before the real persecution began. Others were not so lucky. Some broke, some died under the torture, quite a number were dispatched to Rome to face a hideous death.’

‘And Dionysius?’ Claudia asked softly.

‘Dionysius was barely out of his teens, a recent convert; something like you, Claudia, a messenger, a man who travelled between the various groups. He would know the places and times. He too was released around the same time I was.’ Athanasius paused, clicking his tongue, and Claudia could see he was fighting back the tears. ‘Shortly afterwards the Roman authorities became, how can I put it, more fortunate in their searches. And the prisons overflowed with their Christian prisoners.’

‘Was Dionysius suspected of being an Iscariot, a traitor?’

‘We were all suspected, myself included. The nightmare of the situation is that dozens of people died gruesome deaths.’

‘So,’ Claudia replied slowly, ‘Dionysius could have been killed by his own party because they knew he was about to betray them. He could have been killed by one of your party because he was bringing information that might pose a threat. Or the killer could be someone else, settling scores for a relative or friend caught up in a savage persecution which began a decade ago.’