Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

‘They are now yours,’ Burrus translated, ‘in peace and war. Blood and fire will be no deterrent. You’ve just acquired two brothers, Claudia.’

She stared down at these new additions to her family, smiled and whispered her thanks. Once again the horde closed in for further communal squeezing. Claudia, breathless and feeling rather bruised, thrust the figurines into Burrus’s hands.

‘For the love of life,’ she swore an oath Burrus used, ‘take these bloody things back to where you found them and never, never do that again.’ She held his gaze. ‘Now you can do me a favour. I want you to come to the cellar where the Holy Sword hung.’

They all followed her obediently along the colonnade, out across the gardens, through the peristyle court and down the steps leading to the cellar. At the bottom they would go no further but stood like children chattering amongst themselves. Burrus explained they still regarded the cellar as a sacred precinct haunted by Christian spirits.

‘Very well,’ Claudia sighed. ‘The rest of you brutes go back to the peristyle. Burrus, I want the two guards who were on duty the day the sword disappeared.’ Burrus rapped out orders. For a while there was confusion. The Germans didn’t really want to leave; they were quite fascinated by this wily little creature with the face of one of their wood elves who had managed to trick a powerful officer and so rescue two of their comrades. Nevertheless, after Burrus had shouted and slapped a few, they shuffled back up the steps. Claudia was not surprised that the two guards left were the Sulkers. They stood looking rather embarrassed, one staring at the wall as if fascinated by the brickwork, the other gazing at the floor as if he had lost something precious.

‘Burrus,’ Claudia tugged at the mercenary’s cloak, ‘did you take the sword?’

He replied in a flurry of oaths, which his companions repeated.

‘Very well,’ Claudia declared. ‘Show me what happened that day.’

The two guards took up position either side of the door, squatting down on their haunches. Burrus showed how Timothaeus had inserted his key and so had he.

‘And you’re sure the door was locked?’ Claudia asked.

Burrus grunted a yes.

‘Now the door swings open.’ Claudia noticed the two Sulkers didn’t move, but Burrus jumped away as if someone was lurking in the darkness beyond. She went inside, and heard the door close behind her. She opened it and went back outside.

‘Are you sure that happened? I mean, the door was closed?’

Burrus agreed.

‘Did Timothaeus carry a lamp?’

‘Oh yes,’ the German retorted, using his hands to describe it. ‘One of those lantern horns.’

‘I see. Fetch me one.’

The mercenary Captain hurried off and came back with a large lantern horn, its frame made of bronze, the four sides hard sheets of polished vellum. Claudia opened the latch; inside, an oil lamp was fixed to the centre. One of the guards brought a tinder, the lamp was lit and Claudia returned to the cellar. She picked up one of the stools, sat by the edge of the circle of sand and stared up at the empty hook. She closed her eyes. Timothaeus came in here, she thought, he fainted. She opened her eyes and dug her hand deep in the sand. What had happened? How had that sword disappeared?

‘Burrus,’ she called. The German wouldn’t answer, so Claudia went out. She asked if the cellar had been thoroughly searched after the theft. Burrus nodded.

‘I think so, but it was obvious the sword had gone.’

‘But had it?’ Claudia asked. Whilst sitting in the cellar, the seed of a new idea had taken root.

Claudia left the cellar and returned to the peristyle gardens. She watched servants pruning the luxuriant rose bushes which grew along a trellis dividing the lawn from the shady colonnade. A slave came and asked her if she wanted anything from the kitchen. Claudia smiled her thanks. A short while later another slave appeared bearing a tray with a well-stocked platter of smoked fish and vine leaves, savoury barley, eggs poached in wine, and a slice of cheese and pastry pie, as well as two goblets of white wine.

‘Two?’ Claudia lifted her head, shading her eyes against the sun. She recognised the slave as the same one she’d questioned near the ruined House of Mourning.

‘You wish to drink with me?’

The man’s tired face broke into a smile.

‘I would dearly love so, mistress. I apologise for my impudence, but you have a kind face and a generous heart.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Narcissus. I am, by nation, a Syrian.’ Without being invited, he sat down next to Claudia. ‘I was by profession an embalmer. I looked after the dead until I was swept up in a stupid revolt just outside Damascus.’

Claudia pushed the wine cup into his hands.

‘You know how it is,’ Narcissus continued woefully. ‘Some idiot begins a fight. The innocent are drawn in, the legions arrive, the leaders are crucified and the rest are sold to slavery, end of story.’ His face grew even more lugubrious. ‘I used to be known as Narcissus the Neat, I was so skilled in my trade! I was especially proud of my precision in preparing a corpse. I always broke the nose bone with the greatest of ease and drew the brains out without creating too much mess.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Claudia interrupted, staring at the food. ‘But how did you become involved in the revolt?’

Narcissus drained his goblet, and Claudia emptied hers into his. The slave relaxed sipping at the second goblet of wine, staring at Claudia like a hungry puppy.

‘To answer your question, mistress, I lived five miles outside of Damascus. This madman appeared, calling himself Simon the Saviour, a great sombre-faced brute. He had been to Egypt and learnt a few tricks. He promised that those who believed in him would live for ever beyond the Far Horizon; they would die but, if they were followers of the god Osiris and were buried according to the sacred rite, they would not only live for ever but would be able to come back and assume different forms.’

‘Surely you didn’t believe that nonsense?’

‘No, I didn’t. But my wife did, though that was because she was sleeping with Simon, our so-called Saviour.’

Narcissus paused, watching a crowd of courtiers cluster in the colonnade. They had surrounded Athanasius, congratulating him in their high-pitched voices.

‘I had no choice,’ Narcissus continued. ‘Some people answer to God; I answered to a higher authority, my wife. Anyway,’ he blew his cheeks out, ‘Simon said he needed me because I was an embalmer. The stupid fanatic seized a fort on the edge of the desert and proclaimed that the Day of the Far Horizon had arrived. We raised the standard of Osiris and defied the local governor. He sent troops, a tribune with a force of foot and cavalry. My wife was killed, Simon the Saviour impaled.’ Narcissus sniffed. ‘That gave me some satisfaction, even though I ended up on the slave block.’ He looked at the platter of food and swallowed hard. Claudia heard his stomach grumble.

‘Eat,’ she ordered, handing it over, ‘and I mean eat. You are my guest, Narcissus, I’ll take responsibility.’

The slave needed no second bidding and attacked the food like a ravenous wolf. Claudia got to her feet, went over to a side table laid out in the shade and brought back another jug of wine. Narcissus was busy stuffing food into his mouth. Claudia felt a deep compassion for this middle-aged man, who was so hungry he had forgotten his status in order to fill his belly. Some of the courtiers were looking at her strangely; a pompous chamberlain, a eunuch, came waddling over. Claudia told him to stay well away.