Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

‘If you wanted food,’ Claudia whispered, ‘you should have asked, but there again,’ she patted his shoulder, ‘I should have noticed.’

‘I wasn’t just hungry,’ he replied between mouthfuls. ‘I wanted to tell you about the fires.’

‘Yes, I know, the House of Mourning was burnt.’

‘No, the fires,’ he repeated. ‘I have to tell someone what I saw. Last night, as I’ve said, I ate well and drank deep, on not very good ale. I became truly drunk and fell asleep just behind the latrines. I was roused by the clamour caused by the House of Mourning burning. I jumped up and ran round; the flames had caught hold. Gods, I thought, they’ll blame me! I’ll be for the stake or the cross, so I fled. I jumped the wall and ran to the top of the hill. This villa is built on the side where the ground has been levelled off. Anyways,’ Narcissus wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘there I sat, staring at the stars above me, wondering what I should do. If I ran away they’d certainly blame me. Indeed, I had nothing to fear by staying. I had witnesses to say where I was, and the House of Mourning was left safe. There was no lamp there, no oil, nothing which could cause such a blaze. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d-’

‘And?’ Claudia interrupted.

‘I calmed down. I stared up at the stars, the air was cool and sweet. I closed my eyes. I swear I could smell the jonquil which grew so rich and profuse in the valley where I played when I was a boy. Anyway,’ Narcissus hurried on, ‘I opened my eyes. From where I sat, I could still see the House of Mourning, but, staring out over the countryside, I glimpsed other fires.’

‘What?’ Claudia exclaimed.

‘Other fires, mistress. They weren’t blazing when I first arrived, I’m sure of that. But staring into the darkness, I could see one in the middle distance, then another a little further on. At the time I didn’t think anything about it. I thought they were harvest fires, but there’s been no harvest yet. Such blazes aren’t lit for at least another two months. Then I thought about Simon the Saviour.’

‘What about him?’ Claudia tried to curb her exasperation.

‘That was what he did when the revolt started. He lit beacon fires, piles of brushwood oiled and flamed. He called them the Lights of Heaven, much good it did him.’

Claudia stared around the exquisite, sophisticated garden. The peristyle was now filling up as more courtiers and officials wandered down to eat from the banqueting tables and take their rest in the coolness and fragrance of this lovely garden. She felt a shiver of fear. Something about Narcissus’s account stirred her own memories of the previous evening. She recalled walking over to that sycamore tree where the imperial family were sitting. That was it! The night breeze had been blowing against her, in the direction of the burning House of Mourning, yet she still smelt wood smoke. What if Narcissus was correct? Was the House of Mourning a beacon light? A signal to someone outside which was then sent on? During her travels up and down Italy, as a member of the acting troupe, Claudia had seen the marching armies and heard the clash of battle. She recalled the dark hills further north, the beacon fires burning in the dead of night as the armies of Rome manoeuvred to face each other in bloody confrontation.

‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘did you look the other way?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were sitting on the hill staring down at the villa, yes? That lies to the south. Were there fires to the east and west, or behind you to the north? I’m giving rough calculations,’ she added. ‘Were the fires you saw in a direct line beneath you or all around you?’

‘No, all before me, I could see nothing to the right or left. By the way, I’ve worked here for five years, I know my directions.’

Claudia’s unease deepened. Narcissus was correct. Why were such fires blazing at the height of summer? According to him they were not brushwood or forest fires caused by the heat, but deliberately lit. If they were beacon fires, what was it all about? She racked her brains; there were no great feasts or celebrations. Should she tell the Augusta? Yet what if she was wrong? Claudia stood up.

‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Where to? What for?’

‘For a summer’s day’s ride. Go down to the stables and ask the grooms, on the authority of Claudia, messenger of the Augusta, to prepare my horse — it’s a gentle cob — and a mount for you.’

‘I prefer to walk,’ Narcissus grumbled. ‘That’s how I was captured! Instead of running away, I stole a horse and fell off.’ Muttering to himself, the slave hurried from the garden.

Claudia returned to her own chamber. All was in order. She filled her purse with some coins and collected her hat. A short while later, a water pannikin slung over the cob’s saddle-horn, she and Narcissus left by a side gate. The villa was now falling silent as the imperial family and guests took their rest against the heat of the day. The same was true of the guards beyond the wall. Claudia noticed that these were few and far between and had retreated into the shade of the trees. She reined in and stared back. Narcissus, walking beside her, swinging a staff, stopped and gazed curiously up at her.

‘Are you frightened?’

‘No, just cautious. Tell me,’ Claudia continued, ‘did you know when the Emperor was about to arrive?’

‘No, everyone was in quite a state. The kitchen master asked the Captain of the Guard, but he didn’t know. The Emperor comes and goes like the breeze. All the stewards and chamberlains had been told was that, once the games were over, the Emperor would leave Rome.’ Narcissus shrugged. ‘It was business as usual until that sword was stolen. By the Lord of Light,’ he sighed, ‘what a commotion! People running here and there. You know, I was ordered to help carry that fat steward Timothaeus from the cellar. White as snow he was, I thought he’d died. Oh well, I reflected, here’s another whose nose I’ll have to break-’

‘Thank you,’ Claudia intervened hastily.

When they reached the crossroads they turned on to a track towards where Narcissus had seen the first fire. The slave had become lost in his own thoughts, comforted by a full belly and the wine singing in his blood. He smiled contentedly, humming a tune under his breath. The countryside basked in the summer sun. They passed avenues of lime, plane and sycamore trees; occasionally they caught a glimpse of the red-brown earth, of green pastures turning yellow under the boiling sun. Fields of corn, barley and rye ripened in the summer’s warmth. They passed small farmsteads where the air reeked with the stench of manure, milk and hay. The silence was broken by the bark of a dog or the strident call of a goose. Swallows, buzzards, starlings and sparrows swooped above them, darting in and out of the trees, and the constant chatter of the crickets was broken occasionally by the whine of some other insect or the monotonous buzzing of bees.

Claudia felt her eyes grow heavy. She wasn’t the best of horse riders, yet the saddle was strong and the horse was gentle. For a while she dozed. She just hoped that Narcissus had a good memory as well as a sharp sense of direction.

‘I’m sure it was here.’ Narcissus shook her awake. They had reached a stretch of arable land to the left of the track, lying fallow as the season passed.

Claudia dismounted, leapt across the narrow ditch and walked into the field. At the far end, a hedgerow divided it from the next strip of land. The ground was hard and crusty underfoot. An occasional bird pecked at the soil.

‘I’m sure it was here,’ Narcissus repeated. ‘We’ve just passed a farmhouse. I remember staring at it. Shouldn’t we hobble your horse?’