Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

‘But you are in danger.’

‘No, no.’ Helena’s face became flushed with excitement. ‘We are playing a game, Claudia, as dangerous as any your Murranus faces in the arena. At Nicomedia in the East, Licinius, our rival, sits and plots, or should I say, lounges and plots,’ Helena added drily. ‘He’s received information that his great rival Constantine has gone to his summer residence not far from the coast, and has decided to strike. I shall frustrate that and, at the same time, show my beloved son that Licinius has to be destroyed.’

‘You want war, don’t you?’ Claudia stared at this middle-aged woman. Once again the legions would march and the world echo with the clash of empires. ‘You want war,’ she repeated.

‘No, Claudia, I want peace. I want those who write history to talk of the great Pax Augusta, a time when the world slept, when the harvest grew and was collected, when people lived in peace.’ Helena leaned a little closer in a gust of fragrant perfume and sweet wine. ‘A new Empire, Claudia, with a new line of Emperors, a new state religion which binds everyone together. We will never have that whilst Licinius and his gang strut the East and look for an opening. That’s the way of the world,’ Helena added wearily. ‘Wars don’t begin,’ she stared round, ‘in the council chambers of kings and princes, but often in boudoirs like this where a single decision is made and the die is cast. Now, little one,’ she pressed a finger against Claudia’s lips, ‘keep these sealed. Tell no one, trust me, and make sure Narcissus enjoys his freedom.’

Claudia left the Empress’s quarters and walked back to her own chamber. She stopped at a window embrasure and looked out at the flowers. Their scent was heavy, and even the bees and butterflies seemed to be overcome by such a fragrant opiate, a warm, lazy place ablaze with colour. She stared at a bust of some long-forgotten Emperor gazing sightlessly from its plinth. She walked over and read its inscription, short and terse, giving glory to the ‘Divine Hadrian’. She studied the heavily bearded and moustached face, the sharp nose, the eyes carved as if the Emperor was looking upwards, a fashion sculptors had imitated from the many carvings and paintings of Alexander the Great.

‘I wonder,’ Claudia murmured, ‘if in a hundred years someone will stare at a bust of the Augusta?’

She recalled the Empress’s impassioned speech, and for a moment she was pricked by suspicion about the Augusta’s intentions. Was Helena merely a spectator in all that was happening? Or was she, once again, controlling events? Claudia dismissed this as unworthy. She remembered Narcissus and hurried back to her own chamber. The chamberlain announced that the embalmer was still asleep, so Claudia sent for the court leech, who came shuffling along with a phial of pungent oil. He half dragged Narcissus up, pushed the oil beneath his nose and gently slapped his face. Narcissus wakened with a shake of his head, eyes fluttering. The leech examined him carefully, telling him to open his mouth, feeling the blood pulse in his neck and dragging down the folds of skin beneath his eyes, all the time keeping up a commentary to himself.

‘Shall I bring some wine?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yes, yes, that’ll be very nice,’ the leech replied. When it arrived, the fellow promptly drank it, declared the patient was in better shape than he was and left. Narcissus pulled himself up.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he gasped, sinking back on the bed. ‘I truly don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’ Claudia smiled. ‘Your observations were most valuable; you are a free man, Narcissus.’

He stared at her, then burst into tears.

‘What shall I do? What shall I do?’ he wailed. ‘I cannot go back to Damascus. All my kith and kin are dead, those who survived will only think I’m a spy. I know nobody in Rome, I’ve got no money.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Claudia was about to berate him when there was a knock on the door and an official entered, one of the Emperor’s pretty boys, with black curly hair and smooth face. He was garbed in a skimpy tunic which showed his long legs off to their best effect.

‘Claudia?’ He looked her up and down, glanced at Narcissus sprawled on the bed, and sniggered behind splayed fingers, the nails of which were painted a bright scarlet. Around his wrist was fastened the leather strap displaying the seal of an official nuntius , or messenger, of the Imperial Chancery. He handed over a scroll and a small leather pouch, which clinked as it fell into Claudia’s hand. ‘I think,’ he lisped, ‘this is for your friend,’ and he flounced out.

Claudia broke the seal, undid the scroll and read the opening words: ‘Helena Augusta, Beloved Mother. .’ The usual phrases followed. Claudia handed it to Narcissus. ‘Your freedom,’ she declared, ‘and some coins to help you on your way.’

She grasped Narcissus’s hand; the man was still shaking, staring down at the scroll and bag of coins lying in his lap.

‘You can lodge with my uncle,’ she offered. ‘He owns a tavern near the Flavian Gate.’

Narcissus’s eyes welled up.

‘Oh, no,’ she protested, ‘don’t start crying again, you can do that later. Until we leave here you are to be my companion; there must be some small chamber nearby.’ Her smile widened. ‘You are already my friend and I want some help.’

Narcissus opened his mouth to wail, glimpsed Claudia’s determined look and forced a smile.

‘Whatever you say.’

Claudia brought him a fresh goblet of wine. The passageway outside was now busy with servants hurrying to and fro with platters of fruit and jugs of wine as the imperial guests roused themselves from their slumbers. She let Narcissus drain the cup.

‘Narcissus, never mind your good fortune. I want you to remember Dionysius’s corpse. You are an embalmer, you are skilled in scrutinising the dead; was there anything,’ Claudia searched for the words, ‘significant, exceptional about it?’

Narcissus scratched his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he declared. ‘All I can remember is a corpse slit, gashed and drenched in blood. I did wonder whether, as Dionysius was an Arian, there were special burial rites, I mean different from the orthodox. Ah.’ Narcissus lifted a hand. ‘No, no, there was something! There were more cuts on the right side of the corpse than the left. Does that mean the killer was right-handed? And the blow to the head was on the right side as well. Isn’t it true, Claudia, that a killer will approach from the side he is used to; a left-handed man will attack me from the left. .?’

‘I don’t know,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘I never thought of that. I should ask Murranus, but there again, most people are right-handed. Anything else?’ she added.

‘Some of the wounds looked like crosses, you know, lines scored across each other. The body was put on a slab and I remember loosening the cords, but by then I’d had enough and left soon afterwards. By the way, who is Murranus?’

‘He’s a gladiator, a friend of mine. Listen, Narcissus, you deal with the human body,’ Claudia smiled, ‘the dead rather than the living; do you know anything about poisons and their effect?’

‘Oh yes.’ Narcissus’s tired face came to life. ‘Some poisons are very easy to hide. You’d think the victim died of a seizure or some internal wound, but the organs of a corpse never lie. When you take out a heart that’s black and shrivelled or a stomach which stinks like a sewer, you do wonder how that person truly died. Oh, indeed,’ he continued, ‘I’ve many a time embalmed a poor man whose organs had changed colour or reeked like a camel pen, then watched the grieving widow and wondered what the truth really was. Why do you ask?’