Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

Claudia withdrew her hand. What could she do? She thought of Murranus moving like a dancer across the sand in the school of gladiators. She felt her empty stomach lurch and a slight flutter of her heart. She pulled across a platter of food, then started at the braying sound of a war horn. The noise and clatter in the triclinium died away. Gaius Tullius sprang to his feet. Constantine lurched from his couch, sitting on its edge, eyes popping, mouth open. The doors were flung open and Helena entered. She whispered to her son, who would have sprung to his feet, but the Empress, standing behind him, pressed firmly on his shoulder.

‘My lords, ladies, fellow guests.’ She smiled sweetly around. ‘The alarm has been raised. This villa is under attack, but,’ her voice rose to a shout, ‘everything is under control. I ask you to return to your own chambers and stay there. My son and I, with others,’ she glared at Claudia, ‘will remain behind.’

She raised a hand, snapping her fingers. Burrus and a contingent of Germans entered the chamber. From the blood on Burrus’s arms, the mud splattered on his face, the dirt and gorse which clung to his clothes, it was obvious that he had just returned from a savage affray. More of his guard entered. Gaius Tullius made to protest, but Helena barked at him to go about his duties, then clapped her hands. ‘Come now,’ she shouted. ‘You all have your orders!’

The triclinium soon emptied, except for Constantine, Helena, Chrysis, who looked fit for nothing, the priest Sylvester, Rufinus and Claudia. More mercenaries entered, some of them newcomers from the camp which lay halfway between Rome and the Villa Pulchra. Constantine raised a hand, now intent on listening to the trumpets and horns, the sounds of running feet in the corridor outside.

‘It is useless,’ Helena snapped. ‘Such preparations are now useless. I have everything under control.’ She picked up her cloak, which was lying over the edge of her couch. ‘I’ve given strict instructions, the gates are not to be opened.’

‘Why not!’ Constantine yelled like a little boy. ‘My soldiers. .’

‘Son,’ Helena lowered her voice, but the others in the room could still hear, ‘the gates will remain closed until I say. At this moment in time, this hour of treachery, we do not know who we will be letting out, and if the gates remain closed, we will at least have some control over those who are let in. Now come, none of your bawling or shouting, it will do no good.’

Helena swept from the chamber, the rest following. Constantine kept pace with his mother, muttering obscenities under his breath. They were ringed by Burrus’s men, who carried shields and drawn swords. The imperial staff officers standing in the corridors could only gaze helplessly on. They looked to the Emperor for a sign, but Constantine was no fool; drunk or not, he knew his mother was speaking sense. This was the hour of treachery and he trusted her implicitly.

They crossed the peristyle garden, through the atrium, where the oil lamps still glowed before the household gods, and started down the main path, past gardens and groves, to the gate. The area before this was now aglow with lighted braziers and small bonfires, and more of Burrus’s men clustered around, guarding the gate with a ring of steel. Pitch torches spluttered on their stands along the parapet of the curtain wall. The steps to this were also guarded, the Germans swiftly standing aside as Helena swept up, her son stumbling behind her. At the top, the strong night breeze whipped their hair and fluttered their cloaks; Claudia had to protect her face against the sparks from the crackling torches. She glanced up. Storm clouds were gathering, moving fast together, blotting out the stars. Beneath her, guarding the external approaches to the gate, a contingent of Germans formed a horseshoe pattern, shields up, ready for any enemy. They looked ominous and sinister, their shadows long and shifting in the light from the roaring bonfire.

Helena called for silence. All chatter died, and Claudia heard it, a low, distant clamour coming from the darkness of the trees. At first she thought it was armed men massing for attack, until she heard the clash of weapons and faint cries, and glimpsed a glow of burning amongst the trees. A fierce bloody fight was taking place in the woods stretching down to the coast, warrior against warrior, in the pitch darkness of night.

‘We have them!’ Helena exulted. ‘My boys have caught them in the dark amongst the trees. To them that’s Germany and the enemy are the Legions of Varus.’

‘It’s bad luck,’ Chrysis slurred, ‘to talk of that.’ He was immediately told to shut up.

‘Mother, dearest,’ Constantine rasped, ‘I need an explanation, a drink, or both.’

The Emperor would have continued, but the clamour of battle grew more distinct. Claudia realised why the sounds of the fight had not been heard in the villa. Burrus’s Germans must have trapped the enemy deep in the woods, driving them back to the coast. She also appreciated Helena’s reluctance to share her knowledge of the attack or order the dispatch of imperial troops. The men dying in the woods had been brought here by a traitor; the real enemy was within. Constantine was Emperor because his troops had hailed him as such. He would not be the first to be overthrown by those close to him. On this issue Helena had instructed her son, pointing out that virtually every single Emperor who had been assassinated had been killed by those very close to him.

‘I feel sick,’ Chrysis moaned. ‘It’s like standing on the deck of a ship.’

Claudia watched the fat chamberlain hurry down the steps into the gardens, where the imperial garrison was beginning to muster under the direction of their officers. He headed into the bushes, and Claudia wondered if he had been plotting. She heard Helena exclaim and turned back. The Empress was pointing to where a tongue of flame was shooting against the blackness.

‘Someone was carrying a pot of oil or a bucket of pitch,’ Helena murmured.

The clamour and yells were now dying. Claudia was leaning against the wall, staring into the night, when the quiet was abruptly broken by a strange chanting. She recognised a favourite battle song of the mercenaries. Dark figures emerged from the trees, racing towards the gates; others carrying torches followed more slowly. A few of the figures danced like demons in the light, whirling round, leaping up and down, shaking the bundles in their hands. As they approached, Claudia realised these bundles were in fact severed heads. Other figures, a veritable flood, were emerging from the wood. Burrus, who had been guarding the gate, now went out to greet his companions, who clustered beneath the curtain wall staring devotedly up at their mistress. They saluted her with a clash of swords, raucous shouts and frenetic dancing, all the time shaking their grisly trophies. Other figures came more slowly up behind this group, and Claudia saw they were guarding a few prisoners.

The Augusta, leaning against the wall, her face and shoulders illuminated by a gleaming torch held by her son, lifted her hands in greeting and shouted that they were a horde of ruffians but she loved them dearly.

‘Let them in,’ Helena sighed, pushing herself away from the wall. ‘Let my lovely boys come in. Let them drink and eat to their hearts’ content, then it’ll be time for their beds.’

The gates were thrown open and the Germans swaggered in. Helena declared she could not stand any more of their salutations.

‘Now’s the time to think and talk,’ she snapped. ‘Claudia, tend to me. Son, praise the boys. Tell them that you kiss and hug them individually, promise them fresh meats and deep-bowled cups of wine. Order Burrus to bring the prisoners to the council chamber.’