Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

A short while later, Helena, sitting on a stool next to her son, Claudia crouching beside her, waited for the arrival of Burrus and his prisoners. Rufinus, Chrysis and Sylvester had also been invited to this splendid chamber with scenes from the history of Rome decorating the walls under its domed ceiling, the star-painted plaster reflected in the sheen of the pure marble floor beneath. The windows were unshuttered and, because the hypocaust was sealed for the summer, the chamber was warmed by dishes of glowing charcoal and lit by countless lamps which a slave was tending. Gaius and his officers stood guard at the door. They stepped aside as Burrus and his captives swept into the chamber.

The barbarians looked ferocious and sinister, with their tangled hair and beards, faces, arms and weapons still splattered with blood. They dragged three prisoners with them, young men, cut and dirty, stripped to their loincloths, hands bound behind them. These were forced to kneel and give their names and ranks. One was a simple soldier, the other two were officers, decurions, from the garrison at Athens.

Helena snapped at Burrus to deliver his report, warning him not to brag. The German obeyed, describing how the attackers had made a mistake in following the path. He had killed their stragglers, rolling the line up like a piece of string until launching an all-out assault, surrounding them and carrying out bloody slaughter. Some of the attackers had fled back to the beach, where the galley had been protected by a line of archers. Burrus did not wish to expose his men and retreated, watching from the sand hills as the galley with its crew drifted back out to sea.

‘But it was beached?’ Constantine demanded.

‘No, Excellency.’ Burrus shook his head. ‘They had already dragged it back into the water. It was too dangerous to attack.’

Helena turned to the prisoners, but they could tell her very little. They described how the galley had left the main battle fleet and lurked off the Italian coast until the captain had taken their ship in. They had been told what to attack and nothing more.

‘Kill them!’ Chrysis slurred. ‘Take them outside and crucify them.’

Helena raised her hand. She got up from her stool and crouched in front of the prisoners.

‘Are you Roman citizens?’ she asked.

The two officers nodded, but the soldier was a mere hireling.

Helena unpinned a paper-thin silver brooch from her gown. She whispered to her son, who smiled and nodded in agreement, then handed the brooch to Burrus.

‘Break it in two,’ she ordered. ‘Go on,’ she urged, ‘do as I say.’

The German took the brooch, snapped it and handed both pieces back to Helena. She crouched in front of one of the officers and placed half of the brooch on the ground before him.

‘You’re not going to die,’ she said. ‘You are all going to be washed and fed, given a fresh set of clothes, a hot meal and some soft straw for a bed. Tomorrow morning my mercenaries will take you down to the nearest port. You can take whatever ship you want back to Corinth or Piraeus, on one condition: you tell Licinius that the attack failed, and that I will root out the traitor. You will give him a gift, half of this silver brooch, and tell him, don’t forget this, that one day soon my son will come to claim that half of the brooch back.’

Claudia rose early next morning and went immediately to the small chancery room between the atrium and the peristyle garden. The storm had broken during the night, the flower beds and paving stones were saturated and the sky still looked greyish dull. Claudia reckoned it must be at least an hour before sunrise. Slaves were slowly mustering, beginning the routine of the day, tidying the gardens and clearing food from the triclinium. The villa had turned into an armed camp: sentries had been doubled, soldiers patrolled the colonnades, archers had been posted on rooftops and the upper storeys of buildings. Helena’s Germans had spent the hours of darkness roistering boisterously but were still able to patrol the gardens. They had set up camp around the gates and were now busy taunting the regular soldiers. Claudia could hear their shouts and guffaws of laughter even from the chancery room.

She slipped in, closed the door and hastily collected a writing pallet, styli, strips of ready parchment, ink pots, a pumice stone and a sand shaker. She put these carefully into her leather scribe’s bag and went into the kitchen to beg a small jug of watered beer and a platter of yesterday’s bread, some hard cheese and ripe plums. Once she’d eaten, she returned to her own chamber, secured the door, cleared a corner and squatted down cross-legged, the writing tray across her lap. She positioned the ink pot on the floor, sharpened a stylus, soaked the tip and began to write down the problems confronting her.

Gladius Sanctus — The Holy Sword

Primo:

The sword hung on a chain above a broad circle of sand. The chain could only be moved away from the centre by someone with a long pole, spear or sword. They might still have to stand on the sand, which would be disturbed. The door was guarded by two Germans, the keys held by Timothaeus and Burrus.

Secundo:

On the day in question, Timothaeus entered the chamber. The sword had gone. Timothaeus fainted and was carried out. No one else was there. The Germans were terrified at what they regarded as a holy place. The cellar was searched carefully by Gaius Tullius. Nothing was found. Nothing was out of place, although the sand had been disturbed due to Timothaeus fainting. Now the steward was lifted out on a stretcher; he could scarcely have hidden the sword on him — that would have been noticed. If he had taken in a rod or hook, that too would have been observed. The only thing he carried was a lantern horn scarcely big enough to hide anything in. If the sword or implement was hidden in the cellar, Gaius Tullius would have found it in his search.

Tertio:

The door to the cellar had two locks, the keys held separately. From everything I observed and heard there was no evidence of any trickery here.

Quarto:

Narcissus was one of those who helped carry Timothaeus’s stretcher out of the cellar.

Claudia drew a line and made a second heading:

Dionysius

Then she nibbled the end of the stylus and stared at the wall. The philosopher’s death was the key to so much mystery; that and the burning of the House of Mourning. She dipped her stylus and began to write.

Primo:

Dionysius had gone to the orchard to think, to be alone. Or had he been invited there? He was sitting with his back to the tree when he was stunned by a blow to the head. Once weakened, he was apparently gagged and bound, dragged into the trees, pegged out like a lion skin, cut countless times and allowed to bleed to death.

Secundo:

Dionysius’s corpse was moved to the House of Mourning, joining that of an old beggar man. According to all the evidence, the cords and gag were removed but nothing remarkable was noticed.

Tertio:

Later that same day, after darkness, the House of Mourning was consumed by a ferocious fire. Did the killer burn the corpse to hide some mistake, some clue to his identity? Was it to start the beacon fire, or both? Such arson would have been easy to arrange. A cord leading to a cluster of oil skins which was lit whilst the perpetrator fled into the darkness. Yet would oil burn so fiercely as to create such an inferno?