Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

The villa had been roused by the kitchen maid, who’d run through the gardens screaming her head off and, when stopped by the guards, was unable to give a coherent explanation of what she had seen. The chef, however, had been coolly nonchalant and had searched out Gaius Tullius to raise the alarm. Helena herself had come down to the cellar, stared at the corpses and given vent to her fury, snapping at Athanasius and Sylvester that the debate was now over. She had also turned on Claudia, hissing her disapproval.

‘The Holy Sword has gone.’ Helena wiped a white fleck of spittle from the corner of her mouth. ‘Three of the orators are dead, my son is attacked. Little mouse, you know nothing. You’ve discovered nothing.’

Claudia knew better than to argue back; she had simply stood, head down, whilst Helena raged and fumed before stalking away.

Now Claudia walked back to the buildings and stared up at a cornice embellished with the face of a laughing Bacchus. Some distance away, Burrus and his guard were watching her intently. She heard a sound and whirled round. Sylvester, with Timothaeus trailing behind him, had appeared as if out of nowhere. The presbyter stood in the shadow of the oak, staring sadly down at the two corpses.

‘The devil is an assassin,’ he declared, not raising his head. ‘I wonder why Dionysius died in such a macabre way. And now these two. The killer certainly hated them.’

‘I agree,’ Claudia replied.

‘But the killer is also mocking our faith.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claudia asked.

‘Study your history, Claudia. Dionysius, Septimus and Justin all died deaths similar to those of our martyrs in the arena: cut and sliced, left to bleed to death; flogged senseless and exposed-’

‘And shot to death like Sebastian.’ Claudia finished the sentence.

‘Wouldn’t you agree, Timothaeus?’ Sylvester called over his shoulder. The sad-faced steward nodded in agreement.

‘Presbyter?’

‘Yes, Claudia.’

‘May I have a word in private?’

Sylvester walked over. Claudia plucked him by the sleeve and took him out of earshot of both Timothaeus and Narcissus.

‘Do you have anything to do with this?’ she asked. Sylvester glanced at her in shocked amazement.

‘With murder? Torture? Claudia, I intrigue, I plot, but I don’t kill.’

Claudia held his gaze. ‘Do you have any suspicions?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Sylvester bit his lower lip. ‘And the list is long. Every man or woman in this villa can be suspected.’ He glanced away. ‘It could be anyone,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Is the Emperor involved? A possibility. Athanasius? Some of his friends in Capua were killed during the persecution. Burrus? He’s a paid killer, he could be carrying out someone’s order. The same goes for Gaius Tullius. Chrysis? He went to Capua.’

‘Oh yes, what happened there?’ Claudia asked.

‘Chrysis didn’t pay his fees; there was also the question of items going missing. Rufinus?’ Sylvester shrugged. ‘Timothaeus? Narcissus?’ The names came tumbling out of the priest’s mouth. ‘But you want me to state more than the obvious, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Claudia replied. ‘Tell me, the Christian martyr Paul, the great preacher, how did he die? Where is he buried?’

‘Paul was both a Jew and a Roman citizen,’ Sylvester replied. ‘He was brought to Rome to face charges late in Nero’s reign. Blessed Paul’s opponents had the ear of Nero’s mistress and the death sentence was passed against him. Unlike the saintly Peter, who was crucified upside down, Paul claimed the rights of a Roman citizen, and was sentenced to decapitation. He was taken from his prison to beyond the city walls, near a small fountain close to a cemetery on the road to Ostia. He was executed there, and his disciples later came and buried his body close by.’ Sylvester smiled wryly. ‘There’s already a monument in the making for him, a shrine. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Claudia walked away.

‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ Sylvester called after her. ‘The Emperor will be returning to Rome to celebrate his birthday and attend the games. I understand your Murranus will be fighting. If he vanquishes Spicerius, he will meet Meleager in the arena.’

‘He’s not my Murranus,’ Claudia retorted, coming back. ‘You’re telling me what I already know. What else do you want to tell me, priest?’

‘Meleager.’ Sylvester played with the ring on his little finger. ‘I made a few enquiries on your behalf. You’re correct. Meleager acts the reserved warrior but he’s a vicious fighter. A man who likes killing, not a professional like Burrus or Gaius. According to Rufinus, Meleager sometimes plays with his victims in the arena like a cat does with his prey. I just thought I would let you know. No, no,’ Sylvester slipped the ring on and off his finger, ‘not to frighten you. I wouldn’t do that. One interesting fact I’ve learnt, there may be a school of orators at Capua-’

‘But there’s also a school of gladiators, isn’t there?’ Claudia added quickly. ‘I’ve just remembered that. It’s a very famous school. Wasn’t that the place where Spartacus started his rebellion?’

Sylvester was watching her strangely. ‘Meleager was there,’ he replied, ‘when the persecution broke out. According to reports, and this is just chitter-chatter, he helped in the rounding up of Christians. He not only guarded them but was often present at their interrogation.’

‘In other words, he was a torturer?’

‘Yes, Claudia, you could say that.’ The presbyter walked away.

‘What should I do?’ Narcissus called out, gesturing at the corpses. ‘You can’t leave them here, they’ll begin to stink.’

Sylvester strolled over and whispered to him. Narcissus nodded and shouted for Burrus and his mercenaries to come and help him.

Claudia walked across the lawns, down the steps back into the store room. She picked up a stool and sat down, staring at the two pillars still flecked with blood. Flies buzzed over the cut, stained ropes and other splashes of blood on the floor. There were vents in the far wall which allowed in some light but, for the rest, there was nothing more than the glow thrown by the torches, which were now sputtering weakly, sending black tendrils of smoke into the air. She reflected on what Sylvester had told her. The murderer, who could be anyone, had enticed those two men away from the rest, stunned them, and dragged them here. She was certain their deaths had nothing to do with the theological debates taking place; it must be the past, but whose past?

Claudia rose and walked across to pick up a piece of rope. She studied the knot. It was nothing more extraordinary than a simple knot double tied. She wondered if the ropes left behind at Dionysius’s corpse had been the same. She heard a sound behind her, the slither of a footstep, and her hand went to the dagger sheath sewn against her belt. She turned quickly, plucking up the stool as if it was a shield, dagger out, turning sideways as Murranus had taught her. The murky light hid her visitor until he clicked his tongue.

‘Chrysis,’ she whispered, ‘what are you doing here?’

The chamberlain came forward. ‘Claudia, Claudia, what is this?’

‘Don’t creep up on me,’ Claudia warned. ‘Imperial chamberlain or not, Chrysis, you don’t like me and I don’t like sitting with my back to you.’

‘You’re far too suspicious,’ Chrysis whispered. ‘You’re a little bitch, Claudia, with a tart tongue and a hard heart.’

‘I always like being lectured by moralists.’ Claudia put the stool down.

‘I only came to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Capua.’

‘You were there?’

‘You know I was. You, with your darting eyes and twitching nose! I went there to learn how to speak, to get rid of my stammer and lisp. I ran out of money, so I helped myself to other people’s. In the end I couldn’t pay my bills, so I fled.’