Paul Doherty: The Song of the Gladiator

Claudia reached the main thoroughfare leading down to the gates. She’d kept to the edge, dodging people coming in and out. At the city gate one of the guards whistled at her and asked to see more of her legs. She made an obscene gesture and, with the guard’s laughter ringing in her ears, hurried through the gates and on to the Via Appia. The crowds thronged busily, merchants, traders, pedlars, travelling musicians. Only once did she stop, to watch a troupe of actors, their faces hidden behind grotesque masks, bodies garbed in gaudy robes, perform and sing as they went up to the city. Two little boys, satyr masks pushed back on their heads, tried to coax coins for their begging baskets. Claudia walked purposefully on. She remembered being part of such a troupe travelling up and down Italy, from its southern tip to the approaches to the cold mountains in the north. She had enjoyed herself, but the manager had drunk the profits so she had returned home. Nevertheless, she had received an education of sorts. She could read and write, speak the lingua franca of the cities and had a nose for mischief. She could act and mime and knew, line for line, the poetry and plays of Ovid, Terence and Seneca.

Occasionally Claudia paused as if to adjust the strap on her sandal or take her hat off so the breeze might cool the sweat on her brow. As she did so, she glanced around, looking for anyone who might be following her. On one occasion she retraced her footsteps, and when she reached a line of tombs and graves which spread out on both sides of the road, she wandered into them as if to inspect some monument or read an inscription. She was satisfied no one was following her. She passed the third mile station and found the trackway leading into what Sylvester now called the Cemetery of St Sebastian. Claudia knew nothing of Christian saints except that here, during the great persecution, the Christians had dug and developed underground passageways and tunnels, hacking out the porous rock which stretched beneath the outskirts of Rome. She found the usual tomb chest and entered, fumbling in the agreed place for the oil lamp and packet of sulphur matches. After a great deal of scraping, the lamp was lit. She put it in the lantern horn, took off her hat, placed this at the top of the steps and carefully climbed down into the silent musty darkness.

Every time she visited the catacombs, she thought how much she hated the place. She wasn’t afraid of demons or ghosts; it was just the oppressive silence, the walls closing in. She reached the bottom; the tunnel here was about two yards wide, the ceiling well above her head, the floor of beaten earth sure under her feet. She walked carefully, holding the lantern out, her walking cane tapping the ground, echoing like a drum-beat. She turned a corner and entered the Christian burial place. Here, on ledges in the wall, protected by a thin coating of makeshift plaster, lay the Christian dead. Most had died naturally; others were the victims of persecution: strangled, decapitated, or in some cases just the pathetic remains of what had been left after they had been thrown to the wild beasts in the amphitheatre. Roughly carved inscriptions as well as Christian graffiti covered the walls, some with the usual Chi and Rho , a cross, or prayers to St Peter and St Paul. Claudia knew these signs by heart; they were her guide to which tunnel to follow, which passageway to enter. At last she reached the tomb of Philomena, ‘Virgin and Martyr’, so the graffiti proclaimed, and sat down on a marble bench stolen from the cemetery above. This was a junction of three tunnels, a safe place, where Claudia and Sylvester could hear anyone who approached and so take another way out.

Claudia put her stick carefully against the marble seat and waited. She checked the lantern; there was plenty of oil in the container and the wick was strong. She leaned against the cold stone, dabbing the sweat from her face, and wondered what Sylvester wanted. He had told her about some meeting out at the Villa Pulchra that she would have to go to; the Empress Helena would need her. Claudia was more worried about Murranus. She wondered if Rufinus the banker could throw any light on the attempt on Spicerius.

At last she heard a sound, a clatter, the usual sign whenever Sylvester approached. She cupped her hand to her mouth, whistled sharply and then waited for the three whistles in reply. She breathed a sigh of relief: Sylvester was here. A shadow moved down one of the tunnels, and the silver-haired priest, his lean, tired face wreathed in a smile, emerged from the darkness. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Sylvester sat down next to Claudia and, opening a napkin, shared the bread and figs he had brought, as well as the small flask of wine.

‘Why do we meet here?’ Claudia asked between mouthfuls. ‘The danger has passed.’

‘The danger is never past, Claudia, there is always danger. We Christians are tolerated, not approved; we have only begun the journey.’ Sylvester took a piece of cheese and broke it in his hands. ‘There’s also danger for you, Claudia. You spy for the Bishop of Rome, but you also spy for the Empress.’

‘I never have, never would, betray either.’

‘One day you might. Choices have to be made, crossroads reached. Your father would have approved of what you are doing.’

‘My father is dead.’

‘He was one of us.’

‘Whether he was one of you or not, he would still have hunted down and killed the man who raped his daughter and murdered his son.’ Claudia turned on the marble bench, still half listening for any sound from the tunnels. ‘I don’t come to you, Sylvester, because I love you or your faith. If you remember, I came to you for help, and you promised you would find that man.’ Claudia tried to keep the pleading out of her voice. ‘The assassin with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist.’

‘Claudia, we are helping you. Your assailant had a purple chalice tattoo, the mark of those who follow the rites of Dionysius, the drinkers of the grape, who worship the demons Bacchus and Pan. They include officials, priests and soldiers, a powerful sect.’

‘Magister, with all due respect, I couldn’t care if the man worshipped the Emperor’s arse.’

Sylvester laughed drily and patted her on the hand. ‘I have news for you, Claudia, though perhaps it’s not very good. Rufinus, the banker, claimed such a man was serving with the Illyrian regiment. Well, I’ll tell you this, half the regiment wear such a mark.’ He pressed a finger against his lips. ‘I have done careful research on your behalf. You were not the only one to be attacked and raped; you were lucky to escape with your life.’

‘My brother didn’t.’

‘Hush now. The man who attacked you may have wanted you to see that tattoo, to distract you. It might have been a cover for other criminal activities, a symbol which could be washed off later. No, no, Claudia, listen, you know about tattoos, I could have one inscribed on my arm which I can never remove. I can also ask an artist to copy such a one, as easy to remove as a linen cloth from your neck.’

Claudia moaned softly. Darkness hung all around her; only the lamp flickered. She’d never thought of that, she had been so convinced that one day she would find a man with a tattoo which couldn’t be hidden. Sylvester’s intelligence was always good, yet she remembered her assailant. She always would: his smell, his touch, his voice. She took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shiver.

‘I’m sorry, Claudia, but you must consider the possibility of what I’ve said. There are other alleyways and streets we can search. Close your eyes. I know it’s hard, but that evening on the banks of the Tiber, your brother was collecting shells, wasn’t he?’

Claudia closed her eyes and nodded.