David Pilling - The Red Death

There was no way of telling day from night in the subterranean gloom of my prison. I had languished there for God knows how many days, when I received a visitor. The bolts on the heavy cross-grained door squealed as they were drawn, and the guard ushered a slender figure through.

My unexpected guest wore a dark blue cloak with a hooded mantle and carried a candle in an iron holder. I winced at the light of the candle, and had to blink and shield my eyes as the newcomer carefully placed it on the floor, straightened, and pushed back the hood.

Over ten years had passed since I last saw Elene. The years had painted a little grey in her unbound black tresses, but otherwise she was unchanged. She moved with the same lithe, easy grace, and her long, narrow face still possessed the same charisma and almost-beauty that had captivated me at the Hippodrome.

I groaned, and the heavy iron fetters on my ankles clanked as I turned to look away from her.

“Coel,” said Elene, “I will not waste time. We have a son. His life is in danger.”

This second blow, so soon after the first, was intended to break me. I reluctantly turned my head to look into her eyes. I read nothing but fear in their depths, and knew she lied.

“A son,” I repeated. “If he is mine, he must be eleven or twelve by now. A strong boy?”

She smiled. “Yes. Strong and handsome, like his father. His name is Arthur.”

I could not help but laugh. A hollow, bitter sound, and quickly smothered by the dead air of the cell.

“I thought I owed you that,” she added hastily, “naming him after your grandfather was a way to honour you ease my conscience. I am sorry I ran away.”

“Theodora must be desperate for ideas,” I said, “and she was mistaken to send a dancer to do the work of an actress. There is no son, Elene. You are lying.”

I leaned forward. “You have been coerced into this. I know Theodora’s ways. How did she find you? How much money did she offer you?”

Elene stuck gamely to her role. “You must plead guilty at the trial, Coel,” she said. “Otherwise Theodora will kill Arthur. She will have him strangled in front of me.”

I snorted, and then Elene was on her knees beside me, pawing at me, tears welling up and streaming down her sallow cheeks. “I swear, on my life, on my immortal soul, it is true!” she cried. “The boy lives, and the Empress has threatened to put him to death if I cannot persuade you to plead guilty! You say you know her ways. Then you will know she delivers on her threats.”

I would not listen, and turned my face to the wall while Elene babbled on. She tried to convince me of Arthur’s existence by listing his physical characteristics, his fondness for dogs and horses, his pretty manners, and other such rubbish. It was painful to hear, but not enough to break down my gates.

In the end Elene’s temper broke. She railed at me, calling me merciless and unnatural and self-serving, an unfeeling devil rather than a man, who would happily save himself rather than his son. There was something behind her fury, and genuine fear, but still I knew she was a liar.

When the storm had blown itself out, she sat on the edge of the bench and cried. Her hopeless weeping reminded me of my mother’s despair, on the night Clothaire announced he meant to sell us into slavery. I allowed room for a little pity, and reached out to touch her shoulder.

Elene shrugged me off. “Where have you been, all these long years?” I asked. “Why did you never come back?”

She turned her face to mine. Her eyes were wet and red-rimmed. “I am the Empress’s plaything,” she whispered, “her servant in all things, and have been since she came to the throne. Like many others, I go where she bids me, and do what she bids me. That is why I did not come back. To protect you.”

Another lie. She was a hopeless liar, but I let it pass. “I sometimes wonder if the entire city is in her thrall,” I said, staring at the backs of my hands, “everyone, from the Emperor downward, seems terrified of her. Belisarius is the exception, but he is terrified of his wife, and she is Theodora’s creature.”

Elene wasn’t listening. She wept a little more, and her pathetic choking sobs were unbearable to hear. If she had pleaded again, I doubt I could have withstood it.

Fortunately, she still retained a flicker of her old pride, and this saved me from the scaffold. Wiping her eyes, she stood up and looked down on me with a mixture of scorn, hatred, and (I like to think) a tinge of regret.

“I will leave you the candle,” she said. “You have need of some light on here. Watch the flame as it dwindles to nothing, and think of me.”

She turned to leave, but there was something I needed to know. “Do you really have a son?” I asked.

Elene hesitated before rapping her fist on the door to summon the guard.

“Yes,” she replied, “but he is not yours. I have been married to a good man for five years.”

That hurt me more than anything. Even though it was naive, I had always nursed the faint hope that Elene would one day return to me. The certain knowledge that she had married another, and borne him the son that should have been mine, was like an invisible blade passing under my ribs.

“Now I have failed to break you,” she added in a hard voice, drained of emotion, “Theodora will punish me by killing them both. Goodbye, Coel.”

She rapped on the door. A moment later there was the sound of keys rustling in the lock.

“What is the boy’s name?” I asked.

“I told you. Arthur.”

Then she was gone, and the prison door slammed behind her. The echoes took a long time to die away.

I languished alone in my prison until it was finally time for my trial. The door rumbled open, and a troop of Excubitors marched into my cell. They unfastened the fetters on my ankles, placed fresh ones on my wrists, and dragged me out into sunlight and fresh air.

News of the treason trial had spread throughout the city, though the details of it were obscure to most folk outside the palace. The prospect of scandal and an execution was enough to cause a ripple of excitement, and the Mese was lined with spectators as I was marched to the Praetorium. Many recognised me as the former charioteer turned soldier who had briefly gained the favour of General Belisarius, and a few ironic cries of “Britannicus!” followed me down the street.

Not one voice was lifted in protest on my behalf. The Romans are a ruthless people. Their sentiment can quickly turn to spite, and they will happily see yesterday’s hero hanged for the sake of entertainment.

The Praetorium was originally built to accommodate soldiers. It was still a formidable building, three floors high and protected by an exterior wall and strong gates. A double line of Excubitors guarded the gates. The Emperor himself was inside, and the imperial standard fluttered over the gatehouse.

All this for me , I thought, and allowed myself a little smile in the midst of despair.

More soldiers were drawn up inside the courtyard. They stood stiff and silently to attention, their polished helmets and chain mail shining in the bright morning sun. I was taken past them, into the main entrance of the central building, a square block with thick walls and divided into government departments.

The courtroom was an airy, vaulted chamber on the ground floor, big enough to accommodate the senators, justices and assorted officials who would preside over my trial. Long benches lined the walls for all these worthy souls to sit upon and argue, while one end of the chamber was taken up by a wooden platform for the Emperor and his consort. The public were excluded, and the doors guarded by more grim-faced Excubitors.

I could hear the buzz of voices before I entered the chamber, and was strangely gratified when it ceased and scores of faces turned to look at me. The sin of pride is one of the many flaws in my character, and I have always taken a guilty pleasure in being the focus of attention.