Текст книги "The Song of the Gladiator"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

‘You were too fast,’ the net man gasped, his face grimed with sweat and sand. ‘I never thought you would do that.’

‘You should have expected it.’ Murranus grinned. ‘You can bet a coin to a coin that if your opponent is moving backwards and forwards, especially one with armed with a sword and a heavy shield, sooner or later he’ll attack you in the flank. I used my shield, but there’s variations. I could have entangled your net with my shield and dragged you in on my sword.’ He gently patted his opponent’s face. ‘Remember this,’ he added quietly, ‘and you might live. In the arena the shield is more dangerous than the sword; it can catch your net, blunt your trident, but above all, it can deliver a hammer blow. Now let’s celebrate with some wine.’

They moved across to join their comrades. Murranus was congratulated by Spicerius, who pushed a goblet of wine into his hand, patting him on the back, praising his moves but offering his own criticism. Murranus caught Meleager’s gaze and nodded a greeting.

‘He’s full of himself,’ Spicerius whispered. ‘One of us will have to meet him and teach him a lesson, eh?’

A crowd had formed around Meleager, questioning him. The Dacian leader glared across. Agrippina was also flirting with the newcomer.

‘Oh let her be!’ Spicerius whispered. ‘As long as she visits me at the She-Asses tavern, I don’t really mind. I’ll teach her to moon-gaze at an opponent.’

Murranus collected his weapons and entered the bath house, plunging into the warm water before moving on to the cold. He kept thinking about the recent fight. He hoped his opponents were stupid enough to believe he’d repeat the same tricks in the arena. Spicerius joined him, keeping up a running commentary on Meleager’s skill, what to look for, what to avoid. Murranus crossed to the ointment room and lay on a slab, while the masseur of the school coaxed and smoothed his muscles with his expert touch and soothing oils. Murranus sniffed their fragrance and felt himself relax. Spicerius was now chatting about the party Agrippina had planned. They would spend the early afternoon in the coolness of the garden, and when darkness fell, the real revelry would begin.

Murranus fell lightly asleep and was woken by the masseur slapping his back, pointing to his clothes laid out across a chest near the door. He put on a loincloth and his long white linen tunic, then went across to the Keeper of Valuables to retrieve his collar, bracelet and rings. He put on his sandals and joined Spicerius outside in the cool colonnade.

‘Do you know something?’ Spicerius put his wine cup down and pointed across to the other colonnaded walk, where Meleager was deep in conversation with the Dacians. Agrippina seemed to have disappeared. ‘We gladiators,’ Spicerius continued, ‘are great boasters, but Meleager seems so certain of victory.’ He turned and clutched Murranus’s arm. ‘May Hercules bless me,’ he whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Murranus was concerned by Spicerius’s haunted gaze.

‘You know how it is,’ Spicerius continued, tightening his grip. ‘You’ve been there, Murranus, waiting in the cavern to go out into the arena. The music is playing, the crowd are baying for your blood. Now and again I’ve seen gladiators, brave men, suddenly look shocked, frightened, and if you ask them why, they’ll tell you they feel as if they’ve been brushed by the feathers of the Wings of Death.’

‘And?’ Murranus asked, releasing Spicerius’s grip.

‘I feel that now, Murranus.’

Chapter 10

‘Dux Femina Facti.’ (‘The Leader of the Enterprise is a Woman.’)

Virgil, Aeneid, I

As they left the Ludus Magnus, Murranus stifled his own disquiet as he tried to reassure Spicerius. Once they’d turned off the main via, going down the many side streets and alleyways, conversation proved impossible. Murranus thought of Claudia and wondered when she would return. He’d heard the chatter, the gossip, the tittle-tattle of messengers and servants that all was not well at the Villa Pulchra, though he could make little sense of it. Rumours swirled about killings and fires whilst news had seeped through of some attack upon the villa. Such gossip was now being discussed in the forum, whilst, from acquaintances and friends in the city garrisons, Murranus had learnt that coastal defences were being strengthened and war galleys had put to sea, even though this was during the height of summer and a time of peace.

Murranus reflected on all this as he led Spicerius through the noisy trading areas. Business had begun shortly before dawn, and the lucky wine merchants had taken over the porticoes in the colonnades, tying their flagons and flasks to pillars so as to advertise their stock. The butchers and fish sellers were also busy. Barbers had set up stalls under the trees, waving their cushioned stools and touting for business. The itinerant cooks, with their mobile stoves in one barrow and slabs of bloody meat in another, moved about looking for a suitable place to stand and sell well away from the watchful eye of the Vigiles. The successful ones had already taken over the prime places and were doing a vigorous trade, offering grilled meats sprinkled in spice, ‘hot to the taste’, and wrapped in fig leaves. Water sellers shouted for custom claiming their buckets were full of the purest water drawn from a newly found spring in the countryside outside Rome. Traders, festooned in their cheap blue trinkets to advertise their products, offered to barter two or three items with a packet of sulphur matches thrown in for free.

Murranus edged round these and down a side street where he had once taken lodgings. The place hadn’t changed. The stench of the latrine, cesspit and midden heap mingled with the smell of herbal oil, sizzling sausages, coarse bread and stewed vegetables. They crossed a dusty square, where a ragged schoolmaster declaimed a poem; a host of children grouped round him under a tree echoed back, shouting above the hammering and the clattering from their fathers’ workshops around the square. The beggars, genuine and false, swarmed like flies over a turd. Drunkards and roisterers from the previous night, holding aching heads and queasy stomachs, lurked about looking for shade and some water. A few recognised the gladiators. Murranus was happy to ignore them by standing aside to let an expensive funeral cortège go by, with its flute players, horn blowers, actors in their masks, professional mourners and a gaggle of shaven-haired priests who chanted so fast no one knew what they were saying. Two funeral processions of the poorer sort hurried along behind, the corpses resting on tawdry wheelbarrows, the mourners eager to share the free pomp of the wealthier procession.

Murranus and Spicerius were now in the slums, where the streets and alleyways spread out like tunnels in a rabbit warren. Shadows lurked in doorways, prostitutes whispered for custom; pimps, fingering their knives, gestured them over. Fights and squabbles were commonplace; men and women armed with skillets, ladles, hammers and clubs brawled in doorways or rolled across the street pummelling each other. The hubbub fell silent as an execution group, led by an officer with medals gleaming on his chest, escorted four prisoners, murderers and housebreakers, to the Place of Slaughter beyond the gates. The prisoners, stripped naked except for a breech-clout, carried their own crossbeam against which they would be crucified, to hang and die under the sun.

Once this grim procession had passed, the tumult recommenced, with tanners and fullers offering free drinks of water to those who would piss in their pots so the urine could be used in the treatment of leather. Many of these petty tradesmen were keen supporters of the games and were quick to recognise Murranus and Spicerius, although their cheers were muted by shouts of ‘Fix!’ and ‘Coward!’. Thankfully the insults were shouted in a number of tongues and dialects; the slums held every type of inhabitant of the Empire, from Britain in the far west to the Caspian Sea in the east. Now and again Murranus glanced at Spicerius, who still looked troubled and anxious. Murranus too felt uneasy. Spicerius was usually arrogant and distant, full of himself, boasting of his own powers; and yet since the notorious incident, he had become quiet and withdrawn. He would actively seek Murranus out, and was obviously grateful that Murranus had not exploited his weakness in the arena. Protection, Murranus thought; that was what Spicerius seemed to want, as if he had been secretly threatened and menaced and believed Murranus could shelter him. Spicerius was now a frequent visitor to the She-Asses, and the only people from his own entourage whom he seemed pleased to see were the old military doctor Valens and the boisterous, ever-colourful Agrippina.

As they reached the end of a narrow street, a flash of colour caught Murranus’s eye, and he glanced at a shadowy doorway to his right. A warlock and his witch stood there, faces painted, necklaces and bones around their necks. Squatting between them was an ugly Egyptian baboon on a silver chain, while a trained crow, with gleaming eye and sharp beak, rested on the warlock’s shoulder. They looked like macabre statues, with yellow rings round their eyes and blue paint on their cheeks. The man lifted a small black flabellum, a fan made out of raven wing, beckoning them across. Murranus spat in their direction and moved on.

He was relieved to reach the She-Asses tavern, with its cheery-faced Hermes and its small votive statue to the god Priapus just inside the doorway. Polybius, followed by Poppaoe, bustled out of the kitchen to welcome them. The rest of the customers greeted them with shouts and cheery toasts. They had all gathered from their various trades to quench their thirst and feed their hunger. Simon the Stoic sat perched on a stool chattering to a dusty-garbed wandering scholar. Simon had, apparently, bought him a drink, and was now busy boring him to death. Petronius the Pimp was informing the rest of the customers, to hoots of laughter, that if they had hairy arses he could sell them a powder which would get rid of the excess hair, as well as a polish to wax their bottoms. Of course no one believed him, so Petronius explained to his disbelieving audience that he had found the cure whilst serving in the ranks, where he had won the Hasta Pura for distinguished service. This second revelation was greeted with ‘Prove it!’ and ‘Where is the little silver spear?’ Draco, a grizzled veteran from an apartment three storeys above, led the attack. The old man always carried a draconarius, an imitation feather-tailed standard, maintaining that he had carried such an insignia across the Danube and could list all the tribes on its southern bank, if anyone cared to listen – which very few did.

Murranus, chatting to Polybius and shouting out greetings, deliberately delayed in the eating hall. He wanted Spicerius to feel at home, to be cheered and comforted by this motley collection of rogues and eccentrics. Januaria came sidling up, hips swaying, forcing her way through, glancing moon-eyed at Spicerius. Murranus asked Polybius if he had heard from Claudia. The landlord shook his head and replied that he had heard rumours, some sort of trouble, but didn’t know any details, and would Murranus like to come through to the garden? Polybius kept this privilege for what he called his ‘treasured guests’, as well as those individuals, such as the local police, whom he wanted to talk to well away from keen eyes and sharp ears.

He led them through the eating hall and out past the kitchens. Murranus’s mouth watered at the smell of savoury meat and onion sizzling in a spiced sauce. They were taken across the grass, past the small dovecote, to what Polybius grandly called his orchard, a shady nook with stone benches and a small carp pond. For the umpteenth time, and Murranus hadn’t the heart to stop him, Polybius described his vegetable garden and herb plots, rich with lettuce and onions, chervil, coriander, fennel and parsley, and talked expansively of deepening the orchard so that he could produce quinces and damsons. He offered to show them around his small vineyard, but Murranus laughed, slapped him on the shoulder and said they would be satisfied with a platter of meat and a jug of wine. The two gladiators sat in the shade whilst Polybius served them, still chattering about his wine, swearing by his penis that it was the best in Rome. Once he had gone, Murranus lifted his goblet in toast.

‘Peace,’ he whispered. ‘At least until we meet.’

Spicerius drank deep. ‘I saw them,’ he murmured. ‘You know what I’m talking about, the warlock and his witch.’ He suppressed a shiver. ‘I made a hex against them.’

‘Stop thinking such black thoughts,’ Murranus teased. ‘Save yourself for the fight.’

‘One of us will die there.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Murranus answered cheerfully.

Spicerius glanced away. ‘I want to tell you something, Murranus.’ He put down his wine goblet and stretched out his right arm. ‘You see this tattoo, the purple chalice? I told you it was worn by members of a drinking club.’

‘And I believed you.’

‘And so you should. I’m going to have this washed off – I will not wear it again. You see, Murranus, beneath the chalice some men wear a circle that denotes something else: these men attend special brothels where they can be violent with children.’

Murranus stared in disbelief.

‘You know, the world we live in, Murranus, the deeper you go, the filthier it gets. I like my women, especially the rich, plump ones, but some things, well, they’re like streets you just don’t go down. The man who attacked your Claudia, I expect he was one of those. After we met last time I could see she was deeply upset, so I made a few enquiries. It’s the sort of thing that is well hidden, the type of house frequented by quite wealthy men, be they gladiators or senators.’ He shook his head. ‘This is all I know.’

‘And the incident?’ Murranus asked. ‘The poisoning?’

‘I am not sure,’ Spicerius replied. ‘That wine wasn’t poisoned, even though it was later found tainted. I’m sure I was poisoned before I drank it. Anyway, you’ve heard the rumours, Murranus? They’re betting this time for you to win against me but not against Meleager.’

Murranus could see his friend was on the verge of sinking into another black mood. He asked him again about the purple chalice tattoo, but Spicerius declared he had told him everything he could, so Murranus changed the subject. Spicerius ate well but drank sparingly, and when Murranus questioned him, he laughed and explained he was saving himself for the evening, when Agrippina had promised to join him for their own special celebrations. Polybius, who had come to collect the platters and overheard this, now acted like a conspirator, tipping his nose, winking at Spicerius and declaring that the room was ready when he was.

The afternoon wore on. Spicerius began to doze, so he took his wine and went up to what Polybius dramatically described as the ‘Venus Chamber’. Intrigued, Murranus decided to follow him. The room was on the second floor, overlooking the garden, and boasted a large bed with stout ends, a thick mattress and a bolster all covered in pink and gold. A rather blotched mirror stood on a decorated square chest. The floor was of polished wood, a rare form of timber. Polybius explained that he had discovered it when he first bought the place and decided to polish it up. The walls were lime-washed, and Murranus had to stifle a laugh as he stared at the crude paintings which Polybius was so proud of. A fat, bloated Venus cavorted in a garden surrounded by even plumper cherubs, who looked so heavy they would find it impossible to fly.

Spicerius went and sat on the bed, and Murranus returned to the garden and sat in the shade. He soon felt the effects of the wine and the lazy summer heat, and drifted off to sleep, his eyes growing heavy as he watched a resplendent butterfly flutter amongst the flowers. He started awake sometime later. He realised it must be late afternoon, for the breeze had strengthened and the shadows grown longer. Yes, he had felt something else: his hair had been tugged! He whirled around.

‘Claudia!’ He jumped to his feet, left the stone chair and grabbed her up. ‘When did you. .’

‘Let me breathe!’ she gasped.

He released her, and she sat down on the grass, plucking at the blades, quickly describing what had happened at the Villa Pulchra and how she had asked the Empress’s permission to leave.

‘They are all coming back anyway.’ She smiled back. ‘In four days’ time you meet Spicerius. Oh, by the way, where is he?’

‘Fast asleep, I think. Anyway, tell me again what happened.’

Claudia repeated everything about the murders, the fire and the assault. She vaguely referred to meeting Meleager, but made no mention of who he really was and the hideous damage he had wrought in her life. She decided that would wait. She wanted to be careful; after all, there were other problems to address. For a while they discussed the doings at the Villa Pulchra and the events at Capua. Murranus explained how he knew the town boasted a large Christian community, many of whom had suffered under Diocletian. The people she described he had also met, but they were merely passing acquaintances, though he was intrigued when Claudia made her final revelation about the pattern of the betting, and how Chrysis had wagered thousands of sestercii on him.

‘It’s all a mystery.’ Murranus rubbed his face. ‘It always happens with the games. This gladiator is a favourite, this one isn’t, and interference, to help the money on its way, is common enough. But listen to my news.’ He described the visit of the Dacians, Spicerius’s forebodings and his own anxieties.

‘Will it be a fight to the death?’ Claudia asked.

‘I doubt it,’ Murranus replied. ‘On a good day Spicerius and I are equally matched. We’ll put up a good show. If either of us goes down, the crowd will not demand our deaths; the same goes for Meleager. We are not in this for blood but for the Crown of Victory.’ He caressed Claudia’s face. ‘And don’t worry about the betting. You tell your uncle, not to mention Chrysis, to put everything they have on me; they won’t be disappointed. Now,’ he cupped her face in his hands, ‘why have you really come back?’

‘Well, the court was returning.’

‘No, the real reason.’

‘To see you.’ She grinned. ‘I also want to talk to Sallust the Searcher. It’s time I had a little help. Oh, by the way,’ she pointed back to the tavern, ‘Uncle has a new helper. He’s called Narcissus the Neat. He’s the man I described to you. There’s nothing for him at the Villa Pulchra and he knows no one in Rome, so I-’

‘Murranus!’

The woman’s voice carried across the garden. The gladiator groaned as Agrippina came tripping over in a beautiful white linen gown, a multicoloured stole across her shoulders. Once again every item of jewellery, be it bracelet or earring, glowed a deep red.

‘Murranus!’ She flounced her long dressed hair, gingerly touching her exquisitely painted face, her perfume drowning every other smell. ‘Murranus.’ She held her hands on her hips, totally ignoring Claudia. ‘Tell that oaf Polybius I want to see Spicerius.’

‘He’s in his chamber, fast asleep,’ Murranus replied. ‘I left him there, he’s expecting you.’

‘Well, I’m rather late. I’ve been up there, but the door’s locked, there’s no answer. That oaf is too busy laughing with his customers about waxing people’s bottoms.’

‘That oaf,’ Claudia replied, springing to her feet, ‘is my uncle. We are very particular who visits our tavern, so you’d better follow me.’

They went into the eating hall, where Polybius, leaning against one of the wooden pillars, was offering Petronius the opportunity to wax his arse. Claudia grabbed her uncle by the arm and whispered in his ear; he sighed, mopped his brow and led her up the stairs. They stood outside the Venus Chamber, knocking and hammering. Claudia glanced along the passageway. Narcissus was standing at the top of the landing, looking rather frightened. Claudia realised how unused he must be to the noise of a tavern. Oceanus came up, pushing people aside. Claudia felt a tingle of excitement in her stomach. Something was wrong, she could tell that from Murranus’s face, whilst Oceanus shook his head in disbelief, claiming he was sure Spicerius hadn’t left.

The door was tried again, and eventually Polybius ordered Oceanus and Murranus to break it down. They first used their shoulders, until Polybius intervened, warning Murranus not to injure himself, so a log was brought up from the cellar. The door was hammered until it sprang back on its leather hinges. Claudia made sure she was first into the room. Spicerius lay sprawled on the bed, the wine goblet beside him. He was half sitting up against the bolsters, face to one side, mouth gaping, eyes staring.

‘By the balls of a pig,’ Polybius groaned. ‘Oh no, not here.’

Claudia climbed on to the bed. Spicerius had lost all his warrior’s elegance and grandeur; he had the grey, lined face of an old man, and a white dribble of dried saliva stained the corner of his mouth. She felt his arm. The flesh was cold. Agrippina was screaming. Other customers were coming up. Claudia got off the bed wiping her hands, then picked up the goblet and sniffed the bittersweet tang. Taking advantage of the upset and chaos, she quickly searched the bed and the floor around but could detect nothing except a square piece of parchment with love symbols on it. It was yellowing and wrinkled, caught amongst the folds of the mattress.

‘We’ll have to call the bloody police,’ Polybius groaned. ‘There’ll be questions and more questions.’

Claudia told her uncle to take the shrieking Agrippina downstairs, and asked Murranus to send in Narcissus then guard the passageway and let no one through. She could feel the anger boiling within her. She felt like screaming, not only at the danger which threatened her beloved, but at the way this horrid death had upset all her plans. As soon as she had arrived at the She-Asses, she had asked Polybius to send one of the kitchen boys to fetch Sallust the Searcher. She realised that, in the case of the Holy Sword, she only had a little time to prove her suspicions and get the relic back. She stared at the corpse, felt guilty at her angry thoughts, slumped down on the edge of the bed and clasped Spicerius’s hand, brushing his cold, hard fingers with her thumb.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered, ‘and if your shade lingers nearby, I wish you well in whatever journey you take.’

She tried to forget her own troubles, experiencing a deep sadness at the brutal death of this young man, once so full of pride, vigour and courage.

‘You deserved a better death,’ Claudia gripped the fingers, ‘than dying alone in a tavern chamber with no glory or praise ringing in your ears.’

She became aware of Narcissus standing in the doorway, so she moved to hide her face. She must remember the deep comradeship which existed between gladiators. Murranus had regarded this man as his friend. She must do everything to help.

Claudia scrutinised the corpse carefully. Spicerius’s face was full of the ugliness of a violent, sudden death: the muscles of his cheeks and chin were hardening, his eyes rolled back, his mouth was gaping, the lips forward as if Spicerius still wished to retch and vomit. The gladiator was dressed in a simple tunic; his belt and sandals lay on the floor. She pulled these close, picked up the cup and once again sniffed that bittersweet smell. What was it? She stuck her nose in again and offered it to Narcissus, gesturing at him to keep it.

Outside, Murranus was pacing up and down like a sentry on duty. In the eating hall below, Agrippina was still shrieking and wailing. Claudia cocked her head and listened intently. The tenor of that spoilt, rich hussy was beginning to change. Was grief giving way to anger? Was she shouting curses? Making allegations? Would Murranus or Polybius be accused?

Claudia stared round the tawdry chamber, so different from the Villa Pulchra. It now seemed an age since she and Narcissus had left. Claudia had obtained permission from the Augusta, pointing out that she could do more good in Rome, where the court was about to return, than by staying at the villa. She had also begged Helena to keep the rest of the philosophers close and not allow them to return home until this mystery had been resolved. The Augusta’s reply had been ugly, ungracious and hard. She’d dismissed Claudia with a flick of her fingers, telling her to get back to her slum and, as she withdrew, followed her to the chamber door bellowing how it was a pity that some of her servants did not serve her as well as she served them. Once she was out of sight, Claudia had made a rude gesture in the direction of the imperial apartments before scurrying off to her own chamber to hastily pack her belongings. Narcissus had followed her like a shadow, only too eager to flee the villa and reach Rome, but now, he was not so sure, uncertain and frightened of the future. Claudia closed her eyes. It was important to keep Narcissus near to her.

‘Almonds!’

Claudia let go of the dead man’s hand.

‘Almonds!’ Narcissus repeated. He thrust the cup at her. ‘Bittersweet,’ he explained. ‘The juice from certain seeds can be the deadliest poison; it has an almond taste.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’ve cut more corpses than you have pieces of meat, mistress.’ Narcissus gabbled on. ‘But where will I stay, what will I do, how will I-’

‘Almonds,’ Claudia retorted, lifting her hand. ‘Forget about the rest, Narcissus. You’re going to sleep here and get a good meal, so don’t worry, just tell me about almonds.’

‘Milk of almonds.’ Narcissus pulled a face. ‘That’s what we call it in Syria. It’s not really milk, more a juice; they gather it from certain seeds, I mean the poison, and distil it. It’s got many strengths.’ He leaned down, face all solemn. ‘I can’t tell you, mistress, how many times I’ve cut open the corpses of men and women and smelt that bittersweet odour! Oh, I don’t say much, but I know! Go down to the slums, ask the locust men, the warlocks, the poison boys, they’ll tell you all about it. You take a sip of that, a really good sip, and all your troubles are over. Do you know, mistress, there are poisons which will stop your heart in the blink of an eye.’ Narcissus went round the bed. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you that; just look at the poor bastard’s face. The skin’s all mottled, with a slightly blueish tinge, the throat muscles are constricted, the skin’s hard to the touch as if he’s been dead for hours. But you just wait,’ he warned, ‘in a few hours the blotches will appear.’ Narcissus felt the back of the gladiator’s head. ‘Ah, I thought as much. Slightly bruised; it’s where he banged his head in his death throes.’

‘Would death have been swift?’

‘Like an arrow to the heart, mistress. Some jerking, some convulsions, the pain would have been hideous, but don’t let’s leave him like this.’

Claudia helped pull the corpse down by its feet so it lay straight. She started as a gasp of air escaped from the dead man’s lungs.

‘He’s not been dead long.’ Narcissus pointed to the cup. ‘A nice goblet of sweet wine, fruity and tangy. I heard Polybius say he had served the stuff. Now, mistress, before you ask, that’s just the drink to hide the taste. But never mind the dead, what about the living? Your Murranus, he’s the one you told me about on the way here? Well, gladiator or not, champion or not, he’s in deep trouble. Wasn’t he supposed to face-’

Claudia got to her feet and, snapping at Narcissus to keep quiet, began a thorough search of the chamber. She scrutinised the corpse and Spicerius’s purse and clothing, but apart from some coins, a dagger, personal jewellery and a good-luck amulet she could find nothing. She knew there were no secrets to this chamber, whilst it was ridiculous to imagine anyone climbing through the window. So what had really happened? Suicide or murder? The only thing she had found was that love charm written on a piece of parchment. She picked this up and looked at it again. It displayed a crudely drawn heart with, above and beneath it, the words ‘Amor vincit Agrippinam’ and ‘Amor vincit Spicerium’. ‘Love conquers Agrippina’, ‘Love conquers Spicerius’. She felt the parchment with her thumb, sniffed it, but the only smell was Agrippina’s heavy perfume. Exasperated, Claudia sat down on a stool.

‘Nothing!’ she snapped. ‘Narcissus, go and get Polybius and Murranus. Tell Oceanus – you’ve met him, the big fat one – to guard the stairs. Just ask my uncle and Murranus to join me here.’

A short while later both men entered the room. Claudia tried to close the door but it was useless. She noticed the bolts at top and bottom were heavy and stout.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she urged, going back to sit on the bed.

Polybius and Murranus explained how they had entertained Spicerius in the orchard. They had eaten and drunk. Spicerius had seemed a little withdrawn but was looking forward to seeing Agrippina. He had taken his wine and come up to the Venus Chamber to have a little sleep before his girlfriend arrived.

‘And no one came up,’ Polybius warned. ‘Before you start, Claudia, no servant, no member of this tavern climbed those stairs. If Spicerius wanted something, he could send for it. I did get concerned he had gone so quiet, but there again, it is not for me to disturb someone.’

‘Nothing suspicious happened?’

‘Nothing,’ Polybius retorted. ‘No one can enter that garden without me knowing, and we had no suspicious characters. I mean,’ he grinned, ‘apart from our usual clientele this afternoon.’

‘Murranus?’ Claudia turned. The gladiator was leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Could Spicerius have committed suicide?’

‘No, he was a warrior, Claudia, he would take his chances in the arena. All he was frightened about was another accident, poor bastard.’