Текст книги "The Song of the Gladiator"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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‘So he was murdered,’ Claudia concluded. ‘Somehow someone got into this room and poured poison into his goblet. Yet that’s impossible; as you say, Spicerius was a warrior, he would have challenged anyone who came in.’

‘More importantly, I would have known about it.’ Polybius groaned. ‘You know what they’re going to say, Claudia, don’t you?’ He glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows. ‘They are going to allege that I, or Murranus, or both, put that poison in his cup before he left the orchard. That silly bitch downstairs is already beginning to sing that song.’

‘Ignore her.’

‘I’d love to,’ Polybius moaned, ‘but there’s an ugly crowd gathering, both inside and outside.’

‘I liked Spicerius,’ Murranus shouted. ‘I didn’t kill him, he didn’t commit suicide, but they say his blood is on my hands.’ He stood breathing deeply. ‘Now I’m up against Meleager, and all the money will be on him. Oh, by the way, there was a man at the foot of the stairs listening intently. Every so often he would go and bellow at the servants in the kitchen, telling them the news.’

‘Oh, him!’ Polybius’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Mercury the messenger, the teller of tales, the herald of the people.’ He clapped Murranus on the shoulder. ‘If Mercury’s got hold of this tale, then by nightfall half of Rome will know it. Anyway, let’s go down and face the bastards.’

There was a knock at the door; Valens, the old military physician, stepped through. He bowed at Claudia and, holding his threadbare cloak about him, crossed to stand by the bed, staring down at the corpse. Claudia watched him intently and realised from the shaking of his shoulders and the way he wiped his cheeks that Valens was crying. She was also certain that he was making Christian signs with his fingers. He glanced quickly at her over his shoulder, then moved so his back was completely to her. He leaned over, whispered something into Spicerius’s ear and touched him on his brow, eyes and mouth. Afterwards, he stood rocking backwards and forwards, chanting a prayer Claudia couldn’t understand, then he gave a great sigh and assumed the role of a doctor, examining both the corpse and the goblet. When he had finished, he picked up a stool and sat opposite Claudia.

‘What happened?’ he murmured.

There was no pretence or imitation with this man; he had a blunt honesty which appealed to Claudia, so she told him everything she’d learned. When she had finished, Valens nodded in agreement.

‘Your diagnosis is correct, mistress. I just wish I knew why Spicerius was so anxious, and yet,’ he cleared his throat, ‘at the same time I do. I know it sounds a contradiction, but have you noticed anything different about him?’

Claudia stared at the corpse.

‘His face,’ Valens explained. ‘He stopped wearing make-up; that was one small change. I agree with you, he would never take his own life. What happened in the arena that day truly frightened him; one of Rome’s best gladiators lost his power, his strength, so suddenly, so dangerously, without any warning or explanation. You see, Claudia, people like your Murranus expect death in a certain way. I once had a patient who truly believed he would die of the flux, and when his heart gave way he was truly shocked. Spicerius was the same. He thought he’d die after some heroic struggle, not retching on the sand like some pathetic drunk.’ Valens got up, kicking back the stool. ‘He was so looking forward to today; he regarded Murranus as a brother and liked to be with him. He wanted to see Agrippina and spend the night roistering.’

‘Did he love Agrippina?’

‘She’s a shameless hussy, but yes,’ Valens patted Claudia on the head, ‘in his own way I think he did, but his anxieties. .’ Valens’s voice trailed off and his hand fell to his groin. ‘Spicerius’s fears troubled him. He’d lost his virility; he said if he won against Murranus he might well retire.’

‘His virility?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yes, for a while.’ Valens grinned. ‘It often happens to men, nothing serious. Ah well, I shall wait for the Vigiles, then collect his corpse. I’ll take it back to Sisium; it’s a small village near Capua, have you ever visited it?’

‘No.’

Valens walked to the door. ‘Ah, here they come.’ He turned back.

The Vigiles had arrived. Claudia heard their heavy boots on the stairs, and a short while later the local police commander, Saturninus, accompanied by his leather-clad acolytes, marched into the room, together with Polybius, who indicated with his head that she should leave. Claudia realised what would happen. The Vigiles would group round the corpse, demand goblets of the tavern’s best wine, take a bribe from Polybius so they would declare that the death had had nothing to do with him, then march off to their next piece of mischief.

Claudia slipped down the stairs into the hubbub of the eating room. The usual customers were grouped round Murranus, but Claudia noticed a gang of strangers at the far end sitting close to Agrippina and comforting her. Oceanus had also come down and was standing guard at the door, shouting that the tavern was overflowing so other customers would have to wait. From the noise outside Claudia realised the local alleyway mob had been roused and people were gathering to see what had happened as well as sniff out any profit for themselves. Murranus beckoned her over, but Claudia ignored him and walked straight to Agrippina, pushing her way through the group.

‘Mistress.’ She tapped Agrippina on the shoulder. ‘I need a word with you.’

‘I don’t talk to kitchen wenches or tavern maids.’

Claudia bent down and whispered in her ear. Agrippina shot to her feet, face all troubled.

‘I. . er. . I. .’ she stammered.

‘In the garden,’ Claudia offered, and turned away, not waiting for a reply.

The light was fading, dusk creeping in like a mist. Claudia walked across the lawn, sat on a turf seat and patted the place next to her.

‘I never realised you actually knew the Augusta.’ Agrippina sat down in a gust of perfume, fastidiously hitching up her robe so that the grass wouldn’t brush it.

‘More importantly,’ Claudia retorted, ‘the Augusta knows me. Now, as regards Spicerius, I’m truly sorry he’s died. I liked him and so did Murranus. If you start screaming allegations or making foul accusations you can’t prove, I will appeal to the Augusta for justice.’

‘I’m upset,’ Agrippina whined.

‘Shut up! Did you ever find out what happened to Spicerius in the arena – I mean, the cause?’ The other woman shook her head. ‘Or this afternoon?’

‘You know as much as I do.’ Agrippina pushed her night-black hair away from her face. ‘I saw Spicerius last night, I agreed to meet him here. I was sorry I was delayed. When I came, he was dead.’ Her voice broke. ‘Murdered.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘Well, look, a healthy man, a gladiator. . I came to this tavern to meet a lover, not a corpse. I’ve answered your questions, I cannot say any more.’

Agrippina got to her feet. Claudia waved her hand and let her go. What was the use, she thought, the hussy would only tell her what she wanted. Claudia sat half listening to the noise of the tavern, allowing herself to be lulled by the green coolness of the garden. A sudden roar from the tavern made her realise things had gone from bad to worse, and she hastened back inside. The eating hall was now set to become an arena. At the kitchen door stood Murranus and Polybius, whilst at the far end, and still spilling through the main entrance, were a group led by a man dressed garishly like a whore, wafting his face with a pink fan. The new arrivals had apparently entered the tavern immediately after the Vigiles had left, and their leader now stood languidly, one hand resting on Agrippina’s shoulder. Round him ranged his gang of bullyboys and their hangers-on, pimps and gaudily garbed prostitutes of every nationality. Polybius was roaring at him to leave.

‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand me, Dacius? You and your gang of degenerates.’

‘Or else what?’ Dacius tripped forward in his high-heeled sandals. He looked grotesque; not comical, but very dangerous, a man of shifting shadows with his masculine face and his very feminine wig; his swagger saucy yet his body hard and muscular; his voice lisping but the tone ugly and threatening. Claudia had met him and his like before, scum from the sewers, swirling through the slums like some poison, polluting everything they touched. She was fearful about their presence. Their arrival appeared a little too swift. Was it that they were expecting news? Or were they here to provoke Murranus, whose hot temper was well known? The gladiator had now picked up a cleaver and a pan lid. Anyone else would have looked comical, but Murranus was highly dangerous. Claudia didn’t like the way Dacius kept swaying from side to side, taunting Murranus and every so often glancing at Agrippina, who simpered back. The more she watched, the more convinced Claudia became that Agrippina had had a hand in the poisoning of Spicerius both this time and before; yet what proof did she have? More importantly, what cruel trap had they set for Murranus? Would they accuse him of murder and unsettle his wits, disturb his concentration?

Dacius raised his hand, shutting and opening that ridiculous fan, and his gang fell silent.

‘You see, my dear,’ he drawled, jabbing the fan in Murranus’s direction, ‘whatever you do, dear boy, no matter how you glare, people are going to say. .’ he dropped the fan back to his chin and stared up at the ceiling, ‘yes, that’s what they’ll say, that you were frightened of Spicerius.’

‘That’s a lie, you’re camel shit!’

Dacius laughed like a mare neighing in its stable. ‘Dear boy, they’ll say you were the last man to drink with him, you invited him here. What I want to know is how you will deal with Meleager.’ He stepped forward, folding back the right sleeve of his gown. Claudia glimpsed the purple chalice tattoo and the ring beneath it. She would have leapt to her feet but Murranus distracted her by lunging at Dacius, only to be blocked and pulled back by Polybius and Oceanus. The mood in the tavern grew tense, hands fell to knives; those who wished to avoid the fight were already crawling away.

‘Prove me wrong,’ taunted Dacius. ‘Perform some feat, strangle a lion with your bare hands.’

‘I’ll strangle you!’

‘Prove your innocence,’ Dacius taunted, and the refrain was taken up by his henchmen: ‘Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!’

‘I’ll prove it,’ Murranus retorted, pushing Polybius away. ‘On the day of the fight, the very day I meet Meleager, I’ll take part in a Venatio; I’ll confront and kill any animal you choose to release against me. I’ll offer it as a gift to Spicerius’s shade and a vindication of my innocence.’

Murranus’s words were greeted with a loud roar. Claudia put her face in her hands. The trap had been baited, Murranus had stepped in, and now it had snapped shut.

In the Martyrs’ Gallery, one of the largest passageways in the catacombs beneath the cemetery where St Sebastian the soldier had been shot to death, Presbyter Sylvester stood gazing in puzzlement at the desecrated grave. This was a most sacred place, the repository for the remains of those savagely executed during Diocletian’s recent persecution. The walls on either side of the gallery were a honeycomb of broad shelves, about a yard wide, the same deep. The remains of those slain in the Flavian amphitheatre were brought here, identified where possible, blessed with a sprinkling of holy water, incensed, and placed in a tomb. The grave was then crudely plastered over and, where possible, signs were scratched into the plaster identifying the occupant, their status, and the year they died, with some pious inscription carved beneath. These holy men and women were to be venerated, their remains honoured until Christ brought them back to life on the Last Day, when he would appear in glory for the Great Judgement.

Sylvester stared up and down the passageway, now lit by lamps and torches: an eerie, sombre place, full of strange echoes, as if the ghosts of the dead were calling to each other; a place of mystery, yet one of peace, a sharp contrast to the last few hours in the lives of the occupants who lay there. The catacombs were now unused, deserted, many people reluctant to return to a place which still rang with memories of the days of terror. Who would break in and remove dusty bones and skulls?

‘Why? When? Who?’ Sylvester turned in exasperation to the Guardian of the Tombs, a pinched-faced elderly scribe with ink-stained skin, yet a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. The scribe had apologised profusely for bringing the presbyter here, but what else could he do? Why had a simple tomb been broken into? It contained no treasure. He had already expressed his fears that although the cemetery was a holy place where martyrs were buried, it was also a place of black magic, where witches and warlocks gathered to perform bloody sacrifice under a brooding moon.

‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.

‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’

Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.

‘Magister!’

Sylvester walked back. He took an oil lamp from a niche and crouched down to examine the cracked plaster. Pieces were missing and some of it had crumbled, but the scribe had done a good job. Sylvester traced the inscriptions with his finger.

‘Lucius et Octavia ex Capua, Christiani,’ he read. ‘Christians from Capua.’ He traced the date on the plaster and realised it must have been the last year of Diocletian’s reign, some four years ago. ‘Do you know who they were?’

The scribe wearily got to his feet. ‘In my office,’ he explained, ‘I have, as you know, Magister, a list of Christians in each town, while Lord Chrysis has handed over the names of the proscripti, those who were condemned by the state. I will have to check these.’

Sylvester nodded. They walked back along the gallery to a small cavern which the scribe grandly described as his ‘writing office’. When the catacombs had been handed over to the care of the Bishop of Rome, Sylvester had immediately set up guardians and scribes to look after this sacred place and collect every document which might identify those buried here. During the persecution, people had been dragged from their homes in the dead of night, condemned without trial, killed immediately or dispatched to the arena. He had begged for imperial documents, and although some of these had been destroyed, deliberately so, the rest had been handed over, and the chief scribe took particular pride in the way he had organised these. They were now filed in reed baskets, long boxes and chests.

Lamps were lit, and the scribe organised his helpers to search for the necessary documents. Sylvester sat within the doorway, staring across at a crude drawing on the wall of Christ in triumph. This cavern had once been a holy place where the bread and wine had been changed into the Body and Blood of Christ. Once again Sylvester marvelled at how quickly things had changed. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the psalm for the evening, but instead he dozed off, and was shaken awake by the scribe.

‘Magister, we have found something very strange. We have no evidence for any Christians, man and wife, brother and sister, from Capua bearing those names. However, we do have a list of prisoners here. It is four years old and contains the names of Lucius and Octavia, farmers. More importantly, the documents say they had no heirs or family.’

‘So their holding was forfeit to the state?’

‘Precisely, Magister. Consequently, when the Edict of Toleration was issued, two years ago, all such property was granted back to the Church as compensation.’

Sylvester tapped a sandalled foot. ‘What is this?’ he whispered. ‘A man and woman, probably husband and wife, of whom we have no knowledge, yet they were obviously killed as Christians and their property confiscated. They were brought here to be buried and now their bones have been removed. Look,’ he got to his feet, ‘you have a messenger? I want this information sent to the woman known as Claudia, staying at the She-Asses tavern near the Flavian Gate. .’

Chapter 11

‘Dux atque Imperator Vitae Mortalium Animus est.’

(‘The Soul is the Leader and Ruler of Men’s Lives.’)

Sallust, Jugurtha, I

Claudia sat in the garden. The morning mist still hung like a veil, and birds darted about, foraging amongst the long grass for crumbs and seeds. Caligula, the tavern cat, a true killer, came slinking out, but the birds recognised the danger and Caligula had to satisfy himself with glaring up at a tree, where a thrush sang its warning. Claudia watched the cat and wondered if death was like that, creeping out of the dark to seek its prey. Death had visited this tavern last night and taken Spicerius; had it sat in the corner gibbering while poor Murranus blundered into that trap? Dacius had clearly been delighted, taunting Murranus to repeat his promise, which of course he had. The die was now cast, the news would be all over Rome; there would be no turning back. In the end Polybius had forced Dacius and his gang back out into the streets, and only then did the enormity of what he had done dawn on Murranus.

‘You’ve offered to fight twice on the same day,’ Oceanus slurred as they drowned their sorrows in wine.

Polybius had urged Murranus to withdraw, but the gladiator was too stubborn. Poppaoe, all tearful, had asked what it meant, and Oceanus had explained. The games would start with criminals being executed, then in the afternoon there would be the Venatio, when a gladiator would face wild animals. Murranus had agreed to pit himself against some ferocious beast, and Dacius had chosen a bull, a ferocious, deadly animal which combined speed, cunning, strength and a determination to kill whatever confronted it.

Claudia had sat, face in hands, trying to control her trembling. She had seen these fighting bulls from Spain and North Africa, muscles rippling under sleek skins, powerful legs which could launch them into a ferocious charge, and, above all, those wide-spaced, cruelly tipped sharpened horns. A wild bull could move like the wind yet turn as fast as any coin spinning on the floor. Oceanus, full of wine and his own importance, had not spared them the details, describing how the bull could charge, feint, and use its horns like an expert swordsman would a pair of blades. Yet this was only half the danger. Murranus had to fight, escape unscathed and, an hour later, enter the arena to confront Meleager. That was the trap! Claudia recognised how crude but effective it was. Polybius had declared it was like weighing a runner down with weights: Spicerius’s death, its effect on Murranus, the baiting and accusations, the simpering Agrippina, and now the prospect of a ferocious battle before Murranus even met his opponent.

Claudia straightened up and took a deep breath. She felt sick with fear and anger, yet there was something else which she was reluctant to face. She had glimpsed the tattoo on Dacius’s wrist and recalled what Spicerius had told Murranus. If that was true, then Meleager and that degenerate from the slums were allies, even close friends. They meant to kill Murranus and had arranged the baiting so as to gamble on the future. Murranus would die so the likes of Dacius, Meleager and Agrippina could eat more delicacies, swill more wine and decorate their bodies with finer clothes and trinkets. It had all been planned from the beginning. Spicerius had been marked down for death and Murranus was the second ox for slaughter. And yet? Claudia ground the heel of her sandal into the grass. She had to face it, her own hate and desire for revenge throbbed loudly. She wanted Murranus to fight Meleager; she couldn’t ask for a better champion for herself and poor Felix. No greater vindicator or righter of wrongs. Over the last few days Claudia had made her decision. Meleager had to die. Murranus must kill him. There was no alternative, and if he didn’t, she would. So what could she do to help? She thought of Agrippina sitting like a pampered cat fed on cream, acting the victim with her wailing and lamentation, her pitiful glances as she tried to provoke sympathy and win support.

‘Bitch!’ Claudia breathed. ‘You painted bitch! You murderous whore! I’ll begin with you.’

Caligula came over, brushing itself against her legs. Claudia scratched the cat between the ears as she reflected on the other mysteries. The Holy Sword? Well, she smiled grimly, that would be a matter of catching the culprit red-handed. And as for the murders? Claudia narrowed her eyes and watched a blackbird, bolder than the rest, go hopping across the grass. The murders were, perhaps, not such a mystery; small items were beginning to prick her suspicions. She knew where Timothaeus was, and she also quietly vowed to keep an eye on Narcissus.

The tavern door opened behind her and Caligula streaked for the gap.

‘Claudia?’ Polybius, red-eyed and much the worse for drink, stood under the porch. ‘They’ve arrived, your visitors have come.’

She followed her uncle back into the tavern to where a man sat hunched near the door. On the other side of the door were a group all huddled, clustered together like mourners.

‘Sallust? Sallust the Searcher?’

The man pushed back his hood and undid the cord of his robe. Claudia was always fascinated by the old man’s face. It looked so commonplace: unshaven, watery-eyed, runny-nosed. The shock of white hair was unruly, the tunic he wore that of a peasant, the sandals bought second-hand from some army quartermaster. A pallid face with a snub nose, the eyes dark brown like those of a puppy, trusting and eager; not the face of a searcher of things, and as such it was his best disguise.

‘Why, Claudia!’ Sallust’s voice was just above a whisper. She grasped his hand. ‘It’s so good to see you. How long is it now?’

‘A few months. Would you like something to eat?’

‘Polybius is going to give me and my boys a jug of beer and a slice of pear tart. We eat very little, you know.’

Claudia sat down next to this searcher for things. Despite his appearance, or perhaps because of it, Sallust was the most expert of the men and women who watched and reported. During the recent civil war he had backed the wrong party. He’d been used by Maxentius and, when Constantine marched into Rome, had had to go into hiding. It was a long story, but Sallust, who knew Polybius from their military days, had appealed for help and Claudia had approached the presbyter Sylvester. A pardon and amnesty had been issued, confiscated property was returned and Sallust had become Claudia’s firm friend and ally. He had immediately returned to his searchings, aided and abetted by his extended family of sons, sons-in-law, kith and kin of many varieties.

Sallust didn’t work for the state but for private individuals. If a debt wasn’t paid or a wager withdrawn, a slave escaped, a child went missing or valuables disappeared, Sallust and his searchers would soon put that right. He had lost some of his wealth during the confusion following the civil war and was eager to make up his losses. He already owned a palatial town house within walking distance of the Palatine, as well as a restful villa out in the Campania. Sallust, however, liked to act the poor man, the nondescript, the person who could sit in a tavern and never be noticed or missed.

For a while Claudia just chattered about the She-Asses and Polybius’s garden, but Sallust gave her a grim reminder of what had happened the previous night, whispering that he and his family already knew about Spicerius’s death and Murranus’s boast.

‘Well, mistress?’ He drained his beer and gazed across at his huddle of relatives, busy filling their bellies with pear tart.

‘They’re so quiet!’ Claudia murmured.

‘Always like that,’ Sallust declared. ‘That’s how we do our business. Now, mistress, you asked to see me.’

‘Ah.’ Claudia edged a little closer. ‘I want to discuss three things with you: love tokens, a holy sword, and the town of Capua. Now. .’ She paused at the knocking on the door. She got up, opened it and stared at the tinker with a tray slung round his neck. She would have immediately closed the door, but he lifted his hand, displaying the crude icthus ring on his middle finger.

‘I’m looking for the woman Claudia.’

‘I’m she.’

‘Are you?’ He peered closer. ‘You know the turnings?’

‘Across the cemetery to the tomb dedicated to Servilius.’ Claudia gave the agreed answer.

‘He sent you this.’ The tinker handed across a scroll, waggled his fingers and disappeared.

Claudia made her excuse to Sallust and went out to the garden, where she undid the scroll and read Sylvester’s message. She was so surprised she read it again.

‘What is this?’ she exclaimed, staring down at the carefully formed letters.

Sylvester had described a mystery involving a violated tomb and the remains of a man and a woman known as Lucius and Claudia, not listed as Christians but still martyred for that faith. Apparently they were a childless couple whose holdings had been forfeit to the State but which now, under the Edict of Toleration, had been restored to the Church. Claudia reflected on her own suspicions and returned to Sallust.

‘As I said,’ she smiled, sitting down, ‘love tokens, a holy sword and the town of Capua.’

Sallust listened carefully to the problems facing Claudia, asking a few questions as she spoke. An hour later, he and his entourage left, promising to do what they could. The tavern was now stirring, and Claudia broke her own fast. Narcissus came down and sat in a corner, eating a bowl of yesterday’s meat and onions. Januaria sat next to him, all smiling and simpering. A short while later Murranus clattered down the stairs, complaining of a dry mouth and sore head. He wanted to be alone, to reflect on what had happened the previous day. He grunted greetings but said he had to hurry, wolfed down some bread soaked in milk, took a mouthful of beer, kissed Claudia on the brow and almost fled through the tavern door. Narcissus, tired of Januaria, came edging over.

‘Mistress,’ he asked plaintively, ‘what are we going to do?’

‘We are going to sit and moan,’ Claudia replied, mimicking his voice, ‘about having a soft bed, freedom, a purse of money, good food and a pretty girl to smile at you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Claudia snapped. ‘Go down to the stables and saddle my cob. If you want, saddle a mount for yourself. We are going back to the Villa Pulchra.’

‘Then I’ll walk, I don’t like horses.’

‘Please yourself,’ Claudia retorted. She was eager to do something rather than sit and let the terrors seize hold of her.

Claudia collected her cloak, belt and purse, pushed some bread and dried meat into a napkin, borrowed a leather bag from the kitchen and made her farewells. Narcissus didn’t object to her proposal; he walked beside her describing how horses made him seasick before asking her why she wanted to return to the villa, pointing out that no one would be there; Timothaeus and the rest would now be in the imperial palace on the Palatine. Claudia murmured, ‘Good, I hope they stay there,’ before returning to her own thoughts and the list of suspicions she’d drawn up last night as she had lain in bed waiting for sleep.

Their journey through the streets was quick; only a trickle of early-morning travellers were taking advantage of the good weather and the half-empty streets. For most of their journey down to the Flavian Gate they followed a cohort of lightly armed legionnaires tramping out to one of the small forts on the approaches to Rome. Narcissus commented on how there seemed to be more troops on the move, whilst Claudia privately wondered if Constantine had decided to retaliate against his rival in the East. She was glad to be free of the She-Asses. Murranus had placed himself in great danger, but she did not want to worsen matters with sharp advice and a tart tongue. She made herself as comfortable as possible in the saddle, half dozing as they left the busy streets with their noise and smell, on to the main via which ran through the Flavian Gate. They passed the place of the dead and Claudia wondered about Sylvester’s enigmatic message. She was sure Sallust would help with that. Beside her Narcissus hummed a love song Januaria had taught him, whilst swiping with his stick at the brambles and weeds on the side of the path.

They made good progress, only standing aside for imperial messengers who came thundering along the via with their military escort. Soon they left the main road and followed the winding country paths, past the pickets guarding the approach to the villa, now reduced to only two or three men squatting before a fire, more interested in their oatmeal than a traveller who carried an imperial pass. When they reached the villa, a yawning guard opened the gate and ushered them into the cobbled yard. An under-steward came down to greet them, all blustering and protesting, but the protests died on his lips when he recognised Claudia and the pass she carried. He listened with astonishment as Claudia demanded that he summon all the servants and what guards were left down to the yard as soon as possible. He made to protest, but smiled at the prospect of a silver coin and hastened away. Claudia knew that once the court had left the villa, the servants would enjoy themselves doing as little as possible, hiding away and finding whatever mischief they could to while away the boredom. They soon flocked down to the yard, full of curiosity at this visitor and what she proposed: kitchen maids, page boys, gardeners, cleaners and washerwomen. Claudia asked them to gather round. She opened her purse and took out five silver pieces, promising them that anyone who found a weapon of war, as she described it, in the countryside to the south of the villa would receive a lavish reward.