Текст книги "The Song of the Gladiator"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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‘Come on, Murranus, come and get it.’

Murranus put his helmet down and walked over. He scrutinised the net man carefully, those quickly darting close-set eyes, that smirking mouth. He noticed how Spicerius, as was his custom, had painted his face and drawn deep-green kohl rings around his eyes. His lips were carmined and he stank of some expensive perfume. Spicerius thrust his face closer, eyes fluttering.

‘Kiss, kiss, Murranus?’

The young woman on Spicerius’s left shrieked with laughter, so loud Murranus suspected she was drunk.

‘This is Agrippina.’ Spicerius introduced her. ‘A noble daughter of a noble family.’

Agrippina was tall and willowy, her black hair tied up in a net, a gesture of comradeship with her boyfriend. The snow-white linen wrap around her shoulders did little to hide the plunging neckline of her gown. She wore mullet-red shoes, and earrings, bracelets and bangles of the same colour, as if proclaiming her love for the colour of blood.

‘I’ve come to kiss Spicerius goodbye,’ she announced pertly. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘on second thoughts, just to wish him well. I’ll proudly kiss him on his return!’

‘Kiss my arse!’ Oceanus bellowed from where he stood behind Murranus. Spicerius moved to confront him but Murranus blocked his way.

‘There’ll be time soon enough,’ he murmured.

‘Aye,’ the net man replied, lowering his trident to rest under his arm, ‘there’ll soon be time for everything.’

The Director of the Games, all flustered and sweaty, came forward, gesturing at a tray bearing a flagon of wine and two cups on the shabby table against the wall. He beckoned the gladiators forward and filled the earthenware cups. Each took one and toasted his opponent.

‘Usque ad mortem,’ Murranus declared.

‘Usque ad mortem,’ Spicerius replied. ‘To the death.’

They drained their cups and returned to their entourages for the final preparations. The Director was standing at the Gate of Life, gesturing with his hands. A strident blast of trumpets silenced the crowd, and both gladiators returned for one more drink. Spicerius checked the net tied to his wrist whilst Murranus lowered his helmet on his head.

‘Now,’ a voice bellowed.

They walked out of the darkness into the blazing light. Trumpets shrilled, cymbals clashed, the crowd thundered its applause whilst the heat caught them like a blast from a fiery oven. The musicians, sand-rakers and cleaners had disappeared. Murranus walked carefully across the sand, Spicerius keeping pace. They stopped before the imperial box and gave the salute, and a figure high above them lifted his hand in languid reply. Both gladiators turned, saluted each other and quickly drew apart. The clamour of the crowd subsided into a whispering chatter as so-called experts delivered their judgements on the combatants.

Murranus tried not to be distracted. Claudia was in the imperial box; he wished she wasn’t. He did not feel good and tried to shake off his fears. He had visited a magician, who had sacrificed a dove in a pool of water and prayed that all the gods would assist Murranus. Murranus did not want to die. He had to be Victor Ludorum and receive the gladiator’s crown. Spicerius was still moving away, drawing free of the wall, which could impede his net. Murranus followed slowly. Spicerius began that strange dance all net men did, moving swiftly to the right then the left, trying to detect whether his opponent’s view was blocked or hampered. Murranus brought up sword and shield. He ignored the net and trident, but watched Spicerius’s face, those eyes: which way would he go?

Murranus’s bare feet caught something in the sand. He stepped back and looked down: a severed arm overlooked by the rakers, a grisly reminder of the beast hunt earlier that day. Spicerius hadn’t noticed it. Murranus moved forward quickly and pretended to stumble. Spicerius darted back, net whirling above his head. Murranus quickly retreated, and the net fell short. Murranus rushed in. Spicerius was faster, thrusting his trident towards Murranus’s face. He quickly drew away. The crowd roared their approval. Spicerius was dancing again, showing off. He came in too close and paid the price, a cut to his right thigh which warned him off. Murranus ignored the applause and followed Spicerius, but something was wrong: the wound he had inflicted was superficial, yet the net man was blinking, shaking his head. Was this a trap? Murranus cautiously paced forward, then stopped. Spicerius no longer crouched. He was standing up straight, staring at his opponent, eyes puzzled, mouth moving. The trident dropped from his hands. He took a step forward, tangling his feet in the net, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

For the briefest moment there was silence, shattered by a roar of disapproval. The crowd had come for blood, not to see someone collapse in the sand. The Gate of Life opened, and Mercury hurried across with his red-hot iron. He jabbed Spicerius’s leg, but the net man only groaned, tried to move, then lay still. Charon turned the body over. Spicerius’s face was pale, his eyelids fluttering, and he was coughing and spluttering. Charon turned him back and Spicerius began to vomit.

‘Poison!’ The word seemed to carry like a bird whirring round the amphitheatre.

Murranus walked away just as the booing began. He strode towards the Gate of Life. The Director of the Games had already picked up one of the wine goblets and was waving it around.

Gaius, principal centurion in the Imperial Comitatus, the cavalry escort which always guarded the Emperor, bit into a soft golden apple. He closed his eyes and savoured the sweet juices. Gaius was sitting in the cool colonnade which overlooked the peristyle garden of the Villa Pulchra. He was deep in thought; he had so much to reflect on, so much to do, so little time to do it. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes. This was a very pleasant change from the musty barracks and hot stable yards of the imperial palaces. He was relieved not to have to wear the imperial dress uniform; instead he could relax in a cool embroidered tunic and short toga, although beneath the folds of that robe he wore a narrow leather belt with a long stabbing dagger in an embroidered sheath.

Gaius had been born not far from this very villa. He claimed he was Roman, though some said his ancestors were Spaniards, which accounted for his dark good looks and fiery temper. He had not yet reached thirty and was already one of Constantine’s most trusted officers. He had received the crown of bravery for his courage at the battle of the Milvian Bridge and his ruthless pursuit of the enemy when it retreated. However, he still couldn’t believe his luck at being brought here for such a meeting. Of course, he hadn’t objected and good-naturedly received the envious congratulations of his fellow officers. He had left Rome a few days ago, escorting the carts and pack ponies, the long lines of slaves and servants, bringing goods from the Palatine palace to this imperial villa. It had been so refreshing to leave the city, travelling along the Via Latina before taking the country roads to Tibur and Constantine’s summer residence.

This great villa, with a large farm attached, stretched across the brow of the Alban Hills, a place of dark green woods, pastures and meadows, all fertilised by the cool, sparkling Anio River. The villa was protected by its own curtain wall with guard towers and a wide fortified gate. Inside stretched a veritable paradise of gardens, sparkling fountains, man-made channels and rivulets, garlanded porticoes and shaded colonnades. The villa boasted avenues of cypresses, olives and pine trees which, the garrulous old gardener had assured Gaius, were watered with wine. Elm and holm-oak flourished, as well as shrubs such as myrtle, box, oleander, laurel and bay. Around the villa were sweet-smelling orchards of apple, pear, peach and cherry, and beds of roses, lilies and violets, whilst exotic lotus blossom floated on pools and fish ponds.

Once the carts were unpacked and the sumpter ponies unburdened, Gaius had spent the last two days wandering the villa. Its entrance hall or atrium was breathtaking in its beauty, with its long pool beneath an open sunlight, gorgeously carved pillars and vividly painted wall frescoes. The triclinium, or dining room, was just as luxurious, as were the various chambers and rest rooms for the imperial family and their court. Every luxury and need was catered for. The villa had its own kitchen, bake houses, vineyards and wine cellars. There was even a latrine with twenty marble seats at the far side of the villa, near the wall which divided it from the farm, which was a small estate in itself with its stables, pig pens, chicken coops, dovecotes and vegetable gardens.

Gaius had his own chamber beyond the peristyle, rather narrow but it did possess a large window, a carved chest, a stool, a small table and a comfortable cot bed. There was even a wall tapestry depicting Aeneas fleeing Troy, whilst the floor mosaic was of a dolphin’s head thrusting up through sky-blue waves. Gaius had little to do but plan and plot while ensuring his guards were vigilant. The preparations for the arrival of the Purple Lords were not for him; those were left to the chamberlains and stewards. Gaius was in charge of security, and he had scrupulously memorised the plan of the villa. Only one distraction concerned him: the other soldiers. These were not from the imperial regiments; merely German mercenaries in their baggy trousers and tunics, their ruddy faces almost hidden beneath straggling hair and moustaches. The Germans were friendly enough, under the command of Burrus, Emperor Helena’s personal bodyguard. They’d arrived two weeks ago in order to guard what they called in their broken Latin the ‘Sanctus Gladius’, the Holy Sword, apparently a great Christian relic which the Empress had found near the grave of Paul, one of the first leaders of the Christian Church. Paul had been decapitated by the Emperor Nero some two hundred and fifty years earlier; the faithful had obtained the sword which severed his neck and kept it in a secret place. Gaius regarded it all as childish trickery but the Germans were overcome by awe and took their task seriously.

Gaius scratched at a cut on his arm and gazed down at the golden carp nosing lazily amongst the reeds. He couldn’t believe a sword had been preserved for over two hundred years, but there again, everything was changing. Gaius narrowed his eyes in disdain. The Christians. . well, they swarmed like rats spilling out of their sewers and underground caverns. When they were not nosing where they shouldn’t, they were busy fighting each other. Gaius tapped his foot impatiently. He and the other officers did not like how this coward’s faith was replacing the glories of Mithras. Was this what they had fought for? Their allegiance was to Rome, yet the Augusta was insistent that that bloody sword had become more precious than an imperial standard. Burrus had told him all about the so-called relic; the German was garrulous, especially after he had drunk a few cups of the heavy wine of Lesbos, and had confessed to Gaius how he took his task most seriously, out of awe, as well as love for his Empress.

‘She feeds me so well,’ Burrus had slurred. ‘Dormice,’ he continued. ‘I never thought I’d like them, but, soaked in honey, with a sprinkling of sesame seeds. .’ He stroked his stomach appreciatively. He was not so polite about the arrival of the philosophers, however. ‘Christians,’ he jeered, ‘with nothing better to do than chatter like jays. The sword has been brought here to impress them.’

‘Where’s it kept?’ Gaius had asked.

‘Just behind the atrium,’ Burrus confided, ‘stands a door with steps leading down to a cellar. Apparently the builder of this villa had hoped to create an ice house by plastering the walls and laying a cement floor with a great circle of earth in the centre where the ice tub would stand. It was a dismal failure, so the cavernous chamber was turned into a strong room where the owner could keep his treasure. Now,’ Burrus leaned closer in a heavy gust of wine, ‘there,’ he stumbled over the words, ‘is the Locus Sacer, the Sacred Place.’

Timothaeus, Chief Steward of the villa, a self-confessed Christian who wore the fish symbol around his neck, had nodded in agreement. The steward, with his jovial red face and infectious laugh, always joined their little suppers. He never took offence at Burrus’s contempt for Christians, but always warned that the mercenary should be careful, for surely one day the Empress Helena would be baptised and received in the only true faith? The German had grunted his disapproval and started asking questions about this great Paul, before offering to show Gaius the renowned relic. The steward had accompanied them down the steps to the iron-studded cellar door. At each side of this squatted two of Burrus’s men, looking rather fearsome in the dancing light of the pitch torches pushed into wall brackets above them. They rose, swaying drunkenly.

‘Is your leg better?’ one of them asked Timothaeus.

‘Oh yes,’ the steward replied hurriedly. ‘Now, Burrus, your key. .’

Apparently there were two locks to the door, each served by a different key. Burrus held one, Timothaeus the other. The mercenary inserted his and turned it; the steward followed suit and swung open the door to the sacred place. The inside of the cellar was dark, reeking of incense and beeswax. Gaius stepped over the threshold and stared around.

The chamber was long and cavernous, a place of shifting shadows due to the candles in their translucent alabaster jars fixed in niches along the walls. The ceiling was high, ribbed by stout beams supporting the floor above. In the centre stretched a huge circle of sand sprinkled with gold dust and edged with polished bricks arranged in a dog’s-tooth fashion. Pots of incense displaying the Chi and Rho of the Christian faith were placed around the circle, the crackling charcoal sending up fragrant gusts of incense. The object of all this veneration hung on a stout chain from a rafter beam: the Holy Sword of the legionary who had executed St Paul. Around the stone-rimmed circle were prayer stools for the faithful to sit or kneel whenever they came to venerate the sacred relic.

‘Where’s Burrus?’ Gaius asked. Timothaeus had followed him in, but the German had stayed chattering to his companions outside.

‘He’s frightened,’ the steward whispered. ‘This is a sacred place. Burrus is frightened of the Christian angels.’ Gaius grunted and walked to the edge of the circle.

The sword was an old legionary weapon, now replaced as standard issue by the long curved sword Gaius had used during his military career. He studied the relic with great interest. The hilt was of pure ivory, a sparkling ruby on the pommel; its blade, designed for stabbing, was two-edged, with a ridge down the centre, and had been polished so it shone like a mirror. Gaius could understand why the room had been chosen. The sword was on full display and you could walk right round it, but the smooth sand would betray any footprint, whilst the sword hung more than an arm’s length from where he stood. At the bottom of the chain was a sharp ugly hook to which the ring on the end of the hilt had been attached.

Gaius studied the sword, more out of curiosity than anything else. He found it difficult to accept that it was as old as Timothaeus claimed.

‘The hilt has probably been replaced,’ the steward hastily assured him, ‘but its blade certainly bestowed on our blessed Paul the glorious palm of martyrdom. .’

Now Gaius stared down at the carp amongst the reeds. He had soon lost interest in the sword and couldn’t understand the growing interest of the Emperor in such matters. He’d heard the Emperor joke how his August mother was busy ransacking the Empire in her hunger for relics. The philosophers, the rhetoricians invited from Capua were deeply interested in the sword. Gaius had studied what he secretly called ‘those loathsome creatures’ ever since their arrival the day before yesterday. He had taken a personal dislike to all of them; they had no redeeming virtues, and their appearance and manner confirmed all he’d learned about them. A true nest of vipers! Of course, they had visited the sword as soon as they had arrived. According to Timothaeus, their fingers had positively itched, although the steward didn’t know if it was the sacredness of the relic or the gleaming ruby in its ivory hilt which attracted them. All veneration had soon disappeared though, as the rhetoricians started to squabble about St Paul’s teaching on Christ. Timothaeus had been truly scandalised, grumbling that if they were not prudent the good Lord would send a plague or pestilence to unite them against the common danger.

Voices echoed along the peristyle. Gaius closed his eyes. It was the rhetoricians, braying like asses! Justin, leader of the Arian delegation, came into the garden, bony finger waggling as he lectured his two companions on some obscure point of theology.

‘What we have got to decide,’ he declared, ‘is whether Jesus Christ is of the same substance as the Father, or can he only be likened to the Father?’

His two companions nodded wisely. Gaius glared at them, but of course, he was a mere soldier; in their eyes he didn’t exist. Justin was fat, with bulbous eyes and a mouth like a fish. Gaius stared down at the carp. No, he reasoned, that was an insult to the fish. Justin was a bloated frog. He liked to describe himself as ascetic, so he insisted on wearing a shabby tunic which reeked of the stables and sandals which would look scruffy on a beggar. His two companions, Dionysius and Malachus, were plain young men, both balding. They tried to imitate the Greeks with their sparse moustache and beards, eyes screwed up in concentration, lips half open as if ready to declare some great truth hidden from the rest of mankind.

They drifted away and Gaius lay down in the shade of a laurel bush and wondered what would happen. Memories came and went. When they were boys he and Spicerius used to visit a rich old man with a garden like this. He wondered idly what his former comrade would make of it all. Before long he had drifted off to sleep.

He was woken some time later, the shadows lenghtening, by the clash of cymbals, loud cries and shouts. At first, in his half-sleep, Gaius thought the villa was being attacked. Burrus came running into the garden, throwing his hands up in the air, then fell to his knees and began to howl like a dog.

‘By all that is light,’ Gaius muttered. He jumped to his feet and ordered the German to shut up.

‘The sword,’ Burrus wailed, ‘the Holy Sword is gone! And Timothaeus is dead!’

Chapter 2

‘Vita summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam.’

(‘The brevity of life stops us from far-reaching hope.’)

Horace, Odes, I.4

The She-Asses tavern, on the edge of Rome’s not so salubrious quarter, near the Flavian Gate, was ablaze with light. The tavern occupied the ground floor of an insula or apartment block near the decaying temple of the Crown of Venus. It was a spacious hostelry with a fine main door, nailed to which was a placard listing what was on the menu, which wines and beers were served, as well as a stark warning to gamblers, fighters, sorcerers and travelling tinkers that they were banned from trading under pain of a broken nose. Above the door perched a carved statue of Minerva which Polybius had ‘borrowed’ from the nearby temple, whilst on the top of each doorpost squatted a grinning Hermes. Oceanus had appropriated these on a long-term loan from a bath house the police had closed down for acting as a brothel without paying them their dues. Inside the main folding door, Polybius had transformed what used to be the atrium into a spacious high-ceilinged eating room. The counter stood at one end and at the other what Polybius grandiloquently termed ‘the garden door’. The room was lit by oil lamps, rush lights and lanterns hanging from wall and ceiling hooks.

This particular evening, after the games had finished, the small carved tables had been pushed together and ringed with makeshift couches and stools. Pride of place was taken by a stern-faced Murranus, lounging on Polybius’s one and only proper couch. Claudia sprawled on cushioned stools to Murranus’s right. Polybius, his few hairs greased to circle his balding head like an athlete’s wreath, shared a broad, throne-like chair with his plump, pretty wife, Poppaoe, whom Polybius always called his ‘little ripe plum’. Simon the Stoic, sitting opposite, could only silently agree as he stared lustfully at Poppaoe’s full ripe breasts straining against her low blue-edged gown.

All the regulars had been invited, even Saturninus, the bleary-eyed commander of the local Vigiles, who acted as watchmen, firefighters, police and, as Polybius grumbled, unofficial tax collectors. The wine had circulated, both red and white. Polybius claimed they were Falernian, from northern Campania; Claudia suspected the jars were from the local market and the wine from the vines Poppaoe tended in the large garden behind the She-Asses. Polybius had certainly savoured every cup. Now, flush-faced, he lurched to his feet and, in an attempt to make Murranus smile, bellowed out the doggerel words:

 
‘Look man is just a bag of bones,
Here today and gone tomorrow
Soon we’ll all be dead as stones
So let’s drink up and drown our sorrow.’
 

He glanced sharply at the sober-faced Murranus, then picked up a pair of small cymbals and clashed for silence. ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ he declared and before anyone could object, he had walked into the centre of the dining circle and, ignoring Poppaoe’s warning glance, launched into his tale.

‘Once there was a poor carpenter who had a wife who loved bed sport. Day and night, whatever the weather, she was ripe for it.’ Polybius raised his hands at the jeers this provoked. ‘She had a lover whom she would most royally entertain when her husband was gone. One day she and lover boy were at their pleasures when husband unexpectedly arrived home. Her lover had no choice but to hide in a large, empty but very dirty wine vat standing in the bedroom corner. He was safely hidden away when the husband came into the room. The wife immediately started stripping the bed. “What are you doing here?” she shouted. “You lazy good-for-nothing! I’m working my fingers to the bone and you arrive home without a penny for a crust.”

‘“There’s no work,” her husband replied, pointing to the corner, “but I’ve just sold that wine vat for seven denarii, so you can help me clean and remove it.”

‘“You idiot,” the quick-witted wife retorted. “Seven denarii? I’ve just sold it for twelve. The buyer’s inside it, checking to see if it’s all right.” On cue, lover boy pops his head up. “I’ll take it!” he shouts. “On one condition. You,” he pointed to the husband, “get in here and clean it.”

‘So husband climbs in and starts to clean the wine vat whilst lover boy and the lady of the house return to their pleasures, with the poor husband being encouraged by his wife’s shouts, which he thinks are directions to clean the vat as thoroughly as possible. .’

Polybius’s audience collapsed in laughter.

‘Is this a true story?’ Festus the Fornicator shouted.

‘Yes,’ Polybius retorted.

‘Which means,’ Petronius the Pimp bellowed, ‘you must have been either the man on the bed or the husband in the wine vat!’

Petronius ducked as Poppaoe threw a piece of meat at him. Polybius lurched back to his seat, and the guests turned to chatter with their neighbours as well as enjoy the fresh crates of wine Polybius sent round, followed by dishes of fried liver and coriander, pork in a piquant sauce and bowls of herb purée with walnuts.

‘It’ll never happen,’ Polybius bawled at Murranus in one final attempt to draw the gladiator from his sombre mood.

‘It has happened,’ Murranus whispered to Claudia. She sipped at her watered wine and, stretching out, cupped Murranus’s cheek in her small hand.

‘Tell me again.’

‘We were in the arena, I was fighting well, you saw that.’

‘No I didn’t,’ Claudia retorted. ‘I’d closed my eyes.’

‘Spicerius began to sway, then he collapsed. I thought he was dead till he began to vomit. By the tits of a pig, I’ve never seen a man vomit like that. By the time they had got him back through the Gate of Life, whatever he had taken he’d spat most of it out. May the gods be thanked for that old soldier doctor; he made Spicerius take salt water and he continued to vomit. He kept slapping Spicerius’s face, telling him not to go to sleep. I have never seen so much water poured down a throat.’

‘Poisoned?’ Claudia asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Murranus replied. ‘The doctor inspected the vomit, said it stank like a sewer pit. It may have been belladonna, foxglove, or just something to make Spicerius sleep. The doctor said he was very lucky; because he has a constitution like an ox, he survived. But now they are blaming me. Spicerius’s wine cup was tainted – they found grains of a powder at the bottom of it – but mine was free, as was the wine left in the jug.’

Murranus indicated with his thumb. ‘But of course things are not helped by the fact that Polybius is my supporter and he brought the wine down. To cut a long story short, I am being blamed for drugging Spicerius. They say I could be guilty of attempted murder.’

‘But that’s untrue,’ Claudius replied heatedly. ‘The cup was on the table, all sorts of people were milling about, Polybius told me that. Anyway, what will happen now?’

‘Next week Rufinus is to stage special games in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. I will fight again. This time there will be no wine, and it will be a fight to the finish!’

‘Why don’t you give it up?’ Claudia pleaded.

‘I will one day, when I’m Victor Ludorum and receive the crown.’

‘But there’s one more fight after Spicerius?’

‘Ah yes, one more. Spicerius, or I, must face Meleager, the Marvel of a Million Cities.’

‘And is he?’

‘No, that’s just what he calls himself, but he’s a cunning-eyed bastard. He’ll laugh his head off when he hears the news.’

‘There’s no real damage done.’ Claudia touched Murranus on the tip of his nose. ‘They have no proof you poisoned the wine and you’ll both fight again. By the way, how is Spicerius?’

‘He’s much better this evening; rather quiet when I visited, but said he didn’t hold me responsible. He clasped my hand and claimed he was still the better man.’

‘He could have taken it himself,’ Claudia declared. ‘He wouldn’t be the first gladiator to try some magical powder. But come, smile, Uncle is really trying to do his best.’

‘And what are you doing?’ Murranus leaned closer and, ignoring Januaria’s jealous hiss, removed a smudge of grease from the corner of Claudia’s mouth with his napkin. She smiled dazzlingly and silently wished that the handsome green-eyed, red-haired fighter would be satisfied, retire and always stay with her.

‘What are you thinking, little one?’ Murranus whispered. ‘Are you still looking for the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist? You told me he was probably a soldier serving in an Illyrian regiment. Didn’t you say Rufinus the banker knew something about him? Is that why you are working in the palace?’

‘I’m a scurrier.’ Claudia smiled. ‘The Empress’s messenger maid.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ Murranus lowered his voice so the hubbub of their companions swept over them. ‘Are you a spy, Claudia? One of the Agentes?’

‘Why, Murranus.’ Claudia fluttered her eyelids.

‘Are you?’

She paused as the door opened and a pedlar entered, a tray slung round his neck full of trinkets, Egyptian scarabs, medals of Isis and packets of sulphur matches. He stretched out his claw-like hand full of denarii and bellowed for a drink, any drink. He caught Claudia’s gaze. ‘And some fish,’ he added cheekily. ‘I’ve walked the Via Appia, up and down, set up shop just near the tombstones on the third mile.’ He gave a cracked-toothed smile. ‘You know the place, where the Christians say Sebastian was shot to death with arrows. I’ll be back there tomorrow, about the sixth hour, so I need food and a good night’s sleep.’ He bawled on and on until a servant brought him a small jug of wine and a dish of diced fish. The pedlar glanced quickly at Claudia again before retreating into a corner.

Claudia looked away. Sylvester had sent his message. She had to be in the catacombs the following morning, amongst the gravestones of the cemetery near the third milestone along the Appian Way. .

Claudia woke long before dawn. She always slept well in her small chamber above the tavern. Poppaoe had done her best to make the room comfortable and pleasing, with the tapestry of leaping ibex on the wall, a bronze tripod table, an acacia-wood stool and a carved Egyptian chest where she could store her belongings. Claudia rose and went to the spring in the garden which lay at the centre of the insula. The breeze was cool, the sun had yet to rise, so the garden was still fresh before the humidity and heat set in. She washed herself carefully, then returned to her chamber to put on clean undergarments, a green tunic with an embroidered hem, and a dark brown cloak which she used to hide the dagger in the belt around her waist. She grabbed her staff and broad-brimmed hat and went down to the kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed pot boy served her some of yesterday’s meal in the small bread room which lay off the kitchen. She drank some watered wine then, telling the pot boy to go back to bed, opened one of the shutters, climbed up and lowered herself down.

She looked to the right and left. There was no one there. No beggar pretending to doze or a drunk urinating against the wall. The street was deserted. She hurried along towards the main thoroughfare. The water carriers and street sweepers were out; schoolchildren were being forced down to the local school room, where a travelling teacher would teach them the rudiments of mathematics and the alphabet. Men going to the baths walked briskly or were carried in their sedan chairs, their slaves hastening behind with baskets of strigils, combs, towels, jars of perfume and flasks of oil. The hucksters were preparing for a day’s trading. Barbers had set up their stools, hot water and brushes at the ready. Cooks, their saucepans full of sausages, fired their mobile stoves, hoping the smell of spiced meat would whet the appetite of passers-by. In the workshops, craftsmen started to hammer. The usual din of the day was beginning.