Текст книги "The Song of the Gladiator"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Chapter 3

‘ Omnia Romae cum pretis.’ (‘Everything in Rome comes with a price-tag.’)

Juvenal, Satires, III

Dionysius, follower of Justin and not-so-ardent supporter of the teaching of Arius, was thinking about death: not his own, but death in general. The self-proclaimed philosopher was preparing a speech on that chilling phrase of the sophists: ‘I was not; I am; I am not; I don’t care’.

The Villa Pulchra lay quiet after all the excitement caused by the arrival of the Lords of the Purple in their palanquins and sedan chairs. The Emperor, of course, had arrived on horseback, clattering into the broad cobbled yard bawling for wine and a warm bath to cool the imperial arse. Carts and sumpter ponies had crowded in. Servants and slaves bowed down with burdens hurried around the villa with the furniture and furnishings and personal belongings of Constantine and his court. The kitchens had already been prepared, the oven fires lit, the baking house opened; now the smoke boiled from the kitchens like mist over the river. The air turned savoury with the dishes planned for that evening’s banquet: eggs poached in wine, beef casserole, hare in a sweet sauce, ham in a red wine and fennel gravy, baked plaice and oysters in vine leaves.

Dionysius’s mouth watered, his empty stomach grumbling at the prospect of such delicacies. He and the rest had been invited to the supper party and Dionysius wanted to impress everyone with something witty or thoughtful. He planned to recite his short speech on death, followed by some verses from Ovid, or Virgil’s Aeneid, perhaps a comparison between Homer and Herodotus? He walked deeper into the garden, entering the shade of the orchard. He hunched his shoulders and rolled his head, trying to release the tension in his neck. He was glad to be out of the sunlight. The villa had settled down for the afternoon rest, except for the Empress, who was prowling the corridors and passageways like a panther seeking its prey. The Holy Sword had gone, the blessed relic had disappeared.

Dionysius closed his eyes and shook his head. That stupid German had cried like a child whilst the Captain of the Guard, Gaius Tullius, trying to keep his face straight, had searched the villa and garden to no avail. Timothaeus the steward, white as a ghost, had quickly recovered, and at supper had told them all what had happened. How he had walked down to the Sacred Place to see the Holy Sword; how Burrus and he had unlocked the door and, as usual, the German had stayed outside to talk to his companions. Timothaeus remembered looking at the sand – it wasn’t disturbed – and only then, to his horror, did he notice that the sword was gone.

‘It was the chain,’ he whispered. ‘Just hanging down so straight and still. I fainted.’

Poor Timothaeus had collapsed half in, half out of the circle of sand. Burrus had looked in, seen what had happened and immediately fallen into a fit of hysterics. Gaius Tullius, roused from his nap in the peristyle garden, had taken charge. He and Dionysius had entered the cellar, but could find nothing disturbed except the edge of the sand where Timothaeus had fallen. They had removed the steward with the help of a slave from the House of Mourning. Gaius had checked he was breathing before returning to search the cellar, only to find nothing. Timothaeus was carried to his room and Gaius had set up his own enquiry. A number of facts emerged. First, Burrus and Timothaeus swore that no one could get into that room without both keys. Secondly, there was no sign of forced entry or secret tunnel. Thirdly, the chain hung empty but undamaged. Fourthly, the sand betrayed no sign of anyone standing on it. The disappearance of the relic was truly a mystery.

The Empress, of course, was outraged. According to reports, she’d slapped Burrus roundly for his hysterics and openly wondered if the two guards outside had been involved in the theft. They had been summoned, beaten and harangued by their imperial mistress, but they swore the most sacred oaths that they had done their duty and noticed nothing wrong. Empress Helena screamed that she would see them all crucified before flouncing off to her own bedchamber. In the end her anger cooled: the Holy Sword was gone and there was not a shred of information about how it had mysteriously disappeared. Justin, of course, wondered if their opponents had stolen it, spitefully pointing out that Athanasius, Aurelian, Septimus and other members of the orthodox party were all poor and would have envied the ivory and ruby.

Dionysius, muttering to himself, crouched down at the base of an apple tree, using it as a back rest. He stretched out his legs, savouring the shade, the cool grass and the soothing coos of the birds. ‘Justin should keep his mouth shut!’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Everyone admired the sword, anyone could be a suspect – and that includes that great hulk Burrus and his hairy Germans.’ Dionysius wanted Justin to shut up and not make a bad situation worse.

The philosopher wetted his lips and gazed at the circle of wild flowers arranged in vivid colours which caught the sun as it poured through gaps in the trees. Disagreements, he reflected, always led to worse. Dionysius had experienced enough horror in his life and tried not to frighten himself. He had been converted to Christianity in his teens. He’d debated the existence of angels and demons, yet his pagan upbringing also evoked the Manes, spirits of the dead, some of whom, because of the way they had died, came back to haunt the living and blight their lives. Dionysius returned to his reflections on death, only to be distracted by the prospect of the impending debate. He was no fool. He realised that Bishop Militiades and his assistant, the presbyter Sylvester, had the ear of the Empress. He had secretly reviewed his own position, concluding that it might be best to renounce the teaching of Arius and embrace orthodoxy. That was the way to proceed, to get noticed and so win approval, and what better way than in public, declaring, ever so humbly, how he had been convinced by the arguments of his opponents?

‘Are we enjoying the garden?’

Dionysius started and glanced up at the figure towering over him. Because of the position of the sun, the philosopher couldn’t recognise who it was who had addressed him. He lifted his hands to shade his eyes, but he had hardly stirred when the rock smacked against his head. He felt a searing flash of pain and the tang of blood at the back of his throat, then slumped over. His assailant hastily bound his hands and feet and laced a coarse rope round his middle. Dionysius tried to move but couldn’t. He was pulled across the ground like a sack, his body jarring against hidden stumps and stones. The pain drove him in and out of consciousness. He was choking. He tried to scream, only to realise that the pain in his mouth was caused by the stout gag forced between his lips.

Now they were going deeper into the trees, and the rope pulling him went slack. A blindfold was put across his eyes and his hands were freed. Dionysius tried to struggle, but it was fruitless. His opponent hummed quietly as he pegged the philosopher out against the ground and proceeded to slice his captive’s arms, legs and chest. Dionysius really believed the Manes had come. He was in a sea of pain, tossed here and there, his feverish mind drifting in and out of consciousness. He was back in Capua, in the schoolroom or walking out in the fields, until another cut brought him back to the tortured present. His body bucked against the ropes. His assailant was slicing his flesh as he would a piece of beef.

Eventually Dionysius lost consciousness and his assailant left him there, pegged on the ground, blood running out like rivulets across the lush green grass. It took him an hour to die.

His corpse was discovered by Gaius Tullius as he was doing his usual rounds with four of his men. They all gazed in horror at the blood-soaked body, the ground around saturated with a dark stain.

‘Fetch the Empress,’ Gaius ordered.

‘And his Excellency?’

‘I said the Empress,’ Gaius insisted. ‘The Augusta will know what to do.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Our Noble Emperor has taken a few cups of wine; he is with some of the maids and would not like to be disturbed.’

A short while later, the Empress, accompanied by her woebegone bodyguard, came striding through the trees. She gave an exclamation of horror, then walked round the corpse, noticing how the legs and arms were held taut, the rope tied to pegs driven into the ground.

‘How long, Captain?’ she asked.

Gaius, his sandals squelching on the grass, gathered up his gown, leaned down and pressed his hand against the dead man’s face.

‘At least two hours, possibly less.’ He ran his hand across the stomach. ‘This is hardly bloated with gas.’ He got to his feet. ‘Whoever killed him truly hated him. Augusta, shall I arrest the others?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘There is a physician in the villa,’ Burrus murmured.

‘Unless he can resurrect the dead, he is of no use here,’ Helena retorted. ‘I wonder-’

She broke off as Timothaeus the steward came hurrying up. He took one look at the corpse and turned away to retch. Helena walked over and patted him gently on the back.

‘I’m afraid,’ she murmured, ‘it is not your week, is it, Timothaeus? Now, be a good chap, take this hulking piece of meat,’ she gestured at Burrus, ‘and, when you have settled your stomach, go back to Rome, to the She-Asses near the Flavian Gate, and bring Claudia. I want her here tonight.’

Helena walked into the trees, breathing heavily. Yes, she thought, it’s time my little mouse was here, with her twitching nose and scurrying feet. She will help resolve these mysteries. .

Murranus brought Claudia back to the garden. He grasped her hand and whispered to her not to be foolish. Claudia already felt embarrassed; after all, there were many men in Rome who wore that tattoo on their wrist. She had already met a few, so why such a violent reaction to Spicerius?

‘It’s because of Sylvester,’ she whispered.

‘Who?’ Murranus asked.

‘Nothing.’ Claudia remembered herself quickly. ‘Just a friend I talk to about my problems.’

‘I thought you had no friends except me.’

Claudia, in an attempt to distract him, smiled up at him. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’

Spicerius and Valens were still sitting in the shade. The gladiator rose as Claudia came back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Murranus did tell me what happened. I tried to hide my tattoo beneath the wrist guard.’ He squatted down as she did. ‘I know something of your background,’ he continued, ‘but this tattoo,’ he undid the wrist guard and displayed the design, ‘has only been done in the last six months.’

‘Do many gladiators wear it?’

‘Ask Murranus.’ Spicerius shrugged. ‘It’s common enough. It’s linked to the worship of Dionysius, the God of Wine.’ Claudia noticed how his eye teeth were sharpened like those of a wolf. ‘Dionysius and Eros,’ he continued. ‘What more can a gladiator expect from life?’

‘You’re not the only one!’ Valens, who had been studying her closely, spoke up. ‘I know of at least three girls from the slums, one as young as twelve, who were attacked and raped by a man with that tattoo. One of them claimed it was a gladiator, but there again,’ he patted Spicerius on the shoulder, ‘these men get blamed for everything. If a woman is raped or a man killed. .’ He paused. ‘Yet I have found more honour amongst them than I have a group of priests.’

‘Is there a temple devoted to Dionysius?’ Claudia asked. ‘I mean, one where the sign is the purple chalice?’

Spicerius shook his head.

‘Many temples are dedicated to Dionysius or Bacchus, they are as common as fleas on a dog. No, it’s more of a sign that you are a wine worshipper, which can earn you comradeship at a drinking club.’ Spicerius paused and clutched his stomach. ‘Just a cramp.’ He winked. ‘I’ll be well enough to fight your man. This time, let the mob spare him.’

‘Last time,’ Claudia, embarrassed, was eager to change the subject, ‘when you drank the poisoned wine, you saw nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘I was in the tunnel,’ Spicerius replied, ‘near the Gate of Life. I wanted the contest to begin. I drank the wine.’ He tapped the tattoo on his wrist. ‘I know my wine, it cleanses my mouth and wets the back of my throat.’

‘Did you feel strange?’ Claudia asked.

Spicerius screwed his eyes up. ‘Ask your boyfriend here. Of course you feel strange before a fight. Your stomach pitches like a boat in a storm. Strange sounds echo in your ears. A drumming begins in your head. You want to run and shout and scream, but at the same time there is this icy coldness. You become aware of the smallest thing.’

‘And in the arena?’ Claudia asked.

‘I went out,’ Spicerius’s face grew smooth; he had lost that mask of cynical arrogance, ‘I really believed I had a chance. Suddenly I saw double, like you do when you have a knock on the head.’ He patted his stomach. ‘A fire was lit in my belly, I thought it would pass, but then my legs lost their strength. One thing I realised was that I had to vomit; if I didn’t, I would die.’ He turned and embraced Valens, drawing the old man close and kissing him on his head. ‘If it wasn’t for my good friend here, the great Spicerius would have died like some slave fainting with fear before a lion or panther.’

‘Somebody drugged you,’ Claudia insisted. ‘Why?’

‘Three reasons,’ Murranus intervened, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Somebody loves Murranus, or somebody hates Spicerius.’

‘And thirdly?’ Claudia asked.

‘Somebody wagered heavily that I would win. It certainly wasn’t me or anyone at this tavern.’

‘But you should have died.’ Claudia turned to Spicerius. ‘You weren’t meant to faint. Your secret attacker intended to kill you.’ She glanced at the old physician, who was chomping on his lips, face turned to the sun, though he had been studying her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

‘By the cock!’ Valens whispered. ‘You have a sharp one here, Murranus! Keen as a surgeon’s knife. You’re right, Spicerius should have died. Three things saved him. He has the constitution of an ox, he vomited the poison, and I was there to administer treatment. There’s one further. .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Yes?’ Claudia asked. She was aware of how silent the garden had fallen. A butterfly flew between them, fluttering white in the light breeze.

‘He should have died,’ Valens murmured, ‘but the assassin made a mistake. He, or she, didn’t give him enough poison. It was sufficient to make him vomit, to cause the pain, but not enough to finish him off.’

‘Spicerius!’

Claudia turned. A young woman, black hair floating around her face like a veil, came tripping across the grass, the folds of her costly gown flapping around her, a shawl protecting her back and shoulders from the sun. Behind her an old slave carried a parasol and two fat cushions. The woman paused and turned on him.

‘Can’t you keep up, you old fool!’ she screamed. ‘And this parasol is supposed to shade me from the sun!’

‘Agrippina,’ Spicerius murmured.

The young woman ran up in a gust of perfume and, without being invited, crouched down, flinging her arms around Spicerius’s neck, kissing him hungrily on the side of his mouth and face before shrieking to the old slave to put the cushions down. Then she drew apart, made herself comfortable and gazed around, an impudent smile on her cheeky face.

As Agrippina blew a kiss at Murranus, Claudia tried to hide her stab of envy. The woman was truly beautiful. She had lovely expressive eyes in her ivory-skinned face, and her jewellery and earrings, all a blood red, glittered every time she moved, in a clatter of bangles and bracelets. She wore a wild flower in her hair and carried a perfumed napkin to cool the sweat on her neck and arms. She waggled her fingers at Valens but dismissed Claudia with a half-smile and a flick of her eyes.

‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere,’ she cooed, turning to Spicerius. ‘What on earth are you doing in a place like this?’

‘It’s my place,’ Claudia spoke up, ‘and I’m wondering what a person like you is doing here.’

The smile disappeared from Agrippina’s face. The old slave hastily retreated. Agrippina took a fan from a pocket in her robe, snapped it open, stared hard at Claudia and then burst out laughing. She took a bracelet from her wrist and thrust it into Claudia’s hand.

‘I’m such a bitch,’ she confessed, ‘and such a snob! I meant no offence.’

‘None taken,’ Claudia answered, slipping the bracelet on to her wrist. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Agrippina shook her head. ‘I’ve been drinking all morning. What have you been discussing?’

‘Who tried to kill Spicerius.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ Agrippina retorted. She leaned against her lover. ‘We observed the rules, didn’t we; we neither drank nor ate that morning. What Spicerius does, I always follow.’ Her eyes turned soft. ‘No offence, Murranus, but I truly thought Spicerius would win. My father is furious. I bet a fortune and lost.’

‘I thought all money was to be returned?’ Spicerius said.

Agrippina kissed him on his shoulder. ‘No, that’s what everyone is haggling about now. They will probably agree to hold the money until the next fight. Now listen, Spicerius, you must stay in the shade. Claudia – it is Claudia, isn’t it? Do you mind if I stay here? I will help you.’ She chattered on, talking so fast she hardly stopped to breathe.

Claudia excused herself, went across to the tavern and sent Oceanus out to see if all was well. She then returned to her own chamber. She drew the bolt across the door and lay down on the narrow cot bed. Polybius was now up, bellowing in the kitchens at whoever got in his way. Claudia’s mind drifted back to the catacombs earlier that day, and the tattoo on Spicerius’s wrist.

‘One day,’ she whispered, as her eyes grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.

She slept long and deep, and it was mid-afternoon before she woke. She splashed some water over her face and went down into the garden. Murranus and the rest were still there. They had decided to make a day of it playing dice and knuckle bones whilst ordering the best wine and food. Polybius of course, much the worse for drink, had been surly until he realised how wealthy Agrippina was. Now the cooks were busy roasting beef and goose, while in the cellars the tap boys were broaching the best casks. Claudia decided to join the company. Murranus was already deep in his cups and insisted on giving her the biggest hug and wine-drenched kisses. Claudia teased him back, and they were discussing the merits of Meleager the Magnificent when Polybius came hurrying out across the grass.

‘There’s a messenger from Tibur,’ he declared. ‘Claudia, you are to join the court at the Villa Pulchra.’

‘My, my, my,’ Murranus declared, ‘you do have powerful friends.’

Claudia pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I’m only a maid.’ She kissed Murranus full on the mouth before he could add anything else.

‘The imperial court?’ Spicerius lifted his cup. ‘When you get there, Claudia, give my love to the Captain of the Imperial Guard, Gaius Tullius. Tell him not to wear his airs and graces. I remember how, bare-arsed, we used to chase each other through the fields of Sisium. You won’t forget, will you?’

Claudia promised, and hurriedly followed her uncle back into the tavern. There she recognised the pop-eyed steward, Timothaeus, face all red, laughing at a doleful Burrus, dressed in his shabby armour, who was being teased by one of the pot boys. The huge German mercenary seemed to fill the room. He had ignored his taunter but was glaring at Simon the Stoic, who knew some German and hadn’t hesitated in using it to insult the visitor. Januaria, however, was suitably impressed. She had sidled over, plucking at the great bearskin which, despite the heat, Burrus had draped over his shoulders. Poppaoe came out of the kitchen, screaming abuse, and Januaria disappeared. Claudia greeted both the guests and clattered up the stairs to collect her cloak and hat and push a few possessions into a set of leather panniers.

When she came back downstairs, she kissed Poppaoe and Polybius goodbye, waved to the regular customers and went out to where a small crowd had gathered to gape at Burrus’s entourage. The mercenaries recognised Claudia and grunted at her. Anyone else would have regarded this as an insult, but Claudia knew that it was the warmest greeting these dour men would give. They had brought a gentle cob for her to ride. Burrus helped her mount, and they left for the city gates and the Via Latina.

The day’s business was finishing and people were streaming out of the city. The streets were packed, people shoving and pushing, the air riven with the chatter of different tongues, hordes of screaming children, and the hustle and bustle of the markets as stalls were cleared and put away for the night. Craftsmen in their workshops used the last hours of the summer day to finish their tasks. Outside the entrances to these shops and eating houses, pedlars and hustlers bawled, desperate to make a sale before sunset. The dusty air reeked of grease, tallow candle, burnt oil, incense, cooked meat, dried fish and, above all, the sweat of the hot, tired crowd. Soldiers from the garrisons mingled with customers at the wine booths and beer shops, reluctantly moving aside for the sedan chair or litter of a wealthy nobleman. Claudia loved such sights. People of various nationalities thronged around, Ethiopians and Nubians in their panther and leopard skins, Egyptian priests garbed in ostentatious white robes, shaven heads gleaming with oil, Syrians in their striped cloaks, dark bearded faces glistening with sweat. Of course, as the day faded, Rome’s underworld also came to life: the sorcerers and conjurors, the footpads and pickpockets, all brushed shoulders with dancers, whores and pimps as they came into the streets eager for mischief.

Claudia’s party skirted the main thoroughfare and crossed the square, where the Vigiles were fighting a gang of youths who’d flung a pig from the top floor of an apartment block. A mad old man now danced round the gory mess, chanting a garbled hymn. A group of gladiators were gathering on the steps of the temple to pay votive thanks to a god. Claudia wondered what Murranus would be doing that evening. Once across the square, Burrus and his escort moved to the front and forced their way on to a broad avenue lined by statues. They had to move slowly. They’d left the slums and were now on the main approach to the city gates. Here the crowds were even thicker, the wealthy carried by their slaves, the poor pushing some ancient relative wrapped in a blanket and placed in a wheel-barrow. They passed colonnaded walks and arrived at the city gates; these were guarded by Samaritan mercenaries who lounged against the walls or wooden posts wolf-whistling at any attractive woman. The noise, the dust, the heat and flies made any conversation impossible. Burrus was in a deep sulk, although Claudia could see Timothaeus was desperate to talk to her.

As they moved along the Via Latina, the buildings grew fewer, the smell of the countryside more fragrant. They passed the city cemeteries; the tombs rearing up, dark against the light blue sky, grim reminders of the brevity of life. Somewhere in the crowd a boy began to sing a lovely lilting tune, with sweet verses about a house with a welcoming table set out in the shade of an olive grove. Claudia listened intently but Timothaeus was now eager to make speed and produced his imperial pass to move more briskly through the crowds. At last they reached the crossroads, marked by soaring wooden poles with skulls placed at the base: a place of execution. Criminals would carry their cross bar here, against which they would be crucified. Someone had lit an oil lamp near the posts and placed beside it a bouquet of wild flowers. Claudia wondered about their significance as she reflected on what a topsyturvy world she lived in, where the Empire now did business with a religious sect whose God they had crucified. She recalled what Sylvester had said to her, and, studying Timothaeus’s anxious face, wondered what was awaiting at the Villa Pulchra. She quietly prayed, to any god who bothered to listen, that Murranus would take care of himself during her absence and keep out of mischief.

They paused to drink at a water fountain. Claudia revelled in the dark coolness of the laurel, cypress and olive trees, and the greenery, albeit scorched by the sun, of the bushes and grass stretching out either side of her. Birds swooped above them, whilst in the grass along the track crickets continued their busy song. Burrus grated an order and they remounted. They crossed brooks and streams, their horses’ hoofs clattering nervously. Now and again they would be greeted by servants and children running down a lane from a villa or farmstead.

After a while, Timothaeus pulled his horse back, drawing alongside Claudia’s. They had met before, at court, but Timothaeus, ignoring all protocol and etiquette, now chattered to her like some long-lost sister. Not pausing for a breath, he described in rushed sentences how the Holy Sword had been stolen, the uproar this had caused, followed by the brutal murder of Dionysius.

‘No one knows who did it!’ Timothaeus shook his head as if talking to himself. ‘No one at all, but I have a theory. I mean, if you are going to murder someone, why not just bang them on the back of the head and leave them. Not like that poor bugger. He was bound and dragged through the garden, pegged out like some criminal in the amphitheatre.’ He leaned across, eyes round with amazement. ‘He must have bled to death.’

‘And no one heard his screams?’

‘Gagged, he was, a piece of hard leather pushed into his mouth.’

‘You were talking about the murder. You have a theory?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Timothaeus gathered the reins with one hand, lowering his voice as if Burrus was an eavesdropper, but the German seemed more intent on finishing the wine skin he’d unhooked from his saddle horn. ‘I believe,’ the steward continued breathlessly, ‘that Dionysius was killed by those other philosophers. You know what a group of bitches they are, jealous about this, jealous about that! I expect they got into an argument and decided to kill him.’

‘In which case,’ Claudia smiled, ‘why didn’t they do as you describe, just hit him on the head and leave it at that?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Timothaeus screwed his face up in concentration, as he tried to reflect on that great mystery. Of course, he had his answer: how the philosophers were a cruel group of bitches. Claudia half listened, realising with a sinking heart that she was about to enter a snake pit. From what Timothaeus had told her, she had already concluded that Dionysius’s murder was not an act of passion but a cold, calculated, cruel act where the victim was made to suffer for as long as possible.

Burrus, who had finished the wine skin, and was desperate for more, now urged them into a gallop. The air was growing cooler, shadows laced the path and the red-gold sky was darkening. Eventually they reached the winding track leading up to the Villa Pulchra. Claudia had visited it many years ago, but she was still surprised by the grandeur and opulence of the buildings clustered on the brow of the hill. They passed guard posts, soldiers on picket duty crouching round their camp fires, a glowing avenue of flame stretching up to the main gate set in the soaring curtain wall. Timothaeus demanded entrance; an officer came out, passes were inspected and the gate swung open. They entered the courtyard, which reeked of the stables. Soldiers and servants lounged on benches, drinking and chattering as they played with knuckle bones and dice.

Claudia dismounted. Ostlers came to take her horse, and any aches or pains she felt were soon forgotten as Timothaeus led her on a hasty tour of the villa. First they visited the peristyle garden, exquisitely perfumed and lit by hundreds of oil lamps in their translucent alabaster jars, glowing like fireflies against the dusk. Claudia was aware of lush lawns, irrigated by narrow canals and overlooked by countless carved statues of gods and goddesses, nymphs and fauns. As she walked, she glimpsed fountains and pools of purity, reed-ringed carp ponds, colonnaded walks, marble walls and floors, gorgeous paintings, beautiful ornaments, brilliant-hued tapestries and delicate furniture. They went down corridors and galleries, guarded by soldiers from the imperial regiments as well as mercenaries from the personal comitatus of the Emperor and his mother. The kitchens, carving rooms, bakeries and pantries were busy with sweat-soaked servants hurrying around. The imperial banquet had already begun, the doors closed, so they kept well away from the triclinium where the Emperor and his guests ate and drank to the soft music of the imperial orchestra.

‘Dionysius’s death,’ Timothaeus commented sharply, ‘was certainly no excuse to spoil a good supper party.’

He took Claudia to the kitchens for a light meal of spiced sausages, damsons and a cup of chilled white wine. Afterwards he showed her to her chamber, a narrow closet containing a bed, a stool, a carved chest and a peg on the door to hang her clothes. She was allowed to wash and change before being taken to the Empress’s antechamber, a white-walled, marble-floored room, the brilliance of its colours deliberately emphasising the dark blue and red medallion paintings in the centre of each wall. Claudia sat on a couch and stared up at one of these paintings depicting some Emperor entering Rome in triumph. She was fascinated by the detail, the way the horses on the chariot turned their heads, so life-like she expected the animals to move and to hear the clatter of their hoofs or the crack of reins.

‘Well, little mouse!’

Claudia started. The Empress had opened the door and was leaning gracefully against it. Claudia jumped to her feet, and would have knelt, but the Empress, face rather flushed, grasped her by the hand and sat down beside her on the couch, staring up at the painting.