Текст книги "The Song of the Gladiator"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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‘That’s supposed to be the great Caesar, Claudia, after he had conquered Egypt and brought Cleopatra back to Rome. I always look for her but can’t find her. The painting is fascinating, isn’t it? If you stare at it long enough you feel as if you are becoming part of the great triumph. Well, little one, you are now part of my world again and I want you to watch, study and listen. You had a pleasant journey? Good.’ Helena didn’t wait for a reply. ‘And how’s your Murranus? You should thank the gods that he didn’t kill Spicerius.’ She smiled at Claudia’s astonishment and kissed her gently on the brow. ‘Sometimes, little mouse, you can be as cunning as a serpent, at other times as innocent as a dove. You hadn’t thought of that, had you?’

‘No, no, your Excellency.’

‘Augusta will do.’ Helena smiled, ‘Oh, forgive my friendliness. I drank one cup too many of Falernian. But yes,’ she caressed Claudia’s hand, ‘that’s where Murranus could have made a terrible mistake. It was obvious Spicerius was in difficulties. You saw me watching? I was fascinated. I even forgot the letter I was reading. Any other gladiator would have closed in, seized the moment, and that’s where the real trouble would have begun.’

‘And what would have happened?’ Claudia asked. She had forgotten her tiredness and the fact that she was in the presence of the Empress.

‘I don’t really know.’ Helena chewed the corner of her mouth. ‘That’s an interesting question. My son will know, I must ask him. But come.’ She got to her feet, dragging Claudia with her. ‘I’ve drunk too much and it’s hot in here.’ She gestured at the oil lamps on the table. ‘And if I keep staring at them, I’ll fall asleep.’

The Empress took her out into the small garden, one of those private paradises especially set aside for the imperial family, with a lawn, flowerbeds and marble seats around a fountain carved in the shape of Cupid carrying a fish. The garden was bounded by a high red-bricked wall with no gate, the only entrance being from inside the palace.

‘You see,’ Helena declared, sitting down on the marble bench with her back to the fountain, ‘you can sit here, chatter away and watch the entrance. Not like those other gardens, eh, where a spy can crouch under a bush or even up a tree? Oh yes,’ she laughed, ‘I’ve heard of that happening. Now, Claudia, forget about your gladiator and listen to what I have to say.’

The Empress’s description of the theft of the Holy Sword and the murder of Dionysius was similar to Timothaeus’s except that, as usual, Helena saw darker, more sinister motives.

‘The sword could have been stolen,’ she concluded, ‘to embarrass me or, perhaps, so that suspicion would fall on the Christians gathered here. After all, I do know they resent a pagan like myself collecting their sacred relics.’

‘But you are not a pagan, Augusta. You support the Christian faith.’

‘I haven’t been baptised,’ Helena whispered, ‘and neither has my son. One day, perhaps, but until then, in the eyes of many Christians I am just another pagan.’

‘And Dionysius’s murder?’

‘Again,’ Helena dabbed water from the fountain pool on to her face, ‘it might be the work of a troublemaker trying to provoke the resentment which separates the two groups of Christians.’

‘Or?’ Claudia asked.

‘May the Lord of Light prevent it, but Dionysius’s murder may truly be the work of the Christians themselves. That’s why you are here, Claudia.’ Helena stood up and patted her gently on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow morning begin your scurrying, ask your questions.’ She began to stroll away, but then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Go to bed, little mouse, and never forget, where there’s mice there’s always a cat!’

‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how the white lotus flowers only at night and the blue only in daytime?’

Claudia whirled round. The man in the shadows behind her was dressed in a long tunic, the folds of his toga hiding one arm, but in his free hand Claudia caught the glitter of a wicked-looking curved sword. Its owner brought it up in a swift arc, slicing the air between them. Claudia remained still; again the sword cut, swishing through air, then the stranger brought it back so the flat of the blade was against his face, the tip pointing upwards.

‘Claudia, I salute you.’

‘Some people would say you are trying to frighten me.’

‘And some people would say that’s impossible. I know all about you, Claudia. The Augusta calls you her “little mouse”, though one, I suspect, with very sharp teeth and claws.’

Gaius Tullius came into the pool of light. Claudia had seen him before, though only from afar; she recognised the sharp, narrow face and rather soulful eyes. Gaius was a professional soldier, one of the Emperor’s drinking partners, a man he trusted implicitly. Now he sketched a bow, placed the sword on the ground and sat down next to her on the edge of the pool. Claudia never moved, watching the soldier stare into the water, rippling it with his fingers, sending the carp darting away.

‘I’ve drunk too much,’ he sighed, flicking the water from his fingers. ‘Imperial supper or not, there’s still duties to be done and guards to be checked. I know you arrived a short while ago; I met Timothaeus. That man runs around like a frightened duck, but he’s good-hearted enough.’

‘I bring you greetings,’ Claudia replied. ‘Spicerius the gladiator said you are to have no airs and graces, for he remembers you when you were a bare-arsed boy. .’

‘So long ago,’ Gaius declared wistfully. ‘So much has happened.’ He pointed to the lotus blossom. ‘I served in Egypt. I visited the temples of Memphis, Karnak and Luxor. The lotus always fascinated me. It is carved everywhere, a symbol of so much.’ He leaned a little closer, his eyes smiling. ‘It is also the source,’ he whispered, ‘of the most fragrant perfume, Kiphye. They say Cleopatra bathed in it.’

‘I thought she used asses’ milk?’

Gaius pulled a face. ‘Not so sweet,’ he conceded. ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘in ten years there will be Christian symbols everywhere. All is changing.’

‘Are you opposed to them?’

‘I don’t care, Claudia. I’m a soldier. I pay my dues to the Sun God Mithras and fight the enemies of the Empire.’

‘Timothaeus told me you found Dionysius’s corpse?’

‘Yes, pegged out like a tanner’s skin. Sometimes it’s hard to realise how much blood the human body contains.’

‘Do you suspect anyone?’

‘Perhaps his colleagues.’ Gaius stared up at the sky. ‘Or one of his friends. I’m telling you a lie,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not really here just because of guard duty. In fact, I’ve been searching for you. I’ve brought you this.’

He dug into the folds of his robe, took out a small scroll and handed it to Claudia.

‘I had Dionysius’s corpse brought to the House of Mourning,’ he explained. ‘It’s nothing more than a brick-built shed with a tiled roof. It’s the villa’s mortuary. Then I went to Dionysius’s chamber. I thought the motive for the killing might be robbery, but the room was undisturbed, though not very clean – after all, Dionysius was a philosopher. There were a few books, some manuscripts. I searched amongst them and found that.’ Gaius half smiled. ‘I know that you work for the Empress!’ He patted Claudia on the shoulder and got up. ‘Read it. I’m not sure if it is a draft or the original.’ He picked up his sword and walked away.

‘Gaius! I can call you Gaius?’

‘Of course,’ he smiled, coming back.

‘Did you see anything about that corpse, any evidence pointing to a possible killer?’

He shook his head.

‘And the Holy Sword?’

Gaius snorted with laughter. ‘I was fast asleep when it was stolen, but how, why and by whom?’ He was about to continue when the air was rent by a high-pitched scream, followed by the bray of trumpets and the clash of cymbals as the alarm was raised.

Chapter 4

‘ O tempora! O Mores! ’ (‘What times! What Manners!’)

Cicero, In Catilinam, I

By the time they had hurried along passageways and colonnades, across gardens and through gates, the House of Mourning at the far side of the villa was almost consumed by fire. The flames were so strong, the heat so intense, the roof had already fallen in and the facing wall was buckling. Servants, officials, soldiers and members of the imperial family came hurrying through the trees, yet there was nothing to be done. Timothaeus was trying to organise a chain of water carriers but this was fruitless. Burrus ran up with a bucket but he was so drunk he threw both water and bucket into the fire then nearly careered into the burning house and had to be pulled back by a member of his own retinue. The Germans then began to sing and dance, intoning one of their wild hymns, until the Empress’s voice cut like a lash telling them to shut up. Claudia turned and glanced across, the smell of wood smoke making her cough. The imperial party was sheltering under an outstretched sycamore. She walked towards them. Sylvester was standing serenely behind the Empress; Constantine sat on a camp stool, face all flushed, hands on his knees, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

‘Was anyone in there alive?’ he bawled.

‘Just two corpses, Excellency,’ Timothaeus shouted back. ‘Dionysius and a wanderer in the woods, a beggar man found dead on the track outside.’

‘Well, they are truly dead now, grilled and cooked to a cinder!’ the Emperor joked.

Helena gestured at Claudia to draw closer. Constantine blew her a kiss. Sylvester, still standing behind the Emperor, sketched a bow whilst Chrysis, his fat, oiled face beaming with pleasure, poked his tongue out at her.

‘Lovely fire,’ the Emperor sighed. ‘Marvellous to watch the flames.’

‘Arson,’ Helena snapped back. ‘An imperial building has been destroyed.’

‘Arson?’ Constantine glanced up at his mother. ‘By all that’s holy, who would want to burn corpses?’

‘Perhaps the Imperial Treasurer?’ Chrysis sniggered. ‘It’s saved the cost of a burial.’

‘Was it arson?’ Constantine repeated, all humour draining from his face.

‘Look at the fire,’ Helena answered exasperatedly. ‘What would cause flames to burn so fiercely? Timothaeus,’ she shouted, ‘was there anything combustible in there?’

‘Nothing, Augusta.’ Timothaeus came over, face covered in ash. ‘Nothing at all.’ Without being invited, he sat down on the grass, mopping his face with a rag.

‘Why arson?’ Rufinus the banker repeated the Emperor’s question.

Helena nudged Claudia.

‘Dionysius was murdered.’

‘Speak up, girl!’ Constantine barked.

‘Dionysius was murdered,’ Claudia repeated loudly. ‘His body was placed in the House of Mourning. I suspect the corpse bore some clue as to the identity of his killer.’

‘But what?’ Helena asked. ‘He was sliced like a roll of ham and bled to death. I scrutinised his corpse.’

‘Augusta,’ Claudia smiled, ‘you asked me a question and I replied. I’m not too sure what the arsonist wished to hide.’

‘It could have been someone else.’ Chrysis’s voice was rich with spite. ‘Oh, how these Christians love each other! Don’t they say that those who attack the teaching of their faith will be consumed, body and soul, in Hell’s fire?’

‘Not at my expense they won’t,’ Constantine grumbled. ‘Chrysis,’ the Emperor got to his feet, ‘find the bastard who started that blaze, and if he hasn’t got a good explanation, crucify him outside the gates. Mother, I’ve seen enough of this. We need to talk.’

The imperial party swept back into the palace. Claudia stayed under the sycamore tree, and in the light from the fire she read the scroll Gaius had given her. The letter was short and to the point. Signed by Dionysius, it was directed to Athanasius, leader of the orthodox party. In it, Dionysius confessed how he had prayed, fasted and reflected, and now saw the error of his ways. Accordingly, at the appropriate time, when the Holy Spirit directed him, he would renounce his errors publicly and accept the forgiveness of his Bishop.

‘Doomed in life! Doomed in death!’ The voice was rich and carrying. Claudia looked up. Three men stood like shadows before her, their backs to the fire.

‘I’m sorry,’ she smiled, quickly hiding the letter, ‘are you talking about me or the late departed?’

The figure in the centre walked forward. Short and thick-set, narrow-faced with fierce eyes and hungry mouth, he was dressed in a simple dark tunic over thick baggy leggings.

‘My name is Athanasius.’ He gestured to his two companions. ‘This is Aurelian and Septimus. We wondered who was speaking to the Empress and someone told us you are Claudia, Augusta’s messenger. Others say you are her spy.’ Athanasius leaned down, lips parted to show fine, strong teeth. ‘Presbyter Sylvester speaks highly of you.’

Claudia moved so she could get a better look at these three members of the orthodox party. Athanasius exuded strength, with his harsh mouth and square jaw. He reminded her of a soldier, his auburn hair cropped close to his head, while his clothes were those of a mercenary rather than an orator. His two companions were more disciples than colleagues, young and smooth-faced with shaven heads. They too were dressed rather coarsely, in long gowns with cords round the middle and sandals on their feet.

‘They’re my disciples,’ Athanasius explained, ‘who have been baptised and accept the one true faith. Do you accept the true faith, Claudia?’

‘I accept the truth,’ she replied, gesturing at the fire, ‘and I do wonder, as your God will, why Dionysius should die in such a horrid fashion and his corpse be so dishonoured. Don’t you Christians have burial rites?’

‘It is the spirit which counts; the flesh doesn’t matter.’

‘Does that include yours, Magister? If Dionysius was murdered, why not another orator? Has murder replaced philosophy in the debate?’

‘We don’t know why Dionysius died,’ Athanasius replied.

‘And we don’t really care,’ Septimus shouted, like a spiteful child. ‘He got his just deserts.’

Even from where she stood, despite the poor light, Claudia could see the prim set of Septimus’s mouth, and the quivering disapproval in his face.

‘People will ask,’ she gestured at the fire, ‘are you responsible?’

‘We are not responsible,’ Athanasius declared.

‘Why are you so certain?’ Claudia took a step forward. ‘Is it because Dionysius was planning to change sides, acknowledge your arguments?’

Athanasius looked shocked; his two companions hissed their disapproval.

‘He was planning to change sides,’ Claudia continued remorselessly. ‘I have seen a letter dictated to you, Athanasius, in which Dionysius denounces his own beliefs and accepts the orthodox position, which, I believe,’ Claudia closed her eyes, ‘is that your Jesus Christ is of the same substance as the Father.’

The smoke made Claudia cough. She felt the phlegm at the back of her throat so she turned and spat, a gesture she knew would offend these men.

‘You say I’m a spy, the Empress’s messenger, so let me take a message to her from you.’

‘Which is?’

‘Where were you when Dionysius was killed?’

‘We were gathered in council,’ Athanasius blustered. ‘Sharing ideas. You cannot place his death at our door.’

Claudia glared at these philosophers so passionately righteous about themselves. Athanasius returned her stare but looked away as Justin came over. He was acting the role of the professional mourner.

‘Even in death,’ he wailed, ‘they will not leave us alone.’

Athanasius immediately asked what he meant by ‘they’ and an argument ensued. Claudia, bored, walked away. The flames were dying, the front wall had now buckled completely and all she could see were a few charred timbers. She crouched in the grass and plucked at a wild flower. She was sure the fire was arson, and certainly started by the same person who had killed Dionysius. The motive could have been to insult the dead man’s corpse, though Claudia wasn’t so sure about that. Arson took time to plan and posed risks for the perpetrator. She recalled the alarm being raised, hurrying across with Gaius. By the time they arrived, the fire had caught hold, so it must have started when they had been sitting near the fountain. The inside would have been soaked with oil and a fire brand thrown in, but why?

She rose to her feet and stared around. The spectators were now drifting away. She noticed Gaius talking with some of his soldiers near the entrance to the palace. She walked over and waited until she caught the Captain’s eye. Gaius excused himself and strode across.

‘Claudia, you should go to bed. There’s been enough excitement for one day.’ He waved a hand to waft away a gust of smoke. ‘Undoubtedly arson.’

‘Were any guards here?’ Claudia asked.

‘Outside the far wall, yes, but I didn’t think two corpses needed to be protected. Apparently a servant smelt smoke and came running out. By then the flames were licking through the door, so the alarm was raised.’

‘Why burn two corpses?’ Claudia asked.

Gauis pulled a face.

‘When you took Dionysius’s corpse to the Death House,’ Claudia continued, ‘how exactly was it done?’

Gaius glanced back towards his men and ran a thumbnail around his lips.

‘I found the corpse,’ he began slowly. ‘I was with a patrol. We were going for a pleasant walk rather than anything else. The Empress was called, and the villa physician, a garrulous old man with watery eyes.’ Gaius smiled. ‘I remember him because he made me laugh. He inspected the corpse very carefully and then pronounced, “Yes, your Excellency, the man is dead.” Even Helena smiled. One of my men tried to cut the ropes, but there was very little slack between the dead man’s wrist and the peg, so we pulled the pegs out. A stretcher was brought, and the corpse was loaded on.’

‘With the ropes and pegs still around wrists and ankles?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure! It was then taken to the House of Mourning. There are slabs around the walls, and the place stank from the old beggar who had been found earlier that morning. Anyway, we placed Dionysius on a slab and left him.’

‘What would have happened then?’

‘I’ll make enquiries, but I suppose a slave was sent to strip the corpse and wash it.’

‘So what would have happened to Dionysius’s clothes, and the ropes and pegs?’

‘They would probably have been left in the Death House,’ Gaius replied, ‘unless the slave took them to the rubbish heap. Why?’ He peered at Claudia.

‘If it was arson,’ Claudia declared, ‘the person who started it wanted to hide something. I wonder what? But you’re right.’ She stared at the sky. ‘It must be near midnight.’

She thanked Gaius and walked back to the palace, pausing to admire a bust of the Emperor’s father. Rufinus and Chrysis came out of a chamber, talking quietly to each other. They fell silent when they saw Claudia. Chrysis glared at her malevolently. He resented her presence and her influence with the Empress. Rufinus was about to smile but turned away, then clicked his fingers and came hurrying towards her.

‘Claudia, I knew there was something I wanted to ask, Murranus, is he well?’

‘A little embarrassed,’ Claudia declared, ‘but ready to fight again.’

‘I know, I know.’ The banker scratched his thinning silver hair, his lean face tense with concentration.

‘I hope it doesn’t happen again.’ Chrysis spoke up. ‘Rufinus is my witness, I placed a heavy bet on your boyfriend; we thought we’d at least get our money back.’

‘You had such confidence in Murranus?’

‘I know Spicerius,’ Chrysis retorted, leaning closer like a conspirator. ‘He drinks wine and spends too much time bouncing the divine Agrippina. They say he is slowing up. I actually laid two wagers: the first that Murranus would win and the second that there would be a kill within the hour. Didn’t I, Rufinus?’

‘He laid the wager with me,’ the banker confirmed. ‘All of Rome is talking about what we should do. Did Murranus win? Did Spicerius lose? Should the money be given back?’

‘And what have you decided?’ Claudia tried to keep her voice steady.

‘Well, as you know,’ Rufinus smiled sourly, ‘in a week’s time special games are to be held to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday. All being well, Murranus and Spicerius will meet again. The bets will be carried forward.’

Rufinus bade Claudia goodnight, Chrysis waggled his fingers obscenely at her and they both went back along the corridor.

Claudia decided to wander the palace. She felt physically tired, but her mind teemed like a beehive. She found herself near the peristyle garden and asked the guard where the cellar was. He gave her directions. Claudia first went to the kitchens, where she borrowed a lantern horn from a sleepy-eyed cook, who lit the oil lamp inside, secured the small door and handed it to her.

‘Don’t walk too fast,’ he warned. ‘Let the wick burn fiercely for a while.’

Claudia sat outside on a bench and watched the flame in the lantern horn strengthen before picking it up and finding her way to the cellar. The door was now unguarded, off the latch. She went carefully down the steps. The door at the bottom was flung open and Claudia went inside. She walked slowly, tapping the ground with her sandalled foot. The floor was of hard baked brick; the lime-washed walls had some cracks and crevices, the occasional gap, but there was no opening or any sign of another entrance. The ceiling too looked firm and secure, ribbed by heavy beams, the plaster in between hard and even.

Satisfied, Claudia approached the great circle of sand and sat down on one of the stools, staring up at the chain. She noticed how the links were well moulded and the hook at the end long and sharply curved. She closed her eyes. How could the robbery have happened? Gaius had been sleeping in the garden. The door to the chamber was held secure by two different locks and guarded by the Empress’s own mercenaries. Timothaeus and Burrus had unlocked it. The steward had explained to her how he checked the cellar three times a day to make sure that all was well, although, he confessed, he also wished to venerate such a holy relic. Claudia opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder at the door.

‘So you came in here, Timothaeus,’ she murmured, ‘reached the edge of the circle, stared at the chain, and noticed the sword was gone?’

Claudia could understand Timothaeus’s shock; no wonder he’d fainted! The disappearance of the sword, not to mention the Empress’s wrath, would unnerve the strongest man. She stared down at the sand sprinkled with gold dust; now it had been disturbed by those who had come to search the cellar afterwards.

‘Claudia! Claudia!’

She turned round and gaped in horror. A figure shrouded in a cloak stood in the doorway. Claudia, hand trembling, lifted up the lantern. ‘Who is it?’ she called. The figure remained still.

Claudia rose, carrying the lantern before her. She was halfway across the chamber when she realised that whoever it was had not only hidden their body under a heavy cloak but also their face under a hideous mask of a satyr. Claudia’s mouth turned dry. She almost dropped the lantern as the figure moved quickly, coming into the chamber, slamming the door shut. Claudia moved back.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. She tried to recall the voice, but it could have been anyone’s. In the light of the lantern the satyr mask looked malevolent. She noticed the long stabbing dagger this grotesque now carried. She kept moving back, desperately trying to recall if she had seen anything in the cellar she could use to protect herself. Her leg hit one of the stools, and she picked this up and moved back into the circle of sand. She’d made a mistake! The sand was very soft and deep and her feet immediately sank, the sand coming up to her ankles, impeding her retreat. The figure walked slowly forward, carefully, measuring each step. Claudia lunged forward, trying to extricate herself from the sand. She flung the stool at her attacker. It narrowly missed. She picked up another stool. Retreating round the circle of sand, she began to scream and yell, throwing one stool after another, trying to discourage this nightmare figure, so silent, so menacing.

At last, desperate, Claudia threw the lantern. It crashed at the feet of her assailant, and the flame burst out and, by mere chance, caught the edge of the grotesque’s cloak. Claudia, almost hysterical with fear, gabbled a prayer as the flame caught the dry cloth, and her opponent quickly retreated, taking off the cloak. The cellar door was flung open and the assailant fled. Claudia immediately ran after, through the half-open door, but there was no sign, nothing but a dirty cloak lying on the steps. She picked this up. The cloak was threadbare, soiled and smelt rank. The flames had died, leaving a charred, frayed edge lit by the occasional spark. Claudia stamped on these and returned to the cellar, picking her way carefully through the fallen stools. The lantern was smashed, the flame extinguished. Claudia cursed her own foolishness. She shouldn’t have come here in the first place; perhaps it had been even more stupid to return. She ran to the door, slamming it behind her, and raced up the steps.

The small passageway beyond was empty, with no trace of her attacker. Claudia went into the peristyle garden and, for a while, sat on a bench, gulping in the fresh night air. She stared at the guard standing some distance away in the shadows, wondering if he had seen anything. She shrugged to herself. If he had, he would have come over.

Claudia washed her hands in the pool and made her way back to her chamber. Inside she found everything neat and tidy; a slave had lit the lamp on the table opposite her bed. She was too tired to wash and change, and she was about to blow out the lamp when she noticed the small purple chalice crudely painted on the wall above the lantern. She drew back. She didn’t extinguish the lamp, but climbed into bed staring at the drawing. She let her mind drift on all that had happened today, faces, scenes and words, and all the time she glared at that crude drawing as if confronting an enemy, refusing to give way. She was still staring when her eyes grew heavy and she fell into a deep sleep.

Claudia woke early the next morning, roused by the sunlight and noise from the villa pouring through the unshuttered window above her narrow bed. She punched the flock-filled mattress and lay back, one hand beneath her cheek, recalling the terrors of the previous night and contemplating that hideous little picture above the oil lamp shelf. Eventually she got out of bed and examined it more carefully, tracing the outline with her fingernail. The paint was hard, a purple dye used by women to henna their nails, but when she pressed it, a crack appeared. Claudia was tempted to scrape it off but changed her mind. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘you can stay there, a reminder to me, a goad to spur me on. I shall find who you are and deal with you.’

She sat on the edge of the bed, reflecting how the mysterious painter, whoever he was, had intended to taunt and frighten her. She remembered that gruesome figure in the cellar, masked, armed and advancing so slowly towards her. ‘That’s it,’ she whispered, ‘you weren’t trying to kill me, but terrify me!’ She glared at the painting of the purple chalice. ‘And you are trying to do the same now.’ The confrontation in the cellar had been frightening but perhaps not deadly. She had watched gladiators train and fight; true killers came as swiftly as panthers or they struck from afar with arrow, slingshot, javelin or throwing knife. Last night’s spectacle was intended to terrify Helena’s little mouse, to drive her off, make her scurry for safety.

Claudia stood up. Well, they would see. Nevertheless, although she summoned up her courage, she felt her stomach grumble with fear. ‘This time was to frighten me,’ she murmured, ‘but next time. .?’

She grabbed her napkin and small leather toilet bag from the panniers slung on the peg on the door, then left her quarters and walked quickly to the luxuriantly furnished latrines, built near the kitchens so as to use the water flushed from there to keep them clean. She sat on a marble bench and stared at the mosaic on the floor, a beautiful scene depicting silver dolphins leaping about a golden sea. Timothaeus came in. He was much the worse for drink and squatted opposite looking dolefully into the middle distance.

‘It’s my stomach, you see,’ he moaned. ‘I drink too much wine and eat the rich food of the court.’

Claudia tried to engage him in conversation, but the steward shook his head and muttered about the anger of the Augusta. Claudia concluded he had been the recipient of her tart tongue.

After she had washed and left the latrines and bathhouse, Claudia returned to her own chamber, finished her dressing and decided to eat. She had to cross a small garden, nothing more than a lawn ringed with box hedges and shaded by laurel leaves. The Empress Helena, in an exquisite white linen robe, a purple mantle about her shoulders, was standing on a gold-fringed stool, gesturing with one hand, a cane in the other. Before her on the grass knelt Burrus and the entire German mercenary corps; they crouched heads down, hands to their faces, sobbing like children as Helena berated them.

‘You are nothing but the scum of Germany,’ she rasped, ‘the filthy moss from your own dark forest, yet I have taken you and treated you like my children. I have clasped you to my heart and showered you with love and affection.’ She paused to allow her words to sink in. She must have glimpsed Claudia, who stood fascinated beneath a tree, but she did not turn or acknowledge her presence. ‘Have I not lavished upon you tasty food, comfortable quarters, as well as my protection and patronage? Have I not put up with your filthy ways and drunken singing?’ She climbed down from the stool and walked amongst the warriors, giving each of them a rap on their shoulders with her cane. Now and again she’d pause to ruffle their hair or pat someone gently on the cheek.

Her diatribe had the desired effect. Burrus, thought Claudia, would make a fine actor. He threw his hands up in the air in a gesture any Greek dramatist would envy and began to tear the gold bracelets from his wrist and the thick silver chain from about his neck. Grasping these in his hands, he rose and walked towards Helena, tears streaming down his face, then threw himself at the Empress’s feet.