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.