‘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.
‘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.’