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.
‘You’ve all been naughty boys,’ Helena continued, digging her cane into Burrus’s back, ‘and yet, in my time, have I not praised you? Has not my son smiled on you and opened the hand of generosity to you? But what do you do? You repay my lavish kindness by becoming as drunk as sots and chasing every maid.’ The rest of the German corps now had their noses pressed against the grass. Helena turned swiftly, and smiled and winked at Claudia before returning to the attack. ‘You should have been more vigilant,’ she declared. ‘Dionysius should not have died, the House of Mourning should not have been burnt, but what cut my heart was the disappearance of the Holy Sword! I entrusted that to your care.’ The wailing from her bodyguard grew. Helena returned to stand on the stool and Burrus tried to follow her, but she yelled at him to keep his head down. ‘Nevertheless, you ungrateful scum,’ she continued, ‘I have decided to pardon you.’ Burrus sat back on his heels and smiled dazzlingly at this woman whom he worshipped and adored. ‘In my great kindness,’ Helena rested on the cane, ‘I have forgiven you.’
Claudia could no longer contain her own amusement. She hurried out of the garden and into the palace, where she stopped abruptly and glanced back. The Empress was an actress who kept that horde of ruffians in a grip of iron. The Germans worshipped the ground she trod on; they regarded it as the greatest honour to shed their blood for her. Helena knew that, so why berate them now?
Claudia sat down on a marble window seat and stared at a painting of Bacchus climbing a vine terrace to steal luscious grapes. Was Helena’s confrontation with the Germans for some other purpose? The Germans were loyal, warriors born and bred; they were also drunkards, lechers and, above all, great thieves. Had they stolen the sword? The mercenaries had a deep awe of anything religious, and Burrus had refused to go into the Sacred Place, yet Claudia wasn’t fooled by his slouching ways and uncouth appearance. Burrus was a highly intelligent man, sly and skilled. Had that been part of an act, a pretence to mislead people? Claudia recalled the cellar, the two guards outside, Burrus with the key. Timothaeus the steward was such a fusspot. Had the door been locked with two keys or only one? Had Timothaeus thought he had locked the door with his, but somehow been fooled by the Germans? If that was so, it would be easy for Burrus to unlock the door himself, take the sword, leave the cellar and relock the door. Timothaeus would come down. . Claudia paused. What would happen then? Had Burrus switched the keys, or had the lock been tampered with so Timothaeus thought his key was turning when really the door was already open?
Forgetting her terrors of the previous evening, Claudia borrowed a lantern and returned to the cellar, tripping quickly down the steps. She deliberately ignored what had happened previously and, crouching down, examined both locks, the first above the handle, the other beneath. Holding the lamp close, she examined the rim of the door and the lock but could detect no scraping, no sign of any tampering. Exasperated, she got to her feet. If her theory was correct, Burrus must have fooled Timothaeus into thinking that he had locked the door when he hadn’t.
Claudia sighed, opened the door and went into the cellar. ‘Let us say,’ she spoke loudly, pretending to be in a schoolroom, ‘that the thief enters.’ She walked to the edge of the circle and stretched out to touch the chain, but couldn’t reach. She climbed on to a stool but that too was fruitless. She recalled the long sword Burrus carried. ‘He could have used that,’ she whispered excitedly. Burrus could have drawn the chain towards him using his own weapon and taken the Holy Sword from its hook. Claudia climbed down from the stool and looked back towards the door. Four problems remained. First, Burrus would need the cooperation of the two guards outside. Secondly, there was the problem of the keys. Thirdly, what would Burrus do with the sword once he had stolen it? Finally, and most importantly, Burrus would have known he would face the Empress’s fury.
Claudia sat down and considered this. Helena would be angry, but there again she would have no proof. The Empress was correct. Burrus often acted like a naughty schoolboy and accepted being lashed by her tongue as part of his military service. Was that why Helena had assembled them all this morning, to give them a tongue-lashing they would never forget? Did she suspect the mercenaries and hope she would frighten them into returning the Holy Sword?