‘We are waiting,’ Chrysis sang out, gesturing towards the podium. Athanasius rose to his feet, bowed to the Emperor and his mother, then climbed on to the podium, carefully arranging his sheets of vellum. He stared round at the various notables and sketched a dramatic cross in the air before pausing head down, as if in prayer. Claudia watched with interest. She herself often amused her uncle’s guests with mime or playing out some role from one of the great classics. She recognised another actor in Athanasius. He began slowly, body tensed, voice rather low, but then relaxed, his voice echoing rich and mellow. Athanasius was also a scholar with a deep knowledge of the Greek tongue, not some bare-arsed philosopher or sophist playing with words or posing questions without giving answers. He immediately impressed his audience with quotations from the classics, before turning to his main theme, defining in very technical terms the Trinity and its three persons, Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He presented the dogma as radical and revolutionary, and cited one of the great Christian writers, John, quoting, he claimed, the first line of an account of a man who had lived and worked with Christ, seen him die and witnessed his Resurrection.

‘John writes,’ Athanasius paused, one finger jabbing the air, ‘that our witness actually declares, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”’ His mellow voice concentrated on the Greek for ‘the Word’, Ολογος, and he emphasised this before moving on to other texts which showed that the Word became Flesh. Justin was eager to intervene, but Athanasius was now in full flow, quoting further from the Gospels as well as from the writings of John, to demonstrate that Christ had claimed that he and the Father were one.

Claudia listened intently, drawn by the power of Athanasius’s oratory as well as by his critical scholarship, which was making a deep impression on his audience. Even Constantine was listening carefully, whilst Helena was tapping her foot, a common gesture when she was pleased. Claudia studied the faces around her. She glimpsed Gaius Tullius, eyes closed in concentration, Timothaeus beaming with pride, whilst beside him Sylvester nodded in agreement. She wanted to stay and listen but decided this was the best time to visit the scene of Dionysius’s murder. She slipped away from the crowd, along a warren of passageways and out through the garden into the orchard beyond. She entered the trees and noticed scuff marks on the ground, but she couldn’t decide if these had anything to do with the murder or were the traces of those who found the corpse.

When she reached the place where the philosopher had died, the grass was dark-stained with blood, above which flies buzzed. In the branches overhead a bullfinch chirped noisily as if resentful of her presence. Claudia crouched down on her hands and knees, scrutinising the ground carefully. She found the small holes where the pegs had been driven in and could trace a faint outline of how the corpse had lain.

‘So you died here,’ she murmured to herself.

She retraced her steps, examining the ground carefully, until she reached an apple tree. The ground beneath it also bore marks of blood, and some distance away lay a moss-covered stone. She picked this up; it was heavy, yet she could carry it out into the pool of sunlight near a small bed of flowers. She placed the stone on the ground, running her fingers over it. The lichen had been disturbed, and she found traces of blood and a few hairs. Claudia squatted on the ground and stared at the apple tree.

‘So, Dionysius,’ she whispered. ‘You were sitting there, meditating or sleeping. Your assassin comes creeping like a shadow. You are stunned with a blow to the head from this stone.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Then you’re dragged deeper into the trees to be murdered.’

Claudia walked lightly forward. She made a slight noise, so she took off her sandals and found that she could move silently across the grass. Satisfied that she had learnt all she could, she moved into an adjoining garden and across the lawn to the burnt-out remains of the House of Mourning, now reduced to a pile of blackened rubble. Near by, a slave squatted on the ground, staring dolefully at the ruins.

‘What are you doing here?’ Claudia asked.

‘The Captain of the Guard told me to stay here until he has examined the ruins more carefully, but there’s nothing to examine.’

The man was narrow-faced, his cheeks and chin unshaven. He plucked at a loose thread on his dirty gown.

‘I hope they don’t blame me,’ he moaned. ‘That was my duty, you know, to watch the dead, to keep the House of Mourning clean and generally look after things.’

Claudia sat down next to him.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Tell me precisely, not about the old man’s corpse but the one who was murdered in the orchard.’

‘Oh, he was a proper mess,’ the slave replied. ‘The Captain of the Guard brought his corpse in and told me to wash it. There was a terrible wound,’ he patted the left side of his head, ‘while his body was sliced, arms, legs and chest, even the soles of his feet. He must have died in great pain. His eyes were still open, and that awful gag in his mouth, a piece of leather used to keep a door open.’

‘And the bonds?’ Claudia asked. ‘The ropes,’ she explained, ‘used to bind the victim’s hand and feet?’

‘They were still attached to his wrists and ankles, tied very tightly they were. I had to slice them with a knife.’

‘And what did you do with them?’

‘I threw them on the floor. You see, mistress, I was getting hungry, and when you’ve washed one corpse, well, you can only take so much in one day. I didn’t want to miss my ration so I thought I would finish him this morning.’ The fellow rubbed his stomach. ‘Of course, we were being fed scraps from the kitchen, so I ate well and went to sleep. The next thing I know the House of Mourning is burning.’

Claudia gave him a coin from her purse, then she rose and walked across to the blackened remains of the mortuary. She was still carrying her sandals, so she put these on and stepped on to the smouldering stretch of ash. The building had been completely destroyed, timbers and stones mixed together, covered in a fine white dust and blackened ash. She had to step carefully among the rubble. Eventually she crouched down and, using her dagger, sifted through the debris. She caught the faint smell of oil and a strange sickly sweetness. The two corpses must have been consumed totally by the fire, along with everything else the House of Mourning contained.

She left the building, the slave watching her curiously as she walked its circumference. The fire had been quite self-contained, because the House of Mourning stood on a plinth of stone well away from the garden. The grass around was scorched, but Claudia could detect no sign that the fire had been started by a flickering brand or a pot of burning oil hastily thrown in. She entered the ruins again, and this time the slave came over to help her move charred bricks and pieces of timber, yet there was still nothing to be found.

Claudia thanked the man and went across to the gardens and into a small shaded portico, erected so imperial residents could shelter from the sun. On the breeze she heard the sound of voices, occasional clapping, and she realised the debate must still be going on. She lay down on the grass, staring up through the gaps in the portico’s roof at the blue sky, scored by the occasional white wisp of cloud. She and Felix used to love doing this; when she was by herself, Claudia almost felt as if her brother had returned and was stretched out beside her, eyes watching her devotedly, wondering what his beloved elder sister would plan next. She blinked away the tears and concentrated on the mysteries at the Villa Pulchra. She had no explanation for the sword which had disappeared, whilst as for Dionysius’s death, there were a number of theories for the motive in a villa packed with suspects. Beneath the polished façade of this elegant country estate swirled deep, dark passions as old memories and grudges surfaced. Yet what mystified Claudia most was the total destruction of the House of Mourning. She had, in the light of no other evidence, firmly concluded that the arson was not a further indignity against the hapless Dionysius; the assassin simply wished to destroy something which, if closely examined, might reveal his or her true identity. Claudia’s eyes grew heavy. She thought of returning to the debate, but within minutes was fast asleep.