Claudia broke the seal, undid the scroll and read the opening words: ‘Helena Augusta, Beloved Mother. .’ The usual phrases followed. Claudia handed it to Narcissus. ‘Your freedom,’ she declared, ‘and some coins to help you on your way.’
She grasped Narcissus’s hand; the man was still shaking, staring down at the scroll and bag of coins lying in his lap.
‘You can lodge with my uncle,’ she offered. ‘He owns a tavern near the Flavian Gate.’
Narcissus’s eyes welled up.
‘Oh, no,’ she protested, ‘don’t start crying again, you can do that later. Until we leave here you are to be my companion; there must be some small chamber nearby.’ Her smile widened. ‘You are already my friend and I want some help.’
Narcissus opened his mouth to wail, glimpsed Claudia’s determined look and forced a smile.
‘Whatever you say.’
Claudia brought him a fresh goblet of wine. The passageway outside was now busy with servants hurrying to and fro with platters of fruit and jugs of wine as the imperial guests roused themselves from their slumbers. She let Narcissus drain the cup.
‘Narcissus, never mind your good fortune. I want you to remember Dionysius’s corpse. You are an embalmer, you are skilled in scrutinising the dead; was there anything,’ Claudia searched for the words, ‘significant, exceptional about it?’
Narcissus scratched his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he declared. ‘All I can remember is a corpse slit, gashed and drenched in blood. I did wonder whether, as Dionysius was an Arian, there were special burial rites, I mean different from the orthodox. Ah.’ Narcissus lifted a hand. ‘No, no, there was something! There were more cuts on the right side of the corpse than the left. Does that mean the killer was right-handed? And the blow to the head was on the right side as well. Isn’t it true, Claudia, that a killer will approach from the side he is used to; a left-handed man will attack me from the left. .?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘I never thought of that. I should ask Murranus, but there again, most people are right-handed. Anything else?’ she added.
‘Some of the wounds looked like crosses, you know, lines scored across each other. The body was put on a slab and I remember loosening the cords, but by then I’d had enough and left soon afterwards. By the way, who is Murranus?’
‘He’s a gladiator, a friend of mine. Listen, Narcissus, you deal with the human body,’ Claudia smiled, ‘the dead rather than the living; do you know anything about poisons and their effect?’
‘Oh yes.’ Narcissus’s tired face came to life. ‘Some poisons are very easy to hide. You’d think the victim died of a seizure or some internal wound, but the organs of a corpse never lie. When you take out a heart that’s black and shrivelled or a stomach which stinks like a sewer, you do wonder how that person truly died. Oh, indeed,’ he continued, ‘I’ve many a time embalmed a poor man whose organs had changed colour or reeked like a camel pen, then watched the grieving widow and wondered what the truth really was. Why do you ask?’
Claudia described what had happened in the arena: how Spicerius had drunk the poisoned wine; how he had collapsed and the finger of suspicion had been pointed at her friend Murranus. She also told Narcissus what the army physician had said. Narcissus nodded in agreement.
‘Don’t forget, my dear,’ he waggled a finger in her face, ‘many poisons, in very small quantities, can actually do you good. They can clean the blood and purify the humours, purge the stomach of excess waste, even remove blemishes such as warts. Spicerius must ask himself, did he take a powder or a food containing such a substance? Not enough to kill him, but, I would say, midway between the beneficial properties of that substance and its most noxious-’
Narcissus was about to continue when the door suddenly opened. Claudia turned round. At first she thought it was some court official coming to summon her back to the Augusta. Taken by surprise, she could only watch, as in a dream, the oil lamp fall to the floor and smash, the oil spilling out, the flame from the wick racing across. For a few seconds she could merely gape in horror. Narcissus was no better, until the full enormity of what had happened hit him: that seeping oil, the flames growing hungrier as they caught hold of the linen drapes around the bed and licked greedily at the leg of a wooden stool.
Claudia jumped to her feet, and picking up her bag, cloak and hat, screamed at Narcissus to take the Empress’s scroll and pouch, then pushed him towards the window. .
Septimus, disciple of Athanasius, stalwart of the orthodox party, lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling of cream-coloured plaster. He liked that colour, so soothing. Sometimes the vivid colours of this imperial villa, not to mention the guards standing around, brought back memories he would prefer to forget. Septimus had dined well. He had been watching Claudia chatter like a squirrel to that slave and idly wondered what she could find so interesting in him. After all, Septimus was sure that ‘little Claudia’, as Athanasius called her, had been brought to the villa to keep an eye on them, rather than the slaves.
Septimus was pleased at the way things were going. Athanasius had the upper hand. Justin was discomforted, and Dionysius was dead. He was glad about that and dismissed any guilty thoughts. Dionysius had known so much about him and his past. They had grown up together in Capua, attended the same school and converted to the new faith without any regret. They thought they would live in peace until the horrors of Hell were loosed. Dionysius thought they would be safe — after all, they were of good family — but he had miscalculated and they had been rounded up by Diocletian’s agents. The doors to their houses had been broken open at the dead of night, armed men spilling into the atrium. The cellars and gardens had been searched and, of course, they had found enough evidence. Tight collars had been put about their necks, hands bound, and they had been dragged and pushed through the dark and bundled into carts.
Septimus would never forget that bone-jarring ride through the freezing night. They had been given no respite, their pleas and cries ignored, hoods pulled over their heads. He and Dionysius had only recognised each other by their voices; they did not know any of the other prisoners. They had been bundled out of the cart in a chilling dawn, the smoke and flame from the torches of their escort pluming about them, then pushed down yawning, hideous tunnels. Only then did Septimus realise, in his fear-crazed state, that they were within the bowels of the great Flavian amphitheatre, possible victims for the games.
Septimus knew all about heaven, the place of the Christ Lord, but the priest who had converted him had also described the torments of Hell. On that terrifying morning Septimus half believed he had died and was being exposed to the terrors of eternal darkness. They had been kept in a cavern which reeked of wild animals, the roars and snarls of which echoed threateningly through the darkness. The hours seemed to drag; they were given no food or drink. Septimus, overcome with exhaustion, had fallen asleep, only to be woken by the crowds roaring like the thunder of an angry sea. Black-masked guards had appeared, their hoods were removed and they were hurried along the filthy tunnels to the gaping Gate of Death, which stretched out to the great amphitheatre, ablaze with sunlight.
Septimus could only stand and watch as the horrors of the day unfolded. Men, women and children were pushed out to be hunted by wild beasts, brought down by panther, lion and tiger or gored and tossed by furiously stamping wide-horned bulls. He had watched other human beings being torn to pieces so that the golden sand of the arena became as bloody and messy as a butcher’s stall. Yet this was only to whet the appetite of the mob. Septimus had been thrust aside as other victims, dressed in cloaks of tar and pitch and fastened to poles on moving platforms, had been pushed into the arena and lit by bowmen with flaming arrows, turning the victims into screaming, living torches.