Eventually Septimus fainted, only to be kicked awake, a coarse wine-skin bag pushed between his lips. He thought his turn had come and, looking around, glimpsed Dionysius, so overcome with fear he had lost all control over his bowels and bladder. Nevertheless, as the dreadful day continued, neither he nor his companion was thrust out with the rest. Instead, when the games were over, they had been taken back to a cell deep beneath the amphitheatre and visited by shadowy-faced men. They had made him an offer: life and freedom, protection against the macabre sights he had seen, on one condition. He must tell them everything he knew about the Christian community at Capua, then continue to give information, leaving it at certain specified places around the town when instructed. Septimus had agreed. He had fallen to his knees and begged for his life. His captors had dealt him a good beating, to convince the others back at Capua that he had not been treated tenderly. He had also been given a good meal, a purse of coins and released with letters of protection.

Once he had returned to Capua, Septimus explained how he had withstood the torture, refused to break and was released for lack of evidence. He was regarded as a hero, fêted and honoured, being given a prominent place in the Christian assembly. A week later Dionysius returned with a similar story. The two men hardly ever spoke, avoided each other’s company and never again referred to what had happened in those dark caves beneath the earth. The persecution had raged. Septimus had done his share of betrayal until the civil war had broken out. The authorities were no longer concerned about Christians but who was to rule in Rome. By then, Septimus had won a reputation as an orator and scholar, whilst Dionysius had espoused the teaching of Arius. Septimus liked that. It gave a name to their enmity, it separated them; until Dionysius had opened secret negotiations with the orthodox party and Septimus had begun to wonder how much he knew.

Septimus felt his belly grip with fear. He started in pain at the cramp in his left leg. He pulled himself up and became aware of the cries and shouts, the patter of running feet from outside. He hastily put on his sandals, grabbed a cloak, and ran out into the passageway. Servants were hurrying along. One was carrying a bucket of water. From deeper in the palace echoed the clash of cymbals and shouts of ‘Fire!’ Septimus decided to find out what was happening, but he and the rest were stopped by guards in the corridor leading to the imperial apartments. An officer brusquely informed him how a fire had broken out in one of the chambers but that no one had been hurt and the blaze had been quickly controlled.

Septimus walked away. He returned to his own room and found a scrawled note pushed under the door. He rubbed it between his fingers, screwed the piece of parchment up and thrust it into his wallet. He then left his chamber and, walking as nonchalantly as he could, went through the palace and out to the latrines. He opened the door and went in. They were empty.

‘Are you here?’ Septimus called.

A shadow moved from his right. Septimus didn’t turn quickly enough to escape the stunning blow to his head, which sent him crashing to the ground in a heap. He was half unconscious, aware of being dragged across the tiled floor. He tried to move his hands but they were already bound. The terrors of what had happened before, his nightmares from years past returned to haunt him. A door opened and Septimus was dragged down into the darkness. He felt his belt and wallet removed. He was aware of a mustiness, a cloying warmth, the smell of stagnant water. He tried to groan and became conscious of the gag pushed into his mouth. Dionysius! Was the same thing happening to him?

Pains shot through his head, his body was sweat-soaked, the harsh breathing of his captor echoed ominously. Septimus was thrust against a pillar, ropes tied around him. He had lost his robe and now his tunic was ripped apart. Behind him he could hear shuffling feet, and someone gasping for breath, as if they had run fast over a long distance. A whip cracked, and Septimus screamed silently as the first lash cut across his exposed back.

Chapter 7

The galley which usually patrolled the Straits of Byzantium as the Glory of Corinth had been painted black. Its red-gold taff-rail had been covered over, as had the gold-embossed griffin’s head on the stern, and the eagle with spread wings and the Horus Eye on the jutting prow. Its reefed sails were black, whilst its crew had been trained to row with muffled oars. The galley had slipped from the main battle fleet exploiting the late summer weather to leave the Aegean and enter the Middle Sea. It had stood off Sicily, then moved along the Italian shoreline, making careful use of deserted coves and inlets. If danger threatened, false flags and standards were raised. To the curious, it was just another war galley patrolling the coast against pirates. Well supplied with water and stores, the galley had taken up its agreed position on the appointed day and waited for the signal. At last it had come, a series of beacon lights clearly seen from the sea. The captain of the galley had moved his craft in, lean and low in the water like some sinister wolf slinking towards a sheep pen. The sea was calm and the pilot knew all about the currents and hidden dangers, so they successfully beached the galley at dusk.

The soldiers and marines, dressed in breeches and tunics under coats of mail, now prepared to move inland. They had all been selected for their loyalty and training. They were veterans, skilled in the ambushing and killing of bandits and outlaws in the Taurus Mountains near the Cilician Gates. They were armed with bows, arrows and long curved swords, with roundel shields slung over their backs, on their heads reinforced leather helmets with nose guards and earflaps. Some carried makeshift ladders, long poles with rods either side, as well as grappling irons, tubs of pitch and small pots of fire. They ate their meal of hard bread, dried fruits and salted meat and took a gulp from the small water bottle each man carried before moving forward.

Once they’d reached the sand hills they paused for a while to finish their preparations and sent their skirmishers forward into the trees. These scouts, Vandal mercenaries, silenced all life in the lonely farmsteads and cottages, cutting the throats of all they met, butchering the dogs and helping themselves to any plunder. The officers had studied their maps of the area most closely. The countryside around the Villa Pulchra was fairly deserted, the result of successive imperial decrees. This helped them, as did the information they’d received about the villa’s security. It was under the command of Gaius Tullius, a veteran officer of Constantine who shared his command with Burrus, commander of the great bitch Helena’s guard. The attackers had been given strict instructions. Constantine and his mother were to be assassinated, the likes of Burrus, Rufinus, Chrysis and Gaius Tullius taken prisoner, along with the priest Sylvester and the leader of the orthodox party, Athanasius. Everyone else was to be put to the sword.

The attacking force moved deeper into the woods. Climbing the slopes, they reached a glade, where they regrouped and rested, sharing out the paltry spoils of their plunder. They drank some more water and moved on. After a great deal of trekking they reached the approaches to the villa. Occasionally they would come across guards on picket duty, but these were few and sleepy-eyed, and soon disposed of. The undergrowth outside the villa was thick, so they were forced to use the only track. The captain in charge had no choice in the matter, yet he guessed something was wrong. He could feel it in the prickling of the sweat along his back. Was it the silence of the woods? The absence of any owl hoot or flurry amongst the undergrowth? Had the animals also sensed something threatening and fled? Now and again the captain would pause, listening for the sounds of the night. He looked back. All he could see in the faint moonlight was a bobbing line of men. Despite his suspicions, he was totally unaware of the dark, hulking shadows following his men either side of the path. These shapes, used to the pitch darkness of the German forests, slipped like hunting wolves through the bracken, grouping round the end of the column. As the line of attackers moved more quickly, stragglers began to appear, and the silent shadows took these, a hand about the mouth, a knife across the throat. .