Claudia stared at this clever priest who hid a cunning brain behind his gentle face and kind eyes.

‘That’s what it’s all about,’ she whispered. ‘You want Helena to support the Bishop of Rome, right or wrong; you see yourselves as co-Caesars, the spiritual arm of the Empire. Helena will rule in favour of Militiades, and what the Empress says has the force of law. The Bishop of Rome and the Emperor will become indistinguishable. Christianity will be a state religion and Militiades its high priest. Some day you will anoint the Emperor, but you won’t stop there, will you, Sylvester? Everything will come full circle; perhaps one day it will be the Bishop of Rome who decides who wears the purple, who dons the diadem.’

‘Dreams,’ Sylvester smiled, ‘dreams of glory, Claudia, of God’s kingdom being established on Earth. Helena has reached an understanding with us. We want a conclusion that will bind us together. We want her to rule in our favour so our teaching becomes an imperial edict. Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘one thing that certainly wasn’t planned, or expected, was that attack. What have you learned?’

Claudia glanced up at a carving of a face at the top of a pillar, a cherub with pursed lips and full-blown cheeks, its head surrounded by vine leaves. Idly she wondered how many in the villa fully realised what Sylvester was plotting.

‘Claudia?’ Sylvester asked.

‘The attack came from Licinius,’ she replied. ‘He dispatched a galley to the Italian coast but he already had agents in the countryside outside the villa. These lit the beacon fires once they had received the signal from here. The woods are thick and dense, and Licinius’s agents could lurk safely whilst they were waiting for the agreed sign. However, what they didn’t know, what they hadn’t counted on, was the wanderer in the woods, an old man who travelled these parts. I expect he became aware of these strangers and came to the villa to report what he had seen. Unfortunately for him, our traitor or his accomplices learned what he was gabbling about and had him killed. The rest you know: the fires were lit, the galley came in and the troops were landed. Are you pleased, Sylvester?’

‘At an attack on the Emperor? Of course not.’

‘You know what I mean,’ she taunted. ‘Constantine now has a reason for war. Is that part of your dream, your clever design? For Constantine to march east, to issue edicts of toleration there. You’ll be busy then, won’t you, with your legion of agents, stirring up trouble in the eastern provinces, preparing the way for your Saviour?’

Sylvester just laughed, raised his hand in greeting and walked away.

Justin, leader of the Arian party, had seen Claudia and Sylvester close in conversation. He truly wondered what they were talking about but was desperate to reach the latrines. Once there, he was pleased to find they were empty, except for the villa cat, a sinewy black creature which fled through one of the half-open windows. Justin took a seat at the far end, staring mournfully across at the mosaics on the far wall. He did not feel well, his stomach was upset, and the rich food and wine of the previous night had not helped. He was also anxious. He should not have accepted the invitation to this debate. He was trapped. He had come here expecting discussion, but Athanasius was at his best, Sylvester had the ear of the Augusta, and now Justin was caught by ghosts from the past. Athanasius was not only a brilliant orator but also the only one amongst the philosophers who was blameless. After all, as Athanasius liked to point out, after Diocletian had launched his persecution, Athanasius had eventually fled north, well away from Capua, while the rest had been caught up in the net.

Absent-mindedly, still absorbed in the problems that beset him, Justin cleaned himself with a sponge on the end of a stick, and went into the small lavarium to wash his hands and face. He had left the latrines and was passing a low red-bricked building with stairs leading down to a cellar door when he heard a voice echoing up the steps.

‘Justin, Justin.’

He stopped, recognising the building as something to do with the hypocaust; perhaps a place where fuel was stored.

‘Justin.’

He heard a creak and, stepping to his right, peered down the steps. The door at the bottom was now open.

‘Justin.’

The voice was eager, as if the person had found something. So absorbed was he with his problems that Justin forgot about Dionysius, or the fact that Septimus was missing. He went quickly down the steps and through the doorway; he was aware of a lamp glowing, of shadows flickering in the cavernous room. Someone was standing close to a pillar at the far end. He paused, and his assailant struck him on the back of the head.

Chapter 9

‘Come on.’

The principal chef of the imperial kitchens, Emperor Constantine’s favourite cook, grasped the hand of the young kitchen maid and pulled her down the steps leading to the cellar where wood and charcoal were stored under a low roof supported by stout stone pillars. The chef always liked to bring his concubines, as he called his conquests, down here, especially in summer when it was so quiet. He wiped his greasy face, drying his hands on his tunic, and looked appreciatively at the girl. She was olive-skinned, with thick black hair and beautiful arms and legs. The chef in charge of the entrées had already lain with her and provided a graphic description of her skill and enthusiasm, her determination to please. The principal chef had immediately gone to work seducing the young woman with promises of preferment in the kitchens and, perhaps, even the prospect of promotion to serving maid with permission to enter the imperial dining room. He also made sure she was given the freshest delicacies left over after an imperial meal. Already this morning she had been given first choice of food from the previous night: cheese and honey, slices of walnut and fig cake, dried pear pudding, as well as various meats soaked in their sauces.

‘Come on,’ he repeated, stretching out his hand and grasping hers.

‘Are you sure?’ the maid whispered, acting like a frightened fawn. The chef’s companion and friend had said she would protest like this, all coy and reluctant. She was certainly playing the part, gnawing her lip and standing so irresolute on the steps whilst he tugged gently on her hand.

‘Just persist,’ his friend had advised, ‘and you’ll enjoy a paradise of pleasures. Make sure it’s somewhere lonely, where no one can hear.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ The chef felt his stomach rumble with excitement. ‘We’ll kiss and cuddle, then go back to the kitchens for some honey water and pyramid cakes.’

The maid, still acting the reluctant lady, followed him down the steps. She was quite determined to give this important man the best of times and win his favour. She would love to be in charge of some of the others, to be given the best scraps and the driest and cleanest place to sleep.

The chef opened the door and fumbled on the ledge for the sulphur matches, which he used to fire the cresset torches as well as the twin earthenware oil lamps with the carving of Pegasus on each dish. As he did this, the girl walked away, staring down the musty chamber.

‘There!’ The chef stood back; the two lamps were burning fiercely, and the cresset torches sputtered in a shower of sparks. Behind him the girl moaned.

‘Oh, it’ll soon be all right,’ the chef murmured. He felt a hand on his arm and grinned round at her. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’

Even in the poor light her face had changed, all pale and drawn, her lower lip trembling. She pulled speechlessly at his arm and pointed down the cellar. As he followed her direction, his chin sagged and he gasped in amazement. He pulled the girl with him as he walked slowly forward.