‘Get out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand me, Dacius? You and your gang of degenerates.’

‘Or else what?’ Dacius tripped forward in his high-heeled sandals. He looked grotesque; not comical, but very dangerous, a man of shifting shadows with his masculine face and his very feminine wig; his swagger saucy yet his body hard and muscular; his voice lisping but the tone ugly and threatening. Claudia had met him and his like before, scum from the sewers, swirling through the slums like some poison, polluting everything they touched. She was fearful about their presence. Their arrival appeared a little too swift. Was it that they were expecting news? Or were they here to provoke Murranus, whose hot temper was well known? The gladiator had now picked up a cleaver and a pan lid. Anyone else would have looked comical, but Murranus was highly dangerous. Claudia didn’t like the way Dacius kept swaying from side to side, taunting Murranus and every so often glancing at Agrippina, who simpered back. The more she watched, the more convinced Claudia became that Agrippina had had a hand in the poisoning of Spicerius both this time and before; yet what proof did she have? More importantly, what cruel trap had they set for Murranus? Would they accuse him of murder and unsettle his wits, disturb his concentration?

Dacius raised his hand, shutting and opening that ridiculous fan, and his gang fell silent.

‘You see, my dear,’ he drawled, jabbing the fan in Murranus’s direction, ‘whatever you do, dear boy, no matter how you glare, people are going to say. .’ he dropped the fan back to his chin and stared up at the ceiling, ‘yes, that’s what they’ll say, that you were frightened of Spicerius.’

‘That’s a lie, you’re camel shit!’

Dacius laughed like a mare neighing in its stable. ‘Dear boy, they’ll say you were the last man to drink with him, you invited him here. What I want to know is how you will deal with Meleager.’ He stepped forward, folding back the right sleeve of his gown. Claudia glimpsed the purple chalice tattoo and the ring beneath it. She would have leapt to her feet but Murranus distracted her by lunging at Dacius, only to be blocked and pulled back by Polybius and Oceanus. The mood in the tavern grew tense, hands fell to knives; those who wished to avoid the fight were already crawling away.

‘Prove me wrong,’ taunted Dacius. ‘Perform some feat, strangle a lion with your bare hands.’

‘I’ll strangle you!’

‘Prove your innocence,’ Dacius taunted, and the refrain was taken up by his henchmen: ‘Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!’

‘I’ll prove it,’ Murranus retorted, pushing Polybius away. ‘On the day of the fight, the very day I meet Meleager, I’ll take part in a Venatio; I’ll confront and kill any animal you choose to release against me. I’ll offer it as a gift to Spicerius’s shade and a vindication of my innocence.’

Murranus’s words were greeted with a loud roar. Claudia put her face in her hands. The trap had been baited, Murranus had stepped in, and now it had snapped shut.

In the Martyrs’ Gallery, one of the largest passageways in the catacombs beneath the cemetery where St Sebastian the soldier had been shot to death, Presbyter Sylvester stood gazing in puzzlement at the desecrated grave. This was a most sacred place, the repository for the remains of those savagely executed during Diocletian’s recent persecution. The walls on either side of the gallery were a honeycomb of broad shelves, about a yard wide, the same deep. The remains of those slain in the Flavian amphitheatre were brought here, identified where possible, blessed with a sprinkling of holy water, incensed, and placed in a tomb. The grave was then crudely plastered over and, where possible, signs were scratched into the plaster identifying the occupant, their status, and the year they died, with some pious inscription carved beneath. These holy men and women were to be venerated, their remains honoured until Christ brought them back to life on the Last Day, when he would appear in glory for the Great Judgement.

Sylvester stared up and down the passageway, now lit by lamps and torches: an eerie, sombre place, full of strange echoes, as if the ghosts of the dead were calling to each other; a place of mystery, yet one of peace, a sharp contrast to the last few hours in the lives of the occupants who lay there. The catacombs were now unused, deserted, many people reluctant to return to a place which still rang with memories of the days of terror. Who would break in and remove dusty bones and skulls?

‘Why? When? Who?’ Sylvester turned in exasperation to the Guardian of the Tombs, a pinched-faced elderly scribe with ink-stained skin, yet a man who took his responsibilities very seriously. The scribe had apologised profusely for bringing the presbyter here, but what else could he do? Why had a simple tomb been broken into? It contained no treasure. He had already expressed his fears that although the cemetery was a holy place where martyrs were buried, it was also a place of black magic, where witches and warlocks gathered to perform bloody sacrifice under a brooding moon.

‘How long ago?’ Sylvester asked.

‘Days, even weeks. I have so much to supervise, so little help.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sylvester looked down at the slabs of plaster lying on the floor. ‘Look,’ he ordered, ‘examine these. See if they have a name, any indication of who they were.’

Sylvester walked away while the scribe and an assistant, grumbling under their breath, knelt down and began to assemble the pieces of plaster as if they were arranging a mosaic on the floor. Sylvester walked further down the gallery, reciting a short prayer under his breath, but he was already distracted. He was pleased at the events at the Villa Pulchra; he regretted the murders and the disappearance of the Holy Sword, but that was Claudia’s responsibility. Athanasius had done well. He had won the favour of the Empress, who had agreed to meet Militiades, Bishop of Rome. When the weather cooled and the autumn winds brought a little peace to the feverishly hot city, Sylvester would be ready to persuade the Empress to grant more concessions; above all to make sure the Church of Rome had a seat at the council of war when Constantine marched east.

‘Magister!’

Sylvester walked back. He took an oil lamp from a niche and crouched down to examine the cracked plaster. Pieces were missing and some of it had crumbled, but the scribe had done a good job. Sylvester traced the inscriptions with his finger.

‘Lucius et Octavia ex Capua, Christiani,’ he read. ‘Christians from Capua.’ He traced the date on the plaster and realised it must have been the last year of Diocletian’s reign, some four years ago. ‘Do you know who they were?’

The scribe wearily got to his feet. ‘In my office,’ he explained, ‘I have, as you know, Magister, a list of Christians in each town, while Lord Chrysis has handed over the names of the proscripti, those who were condemned by the state. I will have to check these.’

Sylvester nodded. They walked back along the gallery to a small cavern which the scribe grandly described as his ‘writing office’. When the catacombs had been handed over to the care of the Bishop of Rome, Sylvester had immediately set up guardians and scribes to look after this sacred place and collect every document which might identify those buried here. During the persecution, people had been dragged from their homes in the dead of night, condemned without trial, killed immediately or dispatched to the arena. He had begged for imperial documents, and although some of these had been destroyed, deliberately so, the rest had been handed over, and the chief scribe took particular pride in the way he had organised these. They were now filed in reed baskets, long boxes and chests.

Lamps were lit, and the scribe organised his helpers to search for the necessary documents. Sylvester sat within the doorway, staring across at a crude drawing on the wall of Christ in triumph. This cavern had once been a holy place where the bread and wine had been changed into the Body and Blood of Christ. Once again Sylvester marvelled at how quickly things had changed. He closed his eyes and tried to recite the psalm for the evening, but instead he dozed off, and was shaken awake by the scribe.