She was halfway through when her guests arrived. Burrus marched across the garden, cloaked and furred, armour clinking as if he was striding through some snowy forest in Germany. He roared a greeting to everyone, and was about to pick Claudia up to hug her when he saw the daisy chain, so he satisfied himself with a quick kiss to the brow. He wanted to discuss the fight with Murranus, but Claudia ordered him to sit down next to her. Timothaeus looked rather sheepish, biting his lip and scratching his unshaven cheek. Gaius Tullius was, however, calm and collected. He was dressed in a red-edged snow-white tunic, marching boots on his feet and a sword belt slung over one shoulder. He greeted Claudia with a friendly clasp of hands and stared round the garden, openly admiring it, before sitting down opposite her.
Oceanus came out with a jug and a tray of goblets. He looked enquiringly at Claudia, who thanked him and asked that Narcissus join them, to be dragged out of bed if necessary. She poured the wine. Narcissus came out yawning and scratching, gently burping and loudly apologising that he had eaten and drunk too much the night before. He made himself as comfortable as possible. Claudia caught the warning glance Timothaeus sent him.
‘Why are we here?’ Burrus slapped his thigh. ‘It’s good to see you, Claudia, but why are we here? Where’s Murranus? Everyone is talking about his heroic feat. What he achieved would be hard enough even for a German, a chieftain like myself.’
Claudia put down her daisy chain. ‘Gaius,’ she leaned across, ‘I need your sword belt.’
He pulled a face, but handed it across. Claudia immediately passed it to Burrus; Gaius made to object, but Claudia held out her hand.
‘Gaius, I want you to listen to what I have to say, because I’ve brought you here away from the court, be it the Palatine or the Villa Pulchra, to accuse you of murder. You are responsible for the deaths of Dionysius, Justin and Septimus.’
‘This is nonsense,’ Gaius breathed, eyes drifting to Burrus, who was now clutching his sword belt.
Narcissus and Timothaeus gasped; Burrus looked puzzled, though the cunning German knew enough about Claudia to sense that she would not make allegations unless she was certain. Claudia pointed across to the tavern.
‘My uncle and others are in there armed. Polybius,’ she lied, ‘is a very good archer, whilst Burrus, of course, will do his very best to prevent you escaping from this garden. You are a killer, Gaius, a pagan with a particular hatred for Christians, especially the Christian community of Capua. When I first met you I brought good wishes from Spicerius. You and he were boyhood friends; you chased each other through the fields near Sisium, a small village outside Capua. At the time you changed the subject very abruptly and never mentioned it again.
‘At the Villa Pulchra I’m certain you once said you knew nothing about Capua, its Christians or the persecution there. Of course, you were lying, I can prove that. My friend Sallust the Searcher made careful enquiries, not in Capua but amongst the farming community around that town. He came across evidence concerning Lucius and Octavia Quatis. They were a childless couple who took in an orphan boy, the only son of people who had worked for them. I believe the father was an overseer on their farm. The parents died of a fever; their son, little Gaius, was raised by this kind-hearted couple and treated as their own. People always remembered Gaius and, indeed, Spicerius, playing soldiers out in the fields and woods. Scarcely in his teens, the young boy joined the army, and that was the last the local community ever saw or heard of him. They believed he had been posted abroad. By the time he’d reached any senior rank, Diocletian had launched his ferocious persecution against the Christians and Capua was brought under the scrutiny of the Emperor’s agents. Capua was dangerous because its Christians were not only slaves or minor servants but important people who were beginning to control the schools and other institutions in the town. It was a time of terror, wasn’t it, Gaius?’
She paused. Timothaeus and Narcissus were now sitting closer together, as if for protection. Burrus had thrown Gaius’s sword belt well away, and one hand rested on the hilt of his own stabbing dagger. Gaius had paled; only a bead of sweat running down his cheek betrayed his agitation.
‘I was an orphan,’ he stammered, ‘but I never knew Capua, I. .’
‘Don’t lie,’ Claudia replied softly. ‘You may have added to your name, but one thing about the Roman army, it does keep scrupulous records. Somewhere amongst those records I will find your real name, your age and where you come from.’
She paused again and sipped her wine. She looked Gaius up and down but could not detect any concealed weapon.
‘A time of terror,’ she repeated. ‘Christians from Capua and elsewhere were rounded up; it was a time for settling grudges and grievances. Dionysius and Septimus were Christian scholars who were terrorised into betraying other names. Lucius and Octavia were not Christians but somehow they got caught up in the persecution. They were only poor farmers with no one to help them, whilst their adopted son was possibly hundreds of miles away. We don’t know who betrayed them, or why; it may have been Dionysius or Septimus. I’m sure you’ve been through the records yourself, though men like Chrysis are only too willing to destroy anything about those days, when Christians were hunted like rats in a sewer.’
Claudia picked up the daisy chain, balancing it in her hand. ‘An old man and an old woman,’ she continued, ‘innocent of any crime, dragged into Rome. And of course, the more they denied their crime, the worse it become. They were kindly people, weren’t they, Gaius? Had they allowed Christians to meet on their farm, or had they sheltered a Christian? Whatever, these poor people were murdered and their farm was confiscated by the State. It would take months for you to learn the news; you were, by then, an ambitious army officer, a trusted member of the staff corps in Constantine’s Army of the West. Diocletian abdicated and the civil war broke out, but you had not forgotten.’ Claudia broke the daisy chain. ‘You returned to Rome with the conquering army and you conducted a thorough search. You are a good soldier, you know how to plan an ambush. You don’t go riding into Sisium or Capua; rather, you search the records and listen to rumour and gossip. You’re not a Christian, are you, Gaius?’
‘I hate them, I always have,’ came the quiet reply. ‘It’s a sect of slaves and anarchists. Like many officers, I believe Constantine has made the wrong choice.’
‘Do you feel he’s betrayed you?’ Claudia asked. ‘Is that why you are also the traitor in the Emperor’s camp? Have you already sold your soul, sword and loyalty to Licinius’s agents? Are you so furious at the death of your foster parents, so incensed at the Christian faith that you have lost all trust in Constantine and his mother?’
Gaius gazed solemnly back.
‘You watched and you seethed,’ Claudia continued. ‘You learned as much as you could about the horrifying details of your foster parents’ cruel capture and death. What rubbed salt in the wound was what happened to the home where you played as a child, their farm. It had been confiscated by the State but Constantine restored it to the Christian sect. Insult upon insult, injury upon injury. You discovered that Lucius and Octavia had even been buried in the Christian catacombs, only their first names carved on the tomb. The catacombs are now deserted; it would not be difficult for a soldier like yourself to creep down, break open the tomb and remove their remains for what you’d call an honourable burial.’
‘I didn’t know this.’ Timothaeus spoke up. ‘Gaius, you always seemed so tolerant.’
‘Contemptuous is a more accurate description,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘You hated the Emperor and men like Sylvester; you were ready to support Licinius.’