‘He could have taken it himself,’ Claudia declared. ‘He wouldn’t be the first gladiator to try some magical powder. But come, smile, Uncle is really trying to do his best.’
‘And what are you doing?’ Murranus leaned closer and, ignoring Januaria’s jealous hiss, removed a smudge of grease from the corner of Claudia’s mouth with his napkin. She smiled dazzlingly and silently wished that the handsome green-eyed, red-haired fighter would be satisfied, retire and always stay with her.
‘What are you thinking, little one?’ Murranus whispered. ‘Are you still looking for the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist? You told me he was probably a soldier serving in an Illyrian regiment. Didn’t you say Rufinus the banker knew something about him? Is that why you are working in the palace?’
‘I’m a scurrier.’ Claudia smiled. ‘The Empress’s messenger maid.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ Murranus lowered his voice so the hubbub of their companions swept over them. ‘Are you a spy, Claudia? One of the Agentes?’
‘Why, Murranus.’ Claudia fluttered her eyelids.
‘Are you?’
She paused as the door opened and a pedlar entered, a tray slung round his neck full of trinkets, Egyptian scarabs, medals of Isis and packets of sulphur matches. He stretched out his claw-like hand full of denarii and bellowed for a drink, any drink. He caught Claudia’s gaze. ‘And some fish,’ he added cheekily. ‘I’ve walked the Via Appia, up and down, set up shop just near the tombstones on the third mile.’ He gave a cracked-toothed smile. ‘You know the place, where the Christians say Sebastian was shot to death with arrows. I’ll be back there tomorrow, about the sixth hour, so I need food and a good night’s sleep.’ He bawled on and on until a servant brought him a small jug of wine and a dish of diced fish. The pedlar glanced quickly at Claudia again before retreating into a corner.
Claudia looked away. Sylvester had sent his message. She had to be in the catacombs the following morning, amongst the gravestones of the cemetery near the third milestone along the Appian Way. .
Claudia woke long before dawn. She always slept well in her small chamber above the tavern. Poppaoe had done her best to make the room comfortable and pleasing, with the tapestry of leaping ibex on the wall, a bronze tripod table, an acacia-wood stool and a carved Egyptian chest where she could store her belongings. Claudia rose and went to the spring in the garden which lay at the centre of the insula. The breeze was cool, the sun had yet to rise, so the garden was still fresh before the humidity and heat set in. She washed herself carefully, then returned to her chamber to put on clean undergarments, a green tunic with an embroidered hem, and a dark brown cloak which she used to hide the dagger in the belt around her waist. She grabbed her staff and broad-brimmed hat and went down to the kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed pot boy served her some of yesterday’s meal in the small bread room which lay off the kitchen. She drank some watered wine then, telling the pot boy to go back to bed, opened one of the shutters, climbed up and lowered herself down.
She looked to the right and left. There was no one there. No beggar pretending to doze or a drunk urinating against the wall. The street was deserted. She hurried along towards the main thoroughfare. The water carriers and street sweepers were out; schoolchildren were being forced down to the local school room, where a travelling teacher would teach them the rudiments of mathematics and the alphabet. Men going to the baths walked briskly or were carried in their sedan chairs, their slaves hastening behind with baskets of strigils, combs, towels, jars of perfume and flasks of oil. The hucksters were preparing for a day’s trading. Barbers had set up their stools, hot water and brushes at the ready. Cooks, their saucepans full of sausages, fired their mobile stoves, hoping the smell of spiced meat would whet the appetite of passers-by. In the workshops, craftsmen started to hammer. The usual din of the day was beginning.
The street was being cleared of carts, according to Caesar’s law, except for those of builders bringing in masonry and timber. The crowds were out. Here and there the fairground people, with their strange tricks, tales and lurid appearances, were preparing to entertain; already a viper trainer had attracted a small audience. Windows were open, shutters being pulled back, chamber pots emptied, flower baskets hung, and barrows of refuse thrust out of doors to be taken down to the local midden heap. A squad of soldiers swung by, weapons clattering, the red-eyed auxiliaries, with their blue shields and leather helmets, eager to return to their barracks after a long night’s duty. Claudia recalled Murranus, fast asleep in the guest room overlooking the garden, and felt a pang of sorrow at the misfortune facing her friend.
Claudia had fallen asleep trying to picture in her mind that dark, macabre tunnel where Murranus had been standing waiting with Spicerius to enter the arena. She had questioned the gladiator most carefully before turning on Polybius and Oceanus. She believed that someone had tried to weaken Murranus’s opponent, hoping Murranus would kill him before the effect of the potion made itself felt. She knew a great deal about gladiators. Spicerius, a true professional, had probably not eaten since the cena libera the previous evening. On the morning of the fight he would empty his bowels and probably chew nothing more than a dry husk. He would be excited and tense; the wine and the potion must have curdled his stomach so that he vomited them out before any real damage was done. So who was responsible? She had been most forceful with her uncle. Polybius could be as cunning as a serpent and had a finger in every pie, yet he had protested his innocence. Was it Murranus himself? Claudia drove away a mongrel yapping at her and shook her head. Murranus was a killer, a fighter, but he was honourable, not perverse or corrupt; a man who fought because he could not find anything else to do, except dream of owning a tavern like the She-Asses.
Claudia reached the main thoroughfare leading down to the gates. She’d kept to the edge, dodging people coming in and out. At the city gate one of the guards whistled at her and asked to see more of her legs. She made an obscene gesture and, with the guard’s laughter ringing in her ears, hurried through the gates and on to the Via Appia. The crowds thronged busily, merchants, traders, pedlars, travelling musicians. Only once did she stop, to watch a troupe of actors, their faces hidden behind grotesque masks, bodies garbed in gaudy robes, perform and sing as they went up to the city. Two little boys, satyr masks pushed back on their heads, tried to coax coins for their begging baskets. Claudia walked purposefully on. She remembered being part of such a troupe travelling up and down Italy, from its southern tip to the approaches to the cold mountains in the north. She had enjoyed herself, but the manager had drunk the profits so she had returned home. Nevertheless, she had received an education of sorts. She could read and write, speak the lingua franca of the cities and had a nose for mischief. She could act and mime and knew, line for line, the poetry and plays of Ovid, Terence and Seneca.
Occasionally Claudia paused as if to adjust the strap on her sandal or take her hat off so the breeze might cool the sweat on her brow. As she did so, she glanced around, looking for anyone who might be following her. On one occasion she retraced her footsteps, and when she reached a line of tombs and graves which spread out on both sides of the road, she wandered into them as if to inspect some monument or read an inscription. She was satisfied no one was following her. She passed the third mile station and found the trackway leading into what Sylvester now called the Cemetery of St Sebastian. Claudia knew nothing of Christian saints except that here, during the great persecution, the Christians had dug and developed underground passageways and tunnels, hacking out the porous rock which stretched beneath the outskirts of Rome. She found the usual tomb chest and entered, fumbling in the agreed place for the oil lamp and packet of sulphur matches. After a great deal of scraping, the lamp was lit. She put it in the lantern horn, took off her hat, placed this at the top of the steps and carefully climbed down into the silent musty darkness.