Murder Imperial Read online

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ Claudia asked. ‘Have I done wrong?’

  She translated the words into signs. Anastasius’ face showed no other flicker of emotion.

  ‘I thought Fortunata had left us? Gossip said that she had been transferred to the Imperial service. To the kitchens of Divine Augustus.’ Claudia coughed. ‘Why am I here?’ she continued.

  She put one sandalled foot down as if to walk away. Anastasius made signs with his hands.

  ‘The guards outside,’ he said, ‘have orders to kill anyone who leaves before the Divine Augusta arrives.’

  Claudia hastily withdrew her foot.

  ‘The Empress!’ she gasped.

  Anastasius nodded.

  ‘And what does she want with me?’

  Even here, in this gruesome, bloody place, Claudia knew the rules. Nothing was to be said, nothing even hinted, not without permission of the Divine Augusta.

  ‘I . . . I have been loyal,’ Claudia stammered.

  Anastasius made quick movements with his hands: ‘Shut up, you silly bitch! You’ve nothing to worry about!’

  Claudia smiled in relief and made herself comfortable. She turned to her left. The piece of beef hanging from the hook looked as if it had been slaughtered some time ago; the fat was white, turning yellow at the edges, the vein-streaked meat compact, slightly glazed. The royal palace, of course, wanted for nothing. Constantine had swept into Rome and everyone had thronged to render loyalty. They provided gifts and comforts for the victorious general who had marched into Rome with crosses lashed to the insignia of his legions. The story had swept the city, how Constantine, before his great victory at the Milvian Bridge, had seen in a vision the Christian sign, with beneath it the words ‘In hoc signo vinces’, ‘In this sign you will conquer’. People speculated on whether it was the truth. Did the Divine Constantine have visions? Or was it the effect of too much wine or one of his epileptic fits? Or even the influence of his Divine Mother the Empress Helena? She might be the daughter of a tavern-keeper but now she was the mother of an Emperor of the West with secret sympathies for the Christian faith. Sympathy or politics? Claudia wondered. The proscribed faith was now a powerful force in the city: senators, bankers, generals, merchants, not to forget the seething mass of ordinary citizens and slaves, openly supported the cult from the catacombs. The temples to Jupiter and Venus might proclaim their glory but the new order was that of Christ and his followers. It was now fashionable to convert, and a victorious general, not to mention his mother, could never forget fashion.

  Claudia heard the door open, the murmur of voices, then it was closed, the latch falling down, the bolts being drawn across, followed by the slap of sandal on the paved floor. Anastasius’ fingers flew to his lips as if he had forgotten something; he got down from his stool and scurried through the darkness, bringing back a camp chair, a simple, crude affair, cross-legged with a canvas seat and backing. The woman who followed him into the pool of light sat down, leaned back and crossed her legs. Her hair was carefully coiffed in slight waves with ringlets down each cheek. These were almost hidden by the palla, or shawl of purple silk, which fell down to her shoulders, covering the upper part of the white gown, its fringes embroidered with a lighter purple. She wore no jewellery except for a ring on the little finger of her left hand. The sandals were costly, Spanish leather, the thongs and toes gilded with gold. Her face was long, with high cheek bones, finely shaved eyebrows, and a short stubby nose above lips which, Claudia noticed, could be compressed into a thin, bloodless line or pouted full and sensuous. Her eyes were dark: in any other woman, Claudia thought, it would look as if she’d drunk too deeply of Falernian. They sparkled as if the woman was savouring some secret jest. Whoever she was talking to expected the laughter lines around her mouth to crease in amusement. Claudia knew different. She now knew the Divine Augusta well. Helena was a woman who could act the part with great charm. She could display a deep interest in whoever she was talking to but it was all a mask. Her heart was hard, her will ruthless.

  The Divine Augusta looked Claudia over from head to toe.

  ‘Well, my little mouse. What an unexpected pleasure!’ Helena abruptly leaned forward, resting her arms on her thighs. ‘Isn’t it exciting? Dramatic? Why do you think I met you here?’

  Claudia pointed to Fortunata’s blood-drained corpse.

  ‘Oh, little mouse, you know better than that.’

  ‘Because, Your Excellency, this place is silent?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The Empress Helena nodded, and smiled as if praising a favourite child. ‘The first rule of politics, little mouse: never plot in palaces. The walls have ears, the floors have eyes. You can’t even break wind without someone finding out. Some people think the latrines are safe. More men have been executed for what they have said in latrines than whispered in council chambers or bedrooms. Anyway, why didn’t you get up and kneel before your Empress?’

  Claudia pointed to Anastasius, who still sat smiling serenely at her.

  ‘Good, little mouse,’ Helena cooed, clapping her hands. ‘Do what Anastasius tells you.’ The smile faded. ‘Exactly what he tells you and the big cats won’t get you, like they trapped poor Fortunata.’

  The Empress Helena, the Divine Augusta, sat back on the chair. She did love theatre. She was the mistress of the grand entrance but only as a distraction. Now, through heavily lidded eyes, she studied the young woman opposite. Small, she thought, with soft pale skin. Her shabby short-sleeved tunic hung down to her bare knees. The sandals were good, sturdy, the thongs well tied. She wore no ornament. Helena liked that: the less to attract the better. Mind you, this young woman would find it hard to attract the gaze of any man. Her black hair was cropped close like that of an urchin in the slums, untidy and unwashed, though that was probably on Anastasius’ instruction. Her face was plain, with slightly chubby cheeks, a regular nose and mouth and large staring eyes under unplucked brows. A perfect mouse, Helena thought. Someone who could scurry along the passageways and corridors and listen to the tittle-tattle of the servants or palace guests. Nevertheless, Anastasius had warned Helena that Claudia’s mind was as sharp as her wits. She spoke little and listened a lot. If the priest had had his way, she, not Fortunata, would have been sent to her son’s palace. Helena’s fingers curled into a fist. She deliberately showed annoyance but Claudia didn’t shift. There she sat, hands on her knees, staring down at the ground. If your nose twitched, Helena thought, you would be a mouse.

  ‘Where do you come from, Claudia?’

  ‘From Rome, Your Excellency.’

  Helena threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘All things come from Rome, Claudia. Daughter of a centurion, aren’t you? One who retired and took his pension but didn’t live long enough to enjoy it? His wife had three children; one died at birth, so Anastasius tells me. You and your brother remained. What was his name?’

  ‘Felix, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Ah yes, Felix; some story about being attacked? He was killed and you were abused. Do you bear a grudge, Claudia?’

  ‘Revenge, Your Excellency; no grudge, just revenge.’

  ‘And your attacker had a chalice tattooed on his left wrist? But I hurry on. You were part of a troupe of travelling actors. After your father died, your uncle became your guardian. Anastasius says you are a good actress, skilled in mime: with your little breasts and deep voice, you can even play the part of a man, be it in the plays of Terence or the farces of Aeschylus. But your manager was a drunkard? Too much wine and too few shows. The bankers closed in: costumes and props cost money so you had to sell your services.’ Helena’s hand snaked out and she grasped Anastasius’ wrist. ‘He shouldn’t be a priest, you know, Claudia. He can’t speak and he can’t hear; visible deformity, as the Christian Church says, should be a bar to the Priesthood. Moreover, but Anastasius does like the theatre, an activity specifically forbidden to Christ’s priests. But, there again,’ she sighed, ‘there’s such a gap between Christ and his followers, isn’
t there? Anyway, that’s how Anastasius met you.’

  ‘I was pleased to enter your service, Divine Augusta.’

  ‘What service?’ Helena snapped.

  Anastasius’ smile disappeared: Claudia had made a mistake.

  ‘I . . . I am sorry, Your Excellency,’ she stammered. ‘I am still new to the role. I mean . . .’

  ‘No, no, don’t.’ Helena smiled and stretched out her hands. ‘Clever, little mouse. You’ve got your lines right. It’s a role, it’s acting. You are wearing a mask. I wear a mask. Anastasius wears a mask. The bully boys, the generals, the plump senators, the silver-fingered bankers, they all wear masks. When they drink, when they lie head to head, sprawled on their couches, and pass the wine crates around, the mask slips and they chatter. “In vino veritas”: wine gladdens the heart and loosens the tongue, Claudia, that’s where my little mouse picks up her morsels.’ Helena played with the tassels of her shawl. ‘Do you know why I call you mouse, Claudia? I mean, it’s not very flattering, but people never know you are there. You’re not like a fly which hovers over food, or a buzzing bee you hear so clearly the sound seems to grow. No, you glide in and out, scurry here, scurry there. Do you remember two mornings ago? Fat Valeria, the wife of the grain merchant? You brought up a tray of cups from the kitchens. I sent for you deliberately. I made you stand for a while near the door. I dropped one of my hair-pins and made you pick it up.’

  Claudia nodded.

  ‘And when you had gone, do you know what I asked fat Valeria?’ Helena sniggered behind her fingers. ‘I said, “Can you describe the servant girl who just came in?” Do you know, she didn’t even know you had been there.’

  Claudia turned her head sideways; not even a flush of embarrassment.

  ‘I wonder what goes on in that little head of yours?’ Helena added spitefully. ‘Oh, stop looking at poor Fortunata!’ she snapped. ‘She’s dead. Rome is full of corpses. No one will miss her. She was stupid. She failed. Will you fail me, Claudia?’

  ‘I am Your Excellency’s humble servant.’

  Helena watched those eyes and felt a chill of apprehension. She was used to spies. She had been one herself. But this young woman . . .

  ‘Anastasius thinks the world of you,’ Helena cooed. ‘Of all my mice he says you are the best. And don’t say it.’ Her voice became clipped. ‘I’ll say it for you.’

  Anastasius raised his hands and made signs with his fingers.

  ‘What is he telling you?’ Helena snapped. ‘Some of his symbols I know, some I don’t!’

  ‘He’s telling me to be careful,’ Claudia replied.

  ‘Ah yes, so he should.’ The Empress opened the palm of her right hand and sniffed at the small sachet of perfume she carried. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she mused. ‘Blood has an iron tang. This place reminds me of the amphitheatre. The amphitheatre represents life, doesn’t it, Claudia? Winners and losers. Spectators who don’t care, the rich, the powerful, the poor and the maimed. Each turns up to watch something. I suppose the miserable go to watch someone more miserable suffer at the point of a sword. Do you know why fat Valeria goes? She becomes excited! As if the silly bitch was in bed with a gladiator! The young men pick her up and take advantage of her favours, she gets so carried away. Are you ever carried away, Claudia?’

  The young woman stared coolly back.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so,’ Helena added drily. ‘Are you a Christian, Claudia?’

  A shake of the head answered her question. Helena narrowed her eyes.

  ‘You don’t believe in anything, do you? Big fat gods or goddesses who thrust out their nipples and raise their legs. There’s only one god in Rome, Claudia,’ Helena continued. ‘That’s my son, the Divine Constantine.’

  Anastasius shook his head in disapproval.

  ‘Don’t be petulant, priest!’ the Empress snapped. ‘You know all about Constantine, don’t you? Your august Emperor?’

  Claudia remembered Anastasius’ orders: keep still, remain calm, never volunteer knowledge.

  ‘It’s a long way from York,’ Helena continued dreamily. ‘So many Emperors. Now there are only two: Constantine in the West.’ She held up one hand clutching the perfumed sachet. ‘He defeated his rival Maxentius at the battle of Milvian Bridge and marched into Rome with that tyrant’s head stuck on a pole. In the East the Emperor Licinius. Now, I am going to tell you why I am meeting you here. There are two reasons. First, my son intends to become sole Emperor. Oh, he’ll swear eternal friendship. However, when Licinius makes a mistake, Constantine will march east, bring him to battle, destroy his army, then kill him. If Licinius has half a brain, he’ll try and do the same to my son. They’ll smile and exchange the kiss of peace, call each other brother, sign the most wonderful-sounding peace treaties.’ Helena lowered her head. ‘But we are back in the amphitheatre, Claudia. One of them must die. It must be Licinius. To do that, my son intends to revoke all edicts against the Christian faith.

  ‘Most of Rome is Christian, as are many officers in the army – at least secretly so. Why? Because Constantine claims he saw a vision? I cannot comment on that, but he needs the Christians. They are the second reason I’m talking to you. We have, in Rome, two empires. We have the columns of Trajan, Titus’ triumphal arch, the Colosseum, the Forum, but beneath the city run the catacombs, dug out by the Christians to bury their dead and secretly perform their rites. Just look at our city! The monuments are beginning to decay but life in the catacombs is as vigorous as ever. So it is throughout the entire Empire. Now, I don’t really care if, three hundred years ago, a Jew called Christus, three days after he was gibbeted on the cross, rose from the dead. What I do care about, and so does Constantine, is that Christianity has become a second empire.’ Helena made a snaking movement with her hands. ‘It lies beneath the façade, it twists and turns, like those narrow galleries in the catacombs. What am I really saying, little mouse? You have permission to speak.’

  Claudia looked at Anastasius, who nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘If Constantine,’ Claudia began slowly, ‘reached an accord with the Christian Church . . .’

  ‘Very good,’ Helena cooed. ‘Accord, I like that word. I didn’t know you were so well educated. There’s a lot about you, Claudia, I’d like to know. But continue.’

  ‘Your son the Divine Emperor will not only unite the Empire in the West but have a path into Licinius’ Empire in the East. Licinius is still hostile to Christianity,’ Claudia continued, ‘but the Church in Asia is very strong.’

  ‘Very good.’ Helena clapped her hands. ‘I can see you have been talking to Anastasius. Constantine will dig away at the edifice Licinius has built. While that fool gilds and paints the top storeys, Constantine will be weakening the cellars and the foundations. My son will correspond with the elders of the Christian Church in Asia, gently tapping at those officers in Licinius’ army who are sympathetic to the new faith.’

  Helena sighed. ‘But that’s going to take time. In the meantime we have enemies in Rome, and enemies watch each other. It’s like fat Valeria. She comes to me oohing and aahing but do you think she likes to bend the knee and kiss the hand of a daughter of a tavern-keeper from York?’ Helena smirked. ‘No! No! She’d love to see my head bounce down the execution steps, and so we return to the fact that we all wear masks: even the Divine Augustus. He’ll sit, he’ll eat, he’ll drink, he’ll whore, with men who, six months ago, would have paid dearly to see his head exhibited in the marketplace. So, we come to informers, the Speculatores. They listen to chatter.’ She waved a finger. ‘To gossip. However, the terrible thing about informers, Claudia, is that they have one precious commodity, the knowledge they collect. They are like hucksters in the market. They’ll sell it to anyone for the highest price. Worse, if they can’t find information, they’ll even make it up. They’ll start to tell you what you want to know. You are not an informer, are you, Claudia?’

  ‘I am Your Excellency’s most humble servant.’

  ‘No, no, what are you really?’


  ‘I am a member of the Agentes in Rebus Politicis . . .’

  ‘And what does that mean, Claudia?’

  ‘I’m a spy. Your spy, Excellency.’

  ‘And who is your Magister, your master?’

  Claudia pointed to Anastasius, who sat, eyes closed, immobile as a statue on its pedestal.

  ‘Good!’ Helena breathed. ‘My Agentes tell no one who they are. They have no friends, no faithful companions. They can trust no one because they never know who they are talking to. Is the thick-eared oaf in the kitchen responsible for cleaning the slops a servant? There are thousands of them in Rome. Or is he an informer? There are as many as ants in an ant hill! Or a spy? And, if he is the latter, does he work for me, for my son, for one of the great patricians of Rome, or for the police? Even, the Gods forbid, for fat Valeria? It’s a lonely life, isn’t it, Claudia? You can never say who you really are except to me or Anastasius. To the rest of the world you are a servant, niece to Polybius who owns the She-Asses tavern in those slums near the Flavian Gate. Oh, by the way, he’s in trouble.’ Helena smiled.

  For the first time Claudia let her mask slip.

  ‘He’s not in political trouble. He’s too bothered about his profits. Do you know Arrius?’

  ‘He’s a wine merchant,’ Claudia replied. ‘A tight-fisted miser. He goes out to his farms and vineyards. After he collects his profits, he always lodges at the She-Asses.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead,’ Helena remarked. ‘I’ve read the Prefect of Police’s report. He had his throat cut at your uncle’s tavern and his saddlebags emptied of every piece of silver he carried.’

  ‘Is my uncle a suspect?’

  ‘No, but he’s got a lot of explaining to do. We’ll worry about him later. You love him, don’t you, Claudia?’