still writhing on the sand. The man was trying to loosen his helmet straps so he could gasp more air. Murranus did not close to give him the mercy blow. He had reached the climax of the contest. He had used surprise, savagery and speed; he might not be able to use them again. He was now sweat-soaked, heavy-limbed. However, his opponents were no longer arrogant. Indecisive, they kept close together, slowly edging forward.
Murranus peered at them through the grille of his visor. He recognised Sesothenes; he must concentrate. He must not think of Claudia, the mob, the heat, the sand or the pain in his own left side. He had sprung his trap, one which always worked. More gladiators were slain by sudden ambush than sword play. He edged back, blinking away the sweat, watching his opponents. Was there further room for trickery? He noticed Sesothenes' comrade holding back; was he frightened, too cautious, an opponent who'd panic? Was that why he had stayed with Sesothenes? Murranus recalled his flight and abrupt turn. Yes, the gladiator with the yellow-feathered plume had hung back. He was weak, a man who probably depended on his sword when he should use his shield. He was the one!
Murranus danced forward, shield up, sword out, driving Sesothenes away before edging towards his comrade. The man lashed out with his sword. Murranus sank to one knee and, shifting his sword to his shield hand, scooped up sand. Yellow-plume rushed in; Murranus flung the sand straight at his enemy's visor and swiftly retreated. Sesothenes was moving in now. Murranus met him, sword and shield clashing in a furious fight. He kept his position. He must not lose sight of the gladiator he'd blinded. The man was now removing his helmet. Murranus concentrated on Sesothenes, driving him back in a whirl of steel, using all his skill and speed. Sesothenes had a weakness, a tendency to lurch forward with his head, exposing the side of his neck. Murranus waited, feinted and then struck, the edge of his sword biting so deep the blood spurted out of the neck wound like wine from a cracked jug. Murranus did not hesitate; he drew away to confront Yellow-plume. He was not aware of the roaring crowd, the sea of faces, the fluttering cloths, the flowers being hurled. The contest was over. The last Egyptian was no real opponent; Murranus killed him after a brief furious clash, driving his sword deep into the man's belly before knocking him away. The mob were on their feet, screaming their delight. Murranus moved back to Sesothenes. He kicked away his sword and, leaning down, undid the buckles of the dying man's helmet, staring into eyes already clouding in death.
'For Alexander!' Murranus whispered. 'An offering to Claudia, to all of us and to all of them.'
The crowds were already shouting: 'Kill him! Kill him! Let him have it!'
Murranus rested the tip of his sword on Sesothenes' throat and, still watching those eyes, pressed down with all his strength.
In the imperial box, Constantine and Helena, all propriety forgotten, were on their feet, hands extended. Urbana was clapping with joy. Cassia was hugging her. People pressed forward, shouting and cheering. Claudia, transfixed, heard one shout, one refrain and abruptly broke from her reverie. She had discovered another key to the mysteries confronting her!
'I told you not to worry!' Murranus, his head crowned with a laurel wreath, swayed dangerously on his makeshift throne in the garden of the She Asses tavern.
'You're drunk!' Claudia teased.
'I am not, I am just happy. I fought and won!'
'Charon's balls!' Claudia muttered. She stared round at Polybius' guests. They were all drunk as sots. Some were fast asleep. Petronius the Pimp had declared Simon the Stoic was his longdost brother and they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Narcissus the Neat was now not so neat but sat embracing a flask of embalming fluid as if it was his true love. Polybius and Poppaoe were staring into each other's eyes as they drifted off to sleep. Oceanus was trying to stick on his severed ear with some honey.
'May all the gods, Murranus…'
A loud snore greeted her words. The gladiator was gone. The wreath had slipped and he sat, a smile on his face, fast asleep. Claudia wondered if, come the morning, he'd still remember his promise to marry her immediately.
She stared into the darkness. Murranus' victory in the arena seemed aeons away. She had attempted to go down and see him, but the crowds had pressed so close it had been impossible. Moreover, Burrus had returned to say that Sallust the Searcher was waiting for her at the foot of the back steps to the imperial box, so she'd hurried down to meet him. What the searcher had told her was not surprising; it simply confirmed all her suspicions. She'd returned to the tavern late in the afternoon and drawn up her own indictment, going through it step by step. She'd become so convinced, she'd sent the pot boy Sorry to Presbyter Sylvester asking him to visit; so far he had not replied. Claudia ground her teeth. She was glad it was all over! Helena had vindicated herself, but Claudia wanted to seal the door on this matter. She stuck her tongue out at the sleeping Murranus.
'I'll deal with you tomorrow,' she whispered.
Claudia sipped some wine, dozed and was shaken awake by a wide-eyed Sorry.
'Mistress/ he pleaded, 'someone important.' He pointed back at the tavern.
It was Sylvester, cloaked and hooded, escorted by two of Helena's Germans.
'Excuse the late hour.'
Claudia brushed this aside and took the Presbyter into the far corner. She asked if he wanted to eat or drink. He smiled and said he was fasting, part of his vow to the Christ Lord for Murranus to win.
'And he did!' he added, eyes all merry. 'A great victory. You've heard the news?'
Claudia shook her head.
'They discovered another house the Egyptians owned and found more evidence, some clothing taken from one of their hostages.' He shrugged. 'They were lucky not to be crucified.'
'Murranus was fortunate not to have been killed.'
'But he wasn't, was he?' Sylvester murmured. 'Murranus' victory has brought him wealth and the Empress' favour. She'll never forget it. It also purges any guilt he may have felt over young Alexander's death.'
'As well as vindicating the power of your Christ.'
'His power does not need vindication,' Sylvester replied. 'But there again, it did no harm.'
Claudia was tempted to tease the Presbyter with quotations from his own scriptures about the use of the sword. In the past he had quoted the same to her. Sylvester pushed back his hood and watched Sorry pull across the bolts on the main door. He waited until the boy scampered away.
'Well, what do you want, Claudia?'
She told him in a clear, logical sequence, testing her hypothesis against Sylvester's questions and defending it in the face of his criticism. The more she spoke, the more concerned Sylvester became, lapsing into silence, plucking his lower lip, shaking his head. An hour passed; outside the sounds of laughter echoed as members of Polybius' party awoke to revel again. Once Claudia had finished, her voice hoarse with arguing, Sylvester rose to his feet.
'This is, as you say, Claudia, a matter for the Empress. She will decide.' He glared down at her. 'But it is very, very serious.'
The next morning Claudia was the first to rise. She found Celades fast asleep in the kitchen, a wineskin in one hand, a piece of roast pork in the other. She broke her fast, slept again and woke much refreshed. She washed, changed and went down into the tavern. Celades, bleary-eyed, was now in the kitchen, grilling strips of beef. He was still full of the previous day's exploits and the banquet he had prepared.
'Cook what you have to, Celades,' Claudia declared, 'but be ready to prepare something else.'
'What do you mean?'
'Just wait and see,' Claudia retorted.
The rest, including Murranus, were nursing sore heads, moaning to themselves, only too eager to escape to a chamber upstairs or back into the garden. At last, late in the afternoon, Polybius came down to greet the usual regulars. He announced that Murranus was fast asleep, but once darkness fell, the festivities would recommence, this time in Claudia's honour. She was protesting at this, only to be interrupted by a thunderous knocking at the door before it was flung open. Burrus, hand on the hilt of his sword, almost charged into the eating hall, followed by three of his companions and a host of servants wearing imperial livery, all carrying linen bundles, wine flagons and other pots and jars.
'Where is the warrior?' Burrus thundered.
'Upstairs!' Claudia shouted back. 'Drunk, hungover, tired, but like the rest of you, ready for the next piece of
