The Song of the Gladiator by Paul Doherty

body was placed in the House of Mourning. I suspect the corpse bore some clue as to the identity of his killer.’
    ‘But what?’ Helena asked. ‘He was sliced like a roll of ham and bled to death. I scrutinised his corpse.’
    ‘Augusta,’ Claudia smiled, ‘you asked me a question and I replied. I’m not too sure what the arsonist wished to hide.’
    ‘It could have been someone else.’ Chrysis’s voice was rich with spite. ‘Oh, how these Christians love each other! Don’t they say that those who attack the teaching of their faith will be consumed, body and soul, in Hell’s fire?’
    ‘Not at my expense they won’t,’ Constantine grumbled. ‘Chrysis,’ the Emperor got to his feet, ‘find the bastard who started that blaze, and if he hasn’t got a good explanation, crucify him outside the gates. Mother, I’ve seen enough of this. We need to talk.’
    The imperial party swept back into the palace. Claudia stayed under the sycamore tree, and in the light from the fire she read the scroll Gaius had given her. The letter was short and to the point. Signed by Dionysius, it was directed to Athanasius, leader of the orthodox party. In it, Dionysius confessed how he had prayed, fasted and reflected, and now saw the error of his ways. Accordingly, at the appropriate time, when the Holy Spirit directed him, he would renounce his errors publicly and accept the forgiveness of his Bishop.
    ‘Doomed in life! Doomed in death!’ The voice was rich and carrying. Claudia looked up. Three men stood like shadows before her, their backs to the fire.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she smiled, quickly hiding the letter, ‘are you talking about me or the late departed?’
    The figure in the centre walked forward. Short and thick-set, narrow-faced with fierce eyes and hungry mouth, he was dressed in a simple dark tunic over thick baggy leggings.
    ‘My name is Athanasius.’ He gestured to his two companions. ‘This is Aurelian and Septimus. We wondered who was speaking to the Empress and someone told us you are Claudia, Augusta’s messenger. Others say you are her spy.’ Athanasius leaned down, lips parted to show fine, strong teeth. ‘Presbyter Sylvester speaks highly of you.’
    Claudia moved so she could get a better look at these three members of the orthodox party. Athanasius exuded strength, with his harsh mouth and square jaw. He reminded her of a soldier, his auburn hair cropped close to his head, while his clothes were those of a mercenary rather than an orator. His two companions were more disciples than colleagues, young and smooth-faced with shaven heads. They too were dressed rather coarsely, in long gowns with cords round the middle and sandals on their feet.
    ‘They’re my disciples,’ Athanasius explained, ‘who have been baptised and accept the one true faith. Do you accept the true faith, Claudia?’
    ‘I accept the truth,’ she replied, gesturing at the fire, ‘and I do wonder, as your God will, why Dionysius should die in such a horrid fashion and his corpse be so dishonoured. Don’t you Christians have burial rites?’
    ‘It is the spirit which counts; the flesh doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Does that include yours, Magister? If Dionysius was murdered, why not another orator? Has murder replaced philosophy in the debate?’
    ‘We don’t know why Dionysius died,’ Athanasius replied.
    ‘And we don’t really care,’ Septimus shouted, like a spiteful child. ‘He got his just deserts.’
    Even from where she stood, despite the poor light, Claudia could see the prim set of Septimus’s mouth, and the quivering disapproval in his face.
    ‘People will ask,’ she gestured at the fire, ‘are you responsible?’
    ‘We are not responsible,’ Athanasius declared.
    ‘Why are you so certain?’ Claudia took a step forward. ‘Is it because Dionysius was planning to change sides, acknowledge your arguments?’
    Athanasius looked shocked; his two companions hissed their disapproval.
    ‘He was planning to