drinkers of the grape, who worship the demons Bacchus and Pan. They include officials, priests and soldiers, a powerful sect.’
‘Magister, with all due respect, I couldn’t care if the man worshipped the Emperor’s arse.’
Sylvester laughed drily and patted her on the hand. ‘I have news for you, Claudia, though perhaps it’s not very good. Rufinus, the banker, claimed such a man was serving with the Illyrian regiment. Well, I’ll tell you this, half the regiment wear such a mark.’ He pressed a finger against his lips. ‘I have done careful research on your behalf. You were not the only one to be attacked and raped; you were lucky to escape with your life.’
‘My brother didn’t.’
‘Hush now. The man who attacked you may have wanted you to see that tattoo, to distract you. It might have been a cover for other criminal activities, a symbol which could be washed off later. No, no, Claudia, listen, you know about tattoos, I could have one inscribed on my arm which I can never remove. I can also ask an artist to copy such a one, as easy to remove as a linen cloth from your neck.’
Claudia moaned softly. Darkness hung all around her; only the lamp flickered. She’d never thought of that, she had been so convinced that one day she would find a man with a tattoo which couldn’t be hidden. Sylvester’s intelligence was always good, yet she remembered her assailant. She always would: his smell, his touch, his voice. She took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shiver.
‘I’m sorry, Claudia, but you must consider the possibility of what I’ve said. There are other alleyways and streets we can search. Close your eyes. I know it’s hard, but that evening on the banks of the Tiber, your brother was collecting shells, wasn’t he?’
Claudia closed her eyes and nodded.
‘And the man approached you,’ Sylvester continued. ‘He killed Felix because he wanted no witnesses, nobody to protect you. Imagine him fighting, his body, the muscles of his arms, back and stomach.’ Claudia did so, and felt sick. She was back beside the river again, the sun setting, that man lurching over. She could recall his legs, the muscles of his calves, the strong arms like a vice of steel, the hot, wine-laden breath.
‘Soldier or priest?’ Sylvester asked abruptly, squeezing her wrist tightly.
‘Soldier,’ Claudia retorted. ‘Yes, he must have been a soldier. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; it was like fighting an armoured man.’
‘Good,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘Here’s a man drunk, wandering the riverside, he doesn’t care whether he’s caught, he wants his pleasure. What he did was hideous, but he also ran a great risk. Tell me, Claudia, why should a soldier do that? Think of the soldiers in Rome. Most of them are flabby; even those called back from the frontier soon put on weight, let the muscles run to fat.’
Claudia felt a thrill of excitement. Sylvester had been a lawyer; she always respected the sharpness of his thought, the logic of his argument. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
‘We’re talking about an athlete, aren’t we? Someone who is in constant training?’
‘No, Claudia, we are talking about a fighter. You described to me in great detail what happened; I told you to do that, to clear your mind, purge your soul.’ Sylvester made a circular movement with his fingers. ‘Could your attacker, the murderer of your brother, be a gladiator?’
He half smiled at the hiss of disapproval from Claudia. ‘No, no,’ he added gently, pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. ‘Claudia, reflect! Gladiators are killers, often lonely men. Oh, they are hero-worshipped, but only because they have killed someone. They are in constant training. The women who worship them are either whores or degenerates from court. No,’ his smile widened, ‘I’m not talking about you and Murranus; he is very fortunate! I’m talking about those who hang about the gladiator schools and want nothing
‘Magister, with all due respect, I couldn’t care if the man worshipped the Emperor’s arse.’
Sylvester laughed drily and patted her on the hand. ‘I have news for you, Claudia, though perhaps it’s not very good. Rufinus, the banker, claimed such a man was serving with the Illyrian regiment. Well, I’ll tell you this, half the regiment wear such a mark.’ He pressed a finger against his lips. ‘I have done careful research on your behalf. You were not the only one to be attacked and raped; you were lucky to escape with your life.’
‘My brother didn’t.’
‘Hush now. The man who attacked you may have wanted you to see that tattoo, to distract you. It might have been a cover for other criminal activities, a symbol which could be washed off later. No, no, Claudia, listen, you know about tattoos, I could have one inscribed on my arm which I can never remove. I can also ask an artist to copy such a one, as easy to remove as a linen cloth from your neck.’
Claudia moaned softly. Darkness hung all around her; only the lamp flickered. She’d never thought of that, she had been so convinced that one day she would find a man with a tattoo which couldn’t be hidden. Sylvester’s intelligence was always good, yet she remembered her assailant. She always would: his smell, his touch, his voice. She took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shiver.
‘I’m sorry, Claudia, but you must consider the possibility of what I’ve said. There are other alleyways and streets we can search. Close your eyes. I know it’s hard, but that evening on the banks of the Tiber, your brother was collecting shells, wasn’t he?’
Claudia closed her eyes and nodded.
‘And the man approached you,’ Sylvester continued. ‘He killed Felix because he wanted no witnesses, nobody to protect you. Imagine him fighting, his body, the muscles of his arms, back and stomach.’ Claudia did so, and felt sick. She was back beside the river again, the sun setting, that man lurching over. She could recall his legs, the muscles of his calves, the strong arms like a vice of steel, the hot, wine-laden breath.
‘Soldier or priest?’ Sylvester asked abruptly, squeezing her wrist tightly.
‘Soldier,’ Claudia retorted. ‘Yes, he must have been a soldier. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; it was like fighting an armoured man.’
‘Good,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘Here’s a man drunk, wandering the riverside, he doesn’t care whether he’s caught, he wants his pleasure. What he did was hideous, but he also ran a great risk. Tell me, Claudia, why should a soldier do that? Think of the soldiers in Rome. Most of them are flabby; even those called back from the frontier soon put on weight, let the muscles run to fat.’
Claudia felt a thrill of excitement. Sylvester had been a lawyer; she always respected the sharpness of his thought, the logic of his argument. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
‘We’re talking about an athlete, aren’t we? Someone who is in constant training?’
‘No, Claudia, we are talking about a fighter. You described to me in great detail what happened; I told you to do that, to clear your mind, purge your soul.’ Sylvester made a circular movement with his fingers. ‘Could your attacker, the murderer of your brother, be a gladiator?’
He half smiled at the hiss of disapproval from Claudia. ‘No, no,’ he added gently, pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. ‘Claudia, reflect! Gladiators are killers, often lonely men. Oh, they are hero-worshipped, but only because they have killed someone. They are in constant training. The women who worship them are either whores or degenerates from court. No,’ his smile widened, ‘I’m not talking about you and Murranus; he is very fortunate! I’m talking about those who hang about the gladiator schools and want nothing
Similar Books
