The Song of the Gladiator Read Online Free PDF Page B

Burrus had slurred. ‘Dormice,’ he continued. ‘I never thought I’d like them, but, soaked in honey, with a sprinkling of sesame seeds . . .’ He stroked his stomach appreciatively. He was not so polite about the arrival of the philosophers, however. ‘Christians,’ he jeered, ‘with nothing better to do than chatter like jays. The sword has been brought here to impress them.’
    ‘Where’s it kept?’ Gaius had asked.
    ‘Just behind the atrium,’ Burrus confided, ‘stands a door with steps leading down to a cellar. Apparently the builder of this villa had hoped to create an ice house by plastering the walls and laying a cement floor with a great circle of earth in the centre where the ice tub would stand. It was a dismal failure, so the cavernous chamber was turned into a strong room where the owner could keep his treasure. Now,’ Burrus leaned closer in a heavy gust of wine, ‘there,’ he stumbled over the words, ‘is the Locus Sacer, the Sacred Place.’
    Timothaeus, Chief Steward of the villa, a self-confessed Christian who wore the fish symbol around his neck, had nodded in agreement. The steward, with his jovial red face and infectious laugh, always joined their little suppers. He never took offence at Burrus’s contempt for Christians, but always warned that the mercenary should be careful, for surely one day the Empress Helena would be baptised and received in the only true faith? The German had grunted his disapproval and started asking questions about this great Paul, before offering to show Gaius the renowned relic. The steward had accompanied them down the steps to the iron-studded cellar door. At each side of this squatted two of Burrus’s men, looking rather fearsome in the dancing light of the pitch torches pushed into wall brackets above them. They rose, swaying drunkenly.
    ‘Is your leg better?’ one of them asked Timothaeus.
    ‘Oh yes,’ the steward replied hurriedly. ‘Now, Burrus, your key . . .’
    Apparently there were two locks to the door, each served by a different key. Burrus held one, Timothaeus the other. The mercenary inserted his and turned it; the steward followed suit and swung open the door to the sacred place. The inside of the cellar was dark, reeking of incense and beeswax. Gaius stepped over the threshold and stared around.
    The chamber was long and cavernous, a place of shifting shadows due to the candles in their translucent alabaster jars fixed in niches along the walls. The ceiling was high, ribbed by stout beams supporting the floor above. In the centre stretched a huge circle of sand sprinkled with gold dust and edged with polished bricks arranged in a dog’s-tooth fashion. Pots of incense displaying the Chi and Rho of the Christian faith were placed around the circle, the crackling charcoal sending up fragrant gusts of incense. The object of all this veneration hung on a stout chain from a rafter beam: the Holy Sword of the legionary who had executed St Paul. Around the stone-rimmed circle were prayer stools for the faithful to sit or kneel whenever they came to venerate the sacred relic.
    ‘Where’s Burrus?’ Gaius asked. Timothaeus had followed him in, but the German had stayed chattering to his companions outside.
    ‘He’s frightened,’ the steward whispered. ‘This is a sacred place. Burrus is frightened of the Christian angels.’ Gaius grunted and walked to the edge of the circle.
    The sword was an old legionary weapon, now replaced as standard issue by the long curved sword Gaius had used during his military career. He studied the relic with great interest. The hilt was of pure ivory, a sparkling ruby on the pommel; its blade, designed for stabbing, was two-edged, with a ridge down the centre, and had been polished so it shone like a mirror. Gaius could understand why the room had been chosen. The sword was on full display and you could walk right round it, but the smooth sand would betray any footprint, whilst the sword hung more than an