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Chaerea had accompanied the Empress on her journeys through Italy and around the Empire in her search for Christian relics. He was secretly amused by her quest; what did it matter about holy bones or sacred objects? The dead were dead, it was the living that mattered. Now he opened his eyes. The blackness was similar to that of the mines, no lamps, no lights; his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Two trackways stretched before him, one to the left, one curved sharply to the right. Chaerea knew the one on the left led deeper into the catacombs; that was where the Christians had hidden. He doubted the abductors would conceal themselves there, so he took the path to the right, eyes and ears straining, searching for any sign of danger. He could have stood upright and walked, but he knew that was dangerous, so he crawled like a dog, edging his way forward carefully. Now and again he would pass crumbling skeletons, desiccated corpses which had slipped out of their recesses in the wall to break, snap and crunch under his careful tread. He pushed aside skulls, hardened bones; these did not concern him. It was no different from the mines, where the dead were buried where they fell.
He must have crawled for about an hour, cutting and grazing his hands, arms and knees, when he sensed a change. The air had been hot and murky, reeking of dust, but he now became conscious that it was fresher, and that other odours, out of place, mingled here: the smell of a burning oil lamp, of hot fat, grease, even perfume. Chaerea crawled on. On one occasion he paused, one hand on a skull, the other on a crumbling rib cage. He had reached another place of the dead, some long-forgotten cemetery, but he was sure he'd heard something. Was it from above ground, the belllike howl of a dog? He felt sweat pricking the nape of his neck and let it run. He always shaved his head, blackening the skin of his face, arms and legs so no light would catch the glint of sweat. He drew himself up against the wall, one hand on the ledge of an opened tomb, and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Yes, those fresh smells were back: sweat, tallow candle, oil lamp, fat. People had been here recently, congregating close by. He followed the tu
Chaerea turned a corner and froze. Further on, deep in the tu
Chaerea crawled on. He was now moving from one patch of shadow to another. He passed a small hallway and looked in: nothing, but a torch burning. Then he smelled it, the smoke from a brazier, and he heard the sound of voices echoing eerily along the gallery. He paused, opened the sack he carried and took out the long stabbing dagger. He coated the shining blade with dust and grasped its wire-coiled handle. His body was now soaked in sweat. He had reached a crossroads when he heard a moan to his left. He crossed quickly, edging his way along the wall, and reached the corner of one of those chambers where priests or mourners used to celebrate the funeral feast. He edged round and looked quickly inside. A torch burned in the corner, and a figure huddled beneath it, head covered with sacking. He peered closer and heard the clink of chains and a faint moan. As he stood wondering what to do, a sound behind made him whirl round. A figure stood at the crossroads, in one hand a sword glinting in the poor light, in the other a heavy club. The sound of the dogs drew closer.
Chaerea had no choice; he leapt forward, driving hard with his dagger. The man ducked. Chaerea did not stay to continue the struggle but turned and fled back the way he'd come. He dropped his sack and, grasping only the dagger, ran wildly, tripping over shards of bone, pieces of pottery. Now there was no subterfuge, no skill, he simply had to reach the place where he had come in and escape. Sounds and shouts rang out behind, but what froze his blood was the long-drawn-out howl of the dog. He was being hunted! He stumbled blindly on, slipping and slithering, only to realise he had taken a wrong turning. Where was he? He paused and felt the wall – nothing! He moved his hand and felt a carving, and his fingers made out the shape of Anubis, the jackal-faced God of the Dead. He racked his memory. He must be in the passageway described as the Gallery of the Night, heading towards an entrance deep in the cemetery known as the Gates of Hell. He cursed. He'd made a dreadful mistake in dropping that sack; the dogs would use it for scent.
Chaerea raced on, memories flowing back about the mines, about that old witch cackling how he would die as she would, deep in the dark beneath the earth. He had always hoped that he would end his days with dignity, his friends grouped around him, his corpse embalmed, his feet towards the door, ready to be escorted with honour through the streets to be cremated, but that would not happen now. The air felt very hot, as if the Manes, the souls of the dead, had crossed back over that infernal river and were crowding around him. Chaerea paused, fighting for breath. The dogs were drawing closer. Eyes burning, mouth gasping, throat dry, he ran into a wall; he had made another wrong turn! He was lost! He turned. A pool of light was fast approaching, and Chaerea screamed at the sinister sight of the mastiffs loping towards him…
Claudia stood on the broken steps leading up to the crumbling Temple of Minerva, which stood off a square near the Coelian Gate. The wooden door of the temple was flaking, the columns on either side chipped, their plaster cracked. In the colo
'Happy the man who remains far from the world of business.' The harsh voice behind the mask quoted a line from the poet Horace.
'But who shall guard the guards?' Claudia replied with a famous verse from Juvenal.
'He'll be here soon,' the guttural voice retorted.
Claudia nodded, pushed open the door and walked into the long hall of the temple. It was a desperately shabby place. The pillars down each side were battered and chipped; the floor, once tiled, had been badly damaged by looters from the nearby tenement blocks. Nothing which could be removed remained, and the rest had been vandalised, the doors of the vestibule on either side of the sanctuary were badly scorched, whilst rats and vermin scurried in the shadows. Flies danced in the light pouring through the windows high in the wall. Claudia stood and looked round. Such places fascinated her; she was intrigued by the history of Rome. This place had once been a sanctuary of power thronged with worshippers, particularly the nearby fullers, who regarded it as a holy of holies, the shrine of Minerva, the patron goddess of their art. The shabby portico still displayed a battered chip carving of fullers trampling woollen cloth in a vat; above them floated an owl, the symbol of Minerva.