Queen of the Night

There was no need for any questions. The steward, standing behind her, whispered how both men had been brutally castrated, their throats cut and bellies slit; they had been found in the baths, floating in the water, which had now been drained off.
    'Like a butcher's yard,' he murmured. 'Blood everywhere. Such hideous deaths, mistress!'
    Claudia didn't reply, and the steward led her out. Once outside, she paused, closed her eyes and sighed deeply, drawing in the freshness and fragrance of the gardens.
    'I need to see Murranus,' she murmured. 'I need to see him now.'
    They returned to the villa. Murranus' chamber stood at the side of the house, overlooking one of the lawns; its shutters were open. Murranus lay stretched out on the cot bed, a linen sheet pulled up to his chin, his head resting on folded drapes. A physician with two attendants was dressing the wound on the side of the gladiator's head. Claudia pressed her hand against Murranus' cheek.
    'How is he?' she whispered.
    The physician's red-rimmed eyes held hers.
    'In no physical danger,' he replied. 'There are some bruises.' He pulled back the sheet.
    Claudia gasped. Murranus lay naked except for a loincloth. All along both his arms were angry welts and bruises, and the same on his belly and thighs. The physician pulled the sheet back up.
    'They're nothing,' he whispered, 'they'll soon fade. We must concentrate on this.' He turned Murranus' head slightly and Claudia glimpsed the wound and contusions; the gladiator's wiry red hair was stiffened with blood. 'This again is nothing.' The physician picked up a swab and gently pressed it against the wound. 'What I am concerned about is any injury within. If his skull is thick, then he is safe. He is still unconscious; we'll know possibly in the next hour or so. There is nothing you can do here.'
    Claudia leaned over the bed, kissed Murranus on the brow, lips and cheek, then left. She stood for a while in the passageway, as if fascinated by the mosaic on the wall celebrating the legend of Sleep, the Brother of Death, the Son of Night, who lived in a mysterious cave on the isle of Lemnos near the land of the fabulous Cimmerians. The artist had conjured all this up, conveying a dark, misty picture of the waters of Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, flowing through the cavern where Sleep stretched on a feather-soft couch surrounded by an infinite number of his sons, the Dreams. The entire painting had been executed in sombre colours with the occasional flash of brilliance, vivid spots like bursts of sunlight on a dark day. The painting reflected Claudia's own mood. In truth, she was confused. The news, the sights she had seen, had dulled her wits. She had difficulty concentrating on anything. Murranus was injured. Aurelian's son Alexander was murdered; would Murranus be blamed? Four servants had died, not to mention those two veterans. How could all this happen in or near this beautiful villa surrounded by open countryside? How could the abductors have known that Alexander was being escorted into Rome? That must have been where Murranus was taking him, perhaps to one of the gladiatorial schools, the exercise gyms or even the baths. Only Murranus would be able to tell her for certain.
    Claudia was about to return to the garden to sit and reflect when the villa was rent by more hideous screams and cries which drowned out the lamentations of mourning. She remained rooted to the spot as the heart-rending sounds echoed from the back of the house. Servants, slaves and freedmen, shocked from their own grief, hurried towards the fresh crisis. A short while later the steward returned, accompanied by Leartus; the expression on both their faces announced further tragedy.
    'It's General Aurelian,' Leartus gasped. 'He's been found dead of a stroke or heart attack. He'd retreated to the library to mourn. Come…'
    Claudia followed them along the exquisitely furnished galleries to the library. In the pool of light pouring through a window at the far end sprawled General Aurelian. Urbana and Cassia knelt close by, rocking themselves backwards and forwards, so distracted by their grief that neither woman protested as Claudia pushed through the servants standing helplessly by and crouched beside the General. His face was whiteish-blue, his eyes open, mouth gaping in all the horror of sudden death. Claudia glanced quickly around. She could see no wine cup, no food, nothing except a manuscript open on the table. Urbana was sobbing