Queen of the Night

distant sound of a trumpet; she whirled round and caught the glint of sunlight on armour on the trackway between the trees.
    'What is it?' Oceanus called.
    'The Empress,' Claudia replied. 'Helena in all her glory is coming to the villa.'
    'In which case,' Polybius declared, 'it's time we disappeared.'
    Claudia whirled round. 'What do you mean?'
    'Nothing.' Polybius stared innocently back. 'But that Pict you advised me to hire as a cook, he is proving to be an artist, Claudia. I must return to keep everything in order…'

    All the power of Rome arrived at General Aurelian's villa. Imperial palanquins, their carved wood gleaming a dark warm brown with gold edging and screened by heavy white drapes fringed with precious stones, brought Helena and Constantine to pay their respects to the dead general's widow. The Augusta and her son were accompanied by leading courtiers and administrators including Anastasius, Chrysis and even Presbyter Sylvester. The imperial guard, both foot and cavalry, also came, resplendent in their magnificent dress armour with sculptured breastplates, greaves, leather-studded kilts, scarlet cloaks and gloriously ornate, purple-crested helmets. They filled the courtyard and grounds of the villa, commandeering outhouses and stables, setting up tents and pavilions on lawns and in the fields beyond the wall, circling the villa with a ring of steel.
    Polybius, true to his word, collected his meagre possessions and, with Oceanus hurrying behind, fled the villa. Claudia slipped through the throng to visit Murranus. The servant watching over him declared he had regained full consciousness, but Casca had given him a potion to kill the pain and make him sleep. Claudia, satisfied that he was safe, retreated into the gardens. Burrus and his company had encamped in one of the orchards, where they were already sharing out provisions filched from the kitchens, sitting round a makeshift fire like a group of grunting boars. They rose to greet Claudia ecstatically, making a place for her, pushing a wooden platter heaped with spiced pork into her hands and coaxing her to drink from a wineskin. The Germans loved their food, using their fingers to push the piping-hot meat into their mouths. Burrus ate as fast as the rest, but kept a watchful eye on Claudia.
    'The Empress,' he muttered between mouthfuls, 'is like our war goddess Freya, full of fury, seething with anger, so be careful, little one.'
    Claudia heeded the warning. She kept to herself and managed to secure a small chamber above one of the outhouses. She glimpsed Helena from afar. The Empress' face was taut with smouldering anger as she proceeded from the atrium along the colonnaded peristyle, one hand holding a gold-edged black fan, the other resting on the arm of her square-faced, bulbous-eyed son, whose flaming red cheeks, slobbering lips and awkward gait proclaimed he had drunk deep. One glance was enough: the Empress was truly angry!
    Claudia kept to the shadows as imperial officials took over the preparations for the funerals of those killed. The intense heat of the late summer meant the obsequies had to take place that evening. Funeral pyres were built in the far corner of the villa grounds, six small ones around a soaring central altar for Aurelian and his son. The funeral procession formed in the central courtyard just after dark. Officers of the imperial court, in dress armour, carried torches, their flames dancing in the breeze. Singers and actors, hastily brought from Rome, began their dirge, a mournful, heart-chilling chant which echoed eerily through the dark. Incense, crushed sandalwood and flower petals soaked in perfume turned the air fragrant. A lone trumpet sounded, standards and pennants were raised and lowered and the procession left for the funeral pyres.
    The corpses of General Aurelian and Alexander lay on one broad, extravagantly furnished couch; the bodies of the other six on wooden pallets. To the strident clash of cymbals and the mournful sound of a fife, the procession wound its torchlit way around the funeral ground. Lady Urbana, supported by Cassia and Leartus, with Helena and Constantine as principal mourners, stood by the podium. Claudia stayed far at the back, sheltering under the outspread branches of a holm oak. Constantine himself delivered the panegyric from the makeshift rostrum, then, to the sound of lamentation, the pyres were sprinkled with wine and flowers and the dried brushwood at the bottom was fired with