Queen of the Night

quickly at Claudia, a calculated, cold-eyed stare, a sign that the Emperor, as usual, was acting the buffoon.
    Helena graciously greeted them all and, hugging Claudia close, kissed her on both cheeks. Claudia sensed the Augusta's excitement; her unpainted face was tense, her dark eyes watchful.
    'Be careful, little mouse,' she whispered, 'but the stage is now yours.'
    She drew away, hitching the silk-tasselled purple mantle around her shoulders, fingering the amethyst on its gold chain around her neck. She glanced around and, in mock anger, asked where the champion was. Constantine demanded the same. Polybius blustered that Murranus wanted to be well prepared and would their Excellencies like to go out into the garden? Constantine replied that their Excellencies would like nothing better. Claudia exchanged cool courtesies with the rest of the guests and followed them out. She was relieved when Murranus joined them. Constantine, seated at the centre of the couches arranged in a horseshoe, immediately began to question the gladiator about his victory in the arena.
    'There'll be more rewards for you, my boy!' he shouted, and promised the gladiator the cup he was drinking from, immediately apologising when Helena whispered loudly that it wasn't his to give.
    While the first courses were served and the wine cups filled, Murranus held the guests spellbound as he described his tactics.
    'I wanted them overconfident,' he declared, 'but above all I wanted them to separate. I guessed that some would not be as brave or as skilled as others. Once that happened, my chances improved.'
    Constantine, of course, interrupted with a spate of questions. The wine flowed, the guests were drinking copiously, and, judging the moment was ready, Claudia nodded to Polybius and held up her hand to speak.
    'Excellencies.' Claudia swung her feet off the makeshift couch. 'Let us sit in silence in the Frisian custom,' she ignored Murranus' questioning look, 'until our cups are filled, then let us toast our champion.'
    Constantine thought it was a splendid idea. Polybius, Poppaoe and Narcissus circled, filling goblets. Celades approached Leartus to serve him.
    'Larg na maiihV Celades asked in a loud voice.
    'Larg na maith malan,' Leartus replied without thinking – then froze.
    'What's that?' Constantine asked. 'I thought you said this should be done in silence?'
    Leartus stared owl-eyed across at Claudia.
    'Celades is a Pict,' Claudia declared. 'He just asked Leartus in his own tongue if his goblet should be filled with red or white wine. Leartus is supposed to be a Parthian, yet he understands the Pictish tongue, an astonishing achievement. What was his reply, Celades?'
    'I want red, please!' declared Celades, standing behind Leartus.
    'Celades,' Claudia continued conversationally, 'you told me earlier how the son of a Pictish chieftain has a sacred circle, a tattoo on his right thigh imprinted there just after his twelfth year.'
    'Yes, mistress.'
    'Leartus, modesty aside, show us the sacred mark.'
    'What is this?' Urbana shrilled. Cassia too became agitated, her hand going out to grasp Urbana's arm.
    I was correct, Claudia thought – you are both terrified because your guilt will soon be known.
    'Burrus,' Helena called into the darkness. The German stepped forward.
    'There is no need.' Leartus rose to his feet. He shrugged, undid his belt and opened his tunic.
    'Amongst our tribes,' Celades declared, 'the circle would be coloured in sacred paint.'
    Burrus brought across a torch and held it as close as he could. Claudia studied the tattoo engraved on Leartus' thigh.
    'Slightly faded, the skin puckered, but still clear to see.' She gestured dismissively with her hand. Leartus picked up his belt, wrapped it round himself and sat on the edge of the couch staring coolly across at her.
    'You are no Parthian!' Claudia accused. 'You made a mistake during the recent games,- carried away by excitement, you shouted "narifa", the Pictish word for victory – you repeated it twice. You, Leartus, are a Pict, a warrior, the son of a chieftain. Eighteen years ago your father included you as part of his war band. I will not repeat the details, everyone knows them. The band were massacred by a wing of Roman cavalry led by Stathylus. He captured your father and cruelly tortured him to death. Stathylus and his companions thought your father was the only survivor, but you also survived. You left your jewellery on another corpse and hid in the heather. Your father