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Authors: Paul Doherty
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glad to be out of the sunlight. The villa had settled down for the afternoon rest, except for the Empress, who was prowling the corridors and passageways like a panther seeking its prey. The Holy Sword had gone, the blessed relic had disappeared.
Dionysius closed his eyes and shook his head. That stupid German had cried like a child whilst the Captain of the Guard, Gaius Tullius, trying to keep his face straight, had searched the villa and garden to no avail. Timothaeus the steward, white as a ghost, had quickly recovered, and at supper had told them all what had happened. How he had walked down to the Sacred Place to see the Holy Sword; how Burrus and he had unlocked the door and, as usual, the German had stayed outside to talk to his companions. Timothaeus remembered looking at the sand – it wasn’t disturbed – and only then, to his horror, did he notice that the sword was gone.
‘It was the chain,’ he whispered. ‘Just hanging down so straight and still. I fainted.’
Poor Timothaeus had collapsed half in, half out of the circle of sand. Burrus had looked in, seen what had happened and immediately fallen into a fit of hysterics. Gaius Tullius, roused from his nap in the peristyle garden, had taken charge. He and Dionysius had entered the cellar, but could find nothing disturbed except the edge of the sand where Timothaeus had fallen. They had removed the steward with the help of a slave from the House of Mourning. Gaius had checked he was breathing before returning to search the cellar, only to find nothing. Timothaeus was carried to his room and Gaius had set up his own enquiry. A number of facts emerged. First, Burrus and Timothaeus swore that no one could get into that room without both keys. Secondly, there was no sign of forced entry or secret tunnel. Thirdly, the chain hung empty but undamaged. Fourthly, the sand betrayed no sign of anyone standing on it. The disappearance of the relic was truly a mystery.
The Empress, of course, was outraged. According to reports, she’d slapped Burrus roundly for his hysterics and openly wondered if the two guards outside had been involved in the theft. They had been summoned, beaten and harangued by their imperial mistress, but they swore the most sacred oaths that they had done their duty and noticed nothing wrong. Empress Helena screamed that she would see them all crucified before flouncing off to her own bedchamber. In the end her anger cooled: the Holy Sword was gone and there was not a shred of information about how it had mysteriously disappeared. Justin, of course, wondered if their opponents had stolen it, spitefully pointing out that Athanasius, Aurelian, Septimus and other members of the orthodox party were all poor and would have envied the ivory and ruby.
Dionysius, muttering to himself, crouched down at the base of an apple tree, using it as a back rest. He stretched out his legs, savouring the shade, the cool grass and the soothing coos of the birds. ‘Justin should keep his mouth shut!’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Everyone admired the sword, anyone could be a suspect – and that includes that great hulk Burrus and his hairy Germans.’ Dionysius wanted Justin to shut up and not make a bad situation worse.
The philosopher wetted his lips and gazed at the circle of wild flowers arranged in vivid colours which caught the sun as it poured through gaps in the trees. Disagreements, he reflected, always led to worse. Dionysius had experienced enough horror in his life and tried not to frighten himself. He had been converted to Christianity in his teens. He’d debated the existence of angels and demons, yet his pagan upbringing also evoked the Manes, spirits of the dead, some of whom, because of the way they had died, came back to haunt the living and blight their lives. Dionysius returned to his reflections on death, only to be distracted by the prospect of the impending debate. He was no fool. He realised that Bishop Militiades and his assistant, the
Dionysius closed his eyes and shook his head. That stupid German had cried like a child whilst the Captain of the Guard, Gaius Tullius, trying to keep his face straight, had searched the villa and garden to no avail. Timothaeus the steward, white as a ghost, had quickly recovered, and at supper had told them all what had happened. How he had walked down to the Sacred Place to see the Holy Sword; how Burrus and he had unlocked the door and, as usual, the German had stayed outside to talk to his companions. Timothaeus remembered looking at the sand – it wasn’t disturbed – and only then, to his horror, did he notice that the sword was gone.
‘It was the chain,’ he whispered. ‘Just hanging down so straight and still. I fainted.’
Poor Timothaeus had collapsed half in, half out of the circle of sand. Burrus had looked in, seen what had happened and immediately fallen into a fit of hysterics. Gaius Tullius, roused from his nap in the peristyle garden, had taken charge. He and Dionysius had entered the cellar, but could find nothing disturbed except the edge of the sand where Timothaeus had fallen. They had removed the steward with the help of a slave from the House of Mourning. Gaius had checked he was breathing before returning to search the cellar, only to find nothing. Timothaeus was carried to his room and Gaius had set up his own enquiry. A number of facts emerged. First, Burrus and Timothaeus swore that no one could get into that room without both keys. Secondly, there was no sign of forced entry or secret tunnel. Thirdly, the chain hung empty but undamaged. Fourthly, the sand betrayed no sign of anyone standing on it. The disappearance of the relic was truly a mystery.
The Empress, of course, was outraged. According to reports, she’d slapped Burrus roundly for his hysterics and openly wondered if the two guards outside had been involved in the theft. They had been summoned, beaten and harangued by their imperial mistress, but they swore the most sacred oaths that they had done their duty and noticed nothing wrong. Empress Helena screamed that she would see them all crucified before flouncing off to her own bedchamber. In the end her anger cooled: the Holy Sword was gone and there was not a shred of information about how it had mysteriously disappeared. Justin, of course, wondered if their opponents had stolen it, spitefully pointing out that Athanasius, Aurelian, Septimus and other members of the orthodox party were all poor and would have envied the ivory and ruby.
Dionysius, muttering to himself, crouched down at the base of an apple tree, using it as a back rest. He stretched out his legs, savouring the shade, the cool grass and the soothing coos of the birds. ‘Justin should keep his mouth shut!’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Everyone admired the sword, anyone could be a suspect – and that includes that great hulk Burrus and his hairy Germans.’ Dionysius wanted Justin to shut up and not make a bad situation worse.
The philosopher wetted his lips and gazed at the circle of wild flowers arranged in vivid colours which caught the sun as it poured through gaps in the trees. Disagreements, he reflected, always led to worse. Dionysius had experienced enough horror in his life and tried not to frighten himself. He had been converted to Christianity in his teens. He’d debated the existence of angels and demons, yet his pagan upbringing also evoked the Manes, spirits of the dead, some of whom, because of the way they had died, came back to haunt the living and blight their lives. Dionysius returned to his reflections on death, only to be distracted by the prospect of the impending debate. He was no fool. He realised that Bishop Militiades and his assistant, the
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