‘Constantine, you have been drinking, too many late nights with your officers.’

He glanced up sharply as the roar of the crowd subsided. He saw the reason why: the fallen gladiator had made the most of the respite and was now rolling away from his opponent, who had been caught off guard. He’d thought the net man was finished and had been staring at the imperial box. Now the net man was back on his feet and the mob became absorbed as the fierce struggle was renewed.

‘Priests,’ Constantine whispered hoarsely.

‘What about them?’ Helena was now all attention. She didn’t care any more if Constantine ignored the crowd.

‘Christian priests,’ Constantine grated. ‘They are at it again, Mother. The Christians are fighting over matters of obscure doctrine.’

‘Mere words!’ Helena scoffed.

‘There was a riot at Ostia,’ Constantine declared, ‘between the adherents of two sects. Apparently they are fighting over the substance of God. Is Jesus Christ, who became man, of the same substance as, and equal to, God the Father?’ Constantine’s stubby fingers scratched at the sweat on his face. ‘They want me to resolve the matter, yet I don’t understand a bloody word of it. Perhaps we should get the silly bastards to fight it out in the arena.’

‘Constantine!’

‘My apologies, Mother.’

‘Don’t drink too much.’

‘Of course not, Mother.’

Constantine sighed, turned away and stretched out his cup for a page to fill with purple wine.

Helena shook her head and gazed out across the arena. The awning, caught by a breeze, flapped and ruffled. Helena stared at the crowd. This was the Empire. In the lower tiers of the amphitheatre, separated by walls from the rest, sat the white-garbed aristocracy, and above them the dark tunics of the lower sort, with the poor of the slums at the very top. They’re the problem, Helena reflected, picking up her fan and shaking it vigorously, the tens upon tens of thousands of poor in Rome and all the great cities of the Empire. How were they to be united, bound together? Worship of the Emperor? Yet there’d been civil war for decades. Christianity? Helena smiled.

The new faith was now emerging from the catacombs of Rome with its revolutionary radical teaching that God had become man, been crucified and risen from the dead. Christ brought a new message that all men were equal. Eternal life was promised to everyone, even a slave, if he or she followed the teaching of the Crucified One. What other faith promised that? Former Emperors had viewed Christianity as a threat and persecuted it vigorously. Constantine had changed all that. An ambitious general, he had brought his legions from Britain to challenge the old Emperor, Maxentius, and had defeated him at the battle of the Milvian Bridge. That was where it had all begun!

Helena fanned herself vigorously. She had always wondered at the truth behind the story. She’d pestered her son to tell her, time and again, what had truly happened. Constantine was a sun worshipper, if he believed in anything. Nevertheless, before that fateful battle, he had dreamed that Christ had appeared to him and ordered him to have his soldiers wear the Chi and Rho symbols on their shields, the first two letters in Greek of ‘Christos’, the Anointed One, Jesus of Nazareth. The next day Constantine had had another vision, of a cross, black against a fiery sun, underneath it the words ‘In this sign you will conquer’. Had he really seen a vision, or was it just his fanciful imagination? Constantine could act the rough soldier, be as coarse as a mule, yet he was also a dreamer. As a boy he would have fits, become withdrawn, as if staring at something Helena couldn’t see.

Helena snapped the fan shut. The vision had been true! Her son had been proclaimed Emperor of the West, Master of Rome. He had exterminated his opponents. One day he would march east, bring that drunken ninny Licinius to battle, utterly destroy him and proclaim himself ‘Imperator totius mundi’, Emperor of the entire world.

For all his visions, Constantine had not ostensibly changed: he still acted the foul-mouthed, sweaty soldier, who gulped his wine, ate too much and liked to slap the bottoms of courtesans. Nevertheless, in his own way he had changed, become more dependent on Helena. Once his legions had swept into Rome, she and Anastasius had been given charge of the ‘Agentes in Rebus’, that horde of spies and secret agents which the Empire controlled both within and beyond its borders. Helena had seized the reins of power, determined to strengthen her son’s rule, eager to reach an understanding with the powerful Christian faith. If she could control that, she could control the mob. She had opened secret talks with Militiades, the Christian leader in Rome, and with his lieutenant, the silver-haired, golden-tongued priest Sylvester. Perhaps, in time, the Empire could reach accommodation with this radical faith.

‘Mother, Mother.’ Constantine leaned across, shaking her arm. ‘Mother, you mustn’t go to sleep.’

‘I’m not sleeping,’ she snapped. ‘I’m looking forward to leaving this flea-ridden heat. I want to get out of Rome.’ She glared at her son. ‘We should move soon. .’

‘Ah, the Villa Pulchra,’ Constantine teased. ‘The beautiful villa, cooled by the hill breezes. Don’t worry, Mother, we’ll be there soon.’ He winked. ‘And you can bring all your friends with you.’

Helena knew to whom he was referring. Constantine had granted toleration to the Christians, but now the new faith had produced problems of its own. Helena ground her teeth. Problems, there were always problems.

‘Mother, look.’ Constantine was determined to tease Helena. ‘The fighting is coming to an end.’

The blond Retiarius in his red and silver-fringed kilt had not been fortunate. Dressed in his white padded leg armour, similar padding protecting his left arm, the shoulder above covered by a gleaming bronze plate, he was trying to bring the fight to an abrupt end. He had taken his net, fastened to his left arm, and flung it in a widening arc. Equipped with weights on the rim, the two-yard net should have trapped his opponent, a Thracian, who was garbed in heavy armour, on his head a visored helmet with a red and yellow horse-hair plume. But the Thracian had been faster. Wary of the net and the speed of his lighter-armed opponent, he had kept shuffling back so that when the net came stretching out he caught it on his rounded shield and tried to pull his opponent on to his pointed sword. The Retiarius quickly dropped his trident, drew the knife from his embroidered belt and cut himself free. Then he picked up the trident in both hands, retreating up against the podium wall. The Thracian followed, feet kicking up the golden sand. The net man was finished; he was now trapped. The crowd roared for the fight to be brought to an end but the Thracian remained cautious. The heat was intense. Neither man had drunk for hours, and the net man was bleeding profusely, losing his strength. The Retiarius panicked. He could feel himself weakening and lunged, aiming his weapon at the Thracian’s chest. The Thracian knocked it aside with such force the trident was sent spinning, then thrust his sword deep into the net man’s neck. The fight was over. The net man slumped to the sand, blood pumping from his wounds. This time the Thracian wanted to make sure. He stood over his opponent whilst the mob roared.

‘Hoc habet! Hoc habet!’ Let him have it!

The Thracian knew the rules; he was a gladiator not a butcher. He watched the life-light fade from his opponent’s eyes, his body jerk in the final death throes, before lifting his sword and shield to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Elated, the Thracian did a lap of honour, every so often stopping to raise his weapons, revelling in the coins and flowers being showered upon him.

The iron-barred gates to the tunnels beneath the podium were opened and a ghastly figure emerged wearing the terracotta mask of Lord Charon, the Ferryman of the Dead. He was escorted by another attendant dressed as Mercury, the Shepherd of Souls. While the Thracian received the acclamation of the mob, these two ghoulish figures approached the dead gladiator. Mercury carried a red-hot iron bar, with which he prodded the fallen man to ensure he was dead, whilst Charon struck the prostrate figure on the head with his mallet to proclaim ownership and confirm death. A group of stretcher-bearers hastened on, and while the victor surrendered his weapons to the Lanista, his manager, his dead opponent was dragged off. His body would be stripped, whatever blood was wiped off would be drained into containers and sold as a cure for epilepsy, and the rest of his mangled remains would either be tossed into some obscure grave or hacked up as food for the wild animals.