Conspiracies of Rome (15 page)

    As we went, Lucius told me something about the gathering we had just left. They were all cousins or uncles or other relatives by blood or marriage. The Roman upper classes had always been a close group. Now, after generations without a new family to join the group, intermarriage and adoption had made them virtually a single family. Following the great wars and the attendant collapse, they were all variously hard up. Some survived on remittances sent from relatives in the East, others on the same papal charity as the ordinary Romans.

    Every so often, Lucius would stop and draw my attention to some building. Before it was gutted in a fire, this had been the town house of the Praetextatus family. This had once been the main police building, but was now a monastery. Here had once stood a golden statue of Theodosius. Here had been a temple of Minerva.

    It was the best guided tour I’ve ever had. Every building, every place of note, was illustrated with some anecdote to bring it to life. His family had been big in Rome since before Diocletian. This was his city, and he’d made sure to know it from the foundations up.

    We skirted the Forum, turning left. We passed the Basilica on our right. We came to the Colosseum, looming gigantic in the moonlight. I’d noticed the day before with Maximin that all the entrances were locked and rusted. But there was one little door I hadn’t seen.

    Lucius stopped before it. He turned to face me. ‘Look, I don’t know you, but I like you, and I think I can trust you. I want you to promise me that what you see tonight you won’t share with another living being. Can I have that promise?’

    ‘A hard promise to exact when I don’t have a clue what I’m to see,’ I said.

    ‘Then I’ll make you a promise,’ said Lucius. ‘Nothing you see here tonight will violate the natural law that all peoples have in common. You will see no harm done to any person or any legitimate interest. Will that do for you? If not, we have to part here. I’ll have some slaves take you back to your lodgings.’

    I’d probably have settled for less than that assurance. I hadn’t known Lucius longer than I’d needed for a few cups of wine to wear off. But something about him had captivated me as surely as if I’d known him since childhood. Some people require time to make you realise how special they are. I’d known Maximin for months before I made that realisation, and still it had taken months longer on the road with him before I understood exactly how remarkable he was and how greatly I revered him. It had taken a year for him to grow on me as friend and father and tutor. Lucius had managed all of that in a short conversational walk through Rome.

    Of course, I made him the promise he asked. With one necessary exception you’ll hear about in proper time, whatever I saw tonight wouldn’t be for another living being. If I were some cavilling lawyer, I might say I’m keeping the promise even now: were you alive on that night?

    He rapped gently on the door. ‘Basilius,’ he said.

    The door opened a little for a face to look out, and then noiselessly all the way. Someone in a hood beckoned us in. The door swung shut behind us.

    I stood a moment in darkness. Then my eyes adjusted. There was some light from a window high overhead. By this, I saw we were in some kind of entrance chamber. Over by the far wall, there was a staircase leading down. With the confidence of someone who knew his way, Lucius walked quickly down. The rest of us followed.

    We went through a tunnel perhaps fifty feet long. There was almost no light, but I had the impression of doors every so often on either side of us. There was a cold draught from an open doorway on my right that carried a blast of something long since dead. Then we came up a flight of steps, rounded a corner, and I found myself in the Great Arena of Flavius – a place for so many centuries the spiritual home of the Roman People.

    In those times, the Colosseum had been filled day after day with an immense multitude. There were the common people, bathed and in their best clothes. There were the senators, solemn in the white and purple robes of their status. There were the elegant ladies, dressed in coloured silks and chatting excitedly. Overhead on hot days was a great awning to keep off the full rays of the sun. Presiding over all from his high box, watching all and being seen by all, was the emperor, clothed in deepest purple.

    I don’t know the purpose of the little door we had used, but the iron gates of the main entrances were still there, now rusted shut. I stood in the arena, looking around. Once, the roar of the crowd would have been terrifying, as an endless procession of criminals, prisoners of war, Christians and the gladiators were moved into that place to entertain with their offerings of blood and death. Now, the moon shone brilliant on the pale, silent benches.

    The games, I later discovered, had never got over Constantine’s adoption of the Faith. When he rebuilt Constantinople as his New Rome, he’d permitted neither pagan temples nor an amphitheatre. Instead, he and his successors had contented themselves with an immense circus for chariot racing, which had soon come to give as much excitement as the old games, though without the same unwilling blood, except when it came to public executions.

    In Rome, things had continued much as before, though under noble patronage. At last, about a hundred years after the switch to Christianity, some Eastern monk – Telemachus, his name – had run into the arena during a particularly bloody contest, trying to part the gladiators. The outraged mob stoned him to death and insisted that the games should continue. But the emperor was got at by his priests and banned the games.

    For some while after, the Colosseum was used for wild beast hunts and executions. But then the money ran out and the doors were locked shut. Since then, the place had stood empty like the other main public buildings. Those that hadn’t yet fallen down or been destroyed were subject to further orders – from the prefect, or the exarch, or the emperor himself. In most cases, orders had never come.

    And so the Colosseum stood in empty silence. Every so often, someone bribed a permit out of the prefect to take away materials for building. But the sands of the arena had for generations before my visit been unstained by human blood.

    While a little cloud obscured the moon, I heard a shuffling far across the sands. As the cloud passed, I saw a dark procession approaching us in the still night air. Perhaps five men were coming towards us. They were dressed from their hoods down in black. Behind them, slaves carried a small brazier heaped with glowing coals. Behind them came some black animal led with a chain that shone silver in the moonlight.

    ‘O Basilius, my lord, you are come at last to this place of silent magic. You are come to commune with the God and to seek what the future may hold for you. The sacrifice is prepared for your performing. Make ready for the solemn compact with the Ancient One who was before we became. Make ready.’

    It was the first of the hooded procession who spoke in a deep, resonant voice. It filled that vast stone valley with its volume. The brazier was set down in the centre of the arena. Beside it was placed a wooden table and chairs. Beyond this, a black stone cube of about three feet was already standing.

    As Lucius stepped forward, a slave met him with a bowl of water and black cloths. He bowed his head, looking away, as Lucius washed his hands with slow, deliberate movements. Lucius shook his head as the slave looked quizzically at me.

    ‘This time, he is here only to observe,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps next time.’

    Lucius fell silent, stood still beside the stone. The others started a slow, rhythmical chant:

O God immortal, to whom

Is the Empire of Life and Death,

And the Realm of Silent Shades,

And all the places covered by night –

Make unto us, your servants,

Visible what is dark,

Showing what is now,

And what once was,

And what is yet to become.

This offering we make to you,

That you may give to us.

Accept, accept, O God Immortal,

And give unto us in return.

As the chanting died away, the hooded priest cried three times for silence. ‘
Procul, O procul, este profani
’ he added. ‘Away, away, be all unclean.’

    Lucius moved to face the stone altar with the east before him, his arms stretched out. His lips moved in silent prayer. I strained to hear what he might be asking, but his lips moved without a voice.

    As he finished and his arms came down beside him, what I now saw was a goat with a perfectly black hide was brought forward. Water was dribbled on its head, as in a baptism.

    ‘See,’ the hooded priest intoned, ‘the beast is unafraid. All is ready according to ancient custom.’

    Lucius covered his head with a fold of his cloak. He took the goat by its chain. Slaves lifted it with practised ease onto the altar before him. The hooded man uncovered a knife that had been carried by one of the others. He held it up in the moonlight. It had no glint. Lucius took the knife in his right hand. Holding the goat with his left hand, he drew the knife with a single motion, and stepped quickly back as the animal sank twitching onto the block. I saw no blood, but heard it gushing onto the altar.

    ‘The Lord has given a clean death,’ the hooded priest spoke again. ‘The beast has moved without sense of motion into the realms of darkness. It is as ancient custom requires.’ He took out another knife and slit open the goat’s belly, drawing out its entrails. He examined these by the light of a small lantern.

    ‘O Noble Basilius, great seed of ancient greatness,’ he intoned, ‘you have asked for what you would have, and the God has granted all that you ask. Behold, the liver is unspotted. The entrails are pure throughout. Your sacrifice is accepted. Let the God give all that you ask in the manner of His choosing. His will shall prevail!’

    Lucius placed his hands on the now-still goat and drew them away, black in the moonlight. He prayed silently again for a short while, then nodded.

    The animal was skinned, its hide and entrails thrown on the fire, which now burned black. There was a sprinkling of oil and wine on the altar. Wine was spilled onto the ground with another brief invocation. The rest of the goat was cut into strips and roasted on the clear part of the coals. We all sat together round the table, now set with bread and wine, and waited for our share to be cooked. Slaves and free sat mingled together, drinking the same wine.

    And that was it. I had attended my first pagan sacrifice.

    It was obvious at the time we had done something illegal. If this sort of thing got the priests in Kent in a regular sweat, there seemed no saying what they would think of seeing it done in Rome, barely a mile from the Lateran. I later learnt that it carried the same penalties as treason – that is, the punishment could be really unpleasant. I once saw a high government official in Constantinople ripped apart by hyenas in the Circus – and he had only consulted an old oracle outside the city gates. We had performed a nocturnal sacrifice in full, if undiscriminating, semblance of the ancient custom. No wonder it had all been so furtive.

    ‘Surely, the Ancient Gods have no power in the modern age?’ I asked the priest diplomatically. He sat beside me at the table, now unhooded. His narrow face and thin white beard went strangely with his deep voice. I could have questioned their existence, but thought that might not be in the best taste, given the circumstances.

    ‘The Ancient Gods are not dead,’ he answered. ‘They merely sleep in stones and in the quiet places, ready to be called forth by sacrifice of blood.’

    ‘And the Almighty God of the Churches,’ I asked, ‘whose priests have conquered the world – what of Him?’

    The priest frowned, pouring out more wine for himself. ‘The Galileans worship nothing more than the tribal God of the Jews. They have raised him above his proper status, and in his triumph the world has grown old.

    ‘In former ages, the smoke of sacrifice rose above every temple. Every God and every Goddess would have its proper worship. Then, the beasts of sacrifice were brought in full daylight, with sound of flutes and cymbals. Women and little children would join the joyous procession. There would be games and readings of poetry. Beautiful works of art would be raised in celebration of the gifts showered upon us by the Gods. In those days, the arms of Rome were triumphant everywhere, from the furthermost limits of the world to the shores of the Indian Ocean. Then the Galilean worship took hold – first among the slaves and the rabble of every city, then among the women of the higher classes, then at last on the emperor himself. Since Constantine disestablished the ancient worship, all has gone ill. Our cities are empty. Barbarians have taken our lands. The Persian is upon the East.