Conspiracies of Rome (16 page)

    ‘The Galileans cannot even agree among themselves. The Ancient Gods were never jealous. Each had his proper place, and never complained if another had finer temples or a more numerous worship. Now, the supposed One God has many cults, and the various devotees hate each other more than they hate the barbarians and the Persians, with whom they make common cause as the mood takes them.’ The priest finished and turned back for a second helping of meat.

    ‘And the Gods are with us yet.’ One of the priest’s deputies now spoke, a fanatical gleam in his eye. ‘Did you not feel the God’s presence as we called Him forth?’

    Of course I hadn’t. Before, during and after the sacrifice, all around had been the same so far as I was concerned. It was a fine spring night – but just like any other. Nevertheless, I’d had enough experience of Church miracles not to go stating the obvious. So I slightly changed the subject, asking which of the Gods had been invoked.

    ‘His name is not to be mentioned,’ the priest replied. ‘There are words and names that are only to be whispered, even among the initiated.’

    ‘But, my dear boy,’ Lucius broke in, ‘did your priests ever serve such an excellent meal after one of their interminable, corpse-worshipping services? I think not.’ He grinned, all solemnity gone, and began a scandalous story about some deacon who had been found dead of a stroke in a brothel, dressed in nothing but a slave collar and a bag over his head. To keep the story even reasonably quiet, the dispensator had been required to buy all the whores out of slavery and then get them forgiveness for all the sins they had committed and might again in future commit. I nearly choked on a piece of bread as he pranced around doing a perfect imitation of the dispensator’s pompous manner – the dispensator turned out, by the way, to be yet another of his relatives.

    Good food, excellent wine, the moon high overhead, the air still, the slight chill of the night banished by the coals of the brazier, and excellent conversation from Lucius, and much of interest from the other diners – this was everything the other dinner hadn’t been.

    Afterwards, Lucius took me on a tour of the Colosseum. The gates to the upper reaches were locked and rusted shut, so the imperial box and the better seats were off limits. I was told there was a network of tunnels underneath the arena, where the animals and human victims had waited their turn in the open. This too was barred to us. But we had free run of the lower galleries and arcades, where there had once been shops and brothels and offices and rooms for private entertainment.

    By one of the main processional gates to the arena, Lucius stopped and pointed to a slab of stone fixed to the wall. It commemorated the charity of one Decius Marius Venantius Basilius, ‘
Praefectus Urbanus, Patricius, Consul Ordinarius
’. After some earthquake had damaged the arena and podium, he had paid for repairs out of his own pocket. To this benefactor of the public – if not, perhaps, of the performers – Lucius was great-great-grandson.

    ‘My family had money in those days,’ he said. ‘We could pay for repairs to this place as easily as I now pay the bill in a wine shop. We had estates in Italy and Sicily and Africa, as well as in the East.’

    ‘What happened?’ I asked.

    ‘All we had in Italy was taken by the Lombards. In Africa, the desert took everything more slowly, but just as surely. My grandfather left what we had in Sicily to the Church – he was a regular Galilean, you see. As for the East, my mother’s family lost that just recently to that lowlife bastard Phocas. I am left with a house in Rome I can’t afford to run, and a few blocks of tenements that haven’t yet fallen down.’ He shrugged and smiled in the dim light. ‘But the future is bright. I have brains. I have luck. I have the blessing of the Gods, for what that may be worth. And I glory in the friends I seem to make everywhere.

    ‘You, of course, are the latest.’

    I looked at the inscription. Lucius seemed greatly proud of it. But it was clearly a wretched thing. The letters were of uneven height. The word form ‘
sumptu
’ – from ‘
sumptus
’, meaning ‘expense’ – was misspelled as ‘
sumpu
’, though might this not be an indication to actual pronunciation in the past? I wondered vaguely at the time. So the money had still been there for this Basilius: there was, even so, a decline in the things on which it could be spent.

    We moved on, and Lucius told me about his rejection of the Faith. It had happened when he was fifteen. He’d spent a summer on the family estates in Sicily. Some villagers there still worshipped as their ancestors had since time immemorial.

    ‘I looked at this sweet communion with the natural world. I looked at the ghastly worship of body parts and the meaningless words of the
Credo
. What more could I do but embrace the Truth?’ he asked.

    We stood together by a little iron gate that led down to the lower chambers. We looked across the arena. The moon was setting. The coals were dying down. The priest and his assistants were clearing away the remains of the sacrifice. The eastern sky would soon be fringed with pink.

    ‘What are you doing for dinner tomorrow?’ Lucius asked as we prepared to leave. ‘I did, after all, intend to have you to myself then.’

    I said that was for Maximin to decide, but I’d do my best. I liked Lucius. He might be as superstitious in his own way as the priests he despised. His superstition might be a failed one. But he was an engaging companion. And – I’ll confess – I was flattered to be treated as an equal by the closest I’d ever seen to the noble Romans of old.

    I, you must always bear in mind, was also of noble blood. Ethelbert might have taken the lands. We might have fallen on hard times. But the blood was still there. No one could take that from us.

    So Lucius and I were equals. But it was nice to be treated as an equal.

16

‘We haven’t been in Rome two days,’ Maximin shouted, ‘and already you’re out all night – drinking, whoring and gambling, I’ve no doubt.’

    He was angry. No, he was furious. I hadn’t seen him so lose control before. His face was red. His hands shook. He walked restlessly up and down in my public room. Martin sat quietly, looking at the wall. He looked embarrassed – yet also still frightened.

    ‘I haven’t made a big point of this – though it’s in my full report – but you came here to seek penance for your existing sins, not to commit fresh ones.’ He went to a detailed recitation of what I’d been up to in Canterbury. Martin heard it all.

    I tried to explain that I’d been in perfectly safe company. But I couldn’t think of anything convincing to say that wasn’t other than an admission of what he’d accused me of doing, or a confession of truth that might kill him from shock.

    He calmed down a little. ‘Listen, my son, you may think I want you to live like a monk. I don’t. But I must warn you – Rome is a dangerous city. You know we’re being followed everywhere. You know our rooms have been searched. Don’t you ask yourself why?’ He didn’t pause for an answer, but continued, ‘There are things here that you can’t begin to understand – wickedness upon wickedness upon wickedness. It is the home of our Holy Mother Church. Before then, it was the home of all vileness and sin, and this is with it still. Rome is evil. Rome is dangerous. I want us out of here in the time given by the prefect. Between now and then, I don’t want you to go out alone.’

    I tried to tell him about my walk though the city with Lucius, and how safe we’d been. Maximin wasn’t interested.

    ‘The dangers of which I speak are not to be repelled by a few armed slaves. There are evils outside this house that will swallow you whole. I don’t want you ever to go out alone at night again. You go with me. You go with Martin. Or you stay in this house.’

    The lecture was over. Maximin went back to his big speech. I slunk off to bed, wondering what he could have meant by his ‘full report’ – hadn’t he given that the day before? How many of these meetings were there to be?

    Martin had disappeared. Slaves can always make themselves scarce when they need to. Gretel was nowhere to be seen. In any event, I was shattered. I’d felt quite full of myself as I threw stones over the outer gate of the house to get the attention of Marcella’s watchman. I’d felt good groping my way upstairs. Then I’d tripped over Maximin’s boots, put out for cleaning, and his door had flown open. Now, all I wanted was to get some sleep. I pulled up the bedclothes, barely noticing how some smell of Gretel still clung to them.

When I woke, the sun was pouring into the room. No one had disturbed me, and I’d lost much of the morning. Previous lack of sleep and a bellyful of wine had given me a ferocious headache. I looked out into the corridor and stopped a slave. Soon, a couple of them were carrying water up for a bath.

    I eased myself into the cold water. It did seem colder than at Richborough. But cleanliness has a price that must usually be paid. After a while, I got used to the chill, and sat there scrubbing myself. And I began to feel more human. I started to think of Edwina – not the Edwina of untutored passion, but an Edwina who knew all the wicked things Gretel had introduced me to the night before last. That really perked me up.

    Better still, as I was drying myself, there was a knock at the door. The tailors had finished some of the clothes I had ordered. Some things still needed a few touches to be perfect. But the suit of blue I’d ordered fitted exactly. It was in the mixed Roman and barbarian style then the fashion in Italy – both trousers and tunic. I’d specified it should follow the shape of my body without being tight.

    The tailors had done an excellent job. I looked down at my reflection in the bath water and loved what I saw.

    I went downstairs and showed myself to Marcella and the slaves. They agreed. I saw Gretel’s mouth fall open with wonder and with lust. That night, I’d not disappoint either of us, I told myself. Marcella was so pleased she had me go out into the street to show off to the neighbours and passers-by what manner of guests she was able to attract. Sure enough, every head turned as I walked up and down in the hot Roman sun. This was our first hot day in Italy. Until then, the days had been like the best days of a Kentish summer. Now the sun burned with a wondrously pleasing heat.

    I thought I could order a little cap to go with the suit: it would really set off those golden curls. Or would it? I was considering whether to imitate Lucius and have it all cut short but for a fringe. It was a very neat style. And it was the fashion. On the other hand, those curls were part of my charm. I pondered the question as others in the street nodded and smiled at me.

    As we prepared for an early lunch, Maximin seemed a little recovered from the morning. He glanced at the fine clothing and grunted, making no comment otherwise. He was at his writing table, looking up a reference in one of Marcella’s books. He closed this, marking his place with a piece of scrap. He looked at me and sighed.

    ‘It is your intention, I take it, to visit
one
of the libraries today?’

    ‘Oh yes,’ said I brightly, still thinking about caps. ‘I asked Martin yesterday to find some copying secretaries. We’ll soon be turning out as many books for Canterbury as we can ship there.’

    As we were about to go downstairs, a messenger was shown in. He was the monkish clerk we’d seen yesterday. The dispensator was calling Maximin to an unscheduled meeting in his office.

    ‘At your earliest convenience,’ the clerk emphasised.

    Maximin looked unusually troubled as we ate lunch. Silent, he ate little, instead drinking much.

    ‘Shall we go together down to the Lateran?’ I asked.

    Maximin gave me a bleary look. ‘I don’t think you have time for waiting around any longer,’ he said with a glance at my white boots. ‘You’d better get moving. I’ll follow you down to the Lateran when I’ve sorted some papers.’

Down at the Lateran, Martin had indeed found and assembled the copying secretaries. There were twenty of them. There was little demand for their services in Rome, and so we had got the hire of them all for much less than the bill that would follow from the tailor.

    I think they had been there much of the day when I finally arrived. All solid, respectable slaves in early middle age, they had the inky hands and crabbed posture of their occupation. All rose to greet me as I was shown into the room. Good slaves never show impatience or disappointment. I might have kept them waiting all day and all night before seeing them: still they’d have stood before me with the same polite looks.