The Curse of Babylon (5 page)

‘Because, dear Jeremy,’ I said, leaving slight gaps between my words, ‘Sophronius told me that, if I didn’t finish his report, he’d have you flogged to death for that customs officer he said you killed in London.’ I stopped his reply. ‘It’s a minor detail that I killed him as well as Sophronius. All that counts is that, since the Deacon couldn’t have his report, it was him or you. Can I have some thanks for choosing as I did?

‘As for storing the report, I trust you put it where I told you. It’ll be safe enough there.’ I looked out of the window again. I finished my wine and let out a long and subdued burp of happiness. If only wine jugs were made of glass, the world would look such a fine place through their bottoms.

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and made a supreme effort at rational thought. ‘Can I ask, Brother Aelric, why we need to store the report? Why not destroy it? No one would ever see it then.’

I put my jug down. It spared me the temptation of hitting him with it. ‘Can’t do that,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s a very fine piece of writing – yes,
very
fine: important source material for historians, and all that.’ I changed the subject. ‘But, Jeremy, you’ve taken my dictation in English. It really is time for you to climb down that ivy and run off to spread my news of today’s proceedings. You can start in the alehouse beside the western gate.’

Oh, shit! Someone was coming up the stairs. ‘Get under the bed,’ I whispered. ‘Try not to breathe.’

Of my three visitors, Ambrose was first through the door. ‘Oh, but it’s the greatest honour that ever was,’ he bawled. ‘To think our monastery’s been chosen above all others in the land.’ He staggered from the drink he’d been soaking up, and nearly fell over. He gave me a look of slow-witted confusion. ‘Why are you burning lamps this time of night?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you know the price of mutton fat?’

‘Sod off, Ambrose!’ I yawned. ‘And shut the door, and let me hear you go downstairs.’

I ignored Gebmund, who was looking utterly crushed, but smiled into the angry though scared face of young Aelfwine. ‘Greetings, My Lord Aelfwine,’ I said. ‘I take it you’re standing in for Cousin Swaefheard. I’ve heard ever so much about him in the months I’ve been stuck in his kingdom. Diplomacy isn’t one of his strengths. But I’m sure you can supply that in his place. Sorry we’re right out of anything to drink – not that I suppose this is a family get-together.’

Aelfwine sat on my bed. Was that a yelp I heard? ‘Why are you fucking us over, Aelric?’ he asked. ‘We’ve done nothing to you. Just confess to keep old Theodore happy. We’ll see you right about the penance. You are family, after all.’

I told my shaking fingers to behave and turned the lamp full up. Aelfwine had a face like thunder. I smiled again. I waved about the bare room. ‘Stop listening to silly old Theodore,’ I said, ‘and I’ll stop making you choose between a massacre of King Swaefheard’s loving subjects and having to explain to His Holiness in Rome why half of Canterbury is a pile of smouldering ashes.’

Gebmund found his voice ‘Brother Aelric – My Lord Alaric: whatever it most pleases you to be called,’ he cried in gentle panic. ‘It has been brought to His Majesty’s notice that you have information affecting the welfare of his kingdom. In the Church, or out of the Church, I really like to think of us all as one big happy family. We’ve come here in a spirit of loving concern to see how we can resolve any issues that might otherwise draw us into a more confrontational relationship. I – we . . .’ He trailed off and looked miserably at the floor.

I’d been wondering when I’d get the representatives of church and state suing for peace. There’s a time for subtle diplomacy, and a time for bluntness. Time, obviously, for the latter. ‘I can prove,’ I said, ‘that, behind his show of holiness, our late Cousin Sophronius was up to his neck in a scam that could get the two of you run out of Kent.’ I stopped and waited for Gebmund to take his hands from over his ears. ‘For the past three years, he paid regular visits from Rome to Canterbury. Each time, he selected seven of the prettiest boys he could find and promised their parents a life for them in one of the papal choirs. However, he was packing them off to Spain for castration and sale to dealers who’d then sell them on to the Saracens. Instead of singing chaste hymns of praise to Christ and the Virgin, those who didn’t die from the operation and of other causes have been performing lewd dances for the unbelievers, and having their mouths and bottoms used for various modes of sinful gratification.’

I stopped again and waited for the full horror to sink in. ‘I won’t claim that either of you knew about this, or that you were on the take. But it’s a sure thing that you never asked Sophronius for news of the boys he was rounding up. Equally for sure, none of the parents has ever heard from their little ones. I was thinking to blurt all this out in the first sitting of the inquiry. I hope you’ll agree that the submission I did make was far less unhelpful to your continued enjoyment of your cushy places in life.’

I’ll tell you now, Dear Reader, in strictest confidence, I wasn’t able to prove any of this. But I’d picked up a few stray facts from Jeremy’s nightly reports, and had put an easy two and two together. I think I’d made them into neither five nor three.

‘Have you told this to
anyone
?’ Aelfwine asked. He looked thoughtfully at the pillow on my bed.

‘No, my pretty young cousin,’ I said at once. ‘But, if you’re thinking to bump me off, it will inevitably spread once I’m not here to control the flow of information. So why don’t we agree, as members of one big happy family, on the findings and recommendations that Gebmund will announce in the next – and closing – session of his inquiry? And the less attention you both pay to Theodore from now on, the better I think it will be for all of us.’

I won’t bore you with how things continued. You can fill in the gaps for yourself.

I couldn’t know it, but Theodore had another seizure that night. According to what I got out of Wulfric, it came on about the same time as Aelfwine was sending Ambrose off in search of something for us to drink to happy families. You can’t fault his attention to duty, however. Soon after lunch the following day, he sent for me again.

Worn out from the excitements of my own life, I limped into the room and sat beside him. ‘Oh, this is awful, Theodore,’ I cried, feeling almost as saddened as I was trying to sound. ‘Not another one, and so soon after the last! If there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word. You’re all I have left from the old days. We’ve had our differences, I know. Perhaps I have myself not been wholly without fault in our dealings. But let’s put these behind us and try to think of the good things that remain in our lives.’

He opened his eyes. I thought for a moment he didn’t recognise me. But he was only gathering what he had left of his strength. ‘Gebmund came to see me this morning,’ he said faintly in Latin. ‘He explained that you’ve beaten me. You’ve always beaten me. You’ve always taken what was mine. You only let me win the Monothelite dispute when you no longer found it politically convenient to keep the Empire immured in the darkness of heresy. You have been the cloud that darkened my life.’

I snorted so loudly, I had to struggle with my teeth. Of all the passions, resentment is the most enduring. Love – even hatred – will often fade with time. Not so resentment. If his face hadn’t been twisted into a snarl that reminded me of dead Sophronius, I’d have felt sorry for him. As it was, I gave up on the mockery.

‘Theodore,’ I said, leaning forward and speaking into his ear, ‘you made yourself unhappy. Worse than that, you’ve spent a lifetime trying to make everyone else unhappy.’ I thought myself into the distant past. Yes, it was still in my head. I quoted:

O God of Love, who governs all

With unimagined power;

Who sets the autumn leaves to fall

And wither every flower
–

Dear Lord, this humble praise accept,

By us, Thy children, given,

And, in return, bless all – except

Who lack a place in Heaven.

Let in everlasting torments

Suffer, Lord, who give offence,

And us, Thy chosen instruments,

Give ever, Lord, thy preference.

‘You wrote that for me when you were twelve,’ I said. ‘There’s more of it, and it gets worse. I should have seen then what a rotter you’d turn out. Don’t blame me for the long shipwreck of your life. You chose your path. Don’t blame me if it didn’t lead to a bed of roses.’

‘You lie, Alaric!’ he sobbed. ‘I was happy till you took hold of me, and tempted me with the filthiness of your corruptions. I know you think you’ve beaten me. But you’ll see that I win at last.’

He closed his eyes for another rest. As ever, I thought he’d nodded off. But just as I was about to get up and leave, he came back to life. ‘Bring it here, Wulfric,’ he whispered in English. I perked up. This was interesting. I’d always assumed that what was lost in a seizure was destroyed. I now realised that the human mind was rather like a library. All that a seizure might do was to alter the catalogue – wiping, and sometimes restoring, entries and groups of entries.

I was still thinking that one over, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. It was Wulfric with a bag of something heavy. I took it from him, and stared at the elaborate knots securing it.

‘No, Alaric,’ Theodore urged. ‘Don’t look now. It’s a present for you. Call it a reminder from the old days when we were together.’ He tried to laugh. ‘Thanks to you, I’ve had not a single day of happiness since I was thirteen. Now it’s your turn to suffer. You know that you can’t give it back to me. The rules don’t allow that.’ He looked away from me and focused on the stained ceiling. ‘Leave me, Alaric. I won’t let you come here again. But enjoy the rest of your life. You deserve it.’ He did now manage to laugh – a grating, wheezing sound that shook even those parts of his body that no longer moved at his command.

One thing I’ve learned to recognise over the years is when I’m really not welcome. I was out of that room as quickly as I could put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t open the bag until Ambrose had locked me into my room.

And that’s the end of the story. I’m now in the Saint Anastasius Monastery. I can go where I will, when I will. Brother Ambrose died the night after I’d finally moved out of his care. Even at a distance of two hundred yards, and through several walls, he kept me awake with his dying shrieks. I didn’t attend the funeral. I’m told his replacement as clerical jailor is a man from Ireland who believes in reforming his charges though prayer and exercise.

But, as I write, I have the Horn of Babylon beside me on the table. It reminds me of an obligation freely assumed and still not discharged. I may have reached the end of the story I promised to tell you. I haven’t touched the beginning. If I’m to do that, it means going back further than I have – very much further. You can forget last Monday, when I started these jottings. You can forget the Monday before that, and many thousands of other Mondays before that one. You can also forget the decrepit old thing scribbling away on his many sheets of papyrus, a jug of red before him and a quarter opium pill dissolving in his belly. If I really want to explain what’s been happening these past few days, I’ll have to go back seventy-three years, to Monday the 28th April 615. Put Aelfwine beside me then, and no one would have had eyes for him.

Yes, the proper start is that petitioning Monday in Constantinople, so very long ago . . .

Chapter 5

The last owner of my palace had been unashamed in his taste for the violently obscene, and the mosaics of Tiberius on Capri could normally be trusted to keep me awake through the longest and dullest ceremony. But this wasn’t a normal day. With no one to keep them under control, the eunuchs were running wild. Without missing a step, the Master of the Timings came back to the same square on the patterned marble and bowed low before my chair. He let out a sigh that verged on a squeal of joy, and spun round to face the assembled mass of clients and petitioning agents. Then he brought his staff down three times. As the echo faded of the last crash, he drew breath, once more defying the fog of incense smoke.

‘
Let all be silent and hold his tongue
,’ he cried in mellifluous, if oddly accented, Latin, ‘
for His Magnificence the Lord Senator Alaric, beloved friend of Heraclius, our great and ever-triumphant Augustus
.’ I may have been the only man there who knew the old language of the Empire. Back in those days, however, there were still solemnities of utterance in Constantinople for which Greek just wouldn’t do. After a long and dramatic pause, he turned and bowed to me. From a high gallery behind me, one of his underlings rang a golden bell.