Conspiracies of Rome Read online

  I walked, it seemed forever, through the sometimes crowded, sometimes dead, streets of Rome. I stopped at last by one of the crumbling embankments of the Tiber. I sat down on a stone bench and looked across to the far side.

  You could see that there had once been elegant gardens there – trees and shrubs brought in from the limits of the known world, carefully arranged paths, little grottoes, and so on. But nature had long since reclaimed the site, and I looked over at a jumble of local and exotic foliage that seemed to owe nothing to human action. The vividness of the flowers aside – and that glorious Italian light that even I, in my present frame of mind, couldn’t wholly ignore – it reminded me a little of the forests back home in Kent.

  Down by the river, slave women and the poor did their washing. Some children ran in and out of the water. Their faint cries of joy floated up to me on the still, warm air. These joined the louder chattering of the birds across the river. Closer by, the respectable classes of Rome went about their business – exchanging gossip, doing business, getting up an appetite for lunch. I sat watching in the bright, hot sunshine of a late Roman spring day. Everything was surprisingly normal.

  I tried again to gather my thoughts. The dispensator was right. We had blundered outside Populonium into something bigger than we could understand. There was something going on there that had involved using the mercenaries for an exchange of letters and precious things. What was being given in return? I couldn’t imagine. The mercenaries had been finished off by the prefect’s men. But the matter had followed us to Rome. We had been followed. Our rooms had been searched. Whoever was after us had been willing to take any risk to get those letters back. Finally, Maximin had remembered and read them. But he hadn’t told me their contents. Instead, he’d been somehow lured out at night and murdered.

  Why had he delayed so long after the summons to the dispensator? I didn’t know. I did know he’d been kept from obeying the second summons by the murder of the monkish clerk. It was reasonable to suppose the letters had then been taken from him when he was killed.

  What did the prefect know about this? Probably nothing more than he’d revealed that morning. What did the dispensator know? Certainly much more than he was inclined to tell me. Were they working together to get the letters back? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Where did One-Eye fit into all this? What had he been looking for in Populonium? He must have known about the two men I’d killed – after all, he’d alluded to them. Or did he know I’d killed them, or even that they were dead? Where had he been when he came galloping back along the road towards us? What connection had he with the mercenaries? I didn’t see how he could have passed us on the road and then had time to alert them before they came after us. But he’d been the one who had searched our rooms.

  The little scraps of information were jumbled together in my head, and I couldn’t see my way to fitting them into any satisfactory order. We had blundered into something odd. We had now been ejected from it. I was reminded of a summer storm that bursts into a clear sky, leaves a trail of sudden devastation, and then disappears, leaving the sky clear again. Only this storm had killed Maximin.

  Do you think I should have been racing about Rome, looking for his killers? Had I known where to begin, I’d have been racing there even now. But I had nowhere to begin. It’s one thing to swear vengeance in a city like Rome. It’s another thing to know how and where to exact it.

  So I sat on that bench, watching the bright normality of a spring day in Rome and feeling so empty of emotion that I could hardly recognise my own mind. I hadn’t until then realised what a large part of my life Maximin had come to fill. Every few moments I had to check myself from thinking I should tell Maximin about the shops, or Maximin about the happy children, or Maximin about the strange colours in the old garden across the river. He was gone, I thought yet again, and I was left in this huge, evil city, alone and poised between savage despair and a vast emptiness of misery that I hadn’t felt even after my mother died.

  Until the day before, I’d blessed that evening when Maximin had refused my suggestion to sleep over in the ruined monastery. From that decision, everything flowed as logically as the plot of one of those Greek tragedies I’d read in translation. Because of that, we met the two bandits. Because of that, we learnt about the relic and the gold. Because of that, we arrived in Rome not one up from the beggars in the street, but men of means and reputation.

  Now, I cursed that decision. If only I’d insisted on staying put, Maximin would still be alive. And I could have insisted. Maximin had come to take my firm advice in such things. Oh, it was his idea to get the relic back. But without the gold as well, I’d soon have talked him out of that. Without the relic, I knew I’d still have talked him into getting the gold. There was no symmetry in the mutual encouragement. And if only I’d paid more attention to his troubled state of mind the previous morning . . .

  If only, if only. And now he was stiff and cold and surrounded by onions and cured hams. Worse, he was about to be taken away from me and pickled for use by the Church even after his death. However I looked at the matter, it all seemed to be my fault – my irresolution, my greed, my vanity. And now Maximin was dead, and I was all alone in the world.

  My thoughts went in circles. At last, I closed my eyes. I only meant to do so to rest them from the brightness of the sun. But it was as if I’d thrown myself backwards into a dark ravine. I sank into the blackness.

  I did dream. But my dreams were mostly of the faint and disconnected sort that you can never remember on waking. My mother was there, and the rats from the streets, and the sacrifice in the Colosseum. One-Eye came and went. I didn’t see Maximin. But I felt his presence in all the varied images that flitted through my head. It was a presence half comforting, half sad. He was still with me, but was powerless to help in anything I might now attempt.

  One dream I did recall on waking. In this, the figures came to life from a set of triumphal friezes I’d seen attached to a temple in the Forum. They wound in a slow, silent procession through a Forum of buildings that still stood in their ancient freshness. I saw the trumpeters, and the purple chariot of the Triumph, and the purple-clad figure within. Behind came slaves, flinging coins from great baskets to the multitude. Behind this marched the soldiers – thousands of them – and then the prisoners in a long line, their backs bowed from the weight of the heavy chains that fastened them, and from the knowledge of what fate would be theirs once the Triumph had culminated in the Temple of Jupiter.

  And every one of those prisoners looked like me.

  I woke with a start. The sun had moved from behind me to my front left. It was late afternoon. Someone stood over me, holding up a shade to keep the sun from my face. It was an act of kindness, but I could feel I’d already caught the sun while asleep. Beside me on the bench, Lucius was watching me, on his face a look of polite and patient composure.

  ‘How . . . how long?’ I gasped. My mouth was dry as dust.

  ‘A very long time,’ Lucius replied, handing me a cup of wine. The slave holding up the shade did look rather strained. ‘You really should take more care in the sun. Northern skin can’t take the force, you should know.’

  ‘How did you find me?’ I croaked.

  ‘You weren’t at your lodgings. I spoke to your slave, who said you’d return late. You weren’t at the Lateran or in the library of poor old Uncle Anicius. Therefore, you had to be somewhere else in Rome.’ He laughed, ‘And you’ll be sure there are few others in this city who fit your description.’ His face turned serious. ‘But Alaric, I am most terribly sorry about your loss. I came looking for you as soon as I heard the news. If there is anything I can do – anything – do please ask.’

  I gabbled an apology for missing dinner with him the night before. He waved that aside. I told him about the prefect. Lucius turned up his nose. ‘The man is useless. The only reason he spends any time in his office is because his rooms in the Imperial Palace have no running water. It’s an insult to
us all that the exarch doesn’t get him recalled. I know the priests have got him by the balls over money. But there’s any number of natives here who could do more with the job than this wine-sodden little Greek insert into our lives.’

  I decided to tell Lucius the whole story as I knew it. No one else had been willing or able to lift a finger. At least he might be able to offer sympathy.

  As I finished, he put up his hand and tugged at his fringe. ‘You know, I receive messages from the Gods. Since I became their servant, they have served me in turn. They told me the other evening you were to be my best friend. It was confirmed at our secret sacrifice.’

  I said nothing about the alleged secrecy of what had happened in the Colosseum. He’d only have said the Gods would protect him. Beyond doubt, his connections did that – plus, of course, the fact that the Church was rather more worried about heresy than a handful of furtive pagans.

  He continued: ‘I wish we were deepening our friendship in less terrible circumstances. But you won’t deny the power of the Old Gods who brought our paths to cross.’ He dropped his earnest tone, continuing: ‘I could blame you for not opening those letters when you could. But in your position, I’d not have done that much. I’d have tossed them over my shoulder as I galloped off.’

  For the first time that day, I smiled. I could imagine the scene, complete with the look on the face of old Big Moustache as he picked them up and roared for his horse.

  ‘Do you feel up to starting the investigation now?’ Lucius added. ‘No time like the present, after all.’

  ‘An investigation?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I will investigate, and I will have revenge – revenge according to the justice of my own people. Back home, we handle these things ourselves. We get hold of whoever’s done us over, and take personal revenge, or we make some appeal for customary justice. But here – here, I haven’t a clue how to find the killers. They came. They went.’

  ‘Things aren’t so very different here nowadays. You do these things for yourself, or they don’t get done. . . . Now, my dearest Alaric, I don’t pretend I had the best education. You’ve probably read more books than I’ve touched. But I do know about knowledge. Some things we know by direct revelation from the Gods. Other things we know by patient collection and judgement of facts. I can’t tell you now who killed your friend Maximin. But I can tell you how to find who did. It’s a question of slow and patient method. You dig and dig, until something turns up. You just have to know where to begin. And,’ he pointed far over to the high buildings that surrounded the Forum, ‘that looks to me the obvious place to begin. We still have the light if we hurry.’

  Fair point. I pulled myself up and staggered a little from stiffness.

  Lucius laid a hand on my arm. ‘Listen – are you up to this? We need to act pretty fast if we’re to find any evidence over in the Forum. But if you don’t feel too good, I can start by myself.’

  ‘No,’ said I, ‘let’s make our start. There may be something important that only I can see.’

  So began the investigation.

  23

  The gold of the statue shone bright in the afternoon sun. The Column of Phocas cast a long shadow toward the Senate House. Flowers were already piling up at the spot where Maximin’s body had been found. A mixed crowd of locals and pilgrims had gathered, and a priest was directing the prayers.

  ‘He was a leader of the mission to far-off Britain, where the light of the sun is hardly seen. By the power that flowed from the Holy Ghost through his pure soul and body, he worked miracles without number, bringing over thousands of converts from the dark heathenism of their race to the True Faith of Holy Mother Church. Pray for the soul of the Holy Martyr Maximin. Pray for the Intercession of Saint Maximin, who will surely soon be seated at the right hand of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of the Father.’

  It was lie after fanciful lie from the grey creature. I’d heard this sort of stuff so often before. But it shocked me to hear it in connection with Maximin. Would we be told any truth about Maximin my friend? About his partiality to red wine? About his ability to lie with a straight face? About those bursts of good humour that could make his body shake with laughter? Not a word. It was all now about the many good works and the utter orthodoxy of Maximin the candidate saint.

  Had I seen this priest earlier, hanging around the dispensator’s office? I probably had. It sickened me.

  Lucius and I crossed ourselves with convincing reverence as we pushed through the crowd to the spot where the body had been found. Lucius took up some of the flowers that concealed the exact spot.

  ‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’ the priest cried. ‘Those flowers are private property. I’ll have the dispensator on you.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Lucius asked, standing up and looking down at the priest. He spoke in the cold tone he reserved for his inferiors.

  The priest did recognise him, and stepped back, a surly look on his face.

  ‘Get that mob out of my way. There is work to be done here.’

  Blood had oozed from that wound to the heart, and had soaked through the clothing to leave a clear shape on the ground. Though people had obviously cleaned much away as they took up what relics they could scrub with their cloths, enough remained.

  ‘You say there was little blood here when you found him? That would be consistent with his having been murdered some while before being left. Blood dries. Before then, though, it congeals. Even if last night was fairly cold, there still wouldn’t have been a lot of leakage.’

  I nodded. The body had been neatly arranged once only, the head closest by the column with a cloth covering. From the mark on the ground, there was no reason to suppose it had been moved or at all repositioned. We looked harder. There was a faint but obvious trail of scrape marks and a few blotches leading back from the column and away from the Senate House.

  ‘Those who carried the body were tired by the time they got it here. It was mostly dragged,’ Lucius said. That much was evident. We followed the trail easily enough across the fifteen or so feet of the broken pavement that had been uncovered for the presentation of the column. Then we could trace scuff marks in the dirt and breaks in the weeds that covered the steep slope leading back up to the compacted mud that was the modern ground level in the Forum.

  After this, the trail was harder to follow. There was so much rubbish and so many weeds. But there was a trail still to be followed. Carrying the weight of Maximin’s body at night through that lot had disturbed things. Occasionally, even before getting to the centre of the Forum, the body must have been dropped and dragged – there were little specks here and there. On a little bush, we found a scrap of cloth that I recognised as a piece of his cloak.

  We were followed part of the way by a few idlers who’d grown bored with the prayer meeting back by the column. I wanted to tell them to piss off, but chose to ignore them. Lucius, though, lost patience earlier. He gave an order to his slave, who picked up a stone. Before it had to be thrown, there was a commotion back by the column. I looked back. A man had got up from his knees and was waving his staff.

  ‘I can see! I can see!’ he bellowed. ‘I have been blind all the days of my life. Now the intercession of Saint Maximin has moved the Lord God our Father to grant me the gift of sight. I can see the face of our reverend father, who directed my prayers, and I see the crucifix he was given by Holy Mother Church. I can look up and see the golden statue of our lord and master the emperor . . .’

  I looked at him in contempt. I’d helped arrange this sort of thing any number of times in Kent. He was drowned out in a general howl of devotion. In a moment, everyone was on his belly, rolling or fighting to roll in what was left of the bloodstain. Those who’d followed us were back there in a flash. It reminded me of nothing so much as those dreadful rats when I first saw them. The priest stood back, a satisfied smirk on his face.

  ‘See what beasts this corpse religion makes of men?’ Lucius spat out the question. ‘Don’t
you just long for a cleaner and more rational worship?’

  ‘I want my hands round the neck of Maximin’s killer,’ I said. ‘If your Gods can bring me that, I’ll worship them as these men worship theirs.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’ Lucius asked with a little smile. ‘If it is, I’ll hold you to it.’

  I broke the silence. ‘Is that a broken twig?

  ‘No – but here is another mark on the ground. We go this way.’

  I thought several times as we worked our way towards the edge of the Forum that we’d lost the trail. But as the thickets became more dense, we saw an increasingly consistent pattern of broken twigs and flattened greenery. It was lucky for this purpose Maximin had been so heavy.

  We emerged from the Forum round the back of the Basilica. Here, the pavement was still at ground level, and we could trace the smudges where the body had brushed the ground. As we got closer to the killing spot, we found more evidence of blood.

  We followed the trail through the outer arches of the Colosseum. We were moving back towards the Caelian Hill.

  Then, as we reached a burnt-out library building at the foot of the hill, we saw the big dark patch we’d been hunting. It was just below the broken portico. Beyond that, for about twenty yards, there were faint scuff marks on the unfrequented pavement leading to the main road up the hill.

  ‘He was set on here.’ Lucius pointed to the corner of the side street as it joined the main road. ‘He was struck and knocked unconscious. He was dragged – look, see the two lines on the mud patch here as his feet dragged on the ground when he was taken under cover of the portico.’