Conspiracies of Rome Page 20

  ‘I deeply apologise for any alarm I may have caused in this house,’ I began. ‘But, Reverend Mother, I was looking for my friend. He said before setting out from his lodgings he was coming here. Before he reached you, however, he was brutally murdered in the street.’

  ‘This world,’ she replied, ‘is a place of many dangers. I have heard the reports of that murder, and you have my sympathies. My own brother was murdered not long since.’

  She sighed and let a fold of her black robe fall down from her body. She wore black underneath. ‘They are both now in a finer place. But our nature is to miss those who are parted from us. You have my sympathies.’

  ‘Father Maximin was my friend,’ I continued. ‘I believe he had no kin, and I was all he had at the end. I disturbed you the other night because it was my duty to find him. I am now here in discharge of my duty to find his killers and bring them to justice.

  ‘I do not think Father Maximin was able to visit you on the night of his death. But are you able to give me the purpose of his visit?’

  ‘Young man, I am not able,’ she said. ‘You were our only visitor on that night. I was given no notice of any other visit.’

  I hadn’t expected this emphatic denial of contact. I showed her the parchment. ‘This letter was received by Maximin shortly before he went out,’ I explained. ‘He said as he left that he would be calling at this house.’

  She looked at the sheet. ‘No such letter could have issued from this house,’ she said flatly. ‘Parchment is a sinful indulgence for the writing of letters. It is to be used only for copying the Holy Gospels or for recording the lives of the saints. For correspondence, it is our custom to reuse the papyrus from the more profane books in this library.’

  She raised her arm and waved it at the surroundings. I looked closely for the first time. There were still many books in place. But I could see a pile of wooden spindles and empty cases over in a corner. Like mice, these women were eating their way through one of the few ancient libraries left in Rome. They were ripping precious manuscripts apart and reusing the sheets for occasional notes.

  I was there on other business. But that wasted library was a sight that brought added pain to me. For how much longer would there be any books in Rome worth saving?

  She watched me looking at the surrounding waste. ‘This house came to me from my grandfather. He was a senator in the old days, and less than attentive to his spiritual duties. I have given the house over to the service of God, so that we poor sisters may offer prayers for the rescue of his soul and the salvation of our own.

  ‘We are not accustomed to receive male visitors. We are not accustomed to receive visitors. The world outside these high walls is a place of sin and sudden death. Within, we have attempted to create a refuge of safety and peaceful contemplation. We maintain that peace by limiting communication to the absolutely necessary.

  ‘Again, I am sorry that your friend is dead. Your own earnestness in seeking justice for him surely testifies to his many good qualities. But your informant is mistaken in saying that he was to visit this house on the night of his death. There was neither visit nor summons to this house. I am sorry that I am not able to help you further.’ She spoke with great sadness and equal finality.

  And that was all. Back in the street outside, I sent Martin off to the Lateran. Someone had to supervise the work of copying that had continued regardless of all else since I’d set it in motion. With Lucius I retired to a wine shop that he said was above the common run.

  28

  ‘Have another cup,’ said Lucius, raising the jug. We’d been sitting inside the wine shop much of the afternoon. Around us, various merchants and professional men did business or whiled away the hot afternoon hours. I’d made my record of our conversation with the abbess. We’d then gone over the written notes of the past few days, reviewing the case.

  Lucius had been right in his theory of knowledge. By investigating for ourselves and asking questions, we had gathered much in the past day. We knew how and where Maximin had been killed. We knew a small amount about who had killed him – at least, we knew how big their feet were and perhaps how heavy they were.

  ‘I think,’ said Lucius, shuffling his notes, ‘we are now in a position to jump from facts known to facts reasonably open to guess.

  ‘Maximin was called by the dispensator to hand over those letters. Someone knew he had been called in for this purpose – or thought this was the purpose. He was then told by the next visitor – the pseudo-monk, this was – to wait in the house for further instructions. Finally, he was given a note that told him to take the letters to a certain place. He went out, and was attacked. Your One-Eye was one of the killers, though the pattern of prints indicates he may not have struck the killing blow. That old woman didn’t see the murder. But I fail to see why else he could have been there.

  ‘Will you agree this is a reasonable construction of events?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. The whole investigation was becoming an odd source of comfort. In proceeding from the known to the unknown, it wasn’t so different from trying to get the meaning of a corrupt text in one of those monastic libraries in France.

  I continued: ‘We still haven’t explained the first visitor. And the further question arises of how the killers knew enough about Maximin’s planned movements to stand him down from going to the Lateran. This we haven’t answered. Nor do we know why he said he was going to that convent, when he never got there. Nor do we know what Ambrose meant about the Column of Phocas.’

  ‘These are questions that will be answered in due course.’

  I took another sip. ‘What could Brother Ambrose have meant by his dying words?’ I asked again. ‘What is this Column of Phocas we must destroy?’

  ‘You’ve seen the dreadful thing in the Forum. I can’t say I know of any other.’

  ‘Yes,’ I continued, ‘but this is plainly a matter of significance. Ambrose couldn’t have known Maximin would be found dumped by the column. Yet he still mentioned it. And dying words are important things.’

  Lucius shrugged. ‘If they really were his dying words. We have only the word of a drunken slave. If that is what he said, we still haven’t enough information to make even a guess.’ He paused. ‘I think we should give more thought to the content and whereabouts of those letters.’

  I insisted again they had been taken from Maximin. That was now plain. He’d been called out with them.

  Lucius rolled his eyes and set his cup heavily on the table. ‘Listen to me, my dear boy – if we are to get anywhere with this investigation, we must proceed on the basis of evidence. Just because you cannot find those letters, that is no reason by itself to suppose they were taken. Perhaps they were taken. Perhaps Maximin destroyed them. Perhaps he left them somewhere after he’d read them.

  ‘I’ll accept, for the moment, they aren’t with the Sisters of the Blessed Theodora – though we do need to explain why Maximin said he was going there. But we need to think where else they might be. Do bear in mind that, if we can recover those letters, we shall almost certainly know why your friend was murdered. We may even know by whom he was murdered. Perhaps they will lead us to One-Eye. Find him, after all, and the matter is probably solved.’

  I remained unconvinced. Maximin’s papers had been searched. I didn’t think the dispensator’s men had found anything there. Earlier, with Lucius, I’d searched the stables and other places in Marcella’s house where the letters might have been hidden. They couldn’t be at the convent – even were the abbess lying, I didn’t see how Maximin could have had the time to go there.

  I asked about the abbess. Was she yet another of his relatives?

  ‘There is a relationship,’ Lucius said, screwing his eyes together. ‘My great-grandfather was a cousin of . . .’ He broke off. ‘I’m related to everyone, though I can’t always say exactly how. But today was our first meeting. The woman never leaves the house, so far as I can tell. If you want me to get you back in there for a longer audience, I�
��ll have to think hard for any common acquaintance.’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll need that,’ I said.

  A slave came over to us. ‘My lord Basilius: as agreed, the lawyer Venalianus awaits your instructions.’

  Lucius closed his eyes, impatient at his own forgetfulness. ‘My dearest Alaric,’ he said wearily, ‘I have some business at home that went clean out of my head. One of my tenants is making a fuss about a charge for repairs to the common parts. It looks as if the whole thing will end before the prefect unless we can reach a settlement. I hardly need explain that I can’t have that! Could you possibly excuse me for this evening? I have no idea how long I’ll be with the wretched lawyers. We have tenancy agreements and a trust going back to before I was born. Some of the relevant documentation went in a fire.

  ‘It isn’t yet dark. You can get back alone. But I’ll send some slaves back here if you feel the need of an escort.’

  So long as I had my sword with me, I needed no escort – certainly not in daylight. I agreed to call on Lucius the following day. We’d fix the time by prior message.

  ‘I was hoping that we could dine again,’ he said. ‘There are so many things to discuss – and not only about this deeply sad matter that has brought us so very close together. Tomorrow, you shall be my guest again. We shall dine in greater style – and for longer. That much I do promise.’

  With that, he was off.

  I sat a while longer in the wine shop. It was nice to sit there, unregarded, taking in the busy atmosphere. And the wine was rather good. I sat longer there than I’d intended.

  I left just as the moon was coming up in the cloudless sky. The streets were silent and empty, except for the usual rats. I traced my way back towards the centre of the city, though I soon realised I had taken a wrong turning – one collapsed façade looks very like another, you know. I thought to turn back and retrace my steps to the last place I definitely recognised.

  Then I heard the footsteps behind me.

  It was the same soft yet not-too-distant padding on the paving stones that I’d heard those few but long days ago with Maximin as we walked back from the prefect. I turned and pulled out my sword.

  ‘Show yourselves, you filthy bastards,’ I shouted. ‘Who are you?’

  I heard only the scurrying of the rats as they ran away from the sound of my voice.

  Staggering a little, I walked quickly back along the street. ‘I know you’re out there. Come on, you piles of shit – come and show yourselves like men.’

  I heard a sound behind me. I turned. At first, I saw nothing special in the patterns of dark and of seemingly intense moonlight. Then my eyes focused.

  There were four men facing me in the moonlight. I put aside the question of how they could have got behind me. Those streets could do odd things with echoes. I looked at them. They stood very still. They looked the sort of scrawny street trash I’d seen all over Rome, dipping in and out of the cheaper wine shops, lounging about the more populous squares. Only these men were armed. I could see the dull glint of steel from the knives they had in their hands. Silently, they fanned out and moved closer to me.

  A sword betters a knife any day. But there were four of these, and the intention was to take me from more than one direction. I backed away. I’d get a wall behind me. Ideally, I’d get into a doorway – that would cover me on three sides. Even against four knives, a sword would then still be better. If they didn’t turn and run, I’d rip a few up and try to keep one for some leisurely questioning.

  Such was my plan. But the streets in Rome are a disgrace. I’d have had firmer ground trying to fence on Dover Beach. I stepped back onto a line of fallen brickwork, and the mortar gave way. I fell flat on my back. I heard my sword land with a clank in some shadows.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ I muttered as I watched the men come closer. I’d really been too long in that wine shop. I could feel a headache coming on as I looked briefly up at the dark sky.

  I was up in a moment, my own knife out. But there was an end of my advantage. Even with my back now against a wall, I was one blade against four. Then again, I was bigger. I slashed out at the nearest. He danced away.

  ‘You’ve got something we want,’ said one of them in a loud yet conversational voice. He was a nasty little brute with his thin arms and pinched face. He didn’t look particularly strong. On the other hand, he did look just the sort of man who’d spent his life cutting people up in dark alleys. ‘Take us to them letters, boy, and you won’t come to no harm. That’s a promise.’

  ‘Fuck you, gutter-scum!’ I snarled, slashing out again. I sliced the air, a good few feet short of him. ‘Shitty-breathed cocksucker!’ I added.

  He smiled. ‘You can make this easy for us or hard for yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll take us to them letters if you knows what’s best for you.’

  I pulled myself together. In England or in Rome, knife fighting is all the same. The first rule is not to move around too much. Don’t let the enemy see how fast you are. Don’t let him gauge how far you can reach. Don’t waste energy. Yes, so far I’d broken those rules. But I began now to keep them in a loose, semi-inebriated way. I stood with my knife at waist level, and waited.

  ‘Come on,’ the pinched man said impatiently. ‘Just give us what we fucking want.’

  ‘You want them. You come and get them,’ I snarled. I pulled off my cloak and wrapped it round my left arm.

  One of the four moved in just a little too close. I darted at him. I went for the face. That’s what you should do. Groin and face for close combat – arms and face from a distance. Don’t go for the body. It may be armoured. Otherwise, you may not hit something vital. Arms are good. You may get a tendon. Face is always good. You may get an eye if lucky. Even if not, you’ll give your enemy something to think about.

  I got him on the forehead, just above an eye. He fell back screaming and clutching at his bloodied eye. A lucky hit, but not at all fatal.

  Second rule of knife fighting: don’t try to follow up a hit when there’s more than one attacking you; not, that is, unless you can get a big advantage thereby. I did follow this one. The three others began at once to close in on my sides. One tried to get behind me. Just in time, I danced back against the wall. Out of action for the time being, the wounded man was dabbing at the stream of blood that ran down his face. He’d be back. But there were only three for the moment.

  Cautious now, the three spread wider around me. They were trying to wear me out. As one came close enough, I’d go at him. He’d jump back. The others would move in from another side. The trick is to be fast enough and strong enough to stop them from closing in at once – but not to look too fast and strong: you need another one to chance his luck just too far. If you can’t pick them off in this way and level the odds, they will eventually get you.

  And these men knew what they were doing. Little by little, they were closing in.

  I tried a tactic that had once saved one of my victims on the Wessex border. ‘Help! Help!’ I roared. ‘Bloody murder in the street. A reward for help! You there, go for help!’

  I didn’t expect any help. But I did just slightly unnerve them. One looked briefly round.

  That was the end of this fucker, I can tell you. I darted suddenly to the right, holding the others off with my covered left arm. I lunged, and got him straight in the bladder. I felt the knife jolt as it hit the back of his pelvis, and felt the gush of blood and piss as I pulled it out.

  He fell screaming to the ground. A good thrust straight up through the ball bag is best. You get more blood, and the moral effect is greater. But bladders are still good in themselves. Even if it doesn’t finish an enemy off in short order, it absolutely disables. And there is the added joy that he’ll suppurate in agony for days and days.

  Yes, I’d got another one. The only downside was that I’d lost the cover of the wall. I tried to get back there. But the two remaining had got me front and back. I darted sideways again. But they followed me and closed in.

&n
bsp; ‘Maximin!’ I cried and lunged forward. There’s nothing like a good battle cry. All good soldiers swear by them. They cost a bit in breath. But they can really set you up for a fight, and may unnerve an opponent.

  As one of the remaining enemies fell back, I threw my cloak at him, then whipped suddenly round on the other and went for the face. I’d take one more with me. There are worse ways to die than giving out twice what you’re getting.

  I got the one now in front of me in the throat at close quarters. It was a slicing, parallel blow. I felt the momentary resistance as my knife brushed hard against flesh and gristle. With a little surge of hope, I grabbed him and twisted round with him in front of me for cover.

  I looked at the remaining able attacker. It was the pinched man. He stood a few feet away looking back at me. What was he doing? I wondered as I pulled my human shield better into place. I was ready for him to come at me. I was rather hoping he might run away. I was ready to expect anything but stillness.

  He opened his mouth in a silent cry. I saw the trickle of dark blood from his mouth. I saw the dark shining point of a sword projecting from his chest. As the sword was pulled back, he fell to his knees. He raised his eyes to heaven, another silent cry on his bloody, frothing lips. It was almost as if he were praying. He fell face forward with a long, rattling sigh. I heard the crack of his skull on a paving stone.

  The one I’d just got on the face was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I saw a darker blackness in the shadow of the wall. I heard the sheathing of his sword. I had an impression of great size and bodily power. Before I could collect myself, he turned and was off, still in shadow.

  I stood, two fallen men around me, another still alive, but choking out his last in my arms. From the blank, still expression on his face, I saw that the one I’d got in the bladder was dead. I must have got a blood vessel. My legs began to shake. I was in no position to follow the stranger.