Conspiracies of Rome Page 37

  I looked at Martin. He looked back at me, a desperate resignation stamped on his dirty, unshaven face. The red hair he’d always been so particular about dressing was a mass of clotted filth. His arms were cut and bruised from the leather straps that held him fast.

  ‘Martin was arrested some days ago as he tried to leave Rome,’ the dispensator explained. ‘He was careless enough to arrange a last meeting with a young person whose movements we had been following. We arrested him just before he reached the meeting place. Even as a slave of the Church, his life is forfeit. As said, we can do nothing ourselves to visit on his body the punishment allowed by law. But he can be handed over to the justice of some other person or persons.

  ‘We could resign him to the care of the prefect – the laws of the Empire and of the Church do permit this. Or we can give him up to some other person.

  ‘I have decided to make a present of him to you. Call it a reward for what you have done to advance the work of the English mission.’

  One-Eye grinned as he pushed Martin towards me. Again, we looked at each other. I could do anything I liked with him. I recalled the grisly punishments Lucius had insisted were owed to slaves who had trespassed far less. But I recalled also the words of the abbess: ‘There is a time for revenge, and a time for putting away revenge.’

  I hadn’t asked Lucius what part Martin had taken in the killing of Maximin. Were his the light footprints? Had he struck the killing blow? But how many deaths had those letters caused over the past month? Lucius had been the originator of the plot. He and I jointly – he deliberately, I negligently – had set in motion the chain of causes that led to the death of Maximin. Now Lucius was dead.

  Let that be an end of the matter. Revenge is an infinite cycle only among savages or the demented.

  I struck Martin a light blow in the manner that I supposed was still prescribed by law. ‘Martin, I free you,’ I said in a firm voice.

  He looked back at me, a look of disorientation on his face that at any other time I’d have found funny. I don’t know what he had expected. Certainly, he hadn’t expected this.

  I turned to One-Eye. ‘Unbind him, if you please.’

  One-Eye took a knife to the tight straps. Martin stood before me, rubbing life back into his arms.

  ‘Go back to Marcella’s. Get a bath and a meal. Or go elsewhere if that is your wish. In the morning, get a lawyer to draft the necessary documents. Bring them to me in the scriptorium.’

  I handed him my purse. ‘This will pay any drafting fees. Keep the rest as a wedding present.’

  Martin opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. He hurried past me out of the office.

  I turned again to leave. But there was still one more matter. The dispensator cleared his throat. I turned back to face him.

  ‘Aelric,’ he said, ‘you came here to do penance. Penance you have now done.’

  He stopped me again as I reached the door. ‘I know you have your doubts. Let me assure you, however, there is a God. And He often works in mysterious ways.’

  And that was it. I walked out of the Lateran into the warm night air. There was no moon overhead. But there were lights on the stalls selling cooked food and souvenirs to the pilgrims who now crowded the square. I could smell the blossom on the trees and the cooked food and the smoking charcoal of the fires.

  And that is it. I did see the dispensator again the following afternoon. But that opened a new chapter in my life. This one is closed.

  As you know, they did make a saint of Maximin. I was at the consecration of the Church of the Virgin and All the Martyrs. He was canonised at the most dramatic moment of the proceedings, the pope officiating before the exarch and a mob of assorted dignitaries. I can tell you, it was all of the highest magnificence. The Church did itself and Maximin proud that day.

  The robe he wore when killed is on display in Canterbury. I’ve never been able to bring myself to look at this. But I’m told it still works the occasional miracle.

  I went into the chapel last night, here in Jarrow. I lit a candle and thought to pray to the Holy Saint Maximin. Perhaps I did pray. In the darkness lit only by that single flickering light, I felt for just a moment so close to him that I could almost reach out and touch him and hear his loud and cheerful voice.

  But the moment passed. And I was just an old man, alone in the gloom, waiting for the final darkness.