Conspiracies of Rome Read online

  ‘Now,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I understand you relieved those barbarians of a large sum in gold.’

  I looked up sharply. How could the prefect have known that? I thought of those shifty Syrians at the bank. So much for Maximin’s lecture on the confidentiality of bankers. I only hoped he was right about their honesty.

  He continued with a smile: ‘You have nothing to fear on that account. I’ve had no complaints about stolen money. There are no claimants about to demand an enquiry of restitution. You may, of course, make some voluntary gift to my men. If you send it to me, I will ensure it reaches the proper hands. However,’ he paused, ‘I believe there were other objects taken from the barbarians – objects recovered, that is, that may have identifiable owners.’

  Maximin broke in: ‘God made us His humble instruments in the recovery of a most holy relic. This, of course, is a matter for His Holiness. I shall see him tomorrow and give the relic directly into his own hands.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, you won’t,’ the prefect said. ‘Boniface erupted all over a while back in a rash of bleeding sores. Since the relics didn’t work in his case, the doctors have sent him off to Naples for the volcanic mud baths. I doubt he will be back before next month. As the highest civil power in Rome, I will take delivery of the relic. It is intended for the consecration of the new Church of St Mary – that is, for the consecration of the old temple of the demons Jupiter, Venus and Mars.’

  He crossed himself, and continued: ‘I have full authority to take possession of all stolen goods that may be recovered.’

  ‘With respect,’ said Maximin, ‘this is a matter for Holy Mother Church. I have an appointment at the Lateran tomorrow, and will hand the holy relic back into the hands of those whose lawful property it is.’

  It was obvious that, whatever fancy title he might have, the prefect had no authority in practice to compel anything. He dipped his finger in wine and traced a circle in the dust that covered his desk. ‘Very well,’ he said at length, in a flat and only slightly disappointed voice. ‘If that is how you want to play, so be it.’

  He paused again, then asked: ‘What brings you and your young friend to Rome?’

  Maximin explained our mission to gather books for Canterbury, passing me off as a convert of the utmost piety. The prefect shot me a brief but penetrating glance, as if looking for any trace of piety. I looked humbly down, hoping he had seen other than an educated brigand.

  ‘I think a month from today should be sufficient for your purposes,’ he said. ‘I doubt you will have any trouble gathering all the books you could ever want in this place. I don’t even think the owners will insist on your making copies to take away. And it would be a shame to deprive the furthermost Britons of two such holy and effective missionaries of the Faith.

  ‘I will have your residence permits sent over to your lodgings tomorrow or the day after. Please note they will not entitle you to receive anything from the papal dole.’

  With that, the prefect rose, our audience at an end. As he rose, he knocked over his cup, spilling red wine over a heap of papers. He scowled and brushed them all onto the floor, shattering the cup, and sat heavily down again with his back to us.

  12

  Our business over, Maximin and I continued deeper into the Forum. This had once been the civil and religious centre of Rome. But times now were altered, and its buildings were no longer in use. Some had fallen down. Most had been locked shut. We passed by the Julian Basilica – big, though far smaller than the place we had just visited. Its great doors were secured with bars and a rusted padlock. As ever, its marble facing had been mostly stripped. The bronze statues that had once been crowded outside were evidenced only by their plinths. I think it was the Vandals who had stripped all the bronze they could carry in their leisurely sack of about a hundred and fifty years before.

  It was the same for the Temple of Concord and even the Senate House – this hadn’t been used for generations. The Temple of Vesta we’d already seen. This was an elegant little building – the old temples, by the way, were generally built smaller than churches, which follow the basilica pattern. The reason is that temples were never meant to hold large numbers of worshippers, but housed the cult statues, the main worship taking place in the open. The Temple of Vesta had been broken open, and was in use as a cow shed. Other buildings had fallen down, and I couldn’t identify their function even by the broken inscriptions.

  Once or twice, I turned to ask Maximin. He’d known Rome from any number of visits. Sometimes, he’d answer with a firm confidence that I was willing to trust. Quite often, even he was vague about the former uses of these falling or fallen buildings.

  ‘It was a temple to some demon,’ he said, pointing up at the great Temple of Jupiter that still loomed above us on the Capitoline Hill. ‘As with all the others, it was closed over two hundred years ago on the orders of Caesar. God willing, it may soon fall down – or be turned to some holy purpose. So many were the demons who resided in this city before men were brought to the True Faith of Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Even now, they wander the Earth, tempting the unwary to blasphemy or heresy.’

  Knowing Maximin as I did, I mastered the urge to sniff. I resolved instead to get him again when he was feeling less devout. Plainly, Rome was in no need of temples. With the decay of power and population, it also had little need of administrative buildings. But it would be nice to know what all these places had been.

  It didn’t help that the Tiber had risen in the past hundred years, and the Forum was now regularly flooded. We mostly walked over compacted mud several feet higher than the old pavements.

  Just in front of the Julian Basilica, though, the ground had been cleared, and there was a gleaming new column set up with a golden statue on top. About fifty feet up, the statue was a crude lump of bronze. It looked barely human. It made a shocking change from the smooth perfection of the marble statues we’d just seen in the Basilica or still dotted here and there about the city. The thin leaf covering was coming off. But the column was an elegant, fluted thing. Untouched by the elements, it had obviously been salvaged from some ruined interior – like all other new work in Rome.

  This was my first sight of the Column of Phocas. The inscription on its base – placed over another that had been chiselled out – said everything. Part of it read:

  We have erected a dazzling golden statue of His Majesty, our Lord Phocas, the Eternal Emperor, the Triumphator crowned of God, in return for countless good deeds, for the establishing of peace in Italy, and for the preservation of freedom.

  It had been set up a year or so before by the pope in the presence of Exarch Smaragdus, over from Ravenna, in honour of the emperor. In recent years, pope and emperor had not always been at one. The emperor saw Italy as an outpost. It was a place where taxes should be collected rather than spent. His main concerns were the Persians across the Euphrates and the barbarians beyond the Danube. It took up all the work of diplomacy and strategy to bribe or otherwise to conciliate, or repel these groups by arms from the taxpaying provinces.

  The pope, of course, saw things differently. He’d taken effective control over Rome and some other parts of Italy, and was dealing with the Lombards as if he were a sovereign prince. The treaty Pope Gregory had made some years earlier was technically an act of treason. But the days when an emperor could arrest and replace a pope – as Justinian had – were long past.

  Then there was the matter of religious primacy. As the successor of Saint Peter, and bishop of Rome, the pope claimed a supreme status above all the other churchmen and an equality with the emperor himself. Pope Gregory had taken up and refurbished the old claim to be regarded as the universal bishop.

  So long as they could, the emperors in Constantinople had deprecated or ignored this claim. But then Phocas had taken power by murdering the legitimate emperor, and had run into endless domestic and foreign challenges. Gregory, though old and dying, was still the most effective pope in hundreds of years. It was he
who’d sent out the mission to England.

  He’d seized his chance with Phocas. In return for some gross but vague flattery – of which this column, set up after his death, was one instance – and a more effective, though less public, series of bribes, the emperor had conceded the title of universal bishop and tacitly accepted the temporal supremacy of the pope in Rome. The gift of one of the larger temples for conversion to a church was a minor thing besides.

  We bumped into one of the lawyers we’d seen earlier, pissing against a fallen column outside the Senate House. He gave us a little papyrus slip advertising his name and services, and launched into an overblown declamation on the splendid ceremony that had attended the dedication of the column. There was the exarch himself. There was Pope Boniface, just consecrated after a nine-month interval that had followed the sudden death of the previous Boniface – in those days, popes couldn’t be consecrated without the imperial warrant, and Phocas had held out for a bigger bribe.

  ‘There was,’ the lawyer said, spreading his arms dramatically, ‘a multitude of the highest dignitaries that came from all four corners of the universe, and all the glory and magnitude of the great Roman People assembled here in the very navel of the universe.’

  It took an entire handful of copper to get the spouting wretch off our backs – I thought he’d follow us back to Marcella’s. Instead, he stuffed the coins into his purse and slouched off towards a wine shop set up under the Arch of Septimius Severus.

  On the way back, I thought several times we were followed. As ever, the streets were mostly empty, and our shoes rasped loud on the paving stones. But could I hear a soft patter of feet behind us? I knew already Rome was a dangerous place, and cursed myself for leaving my sword behind when we’d set out to see the prefect. My knife would be of limited use against more than one attacker. But every time I stopped and looked round, the street behind was empty and silent. Was it an echo? It might have been. I only heard the noise when we were moving.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ said Maximin. ‘Rome can be frightening when the light has gone. Let’s hurry back.’

  We quickened our pace. So did the footsteps behind. But if they were there, they kept a regular distance, and we didn’t look round again.

  At the top of the hill, there were some slaves lounging by a little shrine and other people going about their late afternoon errands. There was a sound of hammering from one of the houses as some roofing tiles were replaced. Soon, we were back at Marcella’s. With the inner gate shut behind us, we felt safer.

  We’d felt safe too early. Our rooms had been searched. It was a clever job. I’d not have noticed, except the book on drains I’d borrowed earlier was turned over, its spine facing right instead of left. And the little green stone Edwina had once given me was fallen out of the fold in my cloak where I’d stored it.

  Had it been my rooms only, I’d have concluded it was the slaves going about their business or looking for things to steal. But Maximin’s papers had been gone through. He was always very neat about these, and had spent an age when he unpacked in arranging these into the right order. He swore they had all been disarranged. Yet when Maximin checked the money he’d left on full display, none was missing. Nor was his silver crucifix. Whoever had been in wasn’t after cash. We called for Marcella. She was distraught.

  ‘But he was such a well-spoken gentleman,’ she wailed, looking at the papers on Maximin’s table. ‘He swore he was sent by you from the prefect’s office to get some things you’d forgotten. This is a respectable house for respectable people. We’ve never had this sort of thing before.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ I asked.

  He was a tall, dark man, she explained among a mass of irrelevant detail, with a scar and an eye patch. ‘He was ever so polite. He knew your names and where you’d gone, and everything. I had no reason on earth to believe he could be a common thief.’

  She fell into a chair, fanning herself with a battered ostrich feather. ‘Gretel! Gretel!’ she screamed. ‘Where are you? Where have you gone, you lazy good-for-nothing bitch?’

  The little maid I’d earlier seen scrubbing the step came silently into the room. She was a stunner – and by the sideways look she threw me, I could see she thought the same of me. The moment I heard Maximin snoring across the corridor, I told myself, I’d have her. For a moment, I clean forgot the matter in hand.

  ‘Gretel, you little Lombard bitch, you hear me well. You don’t never let strangers into the house again. You hear me? You don’t let no one in. I say who comes and goes in this house, and don’t you forget – else I’ll sell you into the brothel God made you to furnish.’ She heaved herself up. ‘O fie, sirs! Just look at the refuse we have to buy nowadays. Even persons of quality – such as I myself – is hard put to find slaves what aren’t uppity. Shall I have her whipped for you?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Maximin. He could have added it wasn’t Gretel in any event who’d let One-Eye into our rooms.

  ‘Where is the relic?’ I asked quietly.

  With a look of concern, Maximin took me down to the stable beside the toilets. Except for the gold, he’d left his share of the loot in his saddlebag. There it still was. The groom told us One-Eye had been in, but had only time to check my bags before an Ethiopian diplomat had come in and started demanding who he was. He’d gone off pretty directly.

  ‘There was something furtive about him,’ the diplomat said to me. ‘I hadn’t seen him in the house before, and I didn’t think he was a new guest. If I’d thought he was trying to steal one of my horses, of course I’d have killed him on the spot. As it was, I challenged him, and he sloped off without saying anything.’

  I’d met the diplomat earlier in the day. We’d bumped into each other as I was going in to try out the toilets. He’d smiled at me and bowed most politely as I’d passed him. Of medium height, very thin and black all over, he was the first person of his sort I’d ever seen. Assuming you, my Dear Reader, are English, I imagine you’ve never seen people like him. But I assure you, there are people who are black all over. They come from parts of the world where perpetual exposure to the sun causes the skin to blacken with permanent effect. And for some reason I can’t explain, their skin burns not only in the exposed areas.

  For all his physical oddities, though, he spoke excellent Latin. I later found he also knew Greek and several Eastern languages beside his own. Now we lounged together just inside the stables, quietly comparing notes on the delights of Rome. He’d been here about a month longer, and had found his way round pretty well. We agreed I should let him take me soon on one of his ‘missions of pleasure’. From the way he grinned and rolled his eyes, these missions were rather less than spiritual.

  Just as we were turning back to a discussion of what One-Eye might have been after, Maximin was calling me over.

  ‘God be praised,’ he said. ‘This Ethiopian has saved the Church from a second violation. But for him, the relic would surely have been stolen again.’

  He showed us the leather bag into which the English mercenaries had stuffed things. It was undisturbed. Maximin explained to the diplomat about the relic and its significance. There followed an interminable flourish of crossings and mutual flattery.

  ‘So he followed us all the way back to Rome,’ I broke in, ‘to steal Saint Vexilla’s nose?’

  I wanted to speculate on the value of the jewelled casket containing the relic. None of the cash in our rooms had been touched; and that together was worth much more than the casket. But Maximin gave me a dark look that said, ‘Shut up: this man is a stranger.’ The diplomat wandered off to look at his own horses.

  Maximin took the leather bag containing the casket straight up to his room. ‘Who else has a key to our rooms?’ he asked Marcella.

  ‘Only me, Reverend Father,’ she answered.

  ‘Good. Pray see to it that only you and I go into these rooms in future.’

  With that it was over. Not very hungry, I skipped dinner.
Normally, I’d have had a Greek lesson from Maximin. We were past the scraps of literature he could remember and were well into conversational practice. I said I felt tired after the long day. From the loud snores I soon heard, so was he. I put down the mathematical text I’d been reading and went to the door.

  I feasted that night on bread and cheese. Oh, glory was it to be young. If only I could be again . . .

  13

  ‘The English mission,’ the dispensator said with an attempt at the declamatory style, ‘is more than the work of bringing over a race of barbarians on the edge of the world. It is a new and vital project of the Church.’

  He’d been addressing us for what seemed half the day, standing within the arc of a semicircle of seats; other, lesser dignitaries seated beside him, all in their best white and purple robes. Maximin and I sat before him, ourselves in the best clothes we’d been able to find on the last lap of our journey to Rome.

  No one dared look bored. No one dared plead other business. The dispensator was in fact, though not in theory, the main Church official in Rome, and therefore the most important man in Rome. He handled the accounts, authorised payments, and supervised the whole administration of the Church and its ancillary functions.

  Maximin had been exceeding glad to crawl out of bed and have the summons pressed into his hand. Splashing water over his face, he explained this was another sign of our step up in the world. Back in Canterbury, Bishop Lawrence had told him to report to someone of far less importance. Now we were barely short of honoured guests.

  The great hall of the Lateran is a wonderful place for a meeting – cool, though not too cool, good light, good acoustics, a fine coffered vault high above, glittering mosaics of Christ and Saint Peter covering the walls.

  Probably enjoying their faint echo, the dispensator repeated his phrase about a ‘new and vital project of the Church’. He sucked in his withered cheeks, and looked round to bask in the consent of all around him. Then, with a lurch from bombast into a diplomatic jargon I could only understand much later, he continued.