Conspiracies of Rome a-1

by Richard Blake

  The food looked as bad as it smelt. I swear some of the smaller and less obviously bad meats were baked rat. I avoided the meats of whatever kind, and the uncooked dried fish. I accepted a dish of olives that didn’t look too mouldy, and crunched on some stale bread that still had the papal dole mark on its underside. The wine was surprisingly good, and I sipped on this without mixing in any of the brackish water I was offered.

  Never mind the attendant circumstances, it’s the quality of conversation that really makes a gathering. As you might expect, though, this was dire. The everyday language of these people was the radically degraded Latin of the City. It’s easier for us barbarians: we learn Latin as a foreign language, and can, if not always do, learn its purest form. And the dialect can even be forcefully expressive when spoken with feeling, as I could hear when Marcella really lost her temper. But in their mouths, it sounded grotesque. Their drawls were so exaggerated and slow, I almost wanted to finish their sentences for them. Anything they did say in the pure language had obviously been got from the classics, adapted for its purpose, and carefully memorised. There was no conversation as this is normally understood. Instead, the guests made little set speeches, looking in my direction whenever about to say something they thought specially apt. They generally spoke of their present wealth and the glorious deeds of their ancestors. One gave a long description of his alleged estates in Africa that, when he could remember the correct order of words, scanned as elegiac couplets. Some of this was clever enough to bear listening to, though I never did learn the name of the poet.

  At length they thought me sufficiently impressed by this display of leisured learning, and fell silent, indicating it was my turn to speak.

  I gave the usual brief and censored account of my journey to Rome. It shouldn’t have taken that long to get through, only everyone kept interrupting me with expressions of wonder at how well I spoke. ‘Such milky copiousness of words!’ one exclaimed. ‘Such grace and purity of diction!’ cried another.

  Someone else asked if the sun ever shone in England, and if there were headless giants in London. When I ignored the second question and explained that the weather was wetter and cooler than in Italy, they gave me a round of applause, then raised their cups. ‘The first Alaric took Rome by starvation,’ someone with stained false teeth and a slipping wig simpered, ‘this Alaric has taken it by storm!’

  When the applause for that – admittedly spontaneous – witticism had died away, another added: ‘He has the name of the uncouth barbarian, Alaric, but surely the face and body of the Grecian Apollo.’ More applause. More raising of cups.

  Dear God, I thought to myself, how much longer? Maximin was snoring happily in his bed. Gretel would soon give up on me for the night and go to her own. And here I was, pinned down by a pack of bores whose grandfathers had probably used their last worthwhile books to cook dinner.

  ‘But surely you embarrass our young friend with such flattery? Let us respect his simple modesty.’ This was a new voice, young and firm and unaffected. It came from the back of the room. I strained through the smoky gloom and saw someone who’d come in late or whom I’d missed when I first came in. About thirty, well dressed, with a neat little black beard and hair very close cropped, but for a neat fringe that hung over his forehead, he sat on his couch with a napkin between it and himself. He swung his trousered legs back and forth. Like me, he was ignoring the food but making free with the wine.

  ‘Lucius!’ Our host reared up again. ‘I’m so glad you could make our company. How delightful to see you again.’

  ‘How was Constantinople?’ the wigged man asked Lucius. ‘Caesar is well?’

  Lucius stretched his legs and took another sip of the wine. ‘Both were about as well when I left them as one might expect,’ he said. ‘The Persians are rampaging through Syria. There are Slavs pouring across the Danube. The exarch of Africa has revolted. His Eternal Gloryship Phocas, Ruler of the Universe, is quaking in his palace. He’s run out of everything he can tax or borrow, and is now murdering his way through the Senate so he can confiscate enough to keep his guards in wine and whores and the scum of Constantinople quiet with chariot races. I could hardly tear myself away from the place.’

  The wigged man turned serious. ‘Is it that bad?’ he asked. ‘Will the East fall like we did?’ He paused suddenly, looking round. ‘Naturally, I take it for granted that Caesar will be victorious – ever triumphant.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about informers,’ Lucius said with a slight note of scorn. ‘In Constantinople, yes. They are everywhere. You can’t fart without worrying someone might twist it into a treason. But not here in Rome. There’s bugger all here worth confiscating – unless you’re desperate enough to lay hands on Holy Mother Church. In any event, His Holiness stands between us and Caesar.

  ‘As for the military collapse, yes, that is bad. I think the Persians mean what they say. I don’t believe this time they are interested only in a bit of plunder and a few indemnities to buy them off. They want permanent rule over Egypt and Syria, which are the only provinces left in the Empire that can pay tribute. And I think they’ve made a deal with the Slavs. The attacks I heard about were too close in time and purpose to be accidental.

  ‘I promise you – the next time those Eastern senators come visiting their cousins here, they won’t be so stuck up about our faded grandeur. They’ll be down at the Lateran, cadging their own tickets for the bread dole.’

  His words came in quick, nervous bursts, with flashes of profound bitterness. As he finished, the room stayed silent. There was nothing more to be said. Rome had gone. Everywhere else had gone. Only Constantinople remained for these broken-down wretches as the bright beacon of civilised order in a world turning visibly grey. Eventually, some old man at the back asked in a quavering voice if any oil would be included in the next papal dole. A debate gradually started up – more natural and interesting than anything I’d yet heard. They even sat up on their couches into a more normal position.

  Lucius stood in front of me, his hand out. ‘You can be sure, the only reason I came here tonight was to meet the famous Alaric of Britain. Did you really kill a dozen Lombards with your bare hands, rescue the nose of Saint Vexilla, and carry away half a ton of gold?’

  ‘Not exactly, and not alone,’ I answered.

  He laughed and introduced himself. Lucius Decius Basilius, the last of a truly great house, had come to this dreary gathering to take me as a friend. He was just back from Ravenna, and before that from Constantinople, where he’d been trying to charm Phocas into revoking the confiscation of his murdered uncle’s estates in Cyprus. No luck there, he told me, but it was plain he could still afford a bath and a decent suit of clothes. In any gathering, he’d have stood out by his looks and energy. Now, he was almost dazzling.

  He leaned forward, ‘Listen, I only came here tonight to say hello. I must get away directly for something else. But…’ He paused. ‘It was my intention to invite you to dinner tomorrow night. But I can see you’ve had enough of these stinking paupers. I’m astonished they’re waiting so long to touch you for a loan. Why not come away with me? I think I can show you something you won’t forget in a hurry – or want to forget.’

  ‘Anything better in mind?’ I asked, looking queasily at a cluster of mould I’d just found in my crust.

  ‘Plenty. Come with me if you want to stay awake.’

  We crept out of the dining hall. The senators were deep in argument about something to do with double entitlements of dole for anyone who left his house to the Church. They had forgotten about me for the moment.

  ‘I’ll tell Uncle you were suitably overwhelmed by senatorial grandeur,’ said Lucius, speaking low as we quietly prepared to leave. ‘Tell these people you’re off, and they’ll all be expecting a goodbye kiss – on the mouth.’

  My flesh crawled at the thought of actually touching these beings.

  ‘You leave things with me,’ said Lucius as we began a move for the door.

  M
artin met us by the main door. He’d been fed in the slave quarters, and there was a smear of something on his face still more disgusting than I’d been offered. ‘Sir,’ he said with a respectful nod of his head, ‘you told the reverend father you would be home not too late. Won’t he be worried?’

  ‘Is this your slave?’ asked Lucius.

  ‘He was lent by the dispensator,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ Lucius said coldly, ‘a slave of Holy Mother Church.’ To Martin: ‘Your master is now with me. I’ll have one of my slaves escort you home.’

  ‘But, sir…’ Martin spoke to me, his face red, his manner nervous.

  ‘Your master is with me,’ Lucius repeated, his voice now silky as well as cold. ‘I commend your attention to duty. But while you’re on loan from the dispensator, you’ll do the bidding of who feeds you. Do you understand?’

  With a look on his face half sulky, half alarmed, Martin bowed low before us. He knew better than to argue with a man like Lucius.

  ‘Tell Maximin I’ll be fine,’ I added, trying to sound reassuring, but unable to meet his eye. Without another word, Martin turned and went.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Lucius. ‘I think I can show you something pretty good tonight.’ He stepped out. I followed.

  15

  The rain had cleared, and a bright and nearly full moon lit our path down towards the Forum. Its light concealed the full ruin of the buildings around us, and I felt some idea of how Rome had appeared in its days of glory. We passed through streets that were now reasonably frequented – a few whores, a priest about some business, a small band of thieves who’d have been mad to take on Lucius, me and the armed slaves of our escort. The rats were confining themselves to the side streets. I couldn’t tell if we were followed. We made too much noise of our own.

  As we went, Lucius told me something about the gathering we had just left. They were all cousins or uncles or other relatives by blood or marriage. The Roman upper classes had always been a close group. Now, after generations without a new family to join the group, intermarriage and adoption had made them virtually a single family. Following the great wars and the attendant collapse, they were all variously hard up. Some survived on remittances sent from relatives in the East, others on the same papal charity as the ordinary Romans.

  Every so often, Lucius would stop and draw my attention to some building. Before it was gutted in a fire, this had been the town house of the Praetextatus family. This had once been the main police building, but was now a monastery. Here had once stood a golden statue of Theodosius. Here had been a temple of Minerva.

  It was the best guided tour I’ve ever had. Every building, every place of note, was illustrated with some anecdote to bring it to life. His family had been big in Rome since before Diocletian. This was his city, and he’d made sure to know it from the foundations up.

  We skirted the Forum, turning left. We passed the Basilica on our right. We came to the Colosseum, looming gigantic in the moonlight. I’d noticed the day before with Maximin that all the entrances were locked and rusted. But there was one little door I hadn’t seen.

  Lucius stopped before it. He turned to face me. ‘Look, I don’t know you, but I like you, and I think I can trust you. I want you to promise me that what you see tonight you won’t share with another living being. Can I have that promise?’

  ‘A hard promise to exact when I don’t have a clue what I’m to see,’ I said.

  ‘Then I’ll make you a promise,’ said Lucius. ‘Nothing you see here tonight will violate the natural law that all peoples have in common. You will see no harm done to any person or any legitimate interest. Will that do for you? If not, we have to part here. I’ll have some slaves take you back to your lodgings.’

  I’d probably have settled for less than that assurance. I hadn’t known Lucius longer than I’d needed for a few cups of wine to wear off. But something about him had captivated me as surely as if I’d known him since childhood. Some people require time to make you realise how special they are. I’d known Maximin for months before I made that realisation, and still it had taken months longer on the road with him before I understood exactly how remarkable he was and how greatly I revered him. It had taken a year for him to grow on me as friend and father and tutor. Lucius had managed all of that in a short conversational walk through Rome.

  Of course, I made him the promise he asked. With one necessary exception you’ll hear about in proper time, whatever I saw tonight wouldn’t be for another living being. If I were some cavilling lawyer, I might say I’m keeping the promise even now: were you alive on that night?

  He rapped gently on the door. ‘Basilius,’ he said.

  The door opened a little for a face to look out, and then noiselessly all the way. Someone in a hood beckoned us in. The door swung shut behind us.

  I stood a moment in darkness. Then my eyes adjusted. There was some light from a window high overhead. By this, I saw we were in some kind of entrance chamber. Over by the far wall, there was a staircase leading down. With the confidence of someone who knew his way, Lucius walked quickly down. The rest of us followed.

  We went through a tunnel perhaps fifty feet long. There was almost no light, but I had the impression of doors every so often on either side of us. There was a cold draught from an open doorway on my right that carried a blast of something long since dead. Then we came up a flight of steps, rounded a corner, and I found myself in the Great Arena of Flavius – a place for so many centuries the spiritual home of the Roman People.

  In those times, the Colosseum had been filled day after day with an immense multitude. There were the common people, bathed and in their best clothes. There were the senators, solemn in the white and purple robes of their status. There were the elegant ladies, dressed in coloured silks and chatting excitedly. Overhead on hot days was a great awning to keep off the full rays of the sun. Presiding over all from his high box, watching all and being seen by all, was the emperor, clothed in deepest purple.

  I don’t know the purpose of the little door we had used, but the iron gates of the main entrances were still there, now rusted shut. I stood in the arena, looking around. Once, the roar of the crowd would have been terrifying, as an endless procession of criminals, prisoners of war, Christians and the gladiators were moved into that place to entertain with their offerings of blood and death. Now, the moon shone brilliant on the pale, silent benches.

  The games, I later discovered, had never got over Constantine’s adoption of the Faith. When he rebuilt Constantinople as his New Rome, he’d permitted neither pagan temples nor an amphitheatre. Instead, he and his successors had contented themselves with an immense circus for chariot racing, which had soon come to give as much excitement as the old games, though without the same unwilling blood, except when it came to public executions.

  In Rome, things had continued much as before, though under noble patronage. At last, about a hundred years after the switch to Christianity, some Eastern monk – Telemachus, his name – had run into the arena during a particularly bloody contest, trying to part the gladiators. The outraged mob stoned him to death and insisted that the games should continue. But the emperor was got at by his priests and banned the games.

  For some while after, the Colosseum was used for wild beast hunts and executions. But then the money ran out and the doors were locked shut. Since then, the place had stood empty like the other main public buildings. Those that hadn’t yet fallen down or been destroyed were subject to further orders – from the prefect, or the exarch, or the emperor himself. In most cases, orders had never come.

  And so the Colosseum stood in empty silence. Every so often, someone bribed a permit out of the prefect to take away materials for building. But the sands of the arena had for generations before my visit been unstained by human blood.

  While a little cloud obscured the moon, I heard a shuffling far across the sands. As the cloud passed, I saw a dark procession approaching us in the still night air. Perhaps five men were
coming towards us. They were dressed from their hoods down in black. Behind them, slaves carried a small brazier heaped with glowing coals. Behind them came some black animal led with a chain that shone silver in the moonlight.

  ‘O Basilius, my lord, you are come at last to this place of silent magic. You are come to commune with the God and to seek what the future may hold for you. The sacrifice is prepared for your performing. Make ready for the solemn compact with the Ancient One who was before we became. Make ready.’

  It was the first of the hooded procession who spoke in a deep, resonant voice. It filled that vast stone valley with its volume. The brazier was set down in the centre of the arena. Beside it was placed a wooden table and chairs. Beyond this, a black stone cube of about three feet was already standing.

  As Lucius stepped forward, a slave met him with a bowl of water and black cloths. He bowed his head, looking away, as Lucius washed his hands with slow, deliberate movements. Lucius shook his head as the slave looked quizzically at me.

  ‘This time, he is here only to observe,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps next time.’

  Lucius fell silent, stood still beside the stone. The others started a slow, rhythmical chant:

  O God immortal, to whom

  Is the Empire of Life and Death,

  And the Realm of Silent Shades,

  And all the places covered by night -

  Make unto us, your servants,

  Visible what is dark,

  Showing what is now,

  And what once was,

  And what is yet to become.

  This offering we make to you,

  That you may give to us.

  Accept, accept, O God Immortal,

  And give unto us in return.

  As the chanting died away, the hooded priest cried three times for silence. ‘ Procul, O procul, este profani ’ he added. ‘Away, away, be all unclean.’