Conspiracies of Rome a-1

by Richard Blake

  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 l
ight 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.’

  We returned to the portico. The dark patch of my friend’s life blood was a vague circle with a diameter of about four feet. On the edge and leading off – I hadn’t taken this in at first – was a confusion of footprints, and the unmistakable signs of a blood-sodden corpse being pulled and then carried off for dumping. A few feet away, hidden in some lengthening grass, were scattered the three broken fragments of Maximin’s staff. It had been sliced roughly in half, and one of the halves had had about five inches lopped off.

  I breathed hard, fighting back the misery and the nausea. At first, I couldn’t make any pattern in the bloody prints. But by measuring with our hands and looking for irregularities in the imprinting leather, we finally made out five distinct sets of prints. Two were of large, heavy men. These were the most frequent going in and out of the circle. One was of a smaller man, who seemed mostly to have stood on the edge, going in perhaps only once.

  There were two other sets of prints. These were inconsistent with the others. They went in once to the circle – we could see a clear impression, as if the blood were already congealing when they passed over it. They came out again, leaving increasingly faint prints as they moved back towards the Forum.

  ‘The small man used the sword,’ said Lucius. ‘The others held your friend on either side. Before then, he fought like a hero – staff against swords. His staff was sliced first in half. Then he defended himself with the part that remained, until this was sliced off by the hand. You say fingers were missing. I fear we should look for them.’

  ‘The question is…’ My voice was a croak. I started again: ‘The question is, why stun him and then bring him over here to be murdered?’

  ‘Something may have gone wrong,’ Lucius replied. ‘What was meant as a robbery or abduction became a murder. Perhaps your frie
nd recognised someone. There is reason to believe he was left here for some while after death. The two others may have been sent back to remove the body to the Forum, though for reasons I cannot yet imagine.

  ‘But this is guessing. For the moment, we need evidence. I’m afraid we must look for those fingers. They may not tell us much. Then again, they might. At least, they can be added for burial.’

  We looked, but no fingers. Perhaps the rats did get them after all. Whatever the case, I was quietly relieved.

  The slave produced a small book of waxed wooden tablets. He scraped with his stylus as Lucius gave a dictation – everything plain and matter of fact, with no surmise.

  ‘Always keep a record,’ he explained. ‘What we are seeing now won’t be here tomorrow. Already, much evidence by the Column of Phocas may have gone for good. Always keep a record. Even the least important detail may turn out important – but only if you have it recorded.’

  He had manners enough not to show it. But I could see that Lucius was enjoying himself. He was enjoying the challenge of the investigation, and he was enjoying my company as his apprentice. I was grateful for the help. At the least, I no longer felt alone in that city.

  We moved on. Most of the houses in the side street where Maximin seemed to have been grabbed were in ruins. The end house, though, was still sound. It looked inhabited. The upper storey had windows that must have overlooked the Forum.

  Lucius nodded to his slave.

  ‘Open for the lord Basilius,’ the slave shouted, banging on the flimsy door. ‘The noble lord desires information of the householder. Open for the lord Basilius.’

  Connections really are everything. The slave had no sooner fallen silent than there was a scraping of bolts and the door opened a few inches. An old woman looked suspiciously out – ruined teeth, wrinkles, a few wisps of hair. She must have been a good twenty years younger than I now am. It pleases me to think she looked much worse. Such is the effect of poverty.