I set out with Martin just as night was coming on. It had clouded over in the late afternoon and was looking set for rain. I put on a nice travelling cloak I’d bought earlier in the day. Maximin lent his own tatty cloak to Martin, who was assigned to guide me and supply some force of numbers should there be trouble in the street.
As yesterday and earlier in that day, I heard the soft patter of feet as we walked down the empty, darkening streets. It seemed that whoever wanted the relic hadn’t noticed we had given it back. But there was much else now. Rome comes to life at night. There are more people – shifty, dirty wretches obviously out for mischief of various kinds. But mostly there are the rats.
There could be millions of these in Rome. Certainly, there are more rats than people. So far as I can tell, they live during the day in the old sewers and in the deeper stretches of the ruins. At night, they all come out to gorge themselves on whatever rubbish has been deposited in the streets. They scuttled out of our path, but swarmed all around with a muted cacophony of squeaks and scratching. In the remains of the light, I could see the tide of brown bodies streaming around our feet. I pulled my sword out and skewered one that was moving slower than the others. I tossed it over against the wall. At once, in a little frenzy, the others were upon its twitching body, three deep, tearing at it and each other.
‘They have their uses,’ Martin said. ‘They eat dead animals, which keeps the streets a little cleaner. In Constantinople I was told that, when their coats turn black, you can expect the plague.’
Interesting. I’ve heard that one many times since, and it is true, so far as I can tell. I think there is some power in the contagion that changes them. I do know that they often die first.
I thought to start a conversation with Martin, but couldn’t think of an opening that wasn’t horribly contrived. In truth, I’ve never been very comfortable with slaves. They’re fine for sleeping with, but I find conversation embarrassing. I think the reason is that I grew up without them.
Yes, we have our churls in England. But they are so low as to be almost different beings. Excepting a few barked orders, there is no communication with them. It is the same elsewhere. I’ve come across whole races in my time, fit for nothing else but enslavement.
Unlike some of the old philosophers I’ve read, and some of the less worldly Christians, I’ve no objection to slavery in principle. There are some jobs so shitty – digging the fields, working the mines, rowing in galleys, and so forth – that they can only be got done under compulsion. And so there is an economy in nature that supplies certain answers to certain problems. But I’ve never got used to the idea of owning rational beings and setting them to work in areas where paid labour would be more humane and less costly. Secretaries come right into that category. I rather think even the higher household servants do.
I know most of the ancients disagreed. They used slaves even as tutors to their children. The modern Greeks still do. That diplomat I came across at Marcella’s went one step further. He had a slave to wipe his arse. He’d take his place and sit talking about commodity prices with me beside him, and a slave would reach under and wipe him, while he continued as if nothing odd were happening.
Then, with Martin, there was the matter of his nationality. My people took the country from his people, and they hate us for it. Until I was small, they rationalised their hatred by calling us heathens. Then the missionaries turned up, and we started to become better Christians than they. So they thought up some trifling difference over dates and made it a big issue of orthodoxy – not caring if it made them into heretics in the eyes of Rome. When I was first in Canterbury, one of their bishops came through on his way to some business in Brittany. He wouldn’t set foot in our church. He wouldn’t even open the very nice letter Bishop Lawrence sent inviting him to have dinner.
A while back, I did some historical research on the synod our bishops had arranged at Whitby some years back. Because they had more learning, and had come straight from the Roman mould, they were able to trick the poor Celts back into communion. But that hasn’t stopped them from hating us still.
So Martin and I walked largely in silence down those black, deserted streets, while the rats scurried away from us and something human followed discreetly behind. A fine rain began to soak us through our outer clothes. What desultory conversation we managed was wholly about the matter of assembling the materials and personnel for the copying that was to start tomorrow.
We smelt the surrounds of the house from a distance. At first, it was a pungent, aromatic smell, as of heavily spiced food. As we drew closer, the smell grew stronger, until it almost overpowered us. It was the olfactory equivalent of a deafening noise. Someone had been digging up the drains across the road from the house – possibly to repair them – and the whole neighbourhood was using the hole to dispose of shit and general waste. A combination of frequent rains and the hot spring sun had started some kind of fermentation.
The rats seemed to love it – jumping in and out, and even swimming in the filth – so far as I could see from the little lantern we carried. I pressed a wet fold of my cloak to my face as we hurried past.
The house where dinner was arranged was scarcely better. The windows were shuttered against the smell, but it followed us in nevertheless. ‘You are the main attraction for tonight, sir,’ Martin had told me. ‘You should arrive last.’ That’s why we set out so late.
When we arrived, the dinner party was already in full swing.
Perhaps swing is not the correct word. You may have read descriptions of noble dinner parties in the old days – the many courses, the entertainments, the witty conversation. For all the efforts made, this one didn’t come up to the old standards. The host and his guests lay self-consciously on their rickety eating couches, not much cleaner than the beggars outside the Lateran. With the disruption of the water supply and the closure of the public baths, cleanliness had gone out of fashion among the upper classes in Rome. Most didn’t seem to have bathed in years. From their dirty hands and fingernails, many didn’t seem even to wash that often.
Now, bodies aren’t much of a problem where cleanliness is concerned. Washing helps the work of nature, but she herself manages to slough most of the dirt off an ordinary body. The real problem is clothes. Whether or not you wash, if you don’t change your clothes, you invariably stink. And these creatures stank. They added another bright strand to the tapestry of smells that drifted in from the street. They wore the togas I’d seen on the ancient statues of senators – only these didn’t hang in neat and elaborate folds, but drooped in grey and brown wrinkles, following the shapeless contours of those who wore them.
They looked mainly to be in late middle age – most balding, and with lean, saggy faces. As I entered – Martin was taken off to the slave quarters – they were stuffing themselves from dishes of what smelt like bad cabbage served by a few scrawny slaves. The few lamps were of good bronze workmanship, but were burning meat dripping rather than oil. They threw out as much foul smoke as light, and I walked in to stinging, streaming eyes.
‘We bid welcome to Alaric of Britain,’ a particularly dirty old man cried, pulling himself up from his couch. A battered wreath on his head, he was the host, I gathered. His name had been on the invite, though I forgot this almost at once, and it is unlikely to come back into my memory now. All eyes turned in my direction, and there was a little round of applause.
‘Here is the one who slew twelve barbarians with his own hand, yet is versed in all the wisdom of our ancient fathers,’ he went on. ‘Accept, O golden hero from the farthermost land of unending night, the welcome and gratitude of the mighty Roman Senate!’ The host raised his wine cup in greeting, or to have it refilled.
I was led to a couch at the front of the room where I could be seen, and was invited to arrange myself on it. This had once been a fine piece, and still had some of its ivory trimming. But it was warped and cracked with age, and there was a long, black stain running down its length where generations of greasy togas had rubbed against it. I carefully lay down, glad to have ordered other clothes from the tailor Marcella had recommended.
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.
Martin 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.