Outside in the corridor, Authari was snoring like an old pig. He sagged in his chair in a cloud of farty and wine-sodden belchy smells. Sword still clutched in his hand, he would have been just as much use tucked up in bed as in his self-appointed mission as guard.
Otherwise, all within the Legation was still. All was dark. All was quiet.
No point waking him yet.
I checked the nursery. Maximin was sleeping peacefully, Gutrune was also emitting drunken snores.
In Martin’s room, I knelt beside the low bed and put my hand over his mouth. ‘Martin,’ I called gently, ‘wake up – it’s me.’
‘Oh my God!’ he whispered when I felt sure enough of his reaction to take my hand away. ‘Are you all right, Aelric?’
He sat up. I noticed he was fully clothed.
‘Just about,’ I said. ‘But I’ve just killed a man in my room. He was sent by Heraclius to kill me.’
Martin stood beside me looking down at the body. It lay as I’d left it, the dead eyes staring up at the ceiling, the knife close to the right hand.
‘Let me see your back,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said, looking at him.
‘Your back,’ he said. ‘It’s covered in blood.’
I winced as I pulled away the sheet I’d draped over myself. The blood had dried in the cold night air and the thin silk had stuck to me.
‘Not a pretty sight,’ said Martin, holding the lamp so close I could feel its heat, ‘but a little water will rid you of that.’
The hangover was doing him good. Except that he staggered when he moved, and kept putting a hand up to his obviously throbbing head, he was on better form than I’d expected – not a panic attack in sight. When I filled him in properly on that latrine encounter, he simply furrowed his brows and looked away. It was as if he had given up being alarmed at anything more I could do or say.
‘What do you suppose we should do?’ he asked.
I sat on my bed and looked across at the body.
‘Search me,’ I said at length. ‘I suppose we could raise the alarm. Or perhaps not,’ I added, dropping into Celtic.
Martin got up and shut the door, then came and sat beside me. Together we studied the body.
‘God knows what the Emperor will do,’ he said, ‘if you say anything about what happened in those latrines. You know that not reporting treason at once is treason in itself. And how much do you think he needs you now? You were useful in the Circus. That may have been it.’
He went over to the body again and began searching through the clothes. It was something I had been intending to do myself. He pulled out a small leather satchel that had been fastened to an inner garment and handed it to me.
I took it and opened it. Inside was a sheet of papyrus folded in four. I smoothed it open on my bed, taking care not to crack the fragile document. With Martin holding the lamp very close, we pored over the small characters. As we read, his composure slipped to the point where he had to sit down on the floor and rock back and forth to fight off an attack of sobs. My own hand trembled as I took the lamp from him.
It was a letter to me from the Dispensator. It instructed me to give all possible assistance to the Permanent Legate in anathematising both Phocas and Heraclius and in declaring for an alleged son of Maurice, who was said by the Persian King to be the legitimate Emperor.
‘It’s a forgery,’ I said weakly. ‘The shitbag is up to many things, but he’d never put that in writing. Look’ – I turned the sheet over. There was no scorching on the back – none of the usual signs of checking for secret writing. ‘It was brought here to plant near my body.’
‘It can’t be a forgery,’ Martin said with quiet despair. He insisted that the letter was in the correct Lateran style and bore the correct seal. He should have known. Drafting stuff like that had been his job for five years. The rhythmical clauses and contracted script screamed Papal Chancery. There wasn’t a giveaway Greek letter in sight. It even had a signed subscript thanking me for confirming the Emperor’s unorthodoxy regarding the Creed.
There was a sudden pain low in my belly. I groaned and pointed at the piss pot. Martin got it under my chin just in time. I thought my head would burst as the black and red waves swept over me, and I puked again and again.
‘Drink this,’ said Martin, pushing more water between my lips. He dabbed his sleeve in the cup and wiped at the sweat on my face.
‘What the fuck have I been eating?’ I gasped as I flopped on to the bed.
‘Cabbage by the look of things,’ Martin said, glancing up from an inspection of the pot. ‘I don’t know about the other stuff.’
I leaned forward. I’d managed to fill the thing almost to the brim. Still, aside from the raw pain in my throat and all points downward, I was beginning to feel better. I wasn’t at all sleepy.
I looked again at the body. Martin had pulled the bedcover over it but the head was still visible. With mouth and eyes wide open, it was twisted at an angle that I was beginning to find distasteful.
What was it the dead man had told me in the latrine?
‘You will see me again, Alaric, and when you do, it will, I assure you, be to your advantage.’
I laughed. Before I could draw breath again, I felt a wet sleeve slapping my face. ‘I’m not hysterical,’ I wanted to say primly. But Martin had the letter in his hand.
‘We say nothing,’ he said flatly. ‘Even a suspicion that this letter existed, and that we’d seen it, would have us under the Ministry. I say we burn it and get the body out of here. Then we come back and don’t go out again until we leave for home.’
A thought crossed his mind. ‘You say Heraclius was behind this?’ he asked. ‘Why are you so certain? I thought you said they were protecting you.’
Not a good time for answering that one. But Martin’s thoughts had moved on.
‘You do suppose Heraclius will let us go once he’s inside the gates?’ he asked with rising concern. Would he recognise our immunity? His people didn’t.
‘That could be days and days away,’ I said. ‘I’ll think of something by then. For the moment, we’ll stay indoors. If anyone in the Legation asks why we’re not going out to Sunday service, we’ll plead indisposition from too much drink. The day after tomorrow can take care for itself.’
I needed to sit down and think all this through. But that would have to wait. Now was the time for action.
I took the letter from Martin and staggered over to the stove. I held it over the charcoals for a moment. Though I could smell the scorching of reasonably new papyrus, no secret writing emerged on either side. I let go of the sheet. As it fell into the fire it buckled upwards in the heat, the tightly pressed strips of papyrus reed coming apart as the glue melted. Then, with a sudden flare of light, it turned to ashes.
Now there was no letter. There had been no letter.
‘Where do you suppose we can dump a body in this city?’ I asked. This wasn’t Rome. People had a habit of asking about stray bodies in the street. There’d be more to this, if noticed, than paperwork and a few clerking fees.