Richard Blake - The Curse of Babylon

‘You look very fine, father,’ Theodore said stiffly. I glanced down at my senatorial toga. After six hundred years of changes in manners and faith and language, you might call it an affectation still to be dressing up like Cicero. But I was undeniably a noble sight. The purple stripe suited me no end. I felt almost happy to look at it. I was too young for the Senate, and I might be expected to cheer and clap tonight at an epigram on the fact by that worthless arse-licker Leander. I’d bear up in the knowledge that I looked absolutely lush.

‘The chair is waiting downstairs in the hall,’ Theodore added. ‘Do you think it would be an easier balance for the carrying slaves if Antony and I sat together opposite you?’

I nodded gravely. I hadn’t expected him to notice how heavily armed the slaves were. In his present state, he might not have noticed an earthquake. It had its uses. One of his many points of resemblance to Martin was a dislike of violence. ‘Your consideration for others does you credit in this life,’ I answered, ‘and will surely be rewarded in the next.’ I glanced at Antonia. She was looking troubled. Well she might. But for her, Theodore would be settling down for his evening prayers.

After a supper that might have been put together from the leftovers of his feast for the rabble, I was stuck in the place of honour beside Nicetas. His legs, swaddled in more bandages than I’d seen on Egyptian mummies, were propped on two ebony footstools, and I had the best smell in the room of flesh that any competent doctor would have uncovered in half a wink and left to dry out. Though it had been dark for hours, the night was sweltering. No hint of a breeze came through the open windows and the forest of candles that burned overhead completed the resemblance to a steam room. It could have been worse, I’d thought, as a semi-nude black girl came over to stand beside us with a fan. She was a better sight than the hard, scowling faces the rest of the audience had turned in my direction. It then did get worse. One politely lecherous look from me and she’d shuffled behind Nicetas. I was left with nothing else to do but try for a look of awed enthusiasm and pay attention to the latest masterpiece by Leander Memphites. Oh, for another quarter pill of opium to replace the one that had so completely, and so long ago, worn off.

It still could have been worse, I kept assuring myself. Leander might have composed five books in praise of Nicetas rather than just four. And we were approaching the climax of Book Four — that is, I hoped we were. Leander had dropped his usual simper and was steadily raising his voice till his Egyptian accent showed through like the sweat on the underarms of his tunic. Yes, we were getting there. After a worrying descent of his voice to describe and praise the main churches in Carthage, he ripped his tunic open from the neck downward to show an unshaven and distastefully flabby chest and, his face taking on the look of a man who’s trying to defecate and knows that he won’t, moved into an exultant squawk:

As in some stadium ancient, behold a beautiful athlete.

See the Lord Nicetas! Splendidly onward he rushes,

Kicking the dust to clouds, as his feet, so fleetingly sighted,

Spring on the ground and are gone. See, following after,

Barely giving contest, how his opponents falter,

All their long strides failing, as, claw-like, agony catches

Hold of their chests. See him alone in the heat of the morning

Make for the finish. Lord Nicetas — Swift as Achilles. .

So he carried on through another hundred lines or so to the end, before lapsing into a simper for the burst of applause that Nicetas led.

‘Blessings on Leander,’ a fat eunuch shrilled, ‘wondrous servant of the Muses.’

‘And blessings on Nicetas,’ came the chanted response from the rest of us, ‘great and victorious hero — the New Belisarius!’ The great and victorious hero raised his walking stick for another round of applause. This given, there was a determined rush for the wine tables, and I found myself alone with Nicetas and his poet.

‘Don’t you think Leander is magnificent?’ Nicetas grated. It was hard to know if this was a question or an accusation. Coming from Nicetas, it was probably both.

‘I’ve never heard the rhythm of hexameters made so obvious,’ I answered cautiously.

‘Exactly!’ he cried with an emphatic snort that ended in a cry of pain as he moved and one of his legs dropped off its stool. ‘If you ask me,’ he went on in an ill-natured mutter, ‘I’m sick to death of those rules about long and short syllables. I can’t hear them in Latin or in Greek, though I was flogged every day for years. You’ll agree that Leander has much improved on the ancients. I’ve always wondered how they could sit through the poetry of their own age. I certainly can’t abide it.’ He raised his voice again. ‘What this Empire needs is a renewal of the arts. How can I inspire men to win battles when they have no poetry ringing in their ears?’

‘Absolutely! Well said!’ Someone behind me cried through a full mouth. There was another cry of agreement on my left. I nodded politely. The true answer, of course, was that our armies were more likely to win if he wasn’t leading them. But he’d put on an almost convincing show of concern when I was made to explain the previous day’s murder attempt on me. Who was I to cast the first hard look of the evening?

‘My Lord’s patronage of the arts is an example to us all,’ I said. Nicetas glowered at me, before prodding Leander with his walking stick. This got a quiet repeat of the running track passage. In a break for Leander to sip delicately at his wine cup, I clapped very softly, and smiled and nodded. ‘Would My Lord excuse me a moment?’ I asked. ‘I must see how my son and his friend are getting on.’

Theodore was enjoying himself. I’d heard that much from a dozen yards away and in spite of the mass of sweaty bodies that separated us. ‘You see, it’s absolutely necessary,’ I heard him call at the top of a still-unbroken voice, ‘to regard Our Lord Jesus Christ as both Man and God and joined together in a Perfect Union. To see it otherwise is not merely heresy but also an inability to recognise the promptings of reason.’ I embraced Paul, first deputy of the City Prefect, and, avoiding being dragged into conversation with his increasingly doddery father, came upon Theodore beside one of the wine tables. He’d got Antonia wedged against a column. He also had her by one of her sleeves. His tendency to spray saliva when excited was on full display.

‘I trust you’re enjoying the recital,’ I said. Theodore nodded eagerly without taking the cup from his lips. The front of his robe was already stained and sopping wet. He looked into his cup. Before he could open his mouth to speak, a serving slave had noticed and was giving him yet another refill. ‘Should you not be mixing that with three parts water?’ I asked with vague concern. The wine I’d seen poured was a very dark red. Even I didn’t knock it back like this — not in public, anyway.

‘But it has the most refreshing taste,’ came the silly answer. ‘The Lord Eunapius assures me the taste is ruined by water,’ he added in a voice that ended in a slur. He let go of Antonia and moved to take a step forward but clutched at the table for support. Time, I decided, to take him by the arm and get him out of the room. I’d left our chair in the main courtyard. I could sit him in it and rely on the carrying slaves to keep him there till he passed out. But I was looking at Antonia. Her own cup in hand, she seemed to be glowing from within. I tried to think of a careless remark and found that my chest was beginning its funny trick with light. Taking both arms from the table, Theodore tottered closer to me. ‘Antony says the poetry was the finest thing he’d ever heard,’ he said thickly. He burped, opening a pathway between my nose and the contents of his stomach.