Richard Blake - Conspiracies of Rome

‘How long before I can have them?’ I’d asked in an affected Roman drawl imitated from Bishop Lawrence back in Canterbury. I don’t suppose it would for a moment have convinced a real member of the nobility. But I was finding a considerable talent for mimicry – it goes with the talent for languages – and it worked on the tailors.

‘For you, sir, before the close of business,’ they said together.

‘Indeed, yes, sir – you’ll look lush in the rays of the setting sun. Your lady in Rome will hardly recognise you.’

‘Is she pretty, sir?’ the younger tailor asked. ‘Do you sigh for her? Does she sigh for you? Ho!’

He ended with an expulsion of breath I took for a sigh. Were these people taking the piss, I wondered? Probably not. They lived in a world that had been turned upside down half a dozen times. I decided they were simply touched in the head, and ignored their chatter. For all my elegant Latin, they must have known they were dealing with an obvious barbarian whose sword had fresh notches cut in the blade.

‘Is she pretty, sir? Are you thrilled by her embrace? She will be thrilled by you. Can we follow your horse down to the city gate? You really are our finest customer this year.’

We were clear of the place just as the sun was setting. We trotted back along the road towards Rome. The shrine of Saint Antony, Maximin told me, was about a mile outside Populonium, a hundred yards off the road. On a slight rise in the land, it was a useful gathering point for bandits, as it gave them a good view – without they themselves being seen – of all traffic along the road.

For this reason, we made sure to start our deception some while before coming to the shrine. I held myself upright on the horse, proud and stiff. Maximin followed behind, bowed in silent prayer. We turned left off the road, following a little path that led upwards through bushes. We heard the subdued whining of horses long before we reached the shrine.

‘Who goes there?’ The harsh Latin cut through the darkness.

‘Your instructions,’ I said with slow precision, continuing forward.

Actually, I was feeling the need for another shit – not this time from dinner, but from pure nerves. Back on that sunny road, while the birds sang in the trees, and in Populonium, the plan had seemed daring but safe. Now, in the darkness, no moon yet risen, the temperature dropping, surrounded by roughs who weren’t likely to be as unprepared and stupid as the two I’d killed earlier, it all became less daring than foolhardy. How could I know these people hadn’t seen us ride past earlier in the day? We’d looked different, granted – but we were still two. Would they accept me as a young Roman noble? I had the clothes, and could mimic the accent and surface mannerisms. But I was still a big blond barbarian. How could I know they hadn’t already had those mysterious ‘instructions’ of which the theologian had spoken? How could I know he had uttered a word of truth?

To be sure, he’d lied about the nature of the guards. They weren’t the ‘runaway slaves’ of his description, but were big Englishmen, speaking the dialect of Wessex. And, dark as it was, I could see something in the way they bore themselves that told me they weren’t simple bandits. There was an order in the little camp and a general discipline that chilled me.

We rode straight among them. They had a little fire going in a hollow, and were getting some game ready to cook. I stayed on horseback, looking down at them with a lordly confidence I didn’t feel. Maximin dismounted and began a silent and exaggeratedly devout prayer in front of the shrine, which appeared so far as I could see to be an old tomb with a cross stuck on top.

‘They’ve sent a fucking boy out to deal with us!’ The words were in English, spat out with evident contempt. ‘Can’t these Latins keep their bumboys out of anything?’

‘Kill them both.’ Another voice came out of the darkness. ‘I told you this whole fucking business was dodgy. Take delivery of that stuff, sit here for two days, and then do the bidding of some boy and a priest. Something stinks, and it ain’t my cock. Kill them both, I say, and take the gold. We’ve been here long enough.’ He was another big man with a moustache that, in the shadows made by the fire, seemed to stretch down to his waist. ‘Next he’ll be saying One-Eye sent them.’

‘Your mission is completed,’ I drawled, a note of slight impatience in my voice. ‘Get the stuff loaded for me and be off back to Pavia.’ Probably feeling my tension, the horse shifted under me and whinnied. I brought it back under control.

‘I don’t have all night to sit here with you,’ I added, now evidently impatient.

‘I thought-’ the first voice replied.

‘You aren’t paid to think,’ I snapped. ‘You were told to wait here for instructions. I’ve brought your instructions. You load up for me and get yourselves off.’

I tried to work One-Eye into the instructions, but wasn’t sure which way to go with him. So I added: ‘Do I need to get down and count that gold myself?’

Suddenly shifty, the first voice told me there was no need for that. Did I think they were just ‘fucking bandits’?

‘What I think is my business,’ I said slowly. ‘Now, I didn’t come here to trade words. I want everything piled up in front of me and a light to see it by.’

I’d done the trick. A lump of burning wood was pulled from the fire and a couple of men scurried back and forth in the pool of light with more of the type of leather bag I’d seen that morning. I could hear the subdued music of coin every time one thumped onto the ground.

‘I count twenty-eight,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Where are the rest?’

‘You came late with your instructions.’ The voice was nervous, almost whining.

‘I said we didn’t need no extra help,’ a new voice muttered in English. ‘Those fuckers will get us our hands chopped off. “Trust you to believe a couple of Kentish cunts”,’ the voice went on, quoting a line from a song I’d heard an age before in a Winchester tavern.

‘You’ll hear about the missing gold when I’ve made my report. ..’ I added: ‘Now for the other stuff.’

Big Moustache came forward with a larger bag. From it he pulled a small casket. Even in the poor light, I could see its elaborate making – all gold set with jewels.

‘We ain’t touched nothing,’ he said. ‘We know the Faith.’ He passed it to Maximin.

‘Thank you, my son.’ Maximin’s voice was hoarse. He set the casket on the ground and opened it. His hands shook as he drew back a little cloth inside. He looked reverently on the contents for some while, then closed everything up. ‘Our Common Father will take note of your piety on the Final Day.’

‘You’ll want these as well,’ said Big Moustache. He reached into the back again and drew out three sealed letters. He passed them up to me. Without looking at them, I handed them down to Maximin. He gave them a cursory glance and put them beside the casket.

‘Right,’ I said, now businesslike, ‘get twenty of those bags into my saddlebag. The rest goes with Father Constantine.’ I nodded to Maximin.

To steady my now horribly frayed nerves, I counted silently to fifty as the saddlebags were packed. At last it was all done.

As we were ready to depart, the first voice asked: ‘What password shall we take back with us?’

‘Canterbury,’ I answered, saying the first word that came into my head. I gave it in the English form, ‘Cantwaraburg’. I bit my tongue and cursed my nerves. I could feel the suspicious glances.

I laughed, adding: ‘Say you spoke with Flavius Aurelianus. They will understand.’

At last we picked our way on horseback down to the road. The smooth slabs underneath, I forced back the impulse to spur my horse to a wild gallop. Whatever had possessed me to open my mouth like that? I suppose it was that we’d been deep into a long day. I’d woken that morning, a shabby barbarian travelling with a priest who was barely less shabby, heading into a future that involved poncing my bread off others. I’d then killed two men in short order, taking over a tidy sum in gold. Now I’d just swindled another twenty-eight bags of gold from a band of mercenaries, any one of whom could have cut me down in the blink of an eye. Whatever I now got up to in Rome would be done in style. I was nervous. I was tired. Even so, I’d been stupid as a churl, and no one could blame me for wanting to get away while it was still in my power to do so.