Richard Blake - Conspiracies of Rome

Then there were the official miracles. Oh, I had trouble keeping a straight face during that recitation of lies. Did Maximin believe it? I rather think he did. I’m sure he believed all his own lies. I am myself an accomplished liar. But I’ve always felt constrained by a clear distinction in my mind between the truth of a matter and what I was saying at any one moment. Maximin was a natural liar. He really should have tried a career in diplomacy or intelligence or finance. He’d have prospered.

Needless to say, everyone else believed him. His description of how, on Bishop Lawrence’s approach, the sacred grove outside Dover had spontaneously uprooted itself and run into the sea drew murmurs of pious approbation. When I was with Theodore last Christmas, I made a point of struggling to Dover. The rotted stumps were still in place – untouched since I had myself supervised the churls with their axes. The timbers still roofed the little church we’d started in the same place.

And we got the promise of books. This being said, the assumption of the meeting was rather different from my original understanding. I thought Maximin was here for books, and I was tagging along. Now, it seemed, I was to be the primary collector of books. Maximin was to be given other duties in Rome.

I wasn’t told this in so many words. But it was so. I can’t say I was put out. Find the right man for the job has ever been the practice of the Church. Or, when the right man appears, adapt the job.

Afterwards, in his drab little office, the dispensator made the necessary arrangements with us.

‘We have a considerable library here in the Lateran,’ he said. ‘It dates back to before the Triumph of the Faith, and has been much enlarged over the years. We had a good harvest after the great wars. So many noble palaces lay in ruins. Our people went digging out their libraries, rescuing what could be repaired…

‘Martin, I’ll be glad of your presence,’ he called suddenly in a raised voice.

A clerk entered from an adjoining room. Taller, thinner, somewhat older than me, he had the freckles and red hair I hadn’t seen since I was deep into Wessex. I suddenly realised what a contrast I must have made beside all those sallow little Mediterraneans. Though he was dressed in good linen, and though he dressed his hair with obvious attention to effect, something about his cringing manner suggested he was a slave.

‘Martin handles all my correspondence with the East,’ the dispensator explained. ‘Though growing up in Constantinople, he is originally from an island to the west of Britain. I can assure you, however, he is neither a Celtic heretic nor a Greek semi-schismatic. He is a true son of the Church. He has my trust in all things. He has drawn an entry permit for the young man to our own library.’

Martin handed over a sheet of parchment covered in the smooth, clear hand of the Roman Chancery.

The dispensator continued: ‘He has also drawn an introduction to Anicius, an elderly nobleman of eccentric views who still has a library in his house. You’ll not find much there of spiritual sustenance. But one must read the pagan classics for their style.’

Martin handed over another sheet drawn in similar form.

The dispensator paused, looking at Maximin. Martin remained where he was and coughed gently.

‘Oh, yes. The young man’ – he squinted at my name on the report – ‘Alaric, is it not? Is that a Gothic name?’

I didn’t correct the error. So began my life as Alaric rather than as Aelric.

‘Alaric,’ the dispensator continued with another look at the spelling of my name, ‘will need a team of copyists for our library. In many cases, our books exist in only a single copy, and we cannot possibly spare these. They will need to be copied. Anicius is poor, and may doubtless be brought to an arrangement for the surrender of originals. Martin has very kindly volunteered to guide young Alaric in the obtaining of books and in supervising the copyists.

‘Now,’ the dispensator stopped for a moment and looked up at a filing rack beside the little window of his office, ‘I understand that the pair of you, in the course of your journey here, have acquired a considerable sum of money.’ He pressed his fingers together, a hard look now coming into his eyes.

Fucking bankers! I swore to myself. They’d so far shown themselves about as discreet as a drunken old woman.

‘Holy Mother Church, therefore,’ the dispensator continued, ‘will look to you to bear the whole cost of acquiring and arranging for the transport of books. This is, you will agree, very much to your advantage. We had in mind a fairly small gift in the first instance for the Canterbury library. Now, of course, you may gather as you please. Martin will help in the matter of the books. He is also fluent in Greek. This is nowadays an unusual accomplishment in our Church – indeed, Saint Gregory spent many years in Constantinople before becoming pope, and returned with not a word of Greek. We find Latin sufficient for our modern purposes.

‘Yet it is our intention that the English should, when the time is right, study Greek as well as Latin. It may not presently be useful, but it would make sense to take advantage of your opportunity and to form the basis of a Greek library in Canterbury. Martin will assist in the selection of the appropriate texts.’

At last, we came to the relic. Maximin reached into his satchel and handed this over. The dispensator assured himself all was in order and looked up, now smiling. ‘Holy Mother Church is in debt to both of you,’ he said. ‘This precious relic of Saint Vexilla was stolen not ten days ago. It was an audacious robbery – in the very church where I sometimes pray.’

Another clerk entered, this one in the rough, dark robe of a monk. He bowed silently and placed a sealed letter on the desk. The dispensator gave it a brief glance. ‘I will read this later,’ he said to the monk, ‘when I have time and am alone. No reply for the moment.’

The clerk opened his mouth for what looked a protest, but checked himself. He bowed again and left. I saw Maximin stare at this letter, a curious look on his face. As if he’d noticed this look, the dispensator neatly covered the letter with a sheet of papyrus.

‘You did well,’ he continued, looking back to the relic, ‘not to hand it over to the prefect. You know how these Greeks like to set their paws on the holiest things of the Faith.’ He turned to me. ‘You know, young man, these Greeks have no sense of the holy. I can’t call them heretics, but there is something not altogether right about them.

‘Many years ago, when Saint Gregory was newly our pope, some Greek monks turned up in Rome. They were caught digging for the bodies of ancient martyrs by the Church of St Paul. When we examined them, they said they wanted relics to take back to Constantinople. They were proposing to touch relics that must be handled – if at all – only wearing gloves. They even said it was their national custom to wash the bones of saints. Did you ever hear such grossness? You’ll be relieved to hear they were struck dead as they left the city! Some while later, the empress wrote from Constantinople, asking for the head of Saint Paul. She probably wanted it on her dressing table. It took all our diplomacy to say no without giving offence.’

Back to Maximin: ‘You need fear nothing of the prefect. He will do as we tell him.’

Martin came back with us to Marcella’s. It was convenient that we should put him up while he showed me round the libraries, and so we took a small room for him on the ground floor. He’d be close by the toilets – but this was more than one step up from the slaves of the other guests: they were bedded down all together in the second stable building.