Richard Blake - Conspiracies of Rome

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.

The rain had cleared, and a bright and nearly full moon lit our path down towards the Forum. Its light concealed the full ruin of the buildings around us, and I felt some idea of how Rome had appeared in its days of glory. We passed through streets that were now reasonably frequented – a few whores, a priest about some business, a small band of thieves who’d have been mad to take on Lucius, me and the armed slaves of our escort. The rats were confining themselves to the side streets. I couldn’t tell if we were followed. We made too much noise of our own.

As we went, Lucius told me something about the gathering we had just left. They were all cousins or uncles or other relatives by blood or marriage. The Roman upper classes had always been a close group. Now, after generations without a new family to join the group, intermarriage and adoption had made them virtually a single family. Following the great wars and the attendant collapse, they were all variously hard up. Some survived on remittances sent from relatives in the East, others on the same papal charity as the ordinary Romans.

Every so often, Lucius would stop and draw my attention to some building. Before it was gutted in a fire, this had been the town house of the Praetextatus family. This had once been the main police building, but was now a monastery. Here had once stood a golden statue of Theodosius. Here had been a temple of Minerva.

It was the best guided tour I’ve ever had. Every building, every place of note, was illustrated with some anecdote to bring it to life. His family had been big in Rome since before Diocletian. This was his city, and he’d made sure to know it from the foundations up.

We skirted the Forum, turning left. We passed the Basilica on our right. We came to the Colosseum, looming gigantic in the moonlight. I’d noticed the day before with Maximin that all the entrances were locked and rusted. But there was one little door I hadn’t seen.

Lucius stopped before it. He turned to face me. ‘Look, I don’t know you, but I like you, and I think I can trust you. I want you to promise me that what you see tonight you won’t share with another living being. Can I have that promise?’

‘A hard promise to exact when I don’t have a clue what I’m to see,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll make you a promise,’ said Lucius. ‘Nothing you see here tonight will violate the natural law that all peoples have in common. You will see no harm done to any person or any legitimate interest. Will that do for you? If not, we have to part here. I’ll have some slaves take you back to your lodgings.’

I’d probably have settled for less than that assurance. I hadn’t known Lucius longer than I’d needed for a few cups of wine to wear off. But something about him had captivated me as surely as if I’d known him since childhood. Some people require time to make you realise how special they are. I’d known Maximin for months before I made that realisation, and still it had taken months longer on the road with him before I understood exactly how remarkable he was and how greatly I revered him. It had taken a year for him to grow on me as friend and father and tutor. Lucius had managed all of that in a short conversational walk through Rome.

Of course, I made him the promise he asked. With one necessary exception you’ll hear about in proper time, whatever I saw tonight wouldn’t be for another living being. If I were some cavilling lawyer, I might say I’m keeping the promise even now: were you alive on that night?

He rapped gently on the door. ‘Basilius,’ he said.

The door opened a little for a face to look out, and then noiselessly all the way. Someone in a hood beckoned us in. The door swung shut behind us.

I stood a moment in darkness. Then my eyes adjusted. There was some light from a window high overhead. By this, I saw we were in some kind of entrance chamber. Over by the far wall, there was a staircase leading down. With the confidence of someone who knew his way, Lucius walked quickly down. The rest of us followed.

We went through a tunnel perhaps fifty feet long. There was almost no light, but I had the impression of doors every so often on either side of us. There was a cold draught from an open doorway on my right that carried a blast of something long since dead. Then we came up a flight of steps, rounded a corner, and I found myself in the Great Arena of Flavius – a place for so many centuries the spiritual home of the Roman People.