Richard Blake - Conspiracies of Rome

‘Why should I give the emperor’s men what they killed Maximin to get? Why should I lift a finger against the Church that he died to protect?

‘I say we burn the letters,’ I insisted. ‘We now know what happened. I say we burn the letters and forget their contents, except as may be required to get the bastards who killed Maximin.’

Lucius put the letters down in front of me. His hands shook still, but he now controlled his features. ‘They are your letters,’ he agreed. ‘You must do with them as you think best. But let me put this to you. If Maximin was really trying to protect the Church, why didn’t he burn these letters himself? At the least, why didn’t he take them off unbidden to the dispensator? He’d have had the thanks of the Church, and in all likelihood preferment. A truly faithful Son of the Church would have had his reward in the simple handing back. Why did he seal them up again and put them somewhere safe? What was he intending to do with them?

‘I’ll tell you why, Alaric. Maximin was trained in Rome, and ordained into the Roman Church. But he was born in Ravenna, a citizen of the emperor. You say he was troubled on that last morning? Well, that’s obviously because he felt a tug of loyalties – between pope and emperor. That’s why he became so drunk and rambling as the day wore on. He couldn’t decide where his real duty lay.

‘Maximin is now dead. You are at least morally his heir. You owe it to his memory to make the choice he hadn’t time to make for himself. I don’t think destroying them is an option.’

Lucius reopened the bag and took the letters back out. He spread them in front of me. ‘Let me now put this to you. If we take these letters to the dispensator, what will he do? He might say, “Thanks very much, my lad. Stay in Rome to your heart’s content, and good luck with the investigation. Never mind the further trouble you cause me.”

‘Rather more likely, he’ll have the pair of us done in before we can draw breath. He’s already got a case against you. He wouldn’t have trouble getting one against me – it’s even now on his list of things to do for the day. Why should he let us get out alive? With or without those letters, we have information that could drag him straight down from that cushy eminence. I know how these clerics think. He’d watch the pair of us beheaded, and wouldn’t miss a night’s sleep over it.

‘One thing I do promise, though,’ Lucius said in a tone of finality. ‘Even if the dispensator doesn’t kill us, he’s in no position to tell us who killed Maximin.’

He was right. What was it the dispensator had told me? ‘You have no conception of what I can do in this city – or of what I will do to protect the interests of the Church.’ He’d have us put out of the way, sure enough.

The exarch of Italy, on the other hand, might now benefit from the murder of Maximin. Almost certainly, the murderers were either his own men or men on his side. But put those letters into his hands, and there was more chance of getting to the bottom of the mystery than the dispensator could provide. The exarch had no reason to kill us, nor any to refuse me – if I were to help him now – whatever private revenge against his men I might care to demand.

Burning the letters was, indeed, not an option. It simply removed valuable evidence. I was faced with a choice: to whom should I give the letters? Pope or emperor? Exarch or dispensator? I cared little enough for any of them. If I were forced to choose, with no personal interest at stake, I’d have chosen the pope. At least his men hadn’t laid hands on Maximin – not so far as I could tell. Moreover, I’d eaten his bread, and my life mission was now connected with the success of the Church mission in England.

But I wanted a truth that the dispensator couldn’t give me, though the exarch might.

I replaced the letters in the bag and with a resigned sigh pushed it back to Lucius. ‘We go to Ravenna,’ I said.

Lucius turned and pulled some papers out of a cupboard. ‘We leave today,’ he said. ‘We leave now. You’ve got enough luggage with you. I’ll get you a horse.’

Lucius shouted for his slaves. In a moment, the house was in uproar, as they ran about filling bags with things for the journey.

The plan had been to send me off with a slave escort for protection on the road. Now, we were to travel light and alone. The dispensator would know almost at once what had happened. By then, however, we’d be out of Rome. By the time he could order armed guards to give chase, we’d be miles along the Flaminian Way. With our horses, and without armour to weigh us down, we’d easily outrun them, and keep ahead of any couriers sent on to intercept us. Fifty miles outside Rome, the temporal power of the Church began to fade. We could then trust in the letter of safe conduct he’d got from the exarch for his earlier journey.

Once in Ravenna, Lucius would show the letters. That would stop the whole plan. Whatever happened in the East, Italy would be saved from the unspeakable humiliation the Church had in mind for it. And I’d be at least closer to the truth about Maximin’s death.

As I got myself into the riding clothes Lucius gave me, I heard the clatter of horses being led out of his stable.

Though, like all the other great roads of Italy, it starts from the Forum, the Flaminian Way ran fairly close by the house of Lucius. Because it is the main road to Ravenna, it was kept clear and in good order. We had to dismount a few times as we hurried down the side streets that led onto it. Once on the road, however, we were very soon at the Flaminian Gate. No message had reached the guards there, and we passed through unhindered. I didn’t suppose even the dispensator could act that fast. Nevertheless, it was as if a weight had fallen from me as we passed through the heavy gate, the guards standing to attention for the lord Basilius.

Once out, we set a steady gallop. As we reached the great Milvian Bridge over the Tiber – the place where Constantine is said to have had the message from God that converted him – I looked back. I could see the high walls of the city, but as yet no pursuit. Within the walls, I could see the tops of the higher buildings.

I’d stopped noticing how bad the air was in Rome, or how built up the place was, even if much of it was ruined. Outside the walls, it was almost a shock to breathe clean air again, and to have an unbroken view all around me.

As before, the road was raised above the surrounding countryside, running straight and white into the distance. On our left was the Tiber, sliding further away from us as we travelled north; on our right the ruins of a civil order that had once reached far outside Rome.

Unlike on the Aurelian Way, we weren’t alone. There was a thin but continuous stream of traffic: wagons laden with food and other goods for the Roman market, pilgrims coming in for the consecration or just to worship in the existing churches, the carriages and litters of the great. We passed a convoy of imperial couriers, bringing letters from the exarch. Covered in dust from the long journey, they now rode slowly, laughing and chatting. They called out a greeting as we passed them.

I looked back after a few miles. I shaded my eyes and squinted to see past the sun, which had risen high on my front left. My heart skipped a beat. There was a little cloud of dust in the south. The dispensator had at last got wind of our intentions, and had sent out a whole mounted brigade to ride us down. Another chase on a road. How would this one end?

Lucius looked back and laughed. ‘They’re too heavy and too far behind,’ he cried, waving his cap joyfully. ‘Unless they can grow wings on their horses, they’ll never catch us.