Conspiracies of Rome (52 page)

    ‘A further lapse on our part, though I cannot blame Simon for this, is that we lost sight of Father Maximin the evening before he died. You may recall that the pair of you were invited to a gathering of some of the more decayed Roman nobility. We were aware of this invitation. When Simon saw you go out with another dressed in Father Maximin’s cloak, he did not realise until too late that you had gone out with Martin. This meant that we had no more notion than you had of what Father Maximin could have done with those letters. It never occurred to us he did not still have them on his last day.

    ‘You know the rest of the story. I can only add that you and Basilius were watched closely throughout your investigation. The disguise you adopted to visit the financial district was penetrated at once, though Simon was not able to keep track of your movements on your last night in Rome, when you were directed by Basilius.

    ‘It was my decision to leave you and Basilius to the investigation that he must so richly have enjoyed. I knew that, sooner or later, you would lead him to the letters, and that Simon and I would not be far behind.

    ‘It is testimony to his resourcefulness – and to yours – that we were not able to keep up with you at the critical moments, and that the interception we asked our Lombard friends to arrange on the Flaminian Way was less successful than we hoped.’

    ‘Your Lombard friends?’ I asked, looking closely at his face. I saw no change in its bland, official expression.

    ‘Yes, our Lombard friends.’ He picked up the forged papal letter and looked briefly at it again. ‘This is a most ingenious production,’ he said, dropping it lightly in my direction. ‘Martin has a fine grasp of the diplomatic style. We really should have used him for more important work than we did.

    ‘Of course, what would have given the letter away as a forgery is the touch about toleration of the Arian heresy. I doubt if anyone would have believed that. It would have exposed the whole letter as a forgery.

    ‘Even so, it would not have done for this letter to get into the wrong hands. It might have been used to our brief but considerable disadvantage. A search of our archives would reveal much that we do not yet wish to be revealed to the world. Be assured, the Church has thought much about the future of Italy and the corresponding safety of Rome and the Lateran. Not all that we have discussed has been carried into effect. Much of it cannot be carried into effect. We have never considered the toleration of heresy. But there is little else we have not considered.

    ‘And yes, we do hope for some eventual full accommodation with the Lombards. For the moment, we try to keep relations with their kings as open as we can. Our accommodation may involve a wider political settlement – perhaps with the Lombards, perhaps with some other force. But this is not presently an option. For the moment, we remain good and loyal subjects of His Imperial Majesty in Constantinople, whoever this may be.’

    He looked again at all three letters. ‘Most ingenious. No, too ingenious. If I knew not better, I should assume that Martin had got himself access to our most secret archives.’

    He picked up the letters and stood. He dropped them into a metal box on the floor of his office. He poured in hot lamp oil and dropped in a lighted taper. The room filled with smoke and the acrid smell of burning parchment. Soon, the letters were reduced to crackling ash. Before they went out, as if as an afterthought, the dispensator added the papyrus note of our meeting and One-Eye’s report.

    ‘These letters never existed,’ he said firmly. ‘This meeting discussed no matters pertinent to any alleged existence of these letters. The lord Basilius has unaccountably disappeared. Bearing in mind the desperate state of his finances, this will surprise no one.

    ‘You, Aelric, have been out of Rome on confidential business connected with the English mission. Tomorrow, you will return to the scriptorium here, to continue supervising the work of copying that has proceeded regardless of your lengthy absence.’

    ‘So, I’m not to be killed.’ I didn’t ask. Rather, I made a statement of possibly doubtful fact.

    The dispensator threw up his arms. For the first time that evening, he smiled. ‘Goodness, no, Aelric! What could possibly have given you that idea? Ours is a Church of perfect love and forgiveness. We can have no blood on our hands, nor ever will have. For some offences, of course, we will hand over malefactors to the secular authorities for punishment according to secular law. But ours is a Church of peace and love.

    ‘I do not see what offence you can have committed to justify your handing over to the prefect. In any event, considering all the circumstances, I do not think it would be appropriate to send you before the prefect. And – again considering all circumstances – I do not think you would ever be foolish enough to take yourself before the prefect or any other official of the emperor.

    ‘Nor,’ he raised a finger in emphasis, ‘would you think to share any information with another person, presently absent from Rome, who acts for an entirely separate interest.’

    The dispensator examined the front of his tunic. ‘I did, at our last meeting, suggest that you might find the air outside Rome somewhat more to your liking. But this was purely to encourage you to give more attention to the work of finding those letters. And now you have tried the air outside.’

    I stood up as if to leave. I thought everything had been said. The dispensator stopped me. I could think of nothing more to say. As ever, he could.

    ‘There is one matter outstanding,’ he said. He nodded to One-Eye, who went to the door. There was a whispered instruction. A bound prisoner was pushed into the room. I could smell the filth clinging to the body and dirty rags of a man who’d been on the run in the sewers of Rome, and then in some disgusting prison cell.

    I looked at Martin. He looked back at me, a desperate resignation stamped on his dirty, unshaven face. The red hair he’d always been so particular about dressing was a mass of clotted filth. His arms were cut and bruised from the leather straps that held him fast.

    ‘Martin was arrested some days ago as he tried to leave Rome,’ the dispensator explained. ‘He was careless enough to arrange a last meeting with a young person whose movements we had been following. We arrested him just before he reached the meeting place. Even as a slave of the Church, his life is forfeit. As said, we can do nothing ourselves to visit on his body the punishment allowed by law. But he can be handed over to the justice of some other person or persons.

    ‘We could resign him to the care of the prefect – the laws of the Empire and of the Church do permit this. Or we can give him up to some other person.

    ‘I have decided to make a present of him to you. Call it a reward for what you have done to advance the work of the English mission.’

    One-Eye grinned as he pushed Martin towards me. Again, we looked at each other. I could do anything I liked with him. I recalled the grisly punishments Lucius had insisted were owed to slaves who had trespassed far less. But I recalled also the words of the abbess: ‘There is a time for revenge, and a time for putting away revenge.’

    I hadn’t asked Lucius what part Martin had taken in the killing of Maximin. Were his the light footprints? Had he struck the killing blow? But how many deaths had those letters caused over the past month? Lucius had been the originator of the plot. He and I jointly – he deliberately, I negligently – had set in motion the chain of causes that led to the death of Maximin. Now Lucius was dead.

    Let that be an end of the matter. Revenge is an infinite cycle only among savages or the demented.

    I struck Martin a light blow in the manner that I supposed was still prescribed by law. ‘Martin, I free you,’ I said in a firm voice.

    He looked back at me, a look of disorientation on his face that at any other time I’d have found funny. I don’t know what he had expected. Certainly, he hadn’t expected this.

    I turned to One-Eye. ‘Unbind him, if you please.’

    One-Eye took a knife to the tight straps. Martin stood before me, rubbing life back into his arms.

    ‘Go back to Marcella’s. Get a bath and a meal. Or go elsewhere if that is your wish. In the morning, get a lawyer to draft the necessary documents. Bring them to me in the scriptorium.’

    I handed him my purse. ‘This will pay any drafting fees. Keep the rest as a wedding present.’

    Martin opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. He hurried past me out of the office.

    I turned again to leave. But there was still one more matter. The dispensator cleared his throat. I turned back to face him.

    ‘Aelric,’ he said, ‘you came here to do penance. Penance you have now done.’

    He stopped me again as I reached the door. ‘I know you have your doubts. Let me assure you, however, there is a God. And He often works in mysterious ways.’

    And that was it. I walked out of the Lateran into the warm night air. There was no moon overhead. But there were lights on the stalls selling cooked food and souvenirs to the pilgrims who now crowded the square. I could smell the blossom on the trees and the cooked food and the smoking charcoal of the fires.

    And that is it. I did see the dispensator again the following afternoon. But that opened a new chapter in my life. This one is closed.

    As you know, they did make a saint of Maximin. I was at the consecration of the Church of the Virgin and All the Martyrs. He was canonised at the most dramatic moment of the proceedings, the pope officiating before the exarch and a mob of assorted dignitaries. I can tell you, it was all of the highest magnificence. The Church did itself and Maximin proud that day.

    The robe he wore when killed is on display in Canterbury. I’ve never been able to bring myself to look at this. But I’m told it still works the occasional miracle.

    I went into the chapel last night, here in Jarrow. I lit a candle and thought to pray to the Holy Saint Maximin. Perhaps I did pray. In the darkness lit only by that single flickering light, I felt for just a moment so close to him that I could almost reach out and touch him and hear his loud and cheerful voice.

    But the moment passed. And I was just an old man, alone in the gloom, waiting for the final darkness.