effective pope in hundreds of years. It was he who’d sent out the mission to England.
He’d seized his chance with Phocas. In return for some gross but vague flattery – of which this column, set up after his death, was one instance – and a more effective, though less public, series of bribes, the emperor had conceded the title of universal bishop and tacitly accepted the temporal supremacy of the pope in Rome. The gift of one of the larger temples for conversion to a church was a minor thing besides.
We bumped into one of the lawyers we’d seen earlier, pissing against a fallen column outside the Senate House. He gave us a little papyrus slip advertising his name and services, and launched into an overblown declamation on the splendid ceremony that had attended the dedication of the column. There was the exarch himself. There was Pope Boniface, just consecrated after a nine-month interval that had followed the sudden death of the previous Boniface – in those days, popes couldn’t be consecrated without the imperial warrant, and Phocas had held out for a bigger bribe.
‘There was,’ the lawyer said, spreading his arms dramatically, ‘a multitude of the highest dignitaries that came from all four corners of the universe, and all the glory and magnitude of the great Roman People assembled here in the very navel of the universe.’
It took an entire handful of copper to get the spouting wretch off our backs – I thought he’d follow us back to Marcella’s. Instead, he stuffed the coins into his purse and slouched off towards a wine shop set up under the Arch of Septimius Severus.
On the way back, I thought several times we were followed. As ever, the streets were mostly empty, and our shoes rasped loud on the paving stones. But could I hear a soft patter of feet behind us? I knew already Rome was a dangerous place, and cursed myself for leaving my sword behind when we’d set out to see the prefect. My knife would be of limited use against more than one attacker. But every time I stopped and looked round, the street behind was empty and silent. Was it an echo? It might have been. I only heard the noise when we were moving.
‘It’ll be dark soon,’ said Maximin. ‘Rome can be frightening when the light has gone. Let’s hurry back.’
We quickened our pace. So did the footsteps behind. But if they were there, they kept a regular distance, and we didn’t look round again.
At the top of the hill, there were some slaves lounging by a little shrine and other people going about their late afternoon errands. There was a sound of hammering from one of the houses as some roofing tiles were replaced. Soon, we were back at Marcella’s. With the inner gate shut behind us, we felt safer.
We’d felt safe too early. Our rooms had been searched. It was a clever job. I’d not have noticed, except the book on drains I’d borrowed earlier was turned over, its spine facing right instead of left. And the little green stone Edwina had once given me was fallen out of the fold in my cloak where I’d stored it.
Had it been my rooms only, I’d have concluded it was the slaves going about their business or looking for things to steal. But Maximin’s papers had been gone through. He was always very neat about these, and had spent an age when he unpacked in arranging these into the right order. He swore they had all been disarranged. Yet when Maximin checked the money he’d left on full display, none was missing. Nor was his silver crucifix. Whoever had been in wasn’t after cash. We called for Marcella. She was distraught.
‘But he was such a well-spoken gentleman,’ she wailed, looking at the papers on Maximin’s table. ‘He swore he was sent by you from the prefect’s office to get some things you’d forgotten. This is a respectable house for respectable people. We’ve never had this sort of thing before.’
‘What did he look like?’
He’d seized his chance with Phocas. In return for some gross but vague flattery – of which this column, set up after his death, was one instance – and a more effective, though less public, series of bribes, the emperor had conceded the title of universal bishop and tacitly accepted the temporal supremacy of the pope in Rome. The gift of one of the larger temples for conversion to a church was a minor thing besides.
We bumped into one of the lawyers we’d seen earlier, pissing against a fallen column outside the Senate House. He gave us a little papyrus slip advertising his name and services, and launched into an overblown declamation on the splendid ceremony that had attended the dedication of the column. There was the exarch himself. There was Pope Boniface, just consecrated after a nine-month interval that had followed the sudden death of the previous Boniface – in those days, popes couldn’t be consecrated without the imperial warrant, and Phocas had held out for a bigger bribe.
‘There was,’ the lawyer said, spreading his arms dramatically, ‘a multitude of the highest dignitaries that came from all four corners of the universe, and all the glory and magnitude of the great Roman People assembled here in the very navel of the universe.’
It took an entire handful of copper to get the spouting wretch off our backs – I thought he’d follow us back to Marcella’s. Instead, he stuffed the coins into his purse and slouched off towards a wine shop set up under the Arch of Septimius Severus.
On the way back, I thought several times we were followed. As ever, the streets were mostly empty, and our shoes rasped loud on the paving stones. But could I hear a soft patter of feet behind us? I knew already Rome was a dangerous place, and cursed myself for leaving my sword behind when we’d set out to see the prefect. My knife would be of limited use against more than one attacker. But every time I stopped and looked round, the street behind was empty and silent. Was it an echo? It might have been. I only heard the noise when we were moving.
‘It’ll be dark soon,’ said Maximin. ‘Rome can be frightening when the light has gone. Let’s hurry back.’
We quickened our pace. So did the footsteps behind. But if they were there, they kept a regular distance, and we didn’t look round again.
At the top of the hill, there were some slaves lounging by a little shrine and other people going about their late afternoon errands. There was a sound of hammering from one of the houses as some roofing tiles were replaced. Soon, we were back at Marcella’s. With the inner gate shut behind us, we felt safer.
We’d felt safe too early. Our rooms had been searched. It was a clever job. I’d not have noticed, except the book on drains I’d borrowed earlier was turned over, its spine facing right instead of left. And the little green stone Edwina had once given me was fallen out of the fold in my cloak where I’d stored it.
Had it been my rooms only, I’d have concluded it was the slaves going about their business or looking for things to steal. But Maximin’s papers had been gone through. He was always very neat about these, and had spent an age when he unpacked in arranging these into the right order. He swore they had all been disarranged. Yet when Maximin checked the money he’d left on full display, none was missing. Nor was his silver crucifix. Whoever had been in wasn’t after cash. We called for Marcella. She was distraught.
‘But he was such a well-spoken gentleman,’ she wailed, looking at the papers on Maximin’s table. ‘He swore he was sent by you from the prefect’s office to get some things you’d forgotten. This is a respectable house for respectable people. We’ve never had this sort of thing before.’
‘What did he look like?’
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