by Paul Waters
‘No, of course not. That’s Faustus. He’s the deacon. Now come along, little soldier-boy, or are you going to run away and let him think you’re nothing but a coward? He only wants to speak to you. Are you scared even of words?’
The Bishop of London rose from his upholstered couch. ‘My dear Drusus, greetings. How pleased I am. I have been looking forward to this opportunity to chat for some time.’
He was a short, fat man, with hair done in the ecclesiastical manner. An air of sweet Asiatic scent hung about him. He motioned with his small, plump hand at the seat opposite and asked me to sit. His fingers, I saw, were festooned with rings – thick bands of silver and gold, set with huge, glittering gemstones. He put me in mind of an expensive merchant.
I sat, uneasily, on the edge of the seat. He was looking at me with a pleasant smile. But I saw, under his thin black brows, that his pinprick eyes were appraising me.
Albinus had gone to stand apart, by a sideboard of carved ebony. I glanced angrily at him, but he ignored me. Then the bishop snapped his fingers and a manservant appeared from behind an embroidered hanging, bearing a silver tray.
He poured two cups of honey-coloured wine, from a flask of cut glass, and set them on the low table that stood between us. He offered nothing, I noticed, to Albinus, nor to the strange deacon called Faustus, who was waiting by the door.
The bishop drank, then took up a silk napkin and dabbed his lips. ‘For some time,’ he said, ‘ever since dear Lucretia mentioned your stay in London, I have been hoping you would come to visit me. Your poor father Appius has been much on my mind.’
‘You know my father?’ I said, staring.
‘Why naturally. You seem surprised. Yet it is only to be expected that men of significance should know one another. Did he not speak of me? – No? Well, perhaps not. But we were acquainted nevertheless, and often had cause to discuss questions of importance.’
I narrowed my eyes at him, disliking his unctuous manner, his quick smiles that died on his lips, and the smooth self-conscious movements of his bejewelled hands.
He paused, then sat forward. ‘And now,’ he said, beaming, ‘your father is in difficulty; it is most unfortunate. In a way, that is what I wished to speak of. But what is it? You have gone quite pale. Here, drink your wine. You are not thirsty? No matter; the kitchen-slaves will help themselves to what is left, no doubt.’
He smiled, and once more drank, taking his time, touching the little napkin to his mouth afterwards.
‘The Church,’ he continued, ‘has great influence. After all, the emperor Constans is one of our own, and heeds our guidance, as do all good servants of the One God. Many things are possible. A word here, a letter there. The bishop in Trier might be persuaded to speak up for your father. You see, Drusus, I am a man who is listened to, and I have many friends.’
He sat back into the heavy cushions and looked at me, forming his fingers into an arch. His tunic was of some fine close-woven cloth, the kind of thing my uncle imported from the East; and on his feet were bright red-dyed doe-skin slippers, clasped with Keltic silverwork in the shape of twisting serpents, with gaping mouths and bulging eyes. What was this man saying? I asked myself. That he could bring my father back? That I could soon go home again? He must have seen the confusion in my face; but, whatever it was he was leading up to, he seemed in no hurry.
‘Lucretia has told me so much,’ he went on. ‘I feel already that we are friends. How old are you now – fourteen, isn’t it?’
‘Fifteen.’ I had turned fifteen during the autumn.
‘Well, you are almost a man . . . and a handsome one too, wouldn’t you say, Albinus?’
Albinus grunted. The bishop smiled and then drew down his thin black brows, giving the appearance of considering what to say next, though I had the sense that he had long ago thought out this conversation.
‘You know, perhaps there is something you might do for me. A favour for a favour, you could say.’ He eased himself forward from the couch and stood. ‘But come, let us walk, and discuss what may be done.’
Across the room Albinus and the deacon moved to follow, but with a snap of his finger the bishop gestured at them to stay. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and guided me under the hangings, out through a door into a cloistered courtyard. He talked as he walked, I do not recall of what – commonplaces, something to do with the Church, the city, and his own importance. I was feeling uneasy. I did not like the feel of his hand on the back of my neck, nor the rich, sickly scent that filled the air around him.
But he had said he could help my father; and so, remembering this, I steeled myself.
He halted at a door and slipped the latch. ‘Let us go this way,’ he said, easing me ahead of him into the narrow vestibule beyond, into what seemed at first to be total darkness.
I stood blinking and realized, as my eyes adjusted, that we were in a long chamber. At the far end, a weak glimmer of light penetrated from a high aperture. The air smelled of incense, and old earth, and unwashed humanity.
‘This,’ whispered the bishop, ‘is our place of worship.’
I stared into the gloom. Thick squat pillars receded into the blackness, like tree trunks in a night-time forest. Within the body of the room there was a stone-topped table like an altar. I shivered, remembering the stories, expecting at any moment grasping hands to lunge at me from the shadows. Where else, I asked myself, did these Christians obtain their blood to drink, if not from living victims? I wondered what kind of god could be pleased with such a lightless, ill-smelling place.
Beside me the bishop’s voice sounded, smooth and amused. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said loudly, and my voice echoed in the silence. I took a step forward, to show I meant it.
‘This was a bathhouse once,’ he said. ‘What could be less fitting? But soon I shall clear it all away, and in its place build a proper monument, something to the glory of God that men will tremble at. In the meantime this serves for our followers – poor townsfolk and slaves for the most part, know-nothings looking for food and salvation.’ He gave a quick sardonic laugh. ‘They count for little, but they are useful foot-soldiers; infantry in a war they do not understand.’
I heard the shuffle of his slippers on the stone, and felt his damp fingers on the nape of my neck. I turned sharply. He took his hand away.
‘What do you want from me?’ I demanded.
He let out a sigh.
‘Be calm, young man; there is no need to raise your voice. We have many followers: but that is not enough. We need high-born friends – notables, men who carry weight in the province, who can persuade other simpler folk. We are resisted, you see. We need men of authority . . .’ He paused, then added in a tone I was not intended to miss, ‘. . . or their sons.’
Like a rising sickness, understanding dawned within me. ‘But sir,’ I answered slowly, ‘it is not the religion of my ancestors.’
He laughed – a careful, calculated laugh, devoid of humour – and when he spoke again there was a new edge to his voice. ‘Nor was it the religion of the great emperor Constantine, who was raised an unbeliever, as everyone knows. Yet he saw the truth and followed it, by God’s grace. If he could, so can you. Besides, there is much to be gained, and’ – with a significant pause – ‘much to be lost. No, no, do not discomfit yourself, I am not asking for an answer now. Still, I think we understand each other, and I can see you are no fool. Take account of your situation . . . But do not delay too long, for your father’s sake.’
I found Sericus in his room, seated on the edge of his bed, reading a book and trying to ignore the noise from the kitchens. When I told him what had happened, he stared at me and said, ‘You cannot put your trust in such a man. It is out of the question.’
‘But Sericus, he says he can help us!’
‘So he says, but a decent man does not invite a poor guest to dinner and then ask him to pay for it after. Let us say you agree to what he asks, what will come then? What will be hi
s next demand? How indeed do you know he will do anything at all for you? And by then you will have made a public commitment – for that is how he wishes to use you – and you will not be able to retract without disgrace.’ He shook his head. ‘No, there is an ill smell about the whole business; your father would tell you never to deal with a man who promised a kindness upon such a condition. No gentleman would behave thus.’
‘Then do you forbid it?’ I asked.
He began to answer, but then he hesitated, frowning at the mildew-speckled wall. ‘No, Drusus,’ he said eventually, ‘I cannot forbid it, for I cannot know the secret places of this bishop’s mind. I am old, and you will soon be a man. This is a question you must decide for yourself.’
THREE
THAT NIGHT I LAY IN BED, staring at the black rafters and wrestling with my thoughts.
When, earlier that day, I had at last left the bishop’s residence, for the first time I had been truly angry with Albinus.
‘You deceived me!’ I shouted at him.
But he had merely given me a look of blank wonder, as if such things were normal and I was making much out of little. When I went on and pressed him, he shrugged, saying, ‘Mother wanted it, and the bishop told me to bring you. What are you so angry for? You would not have come otherwise.’
After that I gave up, not trusting myself to speak to him further.
I knew Sericus was right. It would be disgraceful to submit to such a man as the bishop. His promises of assistance had been vague, his tone and expression almost mocking. I had no assurance that he intended to do even what he said, or whether his influence, which he seemed to think so much of, counted for anything at the court of Constans.
I considered going to Balbus, and laying the whole matter before him. But he was not the kind of man to understand such intrigue, and instinct told me he would go straight to my aunt, and she to the bishop. Everything could be denied; anything I said against the bishop could be dismissed as the frustrated imaginings of a resentful boy, the son of a traitor.
Thus my thoughts turned, and my mouth felt dry and bitter, as if I had eaten rotten fruit. And behind it all, the prospect of home beckoned, like the glimmer of bright morning beyond a closed door.
So I was at a loss, and did not know where to turn. But it happened, next day, that I fell to talking with Ambitus, my friend at Balbus’s office.
I had gone with him to the city dock, to see to the loading of a cargo of olive oil bound for Lincoln. We were making our way back up the narrow alleyways when from ahead there came the sound of men shouting. All along the street, people were craning their heads from the windows to see what the fuss was. Then, rounding the corner, we walked into a large crowd blocking our way.
At first I could not believe what I saw. I had expected, I suppose, some sort of tavern brawl. But instead I saw the crowd had with one mind set upon a building, a small antique temple with fine delicate columns and steps at the front, which I had often passed on my errands to the city dock. It was, I knew, a shrine to Mercury, of the sort one saw all about this part of town, Mercury being the god of traders and merchants.
We pushed our way forward. The crowd broke out in a sudden cheer as a great slab of marble facing came crashing down from the side of the temple and shattered on the flagstones.
‘But why are they doing this?’ I cried, shouting into Ambitus’s ear over the din.
He gave me a grim look. ‘It is nothing new. Every few weeks there is an attack like this. They will not stop till every temple is gone. But see, even now they are afraid. They stand back, and dare not venture inside.’
He was right. For all the mob’s noise and cheering, not one of them dared mount the steps under the porch, where in the dark interior the image of the god waited in his shrine. They were like men setting upon some noble captive beast, darting forward to strike and wound, but too timid to make the kill.
I stared in disgust. Only then did I think to ask, ‘But who are these people?’
He turned to me. ‘Do you really not know? Why, they are Christians of course. Who else?’
I remembered then how Albinus had held back when I had ventured into Diana’s temple. For all his ridiculing of the gods, he too was afraid of what he mocked.
Just then the crowd broke into a cheer. We craned our heads to look. A gaunt-faced youth had stepped out and was advancing with a rope, prancing to and fro, swinging the rope about his head and smirking at the bystanders, who were egging him on with cries of encouragement and motions of their arms. After making a show of this for some little time he suddenly darted up the steps at the front of the temple, hurriedly laced a noose around one of the fluted columns, and tossed the rope-end to the crowd.
There were cries of exertion; the rope jerked taut – but nothing happened.
Others ran forward to help. A shout went up and they heaved again. The rope – a mooring line taken, I suppose, from the nearby docks – strained and creaked. The temple stood firm. But then, just as I thought they might give up, mortar dust began to rain down onto the steps. With a grinding crack the column shifted on its base, then broke at the point where the noose was wrapped around it, and toppled forward like a stack of packing-crates.
All around us, the mob let out a howl of joy. They surged forward, and set about beating and kicking the broken cylinders as if they had some life in them. An old woman was standing in front of us, screaming and jigging about and waving her fist in the air. Suddenly, as if she had been struck, she swung round and glared at me with red, wild eyes.
I gazed back at her, transfixed. Her features were flushed, her black-toothed mouth was flecked with spittle. It was like the look of the Gorgon.
Suddenly Ambitus thrust himself forward. ‘What is it, old woman?’ he shouted.
She jabbed a filthy hand at him. ‘Why do you hold back? Why aren’t you cheering and praising like the rest?’ She began casting her eyes about and calling.
‘Come on,’ said Ambitus, shouting in my ear over the din, ‘before she brings her friends.’
We hurried away, pushing through the wild crowd. Behind, I heard the woman screeching insults and curses.
‘Anyway,’ said Ambitus, when we were clear of the worst of the mob, and could talk without shouting, ‘why are you so shocked? I thought you were one of them.’
‘Not I!’ I cried indignantly.
‘No?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it’s none of my concern.’
‘But why on earth, Ambitus, should you suppose it?’
‘Everyone in your house is Christian. Or haven’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, of course I’ve noticed. But they don’t go about breaking up temples, do they?’
‘No, they don’t. They leave that to the mob. Come, Drusus! The mob do not act alone. They never do. They are guided and instructed and encouraged by others, who never get their hands dirty and never show their faces.’
‘In any case,’ I said, ‘I am not a Christian.’
He frowned and tossed his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. As I said, it’s none of my concern.’
We walked on. Presently I said crossly, ‘And you, Ambitus? What about you? You have never told me. Are you not a Christian too, then?’
‘I?’ He laughed. He reached to his tunic and took out a coin, and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. ‘See this?’ he said, fixing my eye, ‘this is what I trust in.’
‘A coin? What are you talking about?’
‘Money. The great all-powerful god. It is what makes me free.’ He placed the silver piece carefully back into his purse. ‘As for the rest, what do I care if they tear down Mercury’s temple? Let them do it. What has Mercury done for me?’
He strode on, glaring at the dirty pavement.
‘Do you know how I came to learn this trade? My father was a dockhand. He was a drunk and a good-for-nothing, and gambled away everything he earned. When he was incapable, which was most of the time, he sent me here to do his work for him. Then, when I was eleven, the plague took hi
m. One day he was his usual drunken self, the next he was gone, just like that.’ He held up his open palm and blew, as a man might blow off a feather.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be. I hated him. He left us with nothing, of course, like the wastrel that he was. My mother would have starved, but for what I brought in, and I was forced to turn my hand to what I could find – and some of it would make you blush, Drusus, if I told you of it, which I won’t. So let the Christians play their games, as long as they leave me alone. Needs must . . . or have you not learned that yet?’
He jerked his head and spat in the gutter. But then he paused, and tapped my arm gently with his small brown fist.
‘I am sorry, Drusus. That was unfair of me.’
I looked into his face. ‘So you know, then, about my father?’
He nodded. ‘Everyone knows. Albinus made sure of it. What do you think those gossiping fools talk of in the office when you’re not there?’
I shook my head. I could feel the colour rising in my face. I considered for a moment. Then I said, ‘Ambitus, I need some advice.’
‘Only ask.’
And so I told him about the bishop.
He heard me out in silence. When I had finished he whistled slowly through his teeth and pulling me into a doorway said, ‘Listen to me, Drusus. I don’t usually give advice to people, but your tutor is right: you cannot trust that man. He would be a laughing stock in this town if he weren’t so dangerous. There is nothing he will not do to get what he wants.’
He nodded back down the street. ‘Who do you suppose was behind that? It happens every month or so. The Council complains to the bishop; the bishop says he had nothing to do with it, and for a while things are quiet. Then something else happens. And it is not only buildings that are harmed: people have died. You saw that old woman. She would have torn us apart with her bare hands if she could, just because we were not screaming like the rest. Understand this: the bishop wants power, and he stops at nothing to get his way.’
