I fought to suppress the horror bubbling up within me. For all I sneered at Martin, he seemed right enough this time. Perhaps I had just heard a death sentence. Only a day earlier, I’d been rejoicing at the turn my life had taken. Now, I was caught like a rabbit in a snare.
I hadn’t just been had by the Dispensator. I’d been really had.
I looked out through the now-open door to the street where I could already see my covered chair and a couple of armed enforcers standing by.
‘Fuck the Church!’ I muttered into the jug. ‘And fuck the fucking Dispensator!’
And that’s how I came to be standing on the Senatorial Dock a month or so later, with Martin for company, with a fat eunuch to bid me welcome, and with a whole row of stinking corpses swinging to and fro behind him.
So, let us now unfreeze everyone and thank them for their patience, and get on with the story.
5
‘You will, of course, be staying in the residence of His Excellency the Permanent Legate,’ Theophanes said as my chair drew level with his. After a blockage caused by some building works, the road had widened again to allow any amount of traffic side by side.
‘You will find the Legation eminently suited to your station in the City. Besides, it is very close by the Patriarchal Library attached to the Great Church, and fairly close to the University. It would be a poor use of your valuable time to have to cross the City unattended every time you wanted to go about your duties.’
We reached a main junction, and he turned to nodding and smiling at other persons of quality as they were carried by. I saw that few people in Constantinople went about on horseback or in wheeled carriages. Most were in open chairs like our own, each carried by four strong slaves who sweated in the sun. Some rode in closed chairs. I took these to be women of quality.
While Theophanes exchanged his ritualised greetings, I turned my own attention to the sights of Constantinople.
When Constantine rebuilt the City, he tried to make it so far as possible a copy of Rome. His Senate House, for example, was a direct copy of the one in Rome. Indeed, his Covered Market exactly copied the jumble of styles that centuries of extension had given the one in Rome.
Now, Rome was fallen on evil days, but Constantinople had come through unharmed. Whether in shadow or still catching the beams of the afternoon sun, the painted stucco clearly marked one building from its neighbours. From the homes and businesses of the mercantile and professional classes to the garrets of the poor, the buildings rose in careful gradations from ground to topmost floors. Every dozen yards or so, the torch brackets were set up to light the streets when the sun had gone down. Smoothly paved, with drainage points unblocked, the streets were spotlessly clean – swept and washed several times a day. Carried by aqueduct or in underground pipes, water splashed from fountain after fountain, and in bronze pipes running down the walls carried waste from the larger buildings.
Looking up the hill to the approaching city centre, I could see the vast, glittering domes and arches of an unsacked capital. Around me, the bronze and marble and even gold statues looked down securely from their unbroken plinths. Some of these were of emperors and officials going back to the time of the Great Constantine. Others, I could see from their perfect beauty, had been carried there from the temples and cities of ancient times.
But I’m describing Constantinople by comparing it with Rome. And if you haven’t been in a settlement larger than Canterbury or perhaps London, these are just vague words. Try then to imagine a city so vast, you can’t see open countryside at the end of any of the streets: the only signs of Nature are cultivated trees and cascades of flowers falling from the window-boxes of the great houses. Try to imagine an endless succession of broad avenues connecting squares, each one as big as the centre of Canterbury and filled with public buildings and palaces every one as big as the new great church in Canterbury.
Try to imagine smaller streets leading off from the greater, all paved with stone or brick, or with regular flights of steps to join different levels, these little streets themselves all lined by houses so tall they often stop the sun from falling on the ground. Try to imagine little alleys leading off these smaller streets, connecting the whole like the strands of a web, so that you can wander for an entire day and not see all of it, let alone conceive its plan.
Try then to imagine all those people – some dressed finer than any bishop, some in rags that a churl would despise. And try to imagine all these in a continual bustle of activity.
Think of just of one incident I recall from that first afternoon. A slave was painting one of the houses in a main street. He hung by one arm from the sill of a high window, a brush in his free hand. Another slave leaned out of the window, paint-pot in hand. Others stood below, arranging a net in case the painter should fall. Around them the pedestrians flowed like water about a rock in a fast stream.
Imagine this, and you have Constantinople, the greatest city in the world.
Theophanes ignored everyone on foot as we passed through the crowds. He made sure, though, to greet anyone who passed in a chair. Sometimes he would introduce me with a flattering reference to my quality that seemed always to magnify his own importance. With a grave nod of his bearded and carefully groomed head, the stranger would acknowledge my presence and utter some exactly worded greeting. More often, I’d be ignored throughout an interminable exchange of courtesies.
In Rome, at this time of year, everyone who could afford to get out would have escaped to the better air of the country – that is, assuming the Lombards weren’t on the prowl. In Constantinople, I soon gathered, everyone who hadn’t actually run off to join Heraclius found it advisable to show loyalty by staying put, regardless of the heat.
On a blank wall by one of the road junctions, someone had written a long graffito in a language I couldn’t then recognise, but that I now know was Coptic – Greek letters are used to express Egyptian sounds. I saw a recognisable version of the name Heraclius and I could make out the sign of the Cross. Some official-looking slaves were hard at work scrubbing it off.
I felt Martin plucking at my sleeve. I looked down at him as he padded along beside us.
‘If you look over to your right in the square coming up, sir,’ he said softly, ‘you’ll see the High Courts.’
Faced with many-coloured marble, topped by two giant symmetrical domes, each itself topped by a golden cross, the court building took up an entire side of the square. The Latin inscription above its central portico recorded its rebuilding by the Emperor Theodosius, the son of Arcadius. Above this, in a sheltered recess, was a giant mosaic of Christ sat in judgement. On each side of him, in Latin and in Greek translation, was the legal maxim: Fiat Iustitia Ruat Coelum – ‘Let Justice be Done, though the Heavens Fall’.
Almost like ants around a cottage door, the litigants and their slaves ran up and down the steps to the great building. The chairs of the great and the carts of the humble crowded the square, awaiting their owners. The dense mass of stalls clustered in the centre around a column topped by a golden statue – I think of Justinian – Martin told me, were selling legal forms and services to those unable to afford proper representation.
‘Is that where the bankruptcy case was decided against your father?’ I thought to ask. It would have been a redundant question. His face already answered. What was it like, I wondered, to be back here after such personal catastrophe?
The Papal Legation was housed in a small but imposing building on the far side of the square containing the Great Church. In its essentials an old palace, arranged around a set of gardens, it must have dated back to the early years of the City. At some point, its central front portico had been graced with an incongruously modern dome of a translucent green and blue, topping an entrance hall as large as a middling church.
It was here, bathed in the eerie light from the dome, that we were greeted by some decidedly secondary officials. One of these stood forward.
‘I am Demetrius,’ he said, ‘A
cting Head of the Legatorial Secretariat. I report directly to His Excellency.’
He went on to explain in a Latin so slipshod he might have been a tradesman that the Permanent Legate remained indisposed.
I looked at him. A small man in late middle age, with the movements of a startled bird and a face that had somehow escaped any touch of the sun, this official stood out from his colleagues partly on account of his greater age, and partly because, while their beards had the lush fullness of the Greeks, his own was either kept short or of recent growth.
It was evident he wasn’t a Latin. Nor did he sound Greek. His Excellency doubtless would send for me when he was less indisposed, he added. In the meantime, I should settle into the little room he’d found for me beside the kitchens and rest myself from a journey that must have rivalled that of Ulysses himself from Troy. As the Legation slaves had other duties, it was my good fortune to have brought enough of my own to attend to my ordinary needs. They could be accommodated in the corridor outside my room.
I glanced at Theophanes. Was that a look of sour impatience? Hard to tell. It was there for a moment, then he was all charming smiles again.
‘Demetrius is surely mistaken,’ he said. ‘I am sure that His Excellency the Permanent Legate had in mind for young Alaric and his party to be given the distinguished visitors’ suite on the upper floors.’
Demetrius himself pulled a face that wasn’t so fleeting. But it was obvious that no one argued with His Magnificence the Great Theophanes. He bowed and threw a look at one of the other officials, who promptly vanished.
‘Most sadly, the work of the Great Augustus calls me away,’ said Theophanes with a brief glance at Demetrius. He would leave me for now, he added, but would send for me after lunch the following day to discuss my schedule and attend to the necessary paperwork for my stay.
After more embracing and protestations of mutual regard, he was off with his little army, leaving us alone with the Legation officials. The hall seemed to grow duller by his leaving it. The officials there remained awed, though, and did their best to improvise a reception that anyone could have seen was not on their list of instructions.
6
I never did find out what Demetrius had intended for me. The suite Theophanes had ordered him to give me was a self-contained unit within the Legation. Branching off to the left from the back of the entrance hall, and covering two floors, it had its own access from the hall. It might have been an apartment in a residential block.
‘Good for defence,’ Authari whispered, for the moment forgetting he was no longer at the head of a Lombard raiding party. ‘I’ll guess the main building could hold off an army for days.’
I silenced him with a frown, and followed Demetrius up the stairs.
On the upper floor, there were about fifteen living and business rooms, some interconnected. All were approached by a corridor lit during the day by glass bricks set into the roof above. There could be no windows in the corridor, as they’d have looked out into the main square, and compromised the security of the Legation.
The doors that led off the other side into the rooms of my suite were all of solid wood with locks that turned from both sides. The rooms looked inward over the central gardens. The ground floor covered the same area, but the connecting corridor had no natural light except when the doors were open to the rooms leading off it. These were to be the quarters for my own slaves, and had a little kitchen that made me independent of the main household.
Right at the end of the corridor was a bathhouse and furnace that would be for my use.
Outside the main reception room and my own bedroom next door was a balcony. A bronze staircase led down from this to one of the central gardens, where trees and a fountain promised relief from the blazing summer heat. Looking out from the window of my office, I saw five monks shuffling about in a garden beyond this with watering cans and various garden implements.
Thinking back to Authari’s comment, I wondered if this might be a weak point for defence. I put the thought from my mind. This was Constantinople, not Rome. On the whole journey up from the dockside, I hadn’t seen a single fight, let alone a killing.
The upper rooms were placed to catch the morning sun, but had ceilings high enough to make the afternoons bearable. They were furnished with a taste and luxury that any self-respecting priest would have denounced as a mortal sin. But although it was Church property, the Legation was the place from where the Pope spoke through his representatives to the Emperor himself, and where, from time to time, the Emperor and the greater dignitaries would have to be entertained. For reasons of obvious prestige, its splendour could not fall below a certain level.
As we entered the suite, a few slaves and even officials were running frantically about with dusters and aired linen. Demetrius fawned around me, trying to divert my attention from the obvious change of accommodation.
‘We trust the young citizen will not be overcome by the splendour of these rooms,’ he said in his poor Latin. ‘We is told that Old Rome has not a single working bath in these last days of the world. Here, the young citizen has his own all for himself.’
I sniffed, and asked to see the toilet. Very important things are toilets. Forget beds and chairs, which can always be found at short notice. The toilets tell you exactly how civilised a house is, and your own position within it. I had to admit these ones did me proud. The fittings were of marble with four seats of polished ebony. A channel ran under the seats, for water to carry away the waste. Another channel ran in front to give continual water for the wiping sponges that were set on sticks of elegant design.
The glazed tiles that covered the floor and the lower walls were of a variegated blue. The plaster that ran above these was a dark and luxurious red. There had once been a fresco on the wall opposite the window, but this was now painted over in the same red, and I was unable to see what images or designs it had once had. The only evidence for it was a few patches of colour that had leached through the red.
Demetrius had to grope about to find the handle that turned on the water. With a gurgle that sounded like a belch from the depths of the Legation building, and then a hiss that died to a gentle splashing, the water burst up in a slightly higher point of the latrine. At once, as the water flowed through its appointed channels, the room came to life. The little tiles of the channels turned from dull to various shades of sparkling blue. The glazed tiles of the lower walls bounced back the shimmering light thrown up from them.
Come the winter months, ducts set beneath the floor would carry heated air from a central boiler to keep the latrine warm. For the moment, the gentle but continuous trickling of the water would keep it cool on the hottest days. This was a room appointed both for practical use and for mental reflection. I felt I’d be spending a fair bit of time in here.
I smiled inwardly as I realised Demetrius had pulled a muscle by reaching about for the lever, and his hands were covered with dust. He stood facing me, a suppressed wince on his face and evidently resisting the urge to hop from one foot to the other in agitation. So I sent him off with orders that Martin’s bed should also have clean linen and that the slave quarters should be provided with all that fitted my status as a halfway guest of the Emperor.
Walking backwards, he bowed out of my presence. I had a most gratifying sight of the confusion on his face as he bumped into Authari. Our kitchen cupboards might be bare. It was plain, though, Authari had found the wine store.
Back upstairs, while Martin supervised the unpacking and disposal of our baggage, I went into the main office and sat at a great ebony desk inlaid with gold and ivory. On this, a leather bag marked for my attention contained letters from Rome. Some were impressively recent. The roads hadn’t been so impassable after all. At least the post was now getting through again.
There was something about the Cornish tin business. As it was in code, it would be interesting. But it could wait. I rummaged in the bag and pulled out a thick letter from the Dispensator. I went over by the wind
ow for a better look at the microscopic writing.
Apparently, the Bishop of Ravenna had found a whole nest of heresy under his own nose. His most senior deacons were dissenting from the true position on the Trinity anciently settled at the Council of Chalcedon. They accepted that there was but one Person in Christ, but further inferred that there was but one Will and one Operation – thereby denying the true position, that there were two Natures, Divine and Human, which were hypostatically united in Christ, not mingled ...
My eyes glazed over as I read sentence after sentence of denunciation of this most horrid innovation. My job, I gathered, was to procure a formal refutation of all this in Greek – the longer the better. It would be the penance of the offending deacons, who knew only Latin, somehow to understand this and then to memorise it by heart, so they could preach against their heresy in every church in Ravenna.
As I looked down from the window, one of the monkish gardeners stared up at me from the main central courtyard, an oddly intelligent look on his face.
Back at my desk, I called for a jug of iced wine, and reached for another letter. This was from Gretel. The secretary who’d taken her dictation had faithfully copied her style of speech. She prattled on about her morning sickness and her longing to see me again, and her profound gratitude for all I was doing on her behalf. She was no longer confined to the house, though had no cause to go out. She emphasised that Marcella was now treating her as one of the guests.
In Rome, I’d always found Gretel’s conversation something to be endured. Now, I felt tears coming to my eyes as I read about Marcella’s vexation at the theft of linen by one of her less salubrious lodgers.
There were other letters – from an agent who was handling the sale of some land on the Aventine Hill, and reporting movements in prices that I could relay to traders here in Constantinople. There was another, dated last Easter from Canterbury, thanking me for a complete Virgil I’d sent over from Rome and asking for another City of God, the one I’d sent previously having been spoiled by the sea voyage.
Terror of Constantinople Page 5
