I sighed and went back to the previous matter. ‘Until further notice,’ I said firmly, ‘last night didn’t happen. Trust me, and keep a stiff upper lip.’ That was an order, and I expected no more about any supposed magic in Athens, or any more about running away from our undoubted duties. I stood up in the bath and looked across what had been a cavernous steam room. No general heating, of course, meant no steam. But having the lead tub moved in had at least reminded me of the comforts I was missing. I climbed carefully out and stood shivering on the unheated tiles. I took the towel Martin passed me and rubbed myself dry. The rain that had gone away when the big storm ended didn’t look as if it would return for a while. If so early in the morning was any indication, we had a fine day ahead. Already, there was a bright patch of sunlight inching its way down the plain bricks of the domed wall.
‘You,’ I said to the slave in very slow and simple Greek, ‘take up this mirror and hold it while I shave myself.’ Whether or not he’d sorted out my spots, he could help get that shameful blond bristle off my body. I stared back at a thoroughly idiotic smile on his face. I tried him in one of the Slavic dialects that I knew was spoken south of the Danube. It didn’t help. ‘Oh, go away!’ I groaned. ‘Go and report for cleaning duty.’ I stepped out of the pool of sunlight that had now just reached where I was standing and grabbed both oil and razor. I pointed at the door. ‘Get out!’ I roared.
The slave finally understood me and scurried out, leaving the door wide open.
‘Martin,’ I said, once he had returned from closing the door, ‘I don’t like to remind you of less pleasant days. But I do believe you once did bathroom duties when you were a slave. If I can do the rest myself, do be so kind as to shave my back.’
I was inspecting the underside of my crotch in the mirror when the door opened again. It was the idiot slave come back. He capered about, shaking his head and pointing at my crotch. He laughed and clapped his hands and let out another burst of nonsense. This time, I made an effort to listen. He was speaking a kind of Greek. The main problem was that he was defective in the head.
‘I gather the Western delegates have now arrived,’ I said to Martin. ‘Am I right in believing, however, that the Pope himself is outside?’
‘Not His Holiness in person,’ came the reply in a voice I’d never thought – or hoped – I’d hear again. ‘And, I assure you, there is nothing immediate about our arrival. We have been kept waiting here longer than we might have wished.’ I’d put my question in Latin, and I’d been answered in Latin.
I looked over at the door. A monk beside him, who was trying his best to pull the front of his hood over his eyes, there stood my old friend the Dispensator.
‘The head of the Roman delegation offers his deepest respects,’ he said, ‘and would have an audience with the Lord Senator.’ He ignored the fact that I was standing naked with my legs apart and showing every appearance of trying to sodomise myself with the handle of a bronze mirror. In both general and specific circumstances, a prostration would have been out of the question – at any rate, from him. But he did manage a very stiff bow.
Chapter 22
‘My Lord Fortunatus!’ I cried. I hurried across the room, hardly noticing that the towel Martin had tried to wrap about me fell off after two paces. ‘This is a most unexpected honour.’
He raised his arms for an official embrace. Our lips met without touching in a way that might have impressed a geometry teacher. As soon as decency allowed, I took my hands from his stiff, bony shoulders and helped him into the only chair in the room.
He’d aged a little in the two years since our last meeting. The parchment of his face was paler and more withered. He might have been a touch smaller. But it was the Dispensator, sure enough – chief servant of the Servant of the Servants of Christ. He was the man, that is, who, formally charged with handling the Papal charity, was in fact governor of the Roman Church. So long as he took the trouble to get addled old Boniface to stamp his seal on whatever writing surface embodied it, his word was law in spiritual matters over the whole of those vast regions, mostly now unknown to Constantinople, that looked to Rome.
‘My Lord will forgive me,’ I said with all the smoothness I could find, ‘if I am overcome for the moment by the joy of an acquaintance that I never thought would be renewed.’
He stared back at me while Martin made a better job of getting the towel tied about my waist. It had its convenient side that he’d chosen to come out as head of the Western delegates. No one would ever dare question what agreement we might eventually reach about the questions for a future council. At the same time, someone more junior – and more pliable – would have been more immediately convenient.
The Dispensator settled into his chair beside the leaden bath. ‘The Lord Count did assure me,’ he said, with a hint of what might have been quiet pleasure or disapproval, ‘that you had been drowned on your journey from Constantinople. I rejoice in the knowledge that rumours of your death were an exaggeration.’ He fell silent and looked down to where I’d sat before him on the floor. He managed a chilly smile. ‘But please do accept my congratulations on your rise to such eminence as you have achieved. I did not imagine, when I asked you to represent us in Constantinople, that your career would so blossom – and at so young an age.’
There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘blossom’ that I could have taken for insolence. But the man had put up with far worse from me in Rome when our positions were reversed, and I contented myself with a smile.
‘Still, God does move in mysterious ways. Even you might appreciate the Divine Providence when it is so plainly displayed.’
I smiled again and reached forward to pour two cups of wine from a tray that the idiot slave had now found the initiative to carry in. The Dispensator tasted it and put his cup on the floor with a finality that indicated I’d have to share the ginger cordial.
‘But I must also rejoice,’ he went on with a look at Martin, ‘to see your secretary in such good health.’ Probably, he was looking at the gap where Martin’s left ear had been. Priscus had eventually apologised for the ‘untoward circumstances’ that had compelled him to slice this off. He’d even promised a replacement in red leather just as soon as we were all back in Constantinople. For the moment, Martin was hiding the gap as best he could by combing his few remaining locks of red hair over it. He blushed and covered his embarrassment with a polite bow.
‘If you can have that translation ready before lunch, I’ll be grateful,’ I said to Martin. He took the hint and bowed again. He was followed out by the Dispensator’s secretary. As the idiot slave danced after them, I got up and closed the door. I emptied both cups back into the jug, then pulled the napkin off the ginger cordial and refilled the cups. The Dispensator sniffed at his and tasted. He nodded and put it down, this time within easy reach. I sat down.
‘I must protest – and I am aware of your status as the Emperor’s representative – at the shocking treatment I have been subjected to during the ten days since my arrival in Athens.’ He scowled and looked across at the wall behind me. ‘I must remind you,’ he added, ‘that any offence given to me is an offence given to His Holiness the Universal Bishop.’
I got up again. It had been a mistake to sit on the floor where he could look down at me as if at a boy in class. I perched carefully on the edge of the bath. The lead bent slightly under my weight, but didn’t buckle and send a flood of cold water over the pair of us.
‘In particular,’ he said with as dark a scowl as I’d ever seen cross his face, ‘I take exception to my not having been informed of your arrival yesterday morning. I had given appropriate orders to all the Latin bishops to mourn your loss at sea. I am most provoked at having not been told that, even as we were tearing our second best robes in lamentation, the Count and all the Greek bishops were welcoming you in Piraeus.’ He stopped and turned his mouth down. I put the image he’d suggested straight out of mind. If I didn’t, I knew I’d not resist the urge to dissolve in helpl
ess laughter. I might even fall backwards into the water.
He leaned down and recovered his cup. ‘Please accept, on behalf of the Universal Bishop, my formal complaint against the Lord Count and against Their Graces the Bishops of Nicaea and of Ephesus. Their joint behaviour, since my arrival in Athens, has been a disgrace. I have no doubt there would be still graver reason for complaint if they were able to speak a word of Latin, or I of Greek.’
He finished his cup and held it out for a refill. ‘But let me turn to the matter of interpreters,’ he carried on, with a move from the chilly to the frigid. ‘The only one of them who is not utterly deficient in Latin showed every appearance, four days ago, of having gone mad. Since then, he has displayed a progressively smaller regard for our comparative positions in the world. This morning, he did not even see fit to attend on me at dawn. The other interpreters are both insolent and incompetent. One of them was caught yesterday examining the contents of my writing box. When my secretary put a knife to his throat, he had the effrontery to plead direct orders from the Lord Nicephorus.
‘I see no point in addressing myself further to the Lord Count. I now see that, when I spoke to him yesterday, he was already preparing to hurry off without me to the port. I therefore ask you, My Lord Alaric, to take such steps as may be required to assert and maintain the dignity of His Holiness of Rome.’
I slid down from the side of my bath and walked over to where I’d let the mirror fall. I picked it up and put it on a ledge. I turned back and tried for a reassuring smile. I caught the look on his face and thought better of the attempt. ‘My Lord Fortunatus,’ I said very smoothly, ‘do be assured that, as representative of the Emperor, I regard any affront given to His Holiness of Rome as an affront to the Great Augustus himself. It would have pleased me more than I can say to see you on the dock yesterday morning. I am certainly pleased to see you now, and do believe that I look forward to a return, in this consultative meeting, of all the harmony and friendship of our old dealings.’
Harmony and friendship? Well, that was pushing matters more than a bit. All I got was a look that might have turned wine to ice. ‘The last time we met in Rome,’ he said with stony calm, ‘you asked us, on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, not to anathematise a set of formulations that may not be heretical, but that do not strike us as fully orthodox. We complied with your request. I now find that His Holiness the Universal Bishop is required to subscribe to these formulations. We do, of course, understand the difficulties the Empire faces within the Egyptian and Syrian Patriarchates. Even so, the settled position of His Holiness in Rome is that no clarification of what was agreed at one ecumenical council can be made except by another ecumenical council.’
I nodded solemnly and managed a second time not to burst out laughing. An ecumenical council, indeed! When did Rome ever stand up for Church democracy unless it thought there was some benefit to be had for Rome? Within its own branch of the Church, it had long since allowed less consultation than a drill sergeant does with new recruits. If it was now demanding full consultation, it would only be so Greeks and Syrians and Egyptians could be set against each other and still more concessions of primacy could be extracted for Rome.
‘My Lord is surely mistaken,’ I said smoothly, ‘if His Holiness the Patriarch of Rome is required to subscribe to anything.’
The Dispensator scowled at the implied demotion of Boniface to equality with the other heads of the Church.
I smiled and pressed on. ‘The function of this present meeting is merely to explore the possibilities for what may be discussed in future at some wider and more formal gathering.’ There was no point wondering how he’d guessed what we were about. Even if I hadn’t blackmailed him at our last meeting into avoiding any statement about a Singular Will for Christ, the Roman Church had its spies even inside the Imperial Palace. I could be surprised that Priscus had got wind of my scheme. I’d have been more surprised if Rome hadn’t known.
I sat back on the edge of the bath and tried to look earnest. ‘This is not a regular council of the Church,’ I said, ‘where hundreds of bishops have been called to reach a conclusion. Rather, it is an almost private seminar, in which only the very best men have been called to a place where they can speak freely – to express their innermost feelings – and from where they can take back a fuller understanding of questions that will be put at some future gathering of the whole Church. I do assure you that no one here is required to subscribe to any new formulations of the Creed.’
‘Then perhaps you should tell the Lord Bishops of Nicaea and Ephesus,’ he snapped, ‘that the best men of both Latin and Greek Churches have been invited. The last time that demented interpreter did anything worth calling work, they insisted through him to my face that our liturgies were translations from the Greek rather than coordinate texts. If that is really the opinion nowadays of the Greek Church, I fail to see the benefit of our remaining in Athens.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ I said emolliently. ‘It is certainly the wish of His Holiness of Constantinople, and of His Imperial Majesty, that our Roman Brothers in Christ should be treated with all proper respect. We come together in the fullest love and fellowship of Jesus Christ.’ I stopped. I could see that I was wandering across the line separating moral earnestness from parody.
‘Can I ask if you have been accommodated to your satisfaction?’ I asked with a sudden change of subject. I’d speak to Simeon – yes, buggery Simeon, the worst choice even Heraclius could have made as head of the Greek delegation. Trust a fool to send a fool, I thought. I had another thought that sent a chill straight through me. I put that out of mind. I’d speak to Simeon. I’d know more then. I’d also have Martin cast a look over the interpreters. Otherwise, I could at least ensure that everyone was fed properly and kept warm. I put on a sympathetic face as I heard the complaints about the rats and pigeon droppings in the monastery that had been assigned to the Western delegates. If Rome itself was a heap of stinking ruins, the Lateran kept up certain standards. I’d see what improvements could be made to the accommodation.
‘My Lord,’ I said, standing up, ‘though I am not a churchman, you will appreciate that I am fully aware of all the issues under discussion. I have the greatest confidence in the ability of His Grace of Nicaea to represent the Patriarch of Constantinople. But please do bear in mind that I represent the Emperor, and that he has every reason to ensure that all discussions are as smooth and productive as they possibly can be. The things that are of God must always be left to the men of God. At the same time, you will, I hope, regard me as wholly at your service in all matters that can make your stay in Athens to your complete satisfaction.’
The Dispensator nodded. He even allowed himself a neutral smile.
‘I think it would be fitting,’ I added, ‘if you and your fellow delegates could accept the Count’s hospitality for dinner tomorrow. It is a while since I last rejoiced in the Latin spoken by natives of the old Imperial capital. All else aside, there are so many mutual friends of whom I should like to hear.’
That wasn’t enough, so I continued: ‘Naturally, you will sit at my right hand for dinner.’ Still not enough, I could see. Well, I was here to chair things, and it was my decision entirely how they should be chaired. ‘I am also able to confirm that, as representative of His Holiness himself, you will, of course, occupy a bishop’s chair.’ That got his eyes wide open. He might in effect be head of the Roman Church. Formally, he was still only a deacon.
‘The moment you first stepped into my office with Father Maximin – but I correct myself: with Saint Maximin,’ he said with a look of growing ecstasy, ‘I knew that you were a most remarkable young man, and that you were destined for greatness.’
That wasn’t my recollection of things. If he’d waited a few days before turning openly nasty, neither had it been all love and kisses at our first meeting. But no matter that. I was here to get Rome on side, and this was a good beginning.
I still had no clothes to put on, so I hitched
my towel a little higher about my waist and led him from the steam room. I escorted him across a courtyard not yet reached by the sun, and that was still unpleasantly cool, and back into the close-smelling corridors of the residency. They looked better than they had in the night, but were still decidedly smelly from the soaking. We stopped in one of the undivided rooms.
The Dispensator nodded at what had once been a gilded statue of Hadrian. ‘Is this where the Emperor stayed on his celebrated visit to Athens?’ he asked in a pretty good attempt at the conversational.
‘It might have been,’ I answered. I guided him round a puddle that had formed under one of the ceiling windows. I gave him a potted history of the building. I might have shown him the chapel, had I known where it was. But the Dispensator had long since rumbled my lack of faith, and pretending any now would only ruin the amicable tone on which we were parting. I led him to the main entrance hall, where his secretary was waiting. Though I must have looked a strange cross between wrestler and bathhouse slave, I followed him out into the Forum of Hadrian and made sure to embrace him again.
‘A further matter we shall need to discuss,’ he said as he stepped sideways to avoid a pool of mud, ‘is the grant you purported to confirm, when last in Rome, of the title of Universal Bishop made to His Holiness.’ He stopped and squinted at me in the sunshine. ‘You are surely aware that the initial grant was defective, and that your confirmation of it may be void. Our new head of Legal Affairs is assured on both these points.’
I pulled a sympathetic face and spoke of a letter I’d be sending straight off to Heraclius. I’d been wondering if – no, when – he’d get round to that. I’d known all the time, on my last visit to Rome, that my confirmation of the grant was beyond my authority. It had been made by Phocas in his last days as Emperor. All his acts had then been cancelled by Heraclius, and, though exalted, the status in which I’d been clothed for my visit to Rome was nowhere near sufficient to revive a grant cancelled under the Great Seal of the Empire. But it had suited Heraclius for a grant made by Phocas to be taken as binding in Rome, though deniable everywhere else should it ever get us into hot water with the other territorial branches of the Church. Since then, I’d been sitting on letter after letter from the Dispensator. Bearing in mind what was probably going on seven hundred miles away in Constantinople, I’d rather not have to take notice now of his complaints – even if I did possibly have the authority to settle them. If I did have to take notice, though, it would only be at the right moment, and after some very hard bargaining. I’d certainly not be notifying the Emperor of anything until I could get myself alone with him.
The Ghosts of Athens (Aelric) Page 16
