too mouldy, and crunched on some stale bread that still had the papal dole mark on its underside. The wine was surprisingly good, and I sipped on this without mixing in any of the brackish water I was offered.
Never mind the attendant circumstances, it’s the quality of conversation that really makes a gathering. As you might expect, though, this was dire. The everyday language of these people was the radically degraded Latin of the City. It’s easier for us barbarians: we learn Latin as a foreign language, and can, if not always do, learn its purest form. And the dialect can even be forcefully expressive when spoken with feeling, as I could hear when Marcella really lost her temper. But in their mouths, it sounded grotesque. Their drawls were so exaggerated and slow, I almost wanted to finish their sentences for them. Anything they did say in the pure language had obviously been got from the classics, adapted for its purpose, and carefully memorised. There was no conversation as this is normally understood. Instead, the guests made little set speeches, looking in my direction whenever about to say something they thought specially apt. They generally spoke of their present wealth and the glorious deeds of their ancestors. One gave a long description of his alleged estates in Africa that, when he could remember the correct order of words, scanned as elegiac couplets. Some of this was clever enough to bear listening to, though I never did learn the name of the poet.
At length they thought me sufficiently impressed by this display of leisured learning, and fell silent, indicating it was my turn to speak.
I gave the usual brief and censored account of my journey to Rome. It shouldn’t have taken that long to get through, only everyone kept interrupting me with expressions of wonder at how well I spoke. ‘Such milky copiousness of words!’ one exclaimed. ‘Such grace and purity of diction!’ cried another.
Someone else asked if the sun ever shone in England, and if there were headless giants in London. When I ignored the second question and explained that the weather was wetter and cooler than in Italy, they gave me a round of applause, then raised their cups. ‘The first Alaric took Rome by starvation,’ someone with stained false teeth and a slipping wig simpered, ‘this Alaric has taken it by storm!’
When the applause for that – admittedly spontaneous – witticism had died away, another added: ‘He has the name of the uncouth barbarian, Alaric, but surely the face and body of the Grecian Apollo.’ More applause. More raising of cups.
Dear God, I thought to myself, how much longer? Maximin was snoring happily in his bed. Gretel would soon give up on me for the night and go to her own. And here I was, pinned down by a pack of bores whose grandfathers had probably used their last worthwhile books to cook dinner.
‘But surely you embarrass our young friend with such flattery? Let us respect his simple modesty.’ This was a new voice, young and firm and unaffected. It came from the back of the room. I strained through the smoky gloom and saw someone who’d come in late or whom I’d missed when I first came in. About thirty, well dressed, with a neat little black beard and hair very close cropped, but for a neat fringe that hung over his forehead, he sat on his couch with a napkin between it and himself. He swung his trousered legs back and forth. Like me, he was ignoring the food but making free with the wine.
‘Lucius!’ Our host reared up again. ‘I’m so glad you could make our company. How delightful to see you again.’
‘How was Constantinople?’ the wigged man asked Lucius. ‘Caesar is well?’
Lucius stretched his legs and took another sip of the wine. ‘Both were about as well when I left them as one might expect,’ he said. ‘The Persians are rampaging through Syria. There are Slavs pouring across the Danube. The exarch of Africa has revolted. His Eternal Gloryship Phocas, Ruler of the Universe, is quaking in his palace. He’s run out of everything he can tax or borrow, and is now murdering his way through the Senate so he can confiscate enough to keep his guards in wine and whores and the scum of Constantinople quiet with chariot races. I could hardly tear myself away from the place.’
The wigged man turned serious. ‘Is it that bad?’ he asked. ‘Will the East fall like we did?’ He paused suddenly, looking round. ‘Naturally, I take it for granted that Caesar will be victorious – ever triumphant.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about informers,’ Lucius said with a slight note of scorn. ‘In Constantinople, yes. They are everywhere. You can’t fart without worrying someone might twist it into a treason. But not here in Rome. There’s bugger all here worth confiscating – unless you’re desperate enough to lay hands on Holy Mother Church. In any event, His Holiness stands between us and Caesar.
‘As for the military collapse, yes, that is bad. I think the Persians mean what they say. I don’t believe this time they are interested only in a bit of plunder and a few indemnities to buy them off. They want permanent rule over Egypt and Syria, which are the only provinces left in the Empire that can pay tribute. And I think they’ve made a deal with the Slavs. The attacks I heard about were too close in time and purpose to be accidental.
‘I promise you – the next time those Eastern senators come visiting their cousins here, they won’t be so stuck up about our faded grandeur. They’ll be down at the Lateran, cadging their own tickets for the bread dole.’
His words came in quick, nervous bursts, with flashes of profound bitterness. As he finished, the room stayed silent. There was nothing more to be said. Rome had gone. Everywhere else had gone. Only Constantinople remained for these broken-down wretches as the bright beacon of civilised order in a world turning visibly grey. Eventually, some old man at the back asked in a quavering voice if any oil would be included in the next papal dole. A debate gradually started up – more natural and interesting than anything I’d yet heard. They even sat up on their couches into a more normal position.
Lucius stood in front of me, his hand out. ‘You can be sure, the only reason I came here tonight was to meet the famous Alaric of Britain. Did you really kill a dozen Lombards with your bare hands, rescue the nose of Saint Vexilla, and carry away half a ton of gold?’
‘Not exactly, and not alone,’ I answered.
He laughed and introduced himself. Lucius Decius Basilius, the last of a truly great house, had come to this dreary gathering to take me as a friend. He was just back from Ravenna, and before that from Constantinople, where he’d been trying to charm Phocas into revoking the confiscation of his murdered uncle’s estates in Cyprus. No luck there, he told me, but it was plain he could still afford a bath and a decent suit of clothes. In any gathering, he’d have stood out by his looks and energy. Now, he was almost dazzling.
He leaned forward, ‘Listen, I only came here tonight to say hello. I must get away directly for something else. But…’ He paused. ‘It was my intention to invite you to dinner tomorrow night. But I can see you’ve had enough of these stinking paupers. I’m astonished they’re waiting so long to touch you for a loan. Why not come away with me? I think I can show you something you won’t forget in a hurry – or want to forget.’
‘Anything better in mind?’ I asked, looking queasily at a cluster of mould I’d just found in my crust.
‘Plenty. Come with me if you want to stay awake.’
We crept out of the dining hall. The senators were deep in argument about something to do with double entitlements of dole for anyone who left his house to the Church. They had forgotten about me for the moment.
‘I’ll tell Uncle you were suitably overwhelmed by senatorial grandeur,’ said Lucius, speaking low as we quietly prepared to leave. ‘Tell these people you’re off, and they’ll all be expecting a goodbye kiss – on the mouth.’
My flesh crawled at the thought of actually touching these beings.
‘You leave things with me,’ said Lucius as we began a move for the door.
Martin met us by the main door. He’d been fed in the slave quarters, and there was a smear of something on his face still more disgusting than I’d been offered. ‘Sir,’ he said with a respectful nod of his head, ‘you told the reverend father you would be home not too late. Won’t he be worried?’
‘Is this your slave?’ asked Lucius.
‘He was lent by the dispensator,’ I said.
‘I see,’ Lucius said coldly, ‘a slave of Holy Mother Church.’ To Martin: ‘Your master is now with me. I’ll have one of my slaves escort you home.’
‘But, sir…’ Martin spoke to me, his face red, his manner nervous.
‘Your master is with me,’ Lucius repeated, his voice now silky as well as cold. ‘I commend your attention to duty. But while you’re on loan from the dispensator, you’ll do the bidding of who feeds you. Do you understand?’
With a look on his face half sulky, half alarmed, Martin bowed low before us. He knew better than to argue with a man like Lucius.
‘Tell Maximin I’ll be fine,’ I added, trying to sound reassuring, but unable to meet his eye. Without another
