word, Martin turned and went.
‘Come with me,’ said Lucius. ‘I think I can show you something pretty good tonight.’ He stepped out. I followed.
15
The rain had cleared, and a bright and nearly full moon lit our path down towards the Forum. Its light concealed the full ruin of the buildings around us, and I felt some idea of how Rome had appeared in its days of glory. We passed through streets that were now reasonably frequented – a few whores, a priest about some business, a small band of thieves who’d have been mad to take on Lucius, me and the armed slaves of our escort. The rats were confining themselves to the side streets. I couldn’t tell if we were followed. We made too much noise of our own.
As we went, Lucius told me something about the gathering we had just left. They were all cousins or uncles or other relatives by blood or marriage. The Roman upper classes had always been a close group. Now, after generations without a new family to join the group, intermarriage and adoption had made them virtually a single family. Following the great wars and the attendant collapse, they were all variously hard up. Some survived on remittances sent from relatives in the East, others on the same papal charity as the ordinary Romans.
Every so often, Lucius would stop and draw my attention to some building. Before it was gutted in a fire, this had been the town house of the Praetextatus family. This had once been the main police building, but was now a monastery. Here had once stood a golden statue of Theodosius. Here had been a temple of Minerva.
It was the best guided tour I’ve ever had. Every building, every place of note, was illustrated with some anecdote to bring it to life. His family had been big in Rome since before Diocletian. This was his city, and he’d made sure to know it from the foundations up.
We skirted the Forum, turning left. We passed the Basilica on our right. We came to the Colosseum, looming gigantic in the moonlight. I’d noticed the day before with Maximin that all the entrances were locked and rusted. But there was one little door I hadn’t seen.
Lucius stopped before it. He turned to face me. ‘Look, I don’t know you, but I like you, and I think I can trust you. I want you to promise me that what you see tonight you won’t share with another living being. Can I have that promise?’
‘A hard promise to exact when I don’t have a clue what I’m to see,’ I said.
‘Then I’ll make you a promise,’ said Lucius. ‘Nothing you see here tonight will violate the natural law that all peoples have in common. You will see no harm done to any person or any legitimate interest. Will that do for you? If not, we have to part here. I’ll have some slaves take you back to your lodgings.’
I’d probably have settled for less than that assurance. I hadn’t known Lucius longer than I’d needed for a few cups of wine to wear off. But something about him had captivated me as surely as if I’d known him since childhood. Some people require time to make you realise how special they are. I’d known Maximin for months before I made that realisation, and still it had taken months longer on the road with him before I understood exactly how remarkable he was and how greatly I revered him. It had taken a year for him to grow on me as friend and father and tutor. Lucius had managed all of that in a short conversational walk through Rome.
Of course, I made him the promise he asked. With one necessary exception you’ll hear about in proper time, whatever I saw tonight wouldn’t be for another living being. If I were some cavilling lawyer, I might say I’m keeping the promise even now: were you alive on that night?
He rapped gently on the door. ‘Basilius,’ he said.
The door opened a little for a face to look out, and then noiselessly all the way. Someone in a hood beckoned us in. The door swung shut behind us.
I stood a moment in darkness. Then my eyes adjusted. There was some light from a window high overhead. By this, I saw we were in some kind of entrance chamber. Over by the far wall, there was a staircase leading down. With the confidence of someone who knew his way, Lucius walked quickly down. The rest of us followed.
We went through a tunnel perhaps fifty feet long. There was almost no light, but I had the impression of doors every so often on either side of us. There was a cold draught from an open doorway on my right that carried a blast of something long since dead. Then we came up a flight of steps, rounded a corner, and I found myself in the Great Arena of Flavius – a place for so many centuries the spiritual home of the Roman People.
In those times, the Colosseum had been filled day after day with an immense multitude. There were the common people, bathed and in their best clothes. There were the senators, solemn in the white and purple robes of their status. There were the elegant ladies, dressed in coloured silks and chatting excitedly. Overhead on hot days was a great awning to keep off the full rays of the sun. Presiding over all from his high box, watching all and being seen by all, was the emperor, clothed in deepest purple.
I don’t know the purpose of the little door we had used, but the iron gates of the main entrances were still there, now rusted shut. I stood in the arena, looking around. Once, the roar of the crowd would have been terrifying, as an endless procession of criminals, prisoners of war, Christians and the gladiators were moved into that place to entertain with their offerings of blood and death. Now, the moon shone brilliant on the pale, silent benches.
The games, I later discovered, had never got over Constantine’s adoption of the Faith. When he rebuilt Constantinople as his New Rome, he’d permitted neither pagan temples nor an amphitheatre. Instead, he and his successors had contented themselves with an immense circus for chariot racing, which had soon come to give as much excitement as the old games, though without the same unwilling blood, except when it came to public executions.
In Rome, things had continued much as before, though under noble patronage. At last, about a hundred years after the switch to Christianity, some Eastern monk – Telemachus, his name – had run into the arena during a particularly bloody contest, trying to part the gladiators. The outraged mob stoned him to death and insisted that the games should continue. But the emperor was got at by his priests and banned the games.
For some while after, the Colosseum was used for wild beast hunts and executions. But then the money ran out and the doors were locked shut. Since then, the place had stood empty like the other main public buildings. Those that hadn’t yet fallen down or been destroyed were subject to further orders – from the prefect, or the exarch, or the emperor himself. In most cases, orders had never come.
And so the Colosseum stood in empty silence. Every so often, someone bribed a permit out of the prefect to take away materials for building. But the sands of the arena had for generations before my visit been unstained by human blood.
While a little cloud obscured the moon, I heard a shuffling far across the sands. As the cloud passed, I saw a dark procession approaching us in the still night air. Perhaps five men were coming towards us. They were dressed from their hoods down in black. Behind them, slaves carried a small brazier heaped with glowing coals. Behind them came some black animal led with a chain that shone silver in the moonlight.
‘O Basilius, my lord, you are come at last to this place of silent magic. You are come to commune with the God and to seek what the future may hold for you. The sacrifice is prepared for your performing. Make ready for the solemn compact with the Ancient One who was before we became. Make ready.’
It was the first of the hooded procession who spoke in a deep, resonant voice. It filled that vast stone valley with its volume. The brazier was set down in the centre of the arena. Beside it was placed a wooden table and chairs. Beyond this, a black stone cube of about three feet was already standing.
As Lucius stepped forward, a slave met him with a bowl of water and black cloths. He bowed his head, looking away, as Lucius washed his hands with slow, deliberate movements. Lucius shook his head as the slave looked quizzically at me.
‘This time, he is here only to observe,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps next time.’
Lucius fell silent, stood still beside the stone. The others started a slow, rhythmical chant:
O God immortal, to whom
Is the Empire of Life and Death,
And the Realm of Silent Shades,
