36
Because of his rank, Lucius and I got seats at the front just to the right of the big statue of Constantine. This gave us a fine view of proceedings. I’d taken the unintended hint about the lack of colour in my robe, and had borrowed a bright red band for tying my hair. As we walked over to our places, several heads turned, and there was an appreciative buzz.
And it seemed all Rome had turned out for the occasion. The Basilica was crowded with the better sort of citizen. They sat or squeezed against the walls behind in their best and cleanest clothing. On the high marble platform just in front of the big statue, the prefect sat impassively in his white and purple robe. His secretaries stood behind him, holding icons of the emperor and the imperial family. Before him was placed the silver inkstand that was the symbol of his office.
For the first time, I could see what the Basilica had been intended to accommodate. Like bright insects, the crowd scurried about within that vast covered space. From the crowded floor, the animated chatter floated serenely up to the majesty of the vaulted ceilings far overhead. Except for the gold leaf gone from the statue, all looked much as it must have so long ago when Rome was still Capital of the World in the fullest sense.
A cheer from the still larger crowd outside indicated the pope’s arrival. I later heard he’d travelled over from Naples in a closed carriage. His cure hadn’t been that effective, and the Lombards were still on the prowl. But he’d pressed on with a minimal guard, only getting out of the carriage as he reached the Colosseum.
He entered the Basilica to a deafening blast of trumpets. The sound rose to the high ceiling, and was echoed back to us before the next blast. Before him came the papal guards in their silver and black armour. They marched in through the great doorway, fanning out to left and right as they entered, and forming a double line of drawn swords within which the rest of the procession would move.
Behind came a multitude of Church dignitaries in their white and scarlet robes. These were the Lateran officials, plus all the various bishops and deacons normally resident in Rome, or presently there for the consecration of the new church. Among these, I saw the dispensator. He moved behind the bishops – a reflection of his low place in the official hierarchy of the Church. I was pleased by the sour look on his face as he pretended to smile back at the rhythmical, shouted greetings of the spectators. He would no longer have Rome all to himself, I could see.
Behind these came a whole army of monks in their dark, hooded robes. They looked threatening in the mass, and I’d heard the stories, even if I didn’t yet know at first hand, of how nasty they could turn given the right excuse. They were chanting one of the more triumphant psalms and they carried case after case of relics and other devotional material. I was too far away to see the individual items, but I imagined the nose of Saint Vexilla was among the mass of holiness. Soon enough, I didn’t doubt, they’d be showing off bits of poor Maximin.
There was a trail of incense from the silver burners that some of them carried. It was a welcome cover to the smell of their unwashed robes and bodies. It was also cheering to see how much of the stuff was being used for even an impromptu occasion. I might yet buy shares in the importing company, and this time hold onto them.
The universal bishop himself walked alone in the middle of all this. A small man with a grey beard, he walked within a cleared space of about six feet around him. He walked slowly, resting on his ceremonial crook for support, his face lined, his eyes dull. I could see from his wrists and neck that he was swathed in bandages under his gorgeously coloured papal robe.
This was the man in whose name England was being won over to Christianity. This was the man the simple mention of whom had saved me all those months ago from Ethelbert in full rage. He dealt on terms of equality – and more than equality – with all the kings and bishops of the Earth. Even when not backed against a wall, the emperors in Constantinople played wary of him.
He was the universal bishop, the servant of the servants of God, the undisputed successor of Saint Peter. He was the holiest and most powerful man in my world.
And I was on my feet, within speaking distance of a little man who, under those robes, I had no doubt, was still sweating pus.
The procession came to a halt. The monks knelt on the hard floor. The pope and other dignitaries mounted the platform cleared for the occasion. He took his position in the highest chair, now vacated by the prefect, who’d taken another seat lower than the pope but higher than anyone else. The prefect stood before this chair with head bowed.
The monks ended their chant with a final menacing shout. There was a clashing of steel as the guards sheathed their swords. The great hall fell silent.
The prefect stood forward. When he was sure of the general attention, he lifted his head and began his speech of greeting. ‘In the name of His Most Holy and Imperial Majesty, the benevolent and ever-triumphant Caesar Phocas Augustus, Lord and Emperor of the World, before whose awesome power the universe bows in hushed respect, and in the name of our Lord Smaragdus, Exarch in Ravenna, and in the name of the mighty People of Rome – the Eternal City within which Saint Peter and Saint Paul bore witness to the True Faith of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of the Father – I bid welcome to Boniface, Patriarch, Universal Bishop…’
And so on and so forth. Lucius was right. These Greeks could put on a good speech, even in Latin, at a moment’s notice. It was largely the stereotyped flattery Greek boys learn to rattle out in school. But it was said in a nicely modulated voice, and there was a kind word for all assembled, all the way down to nothings like me.
When he’d finished, the pope heaved himself up and gave a brief and pained oration of thanks. He mentioned the return of Saint Vexilla’s nose, and how wondrously his cure had turned after he’d been given the news. He refrained from scratching. But every so often, a hand would go up to rub one of the sorest parts of his diseased body. Throughout, he took little sips of something poured by one of his doctors.
After this, the dispensator got up. I could almost hear the inward groans of the crowd as he opened his mouth.
‘Normal men need to piss twice before he runs out of breath,’ Lucius whispered to me. A Frankish diplomat standing behind us poked him in the back and hissed to show some respect. His long moustache quivered with outrage. We fell silent. I tried to listen to the dispensator. But even his long digression on the miracles said – with the most undeniable proofs – to have been worked by Maximin couldn’t hold my complete attention.
I looked around the crowded Basilica. Even though the day was blistering outside, it was cool within. The great hall was lit by a golden, diffused glow from overhead. I looked at the design of the building, marvelling how everything was both beautiful and structurally essential. I ran my eyes over the crowd opposite. There was the diplomat, wearing his yellow robe. He saw me looking at him and smiled back, raising one of his icons in further greeting. Behind him, I saw someone I’d met at the Exchange. Here and there, I saw other faces I recognised. I was fitting in well in Rome.
I stopped my survey of the hall. I focused. I looked hard. I drew a sharp breath. Over on the other side of the hall, half behind a column, but looking straight at me, was One-Eye. He was dressed in black, and what I could see of him was half in shadow. But I could see him clearly. I’d never forget that patch over the left eye, nor the livid scar. He was nearly a hundred yards away, but I’d have picked him out at twice the distance.
I looked slowly away. ‘Lucius,’ I whispered, trying not to move my lips, ‘if you look straight ahead, by the third rear column from the left, you’ll see One-Eye. Try not to let him know you’ve seen him.’
Lucius didn’t even move his head. ‘I was wondering if that was the man. I’m going outside to gather my slaves. Don’t move until I come back in and cough twice.’
With an easy movement, he was pushing his way through the crowd to the great doorway. He caused hardly a ripple of attention as he pushed through.
One-Eye saw him just as he approached the doorway. He darted back to the wall. I could see the forward motion and hear the whispered rebukes as he forced his own way through. He’d be out first.
I ignored Lucius and began to make my own way out. The stir I caused made the dispensator pause in mid- sentence. I could see his eyes fasten on me with a look of thorough distaste. He raised his voice and continued as if there were no commotion. ‘For as our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ himself said, “Compel them to come in”…’ I heard his voice booming as I eventually got free of the crowd and forced my way out of the Basilica.
I met Lucius gathering his slaves. One-Eye had got out just a moment before him, he explained, and had gone off towards the river.
The slaves went before us, pushing the common people aside so we could pass easily through. Beyond the Basilica, the streets were empty and silent in the hot afternoon sun. But there was the dark figure, moving alone
