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.
I’d deal with all these in due course. The light was beginning to fade, and I didn’t feel up to writing or dictating late into the evening. For the moment, I kept going back to the letter from Gretel. I kissed the mark she’d written at the foot of the papyrus sheet, telling myself I’d done right to announce marriage to her rather than concubinage.
Martin knocked and entered. The baggage we’d managed to bring with us was now arranged, he said, but there was no sign of our main luggage from Rome. Also, the lack of any food was now pressing. Should he try to rouse the Legation slaves? Or should he send out for a takeaway? Our own slaves were famished.
Now that I thought about it, so was I.
‘Do arrange for a takeaway,’ I said. ‘I’ll eat here alone. Do also try to get some better wine than this stuff. It smells of pine needles. Something red and rich, if you can get it.’
I reached across the desk. ‘Here’s a letter for you,’ I added. ‘I imagine it’s from Sveta. Do send her my greetings in your reply.’
Martin’s face paled as he looked at the scrawled writing on the outside.
‘Do cheer up,’ I said with an attempt at jollity. ‘She can’t go at you with a knife at this distance!’
Outside the room, I heard Martin try again at giving orders to Authari. It was only a matter of time before he made a right fool of himself. I took up the jug and went on to the balcony. For what seemed an age, I stood and watched the flowers turn pale against the gloom that gathered round them.
7
‘Thank you, but I have washed already,’ said Martin, peering dubiously into the water.
It was late the next morning, and a bath and quite a passable wank had done for my hangover.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I thought you said there was a steam room and all.’
‘Well, it’s all bleedin’ broke, innit?’ Authari rasped at him from the other side of the lead tub he’d eventually managed to find enough hot water to fill. You could have opened a wine shop with the fumes from what else he’d managed to find. Another moment, and he’d forget who was slave and who freedman.
‘Indeed,’ I said, rising hastily from the water. ‘Authari assures me that any attempt to light the furnace would cause an explosion. This will be a temporary arrangement. I have no doubt His Excellency will advise on how to proceed with engineers.’
Once he’d patted me dry, I sent Authari to sit on the other side of the bathhouse door.
‘Oh, come on, Martin,’ I urged, now we were alone. ‘Those streets must be baking.’
I looked away as he undressed. It was hardly his fault he’d once been a slave. But it was his business if he didn’t care to show off the white scars on his back.
‘I didn’t think to go far from the Legation,’ he said, easing himself into the now cool water. ‘Since we haven’t any papers yet, I thought it was best to keep to the market before the Great Church. I managed to get nearly everything on your list.’
I sat down beside him and asked what he’d found out from the stallholders. As I pumiced at my legs, he spoke in a whispered and very slow Celtic I could just understand from my days among the bandits on the Wessex borders.
He hadn’t that much to say. No one in the streets had been inclined to pour out his innermost thoughts to strangers – not at a time like this. The mood out there, he said, was ugly beyond anything he’d ever known. All business was winding down, and the loss of Egypt to Heraclius meant questions over the free distribution of bread to the poor.
‘Have you managed to pick up any information about our Most Noble Host?’ I asked, stretching my legs.
Martin looked away from me and over to some mosaics of life in an Eastern city. He reached into the water to scrub his feet.
‘I bumped into one of those officials as I came back into the Legation.’
‘You mean Demetrius?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘That’s the Armenian – or so I think he must be. The one I met is called Antony. He at least is a Greek, though from Nicaea across the Straits. I believe he’s some kind of lawyer. Even so, he was quite friendly.
‘He told me that he and the entire household, slaves and all, were brought in last month after the regulars were sent off to Ephesus. The only one of the regulars the Permanent Legate kept on was Demetrius, and Demetrius is the only one he’ll see. Absolutely everything goes through Demetrius.’
Martin swallowed and shifted to wipe some splashed water off his face. ‘His Excellency, I am told, takes offence at the alleged need for an unordained barbarian too young for a beard to come all the way from Rome for a mission he believes himself quite capable of doing by himself.
‘Besides, all correct procedure has been set aside in this case. The Dispensator has sent us over here without consulting with the Permanent Legate. The only formal notification, apparently, was a letter sent through the Master of the Offices.’
I stared at Martin. There was no point in trying to look surprised. The Dispensator never made mistakes. I doubted if he broke wind without a stratagem.
‘The further instructions I’ve had from Rome’, I said flatly, ‘will keep us here a month at least. Whatever point we could have made about the Spanish stuff is now redundant.’
Martin’s face sagged as I explained about the heresy in Ravenna. He looked down again at the water. Then, in a slow voice:
‘My letter from home you gave me last night – the seal was lifted and replaced. There were scorch marks on the back. Had all your stuff been read and checked for secret writing?’
‘Yes,’ I said. We sat a while in silence.
‘Tell me about the old eunuch,’ I said. ‘Who is Theophanes?’ I spoke more to break the silence. I didn’t want Martin to think I had no control at all over our circumstances.
He wiped what little remained of his fringe from his eyes and leaned forward, dropping his voice even lower.
‘Since he’s with the Master of the Offices, he may be head of the security services. For people of his rank, though, formal status is only a matter of convenience. If he doesn’t report directly to the Emperor, I’ll be
