the builders had dug out of the basement, no one had any right to notice.
‘The provisional agreement’, said the lawyer, still on his feet, ‘was made on the Kalends of May between the Lady Marcella, relict of the sub-Clarissimus Porcinus, official in the Imperial Service, and Alaric, citizen from the presently alienated Province of Britain. The citizen Alaric, believing himself to have got with child one Gretel, a slave in the household of the Lady Marcella, has offered a price to be agreed by further negotiation for the sale of the said Gretel. He has further offered to continue paying rent on his suite in the house of the Lady Marcella until such time as the said Gretel shall have been transferred to his ownership and until such time as his own house shall be ready to receive…’
And on and on the man droned, going through all the formalities of the sale. I thought back to that winter afternoon when the first upper rooms in the house had been ready for occupation and I’d sent off with an excuse to get Gretel to come over. She’d said to be careful as I ripped at her clothes and pulled her on to the new bed. But I’d been too drunk on unmixed wine and self-love to pay attention. Sure enough, my seed fell on good ground and did yield fruit that sprang up and increased. As I watched her belly take on a firm roundness, my joy and excitement had passed into a fixed intention.
The droning came to an end and I pulled myself back to the present.
‘So,’ I said, ‘we need to agree the price, and then we can sign the contract. I believe the practice is to name an arbitrator in case of disagreement – though I hardly think that will be necessary.’
I leaned forward and poured another two cups of wine.
A look flashed between the lawyer and Marcella. Before anything could register in my mind, I could feel the sweat breaking out on my upper back. I sat up and looked properly at her in the fading light. She wasn’t quite her normal self.
‘I apologise if I have not made myself plain,’ the lawyer took up again. ‘Allow me to explain further. The provisional agreement was that you were buying the slave Gretel for the purpose of marrying her and acknowledging her child as your own. We have, however, received information that you are already married – to a barbarian woman in the Province of Britain, on whom you fathered a son before settling in Rome.’
For the second time that day, my mouth fell open. That Edwina had given birth to a son was more news than I’d been able to get out of Canterbury. My repeated letters to Bishop Lawrence had either gone unanswered or received evasive replies.
And married to Edwina? Well, if Ethelbert, that murderous royal shitbag, had confirmed my noble status and let me marry the girl, I’d never have had to leave Kent.
What was going on? I closed my eyes and commanded the winey clouds to disperse.
‘The Lady Marcella must be aware’, I said, ‘that I am not married, in Britain or anywhere else. I am prepared to swear to that in any church she cares to name. She is misinformed.’
‘I must insist’, the lawyer replied, ‘that My Lady has her information from an unimpeachable source. She cannot possibly consent to a sale that would enable fornication. In a word, the contract is void, on the grounds of fundamental immorality in its subject matter. Such I am instructed to argue for my client in any legal proceedings.’
‘That’s right, young Alaric,’ the old witch broke in. ‘That Gretel is a right hot-arsed prick-teaser – if you’ll pardon my Greek. You don’t know that trash in her belly is yours. You just forget her and send for that nice girl you left behind in Britain. I’m told she’s very well-born, even if a barbarian. And she must be fair pining for you after such a long time away. As for that tramp Gretel, I curse the day I let her bring you washing water.
‘Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’m selling her to the brothel I shouldn’t never have saved her from when she was brung to market from the Lombards.’
I ignored Marcella. I turned in my chair and spoke directly to the lawyer.
‘You will inform your client, or at least the Lady Marcella,’ I said coldly, ‘that whatever information may have arrived from Britain is false. I am not, nor ever have been, married. I have negotiated in good faith for the sale of Gretel. It is my intention to marry her the moment I have freed her.
‘One way or another, the agreed transfer will go ahead. It may be by friendly consent. It may be on the judgement of the Prefect. It may be following some other process. Until such time as that happens, the Lady Marcella will retain Gretel in her own household and will continue to allow her all the indulgences we agreed when her pregnancy was confirmed. Do I make myself clear?’
Marcella glanced away from me. She looked suddenly a good fifty years older than the eighty I’d always taken her for. The lawyer looked back at me, unimpressed.
‘I understand the slave’s child is due in October,’ he said. ‘You will be aware, I have no doubt, of the great length that legal proceedings can often reach. You will equally be aware that, unless the mother is freed at any time between conception and birth, the child will also be a slave. Even if subsequently freed, the child will suffer certain disabilities. This might not count much in the case of a girl. Boys, however-’
‘I know the law perfectly well, if you please,’ I snapped. And I did. If I couldn’t be father to Edwina’s child, I’d not pass up the opportunity Gretel had presented me. I would be a father, and my child would have everything a father could give. You can’t give looks and intelligence: those come from Nature. But you can give education and wealth and status. No one this side of the grave would stop me from giving those.
I looked at the fresh tiling on the library floor and stood up. There was nothing more to discuss with these people. That much was plain. What further business I had lay elsewhere. With frigid politeness, I asked Marcella if she needed an escort back to her lodging house. The streets would soon be far too unsafe for the elderly slaves I imagined she’d brought with her.
‘You’re a good boy, Alaric,’ she whispered once the lawyer had left the room ahead us. ‘You know, by myself I’d never do nothing to hurt you-’
She broke off. Then: ‘Oh, this wicked world surely can’t be for much longer,’ she sobbed gently. ‘It must surely be the end of times when-’
She broke off again. Then: ‘Oh, my poor husband the Senator. Why couldn’t I be carried off with him?’
I was once more alone. I’d paced up and down in the library until no light came from overhead. I’d crossed over the courtyard to the main part of the house and walked around the rooms on the upper floor. Fresh paint and woodwork, restored mosaics and frescoes – things that until then had cheered me and filled me with confidence in the future – now seemed a kind of mockery. Of course, I’d bought the place with only myself in mind. But I’d soon got used to the idea of a growing household with me at the head of it. I’d shown Gretel where her quarters would be. I’d ordered furniture for the child and looked into the procedure of buying the right sort of wet nurse.
Back in the library, I shouted for Authari. ‘Get me an opium pill,’ I told him. ‘I rather hope you’ve not been dipping down those as well. I have a meeting at the Lateran just as soon as the dawn comes up. With time to get down there, I want you to wake me with enough hot water for a bath and my pink robe – the one with brown roses embroidered on the front. For what I’m about to do, I want to look my best.’
4
I was so angry as I stepped out into the square that I almost missed the flash of steel. But there’s a difference between almost and not at all. Probably before even managing to nick my arm, he had my sword sticking six inches out of his back.
For a thief, he had the etiquette all wrong. It’s at night, you see, that you kill and then grab. By daylight, you grab and run, and only pull out the knife if you can’t get away. But that was his problem. He was the one on the pavement, gurgling out bloody froth as he sped into the final darkness. Though breathing hard and not altogether with it, I was still on my feet.
‘Hey, you can’t do that here!’ It was one of the armed churchwardens, come up beside me. He pointed down at the now dead man, outrage in his voice. ‘This is Church property.’
He was wrong. I was just outside the Lateran precinct. Here, it was a matter for the Prefect – if for anyone at all.
But I wasn’t up for debate. And Authari had now lumbered up beside me.
‘Fuck off, you!’ he snarled. ‘You leave my master alone – or else.’
‘That will do, Authari,’ I said weakly, putting a hand on his sword arm. I wanted no more trouble that
