The Ghosts of Athens

guessed what we were about. Even if I hadn’t blackmailed him at our last meeting into avoiding any statement about a Singular Will for Christ, the Roman Church had its spies even inside the Imperial Palace. I could be surprised that Priscus had got wind of my scheme. I’d have been more surprised if Rome hadn’t known.

I sat back on the edge of the bath and tried to look earnest. ‘This is not a regular council of the Church,’ I said, ‘where hundreds of bishops have been called to reach a conclusion. Rather, it is an almost private seminar, in which only the very best men have been called to a place where they can speak freely — to express their innermost feelings — and from where they can take back a fuller understanding of questions that will be put at some future gathering of the whole Church. I do assure you that no one here is required to subscribe to any new formulations of the Creed.’

‘Then perhaps you should tell the Lord Bishops of Nicaea and Ephesus,’ he snapped, ‘that the best men of both Latin and Greek Churches have been invited. The last time that demented interpreter did anything worth calling work, they insisted through him to my face that our liturgies were translations from the Greek rather than coordinate texts. If that is really the opinion nowadays of the Greek Church, I fail to see the benefit of our remaining in Athens.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ I said emolliently. ‘It is certainly the wish of His Holiness of Constantinople, and of His Imperial Majesty, that our Roman Brothers in Christ should be treated with all proper respect. We come together in the fullest love and fellowship of Jesus Christ.’ I stopped. I could see that I was wandering across the line separating moral earnestness from parody.

‘Can I ask if you have been accommodated to your satisfaction?’ I asked with a sudden change of subject. I’d speak to Simeon — yes, buggery Simeon, the worst choice even Heraclius could have made as head of the Greek delegation. Trust a fool to send a fool, I thought. I had another thought that sent a chill straight through me. I put that out of mind. I’d speak to Simeon. I’d know more then. I’d also have Martin cast a look over the interpreters. Otherwise, I could at least ensure that everyone was fed properly and kept warm. I put on a sympathetic face as I heard the complaints about the rats and pigeon droppings in the monastery that had been assigned to the Western delegates. If Rome itself was a heap of stinking ruins, the Lateran kept up certain standards. I’d see what improvements could be made to the accommodation.

‘My Lord,’ I said, standing up, ‘though I am not a churchman, you will appreciate that I am fully aware of all the issues under discussion. I have the greatest confidence in the ability of His Grace of Nicaea to represent the Patriarch of Constantinople. But please do bear in mind that I represent the Emperor, and that he has every reason to ensure that all discussions are as smooth and productive as they possibly can be. The things that are of God must always be left to the men of God. At the same time, you will, I hope, regard me as wholly at your service in all matters that can make your stay in Athens to your complete satisfaction.’

The Dispensator nodded. He even allowed himself a neutral smile.

‘I think it would be fitting,’ I added, ‘if you and your fellow delegates could accept the Count’s hospitality for dinner tomorrow. It is a while since I last rejoiced in the Latin spoken by natives of the old Imperial capital. All else aside, there are so many mutual friends of whom I should like to hear.’

That wasn’t enough, so I continued: ‘Naturally, you will sit at my right hand for dinner.’ Still not enough, I could see. Well, I was here to chair things, and it was my decision entirely how they should be chaired. ‘I am also able to confirm that, as representative of His Holiness himself, you will, of course, occupy a bishop’s chair.’ That got his eyes wide open. He might in effect be head of the Roman Church. Formally, he was still only a deacon.

‘The moment you first stepped into my office with Father Maximin — but I correct myself: with Saint Maximin,’ he said with a look of growing ecstasy, ‘I knew that you were a most remarkable young man, and that you were destined for greatness.’

That wasn’t my recollection of things. If he’d waited a few days before turning openly nasty, neither had it been all love and kisses at our first meeting. But no matter that. I was here to get Rome on side, and this was a good beginning.

I still had no clothes to put on, so I hitched my towel a little higher about my waist and led him from the steam room. I escorted him across a courtyard not yet reached by the sun, and that was still unpleasantly cool, and back into the close-smelling corridors of the residency. They looked better than they had in the night, but were still decidedly smelly from the soaking. We stopped in one of the undivided rooms.

The Dispensator nodded at what had once been a gilded statue of Hadrian. ‘Is this where the Emperor stayed on his celebrated visit to Athens?’ he asked in a pretty good attempt at the conversational.

‘It might have been,’ I answered. I guided him round a puddle that had formed under one of the ceiling windows. I gave him a potted history of the building. I might have shown him the chapel, had I known where it was. But the Dispensator had long since rumbled my lack of faith, and pretending any now would only ruin the amicable tone on which we were parting. I led him to the main entrance hall, where his secretary was waiting. Though I must have looked a strange cross between wrestler and bathhouse slave, I followed him out into the Forum of Hadrian and made sure to embrace him again.

‘A further matter we shall need to discuss,’ he said as he stepped sideways to avoid a pool of mud, ‘is the grant you purported to confirm, when last in Rome, of the title of Universal Bishop made to His Holiness.’ He stopped and squinted at me in the sunshine. ‘You are surely aware that the initial grant was defective, and that your confirmation of it may be void. Our new head of Legal Affairs is assured on both these points.’

I pulled a sympathetic face and spoke of a letter I’d be sending straight off to Heraclius. I’d been wondering if — no, when — he’d get round to that. I’d known all the time, on my last visit to Rome, that my confirmation of the grant was beyond my authority. It had been made by Phocas in his last days as Emperor. All his acts had then been cancelled by Heraclius, and, though exalted, the status in which I’d been clothed for my visit to Rome was nowhere near sufficient to revive a grant cancelled under the Great Seal of the Empire. But it had suited Heraclius for a grant made by Phocas to be taken as binding in Rome, though deniable everywhere else should it ever get us into hot water with the other territorial branches of the Church. Since then, I’d been sitting on letter after letter from the Dispensator. Bearing in mind what was probably going on seven hundred miles away in Constantinople, I’d rather not have to take notice now of his complaints — even if I did possibly have the authority to settle them. If I did have to take notice, though, it would only be at the right moment, and after some very hard bargaining. I’d certainly not be notifying the Emperor of anything until I could get myself alone with him.

I watched as he vanished behind the big sundial. Before going back in, I gave a long sideways glance at the two men in black I’d seen skulking behind a bronze urn that had been anciently set up to receive anonymous denunciations. As in Piraeus, they were covered up from head to toe. With the return of good weather, they must have found so much clothing a very sore trial. They saw me, and dodged fully out of sight. A whole party of local women shuffled past now. Also dressed all over in black, they turned for a moment to look at the residency. A few put out their right hands in the same gesture I’d seen in Piraeus. The woman in front shouted something in the shrill voice of the aged, and everyone hurried across to the other side of the square.

All considered, my stay in Athens was turning out more interesting than I’d expected.

Chapter 23

I paused on the wide, stepped incline of the Sacred Way, and looked at the Propylaea. We were slightly past noon, and the sun was behind me. If now rather creamy from its great age, the marble of the columns and its unadorned pediment were as crisp today as when it served as gateway to the spiritual heart of the nation that had caused it to be built.

‘It was a gift of King Solomon himself,’ Nicephorus struck up again in an annoying whine that he might have hoped would be taken for erudition. ‘It follows the exact plan of his temple in Jerusalem,’ he continued in blithe ignorance of both history and Scripture. ‘For its everlasting security, angels fashioned an image of Moses that will come to life and smite the first barbarian to desecrate its sanctity.’ He pointed at a statue of what, even without the inscription on its plinth, was obviously the Emperor Julian.

‘Do you suppose he’s making this up as he goes along?’ I muttered in Latin. ‘Or does it represent some modern consensus in Athens?’

Martin’s answer was a scared look at the men in dark clothes who’d been tagging along ever since we’d left