Cast Not the Day (5 page)

After dark, the torchlit streets seethed with ship-workers and river bargemen, and anyone who preferred to make their purchases, or their sales, under cover of night. And when they had filled their bellies with drink, they emptied their purses at the gambling dens and whorehouses, where companions were to be had at any price, and of either sex.

As for my uncle Balbus, his interest was solely the business at the docks, not the entertainment in the streets behind – as he told me himself, many times, and at some length. But one morning, as we were walking down the narrow stepped street to the river to see off a barge of Samian ware, a coarse-featured girl leered from a window and enquired when he was coming to visit her again.

‘The foolish blind trollop,’ he cried, hurrying away, ‘she mistakes me for someone else, of course. I expect she is drunk. Has she no shame?’

I agreed, and looked away smiling.

When, later that morning, we made our way back, I noticed he was careful to go by a different route.

If Albinus wanted something from me, he would demand my immediate attention; otherwise he ignored me. Although his mother doted on him, there were times when they would quarrel, and then he would enlist me as his ally against her, telling me in vehement tones that he hated her.

At first, being lonely, I was quick to trust, and mistook these advances for friendship. But as soon as their squabble was made up, he would once again turn against me; and if I had been foolish enough during that time to confide in him, I found he had stored away this knowledge as a squirrel stores acorns, to use against me when it suited his purpose.

His slyness he got from his mother; but whereas her every waking moment was driven by ambition and resentment, he cared for nothing. He was lazy and slovenly; he would lie in bed until midday unless she sent a slave to rouse him; he washed himself only when told, and never exercised his body. Just the sight of such dissipation was a kind of discipline to me.

Lucretia’s life-work was the promotion of Albinus in the Church, and this task she pursued with unfailing single-mindedness.

She would make secret, expensive gifts to the bishop; and when my uncle found out, I would hear them in his study, him remonstrating and pleading, and her yapping back at him.

She always won these bouts, for after hours or days of her silences and sulks he would grumpily declare, ‘Oh, let the bishop keep the silver casket’ or, ‘Curses on it, take those silks to him if you must’ or, ‘Yes, I shall send the amphora of Moselle, have Patricus see to it.’ Afterwards, all would be calm and honeyed smiles, until the next time.

Never have I met a cleverer politician. She knew when to grant her favours, and when to withhold them. Ambitus was right. She spun him like a top.

I took little notice, not realizing that I was soon to become a tool in her great scheme. But that winter, one early grey morning, she summoned me to her rooms.

‘I have a small errand for you,’ she said, setting down a dish of sweets she was eating. ‘I wish you to go with Albinus.’

I had arranged, that morning, to go with Balbus to his shop in the forum, to meet his agent from Colchester, who was at that time visiting.

‘He no longer needs you,’ she answered briskly, when I reminded her of this. She began plucking at the beads of her bracelet, and did not meet my eye. ‘Now do not stand disputing with me. My hairdresser is waiting, and Volumnia and Maria are coming for dinner.’

Albinus, when I found him already dressed in his boots and winter cloak, was equally tight-lipped. ‘Come along, then you’ll see for yourself,’ was all he would say. He even attempted a smile. I should have guessed then that he was up to something.

‘Are you coming or not?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, I’m coming.’

We set out west through the city, taking the street past the stone-gated entrance to the forum, then over the Walbrook and into the old quarter of shabby houses built on rising ground around the fort. The place had once been fashionable, before the wealthy citizens had moved out to the more spacious suburbs. Now the houses were run-down and subdivided.

‘This way,’ said Albinus, striding ahead.

We passed a group of women washing clothes at a fountain-house, conversing at the top of their voices in a pidgin mix of British and barrack Latin. Children stared from open doorways. Ahead, over the roofs, I could see the old towers and walls of the fort, with tufts of stone-crop growing in the crumbling mortar.

I wondered again what business Lucretia could have here, and what part I had to play in it. I was about to call out to Albinus when we rounded a corner at the top of the hill and emerged into a wide, open square, planted with linden trees.

I glanced about. I could see the square had once been fine. The northern side was dominated by a half-ruined temple. Gimcrack timber houses spread around its stone base. Some of the lindens had been felled, leaving gaps like broken teeth.

‘What is that place?’ I asked, calling to Albinus.

He tossed his head. Sneering he said, ‘Diana’s temple, what’s left of it. But it will soon be gone, and good riddance when it is.’ He spat, to show his disgust.

But I walked off across the precinct and climbed the ancient steps. The tall doors under the columned porch were gone, and in the grey light I could see the inner walls had been stripped of their facing marble, leaving bare red brick.

‘Come away from there!’ cried Albinus, who had held back.

He was standing beside a doorway built into a high wall. The door stood ajar. As I crossed to him, I saw that within there was a paved forecourt, and a low sprawling building behind. The walls were rough and undecorated. Pieces of sculpted marble, pillaged from the ruined temple, had been crudely mortared in between the brickwork.

‘This way,’ he said, beckoning. ‘There is someone who wants to meet you.’

I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Meet me? Who wants to meet me?’

‘Oh, it’s only the bishop.’

I stared at him, then looked again at the squat, ugly building behind.

‘The bishop?’ I cried. ‘Are you mad, Albinus? What business do I have with
him
?’

I pulled back; but he caught me by the sleeve.

‘You can’t go now! He’s expecting you. What shall I tell him – that you were afraid, and ran off like a girl?’

He was right: I was afraid. In my mind I was imagining every sort of horror. But before I could answer, or pull away, a door across the forecourt opened and a gaunt black-cloaked figure stepped out.

‘Who’s that?’ I said, staring. Already the man had seen us. He was approaching, treading across the flags with odd tiptoe steps, like someone picking his way across a muddy field. ‘Is that him?’

‘No, of course not. That’s Faustus. He’s the deacon. Now come along, little soldier-boy, or are you going to run away and let him think you’re nothing but a coward? He only wants to speak to you. Are you scared even of words?’

The Bishop of London rose from his upholstered couch. ‘My dear Drusus, greetings. How pleased I am. I have been looking forward to this opportunity to chat for some time.’

He was a short, fat man, with hair done in the ecclesiastical manner. An air of sweet Asiatic scent hung about him. He motioned with his small, plump hand at the seat opposite and asked me to sit. His fingers, I saw, were festooned with rings – thick bands of silver and gold, set with huge, glittering gemstones. He put me in mind of an expensive merchant.

I sat, uneasily, on the edge of the seat. He was looking at me with a pleasant smile. But I saw, under his thin black brows, that his pinprick eyes were appraising me.

Albinus had gone to stand apart, by a sideboard of carved ebony. I glanced angrily at him, but he ignored me. Then the bishop snapped his fingers and a manservant appeared from behind an embroidered hanging, bearing a silver tray.

He poured two cups of honey-coloured wine, from a flask of cut glass, and set them on the low table that stood between us. He offered nothing, I noticed, to Albinus, nor to the strange deacon called Faustus, who was waiting by the door.

The bishop drank, then took up a silk napkin and dabbed his lips. ‘For some time,’ he said, ‘ever since dear Lucretia mentioned your stay in London, I have been hoping you would come to visit me. Your poor father Appius has been much on my mind.’

‘You know my father?’ I said, staring.

‘Why naturally. You seem surprised. Yet it is only to be expected that men of significance should know one another. Did he not speak of me? – No? Well, perhaps not. But we were acquainted nevertheless, and often had cause to discuss questions of importance.’

I narrowed my eyes at him, disliking his unctuous manner, his quick smiles that died on his lips, and the smooth self-conscious movements of his bejewelled hands.

He paused, then sat forward. ‘And now,’ he said, beaming, ‘your father is in difficulty; it is most unfortunate. In a way, that is what I wished to speak of. But what is it? You have gone quite pale. Here, drink your wine. You are not thirsty? No matter; the kitchen-slaves will help themselves to what is left, no doubt.’

He smiled, and once more drank, taking his time, touching the little napkin to his mouth afterwards.

‘The Church,’ he continued, ‘has great influence. After all, the emperor Constans is one of our own, and heeds our guidance, as do all good servants of the One God. Many things are possible. A word here, a letter there. The bishop in Trier might be persuaded to speak up for your father. You see, Drusus, I am a man who is listened to, and I have many friends.’

He sat back into the heavy cushions and looked at me, forming his fingers into an arch. His tunic was of some fine close-woven cloth, the kind of thing my uncle imported from the East; and on his feet were bright red-dyed doe-skin slippers, clasped with Keltic silverwork in the shape of twisting serpents, with gaping mouths and bulging eyes. What was this man saying? I asked myself. That he could bring my father back? That I could soon go home again? He must have seen the confusion in my face; but, whatever it was he was leading up to, he seemed in no hurry.

‘Lucretia has told me so much,’ he went on. ‘I feel already that we are friends. How old are you now – fourteen, isn’t it?’

‘Fifteen.’ I had turned fifteen during the autumn.

‘Well, you are almost a man . . . and a handsome one too, wouldn’t you say, Albinus?’

Albinus grunted. The bishop smiled and then drew down his thin black brows, giving the appearance of considering what to say next, though I had the sense that he had long ago thought out this conversation.

‘You know, perhaps there is something you might do for me. A favour for a favour, you could say.’ He eased himself forward from the couch and stood. ‘But come, let us walk, and discuss what may be done.’

Across the room Albinus and the deacon moved to follow, but with a snap of his finger the bishop gestured at them to stay. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and guided me under the hangings, out through a door into a cloistered courtyard. He talked as he walked, I do not recall of what – commonplaces, something to do with the Church, the city, and his own importance. I was feeling uneasy. I did not like the feel of his hand on the back of my neck, nor the rich, sickly scent that filled the air around him.

But he had said he could help my father; and so, remembering this, I steeled myself.

He halted at a door and slipped the latch. ‘Let us go this way,’ he said, easing me ahead of him into the narrow vestibule beyond, into what seemed at first to be total darkness.

I stood blinking and realized, as my eyes adjusted, that we were in a long chamber. At the far end, a weak glimmer of light penetrated from a high aperture. The air smelled of incense, and old earth, and unwashed humanity.

‘This,’ whispered the bishop, ‘is our place of worship.’

I stared into the gloom. Thick squat pillars receded into the blackness, like tree trunks in a night-time forest. Within the body of the room there was a stone-topped table like an altar. I shivered, remembering the stories, expecting at any moment grasping hands to lunge at me from the shadows. Where else, I asked myself, did these Christians obtain their blood to drink, if not from living victims? I wondered what kind of god could be pleased with such a lightless, ill-smelling place.

Beside me the bishop’s voice sounded, smooth and amused. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said loudly, and my voice echoed in the silence. I took a step forward, to show I meant it.

‘This was a bathhouse once,’ he said. ‘What could be less fitting? But soon I shall clear it all away, and in its place build a proper monument, something to the glory of God that men will tremble at. In the meantime this serves for our followers – poor townsfolk and slaves for the most part, know-nothings looking for food and salvation.’ He gave a quick sardonic laugh. ‘They count for little, but they are useful foot-soldiers; infantry in a war they do not understand.’

I heard the shuffle of his slippers on the stone, and felt his damp fingers on the nape of my neck. I turned sharply. He took his hand away.

‘What do you want from me?’ I demanded.

He let out a sigh.

‘Be calm, young man; there is no need to raise your voice. We have many followers: but that is not enough. We need high-born friends – notables, men who carry weight in the province, who can persuade other simpler folk. We are resisted, you see. We need men of authority . . .’ He paused, then added in a tone I was not intended to miss, ‘. . . or their sons.’