‘I will tell you everything as it happened, Caesar,’ I began. ‘But I want your promise that you will not act against anyone who may emerge from my story without full credit.’
Phocas creased his face into a nasty smile. ‘You presume to ask an Emperor for his word?’
‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘I ask for your word as an officer in the Danubian Army.’
As a rule, one doesn’t bandy words with a creature like Phocas. You give him what he wants and when he wants it. If you think that it may not show you in the most favourable light, you still give it to him – but do so while licking the man’s instep and begging for mercy.
But, you see, I didn’t think that approach was likely to work. The previous day, however, he’d been willing to play the part of one simple man talking to another, to the exclusion of the sophisticates and yes-men who generally surrounded him. That might still take his fancy.
There is a time for abasement, and a time for playing along. I had no choice but to keep my nerve and take a chance on the latter.
‘Your word as a soldier,’ I added, ‘will be quite enough for me.’
Phocas turned back to his artificial birds. He spoke slowly, as if recalling distant thoughts and feelings.
‘I’ve not been asked for that in over eight years in this den of lunacy they call an Empire. And fuck-all good my word as a soldier did poor Maurice,’ he added bitterly. ‘I broke my military oath when I raised the Danubian Army against him. I broke my word when I promised him his life, and the lives of his sons. I broke my word when I promised his widow and daughters that I’d spare them.
‘And now, as my enemies gather to destroy me, you expect me to give you a word of honour that has any meaning?’
‘I want your word, even so,’ I persisted.
He looked hard at those pretty birds. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘You have my word that neither you and your secretary nor my ever faithful accomplice-in-crime Theophanes will come to harm as a result of what you tell me. But I want the truth – and only the truth.’
I gave it to him. I left absolutely nothing out.
‘So you fucked her, and with her father looking on?’ he asked with a suddenly admiring grin as I finished. ‘I’d like to have seen that. My darling son-in-law Priscus would have had trouble keeping his hands off you afterwards. You can be sure of that!’
He fell silent. I was still alive.
The wheel began to run down, and the birds now wheezed and trilled in falling notes.
‘Would you like to go back to Canterbury?’ Phocas asked suddenly. I couldn’t keep the look of astonishment off my face as I stared back at him.
‘I know all about Canterbury,’ he added. ‘Your penis may have saved you with the Great One. It nearly got you killed with Ethelbert when you got that daughter of his chief man up the duff.
‘I could write to Ethelbert, you know. I’m told he’s started calling himself an Emperor, doubtless egged on by those Roman priests. If I wrote to him as my Brother in Purple, he’d have you back with open arms. Would you have me do that?’
I opened and closed my mouth. I swallowed, wondering what on earth I was supposed to reply to this. If he’d asked about the geography of India, I’d not have been more completely astonished.
But Phocas stood silent, his eyes burning into my face, looking for something I couldn’t imagine was required. Then he whispered so gently I had to bend forward to catch the words: ‘This conversation did not take place.’
As the birds fell finally silent, he changed back to Greek and said in a louder voice:
‘I understand that His Excellency the Permanent Legate has been murdered, and in his own bedroom. Am I correct in believing that you found the body and established that it was murder?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I answered.
‘Well, this,’ said Phocas, ‘- and I put it mildly – is an embarrassment. I had need of His Excellency at least to stay alive, and preferably to be on speaking terms with me. Now he’s dead, we’ll have to find the killer. I’ll not have any difficulties with Rome.’
Phocas returned to his desk and took up a sheet of parchment. He held it away from me.
‘I am told you have some ability in these matters. That is more than I seem able to say for my Semi-Divine son-in-law. I therefore appoint you Investigator of the Death. You will work together with Priscus. However, you will be in sole charge of the investigation. Any advice or resources he cares to give you may be taken or rejected as you see fit. You will report directly to me as often as I call for you.
‘I want the case solved within a reasonable time. I’ll not ask more than that for the moment – but I want someone I can put on public trial and then execute.’
He paused, looking again at the parchment sheet.
‘I also have need of a new Permanent Legate. There is no time for sending to Rome. The most eligible local candidates for an Acting Legateship are all out of the city. Therefore’ – he pushed the parchment sheet towards me – ‘I appoint you, Alaric of Britain, Acting Legate until such time as a replacement can be obtained from Rome.’
‘But Caesar,’ I cried – I hadn’t expected this – ‘I’m not ordained. I’m not even of age to be ordained. How can I accept your commission?’
‘You’ll accept my commission,’ he said, now cheerful again, ‘because I’m the Emperor. My word is law. If I wanted, I could hang the present incumbent and make you Patriarch of Constantinople. I could very easily make you Patriarch of Antioch, now there’s a vacancy.
‘If His Holiness in Rome has any objections, they can be handled when communications are reopened. And bearing in mind the lack of any other candidates, I can’t see how he will object. It’s either you or some slimy Greek cleric who really would raise eyebrows in the Lateran.’
I looked at the commission. Its ink barely dry, it looked chillingly formal.
‘He shall be regarded’, it read, ‘as the Representative and Plenary Agent in all matters, both spiritual and temporal, of His Most Sacred Excellency the Patriarch of Rome.’
No mention, I noted, in all the surrounding verbiage, of a ‘Universal Bishop’. I wondered if I’d be expected to raise that issue before this whole ghastly comedy was played out.
There is a limit to how far you can argue with any emperor. I’d already pushed Phocas further than anyone else had dared in years. I bowed my acceptance of the commission.
‘So, Your Excellency,’ Phocas laughed softly, ‘I’ll not trouble you yet with any request for your benediction. But I’m sure you’ll have much to discuss over your brotherly kiss with His Holiness of Constantinople.’
He went over and pulled the door open. Theophanes almost fell into the room. He steadied himself and entered. Martin followed at some distance behind him with the other secretaries.
Phocas handed the commission to one of them, who read it to us in a loud flat voice.
Theophanes stiffened slightly, then made a grave bow in my direction.
Martin almost fainted with shock, clean forgetting his own duty to bow.
As we shuffled out into the sunlight of a cold autumn morning and made towards our chairs, I turned to Martin.
‘The Permanent Legate was rather small,’ I said. ‘We’ll need to get those robes altered in a hurry if I’m to attend evening service at the Great Church.’
41
‘But it’s blasphemy!’ Martin whispered in Celtic over his fourth cup of wine. Back in the Legation, he’d at last fallen apart.
‘Be that as it may,’ I said, jug in hand, ‘it is the Will of Caesar.’
I refilled his cup and slopped more wine into my own.
‘There are things even he can’t do,’ Martin snapped. ‘At least it was your duty to refuse.’
‘Refuse Phocas?’ I laughed gently. ‘I don’t fancy another trip to the Circus. And, don’t forget – you’re my secretary. You’d be in the next pot.’
‘Men have accepted martyrdom rather than participate in lesser blasphemies,’ he replied primly. ‘Whatever can be done to us on earth is nothing compared with the fires of Hell!’