I faced Gebmund. ‘My Lord Bishop has stated,’ I opened softly, though not too softly to be heard through the church, ‘that I have been ordained into Holy Mother Church. Such might be my dearest wish. However, it is not yet the case. Anyone who wishes confirmation of this may write to Benedict, the Lord Abbot of the monastery in Jarrow. He will answer that my sole duties are to teach the civilised languages, and such other subjects as may be required, to the boys and novices committed to his care.’
Gebmund’s face set like mosaic tiles in concrete. ‘This being so,’ I went on, ‘I retain my secular status, which is as a Senator of the Empire and a Member of the Imperial Council. I may have come home to England a few years ago on the basis of a slight misunderstanding that involved His Late Imperial Majesty. But this has been set aside by His Present Imperial Majesty. I am, therefore, exactly what I was before my sad but temporary eclipse within the Empire. Without the Emperor’s express consent, I cannot be required to plead before any judicial authority of the Church. I certainly cannot be required to answer to questions set at the behest of a ruler who is subordinate to His Imperial Majesty in Constantinople. Indeed, since I may be regarded, for all practical purposes, as the Emperor’s Legate in England, I possess full immunity in any civil or criminal matter. My immunity can only be lifted by a sealed decree of the Emperor himself.’
Among those who could follow me, there were cries of outrage. But these were heavily outweighed by more contemptuous laughter at poor Gebmund. It was coming in rather handy that so many foreign clerics were gathered for the moment in Canterbury. This would have to go by the book.
Aelfwine was on his feet. ‘This is ridiculous!’ he shouted. He ignored Gebmund’s desperate banging of his staff. ‘No, I won’t be silenced! The Old One is lying.’ He frowned and looked about the church. No less than Gebmund, he’d tried everything possible with Theodore to get this called off. Now, far less than Gebmund, he understood what I was about to pull on them all.
‘What is this Empire he talks about?’ he asked defiantly. ‘There was a time when the Romans were supreme in the world. Their territory included all of England and more, and Spain and France and Italy, and Greece and Thrace, and Syria and Egypt, and Africa even to its interior. You still see in these places the statues of their emperors, in marble as well as in bronze. But Rome is now fallen and humiliated. Its western provinces are taken by men like ourselves. Its eastern provinces are taken by the Saracen unbelievers. The little Greek who calls himself Roman Emperor rules from Constantinople over the Asiatic provinces and Greece and Thrace and fragments of Italy and Africa. He has no authority here.’
He sat down. Still on my feet, I suppressed a smile. If this were a script for a play I’d written, it could hardly go better. ‘I cannot fault the young man’s geography,’ I said. ‘Such a pity about his law and his history. The Empire may, for the moment, be mostly confined within what are called its Home Provinces. It is still, nevertheless, the richest and most powerful kingdom in the known world. Even the Saracens are compelled, from time to time, to pay tribute to the Emperor, if they do not want their shipping swept from the sea, or the realms they have stolen from him troubled by internal strife. As for those of us who are Christians, the position, in both secular and canon law, is plain. The Emperor is ordained by God as the Head of Christendom. He may not choose to exercise his prerogatives over the kings whose people have been allowed to settle in his provinces. These prerogatives exist, however, and cannot be abolished. Kent itself remains part of the Universal Empire. Is there any man here of sanctity or learning who will dispute my words?’
I sat wearily on the steps to Gebmund’s chair. I was annoyed at how weak my voice had sounded towards the end. Still, I’d said my piece. Little as they’d understood me, my Englishmen stuck their jaws out and looked proud. The foreign clerics were doing their best not to laugh again.
Gebmund finally broke the long silence. ‘This inquiry is adjourned until further notice,’ he groaned.
Chapter 3
Theodore, Lord High Bishop of Canterbury, managed a look of what, all considered, was impressive hate. ‘I suppose My Lord Alaric may be seated,’ he snarled softly in Greek. The room was bleak as ever — though, defying all medical opinion, the window was still unshuttered. It let in a breeze from the garden and a sound of birdsong. In the months since our last meeting, time had consumed the remaining flesh of Theodore’s middle years, and his hooked Syrian nose was as prominent again as when he was a boy. I could see that Theodore was in no mood for pleasantry. The civility that had tinged our two earlier meetings would not be repeated.
‘Sorry to hear about the latest seizure,’ I said, also in Greek. I put on a look that might, by anyone who didn’t know me, be taken as sympathetic. ‘But I can’t help reminding you of those little lectures I used to give on the benefits of regular exercise and clean living. Why, just look at us, Theodore. No one would ever think I was twelve years your senior.’ I hobbled forward and sat in a chair that had been placed for maximum discomfort and general subordination. My walking stick fell on the floor with a high smack. The sound made Ambrose look round the door from where he was lurking. I ignored it and him. ‘Any chance of a drink?’ I asked in English.
Brother Wulfric looked at me, then at Theodore for instructions. But odd things, these seizures. This was poor Theodore’s second. If the first had deprived him of movement in his right side, this one had taken all his English. I could wish it had taken his Latin too. Theodore opened and shut his mouth a few times. ‘Oh, but don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, now showing off in Syriac. I turned to Wulfric. ‘He says to get me a pint of that French red you brought me last spring,’ I said brightly.
We were alone — perhaps, bearing in mind the snoring sound coming from Theodore’s mouth, I was alone. But, no — Theodore opened his eyes again and focused on me. ‘Where is the report you were instructed to prepare?’ he asked with laboured menace. His head sagged to the left and he fought for breath. He shut his eyes and seemed to pray for strength. ‘Whatever chicanery you dare to employ in this world,’ he went on in Syriac, ‘can you not imagine the torments that await you in the next for the murder you have committed?’
I’d been made to leave my sandals at the door. I looked sadly at my feet. They’d benefit from the attentions of a pumice stone. But — such the indignities of age — I could barely reach nowadays to wash them. ‘Sophronius got what he deserved,’ I said. ‘If there is a Hell, he’s already burning there in your favourite lake of black fire. Besides, you just try proving that I did him in. That jailor you put up against me today made a right dickhead of himself. And Gebmund must have told you that his hands are tied. Don’t assume you can scare me into doing your dirty work. I’m the Emperor’s man till I die. That’s one oath I won’t ever break.’
We glared at each other until Wulfric returned, jug in hand. If that was a pint the boy was carrying, King Swaefheard had been playing with the Kentish weights and measures. But I smiled and nodded, and pushed my teeth back into place. I left him with the cup and took the jug. One of the few blessings of my advanced age is that it takes very little wine to get me tipsy. In the glory days of my youth, I could knock it back like beer and drink anyone under the table. Now, I sipped with moderate delicacy and waited for the delicious warmth to radiate from the pit of my stomach. Oh, but rotten luck — I’d been given some kind of heated slop that tasted of lentils! I resisted the urge to spit and tried to look grateful.