He looked at it musingly. "In Rome, last time I was there. It is eastern, made in Constantinople."
"Yes." I turned the thing over. The back was covered with oriental scrollwork. "I've seen this work before, but never in a cross."
He snorted. "The Church is growing wealthy. It has become the accepted fashion for bishops to wear such things."
"But you find it gross."
"Yes. I do."
I handed it back to him. "Was it a gift?"
"It was."
"Why did you accept it, if you find it so distasteful?" He looked at me as if I had lost my wits. "Because of its value, of course. I saw it’s worth. I intend to sell it in Londinium. The price I get for it will aid me in my work."
"God's work?"
"The two are the same." There was no hint of censure in his voice to counteract the cynicism in mine.
"I see. When were you in Rome?"
"Three years ago."
"Why haven't you sold it before now?"
"I did not have to. Now I need the money."
"For your work?"
"For my work."
I cleared my throat, deciding the man was telling the absolute truth.
"Tell me about this silver cross you visualize. Why do you want that?" He pursed his lips. "As a token. A symbol."
"Of what? Forgive my bluntness, but I do not understand. Why should you need a symbol? Of what? Your faith? Your position?"
"Both of those, but more." He picked up his cup of wine and looked into it, and then he got to his feet and began to move about the room, sipping occasionally at the wine.
"I see the Church here in Britain, Master Varrus, as lacking an identity, a local flavour if you like, that would make it more acceptable to the people here. The pectoral cross is an excellent badge of office. I have no doubt of that. It is large, easily visible and unmistakable. The garishness of that gold one, and of the others I have seen, however, suggest a foreignness and a preoccupation with worldly wealth and power that offends me. You see? I spoke of vanity and here I am, in my own vanity, decrying the vanity of others. Anyway, my thought is that a plain, silver cross, stark and simple, adorned only with inscribed Celtic designs such as I have shown you, would serve the double purpose of defining my function to my people here and dedicating their art, their traditions and their abilities to the glory of God. Does that make sense?"
I picked up the jewelled cross again from where he had left it on the arm of his chair. "Aye, Bishop, " I said. "It makes sense, I suppose. But why silver? Why not plain gold? Why not wood, for that matter?"
"Why not? I understand what you are saying. Let us just say that there is a modicum of vanity involved. Wood does not appeal to me. Silver does. It has a beauty, a purity, that is unique. It is pristine."
I raised my hand, palm outward. "I can't argue with that." I handed the cross back to him again and this time he replaced it inside his robe. "But why have you come to me? I'm not the one to make your cross for you. There are silversmiths by the squad in Londinium, any one of whom could do that in his sleep."
"No, Varrus. There is your error." He placed his empty cup on the table. "I'll take no more of your time, but let me leave you with this thought. You may never have worked with silver, and you may care little for its delicacy, as you say, but you are a man who respects integrity, whether it be in a man or in a metal. I have been asking people about you. You are also, by your own admission, a man who responds to challenge. I am on my way to Londinium. While I am there I will convert this golden bauble into money. If you will, please think about what would be involved in making this cross for me, respecting the integrity of the metal, of the design of the cross itself, and of the decoration you would add to it. Consider, too, the challenge of the silver. I will return within the month. If you tell me then that you do not want this commission, I shall respect your decision. Is that fair?"
I shrugged my shoulders, bewildered. "Aye, I suppose it is. I'll think on it. But I make you no promises."
"I want none. Now I must go." He made a move to rise, and, on an impulse, I stopped him. He waited, looking at me in silence as I struggled with the question that had risen, unbidden, to the tip of my tongue. After several seconds had passed, I found the words to frame it; more accurately, I found a minor question that would allow me to work towards the question that concerned me.
"Please, " I said, "if you can spare me a few more minutes, I would like to ask you something about the Tribune, Commander Britannicus." He settled back into his chair and crossed his hands on his stomach.
"What would you like to know, Master Varrus?"
"Nothing that will embarrass either of us to discuss, Bishop, but I could use some enlightenment on a thing that has been bothering me. Have you known the Tribune long?"
He nodded. "All my life. His family and my own are close and have been for many years."
"I thought so. Are you Roman born?"
"No, I was born here in Britain, as was Caius."
"What can you tell me about the enmity between him and Primus Seneca? I know it is deep and bitter, but I have never been able to discover the cause of it."
"Have you asked Caius?"
"Commander Britannicus? No, I have not. He has spoken of it, but I have asked him nothing. Our relationship is not one that would allow such intimacy."
Alaric smiled. "I think you are wrong, there, Master Varrus, but I appreciate the reason for your thinking that way. You would regard such a question as impertinent, but Caius Britannicus would not. He regards you as a friend, not as a subordinate. I think he would gladly tell you the story himself, were you to ask him."
I thought about that for a second, and then responded, "I could not do that."
Alaric smiled. "All right. Theirs is a blood feud — a family feud, the origins of which have been forgotten while the virulence remains and seems to grow."
"All the Senecas hate all the Brittanici? Is that what you are saying?"
"Almost." He was frowning slightly now, thinking. "Caius Britannicus is the next-to-last of his line. He has a sister, Luceiia, a son, Picus, of whom he is very proud, and three other young children. There are no other members of the family Britannicus left alive, not even cousins bearing the same name. The Senecas, on the other hand, are. a prolific breed. Primus is the first of seven brothers, all of whom are soldiers save the youngest, who is a ne'er-do-well. The family is fabulously wealthy, you understand, and has been since the days of Julius Caesar when Seneca the Elder, the banker, was estimated to be the wealthiest man in the world."
I nodded, to show that I was aware of the Seneca legend.
"As I said, " Alaric continued, "no one knows when this war between the families began, but it has grown like a weed, and it has blighted both families, particularly the family of Britannicus. Caius had an elder brother, Jacobus, who was murdered, along with their parents, almost twenty years ago in Rome. The circumstances surrounding the crime pointed towards Primus Seneca as the instigator, although nothing could ever be proved. The case was taken to the Senate, but there was nothing to be done in law.
"Caius thought otherwise, however. He was a very young man at the time, with more than his share of youth's hot-headedness and lust for revenge. He challenged Primus Seneca, accused him publicly of the crime, and they fought, each employing a number of mercenaries to their cause. The affair created a scandal. There was open warfare in the streets between the adherents of both families, and there were many deaths. Public sympathy was with young Caius, but there was no proof of Primus's guilt, and so the authorities stepped in and put an end to the fighting by transferring the two men — both soldiers, remember — to opposite ends of the Empire." He sighed, deeply and disgustedly. "That solved the immediate problem, of course, but in fact it resolved nothing. The Seneca family continued to live in Rome, and in Constantinople, and Luceiia, Caius's baby sister, was sent to live on the family estate here in Britain, where she remains to this day."