Marcellus – the high priest of the Christians in Rome – looked unbearably smug as he entered my aula regia, though the lackey at his shoulder seemed considerably more subdued, which, while I was still furious, warmed me towards him a little at least. If I’d needed to stoke my ire, though, I had only to turn back to the unctuous lunatic I’d had the misfortune to appoint as head of that troublesome sect.
‘Majesty,’ hissed one of the Praetorians just off to the side, trying to remind me that these visitors were coming perilously close to the imperial person. I had noticed a subtle change in the attitude of the Guard since I had put Volusianus in command of them following the death of his opposite number, Anullinus – nothing strong , just a stiffer, more formal manner. Volusianus might have been here with me now, had he not been busy beyond belief administrating at once the vast army, the Praetorians and the Urban Cohorts. Zenas, of course, languished in Africa, failing to bring me the conclusive victory over the usurper Alexander for which I had hoped. I tried not to think of Zenas and Africa. I was angry enough right now with those in my own city.
I waved the guardsman back. This was not Constantine’s swelling army of Germanic savages, but a pair of pacifist priests. What had I to fear in person from these men? It seemed that they had endless power over their own worshippers, but I was a true son of Jove, not some cultist from a half-desert eastern backwater. I could sense the disapproval of the soldier at my lack of caution, but I wanted Marcellus to come close. The closer the better. Real anger is best expressed close and all the worse for being experienced that way.
‘Marcellus,’ I said, keeping my voice steady. He seemed completely oblivious to my mood in spite of the fact that I had done nothing to hide it, and I was curious despite myself to see how long he could maintain his composure.
‘Majesty,’ the priest replied with appropriate deference, though his eyes were only cast downwards for a moment, almost as though in recognising my authority he was denying his own God. Hades, how these Christians bothered me sometimes. Intrigued me, to some extent, but still bothered me.
‘You seem to be in a jubilant mood,’ I prompted. Marcellus’s already smug smile broadened, and I was fascinated to note his companion wince. Good. At least one of them knew what was happening.
‘There is much to be jubilant about, Majesty.’
‘Oh?’
I knew I had a dangerous edge to my voice, like the sword of Damocles hanging over the idiot’s head.
‘Of course, Majesty. The Lapsi are returning to the fold of Christ, and their restoration swells the coffers of the holy seat of sainted Petrus. Our numbers grow… while remaining true in our allegiance to your mighty self,’ he added quickly, whipping a tongue out to wet his lips. ‘And our dilapidated finances are slowly recovering.’
I cocked an eyebrow and almost laughed as the priest behind him shook his head very slightly and put a hand over his eyes.
‘Well, Majesty,’ Marcellus went on in a conciliatory tone, ‘I know that our Church has not always enjoyed the same legitimacy as some of Rome’s older… err… faiths… but since our legalisation, surely we should be encouraged to grow and finance ourselves in the same manner as, for instance, the cult of Sol Invictus , or the priests of Saturn?’
‘I care not, Pope Marcellus, whether you are penniless or rich. Do not think for one moment that I lie awake at night pondering the state of your finances. And as long as your people remain loyal to the throne and to Rome, I could not give two Thracian farts whether there are ten of you or a thousand. I have your people serving in both my court and my army. You may be Christians, but you are also Romans, and I respect that. But you , Marcellus, are more than just a Christian. More than a Roman . Indeed, you are more even than a high priest to your people.’
Marcellus positively glowed, anticipating my next words. The other Christian priest at his shoulder took a small step backwards, his hand still over his face. My smile turned cold as quickly as a Pannonian winter.
‘Indeed, Pope Marcellus. You are much more. You, Marcellus, are a moron!’
The priest frowned for a moment in confusion and lifted his face to meet my gaze as I rose slowly from my throne, unfolding like the wrath of Titans.
‘You are a moron . You are presumptuous, inflammatory, short-sighted, dangerous and hopelessly poor at your occupation.’
Marcellus rocked back. His companion had taken several more steps away, his gaze flitting to the half dozen Praetorians in the room.
‘Majesty, I…’
‘Lapsi!’ I snarled, leaning into his face. ‘It staggers me that you even bother putting a name to such a thing.’ The Lapsi were what their people were calling Christians who had recanted their beliefs during the persecutions. To my mind that made them eminently sensible, but apparently to their own Church that made them the lowest of the low.
‘The Lapsi are cursed, Majesty. It is the duty of the Church to bring them back to Christ’s love.’
‘And to make a bucketful of sesterces each time for your effort.’
‘Majesty?’
I heaved an irritable sigh. ‘You actually charge your own people money to be saved from this cursed state. And not just a small fee, I am led to believe. I am told that your price for taking back your own worshippers is cripplingly high. So much so that many cannot afford to go back, even if they destitute themselves.’
‘They should have thought of their future wellbeing when they sold out their faith for the comfort of their corporeal lives, Majesty. They placed their flesh above their spirit, and now they pay the price.’
‘And your Lapsi are causing trouble, Marcellus.’
‘Well, Majesty, they…’
‘For your continued good health,’ I cut him off sharply, ‘I heartily recommend that you seal your lips tight and utter no further word until bidden, Pope Marcellus,’ I snarled.
The other priest was now halfway between his master and the exit. I might have laughed had I not been so caught up in my anger.
I took a step forward, forcing the now-cowering Marcellus to back-step. Each soldier in the room took a pace forward in a tightening circle.
‘I raised you to the highest position your cult allows, with imperial patronage no less, to solve the problems of restless Christians and to bring peace and order to your people in my realm. I specifically told you not to cause any trouble.’
He opened his mouth to argue but, catching the look in my eye, shut it again, prudently sealing in the hasty words.
‘And now, because you are oppressing your own people, fining your Lapsi with an o’er heavy hand and generally running your cult as though it were a grocer’s shop, with profit and growth your guides, your people revolt.’
‘Revolt is a strong word, Majesty,’ croaked the man halfway to the door, but he was looking deferentially at the floor again before my gaze even struck him. I wrenched my anger back to Marcellus. ‘I have reports of angry demonstrations in public on no fewer than six occasions in the past few days. There have been countless injuries, some of which were inflicted upon innocent bystanders. There have been, I believe, three deaths so far, including one of your priests and two of these Lapsi who could not afford to worship their God. One of your own temples lies in smouldering ruins – unpleasantly reminiscent of Nicomedia during the persecutions – and, despite everything else, that is the incident that finally broke this for me. I will not allow your troubles to risk a fire in my city. You surely know the history of Rome enough to know how devastating fire can be. One Christian church burns and the next thing I know I’m watching whole districts go up in flames, vigiles filling the streets with their fire carts, every watch-house full of charred citizens being tended by every surviving medic, from imperial surgeon to horse doctor, and I am being proclaimed the new Nero. DO. YOU. FOLLOW. ME?’
Each of these last words I snapped with such force that Marcellus recoiled as though each were a hammer blow nailing him up to one of his beloved crosses. I thought I smelled urine, though his voluminous robes hid any truth of it from me.
Silence reigned in the aftermath of my tirade.
‘You may speak,’ I announced very quietly.
He tried several times to do so, managing a hoarse rasp at best. Finally his voice reappeared from somewhere and he managed: ‘How can I regain your favour, gracious Majesty?’
I hardened my gaze. ‘You can get out of my sight and make sure that I never set eyes upon your infuriating face again.’ I stepped forward, raising my hand, and he flinched and cowered back. He must truly have thought I was going to strike him, and in that realisation I was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, I tore at the chain and clasp that held his outer garment of office fastened, and ripped the heavy robe from him, leaving him in a richly embroidered tunic that likely represented a significant slice of their freshly swollen coffers.
Sure enough, the waft of urine heightened with fresh exposure as I dropped my hand to my side, still gripping the robe.
‘Get out of my sight, my palace, my city and my realm, you worthless, ungrateful, feckless piece of excrement. Go to Ostia and take ship. I do not care which ship, but do not let your name be heard again in Italia or Africa. You are hereby stripped of your position by the same authority with which you agreed your investiture. If you are found in Rome after sunset, things will not go well for you.’
The former Pope, eyes wide and wild and stinking of fear, shuffled backwards slowly. I gestured for the guards to open the door at the end of the room, and as I began to growl slowly like an angry hound, Marcellus turned and fled.
His companion was still standing a little further back, shaking his head. I wondered momentarily whether Constantine was enjoying such difficulties with the Christians of the north, given his familial connection to the strange sect. Probably not, I decided. I’d not heard tidings of such incidents, and things ever seemed to fall easily into place for the man.
‘You!’ I barked, pointing at the former Pope’s lackey, and the man scurried forward and dropped into a bow. ‘You are a priest? One of import?’
The man nodded.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Eusebius of Caralis, Majesty, and I have the honour by the grace of God to be the father of one of the larger churches in the city.’
‘And your people look up to you?’
The man seemed confused by the question, shrugged, and then nodded. ‘I would say so, Majesty.’
‘And you can sort out this mess Marcellus created? Stop charging money to the Lapsi so they can return to your fold and so on?’
‘I believe so, Majesty.’
I smiled. ‘Good. Congratulations on your appointment, Pope Eusebius.’ I thrust out a hand rather ignobly, proffering the dusty outer robe of office, and Eusebius took it reverently, though with a wrinkled nose. ‘Excellent. By the time summer ends I want a peaceful city with a Christian community that pays its taxes, upholds the law, and fails to set fire to anything. That is your task. No more troubles. Understand?’
The new Pope bowed his head. ‘I understand, Majesty.’
‘Good. Now go and carry out your orders.’
I watched Eusebius leave the room, throwing the robe carefully about his shoulders, and I hoped that with him would go my troubles with that most difficult sect and their God. I might as well have wished for a green sky.
As I sat, recovering my temper, the doors to the chamber remained open and, presumably entirely by chance, the ghost-like figure of Valeria passed by, pausing to frown into the room. I tried to smile at her. Despite everything I always tried to smile, for if I could only melt the ice between us a little, the world could be a much different place, but the meeting I had just endured had left me with only irritation and acerbic wit, and the smile I offered probably contained as much warmth as her own expression, which promptly turned away from me as she walked on out of sight.
I sighed. If only moronic priests were my only worries.