Jack of Ravens

15

The journey from Ostia to the centre of Rome took what felt like hours to Church, as he was jolted black and blue in the back of a cart. As they neared, the noise grew louder until it became an unbearable hubbub that must have driven the residents mad. The Romans spent most of their lives on the street, trading, arguing, eating food cooked on portable stoves, and their activities created an atmosphere that was both exciting and oppressive.

Finally the cart came to a halt. ‘We walk from here,’ Veitch said. ‘No wagons in the city during the day.’

Church stumbled after a few steps, falling flat on a rutted street ankle-deep in rubbish and excrement. Veitch laughed hard, then dragged Church to his feet and ripped off the sack. ‘Don’t want you breaking your neck before we’re done with you,’ he said.

Despite his predicament, Church felt a rush of excitement at seeing history alive around him. Open-fronted shops lined the crowded street, with apartment blocks — insulae — rising up five or six storeys all around. Despite the gulf of centuries, it was not unlike modern cities — noisy, dirty, exciting, fast-living, cosmopolitan.

Veitch led him past dogs scavenging in the rubbish and children playing some kind of dice game with animal knucklebones. ‘So much for culture,’ he said. ‘This place stinks.’

Church nodded to a series of large vats simmering in the hot sun. ‘That would be the liquamen — fish sauce made from fermented fish guts. They boil it up everywhere. Or it’s those jars of piss.’ Nearby, an elderly man had pulled his toga aside to urinate in a pot. ‘They sell it to laundries and fullers for dissolving the animal fats and grease in fresh wool.’ Church watched Veitch’s expression grow thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’ Church asked. ‘Thinking of the best place to murder me?’

‘I’m always thinking about that.’ He surveyed the street scene. ‘You used to tell me all that kind of bollocks when we were on the same side.’

‘Learn a lot?’

A pause. ‘Yeah, I did.’

A procession of actors passed by in gaudy costumes and masks. The most striking mask resembled a rising sun with rays spiking out a full foot around the actor’s head. Church knew they were preparing for one of the spectacles that marked the week-long Ludi Apollinares, the celebration of the god Apollo that would take place in a few short weeks, in July. A connection sparked in his mind: did the timing have something to do with the disappearance of Lugh, another sun god?

‘I don’t remember doing the things you claim,’ Church said.

‘Trust me. You did.’

‘I’ve been thinking it over since you told me. I can’t imagine any situation where I would murder an ally … a friend.’

There was none of the angry denial that Church had anticipated. Veitch said simply, ‘She’s a great woman. Worth killing for.’

‘Nobody’s worth killing for.’

‘You really have forgotten a lot.’

‘I know what I feel for her, but-’

‘You love her. I love her. The winner is the one left standing at the end.’

Church felt uncomfortable talking to Veitch about Ruth and changed the subject. ‘Are you going to tell me how come you’re here, all hale and hearty, if I killed you?’

‘Death isn’t the end of it, mate. It’s not just turning out the light. It’s …’ He stared dreamily into the middle distance, squinting against the bright Roman light. ‘It’s like leaving a room. You go through a door and you’re somewhere else. And then there’s another door. And another. There’s always more doors.’

‘So you found your way back, is that what you’re saying?’

Veitch nodded to a young man talking animatedly to a bored, white-haired senator. ‘Let’s just say I found myself a patron.’

As a group of men passed by noisily, Church turned sharply and headbutted Veitch full in the face. He knew it was probably his only chance to break free. It was difficult to run with his hands tied behind his back, and he hadn’t got far when a centurion brought him down.

‘Know your place, slave,’ he snarled. Church tried to throw him off, but the centurion had the leverage to pin Church flat until Veitch caught up. Veitch thanked the centurion and then launched a series of furious kicks at Church. He thought he felt a rib crack, but managed to return a couple of kicks before Veitch booted him in the face and knocked him out.

He came round as Veitch dragged him up to the grand bath-house of Diocletian. ‘Try that again and I’ll break your fucking neck,’ Veitch hissed.

‘If I get the chance, you know I’ll do it.’

‘Just try it. Make me happy.’

The scale of the newly built complex took Church’s breath away; it covered thirty-two acres and could accommodate up to 3,000 bathers. They passed the crowds swarming at the entrance and went through an open-roofed lounge where men and women sunbathed or took part in traditional Roman pastimes: gossiping, playing board games, wrestling naked, their skin oiled and glistening, or playing the catch game trigon with sand-filled balls.

Several long corridors eventually led them to a private changing room where a man was undressing with the help of two slaves. He had curly black hair, a beard and moustache and skin darker than the average Roman’s. There was a subtle air of desperation about him.

He remained aloof, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear when he saw Veitch. ‘Is this the one?’

‘Jack Churchill, Brother of Dragons. The first and last.’

The man nodded thoughtfully as the slaves removed his toga. A black metallic spider gleamed on his left breast.

‘My name is Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maxentius,’ he said to Church without looking at him. ‘This city is mine. Soon this Empire will be mine. And you are mine now, as all things shall fall to me.’

‘Don’t bother talking down to him,’ Veitch said dispassionately. ‘He’s a smartarse. He probably knows more about you than you know about yourself.’

Church did know Maxentius. Despite the bravado the Roman exhibited, he was a man defined by failure. He was the son of the emperor Maximian, but had suffered the indignity of being passed over for high office when both Maximian and Diocletian had resigned the previous year.

His future held even worse. In a few weeks, after the death of Constantius in Eboracum, his son Constantine would gain the rank of Caesar, leaving Maxentius out in the cold once again. It would drive Maxentius to months of political intrigue to gain the title of Augustus he so desperately wanted, only to lose it, and his life, in a war with Constantine six years hence.

Church recalled all the textbooks he had read about that turning point in world history. When Constantine’s army met Maxentius’s forces on the Plain of Mihian outside the gates of Rome, Constantine was said to have sought the aid of the gods and was rewarded by the appearance of a flaming cross in the sky.

The next day, Constantine’s men bore crosses on their shields and carried a Christian standard. Maxentius and his men were driven back to a pontoon bridge over the Tiber, which collapsed under their weight. Thousands were drowned, including Maxentius. Constantine went on to become Rome’s first Christian emperor and his support led to Christianity becoming the dominant religion of Western Europe. Was this crucial moment in history the reason behind the Army of the Ten Billion Spider’s interest?

Maxentius snorted, but Church could see that Veitch’s comment troubled him. The Roman walked into the tepidarium, beckoning for Veitch to follow.

‘The spider is controlling him,’ Church said, ‘but he’s got more free will than the others I’ve seen under their influence.’

‘That’s how they need him. Now get your arse in there.’ Veitch shoved Church roughly.

In the cool air of the large vaulted hall, Maxentius flexed his muscles to acclimatise himself. He gave Church a cursory glance. ‘He does not look like a fearsome enemy.’

‘He’s the one. Now, you better keep close tabs on him because he’s a tricky bastard and if he gets to his sword your guts will be experiencing life on the outside.’

‘It is one of the three great swords?’ Maxentius said hungrily.

‘One of them, but not the greatest. Not Caledfwlch. This stupid bastard has hidden that one so he can find it again in the future to defend the land. Before he even knows what it is.’

‘But it has the power?’ Maxentius urged.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll wring it out like a sponge. You’ll get everything you want. Things are going to turn out in a whole new way.’

There it was: the confirmation Church needed.

‘I’ve had the sword sent to the temple,’ Veitch continued. ‘I’ve got other business here. Can I count on you to get him to the temple without any screw-ups?’

‘Of course.’ Maxentius clapped his hands and several guards emerged from an annexe.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Veitch said to Church superciliously, ‘but as my old nan used to say, your goose is cooked.’