Fireball (10 page)

Brad was in the lead. He ran onto the old bridge, crossed quickly, and looked back. He called: “We missed our bout this morning. How about this?”

He came back until he was standing on the narrow section and adopted a wrestler's crouch. Simon
realized two things. One was that this had been planned in advance. The other was that his chance of emerging the winner was not very bright. Forgetting the river (if one could), the bridge was at least three times as high as the planks in the
palaestra,
and he did not have a good head for heights. He could remember mentioning that to Brad, soon after they met, in the course of a discussion about Niagara Falls. Brad, plainly, had filed that, too, in his remarkable memory and was now ready to take advantage of it.

While he was hesitating, Brad called again: “Want me to stand on one leg?”

Lavinia beside him gave a small gurgle of laughter, probably only at the sight of Brad's antics, but it sharpened Simon's awareness of his predicament. He had a choice between refusing the challenge and looking chicken, or accepting and being made to look a fool. He glanced down at the river. A wet fool, too.

Brad said: “That's all right. I'll fish you out.”

Simon advanced. He didn't look down again but was very conscious of the drop and the rushing water. Brad crouched, waiting. Simon dropped into a matching crouch, but only for a moment. He
straightened up and ran at Brad, sweeping round with his right arm just before they made contact. There was no wrestling: just impact and the pair of them falling. He tightened his hold as they hit water, bearing Brad down till they struck the pebbled bottom. Then he let go. As he came up, he saw Lavinia above him on the bank; she looked concerned till Brad surfaced in turn a couple of yards away. Simon grinned at her, and she smiled back.

He struck out for the nearest reasonable landing, a little downstream. He had almost reached it when his right leg was seized, then his left, and with a twist Brad pulled him under. As they struggled, Simon was disconcerted to find that Brad was a stronger swimmer and that his own weight advantage no longer helped. He went down, struggled to the surface, and was dunked again. The third time he got a mouthful of water instead of air. When Brad finally permitted him to get to the bank, he was choking and gasping in a very undignified fashion. Lavinia was laughing uncontrollably.

•  •  •

The good news came next morning when they were called into the
tablinum.
Word had come from
Londinium. The Bishop wished to examine Brad at greater length; he was to go to him at once.

Brad asked: “For how long, sir?”

Quintus Cornelius shook his head. “It was not stated. But for a long time, I think—weeks, perhaps. I shall miss our games, Bradus.”

“And Simonus—what about him?”

“He was not asked for.” Quintus Cornelius looked at Simon in commiseration. “I am sorry His Holiness cannot find a use for you at present, but . . .”

Simon said cheerfully: “That's all right, sir. It's Bradus who knows it all. He'll be much more use than I could be.”

They saw Brad off in the
cisium,
a light two-wheeled gig which would convey him swiftly to the city and the Bishop. Lavinia said: “We shall miss you, Bradus.”

Brad was doing his best to look unconcerned. Simon thought cheerfully of the difference in their prospects. For Brad, long, grinding hours of interrogation, punctuated by religious harangues. For himself, the easy life of the villa, with nothing to do but amuse himself. And Lavinia. Echoing her, he said solemnly: “Yes, we shall miss you, Bradus.” He
grinned and added in English: “But don't hurry back on our account.”

The driver cracked his whip, and the gig set off at a brisk pace. Simon turned to Lavinia: “You said you might read some poetry to me, in the summerhouse. That sounds like a good idea.”

I
T WAS NICE WHILE IT
lasted, but it didn't last long. Four days later, Simon was summoned to the
tablinum
again. There had been another message from the Bishop: He wanted him as well.

Simon attempted to argue. “But I wouldn't be of any value to him. There's nothing I know which Bradus doesn't know better. He has a fantastic memory—he can remember everything he's ever read. Whereas mine's terrible.”

“That may be true, Simonus.” A pause provided a moment of hope. “But His Holiness requests you, and that is enough.”

He spoke calmly but with authority. And in this world, Simon remembered, authority did not tolerate opposition. That didn't just apply to slaves and the female sex. A son, for instance, was under the absolute power of his father, to the extent that even after he was married, he could not possess anything in his own right; he lived on an allowance, conditionally on behaving himself. And if instant obedience was required of a son, how much more so in the case of someone like himself?

He bowed. “When am I to leave, sir?”

“Immediately,” Quintus Cornelius said, “of course.”

He did manage to get a few minutes alone with Lavinia. She put her hand in his. He squeezed it and was delighted when she very slightly responded. He said confidently: “I'll be back soon.”

“I hope so. But Bradus has not come back, and Grandfather thinks he may not for a long time.”

“It's different with Bradus.”

The difference being, he reflected, that while Brad might have the edge where academic knowledge was concerned, cunning was something else again. The Bishop had presumably called for him in the
hope that he might know something more than he was getting from Brad. He had worked out an effective way of dealing with that. He had, he knew, put up a poor show in comparison with Brad at the previous interview; that would be why the Bishop had asked just for Brad in the first place. Confusion from the Bishop's rapid-fire questioning, made worse by his inadequate Latin, had had a lot to do with it. He reckoned that with a little thought he could appear dumber still. A couple of days of well-meaning stupidity, and His Holiness would be glad to be rid of him.

He asked: “Will you miss me?”

A small nod. “Yes.”

“Truly?”

She looked at him. “Yes, Simonus, truly.”

A sharp look round showed they were free from observation. He quickly bent down and kissed her. It landed high up on her cheek, and she immediately pulled away. But she did not look upset.

•  •  •

On the journey out to the villa Simon had been too preoccupied with talking to Brad to take in much of his surroundings. In the
cisium,
sitting beside a
taciturn driver, he could observe things better. The approach to Londinium was something of a sprawl, with rows of hovels crowded alongside the road for half a mile before they reached the gate.

It was a very old gate. The brickwork was crumbling in several places, and the heavy wooden doors looked as though they had not been closed for centuries. On one side, in fact, a small hut to house the sentry had been built against the door, and would have to be demolished before it could be closed. The sentry was on duty but made no challenge as the
cisium
rattled through. And beyond a couple of feet on either side, the wall was invisible beneath the clutter of buildings clinging to it. Plainly it was meant as no more than a token defence, as one might expect in a land that had been at peace for more than a thousand years.

Inside, there was a further stretch of mean-looking buildings before they came to shops and larger edifices. The shopfronts were on the pattern he had seen before, but some had translucent glass windows, and some were double-tiered with staircases leading up from the street. There was the usual bustle of activity—vendors crying their wares, beggars calling,
sometimes yelling, for alms—and a constantly changing mixture of smells: fruit and flowers, fish and cooked meats, leather and liquor, and the nauseating whiff of drains.

The buildings became still more impressive as they approached what Simon realized must be the quarter of the forum. The road broadened, and they clopped past large houses with only their roofs showing behind high walls, temples with porticoed entrances above flights of marble steps, the massive outline of the baths, and the great curving arc that was the circus. It would be deserted now. He remembered the gale of voices roaring for blood.

It puzzled him that the streets started getting meaner again. The driver halted the
cisium
in a street of shabby buildings and indicated that he should descend. He led the way through a narrow tunnel into a courtyard and left him there. The place was no more impressive inside than out. He realized he had been expecting the Bishop to live in something like Lambeth Palace, with a Roman version of  Westminster Abbey close by. The driver came back with Brad and left them together.

Simon gestured towards the buildings.

“Not quite what I imagined.”

“The Christians are poor relations on this side, remember.”

“I wouldn't describe Quintus Cornelius as a poor relation.”

“It's okay for individual Christians to be rich, but the Church has to keep a humble profile.” Brad paused. “How's everything at the villa?”

“Fine.”

“And Lavinia?”

“She's okay.”

He had spoken shortly. Brad grinned.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow—that right?”

He made no reply, and Brad led the way into one of the buildings and up a stone staircase. They went along a landing painted with Christian murals to a small room overlooking the courtyard. It was sparsely furnished, but the walls were thick with religious paintings, and there was a bronze crucifix in one corner. Brad said: “Our sitting room. Privilege of special guests.”

Simon said: “I've seen worse. I don't suppose I shall be here long.”

“No? How do you figure that?”

Simon shrugged. “You're the one with the brain and the information. I shouldn't think the Bishop would need more than half an hour to pick mine clean.”

“Such modesty.” It was mock respectful, and Brad was grinning. “Come on. Time for
prandium.
But I hope you've not worked up too big an appetite. It's not like life at the villa. They go in for modest eating here as well. You'll need to tighten your belt a notch for that half hour you're going to be around.”

The Bishop's study was small and bare, too, but it had a much bigger crucifix with a broad halo that looked like real gold. The Bishop was writing on a wax tablet and continued for some moments before looking up.

“Be seated, Brother Simonus.”

Brother
carried a suggestion of belonging Simon did not much care for. The aim, he reminded himself, was to be stupid, but not too stupid. Confused, more—sounding as though he wanted to be helpful, but totally useless.

“As a Christian you are already bound in service to the Church. But the enterprise ahead of us is no
common one. Raise your hand. Swear, in Christ's name, that you will keep secret all you learn here.”

He mumbled what was required. The Bishop's eye fixed him.

“Keep your oath, or meet God's judgement.”

As soon that, he thought, as the Bishop's. He listened as the Bishop started explaining just what the enterprise was. He found considerable difficulty in grasping it, but the difficulty was not so much in the language as psychological.

In the past few months he had come to a view of the Roman Empire almost indistinguishable from those whose ancestors had been part of it for more than sixty generations. Its power was unshakeable, its permanence eternal—or as good as. It required quite an effort to appreciate that what the Bishop had in mind was a revolt, aimed at overthrowing the Roman army, the emperor, and Rome itself.

The fireball was the root of the matter. It was, in the Bishops view, either the Holy Ghost or a very senior angel, and it had brought them to be the means of enabling the followers of the Lord to destroy the slaves of false gods. They—Bradus and Simonus—were chosen instruments of the divine will.

The Bishop's eyes, fixed on his, made it unnecessary to pretend confusion.

“Your Holiness . . . I do want to help, I mean, of course I do . . . but . . . it's Bradus who can help you . . . with information. . . . I mean, I don't really know anything . . . . anything useful . . . anything he wouldn't. . . .”

The Bishop let him stutter into silence, then said: “That is true, Simonus.”

He suppressed a sigh of relief. But the Bishop went on: “You have a part to play, all the same. God is with us, but the Roman soldiers have been trained in the use of arms. It will not be easy for men unused to fighting to overcome them. But there are others who have acquired skill as warriors—those condemned to fight and die for the amusement of the godless. The gladiators. By the Lord's will you shared their servitude, and came to know a man called Bos, who is both Christian and gladiator. He is the one who must persuade his fellows, Christian and non-Christian alike, to rise at the appointed time. And you, Brother Simonus, will be our messenger to him.”

•  •  •

Brad asked: “How did it go, Brother Simonus?”

Simon stared at him. “I've been working something out.”

“You have? Something good, I'll bet. Go ahead—I'm listening hard.”

“When the Bishop was at the villa, I never said anything about being a gladiator.”

“But someone told him? Quintus Cornelius, maybe?”

“Maybe. But Quintus Cornelius didn't tell him about Bos because he didn't know. Only one person knew that.”

“Well, now! Those stories about the English being dumb—I never did believe them. Not altogether anyway.”

“I think it might be an idea if I finished what I started, before the fireball, and beat you to a pulp.”

Brad laughed. “You could try. Might look peculiar, though, in an instrument of the divine will? Think it'll get you back with Lavinia?”