Blood and Steel

Chapter 32

Rome

The Pantheon,

Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238

To be led into the midst of the brethren, in sackcloth and ashes, a compound of disgrace and horror, and before everyone, the elders, the widows, and all the virtuous, to grovel for their tears, clasping their knees, licking their footprints. The die-cutter was not sure he could bear the hu-miliation.

Twice he had been demoted to the status of a Hearer, denied instruction, made to stand by the door and plead for the prayers of the brothers and sisters as they went in and out of the building. That had been shame enough. Those punishments had been for the sin of fornication. Again he had to confess to the weakness of the flesh, but now he had broken one of the commandments. In the Street of the Sandal-makers he had tried to take a man’s life. It was four years since they had made the sign over him and put the salt in his mouth and he had become an Apprentice. Four years of fasting and prayer, of being watched and judged, and he was no nearer being admitted to the Gathering. Was anything worth such trials?

Yet, if the Elders were right, the alternative was an eternity of suffering. Long ago, Hippolytus had told him what lay in store, and the words had stayed with him over the years. To those who had done well, everlasting enjoyment should be given; while to the lovers of evil should be given never ending punishment. The unquenchable and unending fire awaited the latter, and a terrible fiery worm that did not die and that did not destroy the body but continually burst forth from the body with unceasing pain. No sleep will give them rest, no night will soothe them, no death will deliver them from punishment.

Even with his limp, it was not a long walk from the Subura to the Pantheon. The die-cutter was not sure he was ready. Nevertheless, he went around to the back of the temple, but, at the last moment, hesitated outside the Basilica of Neptune.

Since the fight, he had not attended any meetings, and had put off seeing his Instructor. Still, Africanus was a mild man. Far gentler than his previous instructor Hippolytus. Although the details eluded him, the die-cutter had been unsurprised when the latter had been cast out from the Gathering. Not that it had spared Hippolytus arrest by the authorities. It was a wonder that Africanus had not been taken. Membership of the Gathering aside, Africanus was a man of prominence, wealthy and cultured, head of an im-perial library, and his association with Mamaea, mother of the last Emperor, might have been enough to bring him to the attention of the regime of Maximinus.

The die-cutter summoned his resolve, and went into the Basilica.

The great hall of the library was crowded; groups of rich men deep in obscure discussion, serious scholars surrounded by papyri, slave copyists hard at work. Dressed in clean but plain clothes, the die-cutter might pass for one of the latter, but he worried that he looked out of place. He asked an attendant if Africanus could see him, and loitered, trying to look inconspicuous.

Africanus was a tall man, with the dark complexion of his Syrian origin. He arrived trailing an entourage of secretaries, but did not appear put out to see the humble petitioner. They greeted each other formally, but without intimacy, employing all the three names of a citizen. Dismissing his slaves, Africanus led the die-cutter to a private study, all the while loudly talking about the possibility that one Serenus might bequest his books — sixty-two thousand volumes! — to the library.

When the door was shut, and they were alone, Africanus’ manner changed.

‘News has come from the mines of Sardinia,’ Africanus said. ‘Unable to perform his duties in his confinement, Pontianus has stepped down.’

In his excitement, the librarian failed to notice how the die-cutter flinched at the name of Pontianus.

‘He has done it for the good of the Gathering, so a new man can be elected Bishop of Rome. In his wisdom and holiness, he has been reconciled with his fellow prisoner Hippolytus, brought him back to the true teaching. Praise be to God.’

They prayed together, arms outstretched as if they were crucified. Africanus’ eyes gazed up, through the ceiling to the heavens. As an Apprentice, the die-cutter kept his down to the ground.

‘You have been missed,’ Africanus said.

‘I have sinned.’

‘To be an Apprentice is a trial of faith, more precious than gold which is tried by fire.’

‘Father, will you hear my confession? To the Lord I will accuse myself of iniquity.’

And the die-cutter told him almost everything, the minor failings, the nights with Caenis, the attempt on a man’s life; everything except his treacherous words when Pontianus was arrested.

When it was done, Africanus considered.

‘We are taught to observe all things which God has commanded, and undertake to live accordingly. The flesh is weak, but a prostitute is neither a virgin nor a married woman, there is no adultery. You did not kill a man, but it was your intention. That is a grave sin. Yet in mitigation, you intervened to protect the weak. You are contrite.’

The die-cutter waited.

‘You will not be brought into the Gathering in sackcloth to make public confession, nor will you be reduced to standing by the doors as a Hearer. Your instruction will continue. But you must pray and fast for twenty days. No meat, eggs, cheese or milk, no wine, nothing until sunset. And you must undergo another exorcism.’

The die-cutter was weak with relief.

Africanus waved his thanks away. ‘You are a lustful man.’ The Instructor’s tone became less stern, more avuncular. ‘There is help for that. Rue, cress and lettuce calm physical desires. Chew the roasted seeds of the Chaste-tree after your meal. After your penance, nothing is more efficacious than drinking wine in which a red mullet has been drowned. All were created by the Lord for our service.’

Walking back to the tenement in which he lived, the die-cutter pondered the cost of red mullet. All men were equal before God, but not all could afford expensive seafood. Lettuce and cress were more affordable. Christ had worked with the fishermen, but there was nothing in the Gospels of him drowning red mullet in wine.