“Divine providence is truly a wondrous thing.”
“Indeed. But you must understand, we cannot have armed men bursting into a church and kidnapping the Bishop of Rome in the middle of mass. It simply won’t do.”
“Even if he is guilty of fornication?”
“Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter. Paschalis and his accomplices were motivated by jealousy and arrogance. They cannot accept that a low-born cleric such as Leo might rise to the office of Pope. They believe that the post should be reserved for members of a handful of patrician dynasties; their own family, of course, being one. They have concocted these charges purely to discredit him.”
“But I —”
“The Pope is not guilty of fornication.”
Angilbert’s tone was bright and hard as steel, and Hervor dropped her head. He stood up.
“You understand how these things work, Hervor, better than anyone. If you had been some common trollop you would already be lying on the dungheap with your throat cut. However, I like you, and you have served us well in the past. You should never have run away —”
Hervor’s eyes blazed.
“I am a free woman, Father Abbot, a shieldmaiden of the Rus. I am not your slave, and I am not bound to you or your master by any oath of allegiance. I go where I please.”
“So you do, and I would not have it any other way. Consorting with pirates, though, and conspiring against the Pope: these are not the actions of a woman who wishes to remain free.”
“What do you know about Rurik? Have you been spying on me?”
Angilbert laughed.
“I need no spies to tell me about you and Rurik. A beautiful golden-haired woman who wields a sword like a man, sailing with a notorious privateer? You are the talk of the western Mediterranean. However, your question is curiously apposite to my purpose in visiting you.”
He sat down again, and Hervor tried to concentrate. When Angilbert became prolix, it usually meant that the serious business was about to begin.
“Are you familiar with the Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis?”
Hervor looked blankly at him.
“No, of course, the appeal of the literary arts has always been lost on you. What was it you said to me once? ‘I have no appetite for poetry, give me a fight, a feast and a fuck any time.’ So charmingly and succinctly expressed, it has stayed with me to this day…”
“Get on with it.”
“As you wish. The Sixth Satire poses a very interesting question: ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? — Who will watch the watchers themselves?’ Our friend Juvenalis was concerned about the fidelity of his mistress, and the risks inherent in asking his friends to keep an eye on her. We, however, might consider another interpretation of the question: who will spy on the spies?
“It is a problem that must be considered by any ruler of consequence. Every state must have its secret servants, its agents of intelligence and discreet violence, just as a body has its private functions which are necessary but are not to be discussed or displayed. Yet this vital organ of government also brings with it dangers. For when the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing, how can it be certain that the right hand is not plotting to do it harm?
“Have you ever stood between two mirrors, so that each reflects the other, and looked upon your image, echoing within itself into infinity? Such is the world of the spymaster. One must have agents within the enemy’s agents, agents to report on one’s own agents, agents among one’s agents whom the enemy believes to be secretly working for him, but are in fact working for you. At times the layers of deception threaten one’s sanity, and it is no longer clear which is reflection and which is reality.
“But such ruminations need not concern you. Ever pragmatic, I can see you are waiting for the part where I release you from this cell. Well then, I have a task for you. When it is complete, you may go where you will, and do as you like. There are two conditions, however. The first is that you do not attempt to cross me. Bear in mind, that just as I will set you to spy upon a spy, so I will also be spying on you. I have spared your life once; do not assume that I will do so again.”
“And the second?”
“You did not fornicate with the Pope.”
“You mean —”
“I am not asking for your silence on the matter. I am informing you that, whatever you think you remember happening, you did not fornicate with the Pope. Are you experiencing any difficulties with your memory in this regard?”
“No, I clearly recollect not fucking the Pope. I remember not doing it as though it were not yesterday.”
“Good. Now then, to your task. An old friend of ours has arrived in the city. Do you recall our visit to Baghdad, some eleven years ago?”
“You mean when my father was killed?”
“Yes, that was unfortunate. You may remember then a certain long-haired poet?”
“The one they called Abu Nuwas.”
“Indeed. He is in Rome, accompanying the embassy of the King of the Persians.”
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“No, no. Not yet at least. I simply want to know what he is up to. I hope, Hervor, you do not harbour any primitive Northern urges to avenge your father?”
“My father fell in battle, in the war that he had chosen to fight. He is at peace.”
“I am pleased to hear it. There is another spy in the city, too, from the court of the Empress Irene in New Rome. Unfortunately I do not know who he is. If you happen to discover his identity, feel free to indulge your murderous inclinations.”
“Did I hear you correctly? I may kill Irene’s spy, but not the Arab? Has King Karlo converted to Islam, then? Do we no longer owe allegiance to the Empress as the head of Christendom?”
“The King of the Franks acknowledges the supremacy of the Emperor of the Romans — as long as she does not presume to interfere in his affairs. There are those, of course, who argue that a woman cannot occupy the throne, and therefore the office of Emperor is currently vacant. These questions are not relevant to us, however.
“In the world of the mirror, left becomes right and right left. In the world of the spymaster, one’s friends are a greater threat than one’s foes. Enemies can be relied upon, they are dependable in their antagonism, but allies are uncertain and treacherous. The presence of Abu Nuwas in Rome is intriguing, but that of Irene’s agent is intolerable.”
“I understand, and accept your gracious offer, Father Abbot. How do I find this Abu Nuwas?”
“You might try going to see the elephant…”
***
Abu’l-Abbas was thirty years old. He stood nearly eight cubits tall at the shoulder, and weighed around a thousand pounds. His skin was white, which was unusual for his kind, and hung in wrinkled flaps from his enormous frame. He contemplated Hervor with a sad yellow eye, and flicked his trunk in idle indifference.
Elephants had once been a common attraction in old Rome, in the days when the city was the heart of an empire. Now they were rarely seen, and when Abu’l-Abbas first lumbered off the ship onto the harbour at Portus he had caused considerable consternation. Officials scuttled around, frantically seeking a place where the beast could safely be accommodated. At last someone recalled that the old Flavian amphitheatre contained pens specifically designed to hold elephants, and so Abu’l-Abbas had entered Rome at the head of an impromptu procession of loafers, gawkers and shrieking children, and plodded ponderously and very publicly through the streets to his new home.
After this ostentatious arrival, everybody in the city wanted to see the elephant, from the haughtiest nobleman to the foulest beggar. Hervor had to elbow her way through the crowds to get near it. The pen had long been in use as a warehouse, so the merchant whose stock had been unceremoniously removed to make way for Abu’l Abbas was trying to recoup his losses by charging for access to the beast. Hervor had forked over a gold solidus, and found herself in a draughty stone vault that reeked of straw, shit, and an unknown odour t
hat could only be elephant.
The beast himself stood patiently at the centre of the pen. Beside him a bent old man, presumably his keeper, was tapping him gently with a long pole and muttering into his flapping ears. There were other Romans around; those curious and wealthy enough to have paid to get close to him walked slowly around him, in a circle the bounds of which were precisely delineated by the equilibrium of fascination and fear.
The animal looked dolorous and sick, starved of sunlight. Hervor was not given to sentimentality, but her recent imprisonment engendered a pang of compassion. A teasing voice intruded on her thoughts.
“An interesting choice of gift, is it not? I think I would rather have had gold. It does not smell quite so bad.”
She turned to see who had spoken. Beside her was a tall, dark man with a beard and turban. He was older than when she had first met him, a little heavier and more lined, but it was unmistakably the poet Abu Nuwas. She wondered whether he recognised her, and kept her response carefully neutral in tone.
“They say it is a great honour, that the elephant is a symbol of royalty, and that by this gift the King of the Persians recognises Karlo as a monarch of equal standing.”
Abu Nuwas stroked his beard.
“One might say that. One might also say that it suggests the King of the Franks is an ignorant barbarian, easily pleased by flashy baubles of no real value.”
He grinned at her shocked expression.
“White elephants such as this are known to be sickly, useless for war or transport. In any case, the Righteous One would never consider your Karlo as an equal. Our ruler is no mere king. In our language we call him Khalifah, which means Successor to the Prophet. He leads us in spiritual matters as well as temporal; something like your Pope and Emperor combined in a single person. But then you know that, don’t you, shieldmaiden?”
Abu Nuwas seemed very pleased with himself. Hervor resolved not to give him the satisfaction of showing surprise.
“I was young when I visited your country, little more than a child, and did not learn to speak its language. The finer points of its political structure escaped me at the time. How is Ismail?”
The poet’s smile faded.
“I have not seen him for a while. He left Baghdad suddenly, without saying goodbye. Would you like to meet Abu’l Abbas?”
Hervor noted how quickly he had changed the subject, but did not pursue it.
“Is it safe to approach him?”
“Unless you intend to poke him with a stick or blow a trumpet in his ear, then yes. He is a gentle soul, and accustomed to being handled.”
They walked over to the animal. The handler greeted them in Arabic, but Abu Nuwas waved a finger.
“In Latin, if you please, Ziri! We cannot have my friend here thinking we are keeping secrets from her.”
The old man coughed and squinted. He seemed to embody the rule that keepers came to resemble their beasts, for his nose was long and his ears drooped from the side of his bald head.
“Very pretty, Abu Ali, but not your usual type, eh? Eh?”
“Ziri, may I present an old friend of mine. This is…”
She realised, to her annoyance, that he did not remember her name.
“Hervor. My name is Hervor.”
Then she added, with a touch of defiance:
“Hervor, Gorm’s daughter.”
Abu Nuwas did not react to the mention of the man he had killed. Instead he took her hand.
“Don’t be afraid.”
He pressed her palm against the elephant’s flank. Its skin was warm, rough, but not unpleasant, like wrinkled leather. She watched Abu Nuwas stroke the elephant with absent-minded familiarity.
“Did you travel with it from Egypt?”
“No, I only joined the embassy at Tunis. However Abu’l-Abbas seems to have taken a liking to me on the voyage.”
Hervor jumped as something touched her neck. It was the elephant’s trunk, which it now draped affectionately around her shoulders. The keeper Ziri sidled up to her.
“Do you know, miss, about the elephant and the dragon?”
She shook her head, a little nervously.
“The dragon sits in the branches of a tree, along the road which the elephants follow to their feeding grounds. When an elephant passes by, the dragon drops from the tree and wraps the elephant in its coils, strangling it and sucking its blood. When the elephant dies, it crashes to the ground, crushing the dragon beneath it; and the dragon too is killed.”
Hervor shivered, puzzled by this strange tale. Ziri stared at her as if expecting some response. She shook off the fear, and spoke calmly.
“That must be why you see so few dragons these days.”
Ziri laughed, a wheezing, sputtering noise.
“So few dragons… that’s very good. I like you, Hervor Gorm’s daughter.”
Abu Nuwas gently removed the trunk from her shoulders.
“Come, shieldmaiden. Shall we walk?”
They pushed their way through the throngs outside the pen, and strolled slowly around the amphitheatre. In the galleries below the seats, where gladiators, wild beasts and prisoners once waited to face their deaths, there were now workshops, storerooms and cheap apartments, the kind where sleeping space and cooking space were separated by a rough curtain, and everything else took place outside. Children ran and skipped and begged, and Hervor placed a protective hand over her purse.
Abu Nuwas steered her down one of the tunnels that opened out onto the arena. Here, a small church and cemetery radiated a sombre calm. The winter sun was shining, and after three months in a windowless cell Hervor was glad to see it.
“Strange to think how many must have died on this very spot… and now it is a graveyard. This circle must be a well, a pit where darkness seeps into the world.”
Hervor shivered at the poet’s grim words.
“Take me away from here.”
The banks of seats that ringed the arena had become common ground, a place for workmen to eat a meal or drunkards to sleep away the afternoon. Abu Nuwas clambered up some tumbled blocks, and hauled Hervor up behind him. They found a spot away from other people, and sheltered from the brisk wind.
“So, shieldmaiden, what are we doing then?”
It was a dangerously vague question. Almost any response she made would give him information. Hervor stared at him unflinchingly and waited for more. After a while, he obliged.
“All right then. Let me tell you what I believe we are doing, and let us see if we can share any articles of faith.”
He scratched at his chin.
“You are Angilbert’s agent, that much is given, but why has he sent you? Not to kill me, or you would not have come so brazenly. To watch over me, then. To find out what business I have in old Rome.”
He leaned forward, peering at her face as though there really were words written there.
“Your pallor, the hunger in your eyes… you have been ill. No, in prison. An argument with your masters, perhaps?”
Hervor tried not to move a muscle, but could not prevent a twitch of her left eye. Abu Nuwas sat back.
“I see I am right. Then you are here because that is the price of your freedom, to spy on me and find out what I am doing here. Well, I shall endeavour to remain interesting enough to be kept alive.
“And we need not be enemies, you and I. I speak, you understand, not as Abu Ali ibn Hani of the Hakami tribe to Hervor Gorm’s daughter, of the Rus. I speak as the Land of Islam, if that is not too presumptuous, to you, the Kingdom of the Franks and the Lombards. Inasmuch as we represent our employers, there is no reason why we should fight. We have no common borders or disputed territories to contest; our interests do not conflict.
“We do, however, share a common foe. You know what I mean, shieldmaiden. Why should King Karlo, warrior, conqueror, and leader of men, have to bend his knee to the Emperor of the Romans? Particularly when that Emperor is a Greek woman who appoints her eunuchs and secretaries to run the army and the
church?
“Your enemy is our enemy. So we need not be enemies, you and I; unless, that is, we have personal matters to settle. I might mention, at this point, that it was entirely business, between your father and me. He was trying to kill me, and I got there first. I say this only so that you know the truth. You must do whatever you think is right. Do we have personal matters to settle, shieldmaiden?”
Hervor found she could not talk, and shook her head.
“I must hazard my life on whether I believe you or not… but I find that I do. I am glad. Vengeance is a painful hunger, and leaves only sorrow behind when it is sated. I thank God the Compassionate that you have been spared it.
“Your masters sent you to learn why I have come to Rome. I shall save you the trouble of doing whatever it was you were going to do to find out. I will tell you what I am here for, as a gesture of friendship, and so that your masters understand that I am not acting against the interests of the King of Europe. You may inform your employers that I have something to sell. Ask them what they would be prepared to pay, for an original, sealed copy of the Donation of Constantinus.”
Abu Nuwas waited expectantly for a response, but Hervor’s face was blank. He sighed.
“You have no idea what that means, have you? I suppose you have never heard of Pope Sylvester, the Dragon, and the blood of three thousand children? Then I shall tell you. It is a tale that takes place five hundred years ago, when Christians were as few in number and as scattered as the Jews, and the emperors of Rome still worshipped the pagan gods…”
***
It was a time of discord and division, of conspiracy and civil war. An empire cannot thrive with two rulers, any more than a man can live with two heads. Yet the Emperor Diocletianus, who had fought so hard to reunite the Roman provinces, found them unmanageable, bloated and fractious. So he appointed a second Emperor, an Augustus, to assist him; then, as his health failed, divided their powers once more, so that four men, the Tetrarchs, shared sovereignty.
When Diocletianus, at the age of sixty, relinquished his burden and retired to Dalmatia to potter around his vegetable gardens, the outcome was inevitable. The Tetrarchs mobilised their legions and contended with each other for supremacy. For twenty years war raged across the Empire, bringing slaughter, sickness and famine wherever it passed. Finally a victor emerged: Constantinus, who had been proclaimed emperor in the city of Eboracum, in the chilly northern province of Britannia Secunda, and now entered Rome in triumph as undisputed sovereign.
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