“Everybody knows. Bertha has borne him two children.”
“And is Angilbert not a man of the church, too? You are strange people, you Franks.”
“Things are different, in the north. Ceremonial is less important. They say that Karlo’s mother was never married to his father, strictly speaking.”
“You mean the king is a —”
“Don’t say it. Things are not that different in the north. Anyway, I am not a Frank. I am Rus.”
“My dear, I am sure you will understand that I say this with the greatest respect, but to be absolutely candid with you, you Christians are all the same to me.”
“Where are we going anyway? You need to lie low. When word spreads that a tall Arab has been disturbing the peace, it will not be long before they come looking for you. You cannot return to your quarters.”
“There is one place we can be safe, until morning at least.”
Abu’l Abbas did not seem put out to share his bedchamber with them, but knelt down stoically while his keeper scrubbed his back with water from a pail. Ziri had produced a candle for them, so that they could examine the paper. Abu Nuwas sat himself on the ground, heedless of the dust and dung. Hervor peered over his shoulder, gagging slightly at the pungent stench of the elephant, but trying to concentrate on Vadomar’s enigmatic scrawl:
EXPLICEVLTIMACCABALARESPICE
“Now then, let us see what Vadomar was trying to tell us. ‘Unfold, furthermost ccabala, look back!’ It is Latin, at least, but what is ‘ccabala’?”
“Perhaps he was trying to write ‘horse’, ‘caballa’, but wrote ‘C’ twice and ‘L’ once, by mistake?”
“‘Unfold, furthermost horse?’ It makes no sense. Besides, Vadomar was a scholar. He would have rather cut off his own hand than misspell such a simple word.”
Abu Nuwas stared at the inscription, as though it could be made to give up its secrets by the intensity of his gaze alone, and spoke quietly, as much to himself as to Hervor.
“There is another meaning of the word ‘cabala’, and one that seems more in harmony with Vadomar’s character. The Cabala is the secret lore of the Jews, passed down from master to pupil since the time of Abraham. It describes how God created the cosmos through the Ten Numbers and twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The Numbers are set out in an arrangement called the Tree of Life, with the letters representing paths connecting them. Adepts of the Cabala are reputed to be great magicians, able to summon and bind angels and demons.”
“‘Unfold, outermost lore…’ It suggests the solution of a mystery. But why must it look back? And what does the other ‘C’ represent?”
“Yes, that is where my theory runs into difficulties. I might almost be tempted to consider it an error, given that Vadomar would not have been able to see what he was writing. However it was a stray letter ‘C’ that revealed the means by which the message was hidden. This one, too, must have significance. Where has it come from, this vagrant character, this orphaned letter? Where does it belong?”
“It sits at the exact centre of the phrase, not on the fringes; more like a king, than an outcast. Perhaps it is not a letter, but the number one hundred?”
“I have considered that. But the Cabala is singular, both by tradition and as written here. One cannot have a hundred Cabalae, and there is nothing else for the numeral to attach itself too. ”
“You spoke of the importance of numbers to this Cabala. Does one hundred have meaning?”
“There are only ten Numbers making up the Tree of Life. In Hebrew numerals, one hundred is represented by the letter Qoph, the Monkey. In the system of Pythagoras, on the other hand…”
He trailed off, staring at the wall. Hervor nudged him.
“Who is Pythagoras?”
“Bugger Pythagoras!”
Hervor was taken aback by this outburst, but when Abu Nuwas turned to her, his eyes were shining.
“Pythagoras believed that one could reveal a man’s destiny by rearranging the letters of his name, to form new words. Do you see what Vadomar has done? He has had us spiralling into ever more profound complexities, chasing after occult knowledge, when the answer was present before us all the time.
“Explice here means not ‘unfold’, but ‘rearrange’. If we reorder the letters of VLTIMACCABALARESPICE, we will find the hiding place of the Donation. The ‘C’ is simply the stone left over after the mosaic has been completed, the stray thread which reveals the weaver’s art.”
He jumped to his feet.
“Forgive me, my friend, but I have need of you.”
For a moment Hervor was puzzled as to whom he was addressing. Then she saw that Abu Nuwas was scooping up muck from the ground and using it to daub letters on the elephant’s flank. He did not apply them in the order in which they appeared on the paper, but dotted them at random around the beast’s hide. When he had finished, he stepped back and admired his work.
“There. Now what can you see?”
“I can see a dirty elephant.”
“Words, girl, what words can you see?”
Hervor squinted.
“Caeli, the skies… clamat, he cries…”
“You are telling stories. That is how we got lost before. We are not looking for narrative, but for a place, or perhaps a person.”
Hervor folded her arms.
“Then find it yourself, and stop shouting at me. I am a warrior, not a scholar. This sort of puzzle gives me a headache. And this is your quest, not mine. I know what you are doing, anyway. You are using me to help clarify your own thoughts, just as you are using this poor animal…”
She gestured at the elephant, and found that there was a name on its hide. The letters straggled unevenly and in some places were reversed, but she could see it as clearly as if it had been written there deliberately.
“Priscilla.”
“What did you say?”
“Priscilla. There is your name.”
Abu Nuwas looked back at the elephant, and gasped. He seized the pail of water which Ziri had been using and smudged the letters of the name, one by one. Then he studied what remained.
“Caeca… Blind Priscilla? No, the remainder makes no sense. A place more likely than a person, I think. Meta… a Greek influence? Cata… catacumba…”
He faced Hervor triumphantly.
“Catacumbae Priscillae. The Catacombs of Priscilla. Should that turn out to be the burial place of Pope Sylvester, then I think we can be confident that we are on the trail of the Donation.”
XII
They agreed to wait until the following evening before seeking to penetrate the catacombs. They needed rest, and Abu Nuwas could not risk going out in daylight in case he was arrested as a saboteur. Hervor left him engaged in an animated if somewhat one-sided conversation with the elephant, and wandered out of the amphitheatre into the night.
Angilbert was waiting for her by the Colossus. He stood at its left foot, head level with the statue’s enormous toe, watching her approach as if he had known the route she would take. Hervor groaned wearily.
“God damn you to hell, Father Abbott. Could you not let me sleep first, and eat, before you come to harry me?”
“And a good evening to you, Hervor Gorm’s daughter. You should be flattered that the King’s minister himself is guiding you on your mission, instead of some seedy local agent. I don’t do this for everybody, you know. It is only because of our personal friendship, and because I happen to be in Rome…”
“And because you are curious about this Abu Nuwas, I am sure. Why are you in Rome anyway?”
“I have come with the King, of course.”
“King Karlo is in Rome?”
“You did not know?”
“I have spent the last few months in prison.”
“My apologies. I assumed that, since you were so deeply involved in the scandal, you would be aware of the furore it has created. Instead you must be the only person in Rome who does not know what is happening. Walk with me, and I will tel
l you.”
They strolled around the square. A chill winter wind blew, and Hervor wrapped her shawl more tightly around her.
“When your friend Paschalis learned that the Pope had escaped to the court of King Karlo, he sent emissaries to the King himself, arguing that Leo was not fit to hold office. The King was placed in the awkward position of having to decide between their claims. On the one hand, to discredit a Pope would damage the church. On the other hand, Paschalis and his family were important people, and could not just be ignored.”
“What jurisdiction does the King of the Franks and the Lombards have over a Bishop of Rome anyway?”
“A good question, and one that troubled the King himself. He consulted my colleague Alcuin, a learned scholar from the north of Britannia, at the edge of the civilised world. Alcuin told him that there were three men in the world who surpassed all others in eminence: the Pope, the Emperor of the Romans, and the King of the Franks. Since the other two had both been deposed and mutilated (even if Leo has since been miraculously restored), that left Karlo in charge.”
“A very convenient answer.”
“Take a look at the Colossus, Hervor. Whom does it represent?”
Hervor had to crane her neck to survey the giant statue from head to foot. It was the figure of a man, eighty cubits in height. Virile and confident, he bestrode the square, one hand raised in an ambiguous but masterful gesture. Spikes of silver radiated from his bronze head, giving him a jagged halo.
“It’s Christus, Light of the World.”
“Yes, that is what they say now. But this statue was erected by the Emperor Nero, who was the last of the family of Julius Caesar to reign in Old Rome. It is a portrait of a persecutor of Christians, a demented tyrant who killed his own mother and burned down the city so that he could rebuild it to his own taste.”
“That would explain it. The Son of God doesn’t usually look so, well… inbred.”
“Precisely. After Nero’s death the halo was added, and the Colossus became the God of the Invincible Sun. A century later, the Emperor Commodus had the statue’s head replaced with a likeness of his own, and a lion placed at its feet, and declared the Colossus to be himself as the God Hercules. That head did not long outlive its model though, and the old one was restored.”
“What does this have to do with the King of the Franks?”
“Patience, girl, I am coming to it. There is a saying in these parts, that while the Colossus endures, Rome will endure. However it does not matter whether the Colossus represents a Caesar, or a sun god, or a northern king wearing trousers and a moustache. You can change the head, or the name, or the accoutrements. It matters only that Rome has a Colossus to look up at and admire.
“Historians will tell you that Rome was conquered by barbarians, by the Goths and the Vandals. What they forget is that those barbarians immediately put on togas and began to learn Latin. Rome absorbed them, as it absorbs all invaders. Every empire which aspires to hegemony in the west declares itself the heir of Rome. They like to believe that they are not simply greedy warmongers, but that through the stoicism and courage of their men, the virtue of their women and the brilliance of their engineering, they are bringing civilisation to the world.
“So you will see the wisdom of Alcuin’s judgement. There is a void at the heart of Rome, where its Colossus should be, and that is a dangerous thing for us all. With the church divided, and a woman occupying the imperial throne, who else can fill that void, other than the King of the Franks and the Lombards?”
Hervor made no response. In truth such high politics did not interest her, and she regretted having asked the question. Angilbert went on.
“Karlo sent a commission to investigate the allegations against the Pope. That is what led to your arrest and imprisonment. I believe that you were personally questioned by the head of the enquiry, Archbishop Arno.”
“Yes. He is a pompous prick.”
“As you say, Archbishop Arno is a wise and judicious man, who soon understood the complexity of the situation. Having reviewed all the evidence, the commission has concluded that it does not after all have the right to sit in judgement on the Pope. Leo is to swear an oath declaring his own innocence, and that will be sufficient to exonerate him of all charges.”
“So the Pope is to add perjury to his sins of embezzlement and fornication, and then we will all pretend that nothing happened?”
“Be very careful, my dear. I thought we agreed that nothing is exactly what happened? And in order that everybody else is clear that nothing happened, the King himself has come to Rome to witness the taking of the oath. He will attend Mass in the basilica on the Holy Day of the Nativity, and receive communion from the hands of Pope Leo.”
Suddenly Hervor felt sad and alone. The Nativity was celebrated on the same day that, for her people, marked the midwinter feast of Yul, sacred to the Mother Goddesses. It brought back memories of her own mother, and the cold but convivial homeland she had left as a child, never to see again. Hervor hated the Nativity and usually spent it getting outrageously drunk. Angilbert must have detected the change in her mood, because he became brisk and business-like.
“So then, have you discovered what our friend Abu Nuwas is doing in Rome?”
“He is seeking an original copy of the Donation of Constantinus, which he proposes to sell to you for money or diplomatic advantage.”
Despite his smooth exterior Hervor could tell that Angilbert was intrigued.
“I see. Such a thing would indeed be of interest to us. Does he know where it is to be found?”
“His informant is dead, his head battered to mush. However he left a secret message, which Abu Nuwas believes reveals the location of the document. It is buried in the Catacombs of Priscilla.”
Angilbert rubbed his chin.
“The remains of Pope Sylvester are said to be interred there. It is not impossible that a copy of the Donation might have been placed with them. Thank you, Hervor Gorm’s daughter. You have done well.”
“Then I can go? Am I free?”
“Free? But if you leave, who will accompany Abu Nuwas on his search for the Donation?”
Hervor stared at Angilbert, aghast.
“But I have told you where the document is to be found, if it exists at all. Why do you not send men to seize it, while the Arab sleeps?”
Angilbert placed a hand on her shoulder.
“My child, you are young. In time, you will come to learn that sometimes the quest is more important than the prize. No, that is incorrect; my apologies. I should have said, the quest is always more important than the prize. Ultimately, you will discover, the prize is an illusion; the quest is all there is.”
She shook her head, baffled. Angilbert smiled at her.
“Go and rest, girl. You have work still to do. All will become clear in time.”
***
At sunset the crowds were drifting away from the amphitheatre, and Hervor had to fight her way through against the tide. As she approached the elephant pen Ziri the keeper ran towards her waving his arms.
“No, no more visitors today! Abu’l Abbas is tired! You must — oh, it is you. Forgive me, my lady, I did not recognise you. My eyesight is not what it was.”
He led her to the room at the rear of the pen. She peered through the door to see Abu Nuwas was washing his face with water from the elephant’s bucket, and hailed her cheerily.
“Greetings! I am pleased that your masters have permitted you to accompany me.”
“To be honest with you, I have no idea what my masters are plotting. However it seems that we are to work together, at least for the time being.”
She had brought torches treated with brimstone and lime, which could not be extinguished by water, and flints in case they needed relighting. Abu Nuwas took with him a shovel which Ziri used to muck out the pen, his cudgel and a small mattock. Thus prepared, they set out for the catacomb.
Like most of the underground tunnels, the Catacombs of Priscilla were
situated beyond the city walls, and it was nearing midnight by the time they arrived there. Hervor spent the journey in a state of edgy alertness. Bandits were common on the roads approaching Rome, and only the foolhardy travelled at night without an armed escort. They were fortunate, however, and arrived at the crypt without incident.
The entrance to the catacomb was a stone gateway built into the side of a hill. The frame boasted impressive columns and a carved arch, but the wooden doors had long ago rotted away, and the entry was blocked by planks crudely nailed across the gap. Abu Nuwas prised them off with the flat end of the mattock head, and the underground tomb exhaled its cold, dead air.
“Now then, if I have not reappeared by the time your torch is exhausted, then go and seek help. You should —”
“Don’t insult me. I am not going to stand around here waiting for you. Either I come with you into the catacomb, or I turn around and walk back to the city. Which is it to be?”
Muttering under his breath, Abu Nuwas waved her into the entrance, and followed after her.
“The Holy Quran is right when it says that women should be obedient to men… this is the last time I leave the Land of Islam, I swear it, and the last time I go underground… when I die they can stick my body up a tree to rot, like the Magi do…”
His grumbles rang around the long, narrow stairway which led them downward, giving his words a crisp, cold echo, desiccated as a bone. At the bottom of the stair a chamber opened up to one side, while the tunnel continued directly ahead of them. The chamber was panelled and painted in the old Roman style. Its frescoes, faded and blotched with age, were an odd mixture of the pagan and the Christian. On one wall the companions of Daniel gazed piously to heaven, oblivious to the flames that surrounded them; on another, Hercules battled the Nemean lion. At the end of the chamber were niches where the bodies of wealthy Christians would once have lain.
Abu Nuwas held his nose.
“It stinks down here. Like rotten eggs.”
“Perhaps it is the brimstone from the torches. In any case, what did you expect a charnel house to smell like?”
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