by Tim Severin
Contents
Maps
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
ROME – FEAST OF ST MARK, 23 APRIL, AD 799
The cut-throats lurking in the alley were typical of Rome’s gutter class. Lank, greasy hair, sallow complexions and a sour smell of sweat-soaked clothes marked them as inhabitants of the grimy slums near the bend in the Tiber. Cheap to hire, they were notoriously unreliable. Their employer, standing with them, was taller by a head. His bulky fur hat was more suitable for a cold winter’s day than a bright spring morning in the Eternal City and he had knotted the laces of the ear flaps painfully tight under his chin. The intention was to make his face less easy to recognize. It gave him a pinched and resentful look.
‘Reminds me of a hedgepig with gut ache,’ whispered one of his hirelings to a companion.
The tall man was listening to the sound of a choir on the steps of the church of San Lorenzo a couple of streets away to his left. It was a last-minute rehearsal of their psalms for that morning’s solemn procession. Now, very faintly, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves approaching from the opposite direction.
‘Get ready. Here he comes,’ he warned. The men edged further back into the dark shadow cast by the high side wall of the monastery church dedicated to Saints Stephen and Sylvester.
Gradually, the sound of hooves grew louder. A sparse crowd of spectators lined the Via Lata, the ruler-straight main thoroughfare in front of the church, and now they craned their necks to get a first glimpse of the approaching riders. The choir fell silent, and a large and heavy wooden cross, painted white and yellow, was hoisted in the air above them. It swayed unsteadily, held up by one of the poor from the local hospital, who had been selected for his role. Smaller, more ornate crosses sprouted, their gilded poles spiralled with coloured ribbons. They were the stationary crosses to be displayed as the procession walked out of the city by the Flaminian Gate. On the way they would stop to celebrate the stations at the Church of St Valentine, then cross the Ponte Milvio to arrive at their final destination – St Peter’s Basilica and the ceremony of the Great Litany.
The tall man in the winter hat took a half a step out from the shadows so that he could see over the heads of the spectators. He noted that the onlookers were mostly women, with a sprinkling of older men and idle bystanders, and a few of the foreign visitors who came to Rome on pilgrimage. The latter were the only ones gaping with real curiosity, anxious to identify which dignitaries were coming. He could see no soldiers, no guards, no watchmen, and that was very satisfactory.
The horsemen came into view. They were a small group of just seven riders. All but two were beautifully dressed in elaborate church vestments. Their planeta, the long flowing gowns of dark silk, were edged with bands of gold embroidery that glittered in the sunshine. Their leader, a middle-aged man with a podgy, pale face, had a high white headdress and wore a voluminous tent-like garment of patterned brocade. The others had purple skullcaps, ribbed with silver cord. The two more plainly dressed riders were bare headed and in simple tunics of undyed linen.
The tall man watched as the riders came to a halt, only a few yards away, and began to dismount. He waited until all of them were on their feet, and their grooms had led away their mounts.
‘Now!’ he shouted, and his gang of ruffians burst out from cover. No one had been looking in their direction. The surprise was complete. There were screams as the ruffians pulled knives and clubs from under their clothing and flourished the weapons at anyone who got in their way. The crowd scattered in panic. In a few strides the attackers reached their target, the man in the white headdress. His feet were kicked from under him so he fell heavily to the flagstones. He lay there, winded. The cut-throats turned on his companions, yelling abuse, slashing at the air with their blades. Their victims fled, holding up the skirts of their gowns to prevent themselves from tripping. Only one of them hesitated. A blow in the face from a club sent him staggering back, his nose streaming blood. A hand snatched the jewelled cross dangling on his chest, snapping the gold chain. Then he, too, beat a retreat. In moments the Via Lata was empty of spectators, leaving only the attackers and their hapless victim who was sprawled on the ground.
The tall man in the fur hat stepped up and kicked him hard in the stomach. Tangled in his vestments, his victim could only curl up in a ball and bring up his arms to protect his head. He had lost his black slippers and his costly cloak, and the silk gown had rucked up to his knees, revealing long white linen socks. ‘For the love of God,’ he gasped.
‘Deal with him,’ ordered the tall man.
Two of the ruffians grabbed their victim by the shoulders and hoisted him up onto his knees. A third attacker, knife in hand, placed himself in front of the terrified man. The white headdress had fallen off, revealing a scalp spotted with large dark freckles, a rim of thin, greying hair around his tonsure.
The man with the knife hesitated.
‘Get on with it!’ snapped Fur Hat. When there was no response, he moved around behind the kneeling man, seized him by both ears and held his head steady. ‘Do as you were told,’ he ordered.
The knife man drew a shallow breath, took a half-step forward and jabbed the point of the knife at his victim’s left eye. The kneeling man jerked his head to one side in terror. The point of the knife missed. The edge of the sharp blade cut a long gash in the flesh above the cheekbone.
‘Try again!’ snarled the man in the fur hat.
The knife-wielder made a second stab, and again he missed the eye. Another gash appeared. Now the face of the kneeling man was streaming with blood.
‘Clumsy fool!’ cursed the tall man. He let go of his victim’s ears, and reached up to suck a cut in his hand. The knife blade had gone past the cheek and sliced him across the knuckles. The men holding up the victim released their grip. The bleeding man in the clerical garb fell forward on his face on the ground, whimpering.
‘Time to get out of here,’ muttered one of the hirelings. His colleagues were already leaving. One of them was bending down to scoop up the valuable cloak that had come loose during the fracas. The thief who had snatched the pectoral cross had long since disappeared. A little distance away small knots of people were beginning to gather on the Via Lata, gazing nervously to see what was going on. Gang warfare in Rome was commonplace, but the brawls seldom happened so publicly.
‘Get the bastard out of sight!’ commanded the man in the fur hat. He looked around him. His squad of a dozen had dwindled to just three, the knife man and two more. Fur Hat leaned down, seized his victim by the collar of his gown, and began to drag him bodily towards the door of the church.
His hired men hurried to assist him. They pushed open the door and dragged their bleeding victim onto the marble floor of the atrium within.
‘You were also meant to cut out the tongue,’ Fur Hat snarled at the knife man once they were inside.
‘Not as easy as it looks,’ came the surly response.
‘We have no time to waste.’ Fur Hat caught his breath and flexed the fingers on his hand that had been nicked. The injured man lay at his feet, groaning pitifully.
Fur Hat nodded towards the door that led from the atrium into the adjacent mon
astery. ‘Put him in there for now.’
Watched by their employer, the three cut-throats manhandled their battered victim through the door and into the monastery, then down a corridor. A door to a cell stood open and they heaved their captive inside; they dumped him on the floor, then shut him in. Returning to the church, the leader of the three men held out his hand, waiting until the man in the fur hat gave him a leather pouch. Then all four slipped out through a side door and back into the street outside. Their employer hurried towards the hill called the Caelian. His accomplices headed in the opposite direction, back towards the slums.
‘We should have asked for a lot more money, Gavino,’ said their leader, hefting the pouch to feel its weight. His two companions watched him closely, suspicious, in case he was about to run off with it.
‘Underpaid, were we?’ said the man called Gavino. He had wielded the knife. The dark stubble of his beard failed to hide the rash of pockmarks that marred his lower face. ‘We could find out who that fur head is, threaten to report him to the authorities unless we get more money.’
‘Too risky. Those Churchmen run this city and the justices dance to their tune.’
‘Bloodsuckers, all of them. From top to bottom,’ said his colleague. He hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the gutter.
‘Well, you missed your chance to put your boot into the boss man.’
‘You mean that old fart we just gave a going-over?’
The leader looked at his companion pityingly. ‘Of course, you oaf.’
‘Who was he?’
‘He calls himself Christ’s Vicar on Earth – His Holiness the Pope.’
Chapter Two
FRANKIA, PALACE OF PADERBORN – 21 MAY
I was squinting through the iron bars of the palace’s leopard enclosure when the bishop’s messenger tracked me down.
‘You are Sigwulf?’ the courier asked politely. The armpits of his brown woollen tunic were soaked with sweat and his face was flushed crimson from the early summer heat. From his accent I judged him to be from somewhere in West Frankia and a stranger to Paderborn. Someone must have told him that I took an interest in the royal menagerie.
I nodded and accepted the folded paper he held out to me.
The flap was held down with a blob of pale yellow wax into which the sender had pressed a simple mark: a plain cross of four arms of equal length enclosed in a circle. I cracked the seal with my thumb and opened the single sheet. There was just one line of neat, church-like script:
Sigwulf, I have recommended you to Archbishop Arno of Salzburg.
Alcuin.
That explained the cross. Alcuin was now the Bishop of Tours though I had known him when he was political advisor and private tutor to the family of our supreme overlord, Carolus, King of the Franks. Eight years earlier it was Alcuin who had chosen me to take a selection of wild animals – including two ice bears – to Baghdad as a gift to the Caliph from Carolus; hence my continuing interest in the king’s collection of beasts.
It was common knowledge that Alcuin still dabbled from a distance in affairs of state and corresponded regularly with members of the king’s council. But I felt a tremor of disquiet that he should have written to me directly. I was an insignificant member of Carolus’s vast household, a miles or courtier-soldier. I held no rank, even if, from time to time, I had been called upon for special duties and had carried them out with moderate success.
The bearer of the letter wiped his sleeve across his brow and stood waiting for my response.
‘Did Alcuin provide any verbal message?’ I asked.
‘No, sir. He only said that I was to bring you to meet with Archbishop Arno.’
‘You know where to find the archbishop?’
‘Yes, sir. I just delivered another of my master’s letters to the archbishop. He’s in his office.’
I glanced one last time into the leopard enclosure. I had been hoping that the May sunshine might encourage the mother leopard to show her twin cubs born two weeks earlier. There was still no sign of them. ‘Then please take me there,’ I said.
The messenger – his name, he told me, was Bernard – led me through the muddle of buildings that formed the royal precinct. Paderborn was only one of Carolus’s capitals – he had others at Aachen and Ingelheim – and the king had established it on Saxon territory as a symbol of his victory over their federation. That feat of arms had extended his enormous realm until it now covered half of Europe. The king regarded the Saxons as chronically untrustworthy so a high rampart of wood and earth enclosed Paderborn, and its buildings were crammed inside, higgledy piggledy. It was not always clear which were barracks, storehouses, accommodation or administrative offices. Even Carolus’s palace, where Bernard brought me, was part residence, part audience hall and part basilica.
The ten-minute walk gave me time to compose myself before a meeting with Archbishop Arno. His reputation as a hard taskmaster was formidable. Not so long ago, Carolus had picked him for the thorny task of turning the fiercely pagan, horse-riding Avars into Christians. The Avars were another of the king’s recent conquests. They had plagued Eastern Europe for generations, raiding and demanding tribute. Even the Emperor in Constantinople paid them off. Carolus’s army had finally crushed them and now he expected their mass conversion. Doubtless the king judged Arno to be sufficiently ruthless to see the job done, and, if necessary, done at sword point.
The archbishop’s physical appearance when I was shown into his presence matched his notoriety. Arno was as rough-hewn as the broad, scarred campaign table at which he was seated. Everything about the man was blunt and square, from his powerful hands with their stubby, thick fingers and hairy backs to his hefty muscular shoulders and a face whose heavy features were framed by a close-clipped iron grey beard. Dressed in a plain woollen shirt and leggings, he looked like a bricklayer.
I put his age at about forty-five – some ten years older than me – and the keen grey eyes that scrutinized me from under bushy eyebrows held no trace of friendliness.
‘What do you know about politics in Rome?’ he demanded brusquely. His doorkeeper had withdrawn after introducing me. The only other person in the room was a secretary seated at a writing desk in one corner, taking notes on a wax tablet. The archbishop’s voice suited his appearance – it was a pugnacious growl.
‘A snake pit, my lord. I spent the winter there some years ago, with a delegation from King Carolus to the Caliph of Baghdad.’
‘This time the snakes have stuck in their fangs.’
I waited for him to go on.
‘Pope Leo has been attacked in the street by a gang of toughs and beaten up. His eyes were gouged out and his tongue removed.’ Arno presented the details without emotion.
My face must have shown my shock. During my time in Rome I had observed Pope Leo’s predecessor, Pope Adrian. Crude violence would have been unthinkable against Adrian. People feared him and he had been well guarded. I struggled to imagine how anyone would seek to mutilate the man who had followed him on St Peter’s throne.
‘Who attacked him?’ I asked.
‘That is what I want you to find out.’
I goggled at him.
The archbishop was speaking again. ‘Alcuin writes to me that you have a useful contact in Rome, inside the Church.’
I knew at once who he meant.
‘Paul the Nomenculator,’ I said. ‘His office dealt with requests to the Pope for meetings and grants. He helped me greatly. But he must have retired by now.’
‘Anyone else?’
I shook my head.
Arno took a paper from his desk. The writing was the same as on the message I had received, and the content covered the entire page. ‘Find out what really happened, and do it discreetly and fast,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure if my earlier visit to Rome equips me—’ I began.
He cut me off abruptly. ‘The king’s council wants to know who is behind the attack. The safety and well-being of the Holy Father is a matte
r of state importance. You may take it that this mission is by command of Carolus.’
I pulled myself together. I had no business to question the wishes of Carolus.
‘Is there any background information that might help with my inquiries?’ I asked meekly.
Arno’s eyes flicked to the letter in his hand. ‘Alcuin mentions certain rumours about Pope Leo. Complaints about his private life.’
‘What sort of rumours?’ I prompted, this time making sure to sound respectful.
‘That he has been selling lucrative Church appointments.’
There was nothing new in that, I thought to myself. Paul the Nomenculator had regarded simony as a perfectly normal activity within the Church and had profited from it himself.
Arno had not finished. ‘There’s also a rumour of adultery,’ he said.
I made the mistake of smirking. ‘Attacked by a jealous husband, perhaps?’
The archbishop scowled at my levity. ‘Don’t treat this lightly, Sigwulf.’ He laid a spade-like hand on a nearby pile of documents. ‘These are all letters received from Rome, written anonymously or by certain senior members of the Church, full of complaints about Leo and his shortcomings.’
‘Am I to investigate those letter writers as suspects for the assault?’ I asked.
Arno dismissed the suggestion. ‘Their turn will come if and when the king’s council decides to launch a formal investigation into Pope Leo’s behaviour. Right now, your job is to discover who was responsible for the attack and report back to me – and only me – without further delay.’
It seemed that my interview was over.
‘My lord, I’ll start for Rome at dawn tomorrow,’ I said, standing a little straighter. It was obvious that the archbishop preferred his underlings to obey him instantly and without question.
‘On the way you can interview an eyewitness to the attack.’
‘On the way, my lord?’
‘Your shortest route passes through Ratisbon. You’ll meet a large party of travellers coming in the opposite direction. They are heading here from Rome. The snowmelt is early this year so they should be through the Alpine passes by now. One of the travellers is a man by the name of Albinus.’