The Pope's Assassin

by Tim Severin

  ‘This gentleman wants to know whether you were part of the group that attacked Pope Leo,’ Theodore asked.

  Gavino’s eyes slid in my direction. ‘If he wants to know, he should pay me,’ he said.

  Theodore punched him expertly in the mouth. A short, precise blow that split the lip. Gavino’s head slammed back against the wall.

  When Gavino came straight again, he said something ugly to Theodore in what I supposed was local slang. Again Theodore struck him, a sharp jab that travelled no distance and struck at precisely the same spot.

  ‘Speak only Latin so this gentleman can understand,’ he growled. ‘Were you with the men who attacked the Pope?’

  Gavino glared back at him, and remained silent.

  Theodore turned to me. ‘Top up that bucket of piss, will you,’ he requested.

  It took me a moment to realize that he wanted me to tip the water into slop bucket. I did as he asked. Now the bucket was nearly two thirds full with a vile mix of watered-down urine. In it floated a lone turd.

  Theodore’s hands moved fast. He seized Gavino by the ankles and lifted him into the air, hanging head down. The gangster could not have weighed much – he was all skin and bones. Theodore took him across the room like a farmer carrying a chicken to market. ‘Keep the bucket steady,’ he told me.

  I held the bucket as Theodore lowered his victim’s head towards it. Gavino wriggled like a hooked fish, avoiding the plunge. Calmly, Theodore raised him enough to be able to knee him viciously in the face. While Gavino was still stunned, Theodore plunged his victim’s head into the bucket and held him there. After several seconds he lifted him up and Gavino’s head reappeared; his long black hair was dripping.

  ‘Answer my question,’ said Theodore.

  Gavino was still upside down, spluttering and gasping for breath. ‘Put me down. I’ll tell you what you want to know,’ he said, gagging.

  Theodore set him back on the bed. Gavino wheezed and coughed. Unable to wipe his face, he screwed up his eyes and shook his head from side to side.

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting,’ warned Theodore.

  ‘I was one of them,’ Gavino admitted.

  ‘Who hired you?’

  ‘I have no idea. The word was passed: where to muster and to bring a knife or a cudgel.’

  ‘Never told about your target?’

  ‘Only that it was an easy hit. One man amongst half a dozen high-ups, all unarmed.’

  ‘What else?’

  The gangster made the mistake of running his tongue over his lips and had to spit to clear the taste. ‘We were to wait till they got off their horses, then go for the leader, only him. He was our mark.’

  I intervened. ‘How were you to know who their leader was?’

  Gavino squinted at me. His eyes were red-rimmed and oozing. ‘He would be the one wearing the really flash costume with all the gold trimmings. As it turned out, he also had on a different-coloured hat from the others – a tall white one.’

  ‘And that was enough to pick him out?’ I said.

  The gangster sneered. ‘No problem. The others had stupid-looking purple caps. A couple of them weren’t even wearing their fancy dress.’

  Theodore took over the questioning. ‘Anything else in your instructions?’

  ‘A promise of a bonus to the man who took out the eyes of the mark, and cut out his tongue.’ Gavino began to cough, a sustained strangled sound as if he was choking. Theodore slapped him across the face. ‘Enough of that. Don’t waste my time. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘We did as we were told, knocked him down, cut him up a bit, then dumped him in that church nearby.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Collected our cash and left. Never saw Fur Hat again.’

  ‘Fur Hat?’

  ‘Fellow who showed up and gave us our last-minute orders. Tall, looked like a halfwit with his head in a winter hat.’

  ‘How much were you paid?’ I asked.

  ‘Not enough,’ came the quick answer. Gavino was regaining a little of his bombast.

  Some instinct made me ask, ‘That gold buckle must have fetched a good price?’

  Gavino unwisely chose to be obtuse. ‘What gold buckle?’

  It was a mistake. Theodore grabbed him again by the ankles and began to lift. ‘Stop!’ the gangster begged him. ‘That buckle was different.’

  Theodore let him drop back on the bed. ‘Explain.’

  ‘The lads and I decided that we hadn’t been paid enough. Thought we would top up our wages, take what we deserved.’

  I was puzzled. ‘Take from whom?’

  ‘From those others that we’d chased off.’

  ‘But you said you didn’t know who they were,’ said Theodore. There was a dangerous warning note in his voice.

  ‘Not until we’d done the job,’ said Gavino. ‘It was Beppe who told us that the fellow we’d knocked about was the Pope.’ He shifted nervously.

  ‘Surely you knew the Pope by sight?’ I scoffed.

  ‘I don’t go to church myself. Once they’re dressed up in their ridiculous hats and robes and jewels, I’ve no idea who is who.’

  ‘Back to that gold buckle,’ Theodore prompted. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘Beppe told us that he knew where one of the other fellows lived.’

  ‘What other fellow?’

  ‘Another of the high-ups. We reckoned he had gone running for help and his place would be wide open. Beppe knew where to go, and there could be rich pickings. He’d been wearing a jewelled cross on a gold chain. Had it snatched off him.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘All of us went off to this house. The house servants were too scared to stop us. We strolled in and grabbed what was on offer. That’s where I got the gold buckle. The others got quite a bit too. Nearly doubled our wages for the original job.’

  Theodore turned to look at me. ‘Heard enough?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  Theodore ripped two rags off the bed sheet, balled up one of them and stuffed it into Gavino’s mouth. The other he used as a gag to hold it in place.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said to me as he ushered me out of the room.

  We had stayed too long.

  As we stepped out of the side alley and into the empty street, a piercing whistle rang out. It was shockingly close.

  Theodore planted a powerful hand in my back and gave me a shove. ‘Run!’ he ordered.

  There was another whistle, this time from somewhere high above us, a watcher on the roof top or an upper window. By then I was sprinting down the narrow street, avoiding the treacherous slime in the central gutter. I had never been a fast runner, and the weight of the mail shirt slowed me even more. I had no idea where I was going until, from some distance behind me, Theodore’s voice shouted: ‘Second corner left!’

  I turned the corner, my heart pounding. I had gone no distance at all, yet already I could feel myself getting short of breath. Ahead of me was a crooked laneway, scarcely eight feet wide. A man stepped out of a doorway where he had been waiting, and moved to block my path. He was small and wiry, with a feral look. He was just thirty paces ahead of me, and in his right hand he held a knife. I had no choice but to keep running. If I came to a stop, the pursuit would catch up with me. I pounded forward as he moved into a crouch, left arm held out to impede my passage, the knife held low. I charged straight at him, hoping to knock him off balance. But he was nimble and experienced. As I closed in, he stepped neatly aside and, with his left hand, he reached up and caught me by the shirt. Then he pulled me in tight and drove the knife into my side, a practised upward strike that should have slid between the ribs.

  The blade struck the iron links of my mail. I felt a sharp pain as the point penetrated a short distance. Then, as luck would have it, the tip of the dagger caught in the metal rings. A look of surprise flashed across the face of my intended killer and then I was using my weight to pivot around his grip on my shirt. With my free hand I chopped down on the back
of his neck. He grunted and the two of us tipped over in a heap on the road surface. By a second stroke of good fortune my mail-clad body crashed heavily across my opponent’s face as we fell. For a moment he was stupefied, one hand groping blindly for the dagger he had dropped. I rolled clear and scrambled up on all fours. I scuttled forward, twined my fingers in his long black hair, and with all my strength slammed his head against the cobbles. There was a thud and he went slack. Twice more I battered his head on the stone as hard as I could, gasping with the effort. Then I rose to my feet, leaving him senseless.

  Theodore was nowhere to be seen. There was distant shouting and another whistle, fainter than before. I could only imagine that he had led them in a different direction. Briefly I thought of going back to assist him, but put it out of my mind. Somehow I felt that he was fully capable of dealing with the situation. I took several deep breaths to fill my lungs and steady my nerves, and then I began to run again, this time with less panic. I had to hope that Gavino’s gang had posted only a single guard in my direction, and that I could successfully confuse any pursuit by varying my route. So I doubled back and forth, took unexpected side turns, and as soon as I felt it was safer to do so, I slowed to a walk rather than attract attention to myself. It was now mid-afternoon and more and more people were appearing on the streets. I mingled with them, matching my pace to theirs until I found myself in a middle-class district where the passers-by were well-to-do and respectable. Looking about me, I caught a glimpse of the great bulk of the Colosseum, towering over the roof tops. With it as a landmark, I headed for the disabitato.

  *

  Paul made light of my adventure when I got back to his villa and told him about my flight and the struggle in the street.

  ‘Saved by the sacred shirt of St Hippolytus!’ he teased. ‘The relic must be genuine.’

  I didn’t find it quite so funny. ‘What about Theodore? He could be dead by now.’

  My friend was untroubled. ‘Don’t worry about him. He knows the back alleys and short cuts. Gavino’s gang will chase him out of their territory and leave it at that.’

  ‘But a gang member tried to gut me,’ I reminded him.

  ‘That’s different. You’re an outsider and fair game. If they harmed Theodore, they’d start a feud with Theodore’s gang and they wouldn’t want that.’

  He brought me again to the room where he kept his archives. He waved me to a seat and, taking a wax tablet and a beautifully carved antique ivory stylus, sat down at the table ready to take notes.

  ‘So what did you learn from your interview with Gavino?’ he asked.

  I told him how Gavino had been recruited with the other members of his gang and how they had carried out their instructions on the day.

  ‘It would be ideal if we could identify Fur Hat,’ I concluded. ‘But his hat was an effective disguise. We only know that he’s a tall man and, apart from him, Gavino never met the people behind the assault.’

  Paul tapped the end of the stylus against his teeth. ‘You’re sure that Gavino wasn’t told the precise identity of the man they were to attack? Only that he would be the most richly dressed member of the group of riders, the one with the flash costume, as he put it?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  Paul looked pleased with himself. ‘There’s our lead. We may be able to trace some of the plotters.’

  Perplexed, I frowned at him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Ask yourself why the plotters didn’t provide Gavino’s gang with a physical description of Leo. That would have been simpler.’

  ‘Maybe Leo is difficult to describe, very ordinary-looking?’ I suggested.

  ‘He’s unimpressive, that I’ll grant you. But consider also Gavino’s statement that two of the priests riding with the Pope were not wearing their ceremonial robes. Why was that?’

  ‘Maybe the two priests were late and did not have time to dress correctly,’ I said.

  Paul shot me a glance of patient reproof. ‘The ceremony of the Great Litany is a very major event in the Church calendar, same time every year. No one in the Church needs reminding when it takes place.’

  I saw the direction his thoughts had taken. ‘You think that two of the riders were incorrectly dressed so that Gavino and his friends would not attack them.’

  ‘Well done, Sigwulf! For a senior celebrant to show up for the celebration of the Great Litany not wearing his formal robes is unheard of.’

  Paul twiddled the stylus between his fingers. ‘Employing unreliable ruffians like Gavino can lead to all sorts of mistakes. In a wild scuffle the wrong people are hurt.’

  ‘But what about the other priests who were dressed in their robes? They were at risk of injury.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘That was of little concern to the plotters. What mattered was to get at Leo without endangering those two riders.’

  ‘If you are correct, it means those two priests knew that the Pope would be attacked.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And can we find out who they were?’

  Paul chuckled. ‘Easily. Only the very senior office holders accompany the Pope in the procession of the Great Litany. It is a jealously guarded privilege.’

  The implication of his remark sank in. ‘So the plot against the Pope was hatched right at the top of the papal household.’

  The former Nomenculator took the suggestion in his stride. ‘The priests who work at St John Lateran on the Caelian Hill are no strangers to intrigue. The higher they rise, the more ambitious they become.’

  Now I understood why my friend was so pleased with himself. ‘And you have a way to find out which of them did not wear their proper robes that day.’

  My friend treated me to a confident grin. ‘I retain excellent contacts amongst the scriniarii.’

  ‘Please be very careful how you use them,’ I told him. ‘Archbishop Arno wants these investigations to remain secret.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sigwulf. My inquiries will be very discreet.’ There was a brief pause as the side of his face twitched in an involuntary convulsion. ‘Vestments worn on great ceremonies are extremely valuable. They are Church treasure – issued on the correct day and returned after the ceremony to the vestararius, who is the keeper of the sacristy and altar furnishings. His clerks write down a strict account of the loans, to whom, when returned and so forth. I know someone in the scriniarium who can check the logbooks for me.’

  The mention of valuables reminded me of the gold buckle from the Avar Hoard.

  ‘That Avar buckle was not part of Gavino’s pay for the attack,’ I said.

  For once Paul appeared at a loss. ‘Then how did Gavino get his hands on it?’

  ‘Gavino stole the buckle from the house of one of the priests in the procession,’ I told him and explained about the gang’s decision to loot the home of one of Leo’s colleagues.

  ‘Did he say which one?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘A pity. Gavino will go to ground after what happened today. We won’t be able to interrogate him again so easily.’

  ‘Perhaps there is a clue. Gavino claims that a member of his gang had snatched a valuable cross from the same man. He was wearing it on a gold chain round his neck. Maybe that cross will turn up. You might ask the dealers you know.’

  Paul’s face cleared. I noticed that the whites of his eyes were patterned with thin red veins that matched his sagging underlids, rather like those one saw with certain breeds of hunting dogs. ‘The pectoral crosses worn by senior clergy are also closely monitored, just like the ceremonial vestments, though by a different department,’ he said. ‘They are released on loan by the arcarius, the general treasurer. I can ask my source if a pectoral cross is missing from the treasury, and to whom it was issued.’

  He got up and came round the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. ‘I apologize for making fun of your escapade in the slums this morning. In case Gavino and his friends are planning to finish you off – or the conspirators behind the p
lot know why you have come to Rome and are keen on getting rid of you – it might be safer if you avoided your lodgings and stayed here in the villa.’

  Chapter Five

  WHOEVER HE WAS, Paul’s source amongst the scriniarii of the Lateran was very prompt in ferreting out the names he required.

  ‘Paschal and Campulus,’ my friend announced to me the following afternoon. ‘Neither priest drew his ceremonial vestments from the vestararius on the day Leo was attacked. Yet they were both in the procession.’

  ‘Are they important members of the papal household?’ I asked. It was a glorious July day with a few fleecy clouds almost motionless in a sky of purest blue, and we were standing in Paul’s garden where he had taken me to show off his collection of salvaged statuary.

  He took a moment to flick a dried bird dropping from the marble shoulder of a life-sized female figure. From the neck up, the statue’s head was missing, leaving one to wonder if her face had been as perfectly proportioned as her body, demurely clothed in a flowing gown that left one arm bare.

  ‘The very pinnacle. Campulus is Leo’s sacellarius. He makes the disbursements from the papal coffers. In effect, he’s the papal treasurer. Paschal is, if anything, even more senior. He’s primicerius, the head man, of the chancery. He is the director over all the notaries.’

  ‘Why would either of them wish to harm Leo?’

  ‘In Paschal’s case, that’s easy to answer. He was Pope Adrian’s nephew and there was every expectation that he would succeed his uncle on St Peter’s throne. Leo outmanoeuvred and out-bribed him. If someone gets rid of Leo, the job might well come back into the family.’

  ‘So Paschal’s a favourite of the nobility, I would imagine.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘And Campulus?’

  ‘Another papal insider, through and through. Like Leo, he spent his working life amongst the palatini. He’s a faction man, and had probably thrown in his lot with Paschal. He would have been very disappointed when Leo got the top job.’

  I grinned at my friend. ‘They must miss you at St John Lateran. You twitch the spider’s web and within hours you know who’s got himself in a tangle.’