The Pope's Assassin

by Tim Severin

  Before I could act, Kaiam angrily flung down the golden skull and jumped to his feet. Swaying, he faced towards the tudun and let out a tirade of drunken invective. He abused his second-in-command, his voice crackling with anger. Red in the face, he mangled his words badly. I was only able to understand that he was accusing the tudun of cowardice. In response, the tudun rose slowly and carefully from where he had been sitting. He was nowhere near as drunk as the khagan. He paused for a moment, steadying himself. The muscles of his jaw worked as he controlled himself, his wide mouth shut in a thin line. Then his right hand slid down to his boot and reappeared with a blade. There was a brief glint of steel, and the tudun slashed the knife expertly across the Khagan’s throat. The blood spurted, even as other tarkans were scrambling to their feet, some more quickly and less drunkenly than the others. The swift ones held knives. The council dissolved into chaos as the Avars with weapons pounced on their chosen victims. Those who supported the tudun had come armed. Their opponents were defenceless.

  I spun on my heel and fled. I ran all the way to Faranak’s house, arriving out of breath, closed the door, and slid the locking bar across. My heart was still pounding, and I almost jumped out of my skin when a shape stirred in a dark corner of the room. It was Faranak getting up from a pile of bedding. Like a stiff-jointed elderly cat the old lady had several places where she liked to curl up comfortably on the piles of hoarded rubbish. For a moment I was unsure whether or not I should tell her what had happened at the assembly, then decided that there was no point in keeping the truth from her. I had seen enough to know that the tudun and his allies would be pitiless in executing their plan to overthrow the khagan. What I did not know was whether or not the slaughter of Kaiam and his supporters would extend to members of his family. If so, the tudun’s accomplices would soon arrive, hunting for Faranak.

  She took the news of the massacre so calmly that I thought either she had misunderstood me or she was too deaf to have heard my words. I repeated myself, stepping closer and raising my voice until I was shouting. Before I got beyond a couple of sentences, she silenced me with a gesture.

  ‘Keep the door locked for three days. Don’t make any more noise,’ she wheezed.

  She must have noticed me glance towards the water bucket. It had not been touched since I had filled it earlier that morning. ‘There’s enough to last,’ she added.

  ‘And after three days?’ I ventured to ask.

  ‘There will be a new khagan and the old one will be in the ground.’

  ‘You don’t fear for your own safety after what was done to your nephew?’

  Red-rimmed watery eyes looked at me as though I was a dimwit. ‘That’s how Kaiam became khagan.’

  It took me a moment to understand. ‘You mean Kaiam killed his predecessor?’

  ‘The man showed weakness,’ she said, then added as if it explained and excused everything, ‘He was of a different clan.’

  She shuffled off, muttering to herself.

  Half an hour later, I heard shouts. They were too far away to know exactly where they came from, but they were harsh and insistent. Then I caught the sound of running feet. Someone was racing towards us along the laneway outside the house. He ran past the doorway without slackening pace, and there was desperation and panic in his grunting breaths. Scarcely a minute later came the sound of his pursuit, several men this time, running as a pack. They, too, passed our door without stopping, and there was a terrible purposefulness about the silence in which they ran. There was no talking, just the thud of their feet that came and passed, and faded away in the distance.

  When they were gone, I pressed my face against a crack between the weathered planks of the door, and squinted out. But all I saw was the mud wall of the house across the laneway. I wondered if Faranak’s neighbours were also hiding in their homes. It was eerily quiet.

  Chapter Twelve

  FARANAK AND I cowered like hunted foxes in their earth for those three days. They seemed like an age. We lived in semi-darkness and increasing stench. We ate cold food, fearing that the smoke from a cooking fire would attract attention. Four cupfuls each day was our water ration and whenever we visited the privy, we trod softly, fearing to make the slightest sound. Faranak slept for much of the time while I positioned myself close to the door, straining to hear what was going on outside. Cooped up in the darkness, it was the only way of knowing what was going on. The near-silence was unsettling. Even the children and dogs were subdued, and at times it was as if the settlement had been abandoned and the people had moved away. With little else to occupy my mind, I puzzled why Beorthric had given me the guarded signal just before the tudun drew his knife. It was clear to me that the Saxon had been actively involved in the murder plot, for he had been topping up the golden skull with wine, ensuring that the Kaiam had the opportunity to get drunk. But why he had chosen to warn me when previously he had ignored my presence, remained a mystery.

  I had fallen asleep, seated on the steps leading down into the room when a loud, insistent rapping on the door woke me. My head was lolling back against the door so the knocking seemed to go right through my skull. Startled and groggy, I got up, narrowly avoiding falling down the steps. Daylight filtered through the cracks around the door frame. My mouth felt dry and foul. It was long after sunrise on the third day in hiding.

  ‘Sigwulf, are you in there?’ It was Beorthric’s voice.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Faranak was still asleep, too deaf to have heard the knocking.

  I eased back the bar and cautiously pushed open the door, uncertain what to expect. I had to hold an arm to shield my eyes, the sunshine was blinding after so long in the darkened house. Beorthric was standing in the laneway, as well dressed as I had seen him last. He was on his own.

  ‘I’ve come to collect you,’ he announced.

  I scanned his face for some indication of how he felt about having abandoned me six months earlier. There was no sign of remorse. He looked relaxed and self-assured.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I was aware that I sounded petulant and resentful. ‘To a burial,’ he said.

  ‘There’s an old lady in there. I’m meant to look after her,’ I said, indicating the room behind me.

  ‘She’s no longer your worry,’ he answered bluntly.

  I was finding it difficult to place any trust in him. I was unsure just how deeply the Saxon was mixed up in Avar tribal rivalries, and whether he had turned his coat yet again, and become one of the murderous tudun’s new henchmen. For a moment I considered ignoring him altogether, but this was my first opportunity to discover why he had not acknowledged me at the mid-winter festival, and what he had been doing during the winter months.

  Beorthric was already walking away up the footpath and I hurried to catch up with him, the questions chasing one another through my mind. But he seemed in no mood to talk, and there was an awkward silence between us as we walked. We crossed the settlement, heading away from the river, and I kept glancing furtively down the various side alleys that we passed. Nothing much had changed though there seemed to be fewer people than normal in the streets and laneways. Clearly the spring migration had not yet begun.

  Finally, I could no longer contain my curiosity. ‘Has anything been heard from Carolus or from Archbishop Arno?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not while Kaiam was in charge. He detested all Franks.’

  I couldn’t resist saying, ‘You seem to be an exception.’

  My remark hit home for he said, ‘I took good care to steer clear of Kaiam.’

  ‘Very wise of you,’ I responded drily. ‘I’m told you found favour with another Avar woman.’

  ‘She’s not from Kaiam’s clan,’ the Saxon retorted with more than a touch of irritation, ending our conversation.

  Not another word passed between us as he led me beyond the northern fringe of the settlement. A crowd of Avars was gathered where a dip in the ground formed a natural amphitheatre. They had their backs to us and were looking down
to where two pits had been dug in the soft earth. The smaller was the size of a normal grave; the other was longer, broader and deeper. The spoil was heaped nearby. The mood of the onlookers was subdued, and their faces sombre. A few women were present, but no children. Beorthric pushed his way confidently through the crowd who made way for him. When we reached the front rank, I found myself standing elbow to elbow with one of the Greeks on Nikephorus’s staff; the older, grey-haired man whom I had seen at Kaiam’s banquet.

  ‘Greetings,’ he said in accented Frankish. ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t take too long.’

  I looked to my right. Not far away was the toad-faced tudun. Beorthric had moved to stand close behind his shoulder. I got the distinct impression that the Saxon had become one of the tudun’s inner circle.

  The Greek noticed the direction of my glance. ‘Kajd will be declared khagan before the day is out.’

  I was close enough to see down into the pits. The larger one was empty, and in the other lay Kaiam. He was on his back, dressed in full-length chain mail. Around his waist was a broad belt of worked leather with a massive gold buckle and studded with what looked like large, semi-precious stones. On his head was a gold-embossed iron helmet. A sky-blue scarf wrapped around his neck concealed the wound that had killed him.

  At the far side of the grave was a group of about a dozen Avar men. They held themselves stiffly and looked nervous and tense. I guessed that they were surviving senior members of Kaiam’s clan. I was surprised to see that some had been allowed to carry weapons – a bow, a quiver with its arrows, a sword, a lance with a pennant attached.

  A low murmur of appreciation went up from the waiting crowd and heads turned. A groom was bringing forward a fine-looking chestnut stallion, a far nobler creature than the workaday Avar mounts. The horse was saddled and bridled, but there was no rider. The coat had been brushed to a shine, mane and tail combed and plaited, the hooves oiled until they glistened. The decorations of the harness gleamed in the spring sunshine. Every buckle and strap end was made of gold, so too was the clip that held the nodding white plume on the headband. My eye was drawn to the gold breastplate on the animal’s chest. Kunimund had claimed that he had taken one like it to the goldsmith for repair. Gently, the groom led the stallion to the edge of the larger open grave, untied the lead rope, and moved away. The horse remained on the exact same spot, lifted its splendid head, ears alert.

  The qam stepped out from the watching crowd. The sorcerer was wearing the now-familiar long shirt hung with amulets. The same high peaked cap with its dangling fringe of beads hid the face but I knew at once that this was not the wrinkled crone who had screamed threats at me three days earlier. This qam was at least a head taller, and the walk was different; no longer a shuffle, but younger and energetic. I was sure it was a man hidden beneath the costume.

  He was holding a short spear, its shaft decorated with red feathers. He approached to within an arm’s length of the horse as it stood trustingly between the two grooms. He raised the spear and, without any hesitation, drove it expertly through the animal’s left eye. He must have struck into the brain for the horse dropped instantly, falling sideways into the pit, the spear shaft sticking out from its head, the feathers fluttering. The crowd let out a low, collective moan of sadness mingled with approval.

  ‘What a waste,’ said the Greek beside me. ‘Takes years to train an animal like that. It’s why the Avar cavalry are so dangerous. They school their horses to perfection.’

  Silently I wished to myself that I had witnessed such training and known that all their horses were accustomed to being handled only from their left-hand side.

  Kaiam’s clansmen came forward. They tossed into Kaiam’s open grave the weapons they carried – bow, the quiver, the lance with its pennant. Last of all was Kaiam’s sword. When they had finished, the qam turned to face the crowd. ‘We are the Avar people,’ he called out to them. ‘We offer sacrifice to fire, water and the sword, and honour our departed.’

  Then he walked across to where the tudun was waiting in the front rank. As had been done at the mid-winter festival, the qam took the golden skull from a leather pouch, held it up high and called down the sacred power from the sky. Then he placed the skull in the tudun’s outstretched hands.

  ‘Ten times quicker than a coronation in Constantinople,’ muttered the Greek beside me with a satisfied sigh, ‘and that’s with a funeral included.’

  ‘What do you think Kajd will be like as khagan?’ I asked him, wondering if the new ruler of the Avars would treat me more kindly than his predecessor.

  The Greek treated me to a sly glance. ‘At home we have a proverb – “a serpent, unless it devours another serpent, will not become a dragon.” I’d say Kajd’s made a good start.’

  *

  The ceremony over, Beorthric walked back with me into the settlement. The atmosphere between us was far from cordial and neither of us spoke. He brought me into the central square, and I was about to turn down the laneway leading to Faranak’s house when he nodded towards one of the timber houses across from the khagan’s residence.

  ‘There’s someone over there who wants to have a chat with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to collect you an hour before dusk.’

  He walked off without giving me an opportunity to ask who wanted to speak with me, or why.

  The presence of two Avar guards standing at the door of the house made me wonder if I was about to meet a fellow captive. The guards eyed me with interest as I approached, and after a moment’s hesitation one of them stood aside and waved at me to go in. I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me. Someone had transformed the gloomy, dank interior of an Avar house. Extra windows had been cut in the wooden walls and their shutters were open to the air and sunlight. The sunken floor had been raised, boarded over and covered with stretched canvas cleverly painted to resemble mosaic. Panel screens served as partitions to divide off small side-alcoves from the main room. There were upholstered chairs, several small tables, a couch with cushions, and a portable writing desk. From the ceiling hung delicate glass lamps. Oddly, one or two of them were lit. Then I smelled perfume in the air and realized they were for burning scented oils.

  The curtain to one of the alcoves parted, and out stepped the diminutive figure of Nikephorus, the Greek ambassador. His clothes were a match for the quality of the furnishings – a long tunic of fine wool, dyed lemon-yellow, that reached down to where the toes of his pale green slippers poked out beneath the hem. I was reminded of an expensively dressed doll.

  ‘Do we have a new khagan?’ he asked without any preamble.

  ‘The qam presented Kajd with the golden skull.’ It struck me as odd that the ambassador had not gone to see the ceremony for himself.

  As usual he seemed to be able to read my thoughts. ‘I try to avoid public ceremonies. Standing with a crowd makes me look out of place.’

  I hesitated, still only a couple of paces into the room. ‘I was told that someone wanted to speak with me.’

  ‘That’s right. I asked your friend, the tall Saxon, to bring you here after the burial ceremony.’

  I wanted to say that Beorthric was not really my friend, but the ambassador was already waving me forward.

  ‘You must be hungry after all that standing around. I was just about to have my meal. I hope you will join me.’

  His courteous manner was making me feel grubby and uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps, if I could wash first . . .’ I suggested.

  ‘Of course.’ There was a flash of jewelled rings on his fingers as he pointed. ‘In that alcove over there you’ll find a basin, soap and towel.’

  After I had washed the grime off my face and hands, I picked up a small mirror placed beside the basin and examined my reflection. I looked as if I had been living all winter in a cave. My hair was matted and filthy. My beard had streaks of grey. My eyes were so sunken that it was difficult to see that their colours differed.

  Nikephorus was waiting beside a table set with plates of food
when I re-emerged. After months of Faranak’s plain gruel, my mouth watered at the sight of sausages and sliced, dried meats. There was cabbage, spinach and several vegetables I did not recognize, and a stack of flat bread.

  He waved me to take my place and selected for himself a high stool with an unusually thick cushion. Nevertheless, I still had the feeling that I was seated at table with a meticulously dressed child. There was no one serving us, so presumably this was to be a private conversation.

  ‘You have created a very comfortable residence for yourself,’ I complimented him.

  ‘Put it down to experience,’ he said. ‘This is the fourth time I’ve been sent as ambassador to the Avars.’

  That explained how he came to speak Avarish so fluently. It also reminded me that he had earned a nickname for himself amongst the foreigners living amongst the Avars: the Poison Dwarf. It made me wonder why he was going to such lengths to charm me.

  ‘Try starting with this,’ he suggested, pushing across a small earthenware bowl of what looked like soft curds. ‘I’ve finally succeeded in training the cook to make it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Chopped chicken mixed into beaten egg white, then cooked in wine, and topped with honey.’

  Faranak and I had used our fingers or – occasionally – cow-horn spoons. Here the spoons were of silver. I took a taste. It was delicious.

  ‘Each visit teaches me what to bring with me the next time,’ he went on, reaching for the wine jug and filling our two glasses to the brim. ‘The better furniture can be taken to pieces easily for transport. Some of the larger pieces I left behind from previous stays, knowing that I was likely to be sent back here.’