by Tim Severin
Paul had taken refuge from the heat by retreating deep inside his villa. He was dozing on a couch beside the small pool in the centre of the interior courtyard that was fed from rainwater from the roof. All the doors and windows of the villa were open and a faint breath of a breeze was keeping the building cool.
‘It’s you, Sigwulf,’ he said, heaving himself up with a grunt as he heard my footsteps on the mosaic floor. The square of light muslin which had covered his face fluttered to the ground. I had taken off my new hat and used it to fan my sweat-streaked face. ‘You really must learn to respect the Roman heat,’ he chided me.
‘It was a lot hotter in Baghdad,’ I told him, ‘and I must talk to you about something that cannot wait.’
He sighed and bent down, looking for his sandals where he had left them under the couch. ‘All in good time,’ he wheezed as he slid his feet into them, adjusted his crumpled gown, then clapped his hands. A servant appeared from the depths of the building. ‘A chair for my friend, cups and a flagon of water, as cold as you can find . . . add lemon juice and mint leaves,’ he ordered.
The drink arrived in a porous clay jug that must have been stored underground for the surface was beaded with moisture. Greedily, I drank two cups of it while Paul fussed with a basin and towels brought by another servant. Only after he had washed his face and hands, mopped them dry, and insisted that I do the same from a basin of fresh water, did he finally look me at me expectantly.
‘You’ve come to tell me that the Beneventans finally made contact,’ he said, sitting up straight on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees.
‘Nine days ago. Beorthric and I were collected from the Schola and brought to a night-time meeting, but not in Benevento.’
‘Where, then?’ Paul’s eyes were bright with interest.
‘In a monastery three days’ ride from Rome. We arrived in the evening, and left the next day after the meeting. So I don’t know much about it.’
‘It’s not like you to leave your wits behind when travelling.’
I licked my lips to capture the lingering lemon taste. ‘I’m sorry. But we saw no one while we were at the monastery except the Beneventan guards and men we were brought to meet. The whole thing was being kept very secret.’
My friend was patient. ‘So what do you remember?’
‘The monastery is built on the edge of a very steep hill. We entered up a long flight of steps and then across a broad courtyard. There was a bell tower and a fairly new basilica.’
Paul pulled a face. ‘That’s not much to go on.’
‘This one had a disused oratory. It was where the meeting was held. There was a decaying fresco on the end wall, a crucifixion scene—’
Paul held up a hand to stop me. ‘And an abbot shown kneeling in front of the Cross.’
I looked at him in astonishment. ‘You know the place?’
‘I would be a very ignorant priest if I didn’t. You’re talking about the monastery on Monte Cassino. It’s where Saint Benedict spent most of his remaining years.’
‘I couldn’t decipher the writing on the label over the kneeling man’s head, but it could have read Benedict.’
I had Paul’s full attention by now, and had never seen him so enthralled. ‘Did you see any of the monks?’ he asked.
‘Only one. A man of about fifty; he had a reddish face, many broken veins. He sat in at the meeting.’
‘That will be Pelagius. He’s the praepositus, second only to Abbot Gisulf. I met Pelagius seven or eight years ago when he came to Rome with a delegation from the monastery seeking confirmation of a land grant.’
‘He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the others.’
‘And who were they?’
‘Two men looked to be Beneventans. One was thin faced, with long hair. He ran the meeting. The other was shorter and burly with a grizzled beard. My guess is that they were officials sent by the prince.’
Paul shook his head. ‘Can’t place them. I haven’t been to Benevento for a long time, and the courtiers change. Who else was there?’
‘A much older man. He had just a few strands of white hair and was bad tempered. Almost certainly from Rome. He had a large wart on his upper lip.’
‘That’s easy. He’s Paschal of Alatri, a senator. He’s a good friend of the current Duke of Nepo, and a senior officer in the city militia.’
Paul sat back on his couch and thought for a moment. ‘So that’s the four of them. What was discussed?’
‘Hiring Beorthric to murder the Pope.’
Paul took my statement in his stride. ‘No wonder Pelagius looked uncomfortable. Either his abbot doesn’t know what is going on or Abbot Gisulf sent Pelagius to the meeting in his place, not wanting to appear directly involved. By the way, Gisulf is himself related to the Princes of Benevento.’
I shifted my shoulders under my shirt. The sweat had dried, and my skin was beginning to itch. ‘They insist that Beorthric carries out the attack on his own.’
‘They must be very confident in their planning.’
‘Apparently he can get very close to the Pope when he is unguarded.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘The Forum of Nerva was mentioned.’
I was astonished to see a broad smile light up Paul’s face. ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s exactly where I would suggest.’
Chuckling to himself he heaved himself up from the couch, and called for a servant to bring him a hat and shoes. ‘I want to show you something, Sigwulf,’ he said happily. ‘Now that it’s not so hot outside, we should take a stroll.’
*
Mystified, I followed Paul out of his villa and downhill across the rough ground of the disabitato. We were heading in the general direction of the great broken drum of the Colosseum, and everywhere the remains of ancient buildings rose up from the scrubland like the bones of battered shipwrecks. Scattered amongst them, seemingly at random, were farmhouses and cottages, some with roofs of mouldy thatch, in which the remaining citizens of this quarter chose to live. The still air carried the smell of their cooking fires, and I could hear the shouts and laughter of children as they played in derelict gardens or amongst the walls of tumbled-down villas. Where the land flattened out at the foot of the hill, the ground was poorly drained, marshy and soft, even on this dry summer day and we veered to the right, passing in front of an ancient colonnaded temple that had been converted into a Christian church. Here the roadway broadened out and brought us into an area crowded with even larger, decrepit buildings, their functions often unrecognizable. Paul identified them for me as former temples, theatres, public baths and courthouses.
‘Not everything was quite as grand as these ruins suggest,’ he said with a sweeping gesture that took in our surroundings. ‘That boggy area we’ve just passed through was once the red-light district, and where we are standing was the street of the booksellers until an egotistical emperor sought to leave his mark by having it remodelled as the Forum of Nerva.’
I looked about me at what must once have been a remarkable public space. A pillared arcade, two storeys high, extended the full length of the forum on both sides, dominating what had once been a square filled with shopkeepers and their customers, idlers, traders and officials, visitors and citizens of the Republic. Some of the marble columns had lost their carved capitals, others had broken in half, and all were grimy and badly weathered. Yet the effect was still magnificent and made the houses, sheds and shops of more recent times look mean and shabby as if they were leeches stuck to the body of a worn-out host. I thought that in its own way the empty grandeur of the forum mirrored the hollowed-out wreckage of the Avar Ring with the charred uprights of its great palisade.
Paul had halted in front of a sturdy two-storey dwelling of stone and timber backing up against the base of the ancient arcade. It was the most substantial of the newly built structures. It had a covered walkway along the front, a small stable to one side, and a walled garden. I mistook the green roof as made of t
urf, then realized that it was copper sheeting, stripped from the ancient buildings.
‘Who lives there?’ I asked, for it was evident that this was the place Paul had brought me to see.
‘A branch of the Signorelli family. The grandfather made a fortune in the cloth trade, and his successors are adding to it. Several of them serve on the city council.’
He saw my puzzled expression and his lips twitched in the beginnings of a grin.
‘It is also the home of Caecilia Signorelli, a person of interest to the Holy Father.’
He waited for my reaction, his eyes alight with mischief.
It took me several moments to understand what he was implying. Then I recalled my first interview long ago in Archbishop Arno’s office in Paderborn when Arno had told me of the letters of complaint he had received about Pope Leo’s behaviour. Amongst the many accusations was that the Pope was an adulterer. I had made a joke of it, and been reprimanded.
‘She’s his mistress?’ I blurted.
Paul chuckled. ‘Why else would he visit her so often and so discreetly, and always after dark – to hear her confession?’
‘Doesn’t she have a husband? And what about the servants?’
Paul smirked. ‘Paolo Signorelli is most accommodating. It’s very advantageous to have such good connections with the Holy Father, and the servants are well trained.’
‘But Leo must be aware of the risks he’s taking.’
‘Look about you, Sigwulf. How many people do you see? Half of Rome is deserted even in the daytime. Leo comes here after dark, with just one attendant who keeps watch outside. Long before dawn, he makes his way back to the Lateran.’
A thought struck me. ‘If Leo is so discreet, how do you know about this arrangement?’
‘It’s been going on for years. Even when I was employed at the Lateran. One thing to be said for Pope Leo: he’s a constant adulterer.’
Paul rubbed his hands with glee. He was delighted with himself. ‘Can you imagine? The Pope is murdered while paying an adulterous visit to a respectable Roman matron. Even if he survives the thrust of the knife, his reputation will be destroyed. There’s no chance that he’ll be turned into a martyr.’
He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I suggest you lose no time in bringing Beorthric to the Forum of Nerva so that he can scout the scene of the intended crime. I’m sure the Beneventans and their allies are well aware of Leo’s carnal appetite.’
Chuckling to himself he turned on his heel and went striding off. Too late, I remembered I had not told him everything about my visit to the monastery. Paul had been so eager to show me the Signorelli house that I had failed to ask him about the old priest whom I feared might be the former Pope, Constantine.
*
That night a powerful thunderstorm rumbled over the city. In the morning, when I brought Beorthric to the Forum of Nerva, wisps of steam were rising from ancient stone slabs still wet and gleaming from the torrential rain. It was going to be another scorching day.
‘When is Archbishop Arno back in Rome?’ he asked as we sauntered around the forum, pretending to look at the sights.
Like me, he was worried. It had been Paul’s suggestion that we allow ourselves to be drawn into the plot against the Pope and to learn who was involved and what was planned. But how best to use that information was far from clear. Events were moving rather too quickly.
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘When the weather cools down, I suppose.’ I had already told the Saxon of my visit to Paul and he had not been the least surprised to hear that Pope Leo kept a mistress tucked away. It confirmed his opinion that Christians were hypocrites.
A large brown and white dog appeared from the stables attached to the Signorelli house and came forward to investigate us. Beorthric clicked his fingers. The dog advanced stiff-legged with suspicion and Beorthric spoke to it softly until it relaxed and came forward, tail wagging.
He leaned down and fondled it behind its ears. ‘There’s something not quite right about this whole business,’ he murmured.
‘As long as Pope Leo is out of Rome and safe from danger, we don’t have to worry.’
‘We’re missing something important.’
A face appeared in the stable doorway, a groom checking to see where the dog had gone.
‘What gives you that feeling?’
‘Our landlord at the boarding house reports on us daily. He meets up with the neighbourhood watchman.’
‘Probably providing information for that bad-tempered old fellow who interviewed us at the monastery.’
There was a sharp whistle from the stable, and the dog trotted away reluctantly.
Beorthric’s voice kept its level tone. ‘I’ve been thinking what to do if I’m called upon to earn my killer’s fee before you’ve had a chance to speak with Arno.’
‘Find an excuse to delay,’ I suggested. ‘Pretend a bout of fever. The shaking ague appears in Rome every summer and the Trastevere is worst affected.’
‘That’s too obvious. It’ll be better if I come out to the forum, then postpone at the very last moment, saying that the conditions weren’t quite right. That will gain us more time. But I want you to be here.’
He pointed with his chin to the garden beside the Signorelli house. ‘You see where the wall juts out, just before the gate. That’s a good place for you to hide.’
‘But you’ve been instructed to act on your own. If the hostel is being closely watched, I can’t leave the hostel in your company and come here with you,’ I said.
He treated me to a grin of encouragement. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of a way of evading attention.’
We had walked the length of the forum and, rather than turn around and risk drawing attention to ourselves, I suggested that we continue in a loop that would eventually bring us across the bridges over the Tiber and back to our hostel.
I was still mulling over the problem that Beorthric had set me when we passed in front of another of the temples converted into a Christian basilica. The priest was descending the steps in front of the church after conducting a service.
‘Excuse me, Father,’ I called to him in Latin. He stopped and turned towards me.
‘What is it?’ he asked irritably. He was young for a priest, just in his twenties, with curly hair cut short, and wide-set innocent-looking eyes.
‘I’m a pilgrim,’ I said meekly, ‘come to see the sights and pray at the tombs of the holy martyrs. I would dearly love to lay eyes on the Holy Father himself. It is something I would be able to tell my children.’
‘Then you will have to be patient. His Holiness is not in Rome at this time,’ he said, and he started to move away. He had no wish to linger in the blazing sun, chatting.
I put on a pleading tone. ‘How long must I wait? I have to set out for my homeland soon, or the mountain passes will be blocked.’
‘The date when the Pope returns is not known. Perhaps in another month or six weeks.’
‘But that will be too late. Is there no chance that he will come back to the city before then?’
The priest began to sound exasperated at my persistent questioning. ‘He may return briefly, to take part in the procession of St Symphorosa. You might be able to get a glimpse of him as he passes.’
‘Forgive my ignorance, but I know nothing of St Symphorosa, nor the date of her feast.’
‘It falls on the eighteenth day of July. The blessed saint was martyred by the emperor Hadrian for refusing to sacrifice to the pagan gods, so too were her seven sons. Their bodies were buried outside the city by the Via Tiburtina.’
‘But you said the Holy Father will come to Rome for the procession.’
‘Pope Stephen had the bones dug up and brought to the Church of St Angelo.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Right beside the fish market; you can’t miss it,’ he snapped. Without waiting to be thanked, he turned on his heel and marched off.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Beorthric. The convers
ation had been entirely in Latin.
‘I’ve found out when the Pope may next be in Rome. On July the eighteenth there’s a procession he usually leads. My guess is that he’ll come into Rome the previous evening.’
Beorthric smirked. ‘Sigwulf, I knew I could rely on you.’
*
Two days before the Feast of St Symphorosa, I moved out of the lodging house in the Trastevere with my belongings, leaving Beorthric behind. I again rented a cubicle at the pilgrim hostel of Schola Saxonorum where rumour there was that Pope Leo would indeed be taking part in the procession to St Angelo Church. So on the evening of 17 July, I left the hostel’s gate at sunset and made my way towards the Forum of Nerva. By the time I arrived it was dark and the forum was already deserted. Unnoticed, I took up my position in the little recess by the Signorelli garden wall that Beorthric had pointed out to me, and began my vigil.
In that part of Rome the working day finished early. No lights showed in the few houses within the ruins of the square. The only sounds were those that I associated with the countryside: the buzz of night insects and the occasional bleat of a goat from one of the lean-to sheds. Behind me, the bricks in the garden wall retained the heat of the sun and I leaned back comfortably, feeling the warmth through my shirt. The night sky was clear of clouds, and a three-quarters moon created deep shadows between the columns of the ancient arcade. At the far end of the forum was an ancient temple which, Paul had told me, had been dedicated to Minerva. The white marble of its facade glimmered in the moonlight. To its right, a monumental archway, locally known as ‘Noah’s Arch’, according to the former Nomenculator, led to the Suburra district and its tenement buildings.