by Tim Severin
He brought up the subject yet again a few weeks later, as we shared a light breakfast of hot milk and bread with Paul in his library. The servants had lit a fire to keep out the winter dampness and chill, and it was the morning of what was much anticipated as the climax of Carolus’s visit: Christmas Day, when he and his family would attend a magnificent service led by Leo in the great basilica of St Peter’s.
‘Nobody is going to try to kill or depose Leo while Carolus is in Rome,’ I assured him. Beorthric snorted with disbelief. ‘The greatest risk is when people think they’re safe. That’s when they lower their guard.’
‘So what do you think is the risk now?’ asked Paul. He had risen from the table and gone to stand where he could see his reflection in a mirror held up by a servant. Paul was dressed in his finest planeta as he was due to leave for the church of San Pietro in Vincoli. He would have much preferred to attend the extravagant Mass in St Peter’s; the basilica could hold as many as four thousand worshippers. But all the leading figures of Roman society, as well as the most important churchmen, would be in attendance, and the demand for places had been so great that Paul, even with his influence, had been unable to obtain an invitation.
Beorthric put down his clay drinking bowl and reached across with his right arm to knead the muscles on his left side where he had been injured. ‘The Beneventans will not give up easily. I’ve seen men like them before, ruthless in the pursuit of power. They plan carefully and if they employ professionals, they strike at precisely the right moment.’
I knew that he was thinking of the massacre at the Avar spring ceremony when Khagan Kaiam’s throat was slashed open in front of the assembled Avar chieftains.
Paul turned to me. ‘Sigwulf, I’m sorry neither of us will be at St Peter’s today. This event is going to be unique, something that makes history. The palatium has been making great efforts. A contact in the Treasury tells me that they’re bringing a great treasure out of storage. It’s something that is displayed only once in a lifetime.’
‘I’m surprised there’s anything of value left in the treasury that Albinus and his friends haven’t stolen,’ Beorthric observed caustically.
Paul chose to tease him. ‘Maybe they’re hiding another masterpiece from the Avar Hoard, even more spectacular than your gold warrior flagon.’
Something echoed in my memory: another ceremony, another ritual, a gold-plated skull, and what had happened to the man who had drunk from it. I felt my insides contract in a sudden spasm of fright. The same thought must have occurred to Beorthric. He sat up straight, a wariness in his eyes, all his attention fixed on the former Nomenculator.
‘Do you know what this special item is?’ I croaked.
Paul heard the change in my voice and looked at me curiously. ‘I’ve no idea. No one would tell me. It’s being kept secret.’
‘Who’s going to be at Mass today?’ Beorthric asked sharply.
‘Senior priests, Roman nobility, foreign dignitaries. Carolus’s family will also be there, looking on. Everyone will want to see the king on such a grand occasion.’
Beorthric gave a little hiss of alarm. ‘And what exactly happens at this Christ’s Mass?’
‘As Bishop of Rome, Leo enters the basilica with all pomp, surrounded by his staff. He is escorted up the central aisle to his position by the altar. From there he turns to face the congregation and pronounces the first words of the service. His assistants do the rest, leading the prayers, directing the choir, and so forth. At the end of the Mass, Leo again stands by the altar and pronounces the final blessing on the congregation.’
‘Alone?’
‘On this occasion he will undoubtedly deliver a special blessing for the king himself, probably with a laying on of hands to emphasize the bond between them in front of this great audience.’
Paul’s voice trailed away. Finally, he had grasped what both Beorthric and I had been thinking. ‘You believe that Leo will be attacked in church, right in front of his altar?’ He sounded shocked.
‘Not Leo,’ I said quietly, ‘Carolus.’
Paul’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s unthinkable.’
With an effort I kept my voice steady. ‘Remember what Beorthric heard the plotters in Monte Cassino say: they wanted Leo disposed of before autumn. If not, then they would have to take more extreme measures.’
Paul was staring at me, his eyes narrowed.
‘This has gone beyond getting rid of Leo,’ I told him. ‘You yourself said all along that this is a matter of high politics. It’s about getting rid of Carolus instead. In coming to Rome, the king has become vulnerable. He’s not in the safety of his own palaces, protected by his loyal vassals. The Beneventans and their allies will take this chance to be rid of him.’
Paul let out a slow breath. ‘Maybe they’ve a good reason. I’ve heard that several squadrons of Frankish cavalry are on the way here. People are saying that they are to join up with the Duke of Spoleto’s troops. Together they will cross the border into Benevento, and force the duke there to recognize Carolus as his overlord, and that all this talk of Carolus wanting to celebrate Christ’s Mass in St Peter’s is just a ruse. He’s planning to extend his control of his borders.’
‘The duke will have spies in Carolus’s court. He must know about this too. He will strike first,’ I said.
Paul was frowning, concentrating on what I had just said. Suddenly he slapped a palm against his forehead. ‘What a dolt I’ve been! That elderly priest whom Beorthric saw shuffling into the room at Monte Cassino wasn’t the candidate to replace Leo. He’s the person whom the Beneventans will put forward as the rightful ruler of all the Franks.’
The awful sick dread that had been gathering in the pit of my stomach became a hard lump. ‘But who is he?’
Paul took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘This goes back to the way Carolus’s father Pippin succeeded to the Frankish throne. Many said that it was underhand and that he had no right to rule because he had an older brother by the name of Carloman. There was a power struggle between them, and Carloman travelled to Rome to get the Pope to support him. But Pippin engineered it so that Carloman was held back for several years as a monk at Monte Cassino. Only when Pippin was safely installed as King of the Franks was Carloman allowed back to Frankia. He died there and later his remains were transferred back to the monastery.’
‘A dead man isn’t a threat,’ said Beorthric.
Paul made a dismissive gesture, silencing the Saxon. Plainly the former Nomenculator was thinking hard. ‘Carloman had a son, Drogo, who would now be about five or ten years older than Carolus. Drogo, too, was banished to a monastery, tonsured and became a monk. Nothing more is known about him.’
‘You think he is now at Monte Cassino?’
‘The monastery would have taken him in, as it did his father –’ he paused – ‘and it gets worse. There are those in Rome who claim that Carolus is illegitimate. He was Pippin’s first-born son, but Pippin was not married to his mother in any church ceremony. It strengthens the argument that the true King of the Franks should be from the senior line, Carloman’s son.’
‘Surely no one is going to expect an elderly monk to turn overnight into a monarch who is competent to rule a kingdom as vast as the one that Carolus has,’ I objected.
Paul grimaced. ‘It doesn’t really matter. Carolus has gone through so many wives and mistresses that there’s an entire brood of his sons, bastards or legitimate, any one of whom might lay claim to the throne. The Duke of Benevento could enter the fray, claiming that he was fighting on behalf of Drogo, the rightful heir, strike Carolus down in public, claim that it was an act blessed by God as Carolus is an affront to the Church, and then there would be bloody chaos.’
‘You’re wasting time, Sigwulf,’ Beorthric snapped. He was on his feet and limping towards the corridor leading to his room. ‘Get down to that ceremony as fast as you can and warn Carolus’s bodyguards. They’ll know what to do.’
Paul was calling for a cloak and boots to
be brought for me, and I was putting them on as Beorthric reappeared. ‘Here, take this with you,’ he rasped, holding out his scramseax in its leather sheath, ‘just in case you come across our friend in the fur hat.’
Chapter Nineteen
IT TOOK PAUL and me the best part of two hours, half running, half walking, to reach the great square in front of the basilica, and by then a cordon of soldiers, mostly Frankish men-at-arms supported by a handful of the Family of St Peter, had sealed the entrance to the basilica. The invited congregation had gone inside already, and Lateran clerks at portable desks were double-checking their lists against those who had been admitted. Paul hurried up to them.
‘You must let us through. A matter of state importance,’ he wheezed, purple in the face.
The senior of the clerks looked at him coldly. ‘Not possible,’ he said with more than a touch of malice. ‘The service has begun. The doors are closed.’ He made a show of looking down the list. ‘Besides, your name’s not here.’
Paul pulled me aside, out of earshot. ‘I know that swine. He’s one of Campulus’s underlings. Bears me a grudge.’
I looked about me; my heart was pounding. ‘What about your friend the sergeant from the Lateran? If we can find him, he might get us through.’
We hurried along the cordon. The line of soldiers was relaxing, the guards were stamping their feet and blowing on their hands to keep warm, for a raw wind had sprung up, carrying a few icy specks of rain. The troops gave us curious looks but made it clear that we would not be allowed to pass. Eventually, we found the sergeant, at the far end of the line, and Paul blurted out to him that we had to be allowed into the basilica.
‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ Paul pleaded.
The sergeant looked taken aback. ‘I’m not in charge. You’ll have to speak with that officer, over there.’ He nodded towards a humourless-looking Frankish captain who was already watching us suspiciously.
Paul and I hurried over to the man, and Paul repeated his request. The captain gave us a hard stare. ‘No one is allowed inside, except those on the list. Those are my orders,’ he said flatly. He glanced towards the senior Lateran clerk who gave a smug nod of agreement.
‘I’m on the royal staff,’ I said in Frankish, trying to sound official.
‘Haven’t seen you around before,’ the captain drawled. ‘Not with the court when we came here.’
‘I’m on special duties, working for Archbishop Arno.’
‘He’s already gone inside. You can wait for him to come out and vouch for you,’ said the captain unhelpfully. His eye fell on the scramseax. ‘If you’re on royal staff, what are you doing carrying that barbarian weapon?’ He held out his hand. ‘Give that to me.’
I surrendered the weapon, feeling more frustrated than ever. Paul came to our rescue. He reached inside his planeta and pulled out an elegant gold cross on a chain around his neck. ‘Here you are, captain,’ he said, holding it up. ‘I am a genuine priest. And I’m prepared to leave it in your safe-keeping as a pledge if only you’ll allow us inside. We just want to witness the ceremony.’
The captain hesitated, and I could almost see the thoughts going through his mind. He was being offered a bribe, and I wondered, if Paul tried to reclaim his gold cross, whether it would be given back.
‘All right,’ the captain said at last. ‘You can pass.’ He took the cross and chain, slipped them into a pocket and then added slyly, ‘But you won’t get inside. The doors are shut and bolted. The service is almost over.’
Paul and I scurried up the long flight of shallow steps leading to the great doors. ‘That was quick thinking,’ I said to him.
‘If I can bribe a guard, so can anyone carrying a hidden blade,’ he answered grimly.
He guided me around the side of the great basilica to where another guard was stationed outside a side door. This time we were lucky. The guard was from the Family of St Peter and recognized the former Nomenculator. Paul used the same excuse that we were anxious to witness the spectacular ceremony for ourselves, and, with a conspiratorial nod, the guard eased the door open and Paul and I slipped inside.
*
I had been in St Peter’s before – on my trip to Baghdad escorting the king’s beasts – but the splendour of the interior still took my breath away. It was larger than the largest royal palace, and even the dull December light pouring in through the high windows of the clerestory lit up the bright array of silks, flags and draperies strung between the famed marble columns – one hundred of them, mottled green and grey and red. Everywhere you looked the walls of the nave were painted with scenes from the Old and New Testaments, or covered with glittering mosaics. The basilica was full to capacity. A great throng dressed in their finest clothes stood listening to the full-throated singing of a choir somewhere towards the far end of the building, the sound of their canticles rising and falling.
But what struck me most was the underlying atmosphere of tension. It was not true of everyone. Many in the congregation were acting normally, craning their necks to get a better view of the grandees closer to the altar, jostling to find a little more space, occasionally muttering comments to one another. But there were others who were clearly on edge. They were mostly priests and some, I guessed from their rich clothes, were Roman nobility. They shifted and fidgeted, making small nervous movements, or else held themselves with a strained, artificial stillness, as if they were waiting for something to happen that no one else expected. The hairs on my neck prickled as I scanned the dense mass of people. It was achingly cold inside the church and people were dressed in the same outdoor clothes that they would have worn on their way to the basilica. Everywhere I looked I saw warm, heavy garments of felt and thick wool, padded cloth and expensive leather. Fur was in profusion: marten, fox, squirrel, wolf and badger. One burly man was wearing a bearskin cloak that must have been unpopular with those standing beside him for it bulked him out even more. And, of course, there were fur hats. Within a dozen paces of me there must have been three or four men tall enough to be the hired killer who had stabbed Beorthric in the Forum of Nerva. All of them wore fur hats. I felt confused and impotent.
Paul had me by the elbow and was steering me into an aisle that ran parallel to the nave, pushing our way forward. Despite his clerical dress we met angry glances and an occasional profanity as we elbowed a path through the congregation, the worshippers giving way reluctantly. Eventually, after several minutes of ruthless shoving, we reached the front of the congregation, within view of the great altar under its massive silver arch. Here were the nobility of Rome and the great office holders of the Church. Off to one side, the women of the royal family had been placed in a row of seats in the transept, looking on. Now I felt the tension even more acutely; there was a sense of excitement in the air. It made me sick with apprehension, knowing that Paul and I were the only two people who were aware of the looming catastrophe, and an awful knowledge that there was probably nothing we could do to intervene.
Not ten yards away from me was Archbishop Arno. He was wearing a white dalmatic hemmed with purple bands. In place of his usually severe expression, he looked serene and unruffled. I wanted to grab him by the elbow and tell him to stop the service, but it would have been futile. It was too late. He was standing amongst six or seven senior churchmen closest to the altar. With a sudden stab of shock I saw that Albinus, the papal chamberlain, was part of the same group. My mind was in turmoil. I had the distinct impression that the two men, though ignoring one another, were well aware of each other’s presence.
I was trying to puzzle out what was going on when the choral song gradually rose to a crescendo, then died away, and in the silence that followed I heard a high, light voice – I presumed it was Pope Leo’s – call the congregation to prayer. Leaning forward I was able to look to my left and see that Carolus had taken up a position by himself, several paces in front of the congregation and directly in front of the altar. The time for the final blessing had come. Pope Leo was before him,
standing on the raised step of the altar platform, facing down the length of the building.
Once again, Carolus had chosen to wear the costume of a Patricis Romanorum for the occasion – a long white tunic and, over it, a chlamys, a flowing ankle-length cloak pinned at the shoulder. That morning Carolus’s chlamys was of heavy purple silk edged with white and gold embroidery. His shoulder brooch had a central gem, the size of a large walnut and blood red.
Unarmed and alone, Carolus was the perfect target for a killer.
As we knelt for the final prayer, I delayed going down on my knees so that I could see over the heads of those around me and look towards the king. He was in the same spot, by himself right in front of the altar, and already kneeling, his shoulders squared, his broad back towards the congregation, and presenting an inviting target for a blade or an arrow. He had his hands clasped in front of him as he faced Pope Leo to receive the final blessing. Carolus was bare headed, his grey hair cut in the Frankish style, shaved clean in front and long locks hanging behind, almost to his shoulders. My glance fell on the king’s shoes. His feet were protruding from the edge of his cloak. Incongruously, he was wearing vivid purple boots.
Beside me Paul hissed, ‘Kneel Down!’ I ignored him. Now was the moment for a killer to strike. The palms of my hands were sweaty with fear. I gathered myself, ready to throw myself forward and protect the king. If someone attacked Carolus, I would have to intervene bare-handed.
Leo finished the final sentence of the blessing and lowered his arms. Behind me I heard the abbots, bishops and archdeacons getting to their feet, rising with a rustle of silken vestments, and one or two grunts of effort from the more elderly.
Leo turned and, removing the cloth that hid it, picked up something from the altar, then held it high for all to see. I had expected a religious item, perhaps a chalice or a cross. But it was a wreath of gold, the leaves crusted with gems that glittered. In one smooth movement Leo placed it on Carolus’s head.