by Tim Severin
Paul treated me to a foxy grin. ‘Time crawls. Temporary so easily becomes permanent. Those inky-fingered scriniarii in the papal secretariat are unable to trace the document that allowed me to occupy the building. Until they do so – or locate a true copy – they are unable to evict me.’
I presumed the vital document was pigeonholed somewhere in the room where we were standing.
Paul tilted his head slightly, sizing me up. ‘But what brings you here, Sigwulf? Is it something to do with our mutual acquaintance? I hear he has been made Bishop of Tours.’
‘Alcuin is indirectly responsible for my visit,’ I said, casting a glance towards the open door that led into the hallway.
Paul took the hint. He strode across the room, pulled the heavy door shut, and waved to a second chair beside the table. ‘Take a seat, Sigwulf.’
‘I’m told you no longer hold the position of Nomenculator?’ I said.
‘I was retired from the post by Pope Leo soon after his election. Naturally, he wanted one of his own men in the job. I didn’t resent it of course. That’s the way the papal bureaucracy works.’
‘What’s Pope Leo like?’ I said.
The ex-Nomenculator pulled a face. ‘Bit of a nonentity, but cunning. Tends to be underestimated.’
‘I hear that he’s unpopular with the noble families of Rome.’
‘Is this something to do with your arrival here?’ he asked. There was a sudden sharpness in my friend’s voice as he resumed his own seat. ‘The dukes, counts and other nobles dislike Leo intensely because he’s not one of them. Leo joined the papal administration as a young man and worked his way up from humble acolyte until he planted his plebeian backside firmly on the throne of St Peter.’
‘How did he manage that? Weren’t the noble families of Rome sufficiently powerful to have blocked him?’
Paul shifted his position in his chair and leaned back. ‘He moved too fast for them. Quite an operator, our Leo. Got himself elected Pope within twenty-four hours of the death of his predecessor.’ He chuckled. ‘Prepared the ground well. The vote was near-unanimous. That must have cost him a great deal.’
‘He bought the votes?’
Paul snorted with amusement. ‘How else? For years he had been making sure that either his friends got the key appointments amongst the palatini of the Lateran or, if they weren’t friends, they paid him handsomely for their promotion. When it came to an election, they didn’t want to waste their investment and be turned out of office by a pope they hadn’t already bribed.’
‘That brings me to the reason why I am here,’ I told him. ‘A member of King Carolus’s council, Archbishop Arno of Salzburg, has a fat sheaf of letters, sent to him by churchmen here in Rome. They accuse Leo of all manner of inappropriate behaviour, ranging from simony to adultery.’
The eyebrows on the blotchy face shot up. ‘A reputation to boast about!’
I kept my tone serious. ‘Archbishop Arno needs to know if their accusations are linked to the attack on Pope Leo last April. On Alcuin’s recommendation I’ve been sent to find out. Your name was mentioned as a useful contact.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘And if the men behind the attack are identified, what then?’ he asked cautiously.
‘That’s not decided. I’m only here to gather background information as discreetly as possible. Will you help me?’
There was another long pause as Paul thought about my request, then he smiled sardonically. ‘Sigwulf, of course I’ll help you. I’m bored with inactivity. As the Book of Proverbs so aptly puts it, “The Lord has made everything for his own ends, even the wicked for the evil day.”’
He stood up. ‘But first, let’s eat. I always take my main meal at this time of day. Nothing elaborate. I find my digestion can no longer cope with rich food.’
*
Over pickled fish flavoured with sweet fennel, fruit and bread I explained to Paul what Albinus had told me, and about my brief visit to the Church of Saints Stephen and Sylvester.
‘I had hoped to look around inside the church. My guess is that the attackers rushed Pope Leo there to get him off the street before his guards showed up.’
‘That building was formerly a temple to Sol Invictus,’ observed Paul, deftly extracting the backbone from a sardine, ‘now it’s a house of God, a monastery run by Greeks who moved here from Constantinople.’
‘Would the Greeks in Rome have any reason to harm Leo? There seems be a Greek method in what happened,’ I said.
‘You mean the way the attackers tried to gouge out Leo’s eyes and remove his tongue?’
‘Isn’t that what the Greeks of Byzantium do when they wish to dispose of an unwanted emperor?’ I said. It was something that I had been thinking about during my long ride from Paderborn.
The former Nomenculator carefully placed the filleted fish on a slice of bread. ‘Certainly that’s the treatment Empress Irene meted out to her son Constantine so that she could take sole power. Had him blinded and shut away in a monastery.’
He took a bite of his food and chewed for a while before continuing. ‘There are significant differences, though: Constantine’s tongue was not removed, and the Greeks use hot coals to blind a man, not the point of a knife.’ He let out a soft, satisfied belch. ‘Furthermore, the Greeks do the job properly. Constantine did not survive. He died within days.’
I saw the direction his thoughts were taking. ‘So you are not convinced that an angel came to Pope Leo when he was held captive, and restored his speech and eyesight.’
‘That was a neat touch on the part of Leo or his advisors. It makes a wonderful story. It adds an aura of sanctity to an otherwise sordid event.’ Paul dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. ‘In my opinion, the clues that point to Greek involvement in the attack are altogether too obvious. From what Chamberlain Albinus told you, the men who assaulted the Pope were hired ruffians from the slums, and I may be able to trace them.’
‘You have contacts amongst such people?’ My voice expressed my surprise.
‘Not directly,’ he replied. ‘You may recall that one of my responsibilities, when I was Nomenculator, was the recovery of the relics of early Christian martyrs. It brought me into contact with a number of middlemen who deal in stolen grave goods. They might have heard something.’
He rose and opened the door and beckoned to a servant to clear the dishes. ‘Sigwulf, come back here in three days’ time and I’ll let you know what I’ve discovered.’
On my way out to the hallway I told him how grateful I was for his help.
The former Nomenculator waved aside my thanks. ‘My friend, three groups run this city – the nobility, the merchants and the clergy. Of these, by far the most devious work up in the Lateran. If it turns out that some of the scheming rogues trying to get me evicted from this comfortable residence are amongst those complicit in the attack on Leo, I will be well rewarded.’
‘Even if Arno and the other members of Carolus’s council take no action against them?’
Paul’s face lit up with mischief. ‘Proverbs again: “A good man’s house will still be standing after an evil man’s house has been destroyed.”’
Chapter Four
THE THREE DAYS dragged by. When I returned to Paul’s villa he was waiting for me with a dark-skinned man of medium height, whose tightly curled hair had been shaved to leave a central strip about four fingers wide, a crest. It gave him a menacing appearance that had to be deliberate. He also had one of the thickest necks I had ever seen. It went straight down from his ears until it merged into very wide sloping shoulders. A loose shirt did little to conceal an impressive barrel chest.
‘Sigwulf, I would like you to meet Theodore,’ Paul began. ‘He has been very useful to me in the past when dealing with difficult fellow citizens.’
I nodded politely towards Theodore. He stared back at me, expressionless. His eyes were such a dark brown that they were almost black.
‘Theodore lives in the Campus Martius district. He repo
rts that at the end of last April, one of the local street gangs was flush with money. He suspects that they had been paid for carrying out an important job.’
‘That certainly coincides with the timing of the attack on Pope Leo,’ I agreed.
‘Theodore knows where he can find one of the leading gang members. A nasty piece of work named Gavino.’
I glanced again at Theodore. He had not moved a muscle and was still regarding me with an unblinking gaze that I found unsettling.
‘Is Gavino of particular interest to us?’ I asked Paul.
‘He is.’ Paul slid a hand inside his priest’s gown and produced a small, flat metal object about three inches long and two inches wide. ‘Gavino brought this to one of the dealers who handle stolen grave goods.’
He held the item out to me. It was an ornate gold belt buckle. The centre was moulded into the figure of a beast that was half lion and half eagle, a griffin.
‘Where does this come from?’
‘From the Avar Hoard. The style is distinctive.’
I had no need to ask about the Avar Hoard. When Carolus’s troops, led by the Duke of Friuli, stormed the final Avar stronghold, they made an astonishing discovery: chest after chest filled with gold solidi, the coins minted by the Byzantines. For as long as anyone could remember, the emperors in Constantinople had been paying the Avars to leave them in peace. In some years, the bribe had been as much as 100,000 gold solidi. The Avars had amassed so much precious metal that they scarcely knew what to do with it. Only a fraction had been melted down to make the small items that the Avar goldsmiths could cope with: strap mounts, belt ornaments, decorations for their stirrups and harnesses, and so forth. The remainder had been left in coin. The Avar Hoard which had been brought back to Carolus had filled fifteen army carts; almost all of it was sacks of solidi. The haul more than repaid the entire costs of the Avar war.
‘How did this get into the hands of a Roman gangster?’ I enquired, turning the buckle over in my fingers. The workmanship was competent rather than delicate. I remembered hearing that Carolus had sent a good portion of the Avar booty to Rome as a thank-offering to the Church.
‘That’s a question I’ve asked Theodore to put to Gavino,’ my friend said. ‘And without delay. The moment that Gavino hears that Theodore is showing an interest in where he acquired that buckle, he’ll make himself very scarce.’
His statement made me wonder about Theodore’s reputation amongst Rome’s underclass.
‘If this was part of Gavino’s pay for the attack on Leo, I should be present during the questioning,’ I said, handing back the buckle.
Paul treated me to a sly look as he slipped the buckle into a pocket. ‘I thought you would say that. Unfortunately, Theodore is not happy about taking you along to the interview. Gavino lives in a very rough district, very rough indeed.’
I took mild offence. ‘I trained as a cavalryman in Carolus’s army. Just give me the loan of a good sword and I can look after myself.’
‘No sword, Sigwulf. Anyone walking into the Campus Martius with a sword on his hip would be looking for trouble. In the slums they use daggers.’
There was a twinkle in Paul’s eyes as he added, ‘I’ve persuaded Theodore to take you into the Campus Martius if you wear this.’ He clapped his hands, and a house servant appeared carrying a soldier’s mail shirt.
‘Where on earth did you get it?’ I asked as the garment was held out for my inspection. The shirt was an antique, its links rusty, the leather backing spotted with green mould. The shape and design were centuries old.
Paul chortled. ‘It’s a fake but good enough to turn a knife point.’
Mystified, I stared at him.
‘A confidence trickster tried to pass it off on me. He said he had found it in a Christian grave, and that it was the very same mail shirt worn by St Hippolytus, the Roman soldier torn apart by horses for his faith.’
I took the shirt and inspected it more closely. Under the rust and mould it seemed reasonably sound.
‘The attempt to age it was not very successful,’ said Paul. ‘The rust is superficial and rubs off easily. Also, I can assure you that the pattern of the rings is not correct for the period.’
I glanced across at Theodore. ‘Will it satisfy you if I wear this?’ I asked.
He gave me a reluctant nod. ‘Put it on under your shirt,’ he said and glanced up at a cloudless sky. ‘The best time to find Gavino at home is in the middle of the day. He, like everyone else, tries to get out of the heat. We need to get going.’
*
As the two of us walked into the heart of the city, I was reminded how heavily a mail shirt weighs down on one’s shoulders. It is not so noticeable when mounted on horseback, but on foot it is a real burden. Theodore advised me to take as much as possible of the weight on my hips by cinching my belt more tightly. Nevertheless, by the time the two of us reached the Campus Martius, I could feel raw rubbed patches on my shoulders. As my companion bluntly informed me, it was important not to draw attention to ourselves. A broad straw hat covered Theodore’s distinctive hair style, and neither of us were carrying weapons. The plan was to stroll casually to the area where Gavino lived in a room on the first floor by himself, question him about the gold buckle, and then discreetly get clear before any of his fellow gang members knew we were there. Quite how Theodore proposed to conduct the interrogation was left unsaid, and I wondered if Theodore’s obviously daunting reputation would be enough to get Gavino to provide the information I needed. I doubted it.
We entered the slums – a web of small, crooked streets, often no wider than the space for two men to walk abreast. The buildings were shabby and mean, three or four storeys high, their flaking walls defaced with graffiti. The footings of the walls were stained with patches of green and black mildew and Theodore pointed out the watermark left by the floods when the Tiber burst its banks each winter. There was rubbish everywhere. Thin cats picked their way across open drains, and packs of mangy dogs nosed bloated and unspeakable things in the gutters. The air stank of rot, decay and much worse. Crudely lettered signs indicated the shops and taverns, though most of them were shuttered against the midday heat that had driven the people indoors. We saw the usual shoals of urchins and a few slatternly looking women, some hauling buckets of water. I recalled Paul telling me that many of the aqueducts that once brought water into the city had fallen into disrepair. People had to draw water from local wells and carry it home.
We kept our pace slow and relaxed. Under his hat brim, my companion’s glance was flicking from side to side, checking the side alleys. Once or twice he drew me into a doorway and we paused, waiting to see if we were being followed. Soon I had lost all sense of direction and we were deep within the tangle of streets when, abruptly, Theodore darted into passageway so narrow that I was obliged to walk behind him. On either side rose the scabby walls of centuries-old warehouses converted into dwellings. The all-pervading stink of urine caught in the back of my throat. From an open window high above us a quarrel was in progress between a man and a woman, their angry yells bouncing off the walls.
A dozen paces down the passage, Theodore put his meaty shoulder to a door and quietly forced the lock. He went up the sagging treads of a worn stairway to the first floor, then turned into short corridor lined with half a dozen doors.
Treading lightly, Theodore stopped in front of the third door and knocked. I waited half a step behind him, hearing the bawling of a baby somewhere further off. There was a smell of boiled cabbage. There was no reply to Theodore’s knock and, for a moment, I thought we had wasted our time. I eased the mail shirt on my shoulders.
Theodore knocked again, more insistently, and this time there came a response. The words must have been in the local Roman dialect, but it was clear that the occupant of the room was telling us to go away. In reply, Theodore mumbled something indistinct, using an apologetic tone, and rapped on the door a third time. There was a burst of obvious profanity, then the tread of approaching
feet.
The door opened a few inches and I caught a glimpse of a sleepy, unshaven face with black stubble and a rash of pockmarks on the cheeks and jaw. The man’s gaze focused on Theodore. The eyes widened in alarm, and the man jerked back, pushing the door shut. Theodore was much too quick for him. He had a foot in the gap and, a moment later, his weight hit the door and he burst in.
Gavino, for it had to be the man we were seeking, was as quick as a stoat. Dressed only in a long shirt, his skinny bare legs propelled him across the room as he bolted towards the open window. He flung one leg over the sill and was about to drop clear when Theodore grabbed him by the shirt tail and dragged him back. I was still standing in the open doorway.
‘Shut the door behind you,’ Theodore ordered me in a quiet voice.
I did as I was told and turned back to see that Theodore had twisted Gavino’s arm behind his back and clamped a hand over his mouth. Gavino was of my own height, scrawny and rawboned, with sunken, watchful eyes.
His room was a mess. A rumpled sheet on a narrow bed against the wall showed where he had been asleep. Some clothes hung from nails driven into the plaster. Other garments stayed where they had been thrown on the scratched and stained floor-boards. The stale remains of a part-eaten meal lay on the single table; next to it were a couple of stools. In one corner a half-full bucket served as a lavatory. There was also a pail of what passed for fresh water, though it had a murky scum.
The gangster’s eyes rolled upward in fright as his attacker dragged him backwards towards the bed and thrust him face down into the soiled mattress.
Kneeling on Gavino’s back, Theodore lashed his victim’s arms behind him with a thin leather thong he produced from his pocket. He stood up, expertly turned Gavino over, and propped him up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall.
