by Tim Severin
Paul ignored my frivolity. ‘You’re forgetting the pectoral cross snatched from the man whose home was ransacked and where Gavino stole the Avar gold buckle. The cross was returned to the treasury a full day after the attack on Leo. The official in charge, the arcarius, had been very distraught about its disappearance but kept quiet, fearing a scandal.’
‘Who brought it back?’
‘The same priest to whom it had been loaned for the procession: the Pope’s chamberlain.’
At once an image sprang to my mind: the bruised and swollen face of the meek-looking churchman seated beside me at table in the monastery on my way to Rome.
‘You mean Albinus?’ I was shocked. ‘He never mentioned to me that his house had been ransacked. And what was an Avar gold buckle doing in his house?’
Paul smiled frostily. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me either. I’ve been wondering if Gavino made up his story, just to mislead you.’
He looked past me, over my shoulder. ‘You can be sure that Gavino has fled Rome by now or gone into hiding so we aren’t able to interrogate him again to check his story. Instead, I propose we take a rather unorthodox approach.’
I turned. Coming towards us was the familiar stocky figure of Theodore. I was relieved to see that he was completely unharmed.
‘How did you get away?’ I asked him as soon as he reached us.
‘Fought, then ran,’ he answered flatly.
‘Theodore, I need a few more hours of your time,’ Paul told him. ‘I’ve decided to make an unannounced visit to the house of Pope Leo’s chamberlain. It was Chamberlain Albinus who had his pectoral cross snatched during the attack on Pope Leo, and the chamberlain’s residence is where Gavino then got his hands on the Avar gold buckle. But of course Gavino may be lying.’ He caught my eye. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Sigwulf. Albinus is still away in Frankia. There’ll be only a few house servants in residence. The two of you come with me.’
Without giving me time to ask exactly what he had in mind, my friend sauntered off down the path to the front entrance of the grounds of his villa. Turning left, he led us into the run-down surroundings of the disabitato.
‘Chamberlain Albinus occupies another of the properties gifted to the Lateran,’ Paul explained to me as we ambled along. ‘A fine, big house – the original owner must have been very wealthy – and it is well sited, with a splendid view over the city.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I commented.
‘I looked at it myself before I chose my present accommodation,’ he said without a trace of embarrassment.
Our route was taking us uphill, the land rising gently. On each side of the track the stones and bricks had collapsed from boundary walls, or been stolen. Some gaps were filled with wooden fencing or woven hurdles so the abandoned gardens could be used as rough grazing for donkeys and cows. In other places nothing had been done, and the plots of land were overgrown with briars and scrub, home to small songbirds flitting amongst the thickets. Weeds sprouted between the original paving slabs of the road surface and silt choked the drains. Where houses had lost their entire roofs, they were abandoned shells. If enough tiles had survived or the exposed rafters could support reed thatch, squatters had moved in. There were scorch marks on the walls where they lit their cooking fires, chickens and pigs rooted about, and their children interrupted their games to run out and watch us pass. At a crossroads a small roadside temple had been converted to a cow byre. The farmer was mucking out with a pitchfork.
After about half a mile, Paul turned down a side lane so little used that a hare lolloped away ahead of us before making a leisurely sideways leap and disappearing into the long grass of the verge. To our right an ancient boundary wall was in comparatively good repair until, after a couple of hundred paces, we stopped where the topmost three feet had broken away. Here we found ourselves looking into the rear of what had once been a grand two-storey mansion. It had servants’ quarters, cookhouses, pantries and storage sheds. Immediately in front of us were the remains of a formal garden with a large stone basin and fountain at its centre. The fountain was dry and the garden was a jungle of weeds except for the far corner where a thriving vegetable patch was planted with neat rows of what looked like radicchio and chicory.
‘The home of Chamberlain Albinus,’ Paul announced, speaking softly, though we had not seen anyone since turning down the lane and the place looked deserted.
‘I need to get into the rooms at the front of the house,’ he said to Theodore. ‘Just long enough to look around.’
‘Wait here,’ Theodore told us. He scrambled over the broken wall and we saw him carefully work his way across the overgrown garden until he was lost from view amongst the columns at the back of the main building.
‘I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into,’ I whispered to Paul. ‘If this venture ends in another chase, people are certain to remember seeing a priest in full flight.’
‘I won’t be running away on my own,’ my friend replied with a mischievous sideways glance. ‘I’m sure Archbishop Arno will expect your eyewitness description of anything that turns up.’
He found himself a sharp twig and began to scratch faint lines on the flat surface of a stone. ‘Doubtless Albinus has installed himself in the main reception room to the front,’ he explained, drawing a large rectangle. ‘Here we are on the edge of the garden. These smaller buildings at the side and back will be servants’ quarters. Our problem is to get to the front rooms without raising the alarm.’
‘What are we looking for?’ I ventured to ask.
‘Something that convinces us that Gavino was telling the truth and that he did find that Avar buckle in that house.’
In less than five minutes Theodore was back. For such a burly man he was remarkably nimble and moved very quietly. ‘Three, maybe four, servants in the house,’ he reported, dropping quietly to the ground beside us and dusting off his hands. ‘I could hear them talking. It sounds as though they’ve finished work for the day and are sitting out in the sunshine somewhere in the main courtyard.’
‘What’s the best way in?’ Paul asked him.
‘There’s a back door that will get you into the outbuildings, but you’ll then have to cross open space in full view of the servants to reach the main house.’ He reached up and eased his shirt collar that was too tight around his bull neck. ‘I can deal with the servants if that’s what you want.’
‘No violence,’ I insisted. ‘We can distract them.’
They both looked at me questioningly.
‘We passed some goats further back along the lane. They’re in an orchard, and no sign of their owner. We could borrow them to create a diversion. Goats love vegetables.’
Paul treated me to a gleeful smile. ‘Sigwulf, you ought to join Gavino’s gang. You are a natural housebreaker.’
The three of us retraced our steps to where we could round up half a dozen goats. We drove them to where we could hoist them one by one over the broken wall and let them free. Almost immediately the lead goat, an elderly brown-and-white nanny, noticed the vegetable garden. She bounded off, tail high and her long ears flopping, followed by her eager companions. They fell upon the feast.
For another five minutes we waited and watched as the goats gorged themselves. They trampled the neat rows of chicory and radicchio, tore up the vegetables, and stood in a gluttonous trance, leaves and roots hanging from their jaws.
Eventually, there was a cry of anger from somewhere within the servants’ area of the house, followed by hallooing and shouting.
‘Hurry!’ Theodore hissed and led us down the lane a little distance. There he stopped and turned. Clasping his hands together, he made a stirrup so that he could hoist first Paul and then myself over the wall. We landed in waste ground and scuttled to the door in the rear wall of the service quarters. A swarm of black buzzing flies and a strong smell of human excrement indicated that this was where the servants emptied out the night soil. I tugged the door open and Paul and I passe
d quickly through a pantry where clay storage jars were shelved, then on through an empty kitchen. A quick look into the courtyard confirmed that it was deserted, and we crossed the open space to the main building, hearing shouts, whistles and hand claps as Albinus’s staff tried to save their vegetables.
Centuries ago someone had spent a great deal of money on beautifying the main building. Every floor was covered with fine mosaics. There were geometric designs and pictures of animals and plants. Hundreds of the little marble cubes were missing, but it was still possible to recognize scenes from the hunt, the gymnasium and the circus arena. More mosaics were set as panels in the walls. We hurried on through an atrium, Paul leading the way briskly, his long gown swinging, until we came to a pair of double doors. They were unlocked and I followed him into a large reception room. Intricate painted mouldings decorated the high wooden ceiling. Evening light flooded in through tall glazed windows. Some of the panes were of coloured glass and the marble floor was splashed with patches of yellow, blue and salmon-pink. Faded frescoes covered the walls with yet more themes from the classics.
Amid this elegance the domestic furniture was serviceable and plain: a couple of sturdy tables, several chairs and stools, two sets of tall iron candle stands, and some worn cushions. There were no rugs or wall hangings. The room had a faintly musty smell, and it was clear that it was unused during Albinus’s absence.
‘Not much evidence of wealth here,’ I muttered to Paul.
He was moving around the room looking at the quality of the furnishings. ‘Albinus won’t have left anything valuable on display while he was away,’ he answered.
He stopped beside a large chest placed against the wall. ‘Did Gavino mention anything about a chest for valuables?’
‘No.’
He lifted the lid. The chest was empty. ‘I wonder what was kept in here?’
He crouched down and peered at the lock. ‘If Gavino really did steal that gold buckle from this house, my guess is that he took it from wherever Albinus kept his clothes. Probably upstairs.’
‘Should we look up there?’ I asked. I was beginning to wonder if Gavino had lied to me. The room we were searching belonged to a man of simple tastes.
‘I doubt we’d find anything. Gavino’s gang would have carried off everything they could grab,’ Paul replied.
He was still examining the lock. ‘This lock is stout enough to withstand Gavino and friends if they were in a hurry.’
He straightened up. ‘Let’s check the adjacent rooms.’
He went to the door, eased it open and made sure that the coast was clear. Then the two of us made our way quietly down a short corridor to our left.
The first door opened into what had been the original bathhouse. It had a tiled floor with a channel to carry away waste water, stone benches along the walls, and narrow windows set high up to let in light and air. An interconnecting door led into the next room. ‘Very impressive,’ Paul muttered, ‘whoever built this house liked his luxuries, with hot and cold rooms.’
Both rooms were abandoned and empty.
We continued to a third and final room. It was a latrine, spacious and still in use though not with the original plumbing. A large chamber pot stood next to a stone bench with its row of four large holes.
Paul closed the door behind us and sniffed. ‘Good ventilation,’ he commented. He walked over and took a quick look into the chamber pot. ‘And Albinus has his servants well trained. They’ve dumped the contents.’
I recalled the smell of excrement outside the back door and the dry fountain in the garden. There was no longer any running water in the house. Paul must have had the same thought. He was squinting down into the disused watercourse beneath the latrine seats. It would make an ideal hiding place. He found nothing.
‘Maybe we should look upstairs, after all,’ he suggested, turning away.
At that instant my heart flew into my throat. The door behind us was opening. I expected a servant to enter but it was Theodore who stepped quietly into the room.
‘You gave me a fright,’ I told him.
‘Only the old nanny goat still to be caught.’ He grinned. ‘She’s leading them a merry chase. I thought I had better be with you, if you’re discovered.’
Something was naggingly familiar in the room. Then a faint memory stirred. It was of my visit to the church and the verger showing off the holy relics.
‘Might be worth checking up there,’ I said, pointing up to the rusty iron grille that covered the air vent to the latrine. The vent was a yard wide and half as high, placed directly over the row of lavatory seats. It had reminded me of the niche where St Sylvester’s holy vial and reins had been on display.
Theodore stepped up on the bench and tugged at the grille. It came away easily. He felt inside the niche and pulled down a leather mule pannier. There was a faint rattling noise as he handed it to Paul, at the same time treating me to a slight nod of approval.
Paul dipped his hand into the pannier and gave a grunt of pleased surprise as he took out a gold goblet, about eight inches high. For a moment I thought it was an altar vessel, a chalice, and I wondered if Albinus had some honest reason to keep it safely hidden in his home.
Paul twirled the item by its stem. ‘Not bad!’ he said and there was admiration in his voice. ‘Here, Sigwulf, take a look.’
He passed the goblet to me. It weighed at least a pound, and the goldsmith had been a master craftsman. He had fluted the lower half of the bowl with delicate grooves and embellished the remaining space up to the rim with an intricate floral pattern carved into the soft metal.
Paul next pulled from the pannier an eye-catching flagon in the plump shape of a tear drop. From its circular base to the elegant neck it stood a foot high and must have had a capacity of at least two bottles of wine. It reminded me of the graceful vases I had seen in the court of the Caliph in Baghdad. Those vases had been made of fine porcelain while this vessel, by contrast, was cast from massive gold. As Paul held the flagon out to me to admire, I saw the image carved into the surface: a mounted warrior. The detailing was exquisite. He wore the same style of chain mail that had saved me from the dagger thrust in a Roman slum, though his armour was an ingenious three-quarter-length body suit. It reached to his elbows and down to his knees and a coif protected his neck and head. Heavy gauntlets and shin guards completed his full protection and on his head was a conical helmet with a double plume. Over his right shoulder he carried a lance with a swallow-tail pennant and he sat astride a magnificent, high-stepping horse with a plaited mane and tail, and decorated harness. But what drew my eye was what he held in his left hand: the topknot of an unfortunate wretch who was being forced to run alongside his mount. It was his captive, also clad in chain mail, bearded and with a long drooping moustache. The helpless prisoner was being pulled along by his hair, on display for all to see. The goldsmith had sculpted the piece so that the face of the mounted warrior turned outward, towards the viewer. It was a flattish, severe countenance; there was a heavy, well-trimmed moustache above a wide, straight mouth, a hint of a beard, and large slightly slanted eyes staring straight out. The expression was of triumph, self-confidence and haughtiness – the face of a conqueror, a prince.
Dangling from the crupper of his saddle, next to the stumbling captive, was another trophy: a severed human head.
‘A little gruesome for my taste,’ observed Paul, setting the flagon aside on the stone latrine bench. He then proceeded to empty the pannier of all its contents, placing the items one by one in a line: more bowls, cups and several plates. Some had been wrapped in cloth. All were solid gold or a combination of gold and silver.
Paul gave a wry smile. ‘More suited to a pagan banqueting table than the altar. Looks like these too came from the Avar Hoard that Carolus donated to the Church.’
‘What do we do now?’ I asked.
Paul thought for a moment. ‘We return these items to where we found them, keeping just a couple of samples for you to show to Archbisho
p Arno. Otherwise the good archbishop might not believe your report.’
He wrapped the goblet and the flagon in cloth and put the other items back in the leather pannier. Theodore returned the pannier to where he had found it, and replaced the metal grille.
Paul had cocked his head on one side and was listening. Presumably the goats had gone because there was silence from the vegetable garden. I heard only the thumping of my own heart. Belatedly, I wondered how we would be able to leave the building unobserved now that the servants had, most likely, come back into the house.
Paul seemed unworried. ‘Time to be on our way,’ he murmured and Theodore and I followed him back past the main reception room and into a deserted entrance hall. The tall front doors of the mansion were warped and very old, possibly as old as the house itself.
‘As I had expected – barred, not locked,’ said Paul in a satisfied tone. ‘Albinus probably kept to the original method as being more secure. And so it is . . . unless you’re on the inside.’
Gently he slid back the wooden bar that held the doors closed, and I held my breath, fearing the groan of ancient hinges would betray us. But Albinus’s conscientious staff had kept them greased. One leaf opened quietly, far enough for the three of us to slip outside.
‘Give me a moment,’ said Theodore.
From his pocket he produced a length of cord. Now, to my alarm, he slipped back into the house, reappearing a moment later with the ends of the cord, one in each hand. The cord itself was taut around the door’s edge.
‘Pull the door almost closed and hold it so that the cord’s not pinched,’ he said to us. We did as he asked, then Theodore pulled smoothly on the cord. He must have looped it around the lock bar for I heard it slide back into position on the far side.
‘A useful lesson in housebreaking for you, Sigwulf,’ Paul whispered to me.
Theodore permitted himself a slight smile. ‘Only works when the doors don’t fit well,’ he admitted, releasing one end of the cord and pulling it free.
