The Pope's Assassin

by Tim Severin

  ‘The intention was to terrify him, not kill him.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to terrify the Pope?’ the archbishop demanded, his tone even more impatient.

  ‘As a warning. My friend in Rome drew my attention to the coincidence that all three priests suspected of knowing about the attack are or were closely associated with the papal treasury.’

  The archbishop shook his head angrily. ‘Sigwulf, I take back what I said about your intelligence. You are a fool. You dream up conspiracies where there are none.’

  ‘My lord, I believe that Pope Leo’s misconduct exposed him to extortion and threats.’

  Arno shot me an angry glance from under his eyebrows. ‘Don’t try my patience, Sigwulf. Your services are no longer required.’

  Dismissed, I made a polite bow and turned for the door. I was glad that my role as a government spy was over. Yet as I headed out into the night I had a nagging sense that something was not quite right. The archbishop had dispensed with me far too abruptly and without explanation. It left me wondering whether I had been getting close to something that I was not supposed to know.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS CLOSE to midnight. The air was sultry and there was no wind. A thin veil of high cloud diffused the moonlight and gave the huddled buildings of Paderborn an insubstantial, almost ghostly look. From my right came drunken singing and the notes of some sort of wind instrument accompanied by an enthusiastic drummer. The last of the banquet guests were still at their revels. I set off along the web of lanes that would lead me to the barracks where I shared my lodgings with my fellow milites, and as the sounds of carousing grew fainter behind me, I became aware of the normal night-time noises of Paderborn: the fretful crying of a baby, the occasional cough or a sleeper’s snore from windows open to the warm air, and – closer to hand – faint scufflings and scratchings from the eaves of the houses that loomed on either side. The only flicker of movement was a sudden black shape that darted out of a side alley, then shot across the lane; a nervous cat. I was looking forward to getting to my bed. The long, fast ride from Rome had been exhausting and I had gone directly to report to Archbishop Arno. There had been only enough time to unpack my saddlebags and change into fresh clothes before attending the banquet. I turned the final corner and ahead of me, thirty paces away, was the long, low bulk of the milites barracks, a stable-like building, every window dark.

  I never heard my attackers. As I passed the mouth of the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the barracks, someone stepped out behind me, threw a thick cloak over my head and, before I could react, clamped an arm hard around my throat. There was a painful backwards wrench on my neck. My nostrils were filled with the stale smell of goat-hair fabric and I choked. A moment later, my arms were pinioned to my sides and I was lifted off my feet. I was far too surprised and shocked to put up a fight.

  My attackers carried me only a few yards, and I guessed that I was being taken down the little alleyway. Here they stopped and, before I could gather my wits, the arm around my neck was removed, someone put his hand against the cloth that covered my face, and the back of my head was slammed hard against what felt like the wall of a timber house. The impact made my knees buckle. I sagged, only to be held up straight and this time punched hard in the belly. With a gasp I collapsed forward, winded.

  Whoever was hitting me was business-like and I was reminded of the beating that Theodore had administered to Gavino in his squalid room. This assault was just as professional and equally without remorse. Twice more I was hit, first in the face, then in the gut. Flashes of light exploded in my brain. With my head still wrapped in the cloak, I gasped with pain, then tried to suck in air, not knowing where the next blow would fall. Overcome with dizziness, I let myself go limp. Whoever had been holding me up allowed me to crumple to the ground. I lay wheezing and feeling sick.

  Someone must have knelt down on the dirt beside me, and very close to my right ear a voice hissed, ‘How did the flagon get here?’

  I must have mumbled something unintelligible or waited too long before I gave an answer, because the next moment a fist crashed down, striking me squarely in the face. I felt a gush of blood from my nose. I was finding it difficult to breathe and wondered if I would be smothered.

  ‘How did that flagon get here?’ the voice repeated carefully and slowly. The words were Frankish but with a strong accent that I couldn’t quite identify.

  Once again I remembered Gavino and how he had reacted to his beating. ‘What flagon?’ I mumbled through swollen lips.

  My reward was another punch in the face. Then another.

  ‘Maybe we’ve picked the wrong man,’ said a second voice from above. My interrogator’s accomplice was standing over me.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the man who was hitting me. He sounded remarkably calm, and I had the sense that he was enjoying his work. ‘The light’s not good enough to find out.’

  He struck me again. His colleague must have stepped in behind me, for an instant later I felt a powerful kick in my lower back.

  ‘Tell us about the flagon,’ snarled the voice beside my ear. The foreign accent had a cadence that I had definitely heard before. I tried to place it as a way of distracting myself from the agony of the battering.

  There was a long pause while they waited for me to speak, and when I remained silent, the standing man must have jumped up in the air and struck down on me with both his feet. I felt the double impact and feared he had broken several of my ribs but I was too badly hurt and exhausted even to roll away.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ said the standing man. There was a finality in his voice.

  There was a buzzing in my ears, and I waited for the thrust of a blade.

  Instead there was a muttered curse and someone grabbed my ankles and began pulling me across the ground. I was being dragged feet-first and luckily the cloak softened the blow as my head banged against a stone. The impact must have cleared my hearing because I caught the sound of singing, raucous and out of tune. Someone was bellowing out the lines of a lewd drinking song and he was not alone. His companion joined in the chorus. I recognized the voices of two of my fellow milites, and the lead singer as a boor who regularly made a nuisance of himself coming back to the barracks in the small hours of the morning, clumsy and still intoxicated. He and his companion must be returning late from the banquet.

  My kidnappers were standing very still, waiting in silence for the men to pass by. I sucked in a deep breath, gathering my strength to shout a cry for help when a hand was pushed firmly over my mouth and held there.

  I made no more than a slight gurgle and then I heard the singer stop his song and announce loudly and drunkenly, ‘I need to take a piss.’

  There was a loud belch not far away and I guessed he had turned into the alley, proposing to relieve himself against the barracks wall.

  The hand over my mouth was lifted quickly, and I heard a soft thud of feet as my attackers ran off.

  I was too far gone, bruised and hurt, to do more than reach up and pull the cloak off my head. I heard the splashing sound of my saviour urinating, and then he turned away and moved off, blearily unaware of where I lay, trying to gather enough strength to attract his attention. Then a great black wave of exhaustion and pain swelled up and seemed to fold around me.

  When I came back to my senses, I was chilled and stiff. I forced myself to get up on all fours and then onto my feet. Every muscle ached and, with one hand clutching my bruised stomach and the other steadying myself against the barracks wall, I fumbled my way to the barracks’ door and pushed my way in. The interior was thick with the fug of sleeping men, none of them yet awake. My cubicle was only a few steps further and I managed to stay on my feet just long enough to reach my bed and flop into it. Lying back, I closed my eyes and drifted into a pain-wracked, troubled sleep.

  *

  The other milites must have thought I was sleeping off a hang-over for no one disturbed me, and it was mid-afternoon when I awoke.
My throat and neck were sore, I had a raging thirst, and my nose was so swollen that I had to breathe through my mouth. I reached up gingerly to feel if my nose was broken and gritted my teeth against the stab of pain from my bruised shoulder. The slightest movement was agony. Very carefully, I levered myself up on one elbow, then swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet on the floor. I still had on the shoes I had worn to the banquet, and the same clothes, though they were soiled with mud and dirt. There was a patch of dried blood on my shirt front where my nose had bled. I needed to push down with both hands on the edge of the bed to get myself standing upright. The building was deserted and I presumed that my fellow milites had gone off earlier, following the royal hunt. Very gingerly I tottered out into the street and made my way to a nearby oratory where the priests ran a small infirmary. The lay brother who treated me must have presumed that I was the victim of a drunken brawl for he pursed his lips in disapproval as he washed my cuts and smeared them with goose grease. He then advised me to sit outside on the ground, with my face to the sun until I felt better.

  For a couple of hours I followed his advice, ignored by passersby except those who tripped over my feet and cursed me. When the shadows began to length, I judged that Archbishop Arno would be returning from the day’s hunt. Moving like an old man, I hobbled my way to his office, barely able to see with my left eye, so badly was it swollen.

  The archbishop’s door-keeper took one look at my bruised face and, with the briefest knock at the door, ushered me immediately into his master’s presence. I had expected the archbishop still to be dressed in his hunting clothes, but he was seated behind his desk and wearing an everyday working gown, as if he had spent the entire day at paperwork.

  ‘So they got to you as well,’ was his opening comment as he looked up and saw my injuries. He seemed neither surprised nor sympathetic.

  ‘I was set upon and beaten up after I left here last night,’ I muttered through lips that were split and swollen. ‘My attackers wanted to know about the warrior flagon.’

  ‘So do I,’ said the archbishop crisply. His face registered annoyance and a certain degree of impatience. ‘Last night the flagon was stolen.’

  My legs felt wobbly. Without being invited to do so, I sat down on stool. ‘Who took it?’ I said.

  ‘That is what I was hoping you might be able to tell me,’ growled the archbishop. He stood up and came round the desk to stand in front of me, his chin thrust out and glaring down. ‘After the banquet, the under-steward, according to his instructions, was to place the flagon in the iron strongbox with the other gold and silver service used at the feast. This morning he was to bring the flagon back to me, in person.’

  I waited for Arno to go on.

  He turned on his heel and stalked across the room, his back stiff with irritation. His clerk, seated in his usual corner, kept his eyes down and shifted nervously.

  Arno swung round and scowled at me. ‘The under-steward never showed up and the flagon is missing.’

  ‘The men who attacked me were seeking information, not the flagon itself,’ I said.

  Arno cut across my words. ‘Also, the royal chancery had an intruder. Last night the treasury records were tampered with.’

  I struggled to think of any connection between the missing flagon and the treasury records that were carted about in wooden chests wherever the court was located. The clerks and bookkeepers consulted them for written records of taxes, grants and the rest of the paperwork required for the administration of the vast kingdom.

  ‘The Avar inventory has vanished,’ the archbishop said, his eyes cold and his expression unreadable.

  Abruptly, I saw the link. The treasury staff wrote up lists of plunder that Carolus’s armies brought back from campaigns. Besides valuing the booty, they recorded where and when the various items had been obtained, and by whom. This information was consulted if Carolus should decide to reward his troops with special payments.

  ‘So now there’s no record of the gold flagon,’ I ventured.

  ‘I’m glad the drubbing you received hasn’t addled your brain,’ Arno snapped. ‘The only people here in Paderborn who know of its existence are the two of us.’

  ‘What about the under-steward?’

  ‘His body was found hidden in the pantry. He had been stabbed through the heart.’ The flat tone in which the archbishop delivered this news made me wonder if his reaction would have been equally dismissive if he had heard that I had been killed. ‘It is imperative to recover the flagon,’ he continued, ‘and if that fails, I must have proof that the flagon existed and was part of the Avar treasure. Without that evidence there is little chance I can deal with the corruption that is a stain on Mother Church. The king himself wants the matter sorted out.’

  I tried to get my thoughts in order and to sound helpful. ‘If the person or persons who stole the flagon also removed the Avar inventory, then you’re looking for someone who is literate enough to sort through the mass of treasury records and pick out the Avar list.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the archbishop sarcastically. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to suspect that such a person or persons is most likely to be found amongst Pope Leo’s entourage, particularly after the behaviour last night of that treacherous chamberlain of his.’

  ‘Will you interview Albinus?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ answered the archbishop sharply. ‘That would be showing my hand too early. Before then, I need to get the flagon back. Leo and his entourage leave Paderborn tomorrow, returning to Rome. As you are already aware, I’m travelling with them. On the road I’ll have a couple of my men quietly search their baggage.’

  I didn’t dwell on the thought of an archbishop arranging for the Pope’s baggage to be rifled through. ‘Surely the thieves will have disposed of the flagon,’ I said.

  ‘Not necessarily. Someone sufficiently cultured to pick out the Avar inventory from the rest of the royal archives might be reluctant to destroy such a unique and valuable piece of work or toss it into the river. Equally, a mere burglar – whoever employed him – might decide to sell it on. The piece would fetch a great deal of money.’ Arno was regarding me in a calculating way that was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘If I fail to get my hands on that flagon as primary evidence, Sigwulf, I fall back on my less favoured option: replacing the missing inventory of the Avar loot with another document that chronicles the acquisition of that flagon. It will allow me to quote the records if and when I choose to bring charges against the chamberlain and his associates.’

  I tensed, knowing that what was coming would involve my participation.

  ‘I’ve already made arrangements for someone to visit the place where the treasure was looted – the ruins of the Avar Ring,’ the archbishop said. He was picking his words carefully. ‘His instructions are to interview everyone he can track down who might remember seeing the flagon, or what happened to it. He himself took part in the final assault, and he speaks the language passably well.’

  His voice became cold and matter-of-fact.

  ‘Sigwulf, you will accompany this man. You will take notes of what he uncovers. You will prepare for me, as it were, a replacement page for the Avar inventory. Make it as authentic as humanly possible.’

  The archbishop had one more unpleasant surprise for me. ‘I know it is a very slim possibility, but the master craftsman who made that remarkable gold flagon may still be at work. I also want you to track him down. You’ve a copy of his mark. Try showing it around and someone might recognize it and lead you to him.’

  ‘He may have been killed during the Avar war, or fled,’ I objected feebly.

  The archbishop waved aside my objection. ‘That does not mean you cannot try to find him.’

  My mind was so filled with the enormity of the request that I almost missed the archbishop’s next words.

  ‘Should you locate the goldsmith, Sigwulf, you are to commission a replica of that flagon and you will bring it back to me for
use as evidence in my case against Albinus.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘A replica, my lord? But that means the evidence will be false.’

  Archbishop Arno looked at me, his eyes flat and hard. ‘As long as it produces the right results. You saw the effect the flagon had on the Pope’s chamberlain.’

  My face must have betrayed my astonishment.

  The archbishop gave a sudden bark of laughter. ‘If it eases your conscience, Sigwulf, let me tell you that Rome itself is not above deploying fakes if it is to Leo’s advantage. You’ve heard of Constantine’s Donation?’

  ‘Only vaguely, my lord. If I am correct, the Donation is a decree signed by the Roman Emperor Constantine. It gives the Pope authority to rule the western part of the ancient Roman empire.’

  ‘And a lot more besides,’ the archbishop grunted. ‘Leo’s people have been waving it in Carolus’s face these past few weeks. We know it to be a counterfeit, a forgery prepared by a clever scribe in the papal archives.’

  I made no comment, remembering Paul’s account of the sly and self-serving ambitions of the papal office-holders. Arno went to his desk and picked up a handwritten note that he held out to me. ‘Take this to the Treasury,’ he said. ‘It’s an authority to draw a thousand gold solidi from what remains of the Avar treasure.’ He managed a sardonic smile. ‘Very appropriate. If you succeed in tracking down the goldsmith, he can melt down the coins to make his duplicate of the flagon.’

  I winced as I got up from the stool. Every movement seemed to awake a new source of pain. ‘When do I meet this man whom I’m to accompany to Avaria?’

  The archbishop treated it as a stupid question. ‘On your way out. Both of you will be leaving for Avaria as soon as my secretary has made a fair copy of a letter I’ve drafted to Margrave Gerold, asking for his cooperation. It’s for his eyes only so make sure that it gets to him, no one else.’

  For a second time in less than twenty-four hours I had the unsettling impression that I was a pawn in some greater plan that the archbishop did not wish to divulge. Margrave Gerold was a close confidant of the king, a great magnate and married to Carolus’s sister. Carolus had given him the task of pacifying and ruling the new frontier province that now included the conquered Avar lands. If Margrave Gerold was being drawn into Archbishop’s Arno’s scheme, whatever it was, then I was caught up in a matter of major importance to the state.