by Tim Severin
‘And what was this Byzantine agent to do with this information?’ His gaze from under bushy eyebrows was intimidating. Without moving a muscle, he waited for my answer.
‘Beorthric was not told. The agent would decide for himself what action to take.’
A faint flicker of unease mingled with impatience in the clever grey eyes. ‘You had better tell me exactly what happened on your mission to Avaria,’ he conceded.
After I had described all that had taken place, Arno sat silent for several minutes. Finally, he said, ‘Campulus and Paschal insist that they did not instigate the attack on Leo. And I must admit that neither man seems capable of organizing the attack on their own. So one has to presume they had associates, and these might make another attempt.’
He rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘It is fortunate that Pope Leo is well protected.’
I thought about Beorthric’s recent comment on the poor quality of the guards at the gate to the palace, but said nothing.
The archbishop was speaking again. ‘Nevertheless, it would be prudent to learn the identity of this mysterious Byzantine agent here in Rome.’ He gave a sour smile. ‘I don’t suppose Beorthric was given any hint about who it might be?’
I shook my head. ‘He was only told to gather the information and wait to be contacted.’
Arno’s voice hardened. ‘In that case, Sigwulf, you stay at Beorthric’s side and report back to me the moment he hears from the agent.’
This might have been the moment to point out that I had fulfilled my original mission. But the archbishop was acting as though he still had Carolus’s full authority, and he seemed to take it for granted that he could command my cooperation.
‘Of course, Your Excellency.’
‘While you’re at it, I also want you to find out what you can about a man called Maurus of Nepi.’
‘I’m a stranger to Rome . . .’ I began to protest.
He cut me short. ‘Speak to that friend of yours, the man who was so useful on your last visit.’
‘Paul, formerly the papal Nomenculator. Is there anything I should tell him about this Maurus from Nepi?’
‘Indeed there is,’ Arno rasped. ‘Campulus and Paschal have both claimed that Maurus was involved with setting up the attack on the Pope. Maurus has vanished. Learn where he is, and then I’ll have him picked up for questioning.’
‘I’ll ask Paul what he knows,’ I assured the archbishop.
‘Yes, do that. We can’t have Leo done to death by some unknown killer. Don’t come back here until you have something useful to tell me, something on which I can take action.’
As I made for the door, the thought struck me that the archbishop had been remarkably quick to assume that Pope Leo’s life was still in danger and he had still not revealed why he needed to have the warrior flagon in his possession. Somehow the two were linked, and I had a suspicion that being despatched to search for a Byzantine agent and this man Maurus was a misdirection.
*
It was less than an hour’s walk to Paul’s villa on the slopes of the Viminal Hill, and on the way I told Beorthric what Arno expected of us. When we reached Paul’s home he was standing on the porch of his house and deep in conversation with a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a dusty smock, whom I took to be a gardener. Beorthric and I hung back until the man had left, then came forward and were greeted with genuine warmth.
‘Sigwulf, you’ve a knack of choosing a good time of year to visit Rome. When did you arrive?’
‘Just this morning. I’d like to introduce Beorthric. He and I have recently come from Avaria, where we were sent by Archbishop Arno.’
Paul turned towards the big Saxon, and the side of his face twitched in a conspiratorial wink. For a brief moment Beorthric looked disconcerted. Then he realized that Paul suffered from an uncontrollable facial tic.
‘Your archbishop is a hard taskmaster,’ Paul told the Saxon mercenary. ‘For the past winter he’s been turning Rome upside down, trying to unravel the mystery of who tried to do away with Pope Leo.’
‘And he’s nearly reached a conclusion,’ I said. ‘Though something else has come up that needs urgent attention, and you may be able to help.’
Paul rubbed his hands with anticipation. Not for the first time I thought to myself that he was a true Roman: he loved intrigue. ‘Tell me more while we sit where we can enjoy the afternoon sunshine,’ he said.
He led us off the porch and into his garden where two stone benches were placed to give a view of his display of salvaged statuary.
‘Now, how I may assist?’ he asked.
‘Campulus and Paschal have admitted to Arno that they were party to the assault on Pope Leo.’
Paul waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know that already. It’s the gossip of all Rome. Has the archbishop been able to link that rascal Albinus to the conspiracy?’
‘If he has, he didn’t tell me.’
Paul made a wry face. ‘What about that magnificent flagon we recovered from Albinus’s house. Did you show it to him?’
‘When I brought it to him in Paderborn, the flagon was promptly stolen.’
I gave an account of the theft and then proceeded to describe what had happened in Avaria afterwards. ‘So Arno now has the twin of the flagon, not the original,’ I concluded.
‘Let’s hope he takes better care this time,’ said Paul. He gave a wicked grin. ‘As you and I know, the Lateran has its share of thieves.’
‘It’s not theft that concerns the archbishop now. It’s murder.’
Paul cocked his head on one side, his curiosity very apparent. ‘And who’s to be the victim?’
I explained how Nikephorus had hired Beorthric to discover the importance of the flagon, then report to an unknown Greek agent in Rome. ‘For whatever reason, Arno thinks that Leo’s life is once again threatened.’
Paul glanced across at the big Saxon, sitting quietly on the marble bench and listening. ‘So now you’re the bait that will bring this mysterious Greek agent out into the open before blood is spilt.’
Beorthric gave a barely perceptible nod.
Paul turned to me. ‘And what about you, Sigwulf? The last time you were in Rome, you were lucky not to have been killed when you ventured into the slums with Theodore. Have you considered the risks?’
‘I find it hard to believe that a scheme hatched by Nikephorus in Avaria can be played out here in Rome.’
Paul clicked his tongue in reproof. ‘Nikephorus will have sent despatches to Constantinople, reporting on the change of Avar leadership and the new policy towards Carolus, as well as outlining his own scheme, whatever it is. While you’ve been on the road, his masters in Constantinople have had ample time to pass on instructions to their supporters in Rome. Heaven knows, there are enough of them.’
‘That’s as may be,’ I said, ‘but right now Arno has given us a more immediate task than finding this Byzantine agent: he wants to trace a man whom Paschal and Campulus claim set up the attack on Leo. He’s gone missing.’
‘Does this man have a name?’
‘Mauro of Nepi.’
Paul’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘You know this Maurus?’ I asked, startled.
‘Not personally. But I am aware of his family background. He’s minor gentry and his people have a small palazzo in the city.’
‘So it should be easy enough for Arno to have him picked up for questioning.’
‘Quite the opposite. Maurus must know that he’s a wanted man and he’ll have fled to his family properties in Nepi. That’s a town about two hours north of Rome.’
‘So he could be arrested and brought before Arno for questioning.’
Paul grimaced. ‘Only if Arno sends a small army to collect him. Nepi and similar provincial towns are independent. They are ruled by local lords who resent outsiders interfering their affairs, least of all those from Rome.’
‘If Maurus stays in Nepi, then at least he can’t get up to any more mischief.’
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sp; Paul gave me a patient look. ‘That shows how little you know of Italy, Sigwulf. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot more trouble comes from the same direction.’
I was about to scoff at Paul’s gloomy prediction when I was stopped by the glum look on his face. ‘Surely you’re not serious.’
Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I remind you about Pope Constantine the Second?’
‘I’ve scarcely heard of him,’ I admitted.
Paul pulled a face. ‘Not surprising. No one likes to mention him, though it wasn’t that long ago. I was still working my way up through the ranks in the Lateran at the time.’
‘What did Constantine the Second do that makes him such an embarrassment?’
‘He got himself elected Pope by violence and subterfuge.’
I laughed aloud. ‘But surely that’s routine. You told me how Pope Leo spread enough money around to get himself elected within twenty-four hours of the death of Pope Paul. Purchasing St Peter’s throne is hardly honourable.’
Paul did not join in my mirth. ‘Constantine broke his solemn word, used armed force, and made a complete mockery of established procedure.’
I had the impression that this last transgression mattered most to the former Nomenculator.
He settled back on the bench and closed his eyes for a moment while he ordered his thoughts.
‘Any candidate for election as Pope must already be a senior priest, at the very least a deacon. That’s the time-honoured custom.’ He opened his eyes and leaned forward. ‘But Constantine was a layman, though he had good political connections in the Lateran. When Pope Paul lay dying, he came into Rome with a band of armed men at his back. He bullied a local bishop into ordaining him as a monk. The very next day the same bishop was forced to elevate him to the rank of sub-deacon, and within hours Constantine was promoted deacon. A week later, when Paul was dead, Constantine used his contacts and influence to have himself appointed Bishop of Rome and presented before the people as their Pope and head of the Church.’
I glanced across at Beorthric. Judging from his sardonic expression, Paul’s tale confirmed his low opinion of the Christian faith.
‘What happened then?’ I asked.
‘He sent a letter to the King of the Franks, Carolus’s grandfather, asking him to approve the appointment. He received no answer. A few months later a group of his opponents got together in the city, raised an armed mob and there was bloody fighting in the streets. Constantine’s supporters lost, he was arrested and imprisoned. Taken into St John’s Basilica at the Lateran, his Pope’s gown was ceremoniously ripped off him, he was thrown on the ground and his papal shoes cut from his feet. Later again, he was put on public show, mocked by the mob, his eyes put out, and left lying in the gutter.’ Paul paused.
‘That sounds familiar,’ I said sourly. ‘The same treatment was intended for Leo not so long ago. That’s what got this whole business started for me.’
Paul sighed. ‘Constantine survived his beating and was returned to prison. Summoned before a tribunal, he refused to acknowledge his sins and was shut up in a monastery. He’s not been heard of since.’
Beorthric spoke up. ‘What has this got to do with Maurus?’
Paul treated us to a level stare. ‘Constantine was one of four brothers. All were active in the plot to seize the papacy. His oldest brother styled himself “Duke of Nepi” and was the ring leader. It was his soldiers who marched into Rome to place Constantine on St Peter’s throne. Nepi remains the family’s seat of power. Little wonder it’s also where Maurus comes from.’
My head was spinning. ‘So you think that there is another plot to overthrow Leo and it is being directed from Nepi?’
‘The town is a hotbed of opposition to the Roman Church, and there are others.’ He gripped me by the arm. I had never seen Paul so serious. ‘In Italy the Pope is much more than a churchman. He’s a great prince who ranks alongside sovereigns and kings. Whatever your Archbishop Arno has in mind, this meeting with the Greek agent is high politics and very dangerous.’
I took a deep breath and looked at Beorthric. ‘Do you still want to meet him?’
‘Of course.’
His certainty took me by surprise. ‘Why?’
‘I told you: I sell my fighting skills to make a living.’
‘But this is different: you’ll be exposing yourself to an unknown danger that strikes without warning.’
‘As does a scout who rides through enemy territory at the head of a company of soldiers. He’s the man who will draw the ambush.’
A vivid picture came to me of Beorthric on our way to Avaria, riding through the forest, his head turning from side to side, always on his guard. ‘And when this Greek agent contacts you, what will you tell him? Neither of us know why Arno went to such lengths to get hold of that flagon.’
Beorthric was already getting to his feet. ‘My mind’s made up.’
As I rose to follow him from the garden, Paul said, ‘If you really do want to go through with this, I suggest you take lodgings at the Schola Anglorum. It’s the first place the Greek agent will look for you when he wishes to make contact.’
Beorthric looked at me enquiringly, and I explained to him that the Schola Anglorum was where English pilgrims usually stayed on their visits to Rome. ‘It’s a church and hostel on the far side of the river, just by St Peter’s Basilica. I’ve stayed there before.’
‘And about as far away from the Lateran as possible,’ Paul added meaningfully.
*
The Schola had grown much larger since my first visit to Rome nearly ten years earlier. Then it had been a small church with an adjoining hostel for pilgrims. Both hostel and church were still there, but now they were part of a walled compound with a refectory, two or three shops, a tavern, and a long building that served as a dormitory. Beorthric and I were able to rent a couple of sleeping cubicles at a very reasonable price because the Schola was subsidized by grants from the English kings. Ironically, King Offa of Mercia, now dead, had been an important benefactor. It was Offa who had sent me into exile at Carolus’s court, hoping to be rid of me. I wondered what he would have thought had he known that twenty-three years later I was benefitting from his generosity.
Beorthric and I settled in to wait. There must have been at least another thirty guests in residence, mostly devout pilgrims and their families with a sprinkling of priests and itinerant merchants. We took our meals in the refectory where the kitchen prepared porridge and boiled meats to remind the visitors of their homeland cooking. Beorthric fitted in well because the conversation was in Saxon. He was also pleased to come across someone who sold him a scramseax to replace the one that had been left behind at the ambush in Avaria.
‘I can’t face seeing any more sacred relics,’ Beorthric complained to me on the eighth day of our stay. We were the last people left sitting at table after the plates from the midday meal had been cleared, and still the mysterious agent who reportedly represented the Greeks had made no attempt to contact the Saxon. The whole afternoon stretched before us.
‘We’ll draw attention to ourselves if we fail to keep up a pretence of piety,’ I told Beorthric. All that week we had trudged around the various churches, oratories and shrines dotted throughout the city. It had been difficult for Beorthric as an Old Believer to hide his ignorance of Christianity. For my own part, I had toured many of the sites before and was indifferent to their religious significance.
‘What will you do if all this comes to nothing?’ I asked. With each passing day I was more doubtful that Nikephorus or his masters in Constantinople had managed to get word to their man in Rome.
‘I’ll hire myself out as an escort to some wealthy band of pilgrims making their way back home.’
‘And until then?’
‘I’ll take a temporary job as a door guard at the Schola.’ A swarm of unscrupulous rogues always hovered around the entry to the compound. They harassed any foreigners who appeared to be suitably gullible. They plucked at their sleeves
, offering to bring them to money changers who, they swore, were honest traders but in fact gave atrociously bad rates and frequently palmed off counterfeit coins. Others tried to sell over-priced tours of the holy sites, fake relics, shoddy keepsakes and other dross. The Schola was obliged to hire guards to prevent these pests from getting further inside and making greater nuisances of themselves.
‘I can’t see you making a career of chasing away urchins and hucksters,’ I said.
‘Well, somebody’s not doing the job properly,’ said Beorthric looking over my shoulder.
I turned to see a round-faced, smiling man with shifty pebbly eyes advancing across the refectory towards us. I recognized him as one of the more imaginative guides who had a lucrative sideline in selling little packets of iron filings. He claimed they were rasped from the iron chains that had bound St Peter. It was remarkable how many of his innocent clients parted with their money.
It crossed my mind that he had paid someone a bribe to be allowed in through the compound’s gate.
‘Sirs!’ he called out. ‘Today I can offer a very special tour.’
‘Go away,’ Beorthric growled. ‘We’ve done all the tours.’
‘No, no, I swear to you. This is entirely fresh and new. To explore a holy tomb opened to visitors for the first time only yesterday.’
‘Leave us alone,’ I snapped. I didn’t believe a word of his pitch, and he had come close enough for me to smell the garlic on his breath.
‘I have special permission to show the saint’s remains. He was a man of such surpassing holiness that when his bones were located, the skull had turned to gold.’
Beorthric and I exchanged glances. ‘Where is this place?’ I asked warily.
‘Not far, sir,’ the guide wheedled. ‘An hour on foot, no more.’
‘I’ll meet you at the gate,’ Beorthric said to me.
The guide and I left the refectory and walked across the compound. When Beorthric joined us, I noticed that he had gone to fetch his scramseax and was carrying it slung on his hip. The guide noticed it too.
‘No need for alarm, sirs,’ he cried. ‘Where I’m taking you is quite safe. I swear it.’
