The Pope's Assassin

by Tim Severin

  Very soon I was finding that I had to force myself to stay alert. I was all too aware that this could prove to be a long, tedious and ultimately useless watch, and there was no guarantee that Pope Leo would come to visit his mistress. There were occasional rustlings and scratchings in the garden behind me; rats, probably looking for food. Then one of them made me jump as it ran over my sandalled foot. From time to time I shifted my position, resisting the temptation to slide down and sit on the ground. I knew that if I did that, I would certainly nod off. The movement of the stars wheeling through the sky and measured against the forum’s columns seemed to be desperately slow.

  A low voice, from less than six feet away, startled me. Beorthric had approached from the other end of the forum, treading so softly that I had failed to hear him.

  ‘It’s to be tonight,’ he murmured. ‘I got word from the landlord at midday.’

  He was wearing his scramseax at his belt.

  I reached down and showed him the cudgel that I had propped against the wall at my feet. ‘I was fearful of running into the watch and being questioned, so I brought this hidden under my shirt.’

  ‘With luck it won’t be needed,’ he said, stepping in beside me. ‘Now all we have to do is wait.’

  An hour must have passed and then we heard faint sounds, coming from our left. After a few moments the noise stopped, followed by a long silence.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered.

  ‘There’s a small shed back there. If they’re who I think they are, that’s where they leave their horses,’ he answered.

  We waited some more, and then two men walked quietly past us. They were dressed in dark clothes and were keeping away from the open area of the forum. They passed no more than ten yards from where we waited in the shadows, and went towards the side door of the Signorelli house.

  Beside me, Beorthric chuckled. ‘Seems that our friends at the monastery are well informed.’

  I wondered about the guard dog we had seen earlier in the week, but there was no barking. Either the dog had been removed or, more likely, it recognized the new arrivals.

  Now one of the visitors was at the side door. We saw his hand raised as he scratched gently on the timber. The door opened at once, and both men vanished inside. There was no doubt in my mind that one of them was Pope Leo. The other would be a trusted attendant.

  ‘More waiting,’ muttered Beorthric. Suddenly he tapped me on the arm and pointed towards the distant archway that led into the Suburra. There was just time for me to detect a flicker of movement. Someone was entering the forum from that direction, though whoever it was had passed out of sight almost at once.

  I kept staring in that direction until, several minutes later, I made out the dark figure of a man keeping in the shadows, stealthily making his way towards the Signorelli house. It was too far to establish anything but a general impression. When the man passed through a bar of moonlight between two of the columns, it was only possible to see that he was thin and very tall.

  Beorthric put his mouth close to my ear. ‘Our friend from the catacombs, I think.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’ I asked, my heart pounding. This was something unforeseen.

  ‘Come to check up on how well I’m doing my job,’ said Beorthric sourly.

  Again the man vanished, this time disappearing into the dark shadow under the covered walkway that ran the full length of the front of the Signorelli house.

  For what seemed like an age we waited. My attention was divided, sometimes checking the side door to the house, more often trying to squint into the gloom under the walkway, seeing nothing but dark shadows.

  Then, about an hour before the very first flush of dawn, there was a movement at the side door. The two men emerged from the house and began to walk back along the route they had come. Something about the confident manner of the man on the right and the way his companion lagged deferentially a half-step behind him identified him as Leo.

  They had not gone more than a few paces before Beorthric took me completely by surprise by suddenly bursting out from our hiding place.

  He raced towards the two men. A heartbeat later I saw the tall dark figure leave the shelter of the covered walkway and also head towards the Pope, moving with long, quick strides.

  I was still rooted to the spot as Beorthric barged into Leo, knocking him sideways so that he fell back against his companion and then to the ground.

  Beorthric whirled round to face the approaching stranger who was now within an arm’s length. He had not had time to draw his scramseax and I saw the glint of a blade in the stranger’s grasp. Neither man uttered a sound as they closed and grappled. The tall thin stranger threw an arm around Beorthric’s neck and pulled him close, as if hugging him. Beorthric reached up with both hands to grab his opponent’s throat, then turned sideways and tried to hook a leg behind his enemy’s knee. It was intended as a wrestler’s throw, but was too late. The stranger used his free arm to drive home his knife.

  I was running forward. As soon as I was close enough, I lashed out with my cudgel. It was a wild blow but by luck I struck the knifeman on the shoulder. It was enough to make him release his grasp of Beorthric and step back. I heard an angry hiss of frustration. Then the attacker spun on his heel and fled. I let him go. Beorthric had one hand pressed against his side and he was breathing through gritted teeth. ‘See to the Pope,’ he hissed.

  The Pope had got back on his feet, so shocked that he was incapable of speech. His companion was making a distraught mewing sound.

  ‘Get out!’ I snarled at them fiercely. ‘Get out!’

  They stumbled away in the direction of the place where they had left their horses.

  I turned back to Beorthric. He was unsteady on his feet, his lips drawn back in pain. The pale wash of moonlight made him look deathly white.

  ‘We’ve got to get you away from here,’ I said as I put my arm around his waist to keep him from falling. No one living in the forum had been alerted by the sounds of the brief scuffle or, if they had, they were too cautious to emerge from their homes.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he grunted.

  ‘I think it’s best we go to Paul’s villa. Do you think you can make it?’

  ‘Of course,’ he gasped. ‘I fear that bastard cut me badly. I always knew that something was wrong.’

  ‘Save your breath,’ I said, ‘we’ve got a climb ahead of us.’

  *

  We finally limped through the gate into Paul’s garden when the sun was already a hand’s breadth above the horizon. Beorthric had been forced to stop and rest several times as we laboured up the slope of the Viminal Hill. He was leaning heavily on my shoulder as we negotiated the last steps into the villa and into the atrium. Each time his right foot trod on the mosaics, it left a bloody imprint. Paul, alerted by a worried-looking servant, brought us to a side room where a cot was hurriedly prepared so that Beorthric could be eased down on a mattress. A red stain had spread down his right side and soaked into his leggings.

  ‘My head gardener’s good at dealing with wounds,’ Paul said to me. ‘He keeps a stock of salves and bandages. I’d trust him to do as well as any doctor. He lives at the back of the house. I’ve already sent someone to fetch him.’

  He looked down at Beorthric. The Saxon lay with his eyes closed and seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep. Paul jerked his head for me to follow him out of the room. Once we were out of Beorthric’s hearing, he said to me, ‘I hope that blade wasn’t poisoned.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering why Beorthric is in such a bad way.’

  Paul grimaced. ‘Let’s pray that my man can save him. Tell me how it happened.’

  My description of the night’s events in the forum was interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged stocky man who I remembered having seen talking with Paul one day on the porch of his house. He had a calm, placid air and a countryman’s tan. In his large, capable-looking hands was a wicker basket filled with small clay pots and rolled bandages.
He was accompanied by a young lad who seemed to be his son. Paul explained that Beorthric had been stabbed, perhaps with a poisoned dagger and required urgent attention. The gardener took in the details calmly, nodded, and without a word, went into the room where Beorthric lay.

  Paul turned back to me. ‘Go on with what you were telling me.’

  I finished my story by adding, ‘Beorthric always suspected that something was not quite right about the manner in which he had been hired.’

  ‘With good reason,’ said Paul grimly. ‘That man with the dagger was there to tie up the loose ends. He was to kill Beorthric once he had despatched Pope Leo. Very convenient, finding a foreigner’s corpse next to the murdered Pope.’

  ‘And it would lay a false trail if it became known that Beorthric served in the Frankish army.’

  Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Sigwulf, you’re beginning to act like a true Roman in the devious ways your mind works.’

  ‘There’s more,’ I said. ‘Last night’s attempt was intended to kill the Pope. Yet the attack on Leo in April last year was only meant to frighten him, to silence him, not kill him. That’s what I reported to Archbishop Arno when I took the warrior flagon back to Paderborn before it vanished again.’

  ‘And now you think you know the reason why things have changed, and someone, presumably the Beneventans and their friends, want to kill the Pope, not just frighten him?’

  ‘Yes. Because they have selected someone else to place on St Peter’s chair.’

  Paul’s lively, intelligent eyes searched my face. ‘And you know who the intended occupant might be?’

  ‘When Beorthric and I were in the monastery to meet with the Beneventans, there was an old man, a monk, there. He came into the room while Beorthric was receiving his instructions, and listened in.’ I licked my lips, fearing that what I was about to say would sound far-fetched. ‘He’s party to the murder plot, even though he might be blind.’

  Paul had always been quick-witted. Now he excelled himself. His expression went from curiosity to one of amazed understanding. ‘Are you suggesting that this elderly monk is Constantine, the former pope who was driven from office? That the Beneventans are preparing to put him back in the Vatican?’

  ‘I am. There’s that link with the Lords of Nepi, and you yourself told me that Constantine was tucked away quietly in a monastery.’

  Paul puffed out his cheeks in amazement. ‘You should have told me before. Had I known, I would have warned you not to go near the Forum of Nerva and Caecilia Signorelli’s house. I would have insisted you go straight to Archbishop Arno with your information.’

  ‘Archbishop Arno was out of Rome,’ I reminded him.

  ‘With luck that’s changed,’ Paul snapped. Suddenly he was bustling with energy. ‘If Leo came back into Rome, there’s a chance that Archbishop Arno accompanied him and will be at the Lateran, even as we speak. As soon as Beorthric is comfortably settled, the two of us should go there.’

  He paused and gave me a critical glance. ‘Before then, I think you should change your clothes. I doubt that the Family of St Peter would let you in through the door.’

  I looked down at my jerkin. One side was streaked with Beorthric’s blood.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT WAS MY THIRD visit to the Lateran Palace, and this time the guard sergeant broke into a broad smile the moment he recognized the former Nomenculator. It was plain why Paul was popular. He remembered the names of all three of the sergeant’s children and asked after them, paused to tease a particularly handsome soldier about his reputation as a lady’s man and whether he had yet found himself a suitable wife, and gave a friendly wave to the others. Then we hurried inside.

  ‘Everything seems very relaxed. Not what I’d have expected after an attempt to kill Leo,’ I commented.

  ‘Leo won’t have told anyone. He doesn’t want people wondering why he was visiting the Forum of Nerva late at night.’

  We retraced the now familiar route down the long corridor to Arno’s office, and I was relieved to find the archbishop’s secretary alert and on duty in the antechamber, not half asleep like the last time. He, too, recognized Paul and confirmed that Archbishop Arno had returned to Rome the previous day and was now at work. The former Nomenculator could go straight in.

  Archbishop Arno was seated at his desk with his back to the windows, their shutters closed to keep out the noonday glare. He had reverted to wearing the plain brown vestment that I had first seen in Paderborn, and the bars of sunlight slanting through the shutters made stripes of dark and light on the garment. Coupled with the fierce look he gave me as I entered with Paul, the archbishop reminded me of the fearsome striped cat-beasts, bigger than the royal leopards of Paderborn, that were caged in the Caliph’s zoo in Baghdad.

  Arno ignored my companion. ‘Sigwulf, I trust you have a good excuse to burst in like this,’ he growled.

  ‘I have, my lord. Last night there was another attempt on the life of His Holiness.’

  Arno rubbed his eyes with the heel of his thumb. He looked tired and I wondered if he had been catching up on paperwork all night. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Once again I recited what had happened, starting with the summons to visit the monastery at Monte Cassino and ending with Leo’s narrow escape from death.

  When I finished, there was a long silence while Arno considered my report. Finally, he said, ‘I need to discuss this with Leo himself.’

  He was reaching towards the small handbell on his table, about to summon his secretary, when Paul interrupted. ‘If I may make a suggestion . . .’

  Arno glared at him, bushy eyebrows raised.

  ‘His Holiness will be in denial about the whole affair,’ Paul said smoothly. ‘He’ll have told his staff to make sure that he is unavailable.’

  Arno gave a snort of frustration. ‘They’re experts in being obstructive. But we’ll have to deal with them if we’re to get to see Leo face to face. I’ve learned to my cost that trying to track anyone down in this labyrinth of a building is a waste of time.’

  Paul looked towards the window. ‘The procession and litany of St Symphorosa started at ten o’clock and it’s now about an hour after midday. I believe I know exactly where to find him.’

  ‘Then lead the way,’ grunted Arno, heaving himself out of his chair and coming round the desk. Together the three of us marched out of his office and Arno told the hovering secretary that his assistance was not required. Then, led by Paul, we set off along a succession of corridors, through a kitchen area smelling of boiled cabbage, and up two short flights of stairs at the back of the building. On the upper floor we took a short cut through what appeared to be a library archive and then emerged into yet another corridor.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Arno asked.

  ‘To the papal private chambers,’ Paul answered. ‘It’s a back route that one remembers from forty years of service.’

  Several times we met papal staff: scribes and notaries in shabby black gowns, small groups of junior officials standing together and gossiping near open windows, domestics of various sorts. All of them either ignored our little group or we swept by them before they could ask what we were doing in the papal quarters. The only time we might have been questioned was when we encountered a plump, officious-looking priest dressed in a fine planeta who made as if to stop us. ‘Official business,’ Paul said to him, brushing him aside.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked in an undertone as we headed on.

  ‘The assistant to the Vicedomus, the head of the household. I knew him as a pimply cubicularius, a creepy youngster. He’s done well for himself.’

  Finally we came to a set of imposing double doors at the end of a short passage. Without pausing, Paul pulled them open and we stepped into a large, high-ceilinged room with luxurious carpets spread on the floor and its walls hung with embroideries. In the centre of the room stood a single throne-like wooden chair with a high back. Distributed around the room were a number of large chests and cupboards wh
ile half a dozen free-standing wooden racks were hung with an array of garments that caught the light pouring in through glazed side windows. I saw damask, fur trimming, silk, fine wool, cloth of gold, laundered white linens.

  We were in the palace robing chamber.

  I had forgotten that, despite his night-time adventures, Leo still had to wear his most gorgeous regalia and officiate in the procession for St Symphorosa. Now that the ceremony was over, he had retired to remove the heavy garments and put on clothes more suitable for a summer’s day.

  He was standing by the chair, wearing nothing but white socks and a light undershirt. When I had seen him at Carolus’s banquet, I had thought him unremarkable. Now, dressed in such simple garments, he was even less impressive. At first glance, he would have been taken for a petty shopkeeper getting ready for bed. He had turned to face us and was gaping in surprise, as were his attendants. There were at least a score of them. I presumed that they were underlings of the vestararius, the official responsible for the safekeeping of papal vestments and treasures. Most were cubicularii like the lad who had first escorted me into the palace. One still had the Pope’s tall white processional hat in his hands and two others were holding up a splendid damask cloak, edged with bands of cloth of gold, so that it could be inspected for damage or dirt by the pot-bellied, bearded man I took to be the vestararius himself. The other attendants were standing around idly and looking on. One of them, a much older man and soberly dressed, caught my eye. He was close to Leo and slightly to one side. I was fairly sure that he was the same man who had escorted Leo on his visit to Caecilia Signorelli. More important, his nose had once been broken, leaving it slightly off-true. Months earlier, I had sat beside him at a meal in an Alpine monastery, then later across the table at a banquet in Paderborn when he had recognized the Avar flagon. His house was where Paul and I had found the hidden items from the Avar Hoard. He was the papal chamberlain – Albinus.