by Tim Severin
‘If he does, the document he signed for Archbishop Arno makes it impossible for him to be involved in any scheme to remove Leo. He can scarcely plot against someone he swears is so virtuous.’
‘And what about the warrior flagon? Why didn’t Arno tackle Albinus directly and accuse him of stealing it?’
‘Because your archbishop is a master of hidden menace. He was letting Albinus know that he can be accused of theft at any time of the archbishop’s choosing.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
Paul shrugged dismissively. ‘I prefer to describe it as good politics. When you know a person’s weakness, it is wise to use that knowledge sparingly and not squander its effectiveness.’
His remark confirmed what I had begun to suspect since our visit to the robing chamber. ‘And that’s also why Arno never mentioned Caecilia Signorelli’s name when we called on Leo? It’s all about putting pressure on other people, the quiet threat.’
Paul patted me on the shoulder. ‘Bravo, Sigwulf. Without your help Arno would never have been able to manoeuvre Leo, and now Albinus, into the position where he now has them.’
His compliment failed to lift my spirits. I thought of Beorthric, still struggling to throw off the effects of poison, and of the miserable winter I had spent as a prisoner of the Avars. The two of us had paid a high price so that Arno could pull the strings that controlled what went on behind the scenes in St Peter’s and the Lateran. Also, I was left with a vague feeling of unease. I recalled the clandestine night-time meeting in the monastery at Cassino with the Beneventans and their aristocratic Roman ally and, hovering in the background, the elderly monk that Beorthric had seen. I had my doubts that Arno’s reach extended that far or was enough to thwart whatever plot was being hatched there. Finally, there was no word about the man with the fur hat who had knifed Beorthric. He was still on the loose and unidentified.
Chapter Eighteen
SUMMER TURNED INTO autumn and, worryingly, Beorthric began to suffer random bouts of dizziness and there was a continuing numbness on his left side where he had been stabbed. The shorter days and colder weather obliged him to spend more time indoors and he became morose and tetchy. To escape his bad humour, I took the risk of making brief excursions into the city, choosing times when it was raining so that I could wander the streets wearing a workman’s horsehair cape with the hood pulled up to conceal my features.
In taverns and shops and on street corners I eavesdropped on the changing mood of the ordinary citizens of Rome. Two topics dominated their conversations: Pope Leo’s future and the impending visit of King Carolus. Leo’s reputation was in the balance. People talked openly about his lax behaviour. They grumbled that he was bringing the Church into disrepute. Harsh words were spoken, threats that if the Church did not set its own house in order, then lay people would take matters into their own hands. The more cautious responded that Leo should be given a chance to mend his ways because Rome could not afford another dispute over his replacement that might lead to open fighting in the streets, as had happened with false Pope Constantine.
Invariably, the conversation then turned to the role that King Carolus might play in resolving the situation. There were those who said that Carolus had a legal right and a duty to intervene because he was Patricius Romanorum, a Patrician of the Romans, a title bestowed on him by Pope Stephen II. Others objected scornfully that the title meant nothing. Carolus had been barely into his teens at the time, and both his father and Carloman, his three-year-old younger brother, had been similarly honoured. A Frankish king had no business meddling in the affairs of Rome. The arguments went back and forth, and grew so heated that, with each passing week, the tension grew until, as reports came in of Carolus’s progress towards us by way of Ravenna and Ancona, it felt as if a thunder cloud was approaching and about to burst.
The Feast of St Chrysogonus, 24 November, was set as the day that Carolus and his entourage would make their grand entry into the city, and by then all of Rome was on edge. It dawned with a clear sky and no wind, yet it was cold enough for me to see my breath on the air as I mingled with the immense throng that had clustered at the Flaminian Gate since first light. The atmosphere was a combination of awe, excitement and anticipation mixed with some unease at not knowing how the king and his small army of followers would behave. Pope Leo had left the city the previous evening to greet the king at the small town of Nomentum some twelve miles outside the walls, and the guilds, churches and ordinary people had been preparing their reception for months. Drawn up on foot to greet the king were robed senators, noblemen and senior palatini. With them in the front rank stood the representatives of the four major foreign colonies – the Franks, Frisians, English and Lombards – holding up the insignia of their guilds. Behind them were massed the officers and men of the city militia. Jostling in the background were tradesmen and apprentices.
Carolus’s entourage could be seen approaching with outriders and heralds. The royal carriages in the centre of the column shone with gold leaf and bright paint. Even the baggage carts rolled on gilded wheels. A stage had been built on one of them where an attendant stood holding up a white satin cushion on which rested the keys to the shrine of St Peter. Next to him a city official brandished a flagstaff with the banner of the city. Leo had presented both the keys and the flag to the king as an act of homage. The royal escort of armoured cavalry were mounted on big-boned Frankish horses, their coats brushed and gleaming and with saddles and bridles of dyed, embossed leather. The cold, crisp weather gave the horsemen an opportunity to flaunt their magnificent furs and gorgeous winter riding costumes, and it took more than an hour for the cavalcade to filter in through the city gate. It was a triumphal procession worthy of a barbarian potentate rather than a Christian king because Carolus had brought along his current concubine, Regina – his fourth wife, Luitgard, had died the previous June – as well as a brood of illegitimate offspring born to his string of mistresses. The noise from the onlookers was stupefying – a hubbub of shouts, trumpet calls, hymn singing and cheering. Rome hadn’t seen anything like it in generations.
The newcomers spilled into the city, spreading out through various homes and lodgings that had been prepared for them. Carolus and his family stayed near St Peter’s Basilica. Frankish barons took up temporary residence in the houses of leading Roman nobility while the bookkeepers and notaries that always accompanied the king on his travels moved into a row of offices in the Lateran which Archbishop Arno had already requisitioned for them. I retreated back to Paul’s villa on the Viminal Hill to bide my time until I heard from Archbishop Arno that he no longer needed me. Then I planned to report to the royal household, ask if a role could be found for the sickly Beorthric and resume my duties as a miles, a courtier-soldier.
While I waited, Paul kept me informed of what was going on. A week after his arrival, Carolus held a grand meeting of the clergy, nobles and leading citizens in the great basilica of St Peter. The king presided, dressed in the toga and gown of a Patricius Romanorum, and not his usual Frankish costume with its leggings, breeches, tunic and a short cloak. It was a signal of his intentions. He announced to the assembly that he had come to Rome to restore good order and discipline in the Church and to punish the outrage committed on its Head. Seated next to him, Leo managed to look fair-minded and self-righteous at the same time. According to Paul, who attended that day and was watching him closely, the Pope’s expression quickly changed when Carolus went on to say that he also proposed to hold an inquiry at which he and a panel of experts would hear the complaints of those who accused the Pope of impious behaviour.
‘That must have shaken Leo,’ I commented.
‘He went pale and stared straight ahead,’ Paul said. ‘He has no idea what is planned.’
‘And you do?’
He grinned. ‘I can guess. It’s what Archbishop Arno has been preparing all these weeks. The inquiry should be well worth attending and I’ve arranged for both of us to be watching from the side-lines.’
Two days later, the friendly guard sergeant at the Lateran smuggled us up onto a balcony overlooking the great chamber of the triclinium where the tribunal of inquiry was going to sit. We had to be in our places very early, long before the clergy assembled, and, to pass the time, I puzzled over a large mosaic on the curved roof of the main apse. It was a work-in-progress and the artist had only got as far as sketching in the outline of the scene with charcoal on the smooth plaster. It was a familiar arrangement with a seated man in the centre, shown oversize, draped in a gown and with the circle of a nimbus around his head. Two smaller figures knelt on either side, facing him as each received a gift. It reminded me of the damaged fresco that I had seen in the abandoned chapel at Monte Cassino, but this triclinium scene carried a different message. Two crossed keys above the central figure signified that he was St Peter. His two companions were identified by the gifts they were receiving. One gift was the pallium, the long white woollen band decorated with crosses that the Pope wore as his badge of office. The other man was receiving a crown.
I had succeeded in solving what the finished picture would represent when Paul leaned across to whisper. ‘Leo must be disappointed that the mosaic’s not ready for Carolus to see.’
‘If that’s St Peter appointing Leo as Pope and granting Carolus the crown, Leo’s being over-confident as well as rash. He doesn’t know the outcome of this inquiry. Maybe his accusers will present a good case against him.’
Paul merely chuckled.
Below us the audience had begun to arrive, and Paul kept up a running commentary identifying those whom he recognized. Apart from a handful of Frankish courtiers, everyone permitted to attend was a churchman of one sort or another. Many were staff from the palatium, the papal household, others were titular priests and canons and monks working within the papal administration. There were also deacons and sub-deacons from the seven ecclesiastical regions of the city, dispensatores and patres from the xenodochia, the charities run by the Church for the sick and needy, and an abbot or two. The most senior found seats on two rows of benches positioned in front of the platform on which the king and his tribunal would preside. Everyone else had to stand.
I peeked cautiously over the rail in front of our balcony and ran my eye over the congregation of black-clad figures. Amongst those who had seats, I recognized Albinus on the front bench and, for a moment, I believed that I saw the grey beard of Pelagius, the praepositus from Monte Cassino. But when he turned round to speak to someone on the bench behind him, I realized that I was mistaken.
‘Where are all the others?’ I asked Paul quietly. ‘I thought there would be more. This can’t be all the churchmen in Rome.’
‘A lot of them are staying away,’ he explained. ‘Down there are the priests who belong to Leo’s faction. The opposition are frightened to show their faces.’
After a while the Lateran attendants closed the great outer double doors, signifying that the hearing was about to begin. A side door opened, and the congregation hushed as the members of the tribunal filed in and took their places on the table looking down into the room. All of a sudden I was reminded of the very similar scene at the banquet in Paderborn when Carolus had hosted Leo and his delegation at his high table on the evening when the warrior flagon had been lost and I had been waylaid and beaten up. Once again, the king sat in the centre. On this occasion he had chosen to dress warmly as a Frankish monarch, bareheaded but wearing a long cloak of lustrous marten skins with a wide ermine collar. On his right was Leo in the place of honour; to his left was the Duke of Spoleto. Three bishops – Franks, to judge by their complexions – completed the panel together with Archbishop Arno, who sat slightly apart from the others and looked on, stone-faced. He was, I presumed, to act as convenor.
A royal herald stepped forward and called for silence, though this was unnecessary as the hall was already silent with a sense of uneasy anticipation. Without moving from his seat, the king spoke up. As always, his voice was unexpectedly high-pitched and thin and it did not carry well. Several of the more elderly priests in the crowd had to raise their hands and cup their ears to hear what he was saying. He announced that the sacellarius Paschal and the arcarius Campulus had both pleaded guilty to the charge that they had helped to organize the disgraceful attack on the supreme pontiff, and it was his duty to pronounce punishment. Carolus paused, and there was a general intake of breath as his listeners waited to hear what he would say next.
‘I therefore sentence both men to death.’
Carolus let the words linger. There was a low murmur from his audience, a rustling of clerical gowns as men shifted nervously. The sentence of execution, of two senior palatini, had come as a shock.
The silence lengthened, broken only a sudden loud sneeze from someone in the hall, probably troubled by the plaster dust. I scanned the crowd, trying to pick out individual reactions, wondering if anyone else had been involved in the attack on Leo, and who might now be in fear of discovery and punishment.
At that moment Leo rose to his feet. He coughed to clear his throat as well as to draw attention to himself, turned and bowed towards Carolus, then addressed the crowd.
‘I ask His Majesty to show clemency,’ he called out. ‘I forgive these two men for their crime, and I request that they be sent into exile, never to return and trouble this city again.’
He turned back to face Carolus, who nodded gravely in response.
‘Pure theatre,’ whispered Paul into my ear as Leo resumed his seat.
Now it was Arno’s turn. All eyes turned in his direction as he got to his feet and stood glaring down at the congregation from under his bushy eyebrows. More than ever, he looked like a labourer, truculent and burly, who had just arrived from a building site.
‘It is the wish of His Majesty that anyone who bears witness against His Holiness should now state their case,’ he said in a rough, almost threatening voice.
Again there was a long silence in the room. A few priests and monks cast worried glances at one another, anxiety showing on their faces as they waited for anyone to speak up. Most looked straight ahead, fearing to attract the archbishop’s searching gaze that swept over them. Arno waited for a full minute, and then he repeated the appeal: anyone who had reason for complaint against Leo was to speak up, and would be heard by the tribunal.
This time a quavering, elderly voice came from somewhere deep in the centre of the assembly. It cut through the silence, and a sudden nervous shiver ran through the crowd. But it was only an ancient abbot so hard of hearing that he was asking his neighbour what had been said, unaware that his own voice was raised.
Arno was looking down, straight at Albinus seated on the bench below him.
‘Chamberlain, are you aware whether anyone within the palatium wishes to bear witness against His Holiness?’
Albinus stood. There was a general shuffling as those immediately behind him moved back, allowing open space so that others in the crowd could see him better. A stranger would have thought that the chamberlain was somehow unwelcome in the gathering, a possible plaintiff.
‘My Lord Archbishop,’ Albinus declared in his emotionless, flat voice, ‘I speak for my colleagues and for myself when I say that we have no complaints against His Holiness. Nor, I believe, does anyone who is here assembled.’
Arno scowled out over the massed congregation. ‘Does this express the view of all those who have gathered here?’ he demanded.
‘It does,’ came back the mumbled response, hesitant at first from a few voices, then repeated more firmly and loudly as the agreement spread throughout the chamber. Many in the crowd crossed themselves as if to confirm their pledge.
Arno sat down. When it seemed that no other member of the tribunal was due to speak, all tension in the chamber began to drain away. A number of priests and monks in the audience turned to one another and began to exchange their comments on what they had just witnessed.
Then Carolus startled them. He raised a hand and the chatter stilled.
‘It is not my place to pronounce judgement on Christ’s vicar on earth. His power comes from the Lord,’ he said. ‘I look forward to celebrating Christ’s Mass in the great basilica of St Peter, to give thanks and to see you all on that joyous occasion.’
With those words, Carolus got to his feet, and left by the same side entrance, walking from the dais side by side with Pope Leo. Paul and I watched the other members of the tribunal leave the hall, Arno bringing up the rear, and the former Nomenculator muttered softly, ‘Very astute. If fresh evidence emerges later that proves Leo is unworthy of his office, then no one can say that Carolus had pronounced him innocent.’
Below us there was a general movement as the audience began to file out of the triclinium. I moved with Paul further back into the balcony, in case someone looked up and caught sight of us.
‘What about the Beneventans?’ I asked, looking across at the unfinished mosaic on the ceiling opposite.
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Even if that blind monk really is Constantine, they won’t dare move against Leo now that they see he has Carolus’s support. Neither the Duke of Benevento nor the Roman nobles would risk a direct confrontation with the King of the Franks. That would be madness.’
But Paul had not been at Monte Cassino, I thought to myself, and seen how purposeful had been the plotters who met under cover of darkness. They were neither mad nor risk-takers; they were ruthless and determined. They would not easily be deflected from what they wanted to achieve. Once again, I regretted that I had not yet told Archbishop Arno what Beorthric and I had witnessed that night in the derelict chapel and I feared the consequences.
*
‘Christians lie as they breathe,’ had been Beorthric’s response when I reported that the assembly of churchmen had found no fault with Leo as Pope. For the Saxon mercenary the only way to ensure Leo’s survival was to recruit a company of professional papal guards and replace the useless amateurs of the Family of St Peter. A well-trained papal guard would shield the Pope from men with daggers and be ready to intervene if the Beneventans attempted an uprising in the streets.
