Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant

by Severin, Tim

  We met no one on our way to the chancery except for a few late-comers hurrying towards the basilica. From inside came the words of a psalm energetically sung by a large choir, and I caught a faint whiff of the burning incense. I hastened my pace a little and tried to stay in the shadows, not wanting to draw attention to my absence from the service. With each year Carolus was becoming more and more devout and he expected his entourage to be the same. Those like myself who had little or no religion risked his displeasure if they failed at least to make an outward show of faith.

  At the entrance to the chancery my guide plucked up the courage to tell me that he was eager to attend the last of the service, and – as I had anticipated – it was Alcuin of York who wished to see me. I assured him that I knew where to find Alcuin’s office. With a grateful bob of his head, the young man hurried off, leaving me to find my own way.

  I had first met Alcuin of York thirteen years earlier, on the day I had trudged into Aachen as a footsore and callow youth accompanied by a limping slave. Alcuin was scholar, churchman and tutor to Carolus’s own family. Royal confidant and mentor, he was the man the king consulted on delicate matters of state. Indeed, I had known Alcuin long enough to know that he would still be on his knees in the front rank of the congregation, and there was no point in hanging about in a chilly corridor. So, briskly, I made my way to his office and, wishing that King Offa could witness my self-assurance, I did not bother to knock but pushed open the door and boldly walked in.

  It was more a monk’s cell than a bureaucrat’s work place. A simple wooden cross hung on one whitewashed wall. Directly opposite was a large plain desk with an uncomfortable-looking wooden stool placed so that anyone looking up from his work would directly face the crucifix. Apart from the shelves that lined the remaining walls, the room was bare of furniture. Three candles of expensive beeswax had been arranged on the desk in an iron sconce. In a sign of economy, just one candle was lit to illuminate the sheet of vellum, pen and ink bottle left there. Alcuin had evidently been working late and had only left the room to attend compline. He would be back shortly.

  I closed the door behind me and restrained an impulse to read what it was that Alcuin had been writing. Instead, I sauntered over to the shelves and picked up an item that had caught my eye. It was totally out of place in such austere surroundings. It was a tremendous drinking horn, almost a yard long. I recognized the shape from drinking vessels of similar style used at palace banquets. But they were half the size of the one I held in my hands and were made of glass or cow horn. I brought it closer to the candle flame, trying to identify the material. The dark surface had been polished to a high shine, and there was a broad silver band around the open end. I peered inside. It would hold an impressive quantity of liquid, and when I sniffed, I distinctly picked up the smell of ale. At that moment I heard the scuff of footsteps on the flagstones outside. Hurriedly I replaced the great horn on the shelf and turned, just as Alcuin came in.

  It was typical of Alcuin that he did not seem to notice the cold of the evening. He was wearing only a plain dark brown gown and had sandals on his bare feet. Gaunt and of a little more than ordinary height, he would have been approaching his fiftieth year. His hair had thinned and receded, accentuating the severely intellectual look of a high forehead and the narrow, clever face. Pale skin and faint freckles told of his northern origins, and grey eyes retained the sharply penetrating gaze that I remembered from previous interviews. I thought he looked tired and over-worked.

  ‘Sigwulf. Thank you for coming so promptly,’ he began, apparently unconcerned to find me loitering in his office. He did not suggest that I remove my cloak so I anticipated that the interview would be brief.

  ‘You’ve heard about the gifts from Caliph Haroun, I presume,’ he said. He had a distinctive way of speaking. Each word was carefully selected and precisely delivered as if he was delivering a lecture. I listened closely. Alcuin had a well-earned reputation as someone who came straight to the point and I was intrigued to know why I had been called to his office at this late hour.

  ‘I’m told that the knight keeps good time,’ I replied. The caliph’s most talked-about gift was a mechanical clock. On each hour, the tiny figure of a knight in armour emerged from a miniature pavilion and dropped a metal ball that chimed against a metal dish. No one had ever seen such a marvel of ingenuity.

  ‘Let us hope the knight does not rust. We have no craftsmen capable of repairing him,’ Alcuin observed drily.

  There was nothing unusual about Carolus receiving gifts from foreign rulers. The palace kept inventories of the various items and their value – jewels, coin, inlaid armour, furs, carved ivory, rolls of expensive cloth and so forth. A few pieces were selected for display but most were consigned to the royal treasury, a windowless building with walls three feet thick that had been built against the side of the as-yet-unfinished council chamber.

  ‘What do you know about this caliph?’ Alcuin asked me.

  ‘Only common knowledge,’ I replied cautiously. ‘His capital is a city called Baghdad. It’s very far away, beyond Jerusalem and the Holy Land. He lives there in great splendour and is hugely wealthy. The quality of his gifts is proof of that.’

  Alcuin gave me a patient look as if to rebuke me for my ignorance. ‘Haroun al Rashid is one of the three most powerful rulers on this earth.’ He spoke as if to a promising but lazy student. ‘The other two being the emperor in Constantinople and, of course, our own Carolus. The most significant of Haroun’s many titles and honorifics is Commander of the Faithful. He regards himself as supreme overlord of all Saracens.’

  ‘Surely the emir of Cordoba contests that claim,’ I murmured. I had received my shoulder wound during the failed expedition by Carolus’s army into Hispania in support of a rebellion against the emir. I recalled that the rebels, Saracens themselves, had appealed for help from distant Baghdad as well as from Carolus.

  ‘You are correct. The emir of Cordoba refuses to acknowledge the caliph’s authority. I won’t trouble you with the details, but Haroun’s forebears killed every member of the emir’s family they could hunt down after seizing the caliphate. The sole survivor fled to Hispania where he established his own independent dominion. The two dynasties hate one another.’

  I glimpsed the direction Alcuin’s comments were leading. ‘So Haroun sends valuable gifts to Carolus as a gesture of appreciation and friendship.’

  Alcuin rewarded me with a slight smile. ‘Sigwulf, I’m glad that you are still reasonably quick on the uptake.’

  ‘My friend Osric tells me that the Saracens have a saying: “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”’

  A worm of doubt was stirring in my mind. Did my summons from Alcuin have something to do with Osric?

  Alcuin’s next statement made matters no clearer. ‘Custom and diplomacy dictate that Carolus responds to Haroun’s generosity by sending valuable gifts of equal rarity back to him. The king has consulted me for my recommendations.’

  ‘Not an easy task,’ I said blandly.

  Alcuin gave me a sharp look. Perhaps he thought I was teasing him. ‘This will be more than a matter of sending the caliph a parcel of sword blades,’ he snapped.

  Frankish sword smiths were renowned for the quality of their weapons and a consignment of sword blades was a standard item among the gifts that Carolus despatched to fellow rulers.

  Alcuin quickly regained his usual even tone. ‘The caliph must have known about Carolus’s menagerie because Haroun’s gifts included an elephant.’

  I gaped. The collection of animals in Carolus’s menagerie included wolves, bears, leopards, peacocks, lynx and even a panther sent by the basileus, the emperor in Constantinople. The thought that they might have been joined by a living elephant was tantalizing. I thought how dearly I would love to see an elephant.

  Alcuin was enjoying my evident amazement. ‘Regrettably the creature did not survive the journey here,’ he added.

  My imagination soared. I had heard about elepha
nts. Everyone had. They featured in many tales about the fabled east, and my boyhood teacher, a defrocked priest, had described how the ancient Romans trained them as instruments of warfare. But no elephant, as far as I was aware, had set foot in Europe for centuries. They were wondrous beasts.

  ‘The death of this particular animal is most unfortunate,’ Alcuin went on. ‘The elephant had been specially selected. Its skin was very pale, almost white – a very great compliment from the caliph to Carolus. Apparently, white is the royal colour in Baghdad. Anyone who enters the inner city must be dressed in white.

  ‘What did the elephant die of?’ I asked.

  ‘You will have to ask the man who was in charge of its transport from Baghdad. He is full of apologies.’

  If I had been more alert, Alcuin’s words would have prepared me for what was to follow. But I was still too intrigued by the idea of an elephant arriving in Aachen to notice what he had implied.

  Alcuin had not finished. ‘I’ll introduce him to you at another time. You’ll like him. He’s most civilized and obliging. He’s a Radhanite by the name of Abram.’

  ‘A Radhanite?’ I repeated. I had no idea what Alcuin meant.

  ‘The Radhanites are Israelites by faith.’ Here I detected a brief glint of disapproval, ‘They spend most of their lives on the road, moving from one market to another, trading, trading, always trading. They’ve spun themselves a web of contacts and associates that reaches from Hispania to India.’

  Reluctantly I abandoned my daydream of seeing an elephant, and tried to concentrate on what Alcuin was saying. ‘If a city or town prospers by trade, you can safely say that it has its share of Rhadanites, if only a family or two. In Carolus’s domain we are aware that they favour the trade artery of the Rhone and several families are settled in the riverside towns. But you never know where or when you’ve come across one. They merge into the background. It is said that they recognize one another by secret signs.’

  He paused. ‘Our king has decided that he will match Caliph Haroun’s generosity by sending to Baghdad a selection of creatures as unique and special as a nearly white elephant.’ Up until now, Alcuin had amazed and intrigued me. Now he stunned me. ‘Sigwulf, the king has specifically directed that you be placed in charge of their transport to Baghdad.’

  His statement was so unexpected that it was some moments before I found my voice. ‘What sort of animals will I be transporting?’ I croaked.

  Alcuin treated me to a sardonic smile. ‘That I will leave to Carolus himself to inform you of. He will have finished chapel by now and have arrived back in the royal apartments. He is expecting to see you . . . without delay.’

  The interview was over. Dazed, I fumbled my way towards the door and found myself back in the corridor. It was only as I closed the door behind me that I realized that when I had asked which animals I was to take to Baghdad, Alcuin’s eyes had flicked towards the enormous, silver-mounted drinking horn.

  *

  The night sky had clouded over and the covered arcade that linked the chancery building with the royal living apartments was in near-total darkness. The middle section of the arcade was unfinished and littered with paving slabs, yet I found my way without stumbling or tripping. I had taken that same route many times, usually well after sunset, though the excursions had been much less frequent in recent months. They had occurred on the nights when I was summoned by Bertha, one of Carolus’s large brood of daughters. She had swooped on me soon after my arrival as a young man in Aachen, judging me to be naïve, and – as I came to understand – exotically attractive with my strange eye colours and foreign background. The passage of time had cooled her ardour and I had slipped far down the list of those whom she took to her bed. Yet she still liked to tweak the string occasionally and would reel me in when she sought variety among her lovers. I knew very well that the relationship was increasingly unstable and very dangerous. If her father learned of the extent of his daughter’s wanton activities, he might decide to put a stop to them by making an example of someone he considered to have been particularly presumptuous and brazen with a royal princess. As an interloper within the Frankish court, I was the obvious candidate for exemplary punishment. I dreaded what penalty might be exacted – execution or castration were both possibilities – and I had already resolved to extricate myself from the relationship with Bertha. But I was wary. To deny her might make her vindictive, and, to be truthful to myself, I still found Bertha most alluring. She took great care with her appearance, staining her lips with berry juice and applying a delicate coat of powder to cover the first blemishes in her once flawless complexion. Doubtless she tinted the long flaxen braids that her attendants spent hours brushing and arranging. But her body needed no such artifice. As she matured, Bertha’s statuesque figure had become ever more voluptuous and desirable.

  The king’s living quarters took up the entire first floor of a substantial building in the north-east corner of the royal precinct. At the foot of the broad sweep of stairs I ignored the smirk on the face of one of the guards, recognizing him as one of the men who took bribes to look the other way when I was visiting Bertha. His colleagues searched me for hidden weapons and passed me on to an under-steward who was already hovering and waiting to take my cloak. Carolus’s household staff were well used to dealing with late callers to see their master. It was the king’s habit to take a long nap in the afternoon and then work far into the night. If Carolus was restless, he was known to slip out of his official apartments in the small hours of the morning and wander about the royal precinct, unescorted, checking on what was going on. On one heart-stopping occasion I had almost bumped into him as I was on my way to a tryst with Bertha, and I was still not sure if he had seen me hastily dart away.

  After a short delay the under-steward led me up the stairs and to a set of double doors. He knocked discreetly before easing them open just wide enough to let me slip inside.

  I had to squint. In contrast to Alcuin’s dimly lit office, Carolus’s private audience chamber was ablaze with light. Clusters of tall, fat candles burned everywhere. They were suspended in holders from the ceiling beams, fixed on great iron floor stands, held in wall brackets. Many were fitted with polished steel mirrors. The effect was to heat the room, make it as bright as day and flood one’s senses with the sweet scent of beeswax. The spacious room itself gave an impression of comfortable opulence. The windows were filled with panes of glass to keep out the weather. Linen panels painted with colourful pictures of hunting scenes decorated the walls. A day couch covered with cushions and a rich carpet was where Carolus could take his afternoon nap. Another expensive-looking rug served as a cloth on a broad table, and beneath its edge was a glimpse of table legs intricately carved into animal shapes. Half a dozen folding chairs were made of some dark, exotic wood, and – inevitably – there was a crucifix. In Alcuin’s study the cross had been plain and unadorned, hung against a white wall. Here the cross was four times the size, standing on a base of pale green marble and placed where it was immediately visible to a visitor. Its arms were studded with patterns of semiprecious coloured stones that glowed in the candlelight.

  Carolus loomed beside the table, his presence dominating the room. I had forgotten what a big man he was. He was taller than me by at least a head, powerfully built with heavy bones, wide shoulders, large feet and hands. His luxuriant hair had gone grey but was carefully trimmed and oiled, and he wore the long drooping moustaches so fashionable among the Franks. As usual, he dressed modestly for someone of his exalted rank though the materials were of the very best quality. The wool of his deep-blue hose and tunic was as fine as silk, and the soft leather of his shoes and garters had been dyed pale blue, then over-stamped with leaf designs in silver. He wore very little jewellery – a heavy gold ring inset with a large red stone on his right hand, and a torc of twisted gold around his thick neck. Despite the warmth in the room he was wearing a waistcoat of short fur that I guessed was otter skin. It was left open at the front because Caro
lus, King of the Franks and Patrician of the Romans, had grown a noticeable paunch.

  I bowed.

  ‘Sigwulf, I have a mission for you,’ said the king briskly. Like Alcuin, he too preferred to come directly to the point. In contrast to his advisor’s clear, quiet tones the king spoke in a surprisingly high, thin voice. It was unexpected coming from such a bulky frame.

  I stood meekly, unable to tear my gaze away from the object that Carolus was holding. It was another of those huge silver-mounted drinking horns, the twin of the one I had just seen in Alcuin’s study. In the king’s massive grasp it seemed not quite as out of proportion.

  ‘This is from my grandfather’s time,’ said the king, observing my gaze and turning the great drinking horn this way and that.

  I remained silent and waited.

  ‘Alcuin mentioned the elephant that the caliph had chosen for me?’ the king asked.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that the creature did not survive the journey, Your Majesty,’ I murmured politely.

  ‘No matter. I will send in return a creature that is equally spectacular.’ Carolus hefted the horn as if he was proud of it. ‘Nothing the size of an elephant, of course. But two of these will be the equal!’

  Carolus was boyish in his enthusiasm. I had no idea what he was talking about.