by Severin, Tim
We rowed the final yards. Protis and his men waded into the water and, helped by several shipwrights, dragged our makeshift vessel to land. Osric handed over the first of the gyrfalcon cages for it to be carried up the beach and set down safely on the ground. The dogs leaped out and bounded ashore.
‘There are two large and dangerous bears on their way,’ I announced loudly. The shipwrights stared at me. Then I remembered that they would not understand my language. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the back of the beach, women and children. I guessed they were the families of the shipbuilders, curious to see what the sea had brought. I yelled at the top of my voice to gain their attention, and pointed. The white heads of the two bears were now much closer. It was extraordinary how fast they were able to move through the water. In a few more minutes they would be on land.
I heard a murmur of astonishment from the crowd, a murmur that turned to a ripple of alarm as they realized what they were seeing.
‘Abram, tell them that the bears are dangerous and we must have somewhere to contain them,’ I told the dragoman.
One of the shipwrights was quick on the uptake. He ran to open the door of a boat shed.
Walo was already at the water’s edge. He had his deerhorn pipe in hand. As the two bears came closer, he began to play. Behind me the crowd scattered. They scurried away, then turned at a safe distance to see what would happen next.
Madi and Modi came ashore side by side. They shook themselves, spraying water in all directions from their soaking coats, and looked around. They had grown into hulking brutes that could easily break a man’s back with a single swipe from their great paws. Modi yawned, and the great pink gaping gullet caused several gasps of fear from the handful of the bolder spectators who had stayed for a closer look. In the distance there was the clink and rattle of pebbles as the more prudent onlookers retreated even further up the beach.
Walo advanced towards the bears until he was no more than an arm’s length away. Facing them, he continued to play his usual simple tune. The bears stood on the shoreline, their great pointed muzzles swinging from side to side. They were curious about what was happening. Carefully, Walo began pacing backwards, still facing the bears and playing his pipe.
The two bears padded after him. Walo backed away, step by slow step, towards the open door of the boat shed, and then inside. For a heart-stopping moment the bears halted at the dark entrance to the shed. They turned and faced outward, their small eyes inspecting the crowd of onlookers. I held my breath, knowing that if they chose to charge and attack, nothing could stop them.
Then the music worked its lure and they went inside. A shipwright darted forward, about to slam the door behind them. I grabbed him by the shirt and held him back. ‘Don’t startle the bears. Let them grow accustomed to their new home.’
The man could not have understood exactly what I said, but the message was clear. He waited beside me while we listened to the soothing sound of Walo’s music for a few more minutes. Then together we went forward and softly half-closed the door, leaving a gap large enough for Walo to slip out when he judged the moment was right.
Osric let out a sigh of relief. ‘We should have guessed that ice bears are good swimmers,’ he said to me.
‘A pity we can’t say the same about the aurochs,’ I replied.
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when there was another buzz of astonishment from the crowd. Everyone was gazing out to where the setting sun cast a long reddish-gold path across the mirror-calm of the sea. The head of the aurochs showed black against the red. The beast was swimming to land, more slowly than the bears, following them.
My heart leaped into my mouth. I had witnessed the creature’s rage as it smashed Walo’s father, Vulfard, to bloody pulp. Now I shuddered to think what carnage it might inflict on the crowd on the beach. To add to my alarm, the crowd was less fearful than when they had seen the bears approaching. To them, the aurochs looked little different from a common farm bull at that distance. They failed to note its great size and the menacing forward sweep of the deadly horns. There was a mutter of interest, but nothing like the general panic the bears had created.
I ran towards the crowd. ‘Get back! Get back! I shouted, waving my arms frantically. I was met with stares of curiosity and incomprehension.
Osric joined me, gesturing at the crowd, trying to move them away. But the spectators dawdled, reluctant to leave.
The aurochs reached the shallows, and began to emerge from the water. There was a collective, appalled gasp. The creature was monstrous. It paused with half its huge body still under water and the great dark shoulders and neck gleaming wet. Then it lifted the great head, stretched its neck so that the muzzle pointed to the sky, and uttered a massive bellow that echoed around the cliffs.
At that moment Protis redeemed himself. The young man raced down the beach. He had a scrap of cloth in one hand as he dashed directly at the aurochs. I thought he had lost his mind. He sprinted into the shallows, tripping and almost falling as his feet hit the water. The aurochs immediately lowered its head and lunged at him with the deadly horns. Protis swerved and slipped past the attack. He flung himself against the creature’s shoulder, and whipped the rag around its massive head, covering its eyes.
The aurochs tossed its head in amazement. Protis threw an arm over the creature’s neck and managed to cling on. The beast shook its head angrily, and I was reminded sickeningly of the horror as Vulfard’s spitted corpse had been thrashed from side to side. But Protis was behind the horns, and he hung on grimly until the shaking stopped and he had time to loop the rag in place. The great beast halted, confused and blind.
A vague memory stirred. I recalled my father’s ploughmen coaxing reluctant oxen into their stalls.
‘We need a heavy rope!’ I called to Osric. He looked at me for an instant, and then understanding dawned. Together we ran to where the shipwrights had their gear, selected a length of heavy cable, and hurried down the beach, circling behind the aurochs. Abram and his two men joined us and together we stretched the rope and brought it against the aurochs’ hindquarters. The sudden touch of the rope made the blindfolded beast start forward. It walked out of the water and, by keeping up the pressure on the rope, we guided it towards the line of boat sheds.
Two local men saw what we intended. They ran ahead and swung open the doors to the stoutest shed. All the time Protis stayed beside the beast’s neck, matching it stride for stride, making sure the blindfold stayed in place. Together we somehow succeeded in steering the aurochs into its temporary home, then heaved shut the heavy door as Protis darted out to safety.
‘The boat shed won’t hold the beast for long. Ask the villagers to fetch fodder and water,’ I said to Abram.
Protis was white-faced and trembling with relief. I thought he was about to faint.
‘That was very courageous,’ I congratulated him. ‘I hope your grandfather gets to hear how you saved the day.’
He summoned up a shaky smile. ‘The old man won’t forgive me for losing the family’s last and only ship.’
He looked past me to where his vessel was no longer to be seen. The sea was empty. The vessel must have slipped beneath the waves. The young Greek’s eyes filled with tears. ‘My family does not have the resources to build a new ship. And the moneylenders will think that somehow we are cursed with bad luck.’
‘What will you do?’ I asked softly.
‘My men can find work on other ships, and I will have to hire myself out as a common sailor,’ he answered.
He looked so downcast that I reached out and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. ‘Your bravery saved the day. You’d be more than welcome to travel on to Rome with us.’
He lifted his chin as a trace of his former pride returned. ‘I was hired to deliver you and your animals to Rome, and I will fulfil my side of the bargain.’
Chapter Eleven
ROME
*
ABRAM’S ITINERARIUM marked a road
running parallel to the coast that would eventually bring us to Rome. The dragoman’s attendants had brought the map ashore, along with my precious copy of the Book of Beasts and our other valuables, but all the travelling furniture – the folding tables and chairs, the tents and camping equipment – had been lost with the ship. As a replacement the ever-resourceful Protis, now once more bubbling with self-confidence, devised two houses on wheels for us – moving homes. He boasted these contraptions would save us from having to stay overnight in the hospitia, the flea-ridden hostels designed for pilgrims on the way to the Holy City. Equally practical and ingenious were the wheeled cages the shipwrights put together for the aurochs and the ice bears. The carpenters held a stock of curved timbers, normally used for the ribs of ships. They adapted them as bars for the cages so that our large animals travelled in elegant creations like skeletons of upturned boats. The effect was, as Osric remarked, to make our little procession along the road resemble a travelling circus.
It was late November by the time we finally reached the outskirts of the Holy City, and the weather had turned both rainy and cold. On Abram’s suggestion I went ahead to find Alcuin’s friend, Paul the Nomenculator, to ask if he could assist us in finding warm, dry accommodation where our embassy – including the animals – could spend the winter.
As Abram had predicted, my impression of Rome was that of a city falling apart. A steady drizzle made it a dull, cheerless morning as I passed through an archway, beneath what had once been an imposing bastion in the ancient city wall. Flaking plaster revealed rotting brickwork underneath, and there were no guards or sentries to be seen. I was on foot and carried Alcuin’s letter of introduction, but no one asked me my business. I picked my way around a few farm carts loaded with produce on their way to market and dodged a small party of wealthy travellers on horseback, wrapped up against the weather in their fur-lined cloaks. But the majority of my fellows were families; men, women and children dressed in drab clothing, with hoods pulled up to keep off the rain. They trudged along under the unrelenting drizzle, many with backpacks. One man pushed a barrow with two of his children riding on top of their belongings. Eavesdropping on their assortment of languages, it was obvious that they were pilgrims from many countries and regions, all coming to visit the Holy City. But the miserable weather dampened the excitement of their arrival. The whining of children and the bickering of their parents prevailed over any expressions of wonder and anticipation.
As I walked deeper into the maze of streets, then across a bridge over a murky-looking river, I saw building after building that had once been grand and imposing. Now they were derelict and grimy. Most had been turned into squalid tenements occupied by the poor. Everything was so run-down and jumbled together that it was difficult to make out whether I was in a district that was residential or commercial. Respectable mansions gone to seed stood cheek-by-jowl with shops, warehouses, or smaller dwellings. From time to time I would turn a corner and find myself confronted by a crumbling structure dating back to the glory days of the Roman Empire: a triumphal arch, a long-abandoned theatre, a victory column, an ornate fountain long since run dry, public baths closed for centuries. One monument – a former theatre – was being actively looted for its material. A builder’s gang was using crowbars to prise away the marble facing, then smashing the slabs with sledge hammers, before tossing the broken fragments into a smoky kiln to make lime for mortar. Luckily they understood my Latin well enough for them to tell me that I did not have to go as far as the office of the Nomenculator. The man himself had been seen with a party of papal officials inspecting a newly renovated basilica dedicated to Santa Maria not far away. Helpfully they despatched a boy to lead me there.
The church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin came as a pleasant contrast to the general urban decay. The building was conspicuously well maintained. Modest in size, it stood on the edge of an open space that I was already learning to call a forum. Seven round-headed arches that gave it a simple elegance pierced the plain red brick façade. A large group of servants lurked in a nearby alley, and in the portico of the basilica four or five men dressed in long dark tunics and cloaks sheltered from the drifting rain, conferring. My guide pointed to one of them – a short, heavy-set man wearing a broad-brimmed hat who was standing slightly apart from the others and rubbing his hands together to keep warm. He looked up as I approached, and – to my amazement – gave me a broad wink.
‘I’m looking for the Nomenculator, Paul,’ I said in my best Latin. A servant had detached himself from the waiting group of attendants and was hurrying towards me, doubtless to head me off before I bothered his master. My young guide promptly made himself scarce.
‘My name is Paul,’ said the man, waving the servant away, ‘and judging by your accent you must be Sigwulf, the envoy from Aachen that my friend Alcuin wrote to me about. I’ve been expecting you for some weeks.’
He treated me to another broad wink with his left eye, screwing up that side of his face. I realized that it was an involuntary convulsion.
‘I’m sorry to be late,’ I said. ‘We encountered difficulties on our journey that delayed us. I arrived only this morning, and my companions are waiting outside the city.’
‘Then it is my pleasure as well as my duty to welcome you to Rome,’ said Paul. His voice was husky, as if he was suffering from a cold, but his manner seemed genuinely well disposed. ‘Alcuin asked me to be of assistance.’
‘I don’t want to disturb you. But we need to find lodgings urgently for ourselves and a place to keep the animals that King Carolus is sending to Baghdad,’ I answered, rummaging in my satchel for Alcuin’s letter of introduction.
‘Ah yes. The animals!’ said Paul, ignoring the proffered letter. ‘Alcuin wrote to me about those. I’m longing to see them for myself. Don’t worry about disturbing me. My business here at the basilica is finished.’
He turned to his companions and explained that he was being called away on an important matter. Settling his hat firmly on his head, he stepped out into the street and gestured at me to accompany him. I noted that half a dozen attendants followed us at a discreet distance. Clearly the Nomenculator was a person of importance.
‘His Holiness insists on checks and double-checks, though they are not really my responsibility,’ he told me as we walked along briskly. ‘He’s determined that the translations are successful. My fear is that they will only make the thefts worse.’
He saw my look of utter incomprehension and gave an apologetic chuckle. ‘Forgive me. A lifetime of working at the papal court leads one to presume that everyone knows the obsession of the day. It creates a sort of tunnel vision.’ He laughed again. ‘A not inappropriate metaphor.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, confused. ‘What translations must be successful?’
‘Of holy bones. They must be moved into the city itself. To be better protected, and more accessible to the faithful.’
I gave him a sideways glance. I judged him to be in his late forties. His face was a blotchy coarse red. He had a bulbous nose and great bags under his eyes. He looked like a drunkard, and yet there was an underlying sharpness as well as genuine warmth. I found myself liking him.
‘What bones are those?’ I asked.
‘Of saints and martyrs. In ancient times a municipal ordinance forbade burials within the city. So the bodies of the sainted dead were put underground in catacombs in the suburbs. Now we’re trying to locate them, and bring them into the city where they can be properly preserved and venerated. As well as protected from grave robbers who would sell off the bits and pieces to whoever will buy them.’
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘In Santa Maria’s the workmen have excavated a new crypt. It has alcoves for the bones that will be brought in from the catacombs. I was there to check that everything was in order.’
‘But I thought your office as Nomenculator makes you responsible for petitions to the pope, not overseeing translations, as you put it.’
‘Quite so. Unfortun
ately, my passion is ancient history. I’m more familiar with the archives than the pope’s librarian who, by the way, is a political appointment and an ignoramus. So I’m always being called upon to identify the catacombs where the martyrs were buried, and to authenticate their remains. Though, to be truthful, most bones look much like any others.’
‘Santa Maria Basilica appears to be a very suitable place to keep holy relics,’ I said, I hoped tactfully.
‘When you have time, you should go inside and take a look around. It has some superb interior decoration, mosaics and painted plasterwork. All done by priests from Byzantium. Locally it’s known as Santa Maria of the Greeks.’
The mention of Greeks was unsettling. I thought of the Byzantine gold solidus that one of the men who tried to kill me in Kaupang had asked Redwald to change for silver coin. ‘Is there a large Greek congregation here?’ I asked. ‘I was told that the Holy Father and the Church authorities in Byzantium are at odds with one another.’
He sniffed, a sound that conveyed both amusement and disdain. ‘Renegade Greek priests, refugee preachers, ambitious prelates. Rome is full of every sort of delinquent. Some genuine, some with a hidden agenda. I should know: many of them come to my office seeking favours.’
He paused for a moment. ‘I’m a papal gatekeeper but the person I recommend for an audience with the pope doesn’t necessarily get what he wants. There are other hurdles to clear before one benefits from the pope’s patronage.’
It all sounded very much like Abram’s warning to me that Rome was like a snake pit. I should be wary. I decided it was safer to turn the conversation to a more neutral subject, something closer to Paul’s interest.
‘I saw workmen ripping marble slabs from a fine-looking palace back there. Is that allowed?’ I asked.
‘That sort of thing has been going on for centuries,’ he answered cheerfully. We had turned into a broad avenue dominated by a looming triumphal arch. Sixty feet high, its three archways were flanked with columns of yellow marble topped with over-size human figures draped in togas. Huge panels of carved marble depicted scenes of warfare and hunting, trophies, gods, Roman soldiers and defeated enemies. Sections of the frieze had fallen away and the surface was streaked with dirt. Wild plants had taken root in cracks in the stonework and grown into bushes high above the ground. It looked shaggy and forsaken.
