Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant

by Severin, Tim

  ‘What were they like?’ I asked.

  ‘Very timid, apparently. Two of them were brought from Africa, a long and difficult journey, and let loose in the arena. They galloped around the ring in a panic. Then hungry lions were sent in. It was very disappointing for the crowd. The lions pulled down and killed the cameleopards who put up no resistance.’

  ‘If the crowds had seen ice bears, they would have been more impressed,’ said Protis boldly. I suspected that the wine had gone to his head.

  ‘But they did,’ answered Paul mildly. ‘I’ve come across a description of how the arena of the Colosseum was flooded to make an artificial lake complete with small islands. Ice bears and seals were introduced so the crowds could watch how the bears hunted the seals. Remarkable.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Did your ancestors leave any clues as to how they managed to keep their captive ice bears alive?’

  The Nomenculator was quick to follow my reasoning. ‘Tomorrow I’ll have a clerk start looking through the archives to see if anything is written about that.’

  ‘I’d be grateful – the information would help Walo. He’ll also have to keep them cool in the summer heat on the way to Baghdad.’

  There was a lull in the conversation and Paul took the opportunity to whisper a quiet instruction to a servant and hand him a small set of keys. The man left the room and came back some moments later carrying a folded cloth which he laid on the table in front of the Nomenculator, and returned the keys to his master.

  The rest of us watched, intrigued, as Paul unfolded the cloth and revealed a short twig, pale brown and a few inches long. He picked it up and handed it to me. ‘What do you think this is?’

  The twig felt very light, almost crumbly, as if it had been dried. On closer inspection it could have been a strip of bark, tightly rolled.

  ‘Try smelling it,’ suggested Paul.

  I raised it to my nose and sniffed. There was a subtle, slightly oily, pleasant perfume. A moment later I recognized it as the flavour of the sweetened milk desserts we had just eaten.

  ‘From my kitchen,’ said Paul. ‘It’s very expensive, so my cook keeps it under lock and key.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, inhaling the intriguing scent once again.

  ‘I presume that your Book of Beasts has a section on the more notable birds,’ said Paul, twitching as he smiled.

  I nodded. ‘Gyrfalcons, among them. Ours are very special because they are white.’

  ‘What other birds?’

  ‘As I recall, cranes, eagles and a small black and white bird that can foretell the death of kings.’

  ‘Anything about a bird and its nest?’

  ‘The phoenix. Its nest catches fire in the rays of the sun and it deliberately burns itself to death. From the ashes emerges the next phoenix chick.’

  The Nomenculator chuckled. ‘You’ve overlooked a bird much more useful than the phoenix. Otherwise you wouldn’t be holding the twig from its nest.’

  Belatedly I remembered. ‘Of course . . . the cinnamon bird!’

  Paul smiled. ‘Unlike the phoenix, the cinnamon birds are not unique, though where they live is uncertain. They gather the twigs from a certain fragrant plant to build their nests. The spice traders send their servants to throw stones to knock down the nests and gather up the twigs, later to be sold in the spice markets.’

  He looked around the table, scanning our faces. ‘We cannot deny the evidence of our own senses of taste and smell. Cinnamon exists and it flavours the food we enjoy. If you see living cinnamon birds on your travels – or any of the other rare creatures in Carolus’s bestiary – I want you to tell me about them on your way back from Baghdad. That will be ample reward for any help I can give you during your stay.’

  It was a gracious hint that our supper was at an end. We rose from the table and, as the others filed from the room, Paul drew me to one side. ‘A word in your ear, Sigwulf,’ he said in a low voice that held no hint of playfulness. ‘From what you related about your journey, your embassy has met more than its fair share of setbacks and dangers. Are you familiar with the proverbs of Plautus?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘He’s among Rome’s finest ancient playwrights. It was Plautus who wrote: “frequently the greatest talents lie hidden”.’

  The Nomenculator gave one of his convulsive winks. ‘It’s not only the greatest talent that lies hidden, so too does a clever enemy.’

  As I hurried to rejoin the others, I wondered if Paul’s suspicion was justified, or whether he had lived too long in a city full of intrigue and conspiracy.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE NOMENCULATOR was efficient. Forty-eight hours later his messenger arrived at our lodgings in the Colosseum with a list of the different foods that the ice bears could be given safely. I had not expected it to include cabbages, lettuce, apples and even turnips and beans. Research in the archives had revealed that the Colosseum’s animal keepers had kept their bears healthy by giving them vegetables and fruit with their fish and meat. Paul had added a note to say that if I would let him know what quantity of foodstuffs was required his staff would arrange a daily delivery. The messenger also brought me a document with a large crimson wax seal with the imprint of two crossed keys. It was from the papal secretariat: I was invited, with one companion, to attend the celebration of Mass in St Peter’s Basilica. I read through the document, mystified, until I noticed the date. The invitation was for late December – on Christmas Day.

  I would have preferred for Osric to have accompanied me but on Christmas morning he woke up feeling feverish and so it was with Abram beside me that I found myself cricking my neck to stare up at the gilded roof struts of the monumental church built over the spot where St Peter had been buried. The roof was at least a hundred feet above me, and the space inside the building was vast, by far the largest that I had known. Nevertheless, the chance to attend Christmas Mass with the pope was something ordinary people could only dream of so it was hardly surprising that the dragoman was crushed up against me by the throng of dignitaries, high officials and civic notables also invited to the event.

  For the past two hours all of us had been waiting for the pope’s formal entry, very little was happening and I was now bored.

  My attention wandered and I gazed at the many marble columns; I twisted around to get a better view of the area immediately around the saint’s shrine. Gold leaf had been applied lavishly to every free surface. On the wall of the apse was a vast mosaic. The figure of Christ was in the centre, handing a scroll to St Peter. On his left hand stood St Paul. Looming over the shrine itself was a silver arch. From its crossbeam hung a gigantic chandelier blazing with oil lamps, all of them lit despite the fact that it was daylight outside. The entire apse glittered and twinkled with thousands of points of light, reflecting gold and silver, enamel work and mosaic.

  ‘The lamp is known as the Pharos,’ murmured Abram, noting the direction of my glance. ‘There are said to be more than one thousand lights on it. Both the lamp and the solid silver arch of triumph are the gift of Pope Adrian.’

  I was about to comment that the pope must have amassed huge wealth to afford such an ostentatious gift when a flourish of trumpets announced the imminent arrival of the man himself.

  The entire crowd turned to face towards the basilica’s entrance and a hidden choir which had until now been keeping up a muted chanting in the background, suddenly burst into full-throated song.

  All I could see over the heads of the throng was a three-foot-high silver-and-gold cross studded with jewels. Mounted on a gilded pole it was being held up in the air, swaying slightly as it advanced slowly up the nave and towards the saint’s shrine. From time to time it disappeared from my view, hidden behind the purple and gold draperies hung between the marble columns on each side of the nave. I squeezed forward and stepped up onto one of the plinths at the base of a column in order to get a better view.

  A choir dressed in long robes of white and gold headed the pro
cession. They were singing away lustily in concert with the hidden choir. Behind them came the cross-bearer, and then another man holding up a similar pole topped with a smaller gold cross. Below it hung a large square of purple velvet, tasselled with gold and edged with a band of gems. Embroidered in pearls and gold thread on the velvet were two intertwined symbols that I recognized as chi and rho, the first two letters of ‘Christ’ in the alphabet of the Greeks that had been drummed into my head by the renegade priest who was my childhood teacher.

  ‘The Laburum,’ said Abram who had climbed up on the plinth behind me. ‘Banner and symbol of the Holy Roman Empire.’

  The church dignitaries solemnly pacing up the aisle behind the banner were gorgeously attired. Their flowing tunics of lustrous white silk had gold and purple borders. Long cloaks of richly embellished material were pinned at the shoulder with gem-studded brooches. A few were bare headed and had tonsures, but most wore square, four-cornered caps, black and crimson. They processed through the smoke curling up from the censers that some of them swung from gold chains. Others held velvet cushions on which were displayed various sacred items – a set of keys, holy books, chalices and vases.

  ‘Adrian favours the veneration of images,’ muttered Abram in a disapproving tone as one of the priests in the procession extended his arms and briefly raised up the picture of a saint he was carrying, turning it to left and right so that the crowd could see. More gold and enamel shimmered in the light of the oil lamps that hung the length of the nave.

  Then came a short gap in the line, and I recognized Paul the Nomenculator. He was walking with a more soberly dressed group. These wore dark gowns, their hands clasped in front of them, faces fixed in solemn expressions. They had the appearance of notaries and scribes rather than bishops.

  ‘The papal ministers,’ explained Abram out of the side of his mouth.

  The singing of the choirs rose to a crescendo, and at last I caught a brief glimpse of Pope Adrian. He was halfway up the aisle and looking straight ahead, his long aristocratic face composed and serene. His only concession to the winter chill was a short cloak of bright scarlet with a collar and trimmings of white fur. Under it, like the others, he was in a long tunic, though he was the only person in the procession to be wearing a long, gold-banded stole. Adrian might have been ninety years old but he walked with a firm step and it was clear that he had been a handsome man. On either side a senior official in dark ministerial dress was leading him by the hand in a gesture of formal support. The pope was half a head taller than they were, and the ridged cap accentuated a high forehead and strong features. He reminded me of an ageing and pitiless bird of prey.

  A firm tug on the hem of my coat pulled me off the plinth, and I turned to find myself looking into the scowl of a burly spectator. I had been blocking his view. Abram had been treated similarly. I apologized profusely and slipped back through the throng to where I no longer had a view of proceedings. The singing had died away so the procession must have reached the saint’s shrine. A hush spread across the crowd and then came the strong, clear voice of a priest summoning the faithful. The service had begun.

  *

  ‘The Nomenculator looked very drab compared to some others in the procession,’ I commented to Abram some hours later as we made our way back towards our lodgings in the Colosseum. We were walking from the basilica downhill towards the river through an area of recently built wooden houses. Many of them were inns and hospices catering for the needs of pilgrims visiting the city.

  ‘Appearances are deceptive,’ he said. ‘Those closest to the pope wield the most power. The two dignitaries you saw leading him by the hand are both his relatives. One is the Primicerius Notariorum, the other the Secundarius – the head of chancery and his deputy. Adrian wants one of them to succeed him, to keep it in the family.’

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘I keep my ears open. All the gossip indicates that there’s going to be trouble when Adrian finally passes on.’

  ‘There are rivals?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Alcuin warned me about this sort of thing. Thankfully it doesn’t concern us,’ I said.

  The dragoman wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. A chill wind had got up and there was a smell of rain in the air. Soon it would be dark. ‘It might concern us,’ he said carefully. ‘Adrian and King Carolus are known to be close allies. Carolus even refers to Adrian as his “father”.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked, perhaps a little too sharply, but I was stung that the dragoman was more knowledgeable about these matters than me.

  Again he shrugged. ‘It is common knowledge. Adrian may already have obtained an undertaking from Carolus to support a member of Adrian’s family as the next pope.’

  ‘That’s pure supposition,’ I objected.

  ‘People in Rome have vivid imaginations, particularly when they are hatching plots.’

  ‘But I still don’t see how that affects our embassy,’ I said.

  Abram halted and turned towards me, his dark eyes searching my face. ‘What if someone wants to send a warning to Carolus, to encourage him to stay clear of Roman politics? What would be a good way to do that?’

  I felt a faint shiver of apprehension as I saw his meaning. ‘Harm his embassy.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Abram, you’re becoming as devious and mistrustful as those Roman conspirators you just spoke of,’ I said, keeping my voice light though I remained uneasy. ‘We can’t look for enemies lurking down every alleyway.’

  We continued our walk in silence as I thought over what the dragoman had told me. Despite myself, I looked around. It was dusk and the light was rapidly fading. What was it that Paul had said about not walking the streets unescorted after dark? I quickened my pace, glad to note that we were in a street lined with inns. A party of men was coming towards us, and they turned into the doorway just ahead of us. By their dress they appeared to be foreign pilgrims. They had been drinking and were talking loudly, laughing and joking with one another. With a sudden jolt I recognized their speech. They were talking together in my mother tongue: Anglo-Saxon.

  I waited until we were well out of earshot before I said, ‘Those men back there. They were from England.’

  ‘That was a boarding house for English pilgrims. They pay a very low rent to stay there, thanks to a donation from one of their kings some years ago.’ There was enough light for me to see Abram’s expression change as he realized what lay behind my comment. His eyes narrowed. ‘Is this something to do with that coin you showed us the other evening? The one from King Offa?’ he asked.

  ‘I hadn’t realized that some of his people would be here in Rome.’

  It was Abram’s turn to reassure me. ‘Now you’re the one who imagines plots and conspiracies round every corner! Dozens of your countrymen make the pilgrimage to Rome, especially to witness the Christmas celebrations.’

  We walked on but I was unable to shake off the unwelcome idea that even in Rome I was within Offa’s reach. The prospect of spending three more months in Rome had lost its appeal. The sooner we were on our way to Baghdad, the happier I would be.

  *

  The months dragged by. January and February were cold and dreary with slate-grey skies. A week of incessant rain caused the river to overflow and flood the low-lying parts of the city. The water rose above head height, obliging the residents to move to the upper floors as the Nomenculator had described. The Colosseum escaped the worst of the inundation, though there were days when several inches of standing water in the arena meant that the animals could not be exercised. They stayed in their stalls and were well looked after. Walo’s feeding the ice bears with vegetables along with meat and fish, as Paul had researched, was a success. Modi and Madi thrived, and of course were very happy in the winter cold. The gyrfalcons also stayed in good condition and one morning Walo came to me, grinning with delight, to report that one of the dogs had given birth to a litter of f
our puppies. Two of them were pure white so we had more than we had started out with from Kaupang. The remaining pair had black and brown markings and, after they had been weaned, Walo made a present of them to the stable-hands who had the unpleasant job of cleaning out the aurochs’ stable. That creature remained as bad tempered as ever.

  Word had spread about our exotic animals and at exercise times there was usually an audience to watch them. The ice bears attracted by far the most attention. Entire families would sit in the Colosseum’s former spectator seats as Modi and Madi padded lazily around the arena, and I was obliged to post attendants to stop children throwing stones to provoke them. Various members of the Roman nobility also came to inspect and admire the white gyrfalcons, watching Walo exercising them. The birds looked even more spectacular than usual as they circled high above the great bowl of the Colosseum. Our visitors’ reaction to the sight of the surly aurochs, drooling, snorting and rolling its eyes angrily, was always the same: awe tinged with fear. Our benefactor Paul once paid an hour-long visit to see the animals, but after that we rarely saw him. His butler had found us a local cook and a house servant, so when Abram suggested that he and his three attendants move away to live with a Rhadanite family I agreed. It meant that the four Rhadanites could have their food cooked in their own style and observe their dietary laws. There were many days when Protis was away, visiting his friends in Rome, and Osric and I would tour the city’s sights. We would either arrange to meet up with Abram as our guide or we would rely on a small book written for pilgrims that I had bought from a peddler in the porch of St Peter’s Basilica. It listed the shrines of a bewildering number of saints. We dutifully joined the queues lining up to see their tombs or to inspect sacred relics. Invariably, when we emerged from a dark crypt into the daylight or stepped out from the doors of a church, it was to be pounced on by hawkers and street vendors offering to sell us medallions and pilgrim badges.

  By early March I was beginning to believe that Abram’s fears of an attack on our embassy were unfounded, so routine was our life in Rome. One evening after a fine sunny day that showed the first signs of spring, Osric and I returned to our lodgings footsore and weary, and rather later than usual. All the houses were shuttered and dark. Walo had gone to bed, and there was no sign of our servants, so I presumed that they had left and gone to their own homes. Osric and I headed to our separate rooms. I lay down in my underclothes for it promised to be a very cold night under the clear skies, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Some time later, I awoke to the barking of dogs. I lay still in bed, listening. Several households within the Colosseum kept dogs as pets and as watchdogs. At night they often barked or howled at one another, and made sleep difficult. But the noise that awoke me was different. I recognized the distinctive high short yaps of the dogs we had brought from Kaupang. It was the sound they made when wildly excited. The noise was close at hand, which was odd. The dogs were always locked up for the night in their kennel deep within the stabling behind the arena, and any noise should have been muffled. My first thought was that Walo might have failed to confine them. I got up, pulled on some clothes and went out of my room and opened the front door of the house to see what all the noise was about.