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. Unfortunately, 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.’