The Pope's Assassin Read online

  Thoughtfully, I returned across the lane to Faranak’s house, delivered the water, and prepared Faranak’s midday meal. As soon as the old lady had nodded off into her usual afternoon sleep, I began to rummage through the piles of Faranak’s hoarded possessions. Under a pile of old clothes I found an old saddle that was still serviceable, and tangled in a heap of discarded bedding I came across a couple of damaged bridles that I would be able to repair. Sifting the rubbish at the back of the room I uncovered a bundle of leather straps, and even recognized the one that had tied my wrists when I was first delivered to her. It gave me a moment’s satisfaction to imagine plaiting it, with others, into a lead rein for my remount that I proposed to steal.

  From what I remembered of the journey when Beorthric and I were brought as captives to the khagan’s capital, I could cover the distance to the border with Carolus’s domain in a little more than three days. But the countryside was now covered in deep snow and, as a consequence, I would be obliged to stick to the beaten trails, travelling from village to village. In those settlements I was sure to be questioned and I decided that I would pass myself off as a Gepid delivering horses for his master. For the plan to succeed I would have to be able to speak passable Avarish, and my only possible teacher was Faranak. I had learned a smattering of the language from her, enough to carry out my daily chores.

  I told myself to be patient as I set about acquiring a better grasp of the language. The task was not easy because Faranak was very hard of hearing and I had to bellow out my questions. If I caught her in a good mood, she was willing to cooperate. Over the next six weeks, my vocabulary expanded, and at the same time I built up a secret cache of the equipment I needed: a couple of threadbare rugs that I sewed edge to edge, leaving a gap for my head, to provide a winter cape, mittens fashioned from strips cut from a discarded blanket, and a cloth bag to contain the scraps of dried food that I put aside from our meagre meals.

  Initially, I thought about stealing the horses at night, under cover of darkness. But I abandoned that idea when, returning from the river on another day, I again saw that the neighbour’s gate had been left slightly ajar. I went over to confirm my early reconnaissance and this time was greeted by a large and vicious guard dog. The snarling brute flung himself against the gate from the inside, and would have sunk its teeth into me if the gap in the gate had been wide enough to let it pass. That persuaded me that my best course was to wait until the guard dog was absent and take the horses in broad daylight, brazenly pretending that I was a servant.

  *

  My chance came at the end of January. I went down to the river as usual to fetch the early morning bucket of water. The previous night had been overcast, and the sky was still clouded over. A slight unseasonal thaw had softened the surface of the snow, and meltwater was dripping from the tips of the icicles that hung from the eaves of Faranak’s little house. There was no one to be seen in the laneway as I came back up the hill and the grey cheerlessness of the day seemed to be keeping the neighbours indoors. I scratched tentatively on their gate, and when there was no snarling response, I took it that their guard dog was elsewhere. I delivered the water bucket as usual, and when Faranak was settled into her customary routine, muttering to herself as she sifted through her possessions, I slipped quietly out of her front door, clutching my bundle of clothes, the food bag and the makeshift saddlery.

  The laneway was still deserted as I quietly walked the few yards to the neighbour’s house. I held my breath as I eased open their gate – it was not locked – and stepped into the yard. Everything was quiet. The house itself was shuttered and silent. Best of all, there was no sign of the guard dog. I placed my clothes bundle on the ground by the gate and, carrying only the horse tack, I went quietly over to the stable. It was closed with a simple door, again unlocked, and I held my breath as I dragged it open and slipped inside. Four horses turned their heads to look at me. With their shaggy dark brown winter coats they were typical Avar mounts, barrel chested and sturdy with thick necks and Roman noses. They were crammed together, side by side, filling up all the available space. I worked quickly. Pulling the door closed behind me, I approached the nearest animal. In the semi-darkness the liquid eyes gleamed large. Gently, I stroked the creature’s head, not knowing how it would react to a stranger. To my relief the horse stood quietly. I stayed several moments, waiting for all four horses to get used to my presence, then slipped one of the two bridles over its head. There was not enough standing room between the horses to put on the saddle, so I attached a lead rein and then moved on to the next horse and did the same. With the saddle over my arm, I pushed open the stable door and looked out into the yard. The place was still deserted.

  Without a backwards glance I stepped out into the open and began to walk towards the gate, towing the horses behind me. There was a bad moment when both animals tried to leave through the stable doorway at the same time. They jostled, jammed in the entrance, and there was the sound of a haunch scraping against the doorpost until one animal pushed ahead of the other. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as I reached the gate to the laneway. There I paused to open it wide enough to let both horses through. Moments later, I was outside with them, and still no one had raised the alarm.

  My hands were shaking with nerves as I fumbled to put a saddle on the better-looking of my two horses while still trying to keep hold of the lead reins of both animals for fear they would bolt. I reached down and picked up the bundle of clothes and bag of food. My homemade travel cloak of old rugs would attract attention as I rode out through the settlement, so I prepared to tie it behind the saddle. The horses were creatures of habit and they had moved to stand shoulder to shoulder, taking up the same position they had occupied in the stable all those winter months. I pushed between them, intending to fasten the cloak in place and that was my fatal mistake.

  I did not know that Avar horses can only be approached, handled and mounted from their left-hand side. When I walked between them, I nudged my saddled horse on his right side, to get him to move over. It spooked him. He reared up. His companion caught the sense of panic and jerked back. I was pulled off balance and fell, still hanging on to the reins and trying to bring the two animals under control. They were pulling in opposite directions, plunging and kicking. One kick struck the open plank gate with a loud bang. I heard shouts of alarm as the neighbours were aroused, then furious barking. I rose from the ground, only for my remount to rear back and pull me off my feet again. I went down in the slush, knowing that my escape plan had gone disastrously wrong even as the neighbour’s guard dog came charging out of the yard and leapt at me, teeth bared. I dropped the reins and threw up an arm. The beast’s jaws closed on my wrist, and with deep-throated snarls it began to shake me from side to side. The two horses promptly bolted in a spatter of mud and snow. There was a glimpse of a boy running after them and then a heavy boot kicked me in the ribs. As I struggled to get up, a hard, heavy blow landed on the back of my head, and I was half stunned. The guard dog let go of my arm and fastened its teeth on my leg. I rolled to one side and looked up at an enraged Avar. He was a heavy-set man with a wispy beard, wielding a length of wood as a makeshift club; his face was contorted with anger.

  Suddenly there was another attacker, a scuttling shrieking demon who joined the fray. The man landed another blow, this time on my shoulder, and then let out a stream of oaths as he swung at me again and his arm was blocked. I recognized Faranak’s voice. The uproar had brought the old lady from her house and she was yelling at my attacker. I recognized the words. She was shrieking at him to stop, that I was her property and that he would have to answer to the khagan if I was injured.

  The final blow from the stick was slow enough for me to deflect it with one hand and then the guard dog, still snarling, was being pulled away by the scruff of its neck. Panting, I got to my feet. My forearm was hurting where I had been bitten, I was bruised in several places, and my clothes were cold and soggy from where I had rolled in the lane. Worse, I
felt a complete fool for having made such a mess of my escape attempt. I knew that I would not be allowed a second chance. Faranak grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me towards her house. Stumbling, I was dragged to her door and then whisked inside. The door was slammed shut behind me, and I heard the bar shoot into place. Then I was looking into the wrinkled face of my rescuer. A dribble of spittle ran down from one corner of her mouth, and she glared at me. Then, astonishingly, her expression softened. An amused glint appeared in her eyes. She let go of my wrist and turned away with a sniff that conveyed satisfaction at the rescue and derision of my incompetence.

  *

  All that week and the next I waited anxiously for my punishment. Every day I expected to be hauled away to appear before Kaiam and hear what he had decided I should suffer for attempting to abscond. But not until early March did one of the khagan’s guards finally show up at Faranak’s door. He had come to fetch me to the khagan’s residence for quite another reason: I was to appear before a foreigner, an ambassador. My heart leapt. I had almost forgotten the role as a hostage that the khagan had assigned me. I could only guess that Carolus had decided to open negotiations with the rebel Avars. In my excitement, I even dared to think that Archbishop Arno had somehow learned of my capture and had a hand in what was happening.

  The khagan’s audience chamber was much more brightly lit than the previous occasion. Dozens of oil lamps had been placed around the room. Candles as thick as my forearm burned on tall iron stands, adding to the smoky atmosphere of the room that made my eyes water. A feast was in progress. The storage chests and other furniture had been moved back so that a score of guests could be seated in two lines facing one another across a low table in the centre of the room. At the head of the table sat the khagan on his wooden throne. On his left he was flanked by the burly, toad-like Avar, with the wide, almost lipless mouth. Seated on the khagan’s right hand was the person I took to be the foreign ambassador. With a sudden thrust of disappointment I saw that he was a complete stranger. Indeed, for a moment, the absurd thought flickered across my mind that he was one of the little folk that many of my Anglo-Saxon people believe in. He was tiny, almost a midget. Seated, his head came no higher than the khagan’s shoulder. He was like a ten-year-old child who had become an adult without adding an inch in height. He was wearing an elegant and beautifully cut robe of silk striped in grey and gold, and his dark curls were artfully arranged across his forehead. I suspected that if I were standing closer, I would have caught a whiff of perfume over the rich smells of roast beef and mutton that were making my stomach growl with hunger. I scanned the two rows of guests, seeking a clue to the identity of this ambassador, guessing that he must have come with his own staff.

  My sense of disappointment deepened when I saw two obvious foreigners seated amongst the Avar nobles. Both had olive skin and were wearing cloaks of white wool edged with scarlet trim and fastened at the shoulder with jewelled brooches. The older man had short greying hair, but his younger companion had the same neat dark curls as the envoy sitting next to the khagan. I guessed, wrongly as it turned out, that they were Roman aristocrats.

  My attention returned to the three men seated at the head of the gathering. The khagan was reaching forward to pick up something from the table in front of him. The khagan lifted the object into my view, and my heart jumped like someone suddenly woken from a deep sleep. He was holding a golden flagon. Even at that distance I could tell that it was exactly the same shape and size as the warrior flagon stolen in Paderborn. I was too far away to see if it was decorated with the image of the victorious horseman, but something told me that it was identical. My mind reeled. I tried to imagine how the gold flagon could possibly have got back to Avaria. Surely it was too much of a coincidence that the thief had sold it to someone who had then traded it back to the Avars instead of melting down the flagon for its gold. It flashed across my mind that the flagon had been stolen to order. But if that was so, then someone had known that the Nomenculator and I had taken the flagon from Albinus – the papal chamberlain – and carried it to Paderborn.

  Nothing made sense.

  Baffled, I looked along the array of the gold and silver items set out on the low table to impress the ambassador. There was a wealth of costly tableware: goblets and platters, and more than a dozen small bowls of different shapes and designs. Most were plain pieces, with little or no decoration. At the end of the table closest to me was a small gold bowl of very striking design. About the size of my cupped hand, it stood on four short legs and the craftsman had fashioned it so that one side of the bowl became a bull’s head, complete with horns. Looking along the table, I saw a second bowl just like it. They were a matching pair. It dawned on me that the golden flagon the khagan was now holding was probably one of a pair.

  A sharp prod in my ribs brought my attention back to the room. My escort wanted me to face directly towards the khagan. The Avar ruler was pointing at me and saying something to the ambassador seated beside him. I was impressed to see the little man nod politely. Apparently he could understand Avar. The two of them talked together for several minutes. During the conversation the envoy glanced in my direction several times, his face carefully blank. Meanwhile, I stood where I was, waiting to be called forward.

  It never happened. At the end of their conversation, the khagan waved a hand in my direction. I was dismissed. My escort lost no time in ushering me out of the audience chamber and into the street. I could have wept with frustration and the bitter irony of where I now found myself. In my bones I knew that the golden flagon I had just seen was the twin of the one that had been stolen in Paderborn. If I could somehow get my hands on it and deliver it to Archbishop Arno I would accomplish my mission. On the other hand, I could see no prospect of ever regaining my freedom. I was fated to remain a serf to the Avars, forgotten by the outside world.

  *

  I was still in a thoroughly black mood when I stepped out of Faranak’s house the next morning, empty water bucket in hand, to find the little envoy waiting in the slush outside. He was dressed as fastidiously as at the banquet, this time in a brocade silk cap and a cloak with a fox fur collar. He was alone.

  ‘If you could spare me a few minutes, we should talk,’ he said in perfect Frankish, looking me over with more than ordinary interest.

  I gaped at him, before gathering my wits. ‘Time is something I have plenty of,’ I answered sourly, then led him inside.

  He bowed politely to Faranak who was regarding him with suspicion mixed with curiosity. My knowledge of Avar was now good enough to understand him as he said, ‘My Lady, I would be grateful if you would permit me to interview your servant.’

  I doubted whether in her deafness she heard him, for her answer was an incoherent mumble.

  He turned to me. ‘My name is Nikephorus. I am an ambassador from Her Majesty, the balissa Irene, to Kaiam the Khagan of the Avars.’ He paused long enough to cast a critical glance around the shabby room. ‘Khagan Kaiam tells me that His Majesty King Carolus sent you to make trouble.’

  ‘Khagan Kaiam is wrong,’ I answered bluntly. I was suspicious of the ambassador’s motive for coming to see me. Irene, the empress in Constantinople and ruler of the Greeks, had no interest in my being set free, and I wanted no more disappointments.

  Nikephorus shrugged aside my denial. ‘The khagan is convinced otherwise. He says you were caught carrying a large quantity of gold, and with maps of the Avar defences. He believes that the money was to pay for a rebellion against the khagan, even to hire a killer.’

  ‘The khagan’s life is not in danger from anything I was doing,’ I said, not bothering to conceal my mistrust of the little Greek. ‘Judging by the way no one is allowed to carry weapons in his presence, he already has enough enemies without my adding to them.’

  The ambassador spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. Last night Kaiam boasted to me that it was time that he put you to torture. He had been waiting to do so until spri
ng when the outlying tarkans – their sub-chiefs – assemble here. He hopes to learn which of them you were planning to approach with the money. I thought I might get him to change his mind.’

  A knot of fear began to form inside me. ‘Carolus did not send me. Archbishop Arno gave me my instructions.’

  ‘The Archbishop of Salzburg?’

  I nodded, again impressed by the extent of the Greek envoy’s knowledge.

  ‘And what did the good archbishop want you to do with all that money?’ he enquired gently. ‘If I’m to persuade the khagan, he’ll need a convincing explanation.’

  I hesitated before answering. I knew that Archbishop Arno intended to confront Albinus the papal chamberlain with the warrior flagon, but I did not know why. For whatever reason, men had been killed to get possession of it.

  ‘The money was all in gold coin. It was to be melted down to make gold tableware. As I told the khagan, only an Avar craftsman could to the work,’ I said, knowing that my answer sounded weak and implausible.

  For the tiniest moment Nikephorus’s eyes expressed disbelief, then he recovered himself. ‘And why did the archbishop desire such tableware? Not as an altar piece, surely.’ A hint of a smile twitched the corner of his small mouth. ‘I’ve heard that the archbishop lacks sensitivity but he wouldn’t go as far as to commission from a pagan craftsman.’

  ‘Perhaps it was to be a gift to the khagan,’ I suggested. ‘The archbishop is in charge of converting the conquered Avars. Maybe he is seeking to establish good relations with the khagan.’ I knew the idea was far-fetched, but I had a feeling that the less I said about the warrior flagon, the better.