The Emperor's Elefant

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. 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.’

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.

Paul waved up at it. ‘We’re standing on the Triumphal Way. That arch was erected five centuries ago to celebrate an imperial victory. Yet already most of those marble panels were second hand. They were taken down from previous monuments and reused. We Romans have little loyalty to the past when it suits us.’

I should have been listening to him more closely, but my attention had wandered. An extraordinary structure dominated the skyline beyond the triumphal arch. The Nomenculator did not have to explain to me what it was. My teacher had told me about it when I was a boy and I had never expected to see it for myself. The Colosseum was everything that I had imagined – soaring up like a vast perforated drum, three layers of ornamented arcades perched each on top of the other and surmounted by a podium. There was a wide break on the side of the drum where a huge section of the edifice had collapsed, but the overall effect was still breathtaking.

Paul noted my amazement. ‘The greatest structure of the Roman world. A feat of engineering and design that has never been equalled,’ he said with more than a hint of pride.

‘It is stunning,’ I confessed.

He looked at me from under the wide brim of his hat, and a mischievous smile spread across the blotchy red face. ‘That is where you and your embassy will be accommodated for the winter.’

I thought I had misheard, and stood rooted to the spot.

He had to repeat himself. ‘That,’ he said, pointing, ‘is where you will be staying. It’s your winter quarters and will house the beasts too.’

‘But how . . . ?’ I stammered.

His smile grew even broader. ‘Alcuin listed the animals you were bringing. When I got his letter I wondered where on earth I could possibly put such creatures. It was like trying to find accommodation for a circus. Then, of course, it came to me: the very centre of Rome has a place designed precisely for circuses and their strange and curious beasts.’

‘But the Colosseum was for gladiatorial contests.’

‘It was, and sometimes the fights were between wild animals or between men and beasts. So the Colosseum has dozens of stalls to accommodate dangerous creatures.’

‘And is it still possible to use them nowadays?’

His face twitched in the convulsive wink once more, and he laid a conspiratorial hand on my sleeve. ‘Believe it or not, the Nomenculator can wield considerable influence when he wants to. Besides, the Colosseum is not as impressive on the inside as from where we stand. Those stalls and shacks should give you a clue.’

Around the base of the Colosseum squatters had thrown up a line of lean-to shops and poor dwellings. Like limpets, they rested against the outer wall of the amphitheatre. Here, as elsewhere, the citizens of Rome took indiscriminate advantage of their city’s heritage.

Followed by his train of servants, the Nomenculator guided me through one of the many entry archways in the Colosseum’s lower wall. We walked down a dank tunnel smelling of rotting rubbish and excrement, and came out on the lowest of the spectator terraces. We were standing where the most important onlookers once must have sat, within yards of the gory action in the arena immediately below them. Now the spectacle was utterly different. On the far side of the amphitheatre a large part of the upper arcades had fallen inwards, causing an unsightly landslide of rubble. On the edge of the ancient arena was a small rustic-looking chapel made from salvaged stones. The floor of the arena close to the chapel was being used as a burial place. Crude stumps of broken marble served as grave markers. Much of the lowest arcade had been converted into makeshift dwellings. Smoke rose from their cooking fires. Higher up, the arcades had been abandoned, presumably as they were unsafe, but not before being robbed of building material, some of which still lay in untidy heaps in the arena. The only area that retained anything like its former function as a gladiatorial arena lay directly in front of us. A sturdy fence of wooden boards had been erected to make a semi-circular enclosure some thirty yards across. Inside the enclosure, the sand of the original arena had been cleaned of rubbish and swept. Several tiers of stone seats that looked down into the enclosure were intact.

‘This place once held fifty thousand spectators,’ Paul said, leading me down some broken steps and into the enclosure. ‘Nowadays there’s an occasional theatre show in this small part. For an audience of a few hundred.’

I said nothing. I was still coming to terms with how badly the Colosseum had deteriorated from what I had imagined.

‘In the heyday of the Colosseum the wild beasts were kept underground,’ Paul went on. ‘A system of trap doors and pulleys hoisted them into the arena so they sprang up through the ground like magic. But all that mechanism is broken or rotted. Now you must be content with these stables at the back.’

We had arrived before heavy wooden double doors set into the high wall of the arena itself. The doors looked in good repair, and there was a sheen of oil on the metal hinges. The Nomenculator waited while one of his servants came forward, raised the heavy bar that kept them shut, and swung them open. We went inside, into a large antechamber with a high, vaulted ceiling, whitewashed walls and a stone-flagged floor.

‘This is where the actors waited before going out to perform,’ Paul told me. ‘Gladiatorial contests were by no means the only public spectacles in the Colosseum. There were pageants and re-enactments, circus shows and dramas based on stories of their gods and goddesses. Many of them involved riders and horses.’

At the back of the antechamber was a broad passageway with several doors on either side. He led me to the first of them and opened it with a flourish. ‘This is where they kept their nags,’ he announced.

I looked into a large, well-appointed stable. A small window set up high in the rear wall gave light and air. There was a stone manger, a groove in the stone floor to carry away piss.

‘This will be perfect for the aurochs,’ I said, pleased.

‘Alcuin claims that it is the only aurochs in captivity. I can’t wait to see it,’ Paul answered. ‘There are adjacent stalls for your other animals. I’ll have my people keep the open space in the arena cleared so they can be let out for exercise,’ he let out a wheezy laugh, ‘though not at the same time.’

‘I’ll write to Alcuin to let him know how kind you have been,’ I said.

He acknowledged my thanks with a small shrug. ‘For your own accommodation I’ve arranged one of those houses on the lower arcade that we saw on the way in.’

We retraced our steps out into the arena where the Nomenculator’s attendants were waiting. They had been joined by two men standing on either side of a large box with protruding handles. It reminded me of a deep bed with a canopy over it. I had never seen a litter before.

Pausing, the Nomenculator turned to me. ‘One of my men will escort you back to rejoin your comrades. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.’

He stepped inside the litter, half reclining on the seat. The two bearers lifted the vehicle and the Nomenculator’s mottled face came back level with my own.

‘Perhaps you and your colleagues could join me for a meal at my official residence? I’d like to hear about your journey so far,’ he said.

‘I’d be delighted,’ I replied.

‘If it’s not too soon for you, I suggest supper tomorrow evening. I’ll send someone to fetch you. A word of warning: avoid walking the streets of Rome on your own, especially after dark. I don’t want to have to send a letter to Alcuin saying that something untoward had happened to you or your comrades.’

He gave an order and the two litter bearers began to move. I watched my new-found ally being carried away up the stairs, leaving me wondering why he showed quite such concern for our safety.

*

Next morning dawned with the same unrelenting grey sky though the drizzle had stopped, and we drove our boat-like waggons into the city and as far as the Colosseum. I worried about how to transfer the aurochs into its new home without endangering ourselves, until Osric drew my attention to an archway at street level wider than the other entrances. It was sealed with a massive gate that looked as if it had not been opened for a very long time. Behind it a passageway led to a second gate that opened directly into the arena. We forced open both the gates and backed the aurochs’ wheeled cage into the entrance, then released the beast. Snorting angrily, it ran down the passageway and out into the arena. After making a couple of menacing circuits of the ring, tossing its head and looking for enemies, it came across the entrance into what had been the performers’ anteroom. The brute trotted inside and eventually found its way into the stable prepared for it. Walo had been tracking the creature from a safe distance and he slammed the door shut behind it. He then undertook the easier task of bringing Madi and Modi to their new accommodation.

The house the Nomenculator provided for us was less than a stone’s throw from where the animals were housed and we had transferred all our belongings by the time Paul’s servant arrived to escort us to his master’s residence for supper. Walo asked to stay behind to make sure that the animals were well settled, so Osric, Abram, Protis and I set out with our guide. He led us away from the centre of the city, up the slope of a gentle hill and into a very run-down area. Chickens scratched and foraged among the ruins of tumbledown houses. Overgrown gardens had been converted into small vineyards or turned into rough paddocks for goats and cows. Pig pens and cattle byres occupied the ground floors of dwellings whose roofs had long since fallen in. Amid all this decay the Nomenculator lived in a large square brick building with a colonnaded frontage that must once have belonged to a Roman grandee.

He greeted us in the entrance hall, his dark priest’s gown in stark contrast to the bright patterns of the floor mosaics. ‘There’ll only be the five of us at table. So I’ve told my steward to serve the meal in one of the smaller side rooms.

I introduced my companions and asked why so many of the adjacent properties were unoccupied.

‘The city’s population is in rapid decline,’ he replied, leading the way deeper into the building. ‘Nowadays people prefer to live in the centre, close to the river, though I can’t understand why. The low-lying areas are prone to bad flooding in winter, leaving the residents trapped in the upper floors of their tenements.’

We had passed into a second, even larger hall, and he pointed to the small pool in the centre of the marble floor. ‘The city aqueducts are constantly breaking down so water for drinking and cooking has to be delivered by cart. Here we still collect the rain from the roof.’

The plastered walls around us were painted with scenes from ancient tales. Their colours were faded but the details in each of the pictures was still clear, and I sensed that Protis was having difficulty restraining himself from interrupting our host to tell us about them.

‘This building is Church property and I am only a tenant,’ Paul explained. ‘Pope Adrian has decided it will become a monastery. I arranged the papal audience for the lucky abbot, and he agreed I could occupy it until he raised sufficient funds for the rebuilding programme.’

He gave me a sly glance as if to remind me that everyday life in Rome was underpinned by favouritism and intrigue.

Five chairs had been set around a small dining table in a side room where the wall paintings were of tranquil rural scenes. I had not eaten since breakfast and my stomach growled with hunger at the sight of green and black olives heaped in bowls, platters of cheese, dried meat and loaves of bread. As we took our places, the Nomenculator apologized for the simple food, saying that it was difficult for his cook to obtain fresh produce in the winter. But the first course was followed by a dish of coddled eggs, then a fish course with a pungent sauce, and finally small bowls of thick sweetened milk with a flavour that was new to me. All the while a servant came round behind our chairs and filled and refilled our glasses with wine. By the time the final course was cleared away, I was feeling lightheaded. Finally, our host turned to me, screwed up the side of his face in one of his twitches, and announced, ‘Now is the moment for you to tell me about your travels.’

Conscious that my comrades were listening, I asked for a cup of water and took a sip before launching into my account, beginning with my summons from Alcuin and the visit to King Carolus in his private chambers. The Nomenculator listened closely, his eyes flicking around the circle of his guests. Occasionally he signalled to a servant to refill a glass.

When I reached the point where I described my failure to locate a unicorn, Paul nodded sympathetically. ‘You were looking in the wrong place. The unicorn is to be found in the Indies, not the northern lands.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

‘In the archives there’s mention of an ox-like beast with a single horn brought to Rome for a spectacle in the Colosseum. It was pitted against a bear. The bear won.’

‘Was the animal white?’ I asked. If the caliph in Baghdad already had a white unicorn in his menagerie, Carolus’s gifts would look very meagre.

‘Nothing is mentioned in that regard,’ he replied. ‘But please go on with your tale. What about the risks of travelling so far north?’

‘The ice bears could have been difficult to transport. But it turned out that my assistant Walo has an uncanny ability to handle them.’

Osric coughed discreetly. ‘You’ve omitted the knife attack in Kaupang,’ he prompted.

Paul’s eyes lit up with interest. ‘Tell me about that.’

I described how two ruffians with knives had cornered me. When I finished, he looked thoughtful. ‘If that had happened in Rome, I’d say the attack was more than an attempt at simple robbery.’

‘It did seem to have been planned,’ I answered, reaching to the purse on my belt. I took out Offa’s gold coin which Redwald had given me and which I kept as a memento. I held it up for the Nomenculator to see. ‘This man – King Offa of Mercia – would like to see me dead. One of my attackers had this coin in his possession. It could have been part of his pay.’

‘May I see that?’ Abram broke in. He was seated on my right and I held the coin out to him. ‘Fascinating,’ he said, taking the coin and turning it over. ‘I’ve heard of King Offa, of course, but I’ve never seen his coinage before. It’s a copy of an Arab dinar, but I would hesitate before trading it to a Saracen.’ He smiled knowingly as he passed the coin on to Osric. ‘I’m sure you can tell me why.’

Puzzled, I looked from one to the other as Osric also examined the coin. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Offa’s name is in Saracen script. Whoever minted the coin couldn’t read the writing for himself. It’s upside down.’

He handed me back the coin, and I returned it to my purse.

Paul nodded to a servant to clear away the last of the little bowls of sweetened milk. Platters of dried fruits and nuts were placed on the table.

‘You were very lucky to get away with your life,’ he observed.

‘It was Redwald who saved me, just as Protis here came to our rescue. Our mission has been lucky in its shipmasters.’

‘Another adventure then?’ said Paul expectantly. He selected a dried apricot and took a small, neat bite.

I described the slow sinking of Protis’s ship and how we had been forced to row for shore. When I came to the moment when the aurochs emerged on the beach, Paul clicked his fingers delightedly. ‘The bull from the sea no less!’ he exclaimed and indicated the wall paintings that surrounded us. ‘A picture in this house shows the tale. For his Seventh Labour Hercules had to capture the wild Cretan bull on its island. King Eurytheus set Hercules the task, but was too frightened to accept the bull when Hercules brought it back to his palace in Greece. So Hercules set the beast free and it ravaged the countryside until it was captured and killed by the hero Theseus.’

‘I don’t know that story,’ I admitted. ‘I was told that Theseus killed the Minotaur in the labyrinth.’

Paul took another careful bite from the apricot. ‘The Minotaur and the Cretan bull may not be the same thing. Every story has its variations.’

Protis could restrain himself no longer. ‘The Cretan bull was simply that – a very dangerous bull. The Minotaur was a wondrous creature half-bull, half-man.’

‘Which half was which?’ asked Abram, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Protis took the question very seriously. ‘Some artists depict the Minotaur with the head of a man set on the body of a bull; others prefer the body of a man with bull’s head and tail.’

‘Both sound highly unlikely,’ Abram muttered under his breath.

Protis failed to hear him. ‘The Minotaur,’ he said, adopting a schoolmaster’s tone, ‘was the result of the queen of Crete mating with a bull. She hid herself inside the replica of a wooden cow and attracted the bull to her.’

Abram made a scoffing sound under his breath but Protis was still not put off. ‘All sorts of strange-looking babies are born to humans. You’ve all heard of babies that have webbed hands and feet like frogs.’

I thought it was wise to intervene before Protis fell into an open dispute with our dragoman. ‘We mustn’t be too quick to dismiss the idea of a creature with the head of a bull and the body of a man,’ I said. ‘King Carolus’s bestiary has several illustrations of creatures which could be the result of strange coupling. For example, the cameleopard is clothed in the spotted pelt of a leopard yet it has the shape of a camel. It could be the offspring of those two creatures.’

The Nomenculator was enjoying the discussion. He placed the stone from the dried apricot carefully on the table, took a cloth from an attendant and wiped his lips. ‘There were cameleopards in those wild animal displays in the Colosseum I spoke about,’ he said.

‘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.