‘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.’