The young messenger on my doorstep also made it clear that he preferred not to come into the house. I guessed it had something to do with the fact that I shared my home with a foreigner of sinister appearance. Osric’s dark Saracen skin, sardonic manner, and the twisted leg must have made him an alarming figure to the desk-bound gossips in the government bureaucracy. Osric had once been a slave, charged by my father with my upbringing. Now he was my trusted companion and friend.
I stepped back inside the house, put on my eye patch, and collected a heavy ankle-length cloak. At that late hour the braziers in the chancery offices would have been allowed to burn out, and the place was notoriously draughty. Then I followed the messenger along the footpaths that criss-crossed Aachen’s royal precinct. We had to go carefully in the fading light as the place was still a construction site. Piles of sand, brick or cut stone were dumped here and there, apparently at random. Temporary workshops and storehouses sprang up overnight, forcing one to make a detour. A familiar track was suddenly blocked by recent scaffolding, or fenced off by a barrier to stop one falling into a trench being dug for the foundations of a new building. For as long as I had known Carolus, the king had been pressing forward with his grand design to make himself a new capital in the north, the equal of Rome, and he was sparing no expense. His treasury, the tribunal building, and the garrison block were complete. But the towering council hall, large enough to seat an audience of four hundred, was still a shell, while his most ambitious structure, the royal chapel, was not yet ready for its ceremonial consecration. It had acquired bells and marble columns and a pair of great, ornate bronze doors that had been locally commissioned and made a fortune for the foundry owner. But an army of workmen still had months of labour before they finished cementing into place the brightly coloured mosaics that would dazzle the congregation.
We met no one on our way to the chancery except for a few late-comers hurrying towards the basilica. From inside came the words of a psalm energetically sung by a large choir, and I caught a faint whiff of the burning incense. I hastened my pace a little and tried to stay in the shadows, not wanting to draw attention to my absence from the service. With each year Carolus was becoming more and more devout and he expected his entourage to be the same. Those like myself who had little or no religion risked his displeasure if they failed at least to make an outward show of faith.
At the entrance to the chancery my guide plucked up the courage to tell me that he was eager to attend the last of the service, and – as I had anticipated – it was Alcuin of York who wished to see me. I assured him that I knew where to find Alcuin’s office. With a grateful bob of his head, the young man hurried off, leaving me to find my own way.
I had first met Alcuin of York thirteen years earlier, on the day I had trudged into Aachen as a footsore and callow youth accompanied by a limping slave. Alcuin was scholar, churchman and tutor to Carolus’s own family. Royal confidant and mentor, he was the man the king consulted on delicate matters of state. Indeed, I had known Alcuin long enough to know that he would still be on his knees in the front rank of the congregation, and there was no point in hanging about in a chilly corridor. So, briskly, I made my way to his office and, wishing that King Offa could witness my self-assurance, I did not bother to knock but pushed open the door and boldly walked in.
It was more a monk’s cell than a bureaucrat’s work place. A simple wooden cross hung on one whitewashed wall. Directly opposite was a large plain desk with an uncomfortable-looking wooden stool placed so that anyone looking up from his work would directly face the crucifix. Apart from the shelves that lined the remaining walls, the room was bare of furniture. Three candles of expensive beeswax had been arranged on the desk in an iron sconce. In a sign of economy, just one candle was lit to illuminate the sheet of vellum, pen and ink bottle left there. Alcuin had evidently been working late and had only left the room to attend compline. He would be back shortly.
I closed the door behind me and restrained an impulse to read what it was that Alcuin had been writing. Instead, I sauntered over to the shelves and picked up an item that had caught my eye. It was totally out of place in such austere surroundings. It was a tremendous drinking horn, almost a yard long. I recognized the shape from drinking vessels of similar style used at palace banquets. But they were half the size of the one I held in my hands and were made of glass or cow horn. I brought it closer to the candle flame, trying to identify the material. The dark surface had been polished to a high shine, and there was a broad silver band around the open end. I peered inside. It would hold an impressive quantity of liquid, and when I sniffed, I distinctly picked up the smell of ale. At that moment I heard the scuff of footsteps on the flagstones outside. Hurriedly I replaced the great horn on the shelf and turned, just as Alcuin came in.
It was typical of Alcuin that he did not seem to notice the cold of the evening. He was wearing only a plain dark brown gown and had sandals on his bare feet. Gaunt and of a little more than ordinary height, he would have been approaching his fiftieth year. His hair had thinned and receded, accentuating the severely intellectual look of a high forehead and the narrow, clever face. Pale skin and faint freckles told of his northern origins, and grey eyes retained the sharply penetrating gaze that I remembered from previous interviews. I thought he looked tired and over-worked.
‘Sigwulf. Thank you for coming so promptly,’ he began, apparently unconcerned to find me loitering in his office. He did not suggest that I remove my cloak so I anticipated that the interview would be brief.
‘You’ve heard about the gifts from Caliph Haroun, I presume,’ he said. He had a distinctive way of speaking. Each word was carefully selected and precisely delivered as if he was delivering a lecture. I listened closely. Alcuin had a well-earned reputation as someone who came straight to the point and I was intrigued to know why I had been called to his office at this late hour.
‘I’m told that the knight keeps good time,’ I replied. The caliph’s most talked-about gift was a mechanical clock. On each hour, the tiny figure of a knight in armour emerged from a miniature pavilion and dropped a metal ball that chimed against a metal dish. No one had ever seen such a marvel of ingenuity.
‘Let us hope the knight does not rust. We have no craftsmen capable of repairing him,’ Alcuin observed drily.
There was nothing unusual about Carolus receiving gifts from foreign rulers. The palace kept inventories of the various items and their value – jewels, coin, inlaid armour, furs, carved ivory, rolls of expensive cloth and so forth. A few pieces were selected for display but most were consigned to the royal treasury, a windowless building with walls three feet thick that had been built against the side of the as-yet-unfinished council chamber.
‘What do you know about this caliph?’ Alcuin asked me.
‘Only common knowledge,’ I replied cautiously. ‘His capital is a city called Baghdad. It’s very far away, beyond Jerusalem and the Holy Land. He lives there in great splendour and is hugely wealthy. The quality of his gifts is proof of that.’