Night Blooming (52 page)

“Then we must make haste,” said Prior Ricimar, and pointed the way to his Fratri. “We are grateful to you, Primore.”

“Yes; yes,” said Cardinal Archbishop Brunehaut, and headed away from the group of monks.

“That was … Christian of him,” said Fratre Sigisteus as the Cardinal Archbishop left them to their own devices.

“He has many responsibilities. God has given him much to do,” said Prior Ricimar, but without the conviction he felt he ought to have. He made another attempt to account for the Primore’s odd behavior. “With the Pope away, the Cardinal Archbishops have many more duties.”

The monks seconded this notion with nods; Fratre Lothar seemed about to speak, and then thought better of it. A Laterano slave who served as warder opened the gates for them, let them out into the hectic street, and closed the door behind them immediately.

“I believe Sant’ Bartolomeo is that way,” said Fratre Smaragdus, pointing toward the northeast; a train of well-laden donkeys went by him, the two peasants leading them in the middle of a heated argument in the local dialect. “Follow those donkeys.”

“I think, rather, it is down that street,” said Fratre Gondehold, indicating the way that led to the largest break in Roma’s walls.

“We will go that way,” Prior Ricimar insisted, starting out toward the street he had chosen. He had to stop to permit four armed men to ride past, and then he almost tripped over a pile of broken bricks that had fallen from one of the sledges being dragged through the city; the Frankish monks were close behind him, walking carefully through the confusion, meticulously avoiding the groups of too-pretty boys in short tunicae with soot on their lashes who loitered outside the Laterano.

“I don’t think this is the way,” Fratre Sigisteus said when they had gone a short distance. They were now in a small square that was dominated by an old Roman building with an imposing but neglected front; a group of larger-than-life statues of men in antique armor were tumbled in front of its wide steps as if they had been struck down in battle. All but one of their pediments were missing, and the remaining one was cracked; no inscriptions remained, just gouged marble where writing had been. No-one was in the square but a pair of young women with painted faces in gauzy stollae, who gazed at the monks then smiled behind raised hands.

“That isn’t Sant’ Bartolomeo,” Fratre Lothar said. “This is a pagan temple. And those women are whores.”

“They have the look,” admitted Prior Ricimar. “Perhaps we should go.” He glanced about the square uneasily, then noticed the front of a large house in surprisingly good repair. Desperately he went up to it, afraid that he was approaching a brothel or worse. He pulled the chain to summon the warder, and was startled when a handsome man with dark hair answered the summons. “Your pardon, Roman,” said the Prior in his best attempt at the city’s patois, “but how may I find Sant’ Bartolomeo’s Basilica?”

The man answered him in excellent classical Latin. “You go up that street,” he said, pointing to the way they had come, “and at the square with the chapel to Santa Svinthtude, turn to the left and go down the Street of the Coopers. Sant’ Bartolomeo’s is two squares beyond.”

“You are a most gracious Roman,” said Prior Ricimar.

“I’m not a Roman, I’m Greek,” said the man, and saw the Frankish monks recoil. “Not Byzantine,” he added. “I have lived in Roma for many years. I tend this house for my mistress.”

“Then you are a slave?” Fratre Ildebald asked.

“You wear no collar,” said Fratre Sigisteus, as if this made everything he said suspicious.

“I am a bondsman,” said the handsome Greek, preparing to close the door.

“What manner of house is this?” Fratre Smaragdus demanded suddenly.

“It belongs to Domina Clemens, a respectable Roman widow,” said the bondsman with great formality. “Those women in the square have their establishment in the Temple of Hercules, where the statues are overturned. They are not associated with my mistress.” He gave the monks a brusque nod. “May God guard you here in Roma, good Fratri,” he said, and closed the door.

“What kind of woman would put herself in a place like this?” asked Fratre Egicaberht. “So near vice.”

“She may have her reasons for being here,” said the Prior dubiously, and sidled away from the stout iron door of the widow’s house. “We must go back the way we came.”

“Vice is everywhere in Roma,” said Fratre Lothar. “Those youths near Sant’ Ioannes Laterano…” His voice dropped away.

Fratre Fustel tugged on Fratre Chunfrid’s sleeve, encouraging him to keep up with the rest of the monks.

“All the more reason for the Church to remain here,” said Fratre Gondehold. “There is much for her to do.”

“Constantinople is no better, and very likely worse,” said Fratre Fustel. “No one can hide from vice in this world.”

The monks nodded among themselves and moved more quickly along the narrow street. The bondsman’s directions proved correct, and they came to the Basilica of Sant’ Bartolomeo in good time. The square in front of the column-fronted church was filled with an impromptu market: bee-keepers were selling honey-combs, and wine merchants offered sealed jars from all over Italy; hawkers of nostrums proclaimed the virtues of their concoctions, while a man with a bladder-pipe played tunes for coins or food. On the west side of the square a building had been demolished some time ago; young shrubs were already growing out of the ruin. Sant’ Bartolomeo was being added onto, and the sounds of workers added to the cacophony in the square.

Inside the Basilica the air was thick with dust from the construction going on at the back of the building. The noise of saws and hammers mixed with shouted instructions and the occasional slap of a whip. In the center of the building, half of a fine new altar was in place, and slaves struggled with another section of polished stone. An alabaster screen was being fitted into the aperture of a window in the lantern of the small dome. Half-a-dozen Fratri gathered around a small altar behind the larger, new one.

“Perhaps this isn’t the best day to be here,” shouted Fratre Sigisteus, hoping to be heard.

“They will work every day except Friday and Sunday,” Fratre Egicaberht reminded them all. “There are Masses all day on Sunday.”

“And Friday is a day of Observation for all of us,” Fratre Lothar reminded them all needlessly. “We must fast and pray all day.”

“Yes, Fratre Lothar. We know.” Fratre Sigisteus was mildly annoyed by the fervent new monk. “I have lived by the Rule for twenty-nine years.”

The others nodded. A moment later they were horrified by the sound of a shriek and a thud; the silence that gripped the Basilica for four heartbeats afterward was more frightening than the scream had been. Then there was a burst of exclamations and curses and men poured into the apse from all directions, hurrying toward the still workman lying in a widening pool of blood.

“We must help,” shouted Prior Ricimar, and gestured to his monks to assist the workmen. “Make sure he is blessed.”

“He died working on a holy building,” said Fratre Ildebald. “He is already in Heaven.”

“Amen,” said Fratri Egicaberht and Gondehold at once.

The crush of workers and monks around them grew greater, and it was soon apparent that there was a mystery about the dead man; the overseer of the men working on the lantern did not know the man, had never seen him in his gang. No other overseer recognized him, either. The men who had come so quickly to care for the fallen man now withdrew with equal rapidity, leaving the Frankish monks to deal with the unknown corpse.

“How did he come to fall, do you think?” whispered Fratre Fustel as he made a blessing over the man.

“Pushed,” said Fratre Smaragdus. “He’ll be buried with the other workmen and slaves who die during this construction. No one will know who he is, or how he came to die.”

“Do you mean he is murdered?” Fratre Gondehold was so disturbed that he could barely speak. “In this Basilica?”

“It seems so,” said Fratre Lothar, and bent over the body. “See?” he said, turning the shattered head to one side. “There is another wound, here; in the side of the skull. It isn’t like the other side of his head. This is like the blow of a battle-ax.” He raised his head. “I have been a soldier. I know these wounds.” He rose to his feet. “This man was dead before he fell.”

“Then who screamed when he fell?” asked Fratre Egicaberht.

“If he was murdered, the man who killed him may have done this to cover his actions,” said Fratre Fustel, and coughed.

“Why should anyone kill him?” Fratre Sigisteus wondered.

“Why kill a workman? Surely he is a workman—look at him,” said Fratre Egicaberht in his most reasonable manner. “His clothes, his—”

Fratre Lothar lifted one of the dead man’s hands, tipping the wrist back to expose the palm. “His clothes are unimportant. No workman has hands like these. See? There are hardly any calluses. He is someone who doesn’t labor.” He put the dead man’s hand down. “These clothes are misleading. What is more urgent is knowing why he was wearing them at all.” He slipped his hand inside the tunica. “He’s warm enough: he hasn’t been dead long.”

“True enough,” said Fratre Ildebald.

Prior Ricimar, who had been watching Fratre Lothar with revulsion, now said, “We must take this body to the cemetery and see him interred as a Christian. At once.” He straightened up and shoved Fratre Gondehold in the shoulder. “You. Take his feet.”

Fratre Gondehold did as the Prior told him, glad he had something to do. In a moment Fratre Smaragdus bent and tried to lift the man’s shoulders; Fratre Ildebald leaned over to help Fratre Smaragdus. No one in the Basilica paid any attention to their efforts, even when the monks raised the dead man to carry him out of the building into the side-yard where there was a makeshift graveyard. There were slaves busy in one corner of the yard, but they continued their work without looking up as Prior Ricimar ordered his monks to bear the body to the nearest open grave. They took their positions to release the dead man, Fratre Sigisteus reciting the Penitential Psalms, Prior Ricimar pronouncing the benediction, and were about to consign the corpse to eternal repose when a priest of mature years with a pock-marked face and rust-colored hair came running up.

“No, no, good Fratri,” the priest yelled. “No!”

Prior Ricimar looked up sharply and gestured his monks to halt. “Patre,” he said.

“This is not permissible,” the priest said anxiously. “This is wrong.”

“Burying a man with Christian rites is wrong?” Fratre Lothar asked, his indignation increasing with every word.

“No. But this man … This is very complicated,” the priest dithered.

“Who is this man? You must know,” said Fratre Lothar.

The priest averted his eyes, then looked at the dead man. “Yes. Yes. It is as I feared. This is Patre Servatus, one of the Pope’s secretaries; he was also a courier for His Holiness.”

“Are you sure of this?” asked Prior Ricimar, worried about the dead man.

“How do you know?” Fratre Lothar asked at the same moment.

“I know because I, too, am a secretary to Pope Leo,” said the priest. “I am Patre Ariolfus. The Archbishop of Arles sent me to Roma eight years ago.” He stared down at Patre Servatus. “Poor man. That he should be killed, and in the Pope’s name.”

“How, in the Pope’s name?” Fratre Lothar asked.

“He was one who helped the Pope flee Roma after he was attacked,” said Patre Ariolfus.

“What do you think we should do?” Prior Ricimar was decidedly uncomfortable asking.

“I think you ought to leave this to the Abbott of Sant’ Bartolomeo; the monastery is near-by. He will make such arrangements as are appropriate for Patre Servatus. The builders should be willing to lend you a sledge to bear Patre Servatus’ body out of here.” He looked around and pointed to one of the overseers. “Speak with him. He’ll help you.”

“That I will,” said Prior Ricimar, and stumped off to the muscular man with the whip; his monks watched as he made a bargain with the overseer, then signaled to Fratri Egicaberht and Ildebald to come fetch the sledge the overseer had selected for their use. The monks hastened to obey, and in short order they had the sledge and had loaded Patre Servatus’ carcase aboard it. They went out the side door and entered a narrow way that connected the Basilica with the monastery, which was housed in three stone buildings that stood around a large courtyard.

“It will soon be time for prandium,” said Fratre Sigisteus, sounding quarrelsome.

“We have a duty to this priest,” said Fratre Fustel rather loudly; he ducked his head apologetically, but repeated, “We have our duty.”

“So we do,” agreed Fratre Gondehold. “One of us must find the Abbott, then we will know what’s what.”

“I’ll go,” said Fratre Smaragdus, and almost sprinted toward the nearest entrance to one of the buildings.

“What do you suppose they will say?” asked Fratre Sigisteus as he watched Fratre Smaragdus rush into the building.

“It is not ours to guess,” said Prior Ricimar. “This priest deserves the full protection of the Church, and if we fail to secure it for him, we will answer before God for it.”

The monks exchanged glances, afraid of more earthly consequences, but finally there was a commotion in the doorway where Fratre Smaragdus had gone, and a moment later, two priests appeared with the monk and made for the Franks standing around the sledge.

“God be with us!” cried the first. “It
is
Patre Servatus! Saints and Angels!” He dropped to his knees beside the sledge and gingerly touched the dead man’s battered head. “How dreadful.” He looked up. “Who has done this?”

“We don’t know,” said Prior Ricimar. “We were told by Patre Ariolfus to bring him to you. He would have been buried in a workman’s grave had he not spoken.”

“Patre Ariolfus?” repeated the priest on the ground. “Who is that?”

Prior Ricimar frowned. “He spoke as if he supposed you would know him.”

“Red hair, pock-marked face and neck, about thirty or thirty-five,” said Fratre Lothar. “A little under height, but with strong arms and a broad back.”

The other monks nodded, although most of them had not noted so much about the priest.