Shroud for the Archbishop (11 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #tpl, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Shroud for the Archbishop
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‘Heia
!’
The light grew in strength and then they saw an elderly man moving in their direction, holding up a lantern.
He halted as they came hurrying along the passageway towards him.
‘
Heia vero
!’ his voice was gruff as he stared from one to the other.
They halted before him slightly breathlessly, feeling like children caught at some foolish prank by an elderly but benign paternal figure. For a moment they could do no more than smile and gasp with relief. The run along the tunnel had deprived them of the breath to speak. The old man shook his head as he gravely regarded them.
‘H’mm. The boy said that you had been down a long time
with only one candle. You were silly to tarry.’
‘We didn’t realise the passing of time,’ gasped Eadulf, recovering his voice and feeling foolish at the elderly man’s scornful chastisement.
‘More people perish by such foolishness,’ the old one grunted in reply. ‘Are you both fit to follow me now? I will lead you back to the entrance.’
He turned as they both nodded silently, feeling ridiculously embarrassed at their behaviour. The old man led the way talking over his shoulder.
‘Yes, yes; we have had many deaths in these catacombs. Death among the dead!’ He laughed coarsely. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? People wander off to see the bones of the saints and martyrs and lose themselves. Others, like yourselves, allow themselves to be caught in the darkness and are doomed to wander for eternity unless they are lucky. Lucky, indeed! Why, do you know how far all the catacombs of Rome would stretch if placed as one long tunnel? It is computed that they would stretch nearly six hundred miles. Six hundred miles of tunnel! Some who have disappeared in those passages have never been found. Perhaps their souls still wander down there, down among the dead, among …’
Thankfully they came to the steps which led up into the mausoleum from which they had descended and emerged into the sunlight of the Christian cemetery with blinking eyes.
The small boy sat in front of his basket of candles and gazed at them without expression.
The old man paused to blow out his lamp and set it down by the side of the mausoleum entrance.
He spat reflectively to one side.
‘Had the boy not told me …’ he shrugged.
Fidelma fumbled in her
marsupium,
the money pouch in the folds of her robes, and handed the boy a silver coin. The boy took it and dropped it in his bowl without a change of expression. Eadulf, meantime, had produced a coin and proffered it to the old man but he shook his head.
‘The coin for the boy is enough,’ he said gruffly. ‘But if you religious value your temporal existence, next time you are in that splendid basilica yonder,’ he gestured to the distant tower of St John of Lateran, rising behind the Aurelian Wall, ‘you might light a candle and say a prayer for the boy.’
Fidelma turned with an expression of interest.
‘You asked nothing for yourself, old man. Why?’
‘The boy needs prayers more than I do,’ grunted the old man, defensively.
‘Why is that?’
‘He will be alone in this world when my time comes. I am old and my course has been navigated these long years. But the boy’s father, who was my son, has already gone ahead of me with his wife. The boy has no one and perhaps a prayer might ensure him a better life than being condemned to sit here and sell candles.’
Fidelma examined the impassive face of the child. The quiet, blank eyes of the boy returned her stare without expression.
‘What would you like to do in this world?’ she asked quietly.
‘It matters little. For all I can do is sit here and dream,’ muttered the boy.
‘But what is your dream?’
For a brief moment the boy’s eyes sparkled.
‘I would like to be able to read and write and serve in some great monastery. But I cannot.’
The child’s eyes fell again and his face became a mask.
‘Because you cannot afford to be tutored,’ sighed the old man. ‘I have no schooling, you see,’ he turned to them apologetically. ‘And I have no money. Selling candles to pilgrims is no more than a means of subsistence. There is none to spare for luxuries.’
‘What is your name, boy?’ asked Fidelma with a kindly expression.
‘Antonio, son of Nereus,’ the boy said with a quiet pride.
‘We will pray for you, Antonio,’ Fidelma assured him. She turned to his grandfather and inclined her head. ‘And for you, old one. Thank you for your timely rescue.’
It was still warm and humid although it was late afternoon. Sister Fidelma had returned to the hostel run by the deacon Arsenius and his wife Epiphania, following her return from the cemetery. She was exhausted for she had been up since before dawn. Not only had she wanted to eat but to take a siesta, as it was called locally from
sexta,
the sixth hour of the day, the hottest period when most citizens of Rome took a rest from the oppressive heat. Now bathed and refreshed by her nap she found the
tesserarius,
Furius Licinius, waiting to escort her once again to the Lateran Palace where she had promised to meet Brother Eadulf to begin the questioning of Wighard’s entourage.
Her first question of the young palace guard was of the news of the missing Brother Ronan Ragallach.
Licinius shook his head.
‘Not a sign of him since he escaped the cells this morning, sister. Just as likely he is hiding somewhere in the city, though I would have thought he would have been easily noticed with that outlandish tonsure which the male Irish and British religious wear.’
Fidelma inclined her head thoughtfully.
‘You are confident that he is still in the city, then?’
Licinius shrugged as they returned from the oratory of St Prassede and began to walk down the Via Merulana towards the Lateran Palace at the bottom of the hill.
‘We have notified all the gates of the city which are watched by members of the
custodes
day and night. But Rome is a big city and there are several quarters in which a man might hide for years or even slip out. Along the Tiber, for example, to Ostia or Porto on the coast and from there one can secure passage to the four corners of the earth.’
‘I have a feeling that he has not left the city. He will be found sooner or later.’
‘Deo volente,’
echoed Licinius piously. ‘God willing.’
‘Do you know this city well, Licinius?’ Fidelma changed the direction of the conversation.
Licinius blinked.
‘As well as anyone. I was born and raised on the hill of Aventinus. My ancestors were nobles of Rome at its very foundation, tribunes who brought in the Licinian Laws nine centuries ago.’ Fidelma noticed the proud flush which had come to his youthful features. ‘I might have been a general of the imperial armies in the days of the mighty Caesars and not …’
He caught himself, glancing in annoyance at Fidelma as if blaming her for the unleashing of his suppressed frustration at his role in the
custodes,
and fell silent.
‘Then perhaps you may clear up something which has puzzled me,’ Fidelma pretended to be oblivious to his outburst of ancestral pride. ‘So many people have told me what a beautiful and rich city this Rome is and yet I find the buildings curiously scarred as if by war. Some buildings are almost falling down
while others are open to the weather. They give the impression of recent vandalism as though the city had been threatened by barbarians. I know it is many years since Genseric and his Vandals sacked the city. But surely this damage is new?’
Licinius, to her surprise, gave a snort of laughter.
‘You are perceptive, sister. Except that the barbarian that did this thing was none other than our own emperor.’
Fidelma was bewildered.
‘Tell me about it,’ she invited.
‘You know that the empire has been at war with the Arabians for over twenty years. They have been sending raiding fleets into our seas. They have conquered most of the areas of the former empire in north Africa which they use as bases to attack us. Constans the emperor decided to move from Constantinople to create a strong fortress in Sicily from which to organise the defence against these fanatics …’
‘Fanatics?’ queried Fidelma.
‘Since they have adopted a new religion as followers of a prophet named Mahomet, the Arabians have expanded rapidly westward. They named their faith Islam, submission to God, and those who profess this faith are called Muslims.’
‘Ah,’ Fidelma nodded. ‘I have heard of these people but don’t they accept the tenets of both the faith of the Jews and our own Faith?
‘Yes; but they say that this Mahomet embodied in his person the definitive expression of the divine word of God. They are fanatics,’ Licinius said dismissively. ‘They are causing death and destruction throughout Christendom.’ He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Well, earlier this year, the Emperor Constans arrived with a large fleet and twenty thousand soldiers from the Asiatic armies of the empire. He came
to Taranto and fought several campaigns in the south before paying a state visit to Rome last month. He was here but twelve days and I doubt if even the Muslim army could have inflicted as much damage on the city as our brave emperor of Rome in that time.’
Fidelma frowned at his vehemence. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Constans was greeted in his first visit to this mother city of the empire with all deference. His Holiness took his entire household to the sixth milestone to greet him with all proper solemnity. Feasts were prepared. The emperor then went to the basilica of St Peter’s on the Vatican Hill and then, with his army, which had accompanied him, he went to the basilica of St Maria Maggiore.’
Fidelma suppressed a sigh.
‘I don’t see …’ she began.
The young
tesserarius
waved his arms around at the surrounding buildings.
‘While the Emperor was praying, his soldiers, at his orders, began to strip the buildings of Rome of all metal parts; the bronze tiles, clamps and ties with which they were bonded; the great statues and artifacts which had stood since the days of the great Roman Republic. Never had there been such savagery which has reduced the city to the pitiful state you see today.’
‘But why?’
‘Why? Because Constans wanted that great mass of metal, riches in antiquary, to melt down for armaments for his army. He had them sent to Ostia and shipped for the port of Syracuse. From there it was said that the metal would be taken to Constantinople.’
He laughed bitterly but stopped when he saw Fidelma staring curiously at him.
‘It is just the irony of the thing,’ he explained with a shrug.
‘Irony?’
‘Yes. The metal never even reached Syracuse. An Arabian raiding fleet intercepted the stolen metal of Rome before Constans’ ships could make the port and the metal was taken to Alexandria.’
‘Alexandria?’
Licinius nodded.
‘It has been in the hands of the Muslims these last twenty years.’ He gave a shrug. ‘That is the answer to your question, sister.’
Fidelma considered the matter thoughtfully.
‘And the Emperor of Rome is now in the south of the country?’
‘Four weeks ago, he left for the south. I understand there is still fighting there with the Muslims.’
‘So that is why there is a nervousness about this place; why the captain of my vessel, on my journey here, leapt at the merest hint of sails on the southern horizon?’
They had come to the steps of the Lateran Palace.
‘The
Superista
has made a chamber available to serve you by way of an
officium
in which you and the Saxon brother may conduct your examinations,’ the
tesserarius
informed her, assuming that Fidelma had answered her own questions. He led the way along the corridor to an apartment near that of the one used by the military governor of the papal household. Fidelma noted that its furnishings were sparse but functional. Brother Eadulf was already inside, rising from his seat as they entered. He looked rested and refreshed.
‘I have warned the brethren to be ready to be called for examination,’ he greeted, as Fidelma entered and seated herself in one of the several wooden chairs that were in the room.
‘Excellent. Licinius here will act as our
dispensator
and bring them to us when we require their presence.’
The young
tesserarius
nodded his head stiffly, all official business now.
‘By your command, sister.’
Eadulf scratched the tip of his nose. He had gathered some clay writing tablets and a
stylus
and placed them on a small table.
‘I will make notes as required,’ he said, ‘but, in truth, Fidelma, I see little of worth coming from this exercise. I believe …’
Fidelma held up her hand to silence him.
‘I know. Brother Ronan Ragallach is the guilty person. So indulge my curiosity, Eadulf, and we may get through this more easily.’
Eadulf tightened his jaw and was silent.
Fidelma was unhappy. She wished Eadulf was more open on the subject, for she appreciated his keen mind and perceptive assessment of people. But she could not go against her intuition and she was sure that there was a hidden mystery to be delved.
‘Let us start with Brother Ine, Wighard’s personal servant,’ she announced firmly.
Eadulf glanced to Licinius.
‘Fetch Brother Ine to us. I have asked those we may wish to see to make themselves available in the great hall. You will probably find him waiting there.’
The young
tesserarius
inclined his head and left.
Eadulf returned his gaze to Fidelma and grinned wryly. ‘Our patrician friend seems to have little liking for our investigation.’
‘I think he would prefer to be fighting in the ancient imperial armies of Rome than simply acting the custodian and bodyguard to a group of religious,’ replied Fidelma solemnly. ‘He wears his patrician’s ancestry with all the impatience and arrogance of an immature youth. Yet in that he has time on his side, for he will grow and mature.’
It seemed that Licinius had gone but a moment when the door opened.
A short, thin man with mournful features entered. He was about forty years of age, so Fidelma judged. Behind him came the young
tesserarius.
‘Brother Ine,’ announced Licinius, almost propelling the monk unwillingly into the room and closing the door behind him.
‘Come in, Brother Ine,’ Eadulf motioned to a seat. ‘This is Sister Fidelma of Kildare who has been commissioned with me by Bishop Gelasius to investigate the death of Wighard.’
The monk looked with dark solemn eyes at Fidelma without a change of his melancholy expression.
‘Deus vobiscum,’
he mumbled, sinking into the chair.
‘Brother Ine,’ Fidelma thought she should ensure the monk understood clearly. ‘You do understand that we are investigating the murder of Wighard of Canterbury with the authority of the papal household?’
Brother Ine nodded, a swift, nervous jerk of his head.
‘You were the personal servant to Wighard?’
‘Requiscat in pace!’
intoned Brother Ine piously, genuflecting. ‘I served the late archbishop-designate. Indeed, I was more of his confidant.’
‘You are from the kingdom of Kent?’
Eadulf decided to sit back and let Fidelma ask all the questions she wished.
‘I am,’ the monk seemed to let an expression of pride cross his doleful features, but only momentarily. ‘My father was a churl in the house of Eadbald the king, and my brother remains in the house of Eorcenberht who now sits upon the throne.’
‘A labourer,’ explained Eadulf, in case Fidelma’s knowledge of Saxon failed her. ‘A churl is a servant who does menial tasks.’
‘And how long have you served Christ?’ Fidelma asked, turning back to Brother Ine.
‘My father gave me to the abbey at Canterbury when Honorius was archbishop. I was ten years of age and was raised in the service of Our Lord.’
Fidelma had heard of this curious Saxon custom of giving their children away to the service of a monastery of abbey.
‘And how long have you been in service to Wighard?’
‘Twenty years. I became his servant when he was appointed secretary to Bishop Ithamar of Rochester.’
‘Ithamar was the first Kentish man to be consecrated a bishop, nearly fifty years after Augustine brought Christianity to Kent,’ intervened Eadulf in explanation.
Fidelma did not acknowledge his amplification but Brother Ine nodded in agreement.
‘It was the same year that Wighard’s family were slaughtered in a Pictish raid on the north Kent coast. When he was only a lowly priest, the archbishop-designate was married with young children. After their slaughter Wighard threw himself into the work of the church and served Ithamar for ten years. When Honorius died and Deusdedit became first Saxon archbishop
of Canterbury, Deusdedit chose Wighard as his secretary and so we went to Canterbury from Rochester. I have been with Wighard ever since.’
‘Indeed; so you have known Wighard a long time?’
Brother Ine grimaced affirmatively.
‘In your experience, did Wighard have any enemies?’

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