Fidelma regard him in silent amusement.
‘Have no fear, Eadulf. I am simply amusing myself for I have not yet agreed that Rome is correct in all its arguments. But, for friendship’s sake, we will discuss the subject no more.’
She continued her walk down the wide road with Eadulf falling in step beside her. In spite of their differences of attitude, Fidelma had to admit that she felt some comfort in being with Eadulf. She could tease him over their contrasting opinions and he would always rise good-naturedly to the bait but there was no enmity between them.
‘I understand that Wighard has been well received by the Holy Father,’ she commented after a while.
Since arriving in Rome seven days ago Fidelma had hardly seen Eadulf. She had heard that Wighard and his main entourage had already arrived a few day’s previously in the city and had been invited to lodge at the Lateran Palace as personal guests of the Holy Father, Vitalian. Fidelma suspected that the Bishop of Rome had been overjoyed at the news of Canterbury’s success over the Irish faction at Streoneshalh.
Having parted company with Eadulf on arriving in Rome, Fidelma had been recommended to a small hostel in a side street off the Via Merulana next to the oratory erected by Pius I to the Blessed Prassede. The community in the hostel was transitory for it consisted mainly of pilgrims whose periods of stay in the city varied. The household was run by a Gaulish priest, a deacon of the church, Arsenius, and his wife, the deaconess, Epiphania. They were an elderly couple without children but were as a father and mother to the foreign visitors, mainly Irish peregrinatio pro Christo, who sought lodging with them.
For over a week now all Fidelma had seen of the great city of Rome was the modest house of Arsenius and Epiphania and the magnificence of the Lateran Palace with the varying poverty of the streets that separated them.
‘The Holy Father has treated us well,’ Eadulf confirmed.
‘We have been given excellent chambers in the Lateran Palace and have already been received in audience. Tomorrow there is going to be a formal exchange of gifts followed by a banquet. In fourteen days, the Holy Father will officially ordain Wighard as archbishop of Canterbury.’
‘And then you will commence the journey back to the kingdom of Kent?’
Eadulf nodded. ‘And will you be returning to Ireland soon?’ he asked, quickly glancing sideways at her.
Fidelma grimaced.
‘Just as soon as I can deliver the letters from Ultan of Armagh and have the rule of my house of Kildare blessed. I have been too long away from Ireland.’
For a while they walked in silence. The street was hot and dusty in spite of the shelter of fragrant, resinous cypress trees under whose shade traders gathered to buy and sell their wares. The traffic up and down the thoroughfare, one of the main streets of the city, was continuous. Yet still, above the bustle of its traffic, Fidelma could hear the chirping noise of the gryllus, the grasshoppers, as they tried to keep cool in the stifling heat. Only when a cloud passed across the sun did the strange noise abruptly cease. It had taken Fidelma some time to discover the meaning of the sounds.
The slopes of the Esquiline beyond was a region of few inhabitants, an area of rich houses, vineyards and gardens. Servus Tullius had built his ornamental oak grove here, Fagutalis had planted a beech grove, it was home to the poet Virgil, Nero had built his ‘Golden House’ and Pompey had planned his campaign against Julius Caesar. Eadulf, in his two years of Rome, had come to know it well.
‘Have you seen much of Rome yet?’ Eadulf suddenly asked, breaking their companionable silence.
‘Since I am here I should try to understand why a church of the poor bedecks itself with such riches … no,’ she laughed as she saw his brows draw together, ‘no, I will not speak of that anymore. What would you have me see?’
‘Well, there is the basilica of Peter on the Vatican Hill, where the great fisherman himself is buried, the keyholder to the kingdom of heaven. Nearby lies the body of the Blessed Paul as well. But one has to approach the tombs in great penitence for it is said terrible things befall men and women who approach without humility.’
‘What terrible things?’ demanded Fidelma suspiciously.
‘It was said that when the Bishop Pelagius – not he of the heresy who was never a Bishop of Rome, but the second Holy Father to bear the name – wished to change the coverings of silver which are placed over the bodies of Peter and Paul, he received an apparition of considerable terror as he approached them. The foreman in charge of the improvements died on the spot, and all the monks and servants of the church who saw the bodies died within ten days. They say it was because the Holy Father bore the name of a heretic and therefore it has been decreed that no pope will ever bear the name Pelagius in future.’
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the complacent features of the monk.
Was he subtly repaying her by the introduction of this story?
‘Pelagius …’ she began, the tone of her voice dangerous, but Eadulf suddenly guffawed, unable to keep his face solemn.
‘Let us quit, Fidelma. Though I swear the tale is true. Let there be a peace between us.’
Fidelma pursed her lips in annoyance, and then let her features relax into a smile.
‘We will save the pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed Peter for another day,’ she replied. ‘The deaconess of the house where I am lodged did take me and some others to a place where it is said that Peter was imprisoned. It was astounding. In the cell were a pile of chains and a priest stood by ready with a file which, for some incredible price, he would make filings from – assuring us that these were the chains worn by Peter. Holy pilgrimage to Rome seems to have become a business in which great sums of money are made.’
She had been aware of the Saxon monk casting glances over his shoulder for a short while now.
‘Sister, there is a round-faced monk with a tonsure which might make him Irish or a Briton following us. If you glance quickly behind to your right, you will see him standing under the shade of a cypress tree on the opposite side of the road. Do you know him?’
Fidelma gazed at Eadulf for a moment in surprise and then turned quickly in the direction he had indicated.
For a moment her eyes met the astonished widened dark eyes of a middle-aged man. He was, as Eadulf had described him, bearing a tonsure which placed his origin as either from Ireland or Britain, shaved at the front of his head on a line from ear to ear. He wore poor homespuns and his face was round and moon-like. He froze at Fidelma’s gaze and then turned quickly away, the colour on his face deepening, and vanished suddenly into the crowds behind the line of cypress trees at the far side of the street.
Fidelma turned back with a puzzled frown.
‘I do not know him. Yet he certainly seemed interested in me. You say that he was following us?’
Eadulf nodded quickly. ‘I was aware of him on the steps of the Lateran Palace. As we began to walk up the Via Merulana, he followed. I thought at first it was coincidence. Then I noticed that when we stopped a moment ago, he also stopped. Are you sure that you do not know him?’
‘No. Perhaps he is of Ireland and heard my speech. Maybe he wanted to speak with me of home and had not the courage?’
‘Perhaps.’ Eadulf was not convinced.
‘Well, he is gone now,’ Fidelma said. ‘Let us walk on. What were we speaking of?’
Reluctantly, Eadulf followed her example.
‘I think you were being disapproving of Rome again, sister.’
Fidelma’s eyes sparkled.
‘Yes, I was,’ she admitted. ‘I even find, at our community where I lodge, that there are books to guide pilgrims to the places of interest where shrines and catacombs may be found and at which pilgrims are persuaded to part with what money they have to take away relics and remembrances. There is such a guide book kept at the community entitled Notitia Ecclesiarum Urbis Romae …’
‘But it is necessary that a memorial is kept of where the shrines are and who is buried i
n them,’ interrupted Eadulf in protest.
‘Is it also necessary that great sums be charged to pilgrims to supply them with ampullae or phials which purport to come from the oil of lamps in catacombs and shrines?’ snapped Fidelma. ‘I hardly think that the oil from the lamps of the shrines of saints can be deemed to have miraculous powers?’
Eadulf heaved a sigh and shook his head in resignation.
‘Perhaps we should abandon the seeing of such sights.’
Fidelma was immediately contrite again.
‘Once more I have let my tongue run away with my thoughts, Eadulf. Forgive me … please?’
The Saxon tried to look disapproving. He wanted to continue his annoyance but when Fidelma smiled that urchin grin of hers …
‘Very well. Let us find something that we can both agree upon, Fidelma. I know … a little way from here is the church of St Mary of the Snow.’
‘Of the Snow?’
‘I am told that one August night the Blessed Virgin appeared to Liberius, then Bishop of Rome, and to a patrician named John, telling them to build a church on the Esquiline on the spot where they would find a patch of snow on the following morning. They found a patch of snow covering the exact area where the church was to be built.’
‘Such tales are told of many churches, Eadulf, why should this one be of particular interest?’
‘There will be a special mass held there tonight for the memory of the Blessed Aidan of Lindisfarne who died on this day thirteen years ago. Many Irish and Saxon pilgrims will be attending.’
‘Then so shall I,’ affirmed Fidelma, ‘but first I would like to visit the Colosseum, Eadulf, so that I may see where the martyrs of the Faith met their end.’
‘Very well. And we will talk no more of the differences between Rome, Canterbury and Armagh.’
‘It is agreed,’ affirmed Fidelma.
Some way behind them, the moon-faced monk, carefully concealing himself among the cypress trees, followed their progress along the Via Merulana with narrowed eyes.
Chapter Three
It seemed to Fidelma that she had only just fallen asleep when her slumber was disturbed by a bell clanging urgently. She moaned softly in protest, turned and tried to chase the elusive comfort of her dream. But she was woken by the continuous clamour of the bell followed by the sound of a caustic voice in the stillness of the night. Already she heard the agitated movements of the brethren awakening and voices raised demanding to know what disrupted their sleep. Fidelma was fully awake now, noticing the darkness of the night. She slipped from her bed, drew on her robe and was about to feel for a candle when there came a timid tapping on the door of her small chamber. Before she had time to open her mouth in reply it swung open to reveal, in the glow of the lamp kept permanently alight in the corridor, the agitated figure of the deaconess, Epiphania. She wrung her hands, twisting them as if to suppress her apparent distress.
‘Sister Fidelma!’ Epiphania’s voice was a fearful wail.
Fidelma stood quietly, examining her apprehensive features.
‘Calm yourself, Epiphania,’ she instructed softly. ‘What is the matter?’
‘It is an officer of the Lateran Guard, the custodes. He demands that you go with him.’
Several thoughts went through Fidelma’s mind at that moment; panic-stricken thoughts; thoughts of regret that she had agreed to Ultan’s request to come to Rome at all; guilty thoughts of her criticism of the Holy Father and the trumpery of Roman clerics in making small fortunes from pilgrims. Had someone heard and denounced her? Then she made an effort to inwardly control herself. Her facial expression and outward demeanour had not changed.
‘Where does he wish me to go?’ she asked quietly. ‘And for what purpose?’
The deaconess was abruptly pushed aside and in the doorway of her cubiculum stood a good-looking youthful soldier in the ceremonial uniform of the custodes. He stared arrogantly over her head, avoiding eye contact. She had been in Rome long enough to recognise the emblems of a tesserarius or junior officer of the guard.
‘We have orders to take you to the Lateran Palace. At once, sister.’
The young man’s voice was brusque.
Fidelma managed a wan smile.
‘For what purpose?’
The young man’s expression remained wooden.
‘I have not been informed. I follow orders.’
‘Will your orders then allow me to bathe my face and dress?’ she asked innocently.
The guard’s eyes suddenly focused on her and his wooden expression relaxed for a moment. He looked embarrassed, hesitating only a moment.
‘We will await you outside, sister,’ he agreed, withdrawing as abruptly as he had entered.
Epiphania let forth a low moan.
‘What does it mean, sister? Oh, what does it mean?’
‘I won’t know until I have dressed and accompanied the custodes to the palace,’ Fidelma replied, trying to sound nonchalant in order to disguise her own apprehension.
The deaconess looked confused, hesitated and then also withdrew.
Fidelma stood for a moment feeling cold and very lonely. Then she turned and forced herself to pour water into a basin. Mechanically, she began her toilet, each movement made with a slow deliberation to calm her inner turmoil.
Ten minutes later, serenely calm on the outside, Fidelma went into the courtyard. The deaconess stood by the gate and Fidelma was aware that the brethren of the house were peering nervously from their rooms. As well as the young officer who had come to her cubiculum, there were two members of the Lateran Guard standing in the courtyard.
The young man nodded approval at her appearance and took a step forward.
‘Before we proceed, I have to ask you formally whether you are Fidelma of Kildare from the kingdom of Ireland?’
‘I am,’ Fidelma bowed her head slightly.
‘I am the tesserarius Licinius of the Lateran Guard, acting under orders of the Superista, the military governor of the Lateran. I have been ordered to accompany you immediately into the presence of the Superista.’
‘I understand,’ Fidelma said, not really understanding at all. ‘Am I accused of some crime?’
The young officer frowned and contrived to raise a shoulder and let it fall as an indication of his ignorance.
‘Once again, I can only say that I am following my orders, sister.’
‘I will come,’ sighed Fidelma, there being nothing else for her to do in the circumstances.
The deaconess opened the gate, her face pale and lips trembling.
Fidelma, walking side by side with the officer, passed through it followed by the two guards, one of whom had now lit a brand torch to light their way through the dark night streets of the city.
Apart from the distant yelp of a dog, the city was amazingly silent. There was a crisp stillness to the air, a chill that Fidelma had not noticed before. It was cold, though not as icy as mornings in her native land, but enough for her to be glad of the warmth of her woollen robe. It still lacked an hour before the first streaks of dawn light would thrust their probing fingers into the eastern sky beyond the distant hills. Only the rhythmic hollow slap of the leather soles of her sandals and the heavier soldiers’ studded caligulae on the paved street made any noise.
They proceeded without speaking down the broad thoroughfare of the Via Merulana, south towards the tall dominating dome of the Basilica of St John, which dwarfed the complex of the Lateran Palace. It was not far, no more than a thousand metres, or so Fidelma had worked out in her daily passage to and from the palace. The gates to the palace were lit by flickering torches and custodes stood ready, swords drawn and held across their breasts in the traditional stance.
The officer led his charge up the steps and through the atrium where Fidelma had waited for so long in her attempt to see the Holy Father. They immediately crossed the hall and exited through a side door, moving along a bare, stone-paved passageway, whose gauntness seemed at odds with the richness of the pr
eceding hall. They turned across a small courtyard, in the centre of which an ornate fountain gushed water, and then came to a chamber where two more guards stood. The officer halted and knocked gently on the door.
At a called instruction from beyond the door, the young man opened it and motioned Fidelma to go inside.
‘Fidelma of Kildare!’ he announced, then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.
Fidelma halted by the door and peered round.
She was in a large room hung with tapestries, but not so richly furnished as the chamber in which she had met Gelasius. The furnishings were minimal and spoke of utility rather than decorative opulence. This was clearly a room which was purely functional. The officium was well lit and a thickset man with close-cropped steel-grey hair and a pugnacious jaw came forward to greet her. He was obviously a military man though he wore no armour nor carried a weapon.
‘Fidelma of Kildare?’ There was no aggression in his voice, in fact the man sounded anxious. When Fidelma suspiciously nodded confirmation, the man continued. ‘I am Marinus, the Superista, that is the military governor, of the Lateran Palace.’
With a motion of his hand he drew her to a large hearth in which a fire crackled, warming the chill early morning air. There were two chairs set before it and he indicated for her to be seated in one while he settled himself in the other.
‘You are obviously wondering why you have been summoned?’ He made the statement seem like a question and Fidelma responded with a slight smile.
‘I am a human being, Superista, with natural curiosity. But you will doubtless tell me what that reason is in your own good time.’
Marinus stared at her as if in momentary mild amusement at the reply and then abruptly grimaced in seriousness. There was no mistaking the anxiety on his features.
‘Truly spoken. A problem has arisen which affects the Lateran Palace, indeed, the Holy See of Rome.’
Shroud for the Archbishop Page 4