Sister Fidelma had positioned herself behind Brother Eadulf who had taken a prominent place as the scriba of Wighard. Next to Eadulf sat an austere-looking abbot whose features were remarkably handsome, she thought, although they seemed to lack something. Compassion, perhaps? There was something callous about the set of his mouth and expression in his pale eyes. She wondered who this abbot was as he sat in a place of prominence among the mourners. She would ask Eadulf later, but she could not help notice the side glances the man kept giving towards the prim-featured Abbess Wulfrun sitting at his side. The dowdy figure of Sister Eafa sat next to her while two more brothers were ranged at Eafa’s other side.
From her position Fidelma could also see across the apse and down into the short darkened nave of the crowded basilica. The vast throng of people, people of all the Christian nations, judging by the variety of their styles of dress, filled the nave and clustered between the niches of the massive columns which supported the roof. Fidelma knew well that it was not the requiem mass for the Saxon archbishop-designate which had brought the vast concourse crowding into the church. The attendance was due only to the fact that the Holy Father himself was conducting the mass for the departed soul of Wighard. It was Vitalian, incumbent of the throne of St Peter, whom they thronged to see.
She glanced across to the high altar where the Bishop of Rome, supported by his attendant, was rising from his ornately worked throne.
Vitalian, the 76th successor to the throne of Peter the Apostle – according to the chroniclers – was tall with a large but flat nose and strands of long, wiry black hair spilling from under his tall white phrygium, a tiara-like crown of his office. His lips were thin, almost cruel, observed Fidelma, and the eyes black and impenetrable. Although he was a native of Segni, not far south of Rome, it was said that his ancestry was Greek and Fidelma had already heard talk in Rome that Vitalian had, in contrast to his papal predecessors, embarked on a policy of the restoration of religious unity, openly wooing the patriarchs of the eastern churches to repair the break with Rome which had begun two centuries before.
As the voices of the choristers fell silent, the Bishop of Rome stood with raised hand for the blessing. There was a shuffle as everyone knelt before him. At his side, his mansionarius, the head verger, presented the thurible, containing the incense, to the acolyte whose duty it was to dispense the perfume around the coffin.
After the blessing was intoned, the pall bearers, with bowed heads, moved slowly forward to transport the earthly remains of Wighard to the cart that waited outside the basilica. Wighard would begin his last journey from the basilica to the Gate of Metronia and thence to the Christian cemetery under the bleak southern city wall of Aurelian.
The Bishop of Rome followed the coffin first. But before the funeral cart itself went a detachment of the custodes of the Lateran Palace with the primicerius, or papal chancellor, and his deacons. After His Holiness came Gelasius, as nomenclator, together with the other two main dignitaries, the vestararius, in charge of the papal household, and the sacellarius, the papal treasurer.
The chief mourners were marshalled by an officious young cenobite, in charge of ceremonies, to a position immediately behind the bishops.
After them would come the rest of the congregation, walking solemnly in procession to the place of burial. As the cortège began to move slowly away from the basilica, the choristers began a hearty chant.
Benedic nobis, Domine, et omnibus donis Tuis …
Bless us, O Lord, and all thy gifts …
It was said that Vitalian was vigorous in encouraging the use of music in all aspects of religious worship, contrary to the policy of his predecessors in office.
Unlike the others in the procession, Fidelma did not walk with head bowed. She was too busy gazing around her, taking in the sights and sounds of the ceremony and especially the faces of those accompanying the funeral. Somewhere, she reasoned, in those solemn faces might be the murderer of Wighard.
As she examined her fellow mourners she contemplated the facts of Wighard’s death as she saw them. There was something about them that did not seem right; in spite of Brother Ronan Ragallach’s curious, and seemingly guilty, behaviour. In fact, she suddenly realised, it was because of that behaviour. No murderer would draw such attention to himself as the Irishman had done. And the exact manner of Wighard’s death, the missing gold and silver artifacts, did not seem to fit to the pattern which Bishop Gelasius and the military governor, Marinus, offered as a solution.
As the procession wound its way under the shadow of Mons Caelius and the remnants of the ancient Tullian Wall of Rome, the choristers started a new chant, a soft sorrowful dirge.
Nos miseri homines et egeni …
We miserable men and needy …
They turned through the impressive portals of the Gate of Metronia, outside the ancient city.
The Christian cemetery, in the shadow of the remains of the third-century Aurelian walls which encircled the seven hills of Rome, was surprisingly large, with its monuments and mausoleums, crypts and cenotaphs. Fidelma was amazed by the vastly differing styles of entombment.
Noticing her surprise, Eadulf unbent a little from his grim-faced mourning.
‘The ancient law of Rome prohibited burials taking place within the city, within the confines set up by Servius Tullius, the sixth king of Rome. As the population increased, the boundary was extended for a mile. Thus, sister, you will find many cemeteries outside the city limits, such as this one.’
‘But I have heard that because of persecution, those of the Faith in Rome would bury their dead in vast subterranean caverns,’ Fidelma said with a frown.
Eadulf shook his head and smiled.
‘Not because of persecution. It was simply that the early members of the Faith followed their own customs. Mostly, Greeks, Jews and Romans, the earliest members of the Faith, would either burn or bury their dead. The remains would be put into urns or laid in sarcophagi and, in turn, these would be located in chambers under the ground. The practice to open up these chambers grew from the second century after Christ’s birth and only just ended during the last century. It was more custom than persecution.’
The final blessing had been given and the procession reformed to be led away by the choristers with a dramatic paen of triumph, the Gloria Patri, Glory be to the Father, symbolising thanks for the passing of Wighard’s soul into heavenly repose. It was appropriate, thought Fidelma. The lament to the grave and the rejoicing at the return.
She moved closer to Eadulf.
‘We must discuss the case,’ she insisted.
‘There is plenty of time, surely, especially now we know that Ronan Ragallach is guilty,’ Eadulf replied easily.
‘We know nothing of the sort,’ snapped Fidelma, annoyed by Eadulf’s presumption.
Heads turned from the departing mourners in surprise at her sharp tone.
She coloured and lowered her gaze.
‘We know nothing of the sort,’ she repeated in a whisper.
‘But it is obvious,’ Eadulf responded, with a frown of equal annoyance. ‘What other evidence do you want than Ronan’s flight? His escape from custody is an admission of his guilt by itself.’
Fidelma shook her head vigorously.
‘Not so.’
‘Well, so far as I am concerned, Ronan is clearly guilty,’ replied Eadulf stubbornly.
Fidelma’s lips compressed. A dangerous sign.
‘Let me remind you of our agreement; the decision on this matter of culpability was to be unanimous. I will continue my investigation … alone, if need be.’
Eadulf’s face was a mask of frustration. The matter seemed clear to him. But he knew that Bishop Gelasius would find a divided opinion worse than no opinion at all. At the same time he felt disquiet. There was no denying that Sister Fidelma had shown a remarkable aptitude at delving into a puzzle and reaching a solution where he thought there was none. He had been more than impressed by the affair at Witebia, in Northumbria. B
ut surely this case was so simple. Why didn’t she see that?
‘Very well, Fidelma. I believe Ronan is guilty. His actions proclaimed it. I am prepared to report as much to Gelasius. However, I am willing to listen to any arguments you may have against that conclusion …’
He became aware of some of the lingering mourners examining them curiously, watching the animated faces of their disagreement.
Brother Eadulf took Fidelma’s arm and guided her through the cemetery towards a tall mausoleum with a marble edifice.
‘I know a place where we may get some peace to exchange our views on the matter,’ he grunted.
To her surprise, Fidelma saw a young boy squatting outside the entrance to the mausoleum with a basket of candles before him. Eadulf placed a coin into the bowl which the lad held out and selected a candle. The boy had flint and tinder and struck a light for the candle.
Without a word, Eadulf led Fidelma inside. She found herself in a small stairwell in the crypt leading down into the darkness.
‘What is this place, Eadulf?’ Fidelma asked, as the Saxon monk began to descend a series of carved stone stairs.
‘This is one of the catacombs where the early members of the Faith were buried,’ he explained, holding the candle aloft as he guided her downward some twenty feet or more into a large corridor which had been carved through the stone. ‘There are sixty of these cemeteries within the immediate vicinity of Rome which were used until the end of the last century. It is said that some six million Christians were buried in these places during the last four or five centuries.’
The tunnel, Fidelma could see, led into a network of subterranean galleries, generally intersecting each other at right angles, though sometimes taking on a very sinuous course. They were six feet wide and rose sometimes as high as ten feet.
‘These tunnels seem to be cut through solid rock,’ she observed, pausing to run her hand over the walls.
Eadulf smiled and nodded assent.
‘The countryside about Rome consists of volcanic rocks, sometimes used as building stone. The stone is dry and porous and can be easily worked. The galleries which our brethren made were not unsuitable for living in and were often used as retreats during the great persecutions.’
‘But how could people breathe underground?’
Eadulf pointed to a small aperture above their heads.
‘See? The builders ensured that openings were made at distances of two or three hundred feet.’
‘They must be immense constructions if this is but one of sixty.’
‘Indeed,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘They were greatly extended during the reigns of the emperors Aurelius Antoninus and Alexander Severus.’
They suddenly came upon a wider space with long recesses cut into the walls. Several were empty but more than a few were blocked in by carved stone.
‘Here we have the vaults of the dead ones,’ Eadulf explained. ‘The niche is called a loculus in which the body is placed. Each family had such a chamber called an arcosolia where they buried their dead.’
Fidelma gazed with some admiration at the beautifully coloured frescoes that were painted on the outside of some of the tombs. There was some writing on the archway above.
‘Hic congesta jacet quaeris si turba Piorum,
‘Corpora Sanctorum retinent venereanda sepulcra …’
‘If you would know,’ echoed Eadulf, translating to Irish, ‘here are piled together a host of holy ones, these venerated sepulchres enshrine the bodies of the saints.’
Fidelma was impressed.
‘It is very fascinating, Eadulf. I thank you for showing me this.’
‘There are even more interesting catacombs elsewhere in Rome, such as the one under Vatican Hill itself, where Peter and Paul repose. But the largest of all is the tomb of the blessed Calixtus, pope and martyr, on the Appian Way.’
‘I would be enthusiastic in any other circumstances, Eadulf,’ Fidelma sighed, ‘but we still have to talk about the manner of Wighard’s death.’
Eadulf exhaled deeply, halted, and set the candle down on a nearby slab of stone, leaning back against the wall with folded arms.
‘Why are you so sure that Ronan Ragallach is innocent?’ he demand. ‘Is it simply because he is Irish?’
Fidelma’s eyes seemed to flash dangerously in the flickering light of the candle. Eadulf saw the sharp intake of her breath and mentally prepared himself for a blast of her anger. It did not come. Instead, she exhaled slowly.
‘That is unworthy of you, Eadulf. You know me better than that,’ she said softly.
Eadulf had regretted his words as soon as he had uttered them.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. The words were offered as no mere empty formula.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Eadulf said: ‘Surely you must concede that Ronan Ragallach’s behaviour points to his guilt?’
‘Of course,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘It is obvious … perhaps too obvious.’
‘Not all killings are as complicated as that of the Abbess Étain at Witebia.’
‘Agreed. Nor do I argue that Ronan Ragallach is innocent. What I say is that there are questions that need to be answered before we can say with assurance he is guilty. Let us examine these questions.’
She held up a hand to strike off the points on her fingers.
‘Wighard, according to the evidence, is kneeling by his bed and is garrotted with his own prayer cord. Why was he kneeling?’
‘Because he was at his prayers?’
‘Allowing his murderer to enter his chambers and come up behind him, take his prayer cord and strangle him before he could even attempt to rise from his kneeling position? Surely this is curious? And it relies on Ronan Ragallach being so stealthy that one must be entirely credulous. We know that Ronan Ragallach is a heavy man. Rotund and given to wheezy, noisy breathing.’
‘Perhaps Ronan Ragallach had been invited in by Wighard and …’ began Eadulf.
‘And asked to wait while Wighard knelt with his back to him and said his prayers? Hardly likely.’
‘All right. But this much we can ask when Ronan Ragallach is recaptured.’
‘In the meantime we should question whether Wighard might have known his murderer so well as to feel no fear in praying in such a manner,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘As his secretary, could you say that Wighard knew Brother Ronan Ragallach at all, let alone well enough to trust him in such circumstances?’
Eadulf raised one shoulder slightly before letting it fall.
‘I cannot say that Wighard knew Brother Ronan at all,’ he confessed.
‘Very well. There is another aspect that is worrying me. We are told that Ronan Ragallach was seen leaving Wighard’s chambers. The gold, silver and coins are missing. This has also been put forward as a possible motive for the killing.’
Eadulf inclined his head in reluctant agreement.
‘We are also told,’ Fidelma went on, ‘that Brother Ronan was not carrying anything when he was seen in the corridor outside Wighard’s rooms. Nor was he carrying anything when he was stopped and arrestedin the courtyard outside. Norhas the search by the custodes discovered where Wighard’s gold and silver has been hidden. If Ronan is the culprit, seen within moments of leaving Wighard’s chamber after killing him, why was he not seen with these precious items, which are bulky to say the least?’
Eadulf’s eyes narrowed. Inwardly he was annoyed with himself for not seeing the logic of the point made by Fidelma. His mind worked rapidly.
‘Because Ronan killed Wighard earlier and took the treasure,’ he began, after a moment or two’s thought. ‘That is why the body was cold when Marcus Narses found it. Because Ronan had killed him earlier but then returned to the chamber to retrieve something and then was caught. Or because he was working with someone else.’
Fidelma smiled solemnly.
‘Three possible alternatives. But there is a fourth. He might simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Eadulf was silent
.
‘These questions can only be answered when Brother Ronan Ragallach has been recaptured,’ he said again.
Fidelma put her head to one side quizzically.
‘So you still think there are no questions to be asked before that time?’
‘I agree that there are several mysteries here that need to be sorted out. But surely only Brother Ronan …’
‘Well, at least we are agreed on the first part of your statement, Eadulf,’ she interrupted. ‘However, would you agree, in the absence of Brother Ronan, that we continue our investigation in another direction by asking questions of the other members of Wighard’s entourage and those who attended him while in Rome?’
‘I don’t see …’ the Saxon monk hesitated. ‘Very well,’ he went on after a pause. ‘There can be no harm in it, I suppose.’
Fidelma smiled.
‘Good. Then let us assess who we shall question when we return to the Lateran Palace. Who was in his entourage?’
‘Well, for a start, I was his scriptor,’ Eadulf grinned sourly. ‘You know me well enough.’
Fidelma was not amused.
‘Idiot! I mean the others. There are more in your party, including Sister Eafa and the overbearing Abbess Wulfrun who it was our great joy to travel with on the ship from Massilia.’
Eadulf grimaced at her sarcasm.
‘Abbess Wulfrun is, as you may have gathered, a royal princess. She is sister to Seaxburgh, queen of Kent, who is wife to Eorcenberht the king.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in displeasure at the respectful tone in his voice.
‘Once you have taken the cloth you are one with the church and have no rank other than that which is bestowed upon you by the church.’
Eadulf flushed slightly in the candle light. He shifted his weight against the stone wall.
‘Nevertheless, a Saxon princess has …’
‘No more recognition than any other of temporal rank who enters among the holy orders. Abbess Wulfrun has the unfortunate attitude of believing that she is still a princess of Kent. I feel sorry for Sister Eafa, whom she bosses so arrogantly.’
Shroud for the Archbishop Page 8