‘Shall I accompany you to your lodgings?’ Eadulf asked.
Smiling, she was about to shake her head when the young custodes, Furius Licinius, pushed forward.
‘I shall accompany you, sister, as my lodging also lies in your direction.’ His voice showed he expected no argument. Fidelma was too tired now to form any. And so, bidding a good night’s repose to Eadulf, she sleepily followed the young custodes from the marble halls of the Lateran Palace and across the now deserted great hall, through the portico and across to the Via Merulana.
She was almost asleep on her feet when she reached the small hostel situated by the oratory of St Prassede.
The deaconess Epiphania, standing at the gate, hurried forward to greet her. Since she had ascertained that Fidelma now fulfilled some important role at the Lateran Palace and was the confidante of the Bishop Gelasius, and could even command a tesserarius of the palace custodes, there was little which she would not do to see that her honoured guest had no complaints. Seeing Fidelma’s exhausted condition, Epiphania began to cluck in motherly concern. She took the girl’s arm and, with a dismissive gesture to the young guard commander, led her tired charge within the gate and straight to her cubiculum. Fidelma was asleep even before her head dropped to the pillow. It was a deep although not dreamless sleep, but her dreams were necessary to help her mind relax from the information and imagery which she had absorbed during the day.
Chapter Eleven
When Sister Fidelma stirred, with the limpid glare of a Roman morning flooding into her cubiculum, she felt totally refreshed and relaxed. She stretched luxuriously and then noticed how bright it was and how warm. With a slight frown, she threw back the covers and swung out of her bed. She knew it was late but was not particularly concerned. She had needed the sleep. She took her time about her toilet and her dressing before leaving her room. Doubtless, the deaconess Epiphania and her husband Arsenius would have served the jentaculum, the first meal of the day, and Fidelma would have to break her fast elsewhere, perhaps buying a piece of fruit from one of the stalls as she passed down the Via Merulana on her way to the Lateran Palace. But Fidelma did not care. It was odd how sleep and relaxation made life a pleasant thing.
To her surprise, as she made her way down into the interior courtyard of the hostel, the deaconess Epiphania appeared smiling brightly. It was such a change from the disinterested and expressionless hostel-keeper of two days before.
‘Did you sleep well, sister?’ she asked cheerfully.
‘I did,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I was extremely fatigued last night.’
The elderly woman nodded briskly.
‘That you were. You scarcely noticed me helping you to bed. We thought it best to let you sleep as long as you wanted to. But food has been prepared for you in our little refectory, sister.’
Fidelma had a dim memory of the woman helping her to bed last night. Fidelma was surprised that she should be so indulged.
‘But the hour is late. I would not wish to disturb the routine of the hostel.’
‘It is no bother at all, sister,’ Epiphania was almost ingratiating, ushering her guest into the small now deserted refectory. A single place was still laid and Epiphania continued to fuss over Fidelma’s needs. The meal was excellent, with wheat bread and a dish of honey and fruits, mainly figs and grapes. Fidelma had, in her short stay in the city, learnt enough of the custom of Rome to eat lightly at the jentaculum but to indulge at the midday prandium for this was the main meal of the day. However, when the sun went down a lighter meal was served called the cena. It took a while to adjust to this, for in the abbeys of Ireland and even in Northumbria it was the evening cena which was the chief meal of the day.
It was only when Fidelma was finishing her meal that she thought to ask if anyone had been inquiring for her. Furius Licinius had promised to escort her to the Lateran.
‘The tesserarius of the custodes did indeed come to inquire after you earlier this morning,’ confirmed Epiphania. ‘He told me to tell you to rest as much as you want for he and a brother …’ Epiphania contorted her expression as she tried to recall the name.
‘Brother Eadulf?’ Fidelma guessed.
‘Ah, the same. He and brother Eadulf would be making another search for that which is missing …’ Epiphania pulled a face, clearly, she did not like mystifying messages. ‘Does that make sense?’
Fidelma indicated that it did. She would be surprised if Furius Licinius or Eadulf would discover the missing valuables anywhere in the Lateran Palace. They would have been removed long ago.
Epiphania suddenly interrupted with a little exclamation of self-reproach.
‘I nearly forgot, sister. There was a written message for you.’
‘For me?’ Fidelma repeated. ‘From the Lateran Palace?’
She presumed it would be from Brother Eadulf.
‘No, a small boy brought it at first light.’
Epiphania went to a stand to one side of the room and picked up a small folded papyrus.
Puzzled, Fidelma saw her name inscribed on the outside in firm Latin characters. She opened it up and her mouth rounded as she perceived that the message was written in Ogham. Ogham was the ancient form of writing in Ireland, consisting of short lines drawn to, or crossing, a base line. The alphabet had begun to fall out of use with the wider application of the Latin form by Christian usage. It was said the alphabet was given to the ancient Irish by Ogma, the old pagan god of eloquence and literature. Fidelma had learnt the old alphabet as a natural course for, though it was falling into disuse, several religious still used it in their memorials. It was handy to read the ancient texts, such as the rods of the poets – whole sagas inscribed on wands of yew and hazel – which were now being replaced by an Irish written in Latin characters.
Fidelma’s eyes ran quickly over the script. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Sister Fidelma,
I did not kill Wighard. I think you must suspect this is the truth. Meet me in the catacomb of Aurelia Restutus in the cemetery beyond the Metronia Gate. Come alone. Come at noon. I will tell you my story but only to you – alone. Ronan Ragallach, your brother in Christ.
Fidelma let out a breath which was more like a sharp whistle.
‘Bad news?’ came the voice of the anxious Epiphania, hovering at her shoulder.
‘No,’ Fidelma said hastily, thrusting the note into the folds of her robe. ‘What hour is it?’
Epiphania frowned.
‘It lacks the hour to noon. You have slept long and well.’
Fidelma stood up hurriedly.
‘I must go.’
Epiphania fussed over her until she reached the gate of the hostel. Sister Fidelma swung swiftly down the Via Merulana, taking a short cut by the Campus Martialis which led over the Hill of Caelius to the Gate of Metronia. She was pleased with her growing knowledge of Roman geography. She presumed that the catacomb of Aurelia Restutus was the same catacomb which Eadulf had shown her on the previous day for that was the only Christian cemetery beyond the Metronia gates.
She made her way into the cemetery and peered round at the memorials. There were many people there examining the tombs. She halted for a moment as she caught sight of a familiar face some way off among the crowds. The handsome cruel features of the Abbot Puttoc were peering around as if looking for someone. A pace behind him walked Brother Eanred looking every inch like a typical servant following his master’s footsteps.
Fidelma had no wish to meet the vain abbot, nor his servant for that matter, and so lowered her head and pushed her way into a small group of people. She presumed that Puttoc had come to see the grave of Wighard and pay his respects, though surely Puttoc would have as little regard for Wighard dead as he had for Wighard alive. It seemed that Puttoc and Eanred were making for another part of the cemetery and, after a while, she detached herself from the group of pilgrims, who seemed to be Greeks in search of particular tombs in the cemetery, and made her way in the direction Brother Eadulf had shown her on the previous day.
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She found herself at the entrance to the catacomb where the solemn-faced child, Antonio, was seated behind his basket of candles. She bent down with a smile. The boy looked up, recognised her and acknowledged her presence only by a widening of his dark eyes.
‘Hello, Antonio,’ Fidelma greeted. ‘I am in need of candles and directions.’
The boy said nothing but waited for her to explain.
‘I am looking for the catacomb of Aurelia Restutus.’
The boy cleared his throat and when he spoke it was in the curious throaty mix of a boy whose voice is changing into manhood.
‘Are you alone, sister?’
Fidelma nodded.
‘There are only a few people in the catacombs at the moment. My grandfather Salvatore is not here to take you. It is dangerous if you don’t know the way.’
Fidelma appreciated the boy’s concern, especially after the drama of the previous day.
‘I have to go on my own. Which way do I go?’
The boy gazed at her a moment and then shrugged.
‘Will you remember these directions? At the bottom of the stairs, take the left-hand passage. Keep along it for one hundred yards. Take the right hand and go down the steps to a lower level. Go straight on, passing a great tomb with a large picture of Our Lord painted on it. Two hundred yards on from here you turn to the left and down a short flight of steps. That is the catacomb of Aurelia Restutus.’
Fidelma closed her eyes and repeated the boy’s instructions. She opened them and the boy nodded in solemn confirmation.
‘This time I will take two candles,’ Fidelma grinned.
The boy shook his head and, reaching behind him, brought forth a small pottery lamp, heavy with oil. He lit it expertly.
‘Take this as well as a candle, sister. Then all should be well. Do you have tinder and flint in case it goes out?’
Since the earlier incident Fidelma had come prepared with a tinder box in her marsupium in case of any emergency and she nodded affirmatively.
She drew forth some coins and dropped them in his basket smiling. ‘In my language, Antonio, we say – cabhair ó Dhia agat. God’s care at you!’
She had started down the steps into the dark vaults when the boy’s voice came behind her.
‘Benigne dicis, sister.’
Fidelma paused and smiled back at him before continuing on into the darkness.
She turned down into the catacombs, glad already, as she reached the bottom of the cold stone steps, of the bright lamp in her hand and reassured with the extra candles she possessed in her marsupium.
In her mind she kept running through the boy Antonio’s directions, following them carefully through the dark chill corridors and down deeper into the bowels of the dry and porous stonework. Now and then she heard the sound of voices or an unseemly burst of laughter from other visitors to the catacombs, but the paths of these pilgrims did not cross with her own. She remained isolated as she pressed further, taking the stairways further underground and the turns to left and right as the boy instructed.
Eventually, she came to a man-made cavern some ten feet high and some five or six feet broad with a slightly vaulted roof. No masonry had been employed in its construction and the only support was that which the volcanic stone itself produced. On either side of the cavern, excavated in the lithoid tufa, as Fidelma had ascertained the conglomerate of rock was called, were the loculi or resting places for the dead. They differed in size and she was pleased to see that those loculi which had been used were sealed up with marble slabs or tiles with some inscriptions and Christian emblems incised or painted on them.
She moved forward, holding the lamp high, and her eyes rested on a loculus larger and more grandly adorned than all the rest. The inscription was in Latin with its simple Christian phraseology,
Domus aeternalis
Aurelia Restutus
Deus cum spiritum tuum
Basin Deo
The eternal home of
Aurelia Restutus
God be with thy spirit
May you live in God.
Fidelma gave a little sigh of relief. At least she was in the right catacomb. She found herself wondering who Aurelia Restutus had been and why she had deserved such a grandiose tomb. The marble was adorned with doves of peace and above it was the Chi-Ro symbol, the initial Greek letters of the name of Christ.
She set down the lamp on the ledge of an empty loculus and peered around the chamber wondering where Ronan Ragallach was. She knew it must be sometime after noon, for as she had descended the steps into the catacombs she had heard a far-off bell chiming the noon Angelus. She was sure that Ronan would give her a while to make the appointment before leaving. It was not that long after the noon hour.
She compressed her lips to stifle a sigh of impatience. Fidelma disliked any form of inaction in spite of her training in contemplation. In that aspect she had not been a good noviate.
Time passed. A matter only of minutes but it seemed an eternity to Fidelma in this place.
She was, at first, not sure whether she had really heard the sound. A soft scuffling noise from one of the chambers beyond. Then she heard something heavy fall.
She held her head to one side for a moment.
‘Brother Ronan?’ she called softly. ‘Is that you?’
There was a silence after her voice had ceased echoing down the darkened vaults.
She turned and picked up her lamp and moved cautiously into the next chamber. It was, in size and configuration, the same as the one she had left. She crossed it slowly and moved into the sequential chamber.
Fidelma saw the crumpled figure immediately. It lay face downwards, hands outstretched, an extinguished candle lying near the left hand. It was clad in brown homespun, the robe rumpled up to the back of the knees, the feet encased in leather sandals. The figure was rotund, heavy. Only from the fact that the head was shaved with the tonsure of Columba, the hair long at the back, the front shaved from ear to ear, did Fidelma realise that this must be Brother Ronan Ragallach.
She laid her lamp aside and bent down swiftly, turning the monk over.
She stifled an exclamation as she realised that he was beyond all earthly assistance. The sightless eyes, the blackened features and the protruding tongue told their own story. Around his neck was twisted a prayer cord, biting into the flesh of the moon-faced monk and almost breaking the folds of the skin.
With a feeling of frustration she realised that Brother Ronan Ragallach would tell her nothing. He was quite dead.
Fidelma gave a swift glance around and shivered slightly, for his murderer must be close by, as she realised the noise she had heard was Ronan Ragallach’s death fall. Reassuring herself that she was in no immediate danger, she began to examine the body carefully.
Her eyes were drawn to the right hand, still clenched into a tight fist. In it was a torn piece of cloth, of brown sackcloth. No, not torn; but cut from his grasp with a knife which had almost ripped it. Brother Ronan had been carrying something and had been determined not to give it up even in death. Equally determined to have it, the murderer had used a knife to cut the sack free.
Fidelma shook her head in bewilderment and, taking up the lamp again, held it up to view the body.
Something glinted a short distance away.
She rose and went to it, bending to pick it up, her eyes widening in astonishment.
It was a silver chalice of moderate craftsmanship, slightly bent and grazed by being roughly handled. She knew without thinking that she was probably holding one of the missing cups from Wighard’s hoard. But what did that mean? Thousands of questions came flooding into her mind. Questions but no answers.
If Ronan Ragallach had possession of the missing treasure of Wighard, did it mean that he had stolen it and, if so, was she wrong and was he truly the murderer after all? But no, something was wrong. Why contact her and arrange this meeting, swearing he had nothing to do with Wighard’s death? She paused, perplexed.
; Bending down again over the body she went swiftly through the clothing. In Brother Ronan’s leather crumena or purse there were several coins and a piece of papyrus. She peered closely. It was covered in the same strange hieroglyphics as the piece she had picked up from the floor of his lodgings at the hostel of Bieda. The writing of the Arabians.
She gave a sharp intake of breath as she realised that a portion of the papyrus had been torn off. It was a portion similar in size and shape to the one she had found. This, then, was the rest of the document. Swiftly, she stuffed the papyrus into her marsupium. Then, taking the silver chalice in one hand and the lamp in the other, she rose and began to retrace her steps into the catacomb of Aurelia Restutus.
She had barely begun to cross it when she heard the sound of voices coming nearer. She hesitated. The voices were low, intense and echoing. A curious-sounding language.
Reason told Fidelma that the owners of the voices could not have been involved in Brother Ronan’s death. Anyone who had just killed the Irish monk would not be returning with raised voices and careless footsteps from the opposite direction to which the killer must surely have fled. Yet some instinct made Fidelma pause. It took her a moment or two to make up her mind. She examined the empty loculi, finding one that was near ground level and then, stopping only to extinguish the lamp, she clambered into it, lying in the empty tomb on her back as if she were a corpse.
The voices came nearer.
She could discern two men arguing for even with a lack of knowledge of the language they spoke she could hear the passion in the inflections of their speech. She saw a light bobbing and reflecting against the walls of the catacombs. She lay watching with half-narrowed eyelids, praying that the two were not interested in the corpses which lay in the loculi on either side of the chambers through which they were passing.
Two dark figures entered the tomb and, to her horror, halted, looking round with raised candles.
She heard one saying something which incorporated the name ‘Aurelia Restutus’. One of the men mentioned the word ‘kafir’ several times. It seemed as if they were waiting. She bit her lip in thought. Could it be these strangers were waiting for Brother Ronan Ragallach?
Shroud for the Archbishop Page 17