Shroud for the Archbishop

by Peter Tremayne

  The smells were pretty vile as they followed the narrow slum roads into a large covered market area which was hot and noisy and oppressive. Dirty stalls and houses peopled by brawling men and women and screaming children lined the road which was now no more than an alleyway. Women and men mauled each other in half-drunken caresses as they spilled from taverns; caresses which brought the blood to tinge Fidelma’s cheeks. From the sewer-like gutters, a murky torrent of animal and vegetable offal in every state of putrefaction spread itself with loathsome vapours.

  Furius Licinius halted his carriage. Through the stalls and make-shift shelters they could see the lecticula had halted and the tall figure of the Abbot Puttoc had descended. He tossed a coin to the bearers and said something. He then turned and made his way into a nearby building.

  Fidelma saw the bearers grin at one another and go into a nearby enclosure, leaving their lecticula outside. There were chairs and tables in front of this building and it was obvious that the place was a caupona, a cheap tavern of sorts. The bearers, free from their labours, sprawled in chairs and called for drinks.

  ‘Look!’ whispered Eadulf.

  A short man in flowing robes which almost covered his head and a bushy black beard was walking rapidly through the crowd towards the building into which Puttoc had disappeared. He paused outside and peered suspiciously around. Then, seeming to assure himself that he was not being observed by anyone in particular, he pushed swiftly into the building.

  ‘Is he an Arabian?’ Fidelma asked Furius Licinius.

  The tesserarius grimly affirmed it.

  ‘If there is war between you people, why are they allowed to come to Rome?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘The war is only with those that follow the new prophet, Mahomet,’ replied Licinius. ‘There are many Arabians who have not been converted by the new faith. We have traded with these eastern merchants for many years and the practice continues.’

  Fidelma was examining the rambling building into which Puttoc and now the Arabian had disappeared. One of the few stone structures in the area, it rose two storeys in height and all its windows were shuttered, each shutter drawn so that no one could peer inside. It had probably been a wealthy villa before the shanty town had grown up around it, a once attractive building on the banks of the winding Tiber.

  ‘Do you know this building, Licinius?’

  The young custos shook his head vigorously.

  ‘I do not frequent this area of the city, sister,’ he said, a little irritated by the implication which he saw in her question.

  ‘I did not ask that,’ Fidelma responded firmly. ‘I asked whether you had any idea what the building is – whether it is owned by the merchants?’

  Furius Licinius answered negatively.

  ‘Look!’ hissed Eadulf abruptly.

  He pointed to the second floor of the building, to a window at the extreme right of the frontage.

  Fidelma sucked in her breath.

  The Abbot Puttoc, for clearly it was he, was leaning out to open the shutter a little. It was a momentary appearance.

  ‘Well, at least we know which room Puttoc is in,’ she muttered.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Licinius.

  ‘Knowing Puttoc is there and the Arabian has gone in, I suggest we simply go in and confront our friend, the Abbot of Stanggrund.’

  Furius Licinius grinned broadly and dropped his hand to his gladius, easing it in its scabbard. This was the sort of action he liked, he could understand this, not all that questioning and intellectualising.

  They clambered out of the carriage.

  Licinius looked around and chose an evil-looking, pock-marked individual who was passing by. He was a burly man, the sort few people would think of starting an argument with.

  ‘You, what is your name?’

  The heavy man halted and blinked at being so addressed by a youth, albeit a youth dressed as an officer of the custodes.

  ‘I am called Nabor,’ he replied in a growling voice.

  ‘Well, Nabor,’ relied Licinius, unperturbed by the man’s threatening appearance, ‘I need you to stand guard over this horse and carriage. If I return and it is here with you still guarding it, then you will receive a sestertius. If I return and it is gone, then I will come looking for you with my gladius.’

  The man named Nabor stared at the youthful officer and his twisted features slowly broke into a grin.

  ‘A sestertius will be more welcome than your gladius, young one. I’ll be here.’

  They left him standing by the carriage chuckling to himself at the idea of earning such easy money.

  Fidelma cast an appraising glance at Licinius. The young man could be quick-witted at times. She had not considered the fact that leaving the carriage unattended in this quarter would immediately lead to its disappearance. Horses and carriages were valuable commodities in Rome and this was certainly not the place to leave one without a guard.

  Fidelma led the way through the market area, pushing through the disinterested crowds, followed by Eadulf and Licinius. She paused on the steps of the building to gather herself.

  ‘We will head straight to the room in which we saw the abbot. With luck we might find ourselves solving this mystery now.’

  She turned and pushed into the building. For a moment she paused to cough in the musty, stygian gloom. With the windows shuttered, the large hall in which they found themselves was dark and only a solitary candle burning on a centre table gave a flickering light. Around the room incense burners smoked, giving an overpowering smell of some fragrance which she could not identify. The odour was quite overwhelming.

  There came a squeak of a floorboard and Fidelma turned quickly as through a doorway a large, round-faced woman emerged, rubbing her hands on her short apron. The woman wore a coarse dress and her hair was awry and clearly not combed or dressed. She halted and her eyes widened in momentary astonishment as she saw them and recognised their calling. Her tone when she spoke was belligerent.

  ‘What the devil do you want?’ she demanded in a high-pitched voice full of the slang of the Roman streets. ‘We do not welcome people of your cloth in here.’

  ‘We want to come in,’ replied Fidelma calmly moving forward.

  To her surprise, the woman let out a raucous screech and, with hands flailing before her, she launched herself at Fidelma. Fidelma’s surprise only lasted a moment. Ignoring Licinius’ warning cry to stand aside, she balanced herself on her feet and reached out to meet the woman’s tearing claws. Licinius and Eadulf stared in amazement as, without seeming to move at all, Fidelma pulled the woman past her, using her assailant’s own momentum, and threw her stumbling against the wall behind.

  The collision was a resounding noise of flesh and bone meeting wood at a high velocity.

  Even so, the big woman kept her balance and turned with a puzzled expression on her fleshy features. Then she shook her head and snarled.

  ‘Bitch!’ she swore with deep vehemence.

  Licinius again went to move forward, his gladius now drawn, but Fidelma waved him aside and stood ready to meet the charging woman. Again it seemed as if she merely reached out, caught the flailing arms and heaved her assailant into the air, over her hip and sent her cannoning into the wall on the other side of the room. This time the head met a thick wooden post and, with a grunt, the woman slid to the floor unconscious.

  Fidelma turned and bent over her, her slender fingers feeling for the pulse and checking the woman’s wound.

  She stood up without expression.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ she announced in relief.

  Furius Licinius was gazing at her with open admiration.

  ‘Truly, I have never seen Roman soldiers do better in combat,’ he said. ‘How could you do such a thing?’

  ‘It is of no importance,’ Fidelma was dismissive of her prowess. ‘In my country there were once learned men who taught the ancient philosophies of our people. They journeyed far and wide and were subject to attack by thieves a
nd bandits. But, as they believed it was wrong to carry arms to protect themselves, they were forced to develop a technique called troid-sciathaigid – battle through defence. I was taught the method of defending myself without the use of weapons when I was young as, indeed, many of our religious missionaries are so taught.’

  She pushed through the door leaving them to follow her.

  There was a staircase beyond. She paused on the bottom step and listened. She could hear voices; oddly, she thought that she heard the sound of young girls’ laughter. But there were no sounds of an alarm being raised. No one had heard the commotion of their entry. She turned and whispered: ‘The end room to the right of the building. Come.’

  She ascended the stairs rapidly. At the top was a long corridor. There were no difficulties in identifying the door which would give entrance on to the room they sought.

  Outside she paused again and listened. Again she thought she heard young girls’ laughter from beyond. She glanced at her companions, they nodded that they were ready and she let her hand drop to the handle of the door, turning it slowly and silently pushing the door open.

  The scene beyond startled even her.

  The room was light for, as they had seen from below, Abbot Puttoc had opened one of the shutters causing the light of the day to stream in. In one corner there was a bed on which were stretched stained but freshly laundered linen sheets. There were a few chairs but the only other piece of furniture was a large wooden tub alongside which were several empty pails. The hot water they had once held was now steaming in the tub.

  In the tub sat a surprised Abbot Puttoc, naked so far as she could tell. Seated crossways, on his lap, was an equally surprised and naked girl of no more than sixteen years. They were frozen in an embrace which left nothing to the imagination. Behind them, pail of steaming water in her hand, frozen in the action of pouring it over the occupants of the large tub, was another naked young girl.

  Fidelma surveyed the scene with a grim countenance. She took a step forward into the chamber and glanced about to assure herself that the sight which met her eyes was not encumbered by any other interpretation. The abbot’s robes lay stretched on the chair at the end of the bed. Other robes, which obviously belonged to the young girls, lay nearby.

  She turned back to the still startled abbot with a sarcastic raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well, Abbot Puttoc?’ She could not keep the bleak humour out of her voice.

  The girl seated in the tub moved first. She clambered out letting water cascade all over the place. Not that she acted with modesty for she now stood, hands on hips, letting forth a voluble stream of abuse at Fidelma. Her companion, dropping her bucket, joined in, moving forward threateningly.

  It was Furius Licinius, finally, who silenced them by shouting over them and reinforcing his argument with the jabbing point of his sword. Muttering under their breath the girls backed off gazing at the newcomers with hatred.

  Puttoc sat still, with taut, whitened features, his ice-blue eyes staring with an incredible malignancy from Fidelma to Eadulf.

  Furius Licinius continued to exchange a few words with the girls in the harsh accents of the Roman streets. Then he turned to Fidelma with a look of embarrassment.

  ‘This place is a bordellum, sister, a place where …’

  Fidelma decided to put the young man out of his confusion.

  ‘I am perfectly aware of what happens in a brothel, Licinius,’ she said solemnly. ‘What I want to know is what an abbot of the holy church is doing here?’

  Abbot Puttoc sat in the tub with an almost resigned expression on his handsome features.

  ‘I doubt that I have to explain it in detail, Fidelma of Kildare,’ he replied sourly.

  She grimaced.

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  ‘I presume that you will report this matter to Bishop Gelasius, Eadulf of Canterbury?’ Puttoc directed his next question to the Saxon brother.

  Eadulf was totally disapproving.

  ‘I would not have expected you to have raised such a question,’ he replied dryly. ‘You know the rules by which we live. You will doubtless be expected to resign your office. Penance must follow.’

  Puttoc took a deep, noisy breath through his nostrils. He gazed speculatively from Licinius to Fidelma and then to Eadulf.

  ‘Can’t we discuss this matter in more conducive surroundings?’

  ‘Conducive to what end, Puttoc?’ queried Fidelma. ‘No, I think there is little we can discuss about this matter that might alter our attitudes and intentions. But you could tell me this, did you come here merely to pursue your carnal inclinations or to meet someone as well?’

  Puttoc did not understand.

  ‘Meet someone? Whom do you mean?’

  ‘You have no liaison with any Arabian merchants?’

  She could not doubt the genuine look of bewilderment that came into his face.

  ‘I do not understand you, sister?’

  Fidelma did not attempt to explain further. Her shoulders slumped a little as she realised that her intuition had failed her and that she had led her companions on a wild goose chase. Puttoc was guilty, but not, apparently, of anything more damning to his soul than attempting to satiate his lascivious passions.

  ‘We’ll leave you to your desires, Puttoc,’ she said. ‘And to the price which you must pay for them.’

  The abbot reached forward a hand as if he would stay her.

  Eadulf gave him a withering glance before he followed Fidelma out of the room while Furius Licinius, sheathing his gladius, allowed himself to grin lewdly at the prelate before he trailed after them.

  In the hallway below the big, fleshy woman was groaning and coming to.

  Fidelma paused and sighed. She fished into her marsupium and extracted a small coin which she placed on the table.

  ‘I am sorry for your injury,’ she said simply to the still stupefied woman.

  Outside Nabor, the ugly-faced man, stood by the carriage and watched their approach with interest.

  ‘A sestertius, young custos,’ he grunted, and then with a lecherous grin, he added: ‘If I’d known it was that building which you wanted to visit, I could have recommended several better establishments …’

  Colouring, Furius Licinius threw him the coin, which Nabor caught deftly. Without a word the young officer climbed into the carriage.

  No one said anything as Licinius drove them back alongside the Tiber, turning through the Valle Murcia and eastward towards the Lateran Palace.

  The decurion Marcus Narses was waiting on the steps of the palace as Licinius halted. He came running down to the carriage.

  ‘Sister, I have news of the Brother Osimo Lando,’ he gasped.

  ‘Good,’ Fidelma replied as she climbed out. At least she could now pursue a more positive lead about Ronan Ragallach’s connections. ‘Why was Osimo Lando absent from his work this afternoon? Is he ill?’

  Marcus Narses shook his head, his expression serious. She knew what he was going to say even before he uttered the words.

  ‘I regret, sister, Brother Osimo is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ The word shot from Eadulf’s mouth in a sharp exclamation of surprise.

  ‘Garrotted?’ Fidelma inquired calmly.

  ‘No, sister. A short while ago he leapt from the aqueduct, the Aqua Claudia, and fell into the stone street below. He was killed outright.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Suicide?’ Fidelma was gazing with a dubious expression at the young Furius Licinius. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There is no doubt,’ affirmed Licinius. ‘Osimo Lando was seen by several people as he climbed along the aqueduct and was then seen to cast himself down into the street below.’

  Fidelma sat for a moment, her head bowed in thought. Rather than clarify anything, Brother Osimo Lando’s death only obscured it.

  She and Eadulf were seated in the offices of the Munera Peregrinitatis of the Lateran Palace where Osimo and Ronan had worked. Licinius had been despatched
to gather details of Osimo’s death while Fidelma and Eadulf had searched the office. There was nothing that gave any indication of Ronan Ragallach’s links to Arabians. In fact, at his desk, there were only some odd notes and an ancient Greek book which was a medical tract. The work was obviously valuable for Ronan had carefully wrapped it in sacking and placed it at the bottom of a stack of papers so that it would not be disturbed. But apart from that there was little else except ledgers of correspondence from the many churches among the North Africans which looked to Rome for guidance.

  Eadulf looked gloomy.

  ‘Could Osimo Lando have killed himself in a fit of remorse for slaying Ronan?’ There was no conviction in his voice as he put forward the proposal.

  Fidelma did not even bother to answer. ‘We should examine Brother Osimo Lando’s lodgings. Did he live within the palace?’

  Licinius shook his head.

  ‘He stayed in the same lodging house as Ronan Ragallach. In the hostel of the deacon Bieda.’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘I should have guessed. Let us go then. Perhaps we may find some clue to this mystery there.’

  Furius Licinius took them by a short cut through the Lateran buildings this time. The offices of the Munera Peregrinitatis were on the top floor of a two-storey building and, instead of making his way down the marble stairs into the courtyard, Licinius led them through a door on to a wooden walkway which led from one building to another. The walkway spanned a courtyard to the edifice which Licinius had previously pointed out as the Scala Santa, housing the reconstruction of the holy staircase where Christ had descended from the judgment seat of Pilate.

  It was Fidelma who found time from her cogitation to pause and ask about it, to the surprise of her companions. Eadulf sometimes found Fidelma’s attitude to timekeeping curious. But many of her countrymen seemed to set little store by the urgency of time.

  ‘The actual Sancta Sanctorum is in the centre of the building,’ replied Licinius, as they paused on the walkway to look at it. ‘The way is barred against us by a gate. I am taking you via another walkway from that building into the chapel devoted to the Blessed Helena and from the chapel we can go directly out of the palace grounds near to the Aqueduct of Claudia. It is a quick route to Bieda’s hostel.’