“How we survived was truly the decision of the gods. The Legate had become feverish from his wounds and I dragged and hauled him along the culvert further away from that grim field of slaughter until we reached the safety of a copse. There we lay a further day but, alas, the Legate’s condition deteriorated. By morning, a calm had seized him. He knew he was dying. He gripped my hand and recognized me.
“He spoke slowly: ‘Cingetorix,’ he addressed me by name, ‘how came you here?’
“I replied that I had been with the baggage train when the Caledonii attacked it, and I fled, I knew not whither. Only after being led blindly by fate did I come upon the remarkable scene of the commander and a few men about the eagle, making their last stand. When they were overcome I saw the Caledonii had neglected to gather up the eagle and, knowing of its value, I made my way to the now-deserted bodies in an endeavor to save it. That was when I saw the Legate was still alive, albeit barely.
“The Legate Lepidus was still gripping my arm. ‘Cingetorix, you know what the eagle means. I am done for. So I charge you, take the eagle and place it in the hands of the emperor whence it came that he might raise it once again and declare that the Ninth Hispana is not yet dead even though the men have fallen. Proclaim that Lepidus shed his life’s blood in its defense and died with the eagle and his honor intact.’ ”
Fidelma paused and looked up from the vellum.
“This text is surely the authority you need to write your history?” she asked. “What now brings you to this country?”
“Read on,” the deacon urged.
“The Legate tarried not a moment more in this life. Therefore I removed the eagle from the shattered remains of its wooden pole and wrapped it in cloth to make it easier to carry. I then waited until night fell again and slowly began to place what distance I could from the still celebrating Caledonii. However, they were blocking the roads to the south and so I resolved to move westward into the country of the horse people-the Epidii.
“My story is long and complicated and I will transcribe it as and when I can. However, I must insert at this point that I could not fulfill my promise to the Legate Lepidus, may the gods honor him. It took me years to return to my own town of Darovernum and the gods smiled on me for I brought the eagle with me. But there is much disorder here at this time and age has spread a shadow over me. I cannot take the eagle to Rome and I fear to give it to the Governor Verus lest he take the credit himself. He is a man not to be trusted in such matters. I have therefore determined to hide it with some account in the tiny house I have which lies close to Tower Eight toward the northeast corner of a building some Christians have erected to honor one of their leaders named Martin of Gaul. I have hidden the honor of the Ninth Hispana in the hypocaust. There it will remain until my son has grown and can, under my instruction, resume the journey to Rome and can fulfill my. .”
The vellum ended and Fidelma stopped reading. She looked up at Deacon Lepidus with eyes narrowed slightly.
“Now that I have read this document, what is it you want of me?”
Deacon Lepidus gave a winning smile.
“I had thought that there were clues in the document, which might tell you where this man came from and where the eagle might be hidden. If I could take the eagle and more details back to Rome, if I could have a trustworthy witness to its rediscovery, then I could write my history with confidence. My family, the family of Lepidus, would be able to raise their heads in Rome and aspire to all the great offices without a cloud hanging over the past. Why, I might aspire to Bishop or Cardinal. . there is no limit to the temporal and spiritual ambitions that. .”
He paused and smiled quickly as if in embarrassment.
“My concern, however, as an historian, is simply to discover the truth. Perhaps this man, Cingetorix, was writing lies. Perhaps. . but if we could discover where he lived and where he hid the eagle, if it was his to hide, then what a great historical mystery would be solved.”
Fidelma sat back and examined the man carefully.
“There are many Britons who are more qualified than I am to examine this document and point to the clues.”
Lepidus shrugged.
“The Britons? They never venture now beyond the new borders of the kingdoms into which the Saxons have confined them. They certainly would not venture into the country of the Saxons. And have they not consistently fought against us Romans? Not simply in the days when our legions ruled their lands but even in recent times when they refused to obey the rule of the Mother Church in Rome. Their kings refused to bend their necks before Augustine, who was the Bishop of Rome’s personal envoy and missionary here. They preferred to stick to their idolatry, to the heretic Pelagius and their own leaders.”
Fidelma raised an amused eyebrow.
“Surely, we of Éireann are also condemned by Rome, for our churches, too, believe in the theology of Pelagius rather than the attitudes adopted by Augustine of Hippo?”
Lepidus smiled disarmingly.
“But we can always argue with you folk of Éireann whereas the Britons are proud people, incline to test their belief at sword point.”
Fidelma was about to say, “just like the Romans” but thought better of it.
“I know a little of the history and language of the Britons, but I am not an expert.” She glanced at the vellum again and smiled thinly. “Certainly there are many clues in this account.”
Deacon Lepidus leant forward eagerly.
“Enough to track down where this man Cingetorix came from?”
Fidelma tapped the manuscript with her forefinger.
“That is simple. See, the man has written the exact location.”
The deacon frowned.
“Certainly he has. But he has written Darovernum. But where is that place? I have asked several people and none seem to know.”
Fidelma chuckled.
“It is a name recorded by the geographer Ptolemy about the time when the deeds mentioned in this story are said to have taken place.”
“What does it mean?”
“In the tongue of the Britons, duro means a fort and verno is an alder swamp. Therefore it is the fort by the alder swamp.”
Lepidus looked dismayed.
“That is a fine example of linguistics, Sister Fidelma, but where can we find the location of this place?”
Fidelma regarded him steadily.
“The Romans called the place Darovernum Cantiacorum-the Cantiaci fort by the alder swamp.”
“I am at a loss still,” Deacon Lepidus confessed.
“You are in the very town because the Cantiaci fort by the alder swamp is what the Jutes now call the burg of the Canteware.”
Deacon Lepidus’s features dissolved into an expression of amazement.
“Do you mean that the eagle might be hidden here? Here, in this very town?”
“All I mean, so far, is that the place mentioned in this document is this very town,” replied Fidelma solemnly.
“But this is incredible. Are you saying that this man, Cingetorix, the man who took the eagle from my ancestor, brought the eagle to this town? Is there anything else you can tell me?” Deacon Lepidus was clearly excited.
Fidelma pursued her lips thoughtfully.
“Since you have mentioned it, the name Cingetorix is a name that is also associated with the Cantiaci. Any student of Julius Caesar’s account of his landing here would recognize it. But it is a strange name for a lowly mathematicus in the employ of a legion to have-it means ‘king of heroes.’ It was one of the names of the four kings of the Cantiaci who attacked Caesar’s coastal camp during his landings,” affirmed Fidelma.
Deacon Lepidus sat back with a sigh. After his moment of excitement, he suddenly appeared depressed. He thought for a while and then raised his arms in a hopeless gesture before letting them fall again.
“Then all we have to do is find the location of the house of this man, Cingetorix. After five hundred years, that is impossible.”
Fidelma shook he
r head with a sudden smile.
“The vellum gives us a little clue, doesn’t it?”
The deacon stared at her.
“A clue? What clue could it give to be able to trace this house? The Romans have gone, departing with the Britons, and the Jutes have come and settled. The town of burg of the Canteware has changed immeasurably. Much of the original buildings are old and decaying. When the Jutes broke out of the island of Tanatos and rose up against the Britons it took a generation to drive them out and for Aesc to make himself king of Jutish Kent. In that time much of this city was destroyed.”
“You appear to have learnt much history in the short time you have been here, Deacon Lepidus,” she murmured. Fidelma rose with a whimsical expression crossing her features. She turned to a shelf behind her. “It is by good fortune that the librarian here has some old charts of the town. I was examining them only this morning.”
“But they do not date from the time of my ancestor. Of what use are they to us?”
Fidelma was spreading one before her on the table.
“The writing mentions that his house stands near a tower; Tower Eight. Also that the house is situated at the northeast corner of a building which some Christians had erected in honor of one of their leaders, Martin of Gaul.”
Deacon Lepidus was perplexed.
“Does that help us? It is so many years ago.”
“The ten towers built by the Romans along the ancient walls of the town can still be recognized, although they are crumbling away. The Jutes do not like occupying the old buildings of the Britons or Romans and prefer to build their own. However, there is still the chapel dedicated to Martin of Gaul, who is more popularly known as Martin of Tours. The chapel is still standing. People still go there to worship.”
A warm smile spread across the deacon’s face.
“By all that is a miracle! What the Venerable Gelasius said about you was an underestimate, Sister Fidelma. You have, in a few moments, cleared away the misty paths and pointed to. .”
Fidelma held up a hand to silence him.
“Are you truly convinced that if we can locate the precise spot that you will find this eagle?”
“You have demonstrated that the writer of the vellum has provided clues enough that lead us not only to the town but the location of where his house might have stood.”
The corners of Fidelma’s mouth turned down momentarily. Then she exhaled slowly.
“Let us observe, then, where else the writer of the vellum will lead us.”
Deacon Lepidus rose to his feet with a smile that was almost a grin of triumph, and clapped his hands together.
“Just so! Just so! Where shall we go?”
Fidelma tapped the map with a slim forefinger.
“First, let us see what these charts of the town tell us. To the east of the township we have the River Stur. Since you are interested in these old names, Deacon Lepidus, you might like to know that it is a name given by the Britons, which means a strong or powerful river. Now these buildings here are the main part of the old town. As you observe they stand beyond the west bank of the river and beyond the alder swamp. The walls were built by the Romans and then later fortified by the Britons, after the Roman withdrawal, to keep out the Angles, Saxons and Jutish raiders.”
Deacon Lepidus peered down and his excitement returned.
“I see. Around the walls are ten towers. Each tower is numbered on the chart.”
It was true that each tower had a Roman numeral-I, II, III, IV, V-and among them was VIII, upon which Fidelma tapped lightly with her forefinger.
“And to the west, we have the church of Martin and buildings around it. What buildings would be at the northwest corner?”
“Northeast,” corrected the deacon hurriedly.
“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma, unperturbed. “That’s what I meant.”
“Why,” cried the deacon, jabbing at the chart, “this building here is on the northeast corner of the church. It is marked as some sort of villa.”
“So it is. But is it still standing after all those centuries?”
“Perhaps a building is standing there,” Deacon Lepidus replied enthusiastically. “Maybe the original foundations are still intact.”
“And would that help us?” queried Fidelma. Her voice was gently probing, like a teacher trying to help a pupil with a lesson.
“Surely,” the deacon said confidently. “Cingetorix wrote that he would hide the eagle in the hypocaust. If so, if the building was destroyed, whatever was hidden in the foundations, where the hypocaust is, might have survived. You see, a hypocaust is. .”
“It is a system for heating rooms with warm air,” intervened Fidelma. “I am afraid that you Romans did not exactly invent the idea, although you claim as much. However, I have seen other ancient examples of the basic system. The floors are raised on pillars and the air underneath is heated by a furnace and piped through the flues.”
Deacon Lepidus’s face struggled to control a patriotic irritation at Fidelma’s words. He finally produced a strained smile.
“I will not argue with you on who or what invented the hypocaustrum, which is a Latin word.”
“Hypokauston is a Greek word,” pointed out Fidelma calmly. “Clearly, we all borrow from one another and perhaps that is as it should be? Let us return to the problem in hand. We will have to walk to this spot and see what remains of any building. Only once we have surveyed this area will we see what our next step can be.”
Fidelma had only been in the town a week but it was so small that she had already explored the location around the abbey. It was sad that during the two centuries since the Britons had been driven from the city by Hengist and his son Aesc, the Jutes and their Angle and Saxon comrades had let much of it fall into disuse and disrepair, preferring to build their own crude constructions of timber outside the old city walls. A few buildings had been erected in spaces where the older buildings had decayed. Only recently, since the coming of Augustine from Rome and his successors, had a new dynamism seized the city, and buildings were being renovated and repaired. Even so, it was a haphazard process.
Fidelma led the way with confidence to the crumbling towers that had once guarded the partially destroyed city walls.
“That is Tower Eight,” she said, pointing to what had once been a square tower now standing no more than a single story high.
“How do you know? Just from the map?” demanded the deacon.
She shook her head irritably.
“It bears the number on the lintel above the door.”
She pointed to where “VIII” could clearly be seen before turning to survey the piles of stone and brickwork that lay about. Her eyes widened suddenly.
“That wooden granary and its outbuilding appear to stand in the position that is indicated. See, there is the church dedicated to the Blessed Martin of Tours. Curious. They are the only buildings near here, as well.”
Deacon Lepidus followed her gaze and nodded.
“God is smiling on us.”
Fidelma was already making her way toward the buildings.
“There are two possibilities,” she mused. “The granary has been built over the villa so that the hypocaust is under there. Or, that smaller stone building next to the granary may have been part of original villa and we will find the hypocaust there.” She hesitated a moment. “Let us try the stone building first. It is clearly older than the granary.”
While they were standing there, a thickset man, dressed in Saxon workman’s clothing, stepped out of the shadow of the granary.
“Good day, reverend sir. Good day, lady. What do you seek here?”
He smiled too easily for Fidelma’s taste, giving her the impression of a fox assessing his prey. His Jutish accent was hard to understand although he was speaking in a low Latin. It was the deacon who explained their purpose, playing down the value of the eagle but offering a silver coin if the man could help them locate what they were looking for.
“This is my
granary. I built it.” The man replied. “My name is Wulfred.”
“If you built it, did you observe whether it had holes in the ground or tunnels underneath it?” Fidelma inquired.
The man rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully.
“There were places we had to fill in with rubble to give us a foundation.”
Deacon Lepidus’s face fell.
“The hypocaust was filled in?”
Wulfred shrugged. “I can show you the type of holes we filled in, if you are interested. The little stone building has such holes under the floor. Come, I have a lantern. I’ll show you.”
They were following the man through the doorway when Fidelma suddenly caught sight of something scratched on one of the side pillars supporting the frame of the door. She called Deacon Lepidus’s attention to it, simply pointing. It was a scratch mark. It looked like an “IX.” There was something before it, which neither of them could make out.
“Nine?” whispered Lepidus, with sudden excitement. “The ninth legion?”
Fidelma made no reply.
It was cold and dirty inside. Dirt covered the floor. Wulfred held his polished horn lantern high. It revealed a room of about four meters square. It was totally empty. In one corner was a hole in the floor.
“Down there is where you can see the tunnels under the floor,” volunteered Wulfred.
Fidelma went across and knelt down. The smell of decay was quite prevalent. She asked for the lantern and peered down. A space of about seventy millimeters lay underneath the floor. Little brick piers supported the timbers at intervals of a meter from one another forming little squares.
“A hypocaust,” she said, raising herself and handing the lantern back. “But now what?”
Deacon Lepidus made no reply.
“Perhaps some sign was left. .?” he ventured.
Fidelma glanced on the floor. What she saw made her frown, and she began to scrape at the floor with the point of her shoe. The earth came away to reveal a tiny patch of mosaic. These were the type of floors that she had seen in Rome. She asked Wulfred if he had a broom of twigs. It took a half an hour to clear a section of the floor. The mosaic revealed a figure clad in a Roman senatorial toga; one hand was held up with a finger extended. Fidelma frowned. Something made her follow the pointing finger. She suddenly noticed a scratch mark on the wall. There was no doubt about it this time. The figure “IX” had been scratched into the stonework and a tiny arrow pointed downwards beneath it.
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