by Albert Noyer
Arcadia turned with the others when the echo of the front doors opening sounded through the three aisles of the nave. Brenos limped in, the thump of his pilgrim’s staff accompanying the slap of his worn sandals on the mosaic floor. She noticed that he had cleaned himself, and had his beard and tonsure trimmed. The abbot’s stained robe had been replaced with a plain tunic of homespun wool.
When Brenos took his place next to the coffin, he looked flushed and exhausted.
Arcadia noted that he seemed startled, and that he glanced around nervously, after he saw the funeral pallium covering the oak box. The linen cloth was embroidered with a Christogram, X P, set in the center of a palm wreath and flanked by the Greek letters A Ω—alpha and omega. Why did the common funerary symbols upset him? Perhaps Hibernians did not know the Greek language.
Brenos scrutinized the people in front of him for a moment, as if expecting to recognize someone, then he held up his pilgrim’s staff.
“Brothers,” he announced in a hoarse voice, ignoring any women in the gathering, “I show you thirty-two notches, one for each of the days I spent traveling here from Gaul to bury a holy one. My brother, Behan, was sent among you in Ravenna to preach a prophecy, but was called by the Nazarene before he could do so.”
A prophecy? Arcadia thought, excited now. And he uses the archaic term, “Nazarene.”
“A prophecy,” the abbot continued, “that will be fulfilled before the cock crows again.”
By morning! Rabbi Zadok was right. Is there a duplicate will, or does the abbot expect his accomplices to find the original by then? Arcadia half-expected Brenos to produce another golden case from under his robe and pull out a papyrus for all to see, but he went on.
“What is this prophecy? I tell you, brothers, that the vineyard of the Nazarene has gone unpruned for too long. Unruly shoots choke out the fruits. Weeds grow among the good seed that must be harvested and burned. Agents of Satan destroy the good seed. A harvest is at hand for the winepress of God, which John saw in his vision, and yet the faithful mill about like sheep unsure of their shepherd.”
The man isn’t making much sense, Arcadia thought. His metaphors are from the Testaments, but garbled…grapes and weeds with sheep. The abbot supposedly came here to eulogize Behan, yet has barely mentioned his monk.
Arcadia noticed Bishop Chrysologos shift on his throne and whisper to Tranquillus, his presbyter at the Basilica of the Holy Cross. She thought the bishop was probably as mystified as she was at the abbot’s erratic diatribe.
Even though the basilica was cold, Brenos wiped perspiration from his face with a sleeve before continuing. “Rav…Ravenna, is the dwelling p…place of the Harlot revealed to John in his vis…vision.” He was stuttering now, in a spray of spit droplets that were backlit by the apse windows. “I…I saw this in a vision of my own. Riches, scarlet and purple cloth. Gold, pearls…a golden cup…idols drunk on the wine of fornication.
“Only the holy ones, those who have renounced these things…we disciples of Ciallanus…will be saved after the Nazarene comes to judge the world. The Slaughtered will become the Slaughterer. We monks, ‘holy fools’ to some, will rule like kings over the earth. Who then will be the fool?”
Arcadia was stunned at the implication of the abbot’s words. The man is advocating a theocratic government run by his order, yet Christ insisted that his Kingdom was not of this world. And even Theodosius hadn’t dared to advance such a concept. This Behan was threatening to do no less than the Egyptian Christian fanatics, but this time his wrath would be directed against entire Judean communities.
Arcadia saw Chrysologos tug at Tranquillus’ sleeve and nod toward the abbot. The presbyter came down the apse stairs to stop him, but Brenos shrugged off his hold. “The Nativity vigil!” he shouted. “That is when the Gallican League mandate will be revealed! The fulfillment of my prophecy.”
Tranquillus whispered to Brenos and gestured toward the people. Arcadia turned to see some of them hurrying back to the entrance, either confused or frightened at the man’s incoherent words. What was this Gallican League he had mentioned?
When Arcadia looked around again she was surprised to see Publius Maximin peering out of a door that led to the Diaconicon, a storage and vesting room to the left of the altar.
Maximin? Why would the senator bother coming to Behan’s funeral? And what is he doing in an area reserved for the clergy?
After Maximin slipped out of the room and made his way along the side aisle to the front entrance, Arcadia looked back at the apse. Tranquillus was guiding the abbot around the coffin; Brenos evidently had agreed to end his eulogy and proceed with the interment.
At the burial ground alongside the basilica, Arcadia watched in relief as the first clods of earth were thrown onto the oak lid of Behan’s coffin. The Greek word koimeterioi came to mind. Her tutor in that language had said Christian Greeks called their burial places “dormitories,” where the elect would sleep until the vision of John was fulfilled, and Death and Hades gave up the dead who had been in their keeping. Death would be no more. The Risen Saints would enter the New Jerusalem in a Glorified Body, where God would live with them, and wipe away every tear from their eyes.
Behan, Arcadia mused, would awaken and stagger in with a golden, but frigid, surprise in his belly.
Brenos was taking off the funerary stole he had borrowed when he found the folded note under his volume of penitentials. It said that Smyrna would have him picked up at Galla Placidia’s mausoleum, and he would be taken to the villa again.
The time, during the second night hour, was later than he would have liked. It would be totally dark then, and the Nativity vigil readings would take place only five hours later. Yet, on reflection, Brenos thought the lateness might be reassuring. Smyrna had undoubtedly located the papyri and wanted to turn them over to him. As a co-celebrant of the Mass, he could easily find an opportunity beforehand to conceal the documents in the proper section of the codex. Then the last testament of Christ would be revealed by an abbot of the Hibernian Order, to which it had been entrusted!
Chapter twenty-five
The sunny day had clouded up by evening, as a winter storm came in from the southwest. After flashes of lightning were seen and the rumble of thunder heard, most citizens stayed indoors to avoid being affected by the unseasonable omens.
A thick, wet snow was falling by the time Brenos stood waiting in the shelter of the narthex arches and heard the clomping of a horse’s hooves. He watched the black carriage turn into the Vicus Galla Placidia, shook off the white flakes accumulating on his cloak, and eyed the snowflakes swirling down from the sky. He did not like snow; there was enough of it in Gallic winters. Fortunately, these flakes were melting as soon as they touched the paving stones.
The abbot had gotten there a half-hour early, about the time his stomach began to bother him. The Vigil of the Nativity was a day of fasting, yet he had taken a little fish before leaving the bishop’s residence. It was an oily species from the sea, not the delicate Icauna trout he was used to eating. He suspected that it was spoiled as well, the bad taste hidden under a cumin sauce.
As the carriage stopped a short distance away—perhaps the mute had not seen him—the storm bred a flash of lightning that whitened the black vehicle with a chalky wash. The effect lasted only an instant before the white-spotted darkness closed in again. Brenos thought the flash and distant rumble of thunder were good omens, indicating that even the elements were combining to announce the dramatic end of an age. He ran out and climbed onto the seat next to the driver, this time silently cursing Mutus for not being able to tell him more about his master. Smyrna probably had not been among the assembly at the funeral that morning—the people had all looked like freemen laborers or slaves. And yet Smyrna had been close by, able to hide the note during the service. Was he possibly a churchman?
Brenos eased himself back against the leather seats. Despite the fiery wound in his side, the pain in his stomach, and a dull ache in his head, h
e felt relatively calm. He expected that at the villa Smyrna would give him the papyri. In a few hours the Gallican League would be recognized as the legal executors of the Nazarene’s will.
The eulogy had gone well that morning until an imbecile presbyter had forced a stop. Even so, he had made his point. There had been only a few people at the funeral, yet word would get out quickly that the Hibernian abbot had preached about a prophecy that would be fulfilled at the Nativity vigil service. The bishop’s cathedral would be packed with citizens attending the night Mass.
Mutus repeated the route he had taken before, flinching at the intermittent lightning flashes, and struggling to control the frightened mare.
Wet snow was coming down heavily when the carriage was waved through the gatehouse. The same guard as the day before appeared in the courtyard and escorted the abbot to the reception room. As the moments passed, the pain in Brenos’s head and abdomen increased. He became aware of the dung smell again, which added to his rising sense of nausea.
Nervous, staring at the six masks on the wall, Brenos felt a hatred for Smyrna slowly surface. Flickering shadows caused by the lamp flame gave the painted faces an animation that resembled a kind of leer, as if they were mocking him. Was Smyrna doing the same from behind the curtain, humiliating an abbot by keeping him waiting as if he were a penitent novice seeking absolution?
What if Smyrna did not have the documents after all? The Alpha-Omega figure had insisted that he did not, yet could the bizarre apparition be believed?
The emperor’s mother knew about them, and Smyrna had boasted of his contacts in the palace. Perhaps Behan had been murdered before he could announce the prophecy, so that Smyrna and his Harlot Queen could use the will for their own purposes. Were they planning to betray the Gallicans? Without proof of the miraculous discovery of Peter’s letter and the will, the League members in the six other cities would be laughed out of the churches when they predicted the discovery.
Brenos doubled over, rocking to relieve the cramps in his stomach and feeling a sense of rising panic at the realization that his life was in danger if Smyrna planned to betray him.
The curtain moved. Brenos looked up. Smyrna, dressed in the Robe of Death, but holding only the apocalyptic Omega symbol of the End, appeared at the same instant as a flash of lightning. It was hard for Brenos to believe that the dramatic coincidence had not been staged, but almost as quickly as the flash, the abbot’s suspicion was replaced by anticipation.
“You have found the Nazarene’s will? Let me have it. There is little time left.”
Instead of showing the papyrus, Smyrna pointed an empty skeletal hand at Brenos. “Who thinks to deceive me, Abbot, deceives himself.”
“Wh…what do you mean? Give me the testament, you fool.”
A muffled sneer sounded from behind the mask. “A drawing of your league’s pet cockerel was in a wall cabinet above the librarian’s work table. Is that where you found the documents, Abbot?”
“Cockerel?” Brenos protested. “What cockerel? The eunuch and I searched the librarian’s office and found nothing. The cabinet was already open.”
“I ask you again, Abbot,” the voice demanded. “What do you intend to do with the will that you have not told me?”
“Nothing. Nothing!” Brenos screamed in frustration. “I don’t have it!”
Smyrna pulled a vellum sheet from his sleeve and held it up. “At least you were truthful in saying Theokritos declared the will to be genuine. I found his results.”
“Good, you brought them,” Brenos croaked. “They will be useful in proving authenticity.” He reached for the sheet, but Smyrna pulled back, and then held one end in the lamp’s flame. “No! What are you doing?” Brenos screamed. “You’re destroying the proof! It…it is you who betrays me…betrays the Gallicans.” The abbot surged forward at the man, but Smyrna flung a last scrap of flaming vellum at him.
Brenos paused to beat at the sparks on his robe, then glared at Smyrna’s mask. Its feminine features seemed to metamorphose into those of the caulker’s daughter who had humiliated him long ago. He rubbed his eyes. What kind of sorcery were the Harlot and Alpha-Omega practicing on him? John wrote to the city of Smyrna that Satan would put some to the test. Was the Harlot testing him, like the Hibernian girl? Would this fornicator with kings mock him, just as the caulker’s slut had? No. This time he would be victorious, just as John had promised to the faithful.
“Brandub…Black Raven!” Brenos cursed, then leaped at Smyrna to tear off his mask.
When the apparition deftly stepped aside, the momentum of the abbot’s thrust carried him through the curtain and into a hallway. His wet sandals slipped on the tiles and he sprawled to the floor with an involuntary scream at the pain in his side. Ahead, he saw stairway leading to a second level. Smyrna has hidden the papyri upstairs. Brenos crawled to the steps and clambered halfway up on his knees, but when he tried to stand, tripped on the hem his robe. Smyrna, close behind, grasped at his foot. Brenos wrenched free, leaving a sandal in his enemy’s hand, and clawed his way to the top stair.
Orange light spilled from a doorway at the end of a hall. Brenos stood and limped to the room. Breathing hard, he leaned against the doorframe and looked around. Several oil lamps with wick spouts in the shape of cockerel heads illuminated the chamber. By the flickering light, he gradually made out cases and shelves that displayed every conceivable type of rooster figure. Life-sized sculptures of the fowl stood in rows on the shelves. Some were molded in unglazed terracotta, others brightly painted or finished in the blue-green patina of faience work. Almost as many were fashioned of bronze or silver. Several glittered with the luster of gold. Among the statuary lay ceramic and silver platters, also decorated with rooster motifs.
Brenos picked up one of the golden figures. What sorcerer made these images to mock my Gallican symbol? he thought, then heard the sound of trickling water coming from a device in one corner of the room. Curious, he walked closer. A tall column inscribed with lines and numerals from I to XII was fastened above a circular tank. The brass statue of a rooster, with a pointer in its beak, indicated one of the numbers.
As the abbot circled the device, trying to understand its use, the sound of running water increased and a clicking noise came from inside the tank. The rooster slowly turned toward the column, which began to rotate. It stopped when the brass bird’s pointer indicated the numeral III.
Fascinated, Brenos waited for something further to happen, aware that the smell of chicken dung seemed stronger. He heard the clucking of poultry outside the shuttered window. Half mad with pain and frustration, he flipped the retaining hooks off the shutters and pushed them open. When he leaned out to look around, a spattering of rain wet his face and a streak of lightning whitened the muddy yard below. In the instant of brightness he was able to make out an enclosed arena that reminded him of a cock-fighting area the guards at Autessiodurum used for their sport. Smyrna—someone—trained fighting birds here. Brenos looked around, searching for the cocks, and noticed a stone shed across the yard. They were probably inside, he thought, huddled together against the storm and cackling aimlessly from fright. Yes, he could hear them.
Holding the golden rooster, Brenos wiped rain from his eyes with one hand and stared at the stone building. Suddenly, the white light flooding his mind also seemed to illuminate the place where he would find the Nazarene’s last will.
Of course! That rooster coop is where the papyri are hidden! It makes sense.. its guardians are the cockerels at the Villa of the Red Rooster. They will give me the Nazarene’s will. Are they not the birds the Gallicans chose for their symbol? In gratitude, they will reject this Smyrna, this Satan, and restore the will to its proper owner, so the prophecy can be fulfilled. I…I must get down to that shed.
Brenos turned away from the window. He was face to face with Smyrna.
“You daemon, I will see what human form you have!” The abbot lunged forward to tear away the mask, but the apparition pushed hard at h
is chest. Brenos lost his balance. Still clutching the golden figurine, he felt himself somersault backward through the wet air and slam down on his back into the muck of the yard, with an impact that left him gasping for breath.
Dazed, he lay still a moment, struggling to regain his breath by sucking wet air into his lungs. When Brenos looked up, blinking at a cold rain that washed his face clean, he saw Smyrna gazing down at him from the window. He had taken off the mask and was holding it in one hand. The man’s features were blurred, but his mocking laugh sounded like the cackle of a hen.
Brenos spat mud out of his mouth and struggled to get up. He could not move his legs. In panic now, he recalled seeing the same paralysis in a worker who had fallen off a scaffold at Autessiodurum. The man had never walked again.
Brenos of Slana, Abbot of Culdees, closed his eyes and licked moisture from his lips. It was gritty and tasted of chicken dung. When he looked up again, the heads of several roosters blocked out his view of Smyrna. The birds were eyeing him with cold stares that seemed more sinister than curious.
Then the seventh angel poured his bowl upon the air; and out of the sanctuary came a loud voice…which said, ‘It is over!’ And there followed flashes of lightning, loud voices and peals of thunder. And God made Babylon drain the cup which was filled with the fierce wine of his vengeance.
The nearest rooster, bolder than his mates, pecked at one of the shiny orbs below it, in a cautious probe for danger. Brenos’s scream of terror was drowned out by a cacophony of savage clucking, as the vision of Alpha and Omega disappeared from his consciousness in a final burst of pain, and a dazzling white light.
Chapter twenty-six
Getorius had been released shortly after the first evening watch began. As well as authorizing his release, Bishop Chrysologos had granted him a dispensation from fasting, so around the fourth hour after sunset he was eating a late supper, while Arcadia watched.