‘He seems just a simpleton to me.’
Eadulf abruptly re-entered the room. It was clear from his expression that he had not been successful in his quest.
‘Not one person could I find who knows the language of the Arabians,’ he reported in disgust.
Furius Licinius frowned.
‘What of Brother Osimo Lando?’
Fidelma told Licinius that Osimo could not be found.
‘Well, Marcus Narses is on duty, he stands by the portals of the great hall. He would know. He fought the Mahometans at Alexandria three years ago and was taken prisoner for a year until his family paid a ransom for his release. He learnt something of their tongue.’
‘Send him to us, Licinius,’ ordered Eadulf, sprawling into a chair. ‘I am too exhausted to go and find him.’
It did not take long for Furius Licinius to locate Marcus Narses and bring him back to the chamber.
Fidelma came straight to the point.
‘I have memorised some words. I think they might be in the language of the Arabians, which I am told you understand. Will you see if you can recognise them?’
The
decurion
inclined his head.
‘Very well, sister.’
‘The first word is
kafir.’
The soldier grinned.
‘Easy enough. It means “unbeliever”. One who does not
believe in the Prophet. As we would say “
infidelis
” to denote a person rejecting the truth of Christ.’
‘The Prophet?’
‘Mahomet of Mecca who died thirty years ago. His teachings have spread like wildfire among the eastern peoples where they call the new religion Islam, which means a submission to God or Allah.’
Fidelma frowned as she caught his pronunciation.
‘So Allah is their name for God. Then what would “
Bismilla
h
”
mean?’
‘Easy enough,’ replied Marcus Narses. ‘That is “In the name of Allah”, their God. It is merely an exclamation of surprise which they use.’
Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.
‘So, what I suspected is confirmed. Those two were Arabians. And it seems that Brother Ronan was in contact with them. But for what purpose and what bearing does it have on the death of Wighard and on his own?’
Eadulf glanced at Marcus Narses.
‘Thank you,
decurion.
You may go now,’ he said.
The young
decurion
seemed reluctant to leave but, with a glance at Furius Licinius, he returned to his guard duties in the
atrium.
‘Brother Osimo Lando should be found,’ suggested Furius Licinius. ‘If anyone would know more of this matter then he, as Brother Ronan’s superior, should know if he was engaged in any matter considering the Arabians.’
‘I have already despatched someone to see why he is not at his place of work,’ Fidelma explained. ‘However, I am anxious to speak with Brother Eanred again.’
‘We only have Sebbi’s word that Eanred is a master of the
garrote,’ Eadulf pointed out, guessing what was in her mind.
‘We must be accurate in these matters, Eadulf. All Sebbi said was that Eanred was once a slave who killed his master by strangulation and that is a crime for which he has been exonerated by your Saxon law by payment of the
wergild.
’
‘Even so …’ protested Eadulf.
Fidelma was firm.
‘Let us go and find him. This room is too stuffy and I fear my headache is returning.’
Eadulf and Licinius followed her as she led the way out of the room and along the corridor to the
atrium,
the main hall of the palace. There were several people standing in groups, as usual, waiting to be summoned to see whoever they had come to solicit and influence. Fidelma was leading the way across the mosaic floor to the
domus hospitale.
They had almost reached the far door when they found Brother Sebbi thrusting his way forward with a grim look of irritation on his features.
He saw Eadulf and halted.
‘Are you still secretary and advisor to the Saxon delegation to the Holy Father?’ he snapped, without preamble.
They halted and Eadulf frowned at the religious’ brusqueness.
‘I was so appointed by the archbishop-designate but since his death …’ he shrugged. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘Matter? Matter? Have you seen the Abbot Puttoc?’
‘No. Why?’
Sebbi looked closely at Furius Licinius. It was clear that he was not following the conversation for he spoke no Saxon. His gaze sought Fidelma but she merely dropped her eyes and pretended disinterest. Sebbi of Stanggrund brought his gaze back to Eadulf.
‘I hear that these Romans are trying to foist a foreign bishop on to Canterbury again.’
Eadulf’s mouth quirked into a thin smile.
‘I have heard as much. Well, until Deusdedit became the first Saxon to become archbishop of Canterbury ten years ago, all those appointed to Canterbury have been Roman or Greek. If what you say is true, why should this be of great concern? Are we not all one in the eyes of God?’
Sebbi snorted indignantly.
‘The people of the Saxon kingdoms want their own bishops, not foreigners. Have they not demonstrated this by ousting the Irish from Northumbria? Didn’t we Saxons agree on Wighard of Kent as our next archbishop?’
‘But Wighard is dead,’ Eadulf pointed out.
‘Indeed. And the Holy Father should respect our wishes by appointing Puttoc in his stead. Not some African.’
‘African?’ Eadulf was bewildered.
‘I have just heard that Vitalian has offered Canterbury to Abbot Hadrian of Hiridanum near Naples, who is an African. An African!’
Eadulf’s eyes widened with some surprise.
‘I have heard of him as a man of great learning and piety.’
‘Well, what are we going to do? We Saxons must remain together and protest, demanding that the Holy Father’s blessing be given to Puttoc.’
Eadulf’s face was a mask.
‘Yet you have confessed that you do not like Puttoc, Sebbi. Is it merely that you see your chance to be Abbot of Stanggrund vanishing with Puttoc’s lost hopes? Anyway, we Saxons, as you say, can only come together when the mystery of Wighard’s death is solved.’
Sebbi opened his mouth, stopped himself and then, with a muttered exclamation, he turned disgustedly away into the crowd.
Eadulf turned to Fidelma.
‘Did you understand all that?’
Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.
‘It looks as though Puttoc’s and Sebbi’s ambitions are being brought to an abrupt halt.’
‘Brother Sebbi certainly looks as though he can murder someone for …’ Eadulf suddenly broke off as he realised what he was saying. He looked uneasily at Fidelma.
‘We cannot close our minds to any avenue at the moment,’ Fidelma read his thoughts. ‘I have said as much from the first. Ambition is a powerful motivator.’
‘This is true but is it so wrong to be ambitious?’
‘Ambition is merely vanity, and from vanity people can be blind to morality. Wasn’t it Publius Syrus who said that a man is much to be dreaded who follows his ambition?’
‘Not if they are possessed of talent to fulfil ambition,’ replied Eadulf. ‘The greater evil would be to have men with great ambitions and minor talents.’
Fidelma chuckled appreciatively.
‘We must debate philosophy in depth one day, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Eadulf, with an uneasy grin. ‘The best person to talk of philosophy with at this moment is Puttoc. He may need some guidance in this matter of ambition.’
Fidelma led the way forward to the chambers occupied by Wighard’s entourage.
They came upon Brother Eanred in the communal
lavantur
or laundry house where he was hard at work washing clothes.
He started nervously at their approach but then continued to beat at the thick woollen robe he was washing.
‘Well, Brother Eanred,’ Fidelma greeted him. ‘You are working hard.’
The religieux hunched his shoulders in an odd gesture of resignation.
‘I am washing the clothes of my master.’
‘The Abbot Puttoc?’ queried Eadulf hastily, lest the reply spark Fidelma into a discourse that those of the Faith had only one master in Christ.
Eanred nodded.
‘How long have you been at that job?’ queried Fidelma.
‘Since …’ Eanred screwed up his eyes, ‘since after the midday Angelus, sister.’
‘And before that?’
Eanred looked troubled. Fidelma decided to press him directly.
‘Were you in the Christian cemetery at the Metronia Gate?’
‘Yes, sister.’ There was no guile in Eanred’s reply.
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I went with Abbot Puttoc.’
‘And why did he go there?’ asked Fidelma patiently, as she tried to draw out the facts from Eanred.
‘I think we went to see the grave of Wighard and to make arrangements for a marker, sister.’
Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully. It was reasonable enough. There was certainly nothing to link Puttoc and Eanred with the Arabians who had gone there to meet Ronan Ragallach.
She found the pale brown eyes of Eanred watching her expression curiously. There was a strange blankness there,
the vacant expression of a simpleton not someone full of shrewdness and deceit. Yet, she bit her lip, there was something else … alarm? apprehension?
She caught herself from pursuing such thoughts.
‘Thank you, Eanred. Tell me something else. Have you a bag made of sackcloth?’
‘No, sister,’ the religieux shook her head.
‘Have you used any sackcloth since you have been in this place?’
Eanred shrugged. There was no mistaking the incomprehension on his features. Fidelma decided it was pointless pressing the matter. Perhaps Eanred was lying, if so he was a good liar.
She thanked him and walked out of the
lavantur,
followed by a bewildered Eadulf and Licinius.
‘That seemed to achieve little, sister,’ observed the Saxon brother, his voice edged in disapproval. ‘Why didn’t you accuse him outright?’
Fidelma spread her arms.
‘To paint a picture, Brother Eadulf, you put a little paint here and a little there. Each brush stroke by itself means little, only when all the brush strokes are made and you stand back from the whole is there an outline and a sense of achievement.’
Eadulf bit his lip. He felt that he had been soundly rebuked but did not understand for what. Sometimes Fidelma had an annoying habit of not speaking directly. He sighed. In fact, he mused, Fidelma’s countrymen and women all seemed to have that irritating manner of not speaking in plain, simple language but using symbolism, hyperbole, allusion and exaggerated forms of speech.
They halted in the small courtyard. Fidelma seated herself
on the small stone parapet by the gushing fountain in the centre of the courtyard and trailed her slim hand in the cool water, listening with an appreciative ear to the sound of the water. Furius Licinius and Eadulf stood awkwardly by, waiting for her to speak.
‘Ah, Brother Eadulf!’
The imperious tones of the Abbess Wulfrun echoed suddenly across the yard as the tall figure of the woman appeared in the doorway. She bore down on them like a vessel under full sail, eyes fixed ahead.
‘My lady,’ Eadulf greeted her nervously.
Abbess Wulfrun ignored both Fidelma and Furius Licinius. Her hand played with the scarf at her throat. Fidelma watched the involuntary action trying to recall why she felt it should interest her.
‘I wish to inform you that tomorrow I and Sister Eafa will be leaving for Porto to seek a ship and commence our journey back to Kent. There is little to remain here for now. I have arranged for a boatman to take us down the Tiber. As secretary of the delegation, I felt that you should be informed.’
She began to turn away when Fidelma, without standing up, called softly. ‘That may not be possible, Abbess Wulfrun.’
The woman halted, swung round and stared at her with an expression of astonishment on her face.
‘What did you say?’ came her threatening, breathless tone. Fidelma repeated what she had said.
‘Do you dare to challenge my right of movement, girl?’
‘No,’ replied Fidelma complacently. ‘I presume, however, that you have not consulted Bishop Gelasius nor the military governor, the
Superista
Marinus?’
‘I am on my way there now to inform them of my intentions.’
‘Then let me save you the trouble. Until our investigation into the death of Wighard is ended, then no one in Wighard’s party may leave Rome.’