‘But it is necessary that a memorial is kept of where the shrines are and who is buried in them,’ interrupted Eadulf in protest.
‘Is it also necessary that great sums be charged to pilgrims to supply them with
ampullae
or phials which purport to come from the oil of lamps in catacombs and shrines?’ snapped Fidelma. ‘I hardly think that the oil from the lamps of the shrines of saints can be deemed to have miraculous powers?’
Eadulf heaved a sigh and shook his head in resignation.
‘Perhaps we should abandon the seeing of such sights.’
Fidelma was immediately contrite again.
‘Once more I have let my tongue run away with my thoughts, Eadulf. Forgive me … please?’
The Saxon tried to look disapproving. He wanted to continue his annoyance but when Fidelma smiled that urchin grin of hers …
‘Very well. Let us find something that we can both agree upon, Fidelma. I know … a little way from here is the church of St Mary of the Snow.’
‘Of the Snow?’
‘I am told that one August night the Blessed Virgin appeared to Liberius, then Bishop of Rome, and to a patrician named John, telling them to build a church on the Esquiline on the spot where they would find a patch of snow on the following morning. They found a patch of snow covering the exact area where the church was to be built.’
‘Such tales are told of many churches, Eadulf, why should this one be of particular interest?’
‘There will be a special mass held there tonight for the
memory of the Blessed Aidan of Lindisfarne who died on this day thirteen years ago. Many Irish and Saxon pilgrims will be attending.’
‘Then so shall I,’ affirmed Fidelma, ‘but first I would like to visit the Colosseum, Eadulf, so that I may see where the martyrs of the Faith met their end.’
‘Very well. And we will talk no more of the differences between Rome, Canterbury and Armagh.’
‘It is agreed,’ affirmed Fidelma.
Some way behind them, the moon-faced monk, carefully concealing himself among the cypress trees, followed their progress along the Via Merulana with narrowed eyes.
It seemed to Fidelma that she had only just fallen asleep when her slumber was disturbed by a bell clanging urgently. She moaned softly in protest, turned and tried to chase the elusive comfort of her dream. But she was woken by the continuous clamour of the bell followed by the sound of a caustic voice in the stillness of the night. Already she heard the agitated movements of the brethren awakening and voices raised demanding to know what disrupted their sleep. Fidelma was fully awake now, noticing the darkness of the night. She slipped from her bed, drew on her robe and was about to feel for a candle when there came a timid tapping on the door of her small chamber. Before she had time to open her mouth in reply it swung open to reveal, in the glow of the lamp kept permanently alight in the corridor, the agitated figure of the deaconess, Epiphania. She wrung her hands, twisting them as if to suppress her apparent distress.
‘Sister Fidelma!’ Epiphania’s voice was a fearful wail.
Fidelma stood quietly, examining her apprehensive features.
‘Calm yourself, Epiphania,’ she instructed softly. ‘What is the matter?’
‘It is an officer of the Lateran Guard, the
custodes.
He demands that you go with him.’
Several thoughts went through Fidelma’s mind at that moment; panic-stricken thoughts; thoughts of regret that she had agreed to Ultan’s request to come to Rome at all; guilty thoughts of her criticism of the Holy Father and the trumpery of Roman clerics in making small fortunes from pilgrims. Had someone heard and denounced her? Then she made an effort to inwardly control herself. Her facial expression and outward demeanour had not changed.
‘Where does he wish me to go?’ she asked quietly. ‘And for what purpose?’
The deaconess was abruptly pushed aside and in the doorway of her
cubiculum
stood a good-looking youthful soldier in the ceremonial uniform of the
custodes.
He stared arrogantly over her head, avoiding eye contact. She had been in Rome long enough to recognise the emblems of a
tesserarius
or junior officer of the guard.
‘We have orders to take you to the Lateran Palace. At once, sister.’
The young man’s voice was brusque.
Fidelma managed a wan smile.
‘For what purpose?’
The young man’s expression remained wooden.
‘I have not been informed. I follow orders.’
‘Will your orders then allow me to bathe my face and dress?’ she asked innocently.
The guard’s eyes suddenly focused on her and his wooden expression relaxed for a moment. He looked embarrassed, hesitating only a moment.
‘We will await you outside, sister,’ he agreed, withdrawing as abruptly as he had entered.
Epiphania let forth a low moan.
‘What does it mean, sister? Oh, what does it mean?’
‘I won’t know until I have dressed and accompanied the
custodes
to the palace,’ Fidelma replied, trying to sound nonchalant in order to disguise her own apprehension.
The deaconess looked confused, hesitated and then also withdrew.
Fidelma stood for a moment feeling cold and very lonely. Then she turned and forced herself to pour water into a basin. Mechanically, she began her toilet, each movement made with a slow deliberation to calm her inner turmoil.
Ten minutes later, serenely calm on the outside, Fidelma went into the courtyard. The deaconess stood by the gate and Fidelma was aware that the brethren of the house were peering nervously from their rooms. As well as the young officer who had come to her
cubiculum,
there were two members of the Lateran Guard standing in the courtyard.
The young man nodded approval at her appearance and took a step forward.
‘Before we proceed, I have to ask you formally whether you are Fidelma of Kildare from the kingdom of Ireland?’
‘I am,’ Fidelma bowed her head slightly.
‘I am the
tesserarius
Licinius of the Lateran Guard, acting under orders of the
Superista,
the military governor of the Lateran. I have been ordered to accompany you immediately into the presence of the
Superista.’
‘I understand,’ Fidelma said, not really understanding at all. ‘Am I accused of some crime?’
The young officer frowned and contrived to raise a shoulder and let it fall as an indication of his ignorance.
‘Once again, I can only say that I am following my orders, sister.’
‘I will come,’ sighed Fidelma, there being nothing else for her to do in the circumstances.
The deaconess opened the gate, her face pale and lips trembling.
Fidelma, walking side by side with the officer, passed through it followed by the two guards, one of whom had now lit a brand torch to light their way through the dark night streets of the city.
Apart from the distant yelp of a dog, the city was amazingly silent. There was a crisp stillness to the air, a chill that Fidelma had not noticed before. It was cold, though not as icy as mornings in her native land, but enough for her to be glad of the warmth of her woollen robe. It still lacked an hour before the first streaks of dawn light would thrust their probing fingers into the eastern sky beyond the distant hills. Only the rhythmic hollow slap of the leather soles of her sandals and the heavier soldiers’ studded
caligulae
on the paved street made any noise.
They proceeded without speaking down the broad thoroughfare of the Via Merulana, south towards the tall dominating dome of the Basilica of St John, which dwarfed the complex of the Lateran Palace. It was not far, no more than a thousand metres, or so Fidelma had worked out in her daily passage to and from the palace. The gates to the palace were lit by flickering torches and
custodes
stood ready, swords drawn and held across their breasts in the traditional stance.
The officer led his charge up the steps and through the
atrium
where Fidelma had waited for so long in her attempt to see the Holy Father. They immediately crossed the hall and exited through a side door, moving along a bare, stone-paved passageway, whose gauntness seemed at odds with the richness
of the preceding hall. They turned across a small courtyard, in the centre of which an ornate fountain gushed water, and then came to a chamber where two more guards stood. The officer halted and knocked gently on the door.
At a called instruction from beyond the door, the young man opened it and motioned Fidelma to go inside.
‘Fidelma of Kildare!’ he announced, then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.
Fidelma halted by the door and peered round.
She was in a large room hung with tapestries, but not so richly furnished as the chamber in which she had met Gelasius. The furnishings were minimal and spoke of utility rather than decorative opulence. This was clearly a room which was purely functional. The
officium
was well lit and a thickset man with close-cropped steel-grey hair and a pugnacious jaw came forward to greet her. He was obviously a military man though he wore no armour nor carried a weapon.
‘Fidelma of Kildare?’ There was no aggression in his voice, in fact the man sounded anxious. When Fidelma suspiciously nodded confirmation, the man continued. ‘I am Marinus, the
Superista,
that is the military governor, of the Lateran Palace.’
With a motion of his hand he drew her to a large hearth in which a fire crackled, warming the chill early morning air. There were two chairs set before it and he indicated for her to be seated in one while he settled himself in the other.
‘You are obviously wondering why you have been summoned?’ He made the statement seem like a question and Fidelma responded with a slight smile.
‘I am a human being,
Superista,
with natural curiosity. But you will doubtless tell me what that reason is in your own good time.’
Marinus stared at her as if in momentary mild amusement at the reply and then abruptly grimaced in seriousness. There was no mistaking the anxiety on his features.
‘Truly spoken. A problem has arisen which affects the Lateran Palace, indeed, the Holy See of Rome.’
Fidelma sat back waiting.
‘It is an event in which there may be much at stake, including the dignity of the office of the Holy Father, the security of the Saxon kingdoms and the possibility of conflict and warfare between your own country of Ireland, the Saxons and the Britons.’
Fidelma gazed at the military governor with some astonishment mixed with bewilderment.
Marinus gestured with his hand, as if seeking explanation in the air.
‘There is one thing that I must do before I can explain further …’
He hesitated and there was a silence.
‘Which is?’ prompted Fidelma after a while.
‘Can you tell me where you were around the hour of midnight?’
‘Certainly,’ Fidelma replied at once, suppressing her surprise. ‘I accompanied Brother Eadulf,
scriptor
of the archbishop-designate Wighard of Canterbury, to attend the celebratory mass for the life and work of the Blessed Aidan of Lindisfarne. Yesterday was the anniversary of the death of Aidan. The mass was held in the church of Saint Mary of the Snow on the Esquiline.’
Marinus was nodding as if he knew the answer beforehand.
‘You answer with great precision, Fidelma of Kildare.’
‘In my own land, I am an advocate of the court of the
Fenechus
. Precision is part of my profession.’
The
Superista
again nodded absently, as if he already knew that this would be the reply to his implied question.
‘And why would Irish and Saxon be attending the mass for Aidan of Lindisfarne, sister?’
‘Simply because Aidan was an Irish monk who converted the kingdom of Northumbria to the Faith and is thereby venerated by Irish and Saxon alike.’
‘The mass started at what hour …?’
‘At the stroke of midnight.’
‘But before that, sister, where were you and Brother Eadulf?’ Marinus leant forward abruptly, his face thrust towards her, his eyes searching.
Fidelma blinked.
‘Brother Eadulf and I had accompanied a group of pilgrims to view the Colosseum where so many died for the Faith in the days of the pagan emperors of Rome. We examined some of the Holy Shrines and then went to the church were the mass was being celebrated. There were a dozen of us in all. Three monks from Northumbria, including Brother Eadulf, and two sisters and four brothers from the monastery of Columban at Bobbio. There were also two guides from the hostel of Prassede where I lodge.’
Marinus was nodding impatiently.
‘And were you together with Brother Eadulf until after midnight?’
‘I have said as much,
Superista.’
‘And are you acquainted with an Irish monk named Ronan Ragallach?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘I have not heard of that name. Why do you ask? Perhaps,
you will now tell me what has happened to cause my being brought hither?’
Marinus gave a deep sigh, pausing as if to gather his thoughts.
‘Wighard, the archbishop-designate of Canterbury, who was to have authority over all the abbots and bishops of the Saxon kingdoms, was found dead at midnight by a
decurion
of the palace guards. Not only that, but his chamber was robbed of the priceless gifts which he was to present to the Holy Father at his official audience later today.’