Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘See the charioteer on it, the horses with stars above them?’ Venerable Ionas held up the coin to the light of his lamp. ‘And see those letters on the obverse? That is a gold coin of the Tectosages of Gaul. Their capital was the city of Tolosa.’

  Fidelma tried not to reveal that Tolosa meant anything to her. She was about to thank the old scholar when a thought struck her.

  ‘You have been here many years, Venerable Ionas?’ It was a question rather than a comment.

  ‘I came here a few years after the death of our dearly beloved Columbanus, and met and spoke with those who had known him in life,’ he replied. ‘That was when I began writing my life of our founder. After that I wandered in several parts of Christendom, even among the Franks and then to Rome. That is where I picked up my knowledge of Gaulish coins, so I can identify the one you hold.’

  ‘Brother Eolann mentioned you had such knowledge.’

  ‘He is a good scriptor.’

  ‘Do you know much about him?’

  The old man was surprised. ‘I thought that he came from the same part of the world as you do?’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Fidelma quickly. ‘I meant, since he came to this abbey.’

  ‘Oh, he has only been here two or three years. I am told that he first went to the Abbey of Gallen, an Hibernian whom you called Gall. Then he crossed the high peaks and spent some time in Mailand. That was about the time when Perctarit still ruled from there, before he was driven into exile. Brother Eolann then came here, seeking peace and solitude. He had talent and soon rose to become scriptor of the abbey.’

  ‘But he was sad at being criticised when some of his books were needlessly ruined. Some of their pages were cut off and disappeared.’

  ‘I do not remember mention of that,’ said the old scholar. ‘I was not told and I use the library every day.’

  ‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘It is a great crime to destroy books,’ he went on.

  ‘Brother Eolann and I managed to ascertain that the pages had been cut from books by Livy and Pliny. We identified the pages from Livy. They had been removed from one of the books containing a passage about a Roman Proconsul named Caepio. His legions were destroyed in Gaul.’

  Venerable Ionas looked at her with quick interest.

  ‘Caepio? Yes, he was the Proconsul and Governor of this very territory in the days of the old Empire. He was the great-grandfather of Marcus Brutus, one of the assassins of the General Julius Caesar.’

  ‘I have heard of Julius Caesar,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘But that must have been in very ancient times then? I had a feeling that Caepio had some more immediate connection with this area – some legacy.’

  ‘Caepio?’ Venerable Ionas shook his head. ‘No, he lived a long time before Julius Caesar – many years, in fact, before the Coming of the Christ. Caepio’s legacy was reviled throughout the Empire. There is a good reason why his life was not considered worthy. His arrogance destroyed two Roman armies, tens of thousands of men, but he escaped with his life. He was taken before the Roman Senate, tried and found guilty of the destruction of his army and of embezzlement of money. Being a patrician he was stripped of his citizenship and ordered into exile. No one was allowed to provide him with fire or water within eight hundred Roman miles of the Senate House, and he was fined fifteen thousand gold talents. He was not allowed to speak to friends or family from the moment of his sentence. The story is that he managed to reach a Greek city in the east and died there in exile.’

  Fidelma was quiet. Venerable Ionas’ account more or less confirmed and expanded the few words that she had seen in the book in the library at Vars.

  ‘Why would pages relating to Caepio be cut out of the books in the abbey library?’ asked Venerable Ionas.

  ‘I was told there was some legend connected with gold from Tolosa,’ she said.

  The elderly scholar looked at the coin and grimaced. ‘The same old dream. Aurum Tolosa, eh?’

  ‘Then you know of it?’ Fidelma asked quickly.

  ‘The people of these valleys often talk about it. It is more or less the gold of fools. A myth. It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘But tell me about it.’

  ‘Before the battle in which the Roman armies were annihilated, Caepio and his legions attacked and sacked the town of Tolosa and carried off a vast amount of gold and silver. Some stories even say that the people had hidden the gold in a great, dark lake, but Caepio managed to recover it …’

  ‘That which was taken from a watery grave must be returned to it,’ muttered Fidelma.

  ‘What?’ frowned the old scholar.

  ‘Forgive me, I was just remembering something that someone said. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the figures vary, but it is said that the legionnaires filled forty-six wagons with gold and silver. Caepio then sent them back to his villa in Placentia. When the Senate asked him where the gold was, he claimed it had never reached Placentia – that the wagons had been attacked by bandits and looted on the way. The Senate didn’t believe him. They believed that he had appropriated the gold for himself and had buried it somewhere in these very mountains – hence the severity of his sentence. The fact was that it disappeared and over the many centuries since, it has become a myth. So why are you interested in this?’ He held up the coin and examined it. ‘A gold coin of Tolosa … a coin of the Tectosages.’ He began to smile. ‘Ah, don’t tell me that someone is trying to persuade you that this coin is part of the lost gold of Tolosa?’

  Fidelma flushed slightly. ‘Not at all,’ she asserted. ‘I was mainly concerned why the pages about Caepio should be removed from the books in the library. Brother Eolann was most upset about this.’

  ‘Well, I can understand that the destruction of a book would be a great affront. He should have reported the matter. I would not believe that the contents of the pages would be important in themselves. We have far more detailed accounts about Caepio in another book, which I have used recently. There is a little book in the scriptorium on the life of the Proconsul. Brother Eolann was especially proud of it as it was a very rare copy. Apparently it was banned by the curule aediles in Rome.’

  ‘The what?’ Fidelma asked, puzzled.

  ‘Curule aediles? Ancient Roman magistrates. For some reason we had one of the copies that escaped destruction. I believe it might have survived because it was written by a Gaul from Narbona – Trogus Pompeius.’

  ‘Why would the life of Caepio be banned? Because of the subject or the writer?’

  ‘I would think that Proconsul Caepio was not the most worthy of the Servillius clan.’

  Fidelma was about to turn away when the name registered with her. ‘Did you say the Servillius clan?’ she asked.

  ‘Servillius was a patronymic name. The Proconsul’s full name was Quintus Servillius Caepio. Vitae Quintus Servillius Caepeio is the volume that you are looking for. The Servillius family were an ancient patrician family in the days of the Republic and Empire, and often obtained the consulship. They survived many, many centuries.’

  Fidelma was thoughtful. She picked up the coin and went to the door, pausing to say, ‘Thank you for your wisdom, Venerable Ionas. It is of much help to me.’

  ‘As I recall, you will find the story told by Trogus more in keeping with mythology,’ called Venerable Ionas. ‘He claims that the gold of Tolosa was initially looted from the sacred Greek temples of Delphi. The Tectosages were one of the Gaulish tribes who invaded Greece just after the death of the Great Alexander and sacked the gold and wealth of the temple of the Oracle. Each time the story is told, it becomes more fabulous in the telling. Trogus was a Gaul and a good storyteller. He knew many of the local legends associated with the campaign against the Gauls. So his account might give you further information.’

  Fidelma left as the Venerable Ionas bent over his work again. Outside his study, she replaced the gold coin safely back in her comb bag. Her mind turned over the patronymic of Caepio in her mind. An ancient patrician family that had surviv
ed many centuries … She made her way into the scriptorium. Now she felt that she was getting nearer to that elusive connection. Brother Eolann was still not there, yet now there was a lamp lit on the table. Beside the lamp was a book opened at the first page. She caught sight of the title.

  It was Trogus Pompeius’ Vitae Quintus Servillius Caepeio.

  She swung round quickly, glancing into the darkened corners of the library. Was she being set up for some purpose? The book did not get there on its own just when she needed it. With tightened jaw she leaned towards the book. She began to turn the pages – and then stopped with a gasp.

  The book was a thin volume – but when opened, it was obvious why. Several of the pages had been cut from it.

  Now she knew whom she had to confront, but she also knew that she could not do it alone. She retraced her steps to Venerable Ionas’ study. He looked up in surprise as she entered, without knocking this time, and sat down. She held out the copy of the book to him. He saw the section where the pages had been cut and turned a frowning glance to Fidelma.

  ‘I think it is time I had a word with Abbot Servillius.’ She laid a heavy stress on the last name.

  ‘Abbot Servillius?’ asked Venerable Ionas. ‘Why?’

  ‘You told me that Servillius was a nomen, a patronymic name. Quintus Servillius Caepio.’ She laid stress on the middle name.

  Abbot Ionas regarded her with some amusement. ‘I cannot quite see how your mind is working, my child. You comment on the similarity of the name.’

  ‘I seem to have stumbled on a series of matters that relate to this fabled gold hoard of Quintus Servillius Caepio. I believe a boy was killed because he stumbled on the hoard or the route to it. The killer wanted it kept secret. But it became known that the boy had spoken to someone in this abbey who might be able to work out what it was all about. Therefore the killer decided to eliminate all the clues that he could. Cutting pages from the books in the scriptorium which linked to the story of this fabulous treasure was one way.’

  ‘You mean the references to what Caepio did? His sack of Tolosa, his appropriation of the gold and silver; the story that he brought the treasure back to this land, where he was Proconsul and Governor; that he hid it, before his final disgrace in Rome.’ Venerable Ionas was still smiling. ‘That seems somewhat far-fetched.’

  ‘The killer tried to expunge any route that might have led to Caepio’s gold – Servillius’ gold.’

  Venerable Ionas sat back, chuckling softly. ‘You are arguing that our abbot is a descendant of the Servillius family. That may well be. Servillius has always been proud that he is descended from an old and local patrician family. But are you arguing that he also holds the secret of Caepio’s gold – that he has tried to prevent others from finding it?’

  ‘Or indeed that he or some other discovered the hiding place and then the boy Wamba stumbled on it and …’

  Now the old scholar’s eyes widened. ‘You seriously contend that Abbot Servillius had the boy Wamba killed to keep the secret of where the fabled Aurum Tolosa might be found? Impossible! Even if it did exist, to suggest that my old friend Servillius …’

  ‘ … had him killed or killed the boy himself,’ Fidelma said steadily.

  Venerable Ionas sat for a while in silence, his bright eyes keenly searching her face.

  ‘I have perceived you to be an intelligent person, Sister,’ he finally said, like a father sadly chastising an erring child. ‘I know that you have trained in the law of your land. I know, too, that Venerable Gelasius of the Lateran Palace holds you in high esteem, as does the Holy Father himself, because you tracked down the killer of the Archbishop Wighard. But this is an incredible accusation that you lay at the door of poor Servillius. Why, I have known him since the day he came to this abbey.’

  ‘I do not make my accusations lightly,’ Fidelma replied.

  ‘Then I suggest that you tell me your story and your evidence before you go any further.’

  ‘It is a long one and starts with the murder of Brother Ruadán.’

  The eyes of Venerable Ionas widened again. ‘Murder?’ His tone was incredulous.

  Fidelma began the story, slowly and carefully, and gradually the disbelief of the old scholar’s expression began to change into one of serious attention. He did not interrupt her once. When she had finished he sat with head bowed, saying nothing. Then he exhaled deeply.

  ‘And such things have happened to you, my child, since you came to our peaceful Abbey of Bobium? You should have come to me sooner.’

  ‘How could I trust you?’ demanded Fidelma. ‘I do not know if I can trust you now, only that I desperately need to trust someone.’

  The elderly man smiled softly. ‘You may trust me, my child. We will go together and put these matters directly to Abbot Servillius.’

  ‘He could simply deny them,’ pointed out Fidelma.

  ‘Perhaps he will. But in his explanation of certain aspects of this story we may be led to uncovering the truth.’

  ‘I have no authority here to question an abbot.’

  ‘That I know. From writing the life of Columbanus and mixing with many of your compatriots of Hibernia, I have learned about the role of the Brehons of your land. The Venerable Gelasius, nomenclator to the Holy Father, asked you to investigate the death of Archbishop Wighard of Canterbury. He did this, I am informed, over the heads of the law officers of the Lateran Palace, even over the head of the Superista of the Lateran Guard.’

  ‘That was due to politics,’ Fidelma explained, ‘because of the nationality of the archbishop and the nationality of the one accused of his murder, one of the Hibernian brethren. And it was done with the knowledge and approval of the Superista, Marinus, the Military Governor of the Lateran Palace, rather than over his head, as you express it.’

  ‘You are precise as befits your profession, Fidelma,’ noted Venerable Ionas. ‘Precision is what is needed here. But the point I am making is that what is good for the Venerable Gelasius and the Holy Father should be good enough for us in this abbey.’

  ‘You are kind. But the only authority in the abbey is Abbot Servillius himself. His authority cannot be questioned, especially since you have adopted the Rule of Benedict here. So are you saying that you might work a miracle to persuade him to give me permission to question him, having accused him of being central to crimes of murder? To question him about a crime in which he is the only suspect?’

  Venerable Ionas sat back and chuckled deeply. ‘That is not what I am suggesting, Fidelma.’

  ‘What then?’ she demanded. ‘The Rule of Benedict demands the renunciation of one’s own will and calls upon every member of the brethren to have prompt, ungrudging and absolute obedience to their superiors, in this case, to the abbot, for unhesitating obedience is called the first step to humility.’

  Venerable Ionas was shaking his head good-naturedly. ‘I know what the Hibernian brethren think of unquestioned obedience but, as your brethren say, do not break your shinbone on a stool that is not in the way.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is simple enough. The Blessed Columbanus used to say that there are two kinds of fool. Those who will not obey and those who obey without question. He therefore thought the time might come when the abbey abandoned his Rule, so he left instructions for a separate governance here which our abbots have never altered. That is, the two senior clerics can call the abbot to account if there is a decision to be questioned.’

  ‘You mean yourself and Magister Ado?’

  ‘We are currently the two senior clerics here.’

  ‘Therefore you and Magister Ado could force the abbot to answer my questions?’

  ‘We can. So now we shall talk with Abbot Servillius. I shall designate you to act in the role of my interlocutor. If he does not agree to answer the questions we will await Magister Ado’s return – but answer them he must.’

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘Are you sure that you have clear questions to put?’ He ignored he
r question and posed his own.

  ‘I am sure enough.’

  They walked from Venerable Ionas’ study, passing the scriptorium door, down the stairs to the main hallway and across to the abbot’s chamber. They had not reached it when they realised someone was standing in the doorway, which was open. The figure turned. It was the rotund cook Brother Waldipert. He stood staring at them with wide terrified eyes; his skin had a sickly pale tinge. He took a step forward. For a moment they thought he was going to collapse. He swayed, his mouth open, lips moving but making no sound at all.

  ‘What is it, Brother Waldipert?’ demanded Venerable Ionas.

  Still the man could not speak but just stared as if he was not focusing on either of them.

  With an exhalation of exasperation, the Venerable Ionas moved past him and halted on the threshold of the abbot’s chamber. He moved no further, frozen for the moment. Then slowly he turned back to the fat cook. The man still stood shaking. Some brethren were passing through the hall. Venerable Ionas called to one of them. ‘Ask Brother Hnikar to come to the abbot’s study immediately. He – there has … has been an accident.’

  One of them scurried off on his errand.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Abbot Servillius is dead,’ intoned Venerable Ionas.

  Fidelma pushed by him, even though he tried to hold her back. But she, too, halted on the threshold. It was obvious why Venerable Ionas had no need to enter further.

  Abbot Servillius lay sprawled on the floor just inside the door. His skull was a bloody mess, beaten to a pulp by some heavy object. Only his robes and crucifix on its silver chain provided a means of identification. Near the body she saw a large brass candlestick. It did not need any clever deduction to see the bloodstains on it and realise that this was the murder weapon. This was no accident but murder, plain and simple.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fidelma stepped back into the hall. ‘What happened?’ she asked the cook.

  The man had still not recovered, was still staring and trying to utter words. To Fidelma’s surprise, Venerable Ionas stepped forward and struck the cook sharply across the cheek. The man staggered back, blinking; a hand went to his reddening cheek.