Whispers of the Dead sf-15

by Peter Tremayne

  “But you found her eventually, under a bush?”

  “We did.”

  “Near here?”

  “She was under that big bush there,” he pointed.

  Fidelma moved forward and glanced quickly at it.

  Maine led the way back to where the others were still waiting by the pool. There was little else to be seen that would help her. Fidelma examined their expectant faces.

  “I will reserve my judgment in this matter. You will have my judgment on the seventh day from now.”

  She hurried away so as not to see the crestfallen, puzzled expressions.

  Three days later she was sitting in front of a fire in Brehon Spélan’s chambers. The old judge was seated on the opposite side of the fire to her, sipping mulled wine. Fidelma had just finished recounting the extent of the case to him.

  “I see your difficulty, Fidelma,” the old judged sighed. “It is not often that it seems obvious what happened but there is insufficient evidence to pronounce the guilt of the person.”

  “This is, indeed, a sad case,” she agreed. “Poor little Enda was placed in an environment that was hostile to him and that very hostility led to his murder. Indeed, not death by neglect, but murder. Colla tolerated him simply as a business transaction so that he would get all his smithy work done by Fécho. Colla’s wife Dublemna hated the boy. I think she is a bad woman who is not averse to physically punishing her children. .”

  “Even though corporal punishment is against the law?” interposed Spélan.

  “Even so,” agreed Fidelma. “That much Faife made clear. And only Colla seems to have prevented harm coming to Enda because he had obviously been told the law of fosterage when he made the contract.”

  “So, from what you say, only little Maine welcomed Enda and in him did the child find any sense of companionship?” queried Spélan.

  “That is so. But Dublemna was a vindictive and cruel foster mother as well as mother.”

  “So you think it was she who actually killed Enda in some rage against the boy?” the old judged was frowning.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “Enda left his game of hide and go seek that morning and walked back to the homestead. At the pond he was hit over the head by someone wielding a stone and then pushed into the pond. Maine found him and then ran to fetch help. .”

  “But who did it?”

  “Dublemna’s influence was strongest on her daughters. Both of them took their cue of hatred for Enda from her. I suspect they were both hated by their mother and sought to please her. One of them, in fact, went out of her way to please the mother. That was Faife.”

  “But why?” Spélan was astonished. “Why would this child resort to murder?”

  “The logic of a child is not the same as that of an adult. I think that Faife, overhearing her mother’s anger at her husband for having brought the child into fosterage with them, and her dislike of the child, thought it would please her mother if the child was punished-especially when her father refused to punish the boy.”

  “It is strange thinking but I have heard similar tales of children trying to appease parents by doing things they think will please them.”

  “In fact, I believe that Faife even decided to provide some ammunition for her mother to justify her dislike. She was the one taking the honey. She stole the eggs and planted them under the bed and then came to accuse Enda.”

  “But what happened at the pond?”

  “I believe that when they were playing hide and go seek, Faife decided-having overheard the conversation between her mother and father-to physically hurt Enda as her mother wanted. Enda had left the game. The next game began-we heard from Maine that it took a long time to find Faife. In the time she was supposed to be hiding-when Maine and Una were trying to find her-she went after Enda, found a stone, and hit him on the back of the head. We may never know if her intention was to kill him. When she discovered he was dead she pushed his body in the pond. That’s how she muddied and soaked her dress. She tried to disguise it by pretending she was hiding under a bush. But the bush grew in stony, dry ground. It would not have been soaked or muddied, merely dirtied.”

  Brehon Spélan whistled softly.

  “But we cannot prove that Faife killed the boy. You are Brehon enough to know that your reconstruction would not stand up as proof in court.”

  Fidelma sighed deeply.

  “I know. That is the sad thing. There is no redress in law for Fécho unless he is persuaded to change his claim back to death by neglect. They have a good chance of being compensated by Colla paying half the dire, or honor price. Enda was over the age of seven, so after that age, the child’s honor price becomes half that of his father. Under law we can do no more. I can also fine Dublemna for hitting her own children as an infraction of the law but I don’t think I will make her see that her hatred of Enda, indeed, her dislike even of her own children, led to this tragedy. Colla and Dublemna will stop up their ears. The next recommendation is, that due to the fines, they be refused any position as fosterers in the future.”

  Brehon Spélan shook his head sadly.

  “This is one of those times when justice and law are not the same thing, Fidelma. I am sure that we will be able to get Fécho to accept that he press for the lesser charge. I agree about Colla and Dublemna. But what about Faife? What is to stop her the next time she feels like using violence as a solution? I know that you are fond of quoting Publilius Syrus, Fidelma. Didn’t he say that the judge is condemned when the guilty one goes free?”

  “He did. But then we are here to interpret and maintain the law, for whenever the rule of law ends rule by tyranny begins. At least we have our great féis every three years at which we can argue, with others, and attempt to change the laws that are wrong and expand those that need such amendment. But here and now it is not the law which is wrong but lack of evidence.”

  “Perhaps sometimes circumstantial evidence should be taken into judgment when it is very strong. . such as when you find an overturned and empty pail of milk and a cat sleeping beside it. It is clearly the cat that is guilty.”

  Fidelma smiled mischievously.

  “Yet a good lawyer might argue that perhaps a dog happened by, overturned the pail, emptied the milk, which evaporated and afterwards a cat came along and merely went to sleep beside it. Who can with certainty say that the cat was the guilty party?”

  THE LOST EAGLE

  This is Deacon Platonius Lepidus, Sister Fidelma. He is a visitor from Rome and he wishes a word with you.”

  Fidelma looked up in surprise as the stranger was shown into the scriptorium of the abbey. She was a stranger in the abbey herself-the abbey of Augustine. Augustine was the former prior of St. Andrews in Rome, who had died here scarcely sixty years ago having been sent as missionary to the king of the Cantware. It was now the focal point of the Jutish Christian community in the center of the burg of Cantware. Fidelma was waiting for Brother Eadulf to finish some business with the Archbishop Theodore. The religieux who had announced the Deacon’s presence had withdrawn from the library, shutting the door behind him. As Fidelma rose uncertainly the Deacon came forward to the table where she had been seated.

  Platonius Lepidus looked every inch of what she knew to be a Roman aristocrat; there was arrogance about him in spite of his religious robes. She had been on a pilgrimage to Rome and knew that his aristocratic rank would immediately be recognizable there. He was tall, with dark hair and swarthy of complexion. His greeting and smile were pleasant enough.

  “The Venerable Gelasius told me that you had rendered him a singular service when you were in Rome, Sister. When I heard that you were here in Cantwareburg, I felt compelled to make your acquaintance.”

  “How is the Venerable Gelasius?” she rejoined at once, for she had warm memories of the harassed official in the Lateran Palace where the Bishop of Rome resided.

  “He is well and would have sent his personal felicitations had he known that I would be meeting with you. The
scriptor has informed me that you are on a visit with Brother Eadulf, whom the Venerable Gelasius also remembers fondly. I was also informed that you are both soon to leave for a place called Seaxmund’s Ham.”

  “You are correctly informed, Deacon Lepidus,” Fidelma replied with gravity.

  “Let us sit awhile and talk, Sister Fidelma,” the Deacon said, applying action to the word and inviting her to do the same with a gesture of his hand. “I am afraid that I also have a selfish interest in making your acquaintance. I need your help.”

  Fidelma seated herself with an expression of curiosity.

  “I will help if it is a matter that is within my power, Deacon Lepidus.”

  “Do you know much about the history of this land?”

  “Of the kingdom of the Jutes? Only a little. I know that the Jutes drove out the original inhabitants of Kent scarcely two centuries ago.”

  The deacon shook his head swiftly.

  “I meant knowledge of this land before the Jutes came here. Before they drove the Britons out. The time when it was called Britannia and a province of Rome. You know that in the days of the great Roman Empire our legions occupied and governed this land for several centuries?”

  Fidelma bowed her head in amused affirmation at the slight tone of pride in his voice.

  “I do know something of that history,” she replied softly.

  “One of the legions that comprised the garrison here was called the Ninth Hispana. It was an elite legion. You might have heard of it?”

  “If my memory serves me right, this elite legion was reduced by a Queen of the Britons called Boudicca.” Fidelma smiled with irony. “Something like six thousand foot soldiers and almost an equal number of auxiliaries were killed when she ambushed them. I have read your historian, Tacitus, who wrote about the battle.”

  “The Britons were lucky,” snapped Deacon Lepidus in sudden irritation. Clearly his pride was patriotic even though the incident was an ancient one. It had happened a full six centuries before.

  “Or Queen Boudicca was the better general,” Fidelma murmured quietly. “As I recall, the legion was cut to pieces and its commander, Petillius Cerialis, barely escaped to the shelter of his fortress with some of his cavalry. I think that there were only five hundred survivors out of the thousands of troops.”

  For a moment Lepidus looked annoyed, and then he shrugged.

  “It is clear that you have read Tacitus, Sister. The Venerable Gelasius was fulsome in his praise of your knowledge. The Legion, however, saved its eagle and was then brought back to fighting strength. Cerialis, in fact, went on to become governor of the province in recognition of his ability. You know what the eagle symbolizes for a Roman legion?”

  “The eagle is the standard of each Roman legion, thought to be divinely blessed by being bestowed personally by the hand of the emperor who was then thought to be divine. If the eagle fell into enemy hands, then the disgrace was such that the entire legion had to be disbanded,” replied Fidelma.

  “Exactly so,” agreed the deacon in satisfaction. “The Ninth Legion survived and served the emperors well. It pacified the northern part of this island, which was peopled by a fierce tribal confederation called the Brigantes. .”

  The man’s voice was enthused and Fidelma, who disliked militarism, found herself frowning.

  “All this is ancient history, Deacon Lepidus,” she interrupted pointedly. “I am not sure why you are recalling it nor what advice you seek from me.”

  Deacon Lepidus made a quick gesture of apology.

  “I shall come to that immediately. Did you know that the Ninth Legion disappeared while on active service among the Britons?”

  “ I did not know. I have read only Tacitus and some of Suetonius, neither of whom mentions that.”

  “They would not have been alive to record the event for it happened some sixty or seventy years later. My ancestor, the Legate Platonius Lepidus, was the officer in command of the Ninth Legion, at this time. He was commanding it when it vanished.”

  Fidelma began to realize why the deacon was interested in ancient history, but not why he was raising the subject.

  “So, your ancestor disappeared with six thousand men or more?”

  “He did. He and the eagle of the Ninth Hispana vanished as well as the men. There were rumors that the Legion had disgraced itself and was disbanded. Other stories say that it was sent to fight against the Parthians and eliminated. Yet other stories say that it had lost its eagle and all record of it was then stricken from the books. A few claimed that the legion was marched north across the great wall built by the Emperor Hadrian to protect the northern border of this province from the unconquered country of the Caledonii. You see, all the record books are now destroyed and so we have no knowledge of what happened. .”

  “It happened a long time ago,” observed Fidelma patiently. “What is it that you want of me?”

  “It happened well over five hundred years ago,” Deacon Lepidus agreed. He was silent for a moment or so as if preoccupied with some thoughts. Then he stirred, as if making up his mind. “The fate of my ancestor, the eagle and the legion has become a matter of contention within our family. It is a matter that pride bids us attempt to resolve the mystery.”

  “After so long?” Fidelma could not help but sound sceptical.

  The deacon smiled disarmingly.

  “The truth is that I am writing a history of the Ninth Legion and want to insert into that history the facts of what their fate was, and also exonerate the name of my ancestor. He has been blamed for the loss and even now the aristocracy of Rome does not readily forget this besmirching of the good name of our family.”

  “Ah.” That Fidelma could understand. “But I cannot see how I might help you. I am not of this country and the area in which this legion disappeared, the land of the Brigantes, has been occupied for over one hundred years by the Angles, so any local traditions will have vanished when their culture and traditions replaced those of the Britons.”

  “But you are an adept at solving mysteries,” pressed Deacon Lepidus. “The Venerable Gelasius has told me of how you solved the murders at the Lateran Palace.”

  “What do you expect from me?”

  The deacon gave an almost conspiratorial glance around him and leaned forward.

  “The name Lepidus is well known in Rome. We are a princely family. We descend from Marcus Aemilius Lepidus who was a member of the great Julius Caesar’s council and formed the triumvirate to govern Rome with Mark Antony and Octavian Caesar.” He halted, perhaps realizing that the history of his family in ancient Rome was of little importance to her. He went on: “Some months ago a merchant arrived seeking our family villa. He had been trading between here and Frankia.”

  “Trading between here and Frankia? How then did this merchant get to Rome?”

  Deacon Lepidus absently placed a hand inside his robe.

  “The merchant brought with him a piece of ancient vellum that he had acquired. He thought it valuable enough to come to Rome and seek out our family. He sold it to my father because it bore a name on it.”

  “The name of Lepidus, undoubtedly.” Fidelma smiled, trying not to sound sarcastic.

  “The name of the Legate Platonius Lepidus,” affirmed the other significantly. “The name of my ancestor who commanded the Ninth Hispana Legion at the time of its disappearance.” He paused dramatically. “The merchant bargained for a good price for that vellum.”

  “He obviously expected it, having traveled all the way from these shores to Rome to sell it,” murmured Fidelma.

  “The vellum was worth much to me and my family,” agreed Deacon Lepidus.

  “And will you now produce this vellum?” asked Fidelma. When a suspicious frown crossed Lepidus’s face, she added: “I presume, because you placed your hand inside your robe when you spoke of it, the vellum reposes there?”

  Deacon Lepidus drew forth the piece of fine burnished calf’s skin.

  “The original is now in my family arc
hive in Rome but I have made a precise copy of what was written on that ancient vellum.”

  Fidelma reached out a hand.

  “I observe that you have also used vellum on which to make your copy.”

  “I made the copy as exact as I could to the original. The text is as it was written nearly five hundred years ago.”

  Fidelma spread the copy on the table and looked at it for a moment before asking: “You have copied the exact wording? You have not altered anything at all?”

  “I can assure you that the wording is exactly as it was. Shall I translate it for you?” the deacon asked eagerly.

  “My knowledge of Latin is adequate, I believe. Although five centuries have intervened, the grammar and its vocabulary seem clear enough to me.”

  She began to read.

  “. . his wounds and weakness having prevented the Legate from falling upon his sword in his despair, I bound his hands to prevent such a disaster occurring in the future should consciousness return after he had fainted. Thereupon, we lay hidden in a culvert until darkness descended while our enemies reveled and caroused around us. They had much to celebrate. They had annihilated the greatest Legion that had marched from Hispania under the burnished eagles of the empire.

  “All that remained of the famous band of six thousand fighting men was the wounded Legate and their eagle. History must record how Lepidus, the last survivor of those fighting men, grasped the eagle in that final overwhelming attack and stood, surrounded by the dead and dying, his gladius in one hand and the eagle in the other until he, too, was struck down. Thus it was that I found him. I, a mere mathematicus whose job was only to keep the Legion’s account books. His grasp on the eagle was so tight, even in unconsciousness, that I could not sever his grip and thus I dragged him and the eagle to the culvert which ran not far away from that bloody field. Mars looked down on us for we were not observed by our enemies.