Mortuus Virgo

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Then you are going nowhere,’ snarled Stellus, ‘The word on the dock is that there is a runaway Priestess somewhere in Ostia and a deserter legionary. Now I may not be the most intelligent of men but I am not stupid. If you want these two out of here, then I want more money.’

  ‘I told you there is no more,’ said Rose, ‘I have given you everything I have.’

  He turned to his crew.

  ‘Get them off my ship,’ he ordered.

  ‘Wait!’ interrupted Rubria, ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Ten times as much,’ he said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ snapped Rose.

  Rubria stared at the captain.

  ‘If we pay the full fare, we will have full passage?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And better accommodation?’

  Stellus’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘It can be arranged,’ he said.

  ‘And you will include all our food and water?’

  ‘Look,’ said Stellus, ‘You are wasting my time. Do you have the money or not?’

  Rubria glanced over at Dragus before reaching inside her tunic and withdrawing a necklace.

  ‘I have this,’ she said.

  At the end of a golden chain was a beautiful pendant consisting of a polished sapphire in a Lapis-lazuli setting.

  Stellus’s eyes widened and he stepped forward to examine the necklace closely.

  ‘It is the necklace of Vesta,’ she said, turning her head away slightly to avoid his breath. ‘There were only six such necklaces ever made and is over a thousand years old. You get us to your destination safely and this is yours. Any noble would gladly pay a fortune to own this necklace. You could live a life of luxury for the rest of your life.’

  He raised his hand to feel the pendant but Rubria stepped back and replaced the necklace inside her tunic.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ she asked.

  ‘You will give me the necklace?’ he asked.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘How do I know you will keep your word?’ he asked.

  ‘I am a Priestess of Vesta,’ she said, ‘My word will be honoured.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he said eventually, ‘We have a deal.’ He turned to his crew. ‘Take them below,’ he said, ‘Put them in my quarters.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Rubria

  He turned back.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There will be three of us,’ she said, ‘The girl comes too.’

  Rose’s head span around and she gasped in disbelief, hardly able to contain herself.

  ‘You push your luck, Priestess,’ said the ship’s captain, but his eyes stared at the place she had hidden the necklace. ‘Okay, it is done. All three will travel but that is all. I will give no more.’

  It is enough,’ said Rubria, ‘Except for one more detail.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I want to know where we are going.’

  ‘Oh that,’ he said, ‘Somewhere a lot colder than this. Dress up warm, Priestess, we are going to Britannia.’

  Chapter Twenty

  England 2010

  Sister Bernice knelt silently at the feet of the small statue of the Virgin Mary, the only ornament in her cell, deep in prayer to the Holy Mother. Eventually, a tiny bell tinkled down the passages of the convent and she crossed herself before getting to her feet and brushed the creases from her gown. There was no dust as the floor of the cell was kept spotlessly clean from the twice daily scrubbing she gave it, a chore that she embraced fully as an honour and a privilege in the name of the mother.

  She left her cell and closed the door quietly, as did the rest of the Sisters in her row. She stood patiently in the candlelit corridor and waited in silence until the distant bell tinkled once more before turning left to follow the other Sisters as they headed to the dining hall.

  The routine was familiar and she carried it out without thinking, as she had done for the last twenty years. There were five other Nuns in front of her, all dressed in black, like herself, except for the Senior Sister at the front who’s robes were a sharply contrasting light grey. Sister Bernice knew that three similar columns of devotees made their way from different wings of the convent, each led in total silence by their own Senior Sister. They descended a stone stairwell and through another dimly lit corridor until they entered the great hall and took their places behind their nominated space at the long dining tables.

  Bernice remained alone in the doorway, singled out for a special part in tonight’s ceremony. Her heart beat a bit faster, as, though she had done this many times before, it was always a privilege to represent the others in the ceremony.

  The hall stretched out in front of her and was lined along both sides with the long wooden tables. At the far end, a further table was decked in a white cloth and laid out with religious artefacts, behind which, the six, grey robed Senior Sisters were taking their places. Behind them the far wall was dominated by an ornate carved wooden wall, the centre of which was a carved life-size image of the Virgin Mary set back into a shallow alcove.

  None of this registered with Bernice though, as it was exactly the same as every other night since she had joined as an acolyte over twenty years ago and besides, the focus of her attention lay on the lone figure kneeling in the centre of the hall, dressed in a rough Hessian gown and staring down into a wooden bowl before her.

  As soon as the room had settled, Bernice walked slowly towards the sad figure and stopped before her. As she had done dozens of times before over the years, she slipped off her self made leather slippers and held up one foot.

  The kneeling person took the offered foot, and, using the soft cloth in the bowl, bathed it gently in the warm water. She repeated the task on the other foot and wiped them both dry in a soft towel before looking up at Sister Bernice for approval. Bernice looked down into the aged face of the Mother Superior and smiled her happiness before turning her back and making her way back to her seat. She knew that behind her, all eyes would be on the old lady as she struggled to her feet. Despite her age, nobody would be allowed to help if she struggled, as any failure to complete the ceremony would be the natural sign for a succession process to be instigated. Despite their rank, every Mother Superior in the order’s history had carried out the same ritual of cleansing the feet of the humble before each meal, until such time as they could not finish the task and a successor was appointed.

  Bernice reached her seat and was relieved to see that the aged Mother Superior had managed to get to her feet and had taken her place at the head of the table. Everyone knew that the Mother Superior’s health was failing rapidly and it was only a matter of time before she would fail in her task.

  Ritual over, the Mother Superior led the room in a prayer of thanks giving before taking her seat, closely followed by the rest of the room. Immediately a door opened and a line of young girls carried tureens of soup and platters of home made bread to the Nuns to start their meal. Mealtimes were one of the few times in a day when the devotees were allowed to talk to each other and Bernice turned to the colleague alongside her.

  ‘Sister Suzanna,’ she said, ‘It’s good to see you up and about again. ‘You are well, I hope.’

  ‘Much better, Sister Bernice,’ she answered, ‘No more than a heavy cold, I understand.’

  ‘You do yourself an injustice,’ said Sister Bernice, ‘I hear you were very ill’.

  ‘Poppycock,’ said her friend, ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, and you know what the Mother Superior says.’

  ‘Gossip is for the idle of mind,’ they both said in unison with a smile.

  All around the room the devotees of the order of Santa Rosa, ate their meal in an air of serenity, the sound of their conversation a mere murmur in the vastness of the hall. At the head table the six Senior Sisters ate in silence as they oversaw the meal.

  ‘I fear for the Mother Superior,’ said Suzanna, ’Her legs grow weaker by the day. She should step aside and spend her remaini
ng days in retreat.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Bernice, ‘Though I would be sad to see her leave. She has been my mentor since the day I knocked on the door of this convent.’

  ‘When she does leave, who do you think will have the calling to wear the veil?’ They looked up at the six Senior Sisters, each of which were well over sixty years of age, and all eligible for the senior post.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Bernice, ‘Whoever is chosen I am sure Santa Rosa will guide her.’

  ‘It is said that your name has been mentioned as a Senior Sister,’ continued Suzanna.

  ‘Now who’s gossiping?’ said Bernice with a smile.

  They continued their meal in quiet chit chat before the familiar bell rang indicating the end of the meal. All the Nuns left the room to return to their cells before evening prayers. As usual the Senior Sisters stayed behind in the hall and the sound of a key being turned being indicated the door was locked from the inside. The rituals of the Senior Sisters were for the higher order only, and the rest of the Nuns were totally unaware of what went on behind the giant oaken doors.

  Within hours, only the sound of scrabbling mice could be heard in the corridors of the ancient convent as the occupants rested during the meagre six hours before first bell would ring again. Outside the fruit bushes in the walled vegetable gardens, so carefully tendered by Maximillian the gardener, swayed in unison with the mulberry trees of the Sister’s private cemetery. Bats flitted between the belfry and the crags of a nearby cliff face, chasing the myriads of insects rising from the surrounding woodlands. Like most nights, the nearby crags protected the ancient convent from the worst of the weather and apart from the usual sounds of the local wildlife, the night was very quiet, as could be expected in the isolated outpost of solitude.

  But tonight was different. Tonight there was a different sound disturbing the darkness. Regular intakes of breath from an animal bigger than the usual deer or badger that roamed the surrounding woodland were interrupted by the occasional snap of dried twigs, both betraying the alien sound of carefully placed human footsteps drawing closer to the walls of the convent of the blessed virgin.

  Mother Superior Theresa made her way slowly through the passages, her ageing bones aching in the damp and cold passages. As usual she had managed a few hours sleep but it was all she needed these days. She knew that her allotted span on this earth was coming to an end, and truth be told, when the time came she would welcome it with open arms. Every cell of her being was tired and she longed for the eternal sleep that beckoned enticingly in the not too distant future. But first she had to ensure the secrets of the convent were in safe hands. The appointment of her successor would be straightforward enough as any of the six Senior Sisters could step up to the role. The problem was, whoever was given the ultimate post would leave a vacancy in the ranks of the Senior Sisters and she wasn’t sure who, if any of the normal Sisters were ready to take the huge step up that the role of Senior Sister demanded. Every candidate had been discussed in depth on many occasions and the time was approaching when the final vote would be made and it was at that time that the order was in the most danger, for if the nominated candidate shied away from her responsibilities, the very order itself would be at risk of collapsing. Mother Superior Theresa had overseen the appointment of all six Senior Sisters in her time as head of the order, and all had gone without a hitch. In fact there had been no refusal recorded for over three hundred years. However the senior order were all growing old and it was possible that there would need to be several more elections in the very near future.

  Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks, sure she had heard something in the darkness. This normally would not be unusual in this old creaking place, but this was different. It sounded like a cough, a man’s cough!

  ‘Maximillian,’ she called, ‘Is that you?’ She knew the gardener should be in his cottage in the grounds at this time of the morning, but who else could it be?

  ‘Maximillian?’ she said again, ‘It’s awful late. Is there a problem?’

  A figure stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘No problem, Sister,’ said an unfamiliar voice, and before she could react the figure lashed out and knocked the old lady to the floor, sending her into a world of darkness.

  India and Brandon walked down a small street running through the village India had mentioned in Rome. They had arrived back a day earlier on a flight from Italy and Brandon had allowed them a few hours rest in a motel to catch up on the lost sleep. It seemed to India that she had slept only a few minutes before he was knocking on her door. After a quick shower they had driven from London towards Maidenhead, finally parking their hire car in a lay-by before walking into the village of Littlewick Green. The shops were closed as it was a Sunday so they made their way to the village pub.

  ‘When we get there say nothing about the missing girl,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Why not?’ asked India, ‘These people probably know nothing anyway. All we want is some guidance.’

  ‘It’s still classified, and besides, don’t forget the dead Greek’s brother is still at large and if he is on the same trail as us, he probably came this way. The last thing we want to do is raise the interest of any newspapers. Don’t forget there is still a child’s life at risk here.’

  ‘Haven’t they made any headway with that?’ asked India.

  ‘Nothing!’ said Brandon. ‘I checked in this morning. She seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth. We have the only lead it seems though how it links with the Palladium, I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps whoever has abducted her hopes to hold her to ransom, with the artefact as payment.’

  ‘Possible,’ he said ‘But unlikely. The best thing we can do is continue with our investigations. There are enough other people looking for the girl, anyway, here we are.’

  They walked into the typical English country pub and approached the bar.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ answered Brandon. ‘Pint of smooth please and…’ He looked at India quizzically.

  ‘Oh, Coke,’ please,’ she said, before adding, ‘Are you still serving hot food?’

  ‘We are,’ said the landlord, ‘Sunday lunch, Beef, Pork or Chicken,?5.99’

  ‘I’ll have Beef, please,’ said India.

  ‘And you sir?’ asked the barman.

  ‘I’ll have the same, cheers.’

  ‘No problem,’ said the barman, ‘You sit yourselves down and I’ll bring them over as soon as their ready.’

  They made their way over to a window seat, sipping their drinks while taking in the scene around them. The bar was a cliche of an English pub. Large fire place, leaded windows and low beams exuded character while polished brass platters and horseshoes covered most of the available dark oak panels.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Brandon, ‘Anyway, why don’t you remind me what makes you think the trail leads here.’

  ‘Like I said,’ said India, ‘One of my main sources when researching any historical story or artefact is local rumour. A while ago, I was dating a music student who was studying Ivor Novello, a famous Welsh composer who made his home in this village.’

  ‘What has Ivor Novello got to do with this?’

  ‘Nothing, but while I was with the musician, we came here for a weekend. We came to this pub one night and got talking to locals. After a few drinks the conversation turned to the village’s history and one of the strongest stories was the tale of the white lady.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘A ghost!’ said India, ‘Said to have walked the village for thousands of years.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ said Brandon.

  ‘That may be so,’ said India, ‘But the fact is, it is deeply embedded part of this village’s memories, and, in my experience, in these old parish villages where old wives tales and folklore comes into play, there’s no smoke without fire.’

  ‘And where’s the link?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Wel
l, though I didn’t take much notice at the time, the one thing I do recall is that they reckon she is the ghost of a Vestal Virgin. It seemed a bit strange at the time but I thought no more about it. It was only when that Italian guy mentioned the possibility of there being a Vestal Temple in England it came back to me.’

  ‘What came back to you?’

  ‘There is a round Temple on a hill a few miles from here and archaeologists believe it is a Vestal Temple from the first century AD.’

  ‘But what makes you think this is linked to the Palladium?’ he asked.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said, ‘We traced the palladium to Rome and the care of the Vestals in 64 AD. At about that time, it disappeared and was last seen in the care of Rubria, the Priestess who was raped by Nero. She had the wealth, the education and the reason to flee Rome, and if she was as dedicated as all the other Vestals, would have tried to save whatever artefacts she could from the fire.’

  ‘Coincidence!’ said Brandon, she could have gone anywhere.

  ‘She could have,’ agreed India, ‘But consider everything else we know. Fact one, scholars believe the palladium was never burnt and is not beneath the Constantine Tower. It is now thought it was spirited away during the fire and left the country.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Fact two,’ continued India, ‘At the same time a Vestal Virgin with a grudge against Nero, disappeared from history forever. Not long after, a Temple to Vesta was built in England. Don’t forget, transport between Rome and Britain was common at that time as it was just after the Boudican wars and Rome was busy trying to dominate the island.’

  ‘I still don’t buy it,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Well look at the other factors,’ said India, ‘The people in this village believe there is a ghost of a Vestal Virgin haunting these streets. Now this may be poppycock but the story is hundreds of years old, if not thousands. Don’t forget in the past, our ancestors believed absolutely in the presence of ghosts. To them it was a fact of life. For something like that to survive the dark ages, and throughout all the subsequent historical periods and various religious upheavals it must have been a very strong story, don’t you think?’