by Mike Ashley
John leapt up, the coarse, baggy tunic he wore – Cepheus’s shabby garments – flapping on his lean frame with the sudden movement.
The figure darted away.
It was no apparition. John could hear it crashing through dried shrubbery as he gave chase. In his youth John had been a runner. He was still much swifter than the crippled old gardener whose clothing he had temporarily borrowed.
He lunged forward, grabbing a solid enough arm. The fugitive fell to the hard ground with a cry and in an instant John was tearing away a thin veil to reveal its face.
* * *
Cepheus let out a loud sigh. “Who would have thought that curse tablet would suddenly start to work years after I threw it down the well, and against the old master’s grandson at that?” He shook his head sorrowfully and looked around the kitchen.
Most of the household had crowded into the small room. It had not been planned that way. Perhaps, John thought, they had gathered there because it was the one room where neither servants nor employers felt out of place.
Cepheus’s bleary gaze came to rest on Helen. “I should never have stolen those trinkets to sell so I could buy that tablet,” he went on sadly. “Others paid much too high a price for my thieving. But the woman, long gone now, who copied out the curse for me didn’t tell me anything about the . . . er . . .”
His voice trailed away as he realized he had been about to refer to the unfortunate necessity that the tablet be concealed in the vicinity of a deceased person whose shade it could command. Damian’s burial on the estate had obviously caused the tablet to begin to work its magick, he thought, but wisely did not say so.
“I never wished ill on the child or on you, mistress,” he told Anthea, who sat on the stool Helen usually occupied. “I did it because of the way the old master and mistress treated Helen. I couldn’t bear to see it. Yet I was only a slave myself, and just as powerless.”
“What happened was not of your doing, Cepheus,” John assured him.
Cepheus looked unconvinced.
“As I was about to say,” John said, resuming the explanation the old man’s outburst had interrupted, “upon comparing the tablets it was immediately apparent the first was much older, for it was pitted whereas the second was smooth. The first had been in the well for years, until the water level dropped enough to allow the bucket to scoop it up from where it had been waiting to do its mischief.”
Cepheus sighed regretfully but remained silent.
“A man who carries anger for decades over injustice done to a woman he cares about will seek revenge as best he can,” John continued. “Given a slave’s circumstances, the missing valuables, the more general wording regarding those wished ill by the first tablet as opposed to the specific names on the second, it was obvious who was responsible for the first tablet at least.”
He glanced around the assembled company. “Yet I believed Cepheus when he said he saw Damian, or something like Damian, yesterday evening,” he said. “The question was, could I catch whatever – or whoever – it was? So I borrowed Cepheus’s tunic and used it to set a trap.”
Anthea suddenly began to sob. “Burrhus hates me and he hates my son!” she cried. “He regards us as nothing more than slaves. He keeps saying my marriage to his brother was irregular.”
“Anthea, your marriage was perfectly legal,” John said gently, “and your son is free born”.
She shook her head violently, tears running down her pale cheeks. “No, Lord Chamberlain. Burrhus is an advocate and those who practise law always find a way to get what they want by some lie or other, a tiny word or phrase that means something no ordinary person would dream it could.”
“Burrhus isn’t so unkind as you may think, mistress,” Helen put in. “You surely remember his father’s ways were often worse. But I must admit that considering all that has happened since the turn of the year, what with the young master’s death and then your illness and young Solon born so frail, we were ready to believe the household was cursed as soon as Cepheus’s tablet was found.”
It was the tablet’s discovery that had given Anthea the inspiration for her plan. Now she readily admitted her intention to point a finger at Burrhus, a man with so obvious a motive and the necessary linguistic knowledge. Aware of the belief that such curses enslaved the departed, forcing them to strike at the living, she had posed as her husband’s shade, appearing only to crippled old Cepheus. His lameness would not, of course, have allowed him to catch her.
“I intended to lead Cepheus to Burrhus’s office. I’d placed a third tablet there, knowing my brother-in-law would be staying in Constantinople tonight. I was only trying to protect my son’s inheritance,” she concluded tearfully.
The whole plan had been a hopeless scheme concocted by a simple woman and doomed to failure, but John did not say so. Having been caught in her own snare she had suffered humiliation enough, including the very public discussion now taking place in the villa’s kitchen.
Hypatia, who had been standing silently in the doorway, now spoke. “You shouldn’t worry about Solon, at least,” she told Anthea, before addressing the others. “The child isn’t so frail as he appears. Rhea was treating Anthea’s cough with coltsfoot. Very effective it is, too, but I’ve heard that overuse during pregnancy can give a newborn infant a sickly, yellow colouring, although it passes quickly. Then too the heat is doubtless making him fretful, as well as affecting his appetite. But he is getting stronger every day and can look forward to a long life, a healthy life!”
At these kind words Anthea buried her face in her hands. “For all the good it will do him now,” she wept.
“Don’t worry,” John comforted her. “I will speak with Burrhus when he returns. You’ve had a hard time these past few months, and the strange fancies that afflict pregnant women are well known. He will take no action against you.”
As he finished speaking, Anthea wiped her eyes and looked gratefully at him.
Down the hallway, Solon emitted a loud, healthy wail.
Death of an Icon
Peter Tremayne
Peter Tremayne is the alias used by Celtic scholar Peter Berresford Ellis (b. 1943) for his mystery and weird fiction. The author of over sixty books, Tremayne is currently best known for his series of historical mystery novels featuring Sister Fidelma, which began with Absolution by Murder (1994). Fidelma is both an Irish princess and a qualified dálaigh, or advocate, of the law courts of Ireland under the ancient Brehon Law system. In addition to the series of novels, earlier Fidelma stories will be found in the collection Hemlock at Vespers (2000). The following brand-new story is set in the year 667.
“I cannot understand why the Abbot feels that he has to interfere in this matter,” Father Maílín said defensively. “I have conducted a thorough investigation of the circumstances. The matter is, sadly, a simple one.”
Sister Fidelma regarded the Father Superior of the small community of St Martin of Dubh Ross with a mild expression of reproach.
“When such a respected man as the Venerable Gelasius has met with an unnatural death, then it is surely not an interference for the religious superior of this territory to inquire into it?” she rebuked gently. “Portraits of the Venerable Gelasius hang in many of our great ecclesiastical centres. He has become an icon to the faithful.”
Father Maílín coloured a little and shifted his weight in his chair.
“I did not mean to imply a censure of the Abbot nor his authority,” he replied quickly. “It is just that I have carried out a very thorough investigation of the circumstances and have forwarded all the relevant details to the Abbot. There is nothing more to be said unless we can track down the culprits and that, as I pointed out, will be impossible unless, in some fit of repentance, they confess. But they have long departed from this territory, they and their ill-gotten spoils.”
Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the Father Superior for a moment or two.
“I have your report here,” her hand lightly touched the marsupium at
her waist, “and I must confess to there being some matters which puzzle me, as, I hasten to say, they have also puzzled the Abbot. That is why he has authorized me, as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts, to visit your small community to see whether or not the questions might be clarified.”
Father Maílín raised his jaw, slightly aggressively.
“I see nothing at all that is confusing nor which requires any further explanation,” he replied stubbornly. Then, meeting her icy blue eyes, he added brusquely, “However, you may ask me your questions and then depart.”
Fidelma’s mouth twitched a fraction in irritation and she shook her head briefly.
“Perhaps it is because you are not a trained advocate of the law and thus do not know what is required that you take this attitude. I, however, will conduct my investigation in the way prescribed by the law. When I have finished my investigation, then I shall depart.” She paused to allow her words to penetrate and then said, in a brighter tone: “First, let us begin with you recounting the general details of the Venerable Gelasius’s death.”
Father Maílín’s lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line in order to disguise his anger. His eyes had a fixed look. It seemed, for a moment or two, that he would challenge her. Then he appeared to realize the futility of such an action and relaxed. He knew that he had to accept her authority however reluctantly. He pushed himself back in his chair, sitting stiffly. His voice was an emotionless monotone.
“It was on the morning of the sabbath. Brother Gormgilla went to rouse the Venerable Gelasius. As he grew elderly, Gelasius required some assistance to rise in the morning and Brother Gormgilla would help him rise and dress and then escort him to the chapel for morning prayer.”
“I have heard that Brother Gelasius was of a great age,” intervened Fidelma. Everyone knew he was of considerable age but Fidelma’s intervention was more to break Father Maílín’s monotonous recital so that she would be able to extract the information she wanted.
“Indeed, but Gelasius was also frail. It was his frailty that made him needful of the helping hand of Brother Gormgilla.”
“So, this Brother Gormgilla went to the chamber of the Venerable Gelasius on the morning of the sabbath? What then?” encouraged Fidelma.
“The facts are straightforward enough. Gormgilla entered and found the Venerable Gelasius hanging from a beam just above his bed. There was a sign that a valuable personal item had been taken, that is a rosary. Some valuable objects were also missing from the chapel which adjoins the chamber of the Venerable Gelasius.”
“These discoveries were made after Brother Gormgilla had roused the community having found the body of the Venerable Gelasius?”
“They were.”
“And your deduction was . . .?”
“Theft and murder. I put it in my report to the Abbot.”
“And to whom do you ascribe this theft and murder?”
“It is also in my report to the Abbot.”
“Remind me,” Fidelma insisted sharply.
“For the two days previous to the death of the Venerable Gelasius, some itinerants were observed to be camping in nearby woods. They were mercenaries, warriors who hired themselves out to anyone who would pay them. They had their womenfolk and children with them. Our community, as you know, has no walls around it. We are an open settlement for we have always argued that there is no need at all to protect ourselves from any aggressor, for who, we thought, would ever wish harm to our little community?”
Fidelma treated his question as rhetorical and did not reply.
“You have suggested that these itinerant mercenaries entered the community at night to rob your chapel,” her tone was considered. “You have argued that the Venerable Gelasius must have been disturbed by them; that he went to investigate and that they turned on the old man and hanged him from his own roof beam and even robbed him.”
“That is so. It is not so much an argument as a logical deduction from the facts,” the Father Superior added stiffly.
“Truly so?” Fidelma gave him a quick scrutiny and Father Maílín read a quiet sarcasm there.
The Father Superior stared back defiantly but said nothing.
“Tell me,” continued Fidelma. “Does it not strike you as strange that an elderly man, who needed help to rise in the morning as well as to be escorted to the chapel, would rise in the night on hearing intruders and go alone into the chapel to investigate?”
Father Maílín shrugged.
“People, in extremis, have been known to do many extraordinary things: things that are either out of character or beyond their capabilities.”
“If I have the right information, the Venerable Gelasius was nearly ninety. In that case . . .?” Fidelma eloquently spread her hands.
“In his case, it does not surprise me,” affirmed Father Maílín. “He was frail but he was a man of a very determined nature. Why, twenty and five years ago, when he was a man entering the latter years, Gelasius insisted on bearing the cross of Clonmacnoise in the battle of Ballyconnell when Diarmuid Mac Aodh was granted a victory over the Uí Fidgente. Gelasius was in the thick of the battle and armed with nothing but Christ’s Cross for self-protection.”
Fidelma suppressed a sigh for all Ireland knew of the story of the Venerable Gelasius which was why the old monk’s name was a byword for moral and physical courage throughout the five kingdoms of Ireland.
“Yet five and twenty years ago is still a quarter of a century before this time and we are talking of an old man who needed help to rise and go to chapel as a regular course.”
“As I have said, he was a determined man.”
“Therefore, if I understand your report correctly, you believe that the Venerable Gelasius, hearing some robbers moving in the chapel, left his bed and went to confront them without rousing anyone else. That these robbers then overpowered him and hanged him in his own bedchamber?”
“I have said as much.”
“Yet doesn’t it also strike you as strange that these thieves and robbers, thus disturbed, took the old man back to his chamber and hanged him there? Surely a thief, so disturbed, might strike out in fear and seek to escape. Was Gelasius a tall man who, in spite of his frailty, might have appeared a threat?”
Father Maílín shook his head.
“Age had bent him.”
“Then the Venerable Gelasius could not have prevented the escape of the thieves nor even pursued them. Why would they bother to take him and, presumably, get him to show them the way back to his chamber to kill him?”
“Who knows the minds of thieves and murderers?” snorted Father Maílín. “I deal with the facts. I don’t attempt to understand their minds.”
“Nevertheless, that is the business in which I am engaged because in so considering the ‘why’ and ‘wherefore’, often one can solve the ‘how’ and ‘who’.” She paused for a moment and when he did not respond, she added: “After this barbaric act of sacrilege, you reported that they then removed some valuable items and went calmly off into the night?”
“The itinerants were certainly gone by the next morning when one of the outraged brethren went to their camp. The emotional attitude of the itinerants, as to whether they be calm or otherwise, is not for me to comment on. I will leave that to you to judge.”
“Very well. You say that Brother Gormgilla was the first to discover the body of the Venerable Gelasius?”
“Brother Gormgilla always roused the Venerable Gelasius first.”
“Ah, just so. I shall want to see this Brother Gormgilla.”
“But I have told you all . . .”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow, staring at him with cold, blue eyes.
Father Maílín hesitated and shrugged. He reached for a hand bell and jangled it. A member of the community entered but when the Father Superior asked that Brother Gormgilla be summoned, Fidelma intervened. She did not want Father Maílín interfering in her questioning.
“I will go to the Brother myself. I have trespassed on you
r valuable time long enough, Father Maílín.”
The Father Superior rose unhappily as Sister Fidelma turned and accompanied the religieuse from the room.
Brother Gormgilla was a stocky, round-faced man, with a permanent expression of woe sitting on his fleshy features. She introduced herself briefly to him.
“Had you known the Venerable Gelasius for a long time, Brother?” she asked.
“For fifteen years. I have been his helper all that time. He would soon be in his ninety-first year had he been spared.”
“So you knew him very well?”
“I did so. He was a man of infinite wisdom and knowledge.”
Fidelma smiled briefly.
“I know of his reputation. He was spoken of as one of our greatest philosophers not merely in this kingdom but among all five kingdoms of Ireland. He adopted the Latin name of Gelasius; why was that?”
Brother Gormgilla shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance.
“It was a Latinization of the name he was given when he was received into the Church – Gilla Isu, the servant of Jesus.”
“So he was a convert to the Faith?”
“As were many in our poor benighted country when he was a young man. At that time, most of us cleaved to the old gods and goddesses of our fathers. The Faith was not so widespread through our kingdoms. Gelasius’s own father was a Druid and a seer. When he was young, Gelasius told me, he was going to follow the arts of his father’s religion. But he was converted and took his new name.”
“And became a respected philosopher of the Faith,” added Fidelma. “Well, tell me . . . in fact, show me, how and where you discovered his body?”
Brother Gormgilla led the way towards the main chapel around which the various circular buildings of the community were situated. Next to the chapel was one small circular building outside the door of which the monk paused.
“Each morning, just before the Angelus, I came here to rouse and dress the Venerable Gelasius,” he explained.
“And on that morning . . .? Take me through what happened when you found Gelasius was dead.”
