Behold a Pale Horse sf-22 Page 2

  ‘He did die many years ago — for it was over fifty years ago that he crossed the great mountains and established our abbey. I entered it as a young man to study in the great library that he left us.’

  ‘The Magister Ado is renowned among our people,’ added Brother Faro in a tone of pride. ‘He wrote the great Vita Cummianus.’

  ‘Not great, my son,’ reproved the elderly man. ‘I was young. It was a work of poor quality at best. Do you know of Cummianus, Sister?’

  ‘I only know that Cuimmíne is a common name among my people.’

  ‘The man I speak of was also a bishop from your land who came to Bobium when he was elderly but lived with us for many years. He was a truly saintly man, worthy of a better hand than mine to transcribe his life and deeds.’

  ‘My magister is modest,’ insisted the young religieux. ‘He has written several works and is known through the land of the Longobards as a great scholar.’

  Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Yet this still does not explain why you should be attacked.’

  ‘Quite right. Quite right,’ acknowledged the elderly man. ‘How learned are you, Fidelma of Hibernia?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘Depends?’ He was surprised at the answer.

  ‘It depends what subject that you are inquiring about, for is it not said that everyone is ignorant of things that they have yet to learn?’

  Magister Ado chuckled. ‘I see that you like precision in your language.’

  ‘I am a lawyer and taught to be so.’

  ‘Very well. Let us say that there are many discords among the people here. There are factions, talk of civil wars and intrigues. They manifest themselves not just in the civil life but even among those of the Faith.’

  ‘So why the attack upon you?’

  ‘Bobium has stood above these intrigues and recognises the authority of the Holy Father in Rome and the creed of the Faith adopted at Nicaea. For some, that is a position worthy of death.’

  Fidelma looked shocked. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘We, who declare our creed to be that given by the FirstCouncil of Nicaea, tend to band together for protection in this land.’

  ‘Protection?’ queried Fidelma. ‘From whom?’

  Magister Ado hesitated before he answered her. ‘The majority of the people of this territory either remain devoted to the old gods of their ancestors or they believe in the doctrines of Arius. Some are more fanatical in their belief than others.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Wanton destruction and tumult marks the path of their leaders, and their war bands desecrate this land.’

  Fidelma tried to recall something about Arius. She knew that he had been declared a heretic at the First Council of Nicaea. She could not remember exactly why.

  ‘I would appreciate some elucidation, Magister Ado,’ she finally said.

  ‘Arius was from Alexandria where he taught the Faith three hundred years ago. While we uphold the Holy Trinity, Arius taught that there could only be one God. While God the Father had existed eternally, God the Son, born as Jesus, did not and was therefore created by, and thus inferior, to God. He even argued that this meant, at one time, Christ did not exist.’

  ‘But we are taught the Trinity, that God is three in one — God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Magister Ado solemnly agreed. ‘But Arius and his followers declare there is one God, always existing before time began, and creator of the world. God the Father created His Son, Who was subservient to the Father, Who also created the Holy Spirit, Who was similarly subservient to the Son.’

  Fidelma saw a logic to the argument, which she had never heard before, and decided that she must look further into these teachings. However, she kept this thought to herself.

  ‘I fail to see how such differences in interpretation can lead to bloodshed,’ she finally observed.

  Brother Faro shook his head sadly. ‘It already has. An Arian nobleman, visiting Bobium only a short time ago, was so incensed when one of our brethren refused to acknowledge his arguments, that he drew his sword and cut him down.’

  ‘We must apologise to you, Sister Fidelma,’ Sister Gisa added. ‘I think Brother Faro tried to save you any anguish by saying that Brother Ruadán was sick with ague. In fact, he is confined to his bed having been beaten by these same followers of Arius. It happened the day before we left to come to Genua.’

  Before Fidelma could express her shock, Magister Ado turned to Brother Faro. ‘You should have told me this at once.’

  ‘As Sister Gisa said, it happened the day before we left Bobium to come and meet you,’ admitted Brother Faro. ‘I would have told you sooner but my mind was filled with your safe arrival.’

  ‘And the details?’ pressed the magister.

  ‘Brother Ruadán was found outside the gates of the abbey early one morning. There was a piece of papyrus pinned to his bloodstained clothing with the word “heretic” scrawled on it.’

  Fidelma was astounded. ‘You say that he is injured and confined to his bed? How badly injured is he?’

  Sister Gisa compressed her lips. ‘He is bad, Sister. Our physician did not hold out any great hope. As you know, he is elderly and there is little strength left in him to fight.’

  Fidelma turned to Magister Ado. ‘And do you believe that these men who attacked you were also followers of Arius?That they sought to attack you because they knew you were from Bobium?’

  ‘The brethren of Bobium are known for their criticisms of Arius,’ Brother Faro intervened quickly. ‘Other than that, Bobium has no enemies.’

  ‘I can only think the same,’ Magister Ado agreed. ‘There is no need to harm the brethren of Bobium other than by those who are enemies to the Nicene Creed. But how these Arians knew I was in Genua, I do not know. I only stepped ashore this morning.’

  Sister Gisa nodded thoughtfully. ‘Magister Ado has only just returned from Aquitània. We came to accompany him back to Bobium.’

  Fidelma had the impression that Magister Ado shot Sister Gisa a glance of both disapproval and warning. ‘I had heard that a ship had put in from Massilia today,’ she said, ‘and I was hoping that I would be able to return on it. However, the master of the vessel told me that he was on his way to Ostia. Indeed, you are right to raise the question as to how these people would know you were here and thus able to launch an attack on you.’

  Magister Ado shrugged. ‘Our Arian enemies are doubtless well-informed, Sister. Bishop Britmund of Placentia is our most implacable enemy. He could have heard that Brother Faro and Sister Gisa were coming to meet me.’

  Brother Faro flushed and said: ‘We were careful not to reveal the purpose of our journey to anyone outside the abbey.’

  ‘I am not blaming you, my young friend,’ Magister Ado replied. ‘But sometimes an attentive enemy can make logical deductions.’

  ‘And that being so, we should not tarry long in this place,’ Sister Gisa said nervously.

  ‘Then you plan to set out for the Abbey of Bobium soon?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Tomorrow at first light,’ Brother Faro affirmed.

  Fidelma hesitated. ‘If what you tell me about Brother Ruadán is true, I feel it my duty to try to see him before … before …’

  She did not want to finish the thought. Brother Ruadán held a special place in the affections of Fidelma. Her mother had died giving her birth and her father, King Failbe Flann, had died when she and her brother, Colgú, were still very young. When the time came for Fidelma’s schooling, she had been sent to Brother Ruadán’s tiny community on Inis Celtra. From the age of seven until the aimsir togu, the female age of choice, at fourteen years, Brother Ruadán had been charged with the care of her education. He had become almost the father figure she had barely known. It was in him that she had placed her childhood feelings before going to further her education at the law school of Brehon Morann of Tara. Therefore, it was no sense of duty but an emotional need that compelled her wish to see him.

  ‘You could a
ccompany us, Sister.’ Sister Gisa’s voice was eager.

  ‘It is a long ride through the mountains,’ pointed out Brother Faro, with a reproving look at the girl.

  ‘That would not stop me if I could find a horse. But I do not have the means to do so.’

  Magister Ado looked thoughtful for a moment or two. Then, as if he had come to a decision, he turned to Brother Faro. ‘Did you bring a mule in case there was extra baggage to be carried?’

  Brother Faro looked at him in surprise and then reluctantly nodded. ‘We did. We brought a mule with us for the baggage.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ began the magister.

  Sister Gisa cut him short. ‘There is not much baggage and I can ride a mule.’

  ‘Can you ride?’ Magister Ado asked Fidelma.

  ‘I can,’ she answered immediately. She had ridden almost before she could walk.

  ‘It is a long ride and the terrain may be difficult for you,’ Brother Faro protested.

  ‘I have travelled long distances over mountain terrain,’ Fidelma assured him.

  ‘I was impressed that Sister Fidelma was able to see beyond the fact that my attackers were not simply street robbers,’ Magister Ado told the young man. ‘I think she may be useful to us.’

  Before Fidelma could ask in what way, Sister Gisa said enthusiastically, ‘Then it is settled. It will be good to have you as our companion on the journey.’

  Brother Faro sighed, apparently accepting the inevitable. ‘I think you should collect whatever you need to accompany us, but do not bring more than is essential for your needs, and do not speak to anyone more than you can help. When you return here, ensure that no one follows you. We shall set off into the mountains at first light.’

  ‘I shall try not to be a burden to you, Brother Faro,’ she told him solemnly, but he did not notice the humour in her voice.

  ‘After the attack on Magister Ado, there is no need to impress upon you that we should be vigilant.’

  ‘Very well, Brother Faro,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I shall make my preparations. I can leave anything I do not need in the hostel where I am staying, and will return here before sunup so that darkness will veil me from prying eyes.’

  As she rose to her feet, so did Magister Ado.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best not to mention at the hostel that you are even journeying to Bobium,’ he suggested. ‘It is not an impossibility that my erstwhile attackers could decide to ask questions at any hostel in this port, seeking information about you and, therefore, about me.’

  Fidelma did not show her intrigue at her newfound companions’ conspiratorial methods.

  ‘I shall be back before first light,’ she said. ‘And shall look forward to our journey to Bobium.’

  ‘It is a difficult route through the mountains, Fidelma,’ Brother Faro repeated, still sceptical. ‘Some three days in the saddle. So I trust you prove as good a horsewoman as you say.’

  ‘I am good enough,’ replied Fidelma, suppressing her irritation at not being taken at her word.

  ‘Then we shall make good time to Bobium,’ Magister Ado said soothingly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sun was very low, seeming to balance awhile on the black tops of the mountains behind them before sinking rapidly. It had been a slow but hard ride from the port of Genua, climbing up into the mountains along the winding tracks. Fidelma noticed that the route they followed was broad and well used. Now and then, they encountered little bands of merchants leading pack mules in the opposite direction. They passed with friendly greeting. Fidelma observed them with interest for she had not expected to see so many people on the track.

  ‘This is part of the old Salt Road,’ offered Magister Ado, who was riding alongside her. Behind them came Brother Faro on a grey, fiery-tempered horse, while Sister Gisa was seated on the pack mule. Fidelma, who was a keen judge of horses, had observed that the horses they rode were of a breed she had not encountered before, with high withers, short back, narrow croup, and tail hung low.

  ‘The Salt Road?’ she frowned. She had been going to ask about the breed when Master Ado’s statement distracted her.

  ‘The road leads to Ticinum Papia, a city beyond this mountain range and further to the north. Merchants bring goods,such as wool, wine and olives, to the seaport. Then they pick up salt and transport it back to Ticinum Papia. Hence the name, the Salt Road.’

  ‘And is it to Ticinum Papia that we are heading?’

  He shook his head. ‘We will stop tonight at a little hamlet where the Salt Road turns up through mountains due north. Our route will continue into a valley which is called the Valley of the Trebbia, and that leads to the Abbey of Bobium.’

  Fidelma had been observing the countryside through which they were riding. She was fascinated by the fact that it bore certain resemblances to her own land. The mountains were not towering peaks but were of the softer curves and rose to heights with which she was familiar. The lower slopes of the mountains were covered in dense forests. Many of the trees she could recognise as beech, rowan and whitebeam. Even the ferns and bracken gave a familiar look to the countryside. She could almost pretend that she was in her own land, except for some indefinable quality. Perhaps it was the rich, reddish-brown soil.

  Now and then, in the sky above, she also recognised wheeling kestrels and sparrow-hawks. Among the trees she could hear snatches of birdsong that she was unable to identify. Perhaps that was what alerted her to the fact that she was in a strange countryside. Then she caught sight of an oak tree. She recognised it as an oak and yet there was something different about the shape of the leaves.

  Her companions, Magister Ado, Sister Gisa and even Brother Faro, were friendly and helpful whenever she asked a question about the terrain or the flora and fauna as they rode along.

  It was Brother Faro who eventually pointed to a hill which began to emerge high above the others a little distance ahead to their left.

  ‘That is Monte Antola. Tonight, we shall rest this side of it, and then leave the old Salt Road, and tomorrow we move into the Valley of Trebbia to the south of it. Our abbey overlooks the banks of the Trebbia.’

  Magister Ado added: ‘It is on that southern peak, called the Prela, that the Trebbia rises as a spring and flows down all the way to a giant river we call the Padus. But that is a long way to the north of Bobium.’

  It was now that Fidelma realised that the mountains were rising considerably higher than those she was acquainted with in Ireland.

  ‘Do we have to climb over those mountains?’ she asked with some apprehension at their forbidding contours.

  ‘There is a pass,’ Brother Faro assured her. ‘And it is in that pass we shall find shelter for the night.’

  That night they shared a small inn with a few merchants heading south. They had a warm corner and sat exchanging information about their background and countries. Magister Ado was full of questions about the land from which Columbanus came. In turn, Fidelma discovered some of the background of her companions.

  Sister Gisa was a Longobard and came from the Trebbia Valley. She was, as Fidelma noted before, gifted with good looks and intelligence, and her comments were carefully considered before being uttered. Fidelma put her age as no more than twenty-one or — two. She had gone to Bobium to study computus under Magister Ado. Brother Faro had come to the abbey only two years before but, apart from being told that he came from somewhere to the north, Fidelma learned little about him.

  ‘Is Bobium a conhospitae — a mixed house?’ Fidelma queried after they had told her that several religious from her own land still came to serve in the abbey.

  ‘No,’ Magister Ado replied immediately. ‘It never was. Until twenty years ago our abbey maintained the Rule as handed down by our founder, Columbanus. Then Abbot Bobolen, with the support of the brethren, decided to adopt the Regula Benedicti.’

  ‘The Rule of Benedict?’ Fidelma knew of the disagreements that this Rule was causing among the abbeys of her own land. ‘You forsook the Rule of
your founder?’

  ‘We have to move with the times,’ replied Magister Ado. ‘Columbanus’ Rule was harsh and compromises had to be made.’ He saw her puzzled expression. ‘You remark on this? Indeed, many could not agree with the heavy discipline and punishment that Columbanus imposed. Even if a member of the abbey found no time to shave and presented himself at Mass in such a manner, he could receive six strokes of the scourge.’

  ‘But that is not the way of the religious houses in Hibernia,’ Fidelma protested. ‘How can you claim that this was the Rule of Colm Bán?’

  ‘A Rule that we have now rejected in favour of Benedict.’ He gazed at her thoughtfully and added: ‘Several of the religious who have joined us from Hibernia have also been amazed at being told about the harshness of Columbanus’ Rule.’

  ‘Indeed, they would. It bears no resemblance to the rules that govern our own abbeys. In fact, it sounds more like the Penitentials which some are trying to impose in our land. Do you mean to tell me that Colm Bán adopted the Penitentials here?’

  It was Sister Gisa who proposed an answer. ‘I have heard it said that Columbanus was faced with trying to discipline his Frankish and Longobard followers, who needed a firmhand, and thus he adopted harsher rules than those used in his own land.’

  ‘You said that the abbey had adopted the Regula Benedicti

  — so that means that the abbey is segregated between the sexes?’

  Magister Ado gave an affirmative nod. ‘There is a house for women outside the main abbey, although we have not entirely banned the sexes from coming together in work and in worship, joining us in the evening meal before prayer. Many still argue that we should maintain a conhospitae, the mixed houses which are still prevalent in your country.’

  ‘Does your current abbot support the segregation of the sexes?’

  ‘He supports the aescetics who believe in celibacy,’ added Sister Gisa, and then compressed her lips after she had spoken as if she regretted her comment.

  ‘Abbot Servillius is an old friend of mine,’ Magister Ado explained with a disapproving glance at the young Sister. ‘I have known him since a young man. He is of an old patrician family of Rome and very proud of that fact. He is a firm supporter of the concept of celibacy and frequently reminds us that it is an ancient custom even with the priests of Bacchus in Rome, for it brings us nearer to religious fulfilment.’