Hemlock at Vespers

THE POISONED CHALICE

The last thing Sister Fidelma of Kildare had expected, during her pilgrimage to the Eternal City of Rome, was to see murder committed in front of her eyes in a quiet little backstreet church.

As any citizen of Rome would have expected, Sister Fidelma, like every discerning barbarus on their first visit, was duly impressed by the immensity of the city. As neither a Hellene nor a Roman, the term “barbarian” was, however, a pedantry when it applied to the young Irish religieuse. Her Latin was more polished than most of Rome’s citizens’ and her literary knowledge was certainly more extensive than many scholars’. She was the product of Ireland’s distinguished colleges, which were so renowned throughout Europe that in Durrow alone there were to be found the sons and daughters of kings and princelings from no less than eighteen different countries. An education in Ireland was a distinction that even the scions of the Anglo-Saxon kings would boast of.

Fidelma had come to Rome to present the Regula coenabialis Cill Dara, the Rule of the House of St. Brigid, in Kildare, to be approved and blessed by the Holy Father at the Lateran Palace. She had been waiting to see an official of the Papal household for several days now. To while away the time, she, like the many thousands of other pilgrims who poured into the city, spent her time in touring the ancient monuments and tombs of the city.

From the xenodochia, the small hostel for foreign pilgrims close by the oratory of the Blessed Prassede, where she was lodging, she would walk down the hill to the Lateran Palace each morning to see whether she was to be received that day. She was becoming irritated as the days passed by without word. But there were so many people, from so many different countries-some she had not known existed-crowding into the palace to beg audience that she stoically controlled her frustration. Each day she would leave the palace in resignation to set off in search of some new point of interest in the city.

That morning she had chosen to visit the small ecclesia dedicated to the Blessed Hippolytus, which lay only a short walk from her hostel. Her purpose was for no other reason than the fact that it held the tomb of Hippolytus. She knew that her mentor, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, was an admirer of the work of the early Church Father and she had once struggled through the text of Philoso-phoumena, to debate with Laisran on this refutation of the Gnostic teachings. She knew that Laisran would be impressed if she could boast a visit to the very tomb of Hippolytus.

A mass was being celebrated as she took her place at the back of the tiny ecclesia, a small place which could hold no more than two or three dozen people. Even so, there were only half a dozen people scattered about with bowed heads, hearing the priest intoning the solemn words of the ritual.

Fidelma examined her co-religionists with interest. The sights and sounds of Rome were still new and intriguing to her. She was attracted by a young girl in the forefront of the worshippers. Fi-delma could see only her profile emerging from a hood which respectfully hid the rest of her obviously well-shaped head. It was a delicate, finely chiselled, attractive face. Fidelma could appreciate its discreet beauty. Next to her was a young man in the robes of a religieux. Even though Fidelma could not see his face fully, she saw that he was good-looking and seemed to reflect something of the girl’s features. Next to him stood a lean, weather-tanned young man, dressed in the clothes of a seaman but in the manner she had often seen adopted by sailors from Gaul. This young man did not look at all content with life. He was scowling; his expression fixed. Behind these three stood a short, stocky man in the rich robes of a senior religieux. Fidelma had seen enough of the abbots and bishops of Rome to guess that he was of such rank. In another corner was a nervous-looking, swarthy man, corpulent and richly attired and looking every inch a prosperous merchant. At the back of the church, stood the final member of the congregation, a young man attired in the uniform of the custodies of Rome, the guardians of law and order in the city. He was darkly handsome, with a somewhat arrogant manner, as, perhaps, befitted his soldierly calling.

The deacon, assisting in the offering, rang a small bell and the officiating priest raised the chalice of wine and intoned: “The blood of Christ!” before moving forward to join the deacon, who had now taken up a silver plate on which the consecrated Host lay.

The small congregation moved forward to take their places in line before the priest. It was the handsome young religieux who took the first position, receiving the Host, placing it in his mouth and moving forward to receive the wine from the chalice held in the hands of the priest. As he turned away, his young female companion moved forward, being the next in line, to receive the sacrament.

Even as the religieux turned back to the congregation, his face suddenly distorted, he began to choke, his mouth gaping open, his tongue thrusting obscenely forward. A hand raised to his throat as the color of his agonized features went from red to blue. The eyes were wide and staring. Sounds came from him that reminded Fidelma of the squealing of a pig about to be slaughtered.

Before the horrified gaze of the rest of the congregation, the young man fell to the floor, his body writhing and threshing for several moments. Then it was suddenly still and quiet.

There was no sound for a moment or two. Everyone stood immobile with shock.

A moment later, the shriek of the young woman rent the air. She threw herself forward onto the body. She was on her knees crying and screaming in a strange language made incomprehensible by her distress.

As no one seemed capable of moving, Sister Fidelma came quickly forward.

“Do not touch the wine nor the bread,” she instructed the priest, who was still holding the chalice in his hands. “This man has been poisoned.”

She felt, rather than saw, the heads of the people turn to stare at her. She glanced round, observing expressions ranging from bewilderment to surprise.

“Who are you to give orders, Sister?” snapped a rough voice. It was the arrogant young custos pushing forward.

Fidelma raised her glinting green eyes to meet his dark suspicious ones.

“I hold no authority here, if that is what you mean. I am a stranger in this city. But in my own country I am a dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts, and know the effects of virulent poison when I see it.”

“As you say, you hold no authority here,” snapped the custos, clearly a young man who felt the honor of his rank and nationality. “And I-”

“The Sister is right, nevertheless, custos.”

The voice that interrupted was quiet, modulated but authoritative. It was the short, stocky man who spoke.

The young guard looked disconcerted at this opposition.

“I do hold authority here,” continued the short man, turning to Fidelma. “I am the Abbot Miseno and this ecclesia is part of my jurisdiction.”

Without waiting for the guard’s response, Abbot Miseno glanced at the officiating priest and deacon. “Do as the Sister says, Father Cornelius. Put down the wine and bread and ensure no one else touches it.”

Automatically, the priest obeyed, accompanied by the deacon, who placed his tray of bread carefully on the altar.

Abbot Miseno glanced down to the sobbing girl.

“Who was this man, daughter?” he demanded gently, bending down to place a hand on her shoulder.

The girl raised tear-stained eyes to him.

“Is he …?”

Miseno bent further to place his fingers against the pulse in the man’s neck. The action was really unnecessary. One look at the twisted, frozen features would have been enough to confirm that the young religieux was beyond all human aid. Nevertheless, the action was probably designed as a reassurance for the girl. The Abbot shook his head.

“He is dead, daughter,” he confirmed. “Who was he?”

The girl began sobbing uncontrollably again and could not answer.

“His name was Docco. He was from Pouancé in Gaul.”

It was the young Gaulish seaman, who had been standing with the religieux and the girl, who answered him.

“And you are?” asked Abbot Miseno.

“My name is Enodoc. I was a friend of Docco’s and also from Gaul. The girl is Egeria, Docco’s sister.”

The Abbot Miseno stood for a moment, his head bowed in thought. Then he glanced up and surveyed Sister Fidelma with some speculation in his eyes.

“Would you come with me a moment, Sister?”

He turned and led the way into a corner of the church, out of earshot of the others. Fidelma followed him in curiosity.

In the corner the Abbot turned, keeping his voice low.

“I studied at Bobbio, which was founded fifty years ago by Col-umban and his Irish clerics. I learnt much about your country there. I have heard about the function of your law system and how a dálaigh works. Are you truly such a one?”

“I am a qualified advocate of the law courts of my country,” replied Fidelma simply, without any false pride, wondering what the Abbot was driving at.

“And your Latin is fluent,” observed Miseno absently.

Fidelma waited patiently.

“It is clear that this monk, Docco, was poisoned,” went on Mis-eno after a moment’s pause. “Was this an accident or was there some deliberate plot to kill him? I think it behoves us to find out as soon as possible. If this story went abroad I shudder to think what interpretation would be given to it. Why, it might even stop people coming forward to receive the blessed sacrament. I would be grateful, Sister, if you would use your knowledge to discover the truth of this matter before we have to report this to higher authorities.”

“That will not please the young custos” Fidelma pointed out, with a slight gesture toward the impatient young guard. “He clearly thinks that he is better suited for this task.”

“He has no authority here. I have. What do you say?”

“I will make inquiries, Abbot, but I cannot guarantee any result,” Fidelma replied.

The Abbot looked woeful for a moment and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“The culprit must be one of this company. You are trained in such detection. If you could do your best…?”

“Very well. But I am also one of this company. How can you be sure that I am not responsible?”

Abbot Miseno looked startled for a moment. Then he smiled broadly.

“You entered the ecclesia toward the end of the service and stood at the back. How could you have placed the poison in the bread or wine while it was on the altar before the eyes of us all?”

“True enough. But what of the others? Were they all here throughout the service?”

“Oh yes. I think so.”

“Including yourself?”

The rotund Abbot smiled wryly.

“You may also count me among your suspects until you have gained knowledge to the contrary.”

Fidelma inclined her head.

“Firstly, then, I need to check how this poison was administered.”

“I will inform the impatient young custos that he must be respectful to you and obey your judgments.”

They returned to the group standing awkwardly around the body of the dead Gaul, whose head was still being cradled in the arms of his sobbing sister.

The Abbot cleared his throat.

“I have asked the Sister to conduct an inquiry into the cause of this death,” he began without preamble. “She is eminently qualified to do so. I trust you will all,” he paused slightly, and let his eyes dwell on the arrogant young custos, “cooperate with her in this matter for it has my blessing and ecclesiastical authority.”

There was a silence. Some glances of bemusement were cast toward her.

Fidelma stepped forward.

“I would like you all to return to the positions you were occupying before this happened.” She smiled gently down at the girl. “You do not have to, if you wish, but there is nothing that you can do for your brother except truthfully answer the questions that I shall ask you.”

The Gaul, Enodoc, bent forward to raise the young girl to her feet, coaxing her away from the body of her brother, then gently guided her back to her place. There was a reluctant shuffling as the rest of the congregation complied.

Fidelma moved forward to the altar. She bent to the silver plate with its pieces of bread, the Host, and taking a piece sniffed at it suspiciously. She cautiously examined the rest of the bread. There was nothing apparently amiss with it. She turned to the chalice still full of the Eucharist wine and sniffed. She could not quite place the odor. However, it was bitter and even its smell caught at the back of her throat, making her gasp and cough sharply.

“It is as I thought,” she announced, “the wine has been poisoned. I do not know what poison it is but the fumes are self-evident. It is highly dangerous and you have all seen its instant effect so I should not have to warn you further.”

She turned and sought out the young guard.

“Bring two stools and place them…” she turned and sought out an isolated corner of the ecclesia, “place them over there. Then go and stand by the door and prevent anyone entering or leaving until I call for you.”

The young warrior looked outraged and glanced toward the Abbot. Abbot Miseno merely gestured with a quick motion of his hand for the young man to comply.

“I will speak with you first, deacon,” Fidelma said, turning toward the spot where the guard had placed the chairs.

Once seated Fidelma examined the deacon. He was not more than twenty years old. A youth with dark hair and a rather ugly face, the eyes seeming too close together and the brows heavy. His heavy jowl was blue with badly shaved stubble.

“What is your name?”

“I am Tullius.”

“How long have you served here?”

“Six months.”

“As deacon, it would be your job to prepare the wine and bread for the blessing. Is this so?”

“Yes.”

“And did you do so today?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the wine.”

The deacon seemed disconcerted.

“In what way?”

“Tell me about the wine in the chalice. Where did it come from, how was it poured and was it left unguarded at any time?”

“The wine is bought locally. We keep several amphorae below the ecclesia, in the vaults, where it is stored. This morning I went down into the vaults and filled a jug. Then, when I observed the numbers attending the service, I poured the wine into the chalice for the blessing. This is the usual custom. The same procedure is made for the bread. Once the wine and bread are blessed and the transubstantiation occurs then no piece of the Host nor of the blood of Christ must be discarded. It must all be consumed.”

Among the Irish churches, the taking of the bread and wine was regarded merely as a symbolic gesture in remembrance of the Christ. Rome, however, had started to maintain that the blessing actually changed the substances into the literal flesh and blood of Christ. Fidelma’s skeptical smile was not derogatory to the new doctrine but a reflection as to how the poisoned wine could possibly be regarded as the physical blood of the Savior. And who, she wondered, would now volunteer to consume it?

“So, Tullius, you poured the wine from the jug into the chalice once you had ascertained how many people were attending the service?”

“That is so.”

“Where is this jug?”

“In the sacristy.”

“Take me there and show me.”

The young deacon rose and led the way to a door behind the altar. This was an apartment of the ecclesia where the sacred utensils and vestments of the priest were kept.

Fidelma peered around the small room. It was no larger than six feet wide and twelve feet in length. A second doorway, leading to a flight of stone steps descending into the gloom of the vaults, stood almost behind the door which gave ingress into the ecclesia itself. At the far end of the sacristy stood a third door, with a small diamond-shaped window in its center, which, she could see, led to the outside of the building. Clothes were hung on pegs and there were icons and some books on shelves. There was also a bench with some loaves of bread and a wine jug on it. Fidelma bent over the jug and sniffed. There was no bitter odor. Cautiously, she reached down into the jug with her forefinger and dipped it in the wine. Withdrawing it, she sniffed again and then placed it between her lips. There was no bitter taste. Clearly, then, the wine had been poisoned only after it had been poured into the chalice.

“Tell me, Tullius, the chalice, which was used today, is it the same chalice that is used at every service?”

The deacon nodded.

“And the chalice was standing here, in the sacristy, when you brought up the jug of wine from the vaults?”

“Yes. I had purchased the bread on my way to the ecclesia, as I usually do. I came in here and placed the loaves ready to cut into small pieces. Then I went down to the vault and poured the jug of wine and brought it up here. I placed it by the chalice. Then Abbot Miseno entered and, as I recall, passed directly through the sacristy to join the congregation. When I judged it was a small attendance, I poured the wine accordingly.”

Fidelma frowned thoughtfully.

“So Abbot Miseno had already passed into the ecclesia before you poured the wine into the chalice?”

“He had.”

“And are you saying that at no time did you leave this sacristy after you had brought up the jug of wine and poured it into the chalice?”

“I judged the attendance while standing at the door. While I was doing this Father Cornelius came in. In fact, he did so not long after the Abbot.”

“Father Cornelius being the priest who officiated?”

“Yes. He changed his vestments for the service while I poured the wine into the chalice. I then returned to check if anyone else had joined the congregation.”

“Then, at that point, your back was toward the chalice? It was not in your field of vision the whole time?”

“But there was no one in the sacristy with me except…”

“Except Father Cornelius?”

The deacon’s mouth had snapped shut and he nodded glumly.

“Let me get this picture clear. Father Cornelius changed his vestments as you were standing at the door examining those entering the ecclesia?”

“Yes. I remember warning him that Abbot Miseno had already entered.”

“Warning him?” Fidelma was quick to spot the word.

“The Abbot is in charge of this ecclesia as well as several others in the vicinity. However, he and Father Cornelius were… how can I say it? … Their views did not coincide. Abbot Miseno has been trying to remove Father Cornelius from this church. That is no secret.”

“Do you know why?”

“It is not for me to say. You may address that question to Abbot Miseno and Father Cornelius.”

“Very well. What then?”

“Father Cornelius was annoyed. In fact, I think he was in an evil temper when he arrived. Anyway, he pushed by me and went straight to Abbot Miseno. I saw them speaking together. I would say that the conversation was not friendly. The appointed hour for the service came and I rang the bell as usual. Father Cornelius then went to the altar to start the service.”

Fidelma leant forward.

“Let me clarify this point: you say that you poured the wine into the chalice while Father Cornelius was changing his vestments; that you then went to stand by the door, turning your back on the chalice?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Think? You are not sure?”

“Well…” the deacon shrugged, “I would not take oath on it. Perhaps I poured it just after he left the sacristy.”

“Not before he left?”

“I cannot be sure now. This matter has been a shock and I am a little confused as to the order of events.”

“Can you be sure whether there was anything else in the chalice when you poured the wine?”

“The chalice was clean.” The deacon’s voice was decisive on this point.

“There was no coating on the chalice, no clear liquid which you might have missed at the bottom?” pressed Fidelma.

“Absolutely not. The chalice was clean and dry.”

“How can you be so sure when you admit to confusion over events?”

“The ritual, which all deacons in this office fulfill, is that before the wine is poured, a small piece of white linen is taken and the inside of the chalice is polished. Only then is the wine poured.”

Fidelma felt frustrated.

The wine had been poisoned. It had been poisoned while it was in the chalice and not before. Yet the only time that the chalice was out of sight for a moment, according to the deacon, was when Father Cornelius had entered the sacristy. That had been the only opportunity to introduce poison into the chalice. But the deacon was not sure whether the priest had left before or after he poured the wine.

“What happened then?” she prompted Tullius, the deacon.

“The service was ready to start. I took the tray of bread and carried it to the altar. Then I returned for the chalice …”

Fidelma’s eyes sparkled with renewed interest.

“So the chalice stood here on its own while you carried the bread to the altar?”

The deacon was defensive.

“It was here only for a few seconds and I had left the door open between the sacristy and altar.”

“Nevertheless, it stood unobserved for a short while. During that period anyone might have entered the outer door and poisoned the wine, leaving before you noticed them.”

“It is possible, I suppose,” acceded the deacon. “But they would have had to have been quick to do so.”

“What then? You carried the wine to the altar? Yes. Then the service commenced. The chalice stood in full view of everyone during the service until the moment Father Cornelius blessed it and the Gaulish religieux came forward to receive communion.”

“Very well.”

Fidelma led the way back to where the small congregation was still sitting in silence. She felt their eyes upon her, suspicious and hostile. She dismissed the deacon and motioned for the priest, Father Cornelius, to join her.

“You are Father Cornelius, I believe?”

“I am.” The priest looked tired and was clearly distressed.

“How long have you been priest here?”

“For three years.”

“Do you have any idea how poison was introduced into the Eucharist wine?”

“None. It is an impossible thing.”

“Impossible?”

“Impossible that anyone would dare to perform such a sacrilege with the Eucharist.”

Fidelma sniffed slightly. “Yet it is obvious that someone did. If people are out to murder, then a matter of sacrilege becomes in-significant compared with the breaking of one of God’s commandments,” she observed dryly. “When Tullius, the deacon, brought the wine from the sacristy, was it placed on the altar?”

“It was.”

“It stood there in full sight of everyone and no one went near it until you blessed it and raised the chalice, turning to administer the sacrament to the first communicant?”

“No one went near it,” affirmed the priest.

“Did you know who would be the first communicant?”

Father Cornelius frowned.

“I am not a prophet. People come to receive the sacrament as and when they will. There is no order in their coming.”

“What was the cause of your differences with Abbot Miseno?”

Father Cornelius blinked.

“What do you mean?” There was a sudden tone of anxiety in his voice.

“I think my Latin is clear enough,” Fidelma replied phlegmati-cally.

Father Cornelius hesitated a moment and then gave a shrug.

“Abbot Miseno would prefer to appoint someone else to my office.”

“Why?”

“I disagree with the teachings of Augustine of Hippo, that everything is preordained, which is now a doctrine of our church. I believe that men and women can take the initial and fundamental steps toward their salvation, using their own efforts. If men and women are not responsible for their own good or evil deeds, then there is nothing to restrain them from an indulgence in sin. To argue, as Augustine has, that no matter what we do in life, God has already preordained everything so that it is already decided if our reward is heaven or hell, is to imperil the entire moral law. For my heresy, Abbot Miseno wishes to have me removed.”

Fidelma felt the harsh passion in the man’s voice.

“So? You would describe yourself as a follower of Pelagius?”

Father Cornelius drew himself up.

“Pelagius taught a moral truth. I believe men and women have the choice to become good or evil. Nothing is preordained. How we live our lives determines whether we are rewarded by heaven or hell.”

“But Pope Innocent declared Pelagius to be a heretic,” Fidelma pointed out.

“And Pope Zosimus declared him innocent.”

“Later to renounce that decision,” smiled Fidelma thinly. “Yet it matters not to me. Pelagius has a special place in the philosophy of the church in my country for he was of our blood and faith. Sufficient to say, Abbot Miseno holds to the teachings of Augustine of Hippo?”

“He does. And he would have me removed from here because I do not.”

“Yet Abbot Miseno has the authority to appoint whomsoever he likes as priest of this ecclesia?”

“He has.”

“Then surely he has the authority to dismiss you without argument?”

“Not without good cause. He must justify his actions to the bishop.”

“Ah yes. In Rome bishops have more authority than abbots. That is not so in Ireland. Yet, on the matter of Pelagius, surely heresy, even a just heresy, is cause enough?”

“But I do not openly preach the teachings of Pelagius nor those of Augustine. They are a subject for my conscience. I perform my duties to my congregation without complaint from them.”

“So you have shown the Abbot no good cause to dismiss you?”

“None.”

“But Abbot Miseno has suggested that you resign from this church?”

“He has.”

“And you have refused.”

“I have.”

“Did you know the Gaul who died?”

Again Cornelius blinked at the sudden change of subject of her questioning.

“I have seen him several times before.”

“Several times?”

“Himself and his sister. I believe that they are pilgrims staying in a nearby xenodochia. They have attended the mass here each day.”

“And the other Gaul, who seems so friendly with the girl?”

“I have seen him only once, yesterday. I think he has only recently arrived in Rome.”

“I see.”

“Sister, this is a great mystery to me. Why should anyone attempt to poison the wine and cause the death of all the communicants in the church today?”

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him.

“Do you think that the wine was meant to be taken by all the communicants?”

“What else? Everyone would come to take the bread and wine. It is the custom.”

“But not everyone did. The poison was so quick in its action that undoubtedly only the first person who took it would die and his death would have served as a warning to the others not to drink. That is precisely what happened.”

“Then if the wine were meant only for the Gaul, how could the person who poisoned the wine know that he would be the first to come forward to take it?”

“A good point. During the time that the Gaul attended the services here, did he take communion?”

“Yes.”

“Was he always in the same place in the church?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And at what point did he usually come forward to take the wine and bread?”

Cornelius’s eyes widened slightly as he reflected on the question.

“He was always the first,” he admitted. “His sister was second. For they were both in the same position before the altar.”

“I see. Tell me, did you enter the church via the sacristy?”

“Yes.”

“Was the deacon, Tullius, already there?”

“Yes. Standing by the door trying to estimate the numbers attending the service.”

“Had he poured the wine into the chalice?”

“I do not know,” confessed Father Cornelius. “Tullius told me that Miseno had arrived and I went to see him. I think Tullius had the jug in hand as I left the sacristy.”

Fidelma rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

“That is all, Father. Send Abbot Miseno across to me.”

The Abbot came forward, smiling, and seated himself.

“What news? Are you near a resolution?”

Fidelma did not return his smile.

“I understand that you wished to remove Father Cornelius?”

Abbot Miseno pulled a face. A curious, protective gesture.

“I have that authority,” he said defensively. “What has that to do with this matter?”

“Has Father Cornelius failed in his duties?” Fidelma ignored his question.

“I am not satisfied with them.”

“I see. Then the reason you wish him removed has nothing to do with Father Cornelius’s personal beliefs?”

Abbot Miseno’s eyes narrowed.

“You are clearly a clever investigator, Fidelma of Kildare. How do you come to know so much?”

“You said that you knew the manner in which a dálaigh, an advocate of the laws of my country, acted. It is, as you know, my job to ask questions and from the answers to make deductions. I say again, has the removal of Cornelius anything to do with the fact of his beliefs?”

“In truth, I am liberal about these matters,” replied Abbot Mis-eno. “However, Cornelius will tell you otherwise.”

“Why, then, do you wish him removed?”

“Cornelius has been here three years. I do not believe that he has fulfilled his functions properly. There are stories that he keeps a mistress. That he flouts more than one doctrine of our church. His deacon, a worthy soul, keeps this flock together in spite of Father Cornelius. And now Christ Himself has demonstrated clearly that Cornelius is unworthy of the priesthood.”

“How so?” Fidelma was intrigued at the Abbot Miseno’s logic.

“The matter of the poisoned Eucharist wine.”

“Do you accuse Father Cornelius of being the poisoner?” Fi-delma was astonished at the apparent directness of the accusation.

“No. But if he had been a true priest, then the transubstantiation would have taken place and the wine would not have been poisoned. It would have become the blood of Christ even though it contained poison, for the blessing would have purified it.”

Fidelma was nonplussed at this reasoning.

“Then it would, indeed, have been a miracle.”

Abbot Miseno looked annoyed.

“Is not the fact of transubstantiation a miracle, Sister, one that is performed every day in all churches of Christendom?”

“I am no theologian. I was taught that the matter was a symbolism and not a reality.”

“Then you have been taught badly. The bread and wine, when blessed by a true and pure priest, truly turns into the blood and flesh of Our Savior.”

“A matter of opinion,” observed Fidelma distantly. She indicated the corpulent and richly attired man who sat apart from everyone else. “Tell that man to come to me.”

Abbot Miseno hesitated.

“Is that all?”

“All for the moment.”

With a sniff of annoyance at being so summarily dismissed, the Abbot rose and made his way to the corpulent man and spoke to him. The man rose and came hesitantly forward.

“This matter is nothing to do with me,” he began defensively.

“No?” Fidelma looked at the man’s pouting features. “And you are …?”

“My name is Talos. I am a merchant and have been a member of this congregation for many years.”

“Then you are just the person to answer my questions,” affirmed Fidelma.

“Why so?”

“Have you known Father Cornelius for some time?”

“Yes. I was attending this congregation before he became priest here.”

“Is he a good priest?”

The Greek merchant looked puzzled.

“I thought this questioning was to be about the poisoning of the wine?”

“Indulge me.” Fidelma smiled. “Is he a good priest?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware of any complaints about him? Any conduct that would not become his office?”

Talos looked awkwardly at his feet. Fidelma’s eyes glinted.

“I am personally not aware of anything.”

“But you have heard some story?” she pressed.

“Tullius has told me that there have been complaints, but not from me. I have found Father Cornelius to be a conscientious priest.”

“Yet Tullius said that there were complaints? Was Tullius one of the complainants?”

“Not that I am aware. Yet I suppose that it would be his job to pass on the complaints to the Abbot. He must also be conscientious in his job. Indeed, he would have cause to be.”

“I do not understand.”

Talos grimaced.

“Tullius has been studying for the priesthood and will be ordained on the day after tomorrow. He is a local boy. His family were not of the best but he had ambition enough to overcome that. Sadly, the gods of love have played him an evil trick.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Talos looked surprised and then he smiled complacently.

“We are people of the world,” he said condescendingly.

“You mean that he prefers the company of his own sex?”

“Exactly so.” She saw the Greek’s eyes glance disapprovingly across the ecclesia and, without turning her head, followed the direction of the look to the young custos.

Fidelma sniffed. There were no laws against homosexuality under the auspices of the Brehons.

“So when he is ordained,” she went on, “he will move on to his own church?”

“That I would not know. I would presume so. This church cannot support two priests. As you see, it boasts only a small congregation, most of whom are well known to each other.”

“Yet the Gauls are strangers here.”

“That is true. But the dead religieux and his sister were staying in a hostel across the street and had been attending here during the week. The other, he had been here once. There was only one other complete stranger here today-you.”

“You have been most helpful, Talos. As you return to your place, would you ask Enodoc, the Gaul, to come here?”

Talos rose and left hastily, performing his task perfunctorily on the way back to his position.

The Gaul had been comforting the girl. Fidelma watched as the young man leant forward and squeezed the arm of the girl, whose head hung on her breast, as if she were asleep. She had ceased her sobbing.

“I know all about the advocates of the Brehon laws,” remarked the young man pleasantly, as he seated himself. “We, in Gaul, share a common ancestry with you of Ireland as well as a common law.”

“Tell me about yourself,” Fidelma invited distantly, ignoring the friendly overture.

“My name is-”

“Yes, that I know. I also know from whence you come. Tell me what is your reason for visiting Rome.”

The young man still smiled pleasantly.

“I am the captain of a merchant ship sailing out of the city of the Veneti in Armorica. It is as a trader that I am in Rome.”

“And you knew the monk named Docco?”

“We came from the same village.”

“Ah. And you are betrothed to the girl, Egeria?”

The young man started with a frown.

“What makes you ask this?”

“The way you behave to her is that of a concerned lover, not a stranger nor that of a mere friend.”

“You have a perceptive eye, Sister.”

“Is it so?”

“I want to marry her.”

“Then who prevents you?”

Again Enodoc frowned.

“Why do you presume that anyone prevents me?”

“Because of the way you defensively construct your sentence.”

“Ah, I see. It is true that I have wanted to marry Egeria. It is true that Docco, who is the head of his family, did not want her to marry me. We grew up in the same village but there is enmity between us.”

“And yet here you are in Rome standing together with Docco and his sister before the same altar,” observed Fidelma.

“I did not know Docco and Egeria were in Rome. I met them by chance a few days ago and so I made up my mind to argue my case further with Docco before I rejoined my ship to sail back to Gaul.”

“And was that what you were doing here?”

Enodoc shrugged.

“In a way. I was staying nearby.”

“Forgive me, but the port of Ostia, the nearest port of Rome, is a long way from here. Are you telling me that you, the captain of your ship, came to Ostia and then, hearing by chance that Docco and Egeria were in Rome, made this long journey here to find them?”

“No. I had business to transact in Rome and left my ship at Ostia. I needed to negotiate with a merchant for a cargo. Yet it is true that I found Egeria and Docco simply by chance.”

“I am told that you have been to this ecclesia before.”

“Yes; but only once. That was yesterday when I first encountered Egeria and Docco in the street and followed them to this place.”

“It was a strange coincidence.”

“Coincidences happen more often than we give them credit. I attended the service with them yesterday.”

“And was your plaint successful?”

Enodoc hesitated.

“No, Docco was as firmly against my marriage to Egeria as ever he had been.”

“Yet you joined them again today?”

“I was leaving for Ostia today. I wanted one more chance to plead my case with Docco. I love Egeria.”

“And does she love you?”

Enodoc thrust out his chin.

“You will have to ask her that yourself.”

“I intend to do so. Where did you meet them this morning? Did you come to the ecclesia together, or separately?”

“I had some business first and then went to their lodgings. They had already left for the church and so I followed.”

“At what time did you get here?”

“A moment or so before the service started.”

“And you came straight in and joined them?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Ask Egeria to come and sit with me.”

Clearly despondent, Enodoc rose to his feet and went back to the girl. He spoke to her but seemed to get no response. Fidelma noticed that he put his hand under her arm, drew her to her feet and guided her to where Fidelma was sitting. She came unpro-testingly but was apparently still in a stupefied state.

“Thank you,” Fidelma said, and reached forward to take the girl’s hand. “This is a great shock for you, I know. But I need to ask some questions. Be seated now.” She turned and gazed up at Enodoc. “You may leave us.”

Reluctantly the Gaulish seaman departed.

The girl had slumped on the stool before Fidelma, head bowed.

“Your name is Egeria, I believe?”

The girl simply nodded.

“I am Fidelma. I need to ask some questions,” she repeated again. “We need to discover who is responsible for this terrible deed.”

The girl raised her tear-stained eyes to Fidelma. A moment or two passed before she seemed to focus clearly.

“It cannot bring back Docco. But I will answer, if I can.”

“You were very fond of your brother, I take it?”

“He was all I had. We were orphans together.”

“He was protective of you?”

“I am… was younger than he and he raised me when our parents were killed during a Frankish raid. He became the head of my family.”

“What made you come to Rome?”

“It was a pilgrimage that we had long talked about.”

“Did you expect Enodoc to be here?”

The girl shook her head.

“Do you love Enodoc?”

Egeria look at her without answering for a moment or two and then shook her head slowly.

“Enodoc came from our village. He used to be our friend when we were children. I liked him as a friend but no more than that. Then he went to sea. He is captain of a merchant ship. I hardly see him. But whenever we meet, he seems to think he has a claim on me.”

“Indeed; he thinks that he is in love with you.”

“Yes. He has said so on several occasions.”

“But you are not in love with him?”

“No.”

“Have you told him so? Have you told him clearly?”

“Several times. He is a stubborn man and convinced himself that it was Docco who stood against him. That Docco had the ability to make up my mind for me.”

“I see. Are you telling me that he thought that it was only Docco that was an obstacle to marriage with you?”

The girl nodded and then her eyes widened a fraction.

“Are you saying…?”

“I am merely asking questions, Egeria. When did you meet En-odoc today?”

“When he arrived for the service.”

“You and your brother were already in the ecclesia, I take it?”

She nodded.

“You had taken up your position at the front?”

“Yes.”

“Did your brother normally take that position?”

Egeria sniffed a little and wiped a tear from her eye.

“Docco always liked to be the first to take the ritual of the Eucharist and so he liked to place himself near the priest. It was a habit of his, even at home.”

“I see. At what stage did Enodoc join you?”

“A few moments before the service began. I thought that he had finally accepted the situation but then he appeared, breathless and flustered as if he were in a hurry. I thought that the priest, Father Cornelius, was going to admonish him because he had halted the opening of the service while Enodoc took his place.”

Fidelma frowned.

“Why so? I came very late into the service yet Father Cornelius did not halt the service for me.”

“It was because Enodoc entered at the back of the altar and crossed in front of the priest to take his position with us.”

Fidelma could not speak with surprise for a moment.

“Are you saying that Enodoc entered the ecclesia through the sacristy?”

Egeria shrugged.

“I do not know. He entered through that door.” She turned and pointed to the door of the sacristy.

Fidelma was silent for a while.

“Return to your place, Egeria. I will not be long now. Please ask Enodoc to come back to me.”

Enodoc was as pleasant as before.

“You have been selective with your truths, Enodoc,” Fidelma opened.

The young man frowned.

“How so?”

“Docco was not the only person to stand in your way to marriage with Egeria.”

“Who else did so?” demanded the Gaul.

“Egeria herself.”

“She told you that?” The young man flushed.

“Yes.”

“She does not really mean it. She may say so but it was merely Docco speaking. Things will be different now.”

“You think so?”

“She is distraught. When her mind clears, she will know the truth.” He was confident.

“Perhaps. You did not mention that you entered this ecclesia through the sacristy.”

“You did not ask me. Is it important?”

“Why did you choose that unorthodox way of entering?”

“No mystery to that. I told you that I had to see a merchant this morning. I finished my business and came hurrying to the church. I found myself on the far side of the building and heard the bell toll for the opening of the service. It would have taken me some time to walk around the building, for there is a wall which is a barrier along the road. To come from the back of the church to the main doors takes a while, and I saw the door to the sacristy so I entered it.”

“Yet you had only been in this ecclesia once before. You must have a good memory.”

“It does not take much memory to recall something from the previous day, which was when I was here?”

“Who was in the sacristy when you entered?”

“No one.”

“And what did you do?”

“I came straight through into the ecclesia.”

“Did you see the chalice there?”

Enodoc shook his head. Then his eyes widened as he saw the meaning to her questions. For a moment, he was silent, his mouth set in a tight line. His tanned features reddened but he overcame his obvious indignation.

“I am sure that the chalice was already on the altar because as I entered the priest was starting the service.”

Fidelma met his gaze and held it for a moment.

“You may return to your place.”

Fidelma sat thinking for some moments and then she rose and walked toward the doors where the young custos stood. The young man watched her with narrow-eyed suspicion.

“What is your name?” she asked as she came to face him.

“Terentius.”

“Do you usually attend the services in this ecclesia?”

“My house is but a short walk away and my position as a member of the custodes is to ensure that law and order prevail in this area.”

“How long have you performed that duty?”

“Two years now.”

“So you have known Father Cornelius since you have been here?”

“Of course.”

“What is your opinion of Father Cornelius?”

The guard shrugged.

“As a priest, he has his faults. Why do you ask?”

“And your opinion of Tullius? Do you know him?”

She saw the young man flush.

“I know him well. He was born here in this district. He is conscientious in his duties. He is about to be ordained.”

She detected a slight tone of pride.

“I am told Tullius is from a poor family. To be honest, I am given to believe that his is a family known to the custodies..”

“Tullius has long sought to dissociate himself from them. Abbot Miseno knows that.”

“Had the service started when you arrived here?”

“It had just begun. I was the last to arrive… apart from yourself.”

“The Gaulish seaman… had he already entered the church?” Fidelma asked.

The guard frowned.

“No. As a matter of fact, he came in just after I did but through the sacristy.”

“You came in through the main doors, then?”

“Of course.”

“How soon after everyone else did you enter the church?”

“Not very long. As I was approaching along the street, I saw Abbot Miseno outside the building. I saw him arguing with Father Cornelius. They were standing near the sacristy door as I passed. The Abbot turned in, then, after he had stood a moment or two, Father Cornelius followed.”

“Do you know what they were arguing about?”

The young soldier shook his head.

“Then you came into the ecclesia? What of the Gaul?”

“A moment or so later. Father Cornelius was about to start the service, when he came in. We were halfway through the service when you yourself entered.”

“That will be all for the moment.”

Fidelma turned in deep thought and made her way to Abbot Miseno.

The Abbot watched her approach with impatience.

“We cannot afford to take long on this matter, Sister Fidelma. I had heard that you advocates of the Brehon Courts were quick at getting to the truth of the matter. If you cannot demonstrate who killed this foreign religieux, then it will reflect badly on that reputation.”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“Perhaps it was in hope of that event that you so quickly suggested my involvement in this matter?”

Abbot Miseno flushed in annoyance.

“Do you suggest…?”

Fidelma made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

“Let us not waste time in rhetoric. Why were you arguing with Father Cornelius outside the sacristy?”

Miseno’s jaw clamped tightly.

“I had demanded his resignation from this office.”

“He refused to resign?”

“Yes.”

“And you came into the church through the sacristy? Did Father Cornelius follow you?”

“Yes. He had changed his vestments and suddenly came out of the sacristy, straight to me and tried to renew the argument. Luckily, Tullius rang the bell for the service to start. I had just told him that I would do everything in my power to see him relieved of his position.”

“Everything?”

Miseno’s eyes narrowed. “What do you imply?”

“How far would you go to have him removed?”

“I will not deign to answer that.”

“Silence often speaks as loudly as words. Why do you dislike Father Cornelius so much?”

“A priest who betrays the guiding principles of-”

“Cornelius says that you disapprove of him because he holds to the teachings of Pelagius. Many of us do. But you claim that it is not that but more personal matters that make him fit not to be priest here.”

“Why are you concentrating on Father Cornelius?” demanded Miseno. “Your task was to find out who poisoned the Gaulish re-ligieux. Surely you should be looking at the motives for his killing?”

“Answer my question, Abbot Miseno. There must have been a point when you approved Cornelius in this office.”

Miseno shrugged. “Yes. Three years ago I thought he was appropriate to the task and a conscientious priest. I do not mind admitting that. It has been during the last six months that I have had disturbing reports.”

Fidelma tugged thoughtfully at her lower lip.

“And where do these reports emanate from?”

Abbot Miseno frowned.

“I cannot tell you that. That would be a breach of confidence.”

“Did they come from a single source?”

Miseno’s expression was enough to confirm the thought.

Fidelma smiled without humor.

“I suspect the reports came from the deacon, Tullius.”

Abbot Miseno stirred uncomfortably. But he said nothing.

“Very well. I take the fact that you do not deny that as an affirmative.”

“All very well. So it was Tullius. As deacon it was his duty to inform me if anything was amiss.”

“And your task to verify that Tullius was giving you accurate information,” observed Fidelma. “Did you do so?”

Abbot Miseno raised an eyebrow. “Verify the reports?”

“I presume that you did not simply take Tullius at his word?”

“Why would I doubt him? Tullius is in the process of taking holy orders, under my supervision. I can trust the word of Tullius.”

“The word of someone currently seeking ordination, you mean? Such a person would not lie?”

“That’s right. Absolutely not. Of course they would not lie.”

“But a priest, already ordained, would lie? Therefore, you could not take Cornelius’s word? Surely there is a contradictory philosophy in this?”

“Of course I don’t mean that!” snapped Abbot Miseno.

“But that is what appears to be happening. You took Tullius’s word over that of Cornelius.”

“The accusation was that Cornelius had dishonored the priesthood by taking a mistress.”

“Talos suggests that Tullius takes male lovers. You indicate that you know of this. The conclusion therefore is that not only did you take the word of a deacon against a priest, but you preferred to condemn a man on the grounds that he had a female lover or mistress while supporting a young man who is said to have a male lover. Why is one to be condemned and the other to be accepted in your eyes?”

Abbot Miseno set his jaw firmly.

“I am not Tullius’s lover, if that is what you are implying. Tullius is under my patronage. He is my protege.”

“Are you retracting your claim that Tullius had a male lover?”

“You have spoken to the young custos.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Do you admit you are prejudiced in your judgment?”

“Are you saying that Tullius lied to me? If so, what proof do you have?”

“As much proof as you have to say that he told the truth.”

“Why should he lie to me?”

“You are about to ordain him. I suspect that you now intend him to replace Cornelius here?”

Abbot Miseno’s face showed that her guess was right.

“But what has this to do with the death of the Gaul?”

“Everything,” Fidelma assured him. “I think I am now ready to explain what happened.”

She turned and called everyone to come forward to the place before the altar.

“I can tell you why Docco, a visitor to this country and this city, died and by whose hand.” Her voice was cold and precise.

They appeared to surge forward, edging near to her with expectant expressions.

“Sister Fidelma!” It was Egeria who spoke. “We know there was only one person who wanted my brother dead. Everyone else here was a stranger to him.”

Enodoc’s face was white.

“This is not true. I would never harm anyone …”

“I don’t believe you!” cried Egeria. “Only you had reason to kill him.”

“What if Docco was killed simply because he was the first to take the sacrament?” interrupted Fidelma.

There was a tense silence.

“Go on,” urged Abbot Miseno in an icy tone.

“Docco was not singled out as a victim. Any of us might have been the victim. The intention was to discredit Father Cornelius.”

There was an angry glint in Abbot Miseno’s eyes and they narrowed on Fidelma.

“You will have to answer for these accusations…”

“I am prepared to do so. It was something that the Abbot said that gave me an idea of the true motive of this terrible deed. He said that if Father Cornelius had been a true priest, then once the wine was blessed and the transubstantiation occurred, the poison would have been rendered harmless when the wine became the Blood of Christ. The motive of this crime was to demonstrate that Father Cornelius was unworthy to hold office.”

Father Cornelius stood gazing at her in awe.

Fidelma went on.

“For some time the deacon, Tullius, had been feeding stories to Abbot Miseno about the misconduct of Cornelius, stories which Cornelius categorically denies. But Abbot Miseno was convinced. Tullius was his protege and could do no wrong in the Abbot’s eyes. Furthermore, Miseno was about to ordain Tullius and, as a priest, he would need his own ecclesia. What better than to give him this church… once Cornelius had been removed. But Cornelius was not going without a fight. Any accusations of misconduct would have to be argued before the local bishop.”

“Who are you accusing?” demanded Cornelius, intervening. “Miseno or Tullius?”

“Neither.”

Her answer was met with blank looks.

“Then whom?”

“Terentius of the custodes!”

The young man took a step backward and drew his short ceremonial sword.

“This has gone far enough, barbarian!” he cried in anger. “I am a Roman. No one will believe you.”

But Tullius was moving forward.

“What have you done, Terentius?” he cried in a high-pitched voice. “I loved you more than life, and you have ruined everything.”

He ran as if to embrace Terentius and then seemed to freeze in mid-stride. It was clearly not meant to happen but the young deacon had inadvertently run forward onto the sword which the cus-tos had been holding defensively in front of him. Tullius gave a gurgling cry, blood gushed from his mouth and he fell forward.

Enodoc reached forward and snatched the sword from the guard’s hand. There was no struggle. The custos stood frozen in shock, staring down at the body of his friend.

“But I did it for you, Tullius!” he wailed, suddenly sinking to his knees and reaching for the hand of the corpse. “I did it for you.”

A short time later Fidelma sat with Father Cornelius and Abbot Miseno.

“I was not sure whether Tullius and Terentius had planned this together, or even whether you might be part of the plan yourself, Abbot Miseno,” she said.

Miseno looked pained.

“I might be a fool, one of ill judgment, but I am not a murderer, Sister.”

“How did you realize that Terentius was the murderer?” demanded Father Cornelius. “I cannot understand this.”

“Firstly, the motive. It was easy to eliminate the fact that Docco was an intended victim. There were too many improbables, too many coincidences had to happen to ensure that the Gaul was the first and only victim. So I had to look for another motive. That motive was not so obscure and, as I said, it was Abbot Miseno’s interpretation of the fact of transubstantiation which gave me a clue. The motive was to discredit you, Father Cornelius. Who would benefit from that? Obviously Tullius the deacon.”

“So why did you think Tullius was innocent?”

“Because if he had been involved, then he would have given himself a better alibi for, it appeared at first, only he had the opportunity to poison the wine. Then I learnt that Tullius had a male lover. It became clear that it was Terentius, the custos.”

“Yes, but what made you so sure he was the murderer?”

“He was the only other person with opportunity. And, most importantly, he lied. He said that he had entered the church by the main doors just before the Gaulish seaman. He also told me that he had been coming along the street and saw you both quarreling on the path to the sacristy.”

“Well that was no lie, we were arguing,” Miseno confirmed.

“Surely, you were. But the sacristy, where that argument took place, as Enodoc told me, is entered by a path on the other side of this church. You have to walk a long way round to enter the main doors. Enodoc didn’t have time to do so, so he blundered through the sacristy into the church.”

“I do not follow.”

“If Terentius had seen you both arguing then he was on the path outside the sacristy and therefore he was on the far side of the building. What was he doing there? Why did he not come through the sacristy, like Enodoc, knowing the service was about to start? He had been there enough times with Tullius. No, he came in through the main doors.

“He had seen your quarrel and gone to the sacristy door. Watching through the window, he waited until he saw Tullius take the bread into the ecclesia; then he slipped in and poisoned the wine and left, hurrying round the church to come in by the main doors and thus giving himself an alibi.”

“And he did this terrible deed purely in order to help Tullius become priest here?” asked Miseno, amazed.

“Yes. He had reasoned out that it did not matter who was killed by the poison, the end result was that you would believe that Cornelius was not fit to be a priest because the transubstantiation had not happened. That would ensure Tullius became priest here. That plan nearly succeeded. Love makes people do insane things, Miseno. Doesn’t Publilius Syrus say: amare et sapere vix deo conced-itur? Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.”

Miseno nodded. “Amantes sunt amentes,” he agreed. “Lovers are not sane.”

Fidelma shook her head sorrowfully.

“It was a sad and unnecessary death. More importantly, Abbot Miseno, it is, to my mind, a warning of the dangers of believing that what was meant as symbolism is, in fact, a reality.”

“There we will have to differ on our theology, Fidelma,” sighed Miseno. “But our Faith is broad enough to encompass differences. If it is not-then it will surely perish.”

“Sol lucet omnibus,” Fidelma replied softly, with just a touch of cynicism. “The sun shines for everyone.”