Whispers of the Dead

THE LOST EAGLE

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

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 The religieux who had announced the Deacon’s presence had withdrawn from the library, shutting the door behind him.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fidelma seated herself with an expression of curiosity.

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

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

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

The deacon shook his head swiftly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deacon Lepidus made a quick gesture of apology.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The deacon smiled disarmingly.

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

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

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

“What do you expect from me?”

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

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

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

Deacon Lepidus absently placed a hand inside his robe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fidelma reached out a hand.

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

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

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

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

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

She began to read.

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

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

“How we survived was truly the decision of the gods. The Legate had become feverish from his wounds and I dragged and hauled him along the culvert further away from that grim field of slaughter until we reached the safety of a copse. There we lay a further day but, alas, the Legate’s condition deteriorated. By morning, a calm had seized him. He knew he was dying. He gripped my hand and recognized me.

“He spoke slowly: ‘Cingetorix,’ he addressed me by name, ‘how came you here?’

“I replied that I had been with the baggage train when the Caledonii attacked it, and I fled, I knew not whither. Only after being led blindly by fate did I come upon the remarkable scene of the commander and a few men about the eagle, making their last stand. When they were overcome I saw the Caledonii had neglected to gather up the eagle and, knowing of its value, I made my way to the now-deserted bodies in an endeavor to save it. That was when I saw the Legate was still alive, albeit barely.

“The Legate Lepidus was still gripping my arm. ‘Cingetorix, you know what the eagle means. I am done for. So I charge you, take the eagle and place it in the hands of the emperor whence it came that he might raise it once again and declare that the Ninth Hispana is not yet dead even though the men have fallen. Proclaim that Lepidus shed his life’s blood in its defense and died with the eagle and his honor intact.’ ”

Fidelma paused and looked up from the vellum.

“This text is surely the authority you need to write your history?” she asked. “What now brings you to this country?”

“Read on,” the deacon urged.

“The Legate tarried not a moment more in this life. Therefore I removed the eagle from the shattered remains of its wooden pole and wrapped it in cloth to make it easier to carry. I then waited until night fell again and slowly began to place what distance I could from the still celebrating Caledonii. However, they were blocking the roads to the south and so I resolved to move westward into the country of the horse people-the Epidii.

“My story is long and complicated and I will transcribe it as and when I can. However, I must insert at this point that I could not fulfill my promise to the Legate Lepidus, may the gods honor him. It took me years to return to my own town of Darovernum and the gods smiled on me for I brought the eagle with me. But there is much disorder here at this time and age has spread a shadow over me. I cannot take the eagle to Rome and I fear to give it to the Governor Verus lest he take the credit himself. He is a man not to be trusted in such matters. I have therefore determined to hide it with some account in the tiny house I have which lies close to Tower Eight toward the northeast corner of a building some Christians have erected to honor one of their leaders named Martin of Gaul. I have hidden the honor of the Ninth Hispana in the hypocaust. There it will remain until my son has grown and can, under my instruction, resume the journey to Rome and can fulfill my. .”

The vellum ended and Fidelma stopped reading. She looked up at Deacon Lepidus with eyes narrowed slightly.

“Now that I have read this document, what is it you want of me?”

Deacon Lepidus gave a winning smile.

“I had thought that there were clues in the document, which might tell you where this man came from and where the eagle might be hidden. If I could take the eagle and more details back to Rome, if I could have a trustworthy witness to its rediscovery, then I could write my history with confidence. My family, the family of Lepidus, would be able to raise their heads in Rome and aspire to all the great offices without a cloud hanging over the past. Why, I might aspire to Bishop or Cardinal. . there is no limit to the temporal and spiritual ambitions that. .”

He paused and smiled quickly as if in embarrassment.

“My concern, however, as an historian, is simply to discover the truth. Perhaps this man, Cingetorix, was writing lies. Perhaps. . but if we could discover where he lived and where he hid the eagle, if it was his to hide, then what a great historical mystery would be solved.”

Fidelma sat back and examined the man carefully.

“There are many Britons who are more qualified than I am to examine this document and point to the clues.”

Lepidus shrugged.

“The Britons? They never venture now beyond the new borders of the kingdoms into which the Saxons have confined them. They certainly would not venture into the country of the Saxons. And have they not consistently fought against us Romans? Not simply in the days when our legions ruled their lands but even in recent times when they refused to obey the rule of the Mother Church in Rome. Their kings refused to bend their necks before Augustine, who was the Bishop of Rome’s personal envoy and missionary here. They preferred to stick to their idolatry, to the heretic Pelagius and their own leaders.”

Fidelma raised an amused eyebrow.

“Surely, we of Éireann are also condemned by Rome, for our churches, too, believe in the theology of Pelagius rather than the attitudes adopted by Augustine of Hippo?”

Lepidus smiled disarmingly.

“But we can always argue with you folk of Éireann whereas the Britons are proud people, incline to test their belief at sword point.”

Fidelma was about to say, “just like the Romans” but thought better of it.

“I know a little of the history and language of the Britons, but I am not an expert.” She glanced at the vellum again and smiled thinly. “Certainly there are many clues in this account.”

Deacon Lepidus leant forward eagerly.

“Enough to track down where this man Cingetorix came from?”

Fidelma tapped the manuscript with her forefinger.

“That is simple. See, the man has written the exact location.”

The deacon frowned.

“Certainly he has. But he has written Darovernum. But where is that place? I have asked several people and none seem to know.”

Fidelma chuckled.

“It is a name recorded by the geographer Ptolemy about the time when the deeds mentioned in this story are said to have taken place.”

“What does it mean?”

“In the tongue of the Britons, duro means a fort and verno is an alder swamp. Therefore it is the fort by the alder swamp.”

Lepidus looked dismayed.

“That is a fine example of linguistics, Sister Fidelma, but where can we find the location of this place?”

Fidelma regarded him steadily.

“The Romans called the place Darovernum Cantiacorum-the Cantiaci fort by the alder swamp.”

“I am at a loss still,” Deacon Lepidus confessed.

“You are in the very town because the Cantiaci fort by the alder swamp is what the Jutes now call the burg of the Canteware.”

Deacon Lepidus’s features dissolved into an expression of amazement.

“Do you mean that the eagle might be hidden here? Here, in this very town?”

“All I mean, so far, is that the place mentioned in this document is this very town,” replied Fidelma solemnly.

“But this is incredible. Are you saying that this man, Cingetorix, the man who took the eagle from my ancestor, brought the eagle to this town? Is there anything else you can tell me?” Deacon Lepidus was clearly excited.

Fidelma pursued her lips thoughtfully.

“Since you have mentioned it, the name Cingetorix is a name that is also associated with the Cantiaci. Any student of Julius Caesar’s account of his landing here would recognize it. But it is a strange name for a lowly mathematicus in the employ of a legion to have-it means ‘king of heroes.’ It was one of the names of the four kings of the Cantiaci who attacked Caesar’s coastal camp during his landings,” affirmed Fidelma.

Deacon Lepidus sat back with a sigh. After his moment of excitement, he suddenly appeared depressed. He thought for a while and then raised his arms in a hopeless gesture before letting them fall again.

“Then all we have to do is find the location of the house of this man, Cingetorix. After five hundred years, that is impossible.”

Fidelma shook her head with a sudden smile.

“The vellum gives us a little clue, doesn’t it?”

The deacon stared at her.

“A clue? What clue could it give to be able to trace this house? The Romans have gone, departing with the Britons, and the Jutes have come and settled. The town of burg of the Canteware has changed immeasurably. Much of the original buildings are old and decaying. When the Jutes broke out of the island of Tanatos and rose up against the Britons it took a generation to drive them out and for Aesc to make himself king of Jutish Kent. In that time much of this city was destroyed.”

“You appear to have learnt much history in the short time you have been here, Deacon Lepidus,” she murmured. Fidelma rose with a whimsical expression crossing her features. She turned to a shelf behind her. “It is by good fortune that the librarian here has some old charts of the town. I was examining them only this morning.”

“But they do not date from the time of my ancestor. Of what use are they to us?”

Fidelma was spreading one before her on the table.

“The writing mentions that his house stands near a tower; Tower Eight. Also that the house is situated at the northeast corner of a building which some Christians had erected in honor of one of their leaders, Martin of Gaul.”

Deacon Lepidus was perplexed.

“Does that help us? It is so many years ago.”

“The ten towers built by the Romans along the ancient walls of the town can still be recognized, although they are crumbling away. The Jutes do not like occupying the old buildings of the Britons or Romans and prefer to build their own. However, there is still the chapel dedicated to Martin of Gaul, who is more popularly known as Martin of Tours. The chapel is still standing. People still go there to worship.”

A warm smile spread across the deacon’s face.

“By all that is a miracle! What the Venerable Gelasius said about you was an underestimate, Sister Fidelma. You have, in a few moments, cleared away the misty paths and pointed to. .”

Fidelma held up a hand to silence him.

“Are you truly convinced that if we can locate the precise spot that you will find this eagle?”

“You have demonstrated that the writer of the vellum has provided clues enough that lead us not only to the town but the location of where his house might have stood.”

The corners of Fidelma’s mouth turned down momentarily. Then she exhaled slowly.

“Let us observe, then, where else the writer of the vellum will lead us.”

Deacon Lepidus rose to his feet with a smile that was almost a grin of triumph, and clapped his hands together.

“Just so! Just so! Where shall we go?”

Fidelma tapped the map with a slim forefinger.

“First, let us see what these charts of the town tell us. To the east of the township we have the River Stur. Since you are interested in these old names, Deacon Lepidus, you might like to know that it is a name given by the Britons, which means a strong or powerful river. Now these buildings here are the main part of the old town. As you observe they stand beyond the west bank of the river and beyond the alder swamp. The walls were built by the Romans and then later fortified by the Britons, after the Roman withdrawal, to keep out the Angles, Saxons and Jutish raiders.”

Deacon Lepidus peered down and his excitement returned.

“I see. Around the walls are ten towers. Each tower is numbered on the chart.”

It was true that each tower had a Roman numeral-I, II, III, IV, V-and among them was VIII, upon which Fidelma tapped lightly with her forefinger.

“And to the west, we have the church of Martin and buildings around it. What buildings would be at the northwest corner?”

“Northeast,” corrected the deacon hurriedly.

“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma, unperturbed. “That’s what I meant.”

“Why,” cried the deacon, jabbing at the chart, “this building here is on the northeast corner of the church. It is marked as some sort of villa.”

“So it is. But is it still standing after all those centuries?”

“Perhaps a building is standing there,” Deacon Lepidus replied enthusiastically. “Maybe the original foundations are still intact.”

“And would that help us?” queried Fidelma. Her voice was gently probing, like a teacher trying to help a pupil with a lesson.

“Surely,” the deacon said confidently. “Cingetorix wrote that he would hide the eagle in the hypocaust. If so, if the building was destroyed, whatever was hidden in the foundations, where the hypocaust is, might have survived. You see, a hypocaust is. .”

“It is a system for heating rooms with warm air,” intervened Fidelma. “I am afraid that you Romans did not exactly invent the idea, although you claim as much. However, I have seen other ancient examples of the basic system. The floors are raised on pillars and the air underneath is heated by a furnace and piped through the flues.”

Deacon Lepidus’s face struggled to control a patriotic irritation at Fidelma’s words. He finally produced a strained smile.

“I will not argue with you on who or what invented the hypocaustrum, which is a Latin word.”

“Hypokauston is a Greek word,” pointed out Fidelma calmly. “Clearly, we all borrow from one another and perhaps that is as it should be? Let us return to the problem in hand. We will have to walk to this spot and see what remains of any building. Only once we have surveyed this area will we see what our next step can be.”

Fidelma had only been in the town a week but it was so small that she had already explored the location around the abbey. It was sad that during the two centuries since the Britons had been driven from the city by Hengist and his son Aesc, the Jutes and their Angle and Saxon comrades had let much of it fall into disuse and disrepair, preferring to build their own crude constructions of timber outside the old city walls. A few buildings had been erected in spaces where the older buildings had decayed. Only recently, since the coming of Augustine from Rome and his successors, had a new dynamism seized the city, and buildings were being renovated and repaired. Even so, it was a haphazard process.

Fidelma led the way with confidence to the crumbling towers that had once guarded the partially destroyed city walls.

“That is Tower Eight,” she said, pointing to what had once been a square tower now standing no more than a single story high.

“How do you know? Just from the map?” demanded the deacon.

She shook her head irritably.

“It bears the number on the lintel above the door.”

She pointed to where “VIII” could clearly be seen before turning to survey the piles of stone and brickwork that lay about. Her eyes widened suddenly.

“That wooden granary and its outbuilding appear to stand in the position that is indicated. See, there is the church dedicated to the Blessed Martin of Tours. Curious. They are the only buildings near here, as well.”

Deacon Lepidus followed her gaze and nodded.

“God is smiling on us.”

Fidelma was already making her way toward the buildings.

“There are two possibilities,” she mused. “The granary has been built over the villa so that the hypocaust is under there. Or, that smaller stone building next to the granary may have been part of original villa and we will find the hypocaust there.” She hesitated a moment. “Let us try the stone building first. It is clearly older than the granary.”

While they were standing there, a thickset man, dressed in Saxon workman’s clothing, stepped out of the shadow of the granary.

“Good day, reverend sir. Good day, lady. What do you seek here?”

He smiled too easily for Fidelma’s taste, giving her the impression of a fox assessing his prey. His Jutish accent was hard to understand although he was speaking in a low Latin. It was the deacon who explained their purpose, playing down the value of the eagle but offering a silver coin if the man could help them locate what they were looking for.

“This is my granary. I built it.” The man replied. “My name is Wulfred.”

“If you built it, did you observe whether it had holes in the ground or tunnels underneath it?” Fidelma inquired.

The man rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully.

“There were places we had to fill in with rubble to give us a foundation.”

Deacon Lepidus’s face fell.

“The hypocaust was filled in?”

Wulfred shrugged. “I can show you the type of holes we filled in, if you are interested. The little stone building has such holes under the floor. Come, I have a lantern. I’ll show you.”

They were following the man through the doorway when Fidelma suddenly caught sight of something scratched on one of the side pillars supporting the frame of the door. She called Deacon Lepidus’s attention to it, simply pointing. It was a scratch mark. It looked like an “IX.” There was something before it, which neither of them could make out.

“Nine?” whispered Lepidus, with sudden excitement. “The ninth legion?”

Fidelma made no reply.

It was cold and dirty inside. Dirt covered the floor. Wulfred held his polished horn lantern high. It revealed a room of about four meters square. It was totally empty. In one corner was a hole in the floor.

“Down there is where you can see the tunnels under the floor,” volunteered Wulfred.

Fidelma went across and knelt down. The smell of decay was quite prevalent. She asked for the lantern and peered down. A space of about seventy millimeters lay underneath the floor. Little brick piers supported the timbers at intervals of a meter from one another forming little squares.

“A hypocaust,” she said, raising herself and handing the lantern back. “But now what?”

Deacon Lepidus made no reply.

“Perhaps some sign was left. .?” he ventured.

Fidelma glanced on the floor. What she saw made her frown, and she began to scrape at the floor with the point of her shoe. The earth came away to reveal a tiny patch of mosaic. These were the type of floors that she had seen in Rome. She asked Wulfred if he had a broom of twigs. It took a half an hour to clear a section of the floor. The mosaic revealed a figure clad in a Roman senatorial toga; one hand was held up with a finger extended. Fidelma frowned. Something made her follow the pointing finger. She suddenly noticed a scratch mark on the wall. There was no doubt about it this time. The figure “IX” had been scratched into the stonework and a tiny arrow pointed downwards beneath it.

“We’ll break into the hypocaust here,” she announced. “With the permission of Wulfred, of course,” she added.

The Jute readily agreed when Deacon Lepidus held out another coin.

Lepidus himself took charge of making the hole. It was the work of another half an hour to create a space through which a small person could pass into the hypocaust below. Fidelma volunteered. Her face was screwed into an expression of distaste as she squeezed into the confined darkness, having to lie full length on her stomach. It was not merely damp but the walls below were bathed in water. It was musty and reminded Fidelma of a cemetery vault. She ran her hand in darkness over the wet brickwork.

“Pass me down the lantern,” she called up.

It was Lepidus who leaned down and handed her the polished horn lantern, giving its opaque glow to the darkness.

Fidelma breathed out softly.

By its light she could see the brickwork and almost immediately she saw scratch marks. “IX Hispana.” She put the lantern down and began to tug at the first brick. It was loose and gave way with surprising ease, swinging a little so that she could remove it. The other long, thin bricks were removed with the same ease. A large aperture was soon opened. She peered into the darkness. Something flickered back in the lantern light. She reached forth a hand. It was metal, cold and wet.

She knew what it was before her exploring hand encompassed the lines of the object. She knew it was a bronze eagle.

“What is it?” called Deacon Lepidus above her, sensing her discovery.

“Wait,” she instructed sharply.

Her exploring hand felt around the interior of the alcove. Water was seeping in, damp and dark. Obviously the alcove was not waterproof.

Then her exploring hand felt a piece of material. It, too, was wet from the seepage. She drew it forth. It was a piece of vellum. She could not make out the writing by the limited light of the lantern, so she turned and handed it upwards. It was only about a meter in length for it was lacking its wooden haft. She handed it up, ignoring the gasps and sounds from the Deacon Lepidus. Then she passed up the lantern to Wulfred before she twisted on her back and scrambled back into the room above.

A moment or so later she was able to see the fruits of her sojourn in the dank darkness below. Wulfred was holding the lantern high while Deacon Lepidus was almost dancing as he clutched the bronze eagle.

“The eagle! The eagle!” he cried delightedly.

A dark bronze eagle was surrounded by laurel wreaths, its claws apparently clutching a branch. Then, below the circle of laurel leaves, hung a scroll on which the letters “SPQR” were engraved. Senatus Populusque Romanus. Lepidus tapped the letters with his forefinger. “The ultimate authority for any Roman legion. The Senate and People of Rome.”

“Let us not forget this find has been made on Wulfred’s property,” she pointed out, as Lepidus seemed to have forgotten the presence of the Jutish granary owner.

“I will come to an accommodation with Wulfred. A third silver coin should suffice for he has no use for these relics. Is that not so?”

The Jutish granary owner bowed his head.

“I am sure that the reverend sir is generous in rewarding me for my services,” he replied.

“My ancestor’s eagle has induced such generosity,” Lepidus smiled.

“What of the vellum that was with it?” Fidelma asked.

Lepidus handed it to her.

She took it, carefully unrolling it. She examined the handwriting carefully and then the text.

“At least it is short,” Deacon Lepidus smiled.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “It simply says, “I, Cingetorix of the Cantiaci and mathematicus of Darovernum, place the eagle of the Ninth Hispana Legion, for safe keeping, in this place. My son is dead without issue. So should a younger hand find it, I entreat whoever you are, take the eagle to Rome and hand it to the emperor and tell him that the Legate Platonius Lepidus gave his life in its defense, having exhorted me to make the journey to Rome so that the legion might be raised again under this divine standard. I failed but I hope the words I have written will be testament to the honor and glory of the Ninth and to its commander, Platonius Lepidus, may the gods give him eternal rest.”

Fidelma sighed deeply.

“Then there is no more to be said. You have what you wanted, deacon. Let us return to the abbey.”

Deacon Lepidus smiled appreciatively.

“I have what I want thanks to you, Sister Fidelma. You are witness to these events, which will ensure no one questions them. I shall go to the Archbishop Theodore and tell him what has transpired and that you may confirm my testimony.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“Immediately, I need to bathe after crawling around in that hypocaust. I will join you and the archbishop later.”

Archbishop Theodore sat in his chair of office and was smiling.

“Well, Fidelma of Cashel, the Deacon Lepidus has much to say in praise of you.”

Fidelma had entered the archbishop’s chamber with Eadulf at her side. Deacon Lepidus was standing to one side nodding happily.

“It seems that you have done a singular service by solving an ancient riddle for him and his family.”

“Not so, my lord,” replied Fidelma quietly.

“Come, Sister Fidelma, no undue modesty,” intervened Deacon Lepidus. “You have discovered the truth of what happened to my ancestor and to the fate of six thousand soldiers of Rome, the fate of the Ninth Hispana.”

“The truth?” Fidelma glanced toward him, suddenly scornful. Her voice was sharp. “The truth is that Deacon Lepidus wished to perpetrate a hoax, a fraud, an untruth, in order to give himself and his family prestige. He sought to write a fabricated history, which would elevate him in society in Rome where his ambitions might know no bounds.”

“I don’t understand,” frowned Archbishop Theodore.

“Simple to understand, once told,” replied Fidelma. “Deacon Lepidus faked an eagle which he claimed was the five-hundred-year-old regimental emblem of the Ninth Hispana Legion which disappeared in Britain at a time when his ancestor was supposed to be its legate or commanding officer. He wrote two accounts on vellum which explained what supposedly happened to the legion and how the eagle could be found.”

“This is nonsense!” snapped Lepidus. “I will not stay here to be insulted.”

“Wait!” Archbishop Theodore said quietly as Lepidus turned to go. “You will stay until I give you leave to go.”

“And you will stay to hear the truth,” added Fidelma. “Do you think I am a simpleton that you could fool me? Your complicated plot merely needed me, my reputation, to confirm the veracity of your claim. You came with a vellum, pretending that you needed my help to solve the clues given in it. There were enough clues for an idiot to follow. It was to lead me to a house in this town and to the old hypocaust where I would find another vellum and the bronze eagle.”

“This is an insult to me, an insult to Rome,” spluttered the deacon.

Archbishop Theodore raised a hand.

“I will judge what insults Rome, Deacon Lepidus. Sister Fidelma, have you some evidence behind this accusation?”

Fidelma nodded.

“Firstly, I demand Lepidus produce the two pieces of vellum. The first is a text said to be written five hundred years ago. .”

“I never said that!” snapped Lepidus triumphantly. “I said it was my copy from the original which resides in my family library in Rome.”

“So you did. And I asked you very clearly whether you had altered the text in any way or whether it was a clear copy of the original. True or false?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“What you neglected to take into account is that language changes over the centuries. In my own land, we have our modern speech, but we have the language that has been used in the inscriptions which we put up in the alphabet we called Ogham, named after Ogma, the old god of literacy. That language is called the Bérla Féine, which many of our professional scribes cannot understand even today. I have seen Latin texts of ancient times, having read Tacitus and Caesar and others. This text of five hundred years ago is the Latin that is used today, called vulgar or popular Latin.”

“Next, I found it strange that Cingetorix, who is supposed to have written this, is a mathematicus, an accountant employed by the legion, yet bearing a kingly name which Romans might have found an objection to in one so lowly in their eyes. Cingetorix is a name well known to those who read Caesar. This same Cingetorix is a Cantii but he calls himself a Cantiaci, which is the Roman form, just as he describes his native town as Darovernum in the form recorded by Ptolemy, as I recall. Had he been a native he would have recorded it as Duroverno. Both these things were strange to me but not conclusive of fraud as Cingetorix is writing in Latin.”

“That is exactly what I was about to point out,” intervened Deacon Lepidus. “All this is just foolish speculation to show how clever the woman is.”

“I was interested when I said that the abbey library had some old charts of the town and turned to get them,” went on Fidelma calmly. “You immediately said that the charts did not date to the time of your ancestor. How would you know unless you had first checked out everything? You seem to know much of the history of the town as well. When I was speculating on the destruction of buildings in the town since the coming of the Jutes, you were quick to point out that while buildings might be destroyed the foundations could remain. You emphasized that the text claimed the eagle was hidden in the hypocaust and thus in the foundations. So it proved. . as if you knew it already. The house had long since vanished and a new granary stood on the site. But a small part of the villa, one room, stood and under it was the hypocaust. Amazing.”

“It is still speculation,” observed the archbishop.

“Indeed. I have had some dealings with the people of this country. The owner of the granary did not seem perturbed at our demands to search under his property. Nor surprised by what we found there. Whereas some might have demanded either the property or some high reward, the man Wulfred was quite happy for Lepidus to take eagle and vellum away on payment of a few coins. Not typical merchant’s behavior.”

“Not typical but not proof of any wrongdoing,” Archbishop Theodore pointed out.

“I concede that. When we found the alcove in which the eagle and the second vellum were, I was surprised that the interior was really damp. Not just damp but almost running with water. My hand was covered in water as if I had immersed it.”

“What does that prove?”

“While a metal object might have survived longer in those conditions, it would be very rusty. After all, bronze is not gold and is liable to deterioration in such conditions. The other item-the vellum with writing on it-that would hardly have lasted months let alone centuries.” Fidelma turned to the deacon. “You were not that clever, Deacon Lepidus.”

The deacon was finally looking less than confident.

Brother Eadulf was smiling broadly.

“My lord Archbishop, if we could persuade Deacon Lepidus to allow us to have his precious eagle for an hour, there are smithies of quality in this town who would, I am sure, be able to estimate whether the bronze was cast over five centuries ago, or whether it was recently cast.”

“That is a good idea,” agreed the Archbishop Theodore.

Fidelma intervened with a quiet smile.

“I am sure that Deacon Lepidus would not wish to trouble us to do so. It is too time-consuming and wearisome. I am sure that on reflection that he would prefer to admit the truth. The truth of what he was attempting was plain from the very moment he presented me with the first vellum in the abbey library. The fact that it was a fake leapt from the text immediately that I saw it.”

Archbishop Theodore’s eyes had widened. Brother Eadulf smiled brightly.

“Do you mean that when you saw that the Latin was so modern, you realized that it could not have been written five centuries ago?”

Fidelma shook her head.

“When I read how Cingetorix talked about the position of his house, the forgery stood out like a sore thumb.”

Archbishop Theodore was shaking his head.

“But you found the hypocaust of an ancient Roman building exactly where he said it was. And there was the ruined defensive tower on the old city wall, which is marked number ‘eight.’ Each tower bears a Roman numeral.”

“Surely, and his house was by the northeast corner of a church being raised by Christians to Martin of Gaul, whom we call the Blessed Martin of Tours,” agreed Fidelma.

“So? What is significant about that? There had been Christians and Christian communities in Britain for about a hundred years before the time that the Ninth Legion was said to have disappeared here,” pointed out Brother Eadulf.

“Indeed. But Martin of Tours, who had such a profound effect on the Christian communities not only in Britain but in my own land of the five kingdoms of Éireann, was not born until a century and a half after the events supposedly recounted by Cingetorix. Deacon Lepidus had done some research, but not enough. I went along with him to see where he was leading me. In my own language, Archbishop, there is a saying: is fearrde a dhearcas bréug fiadhnuise-a lie looks the better of having a witness. He wanted me to be witness to his lie, to his fraud. But even a clever man cannot be wise all the time.”