Indeed, a few steps more brought them into what seemed to be a large clearing whose boundaries were marked by the dense barrier of trees and shrubs and almost given a protective canopy by their massive spreading branches. The religieux saw that the clearing was filled with small mounds and decaying stone monuments and markers, many overgrown with all manner of weeds and plants.
Huneric stood aside and let the religieux gaze around him.
‘This is where the Roman legionaries, who garrisoned the fortress here, buried their dead,’ he announced almost with the pride of ownership. ‘This is the necropolis they built many centuries ago.’
The religieux breathed out softly, the cold making visible the vapour of his breath.
‘You know what it is that I seek?’
‘The graves of the archers, the first cohort,’ confirmed his guide. ‘Come, follow me.’
He walked across to an area where several stones rose from the ground. He paused before one and with his hand tore away the moss that covered the incised lettering on the ancient surface.
‘Is this the one you seek?’ he asked.
The religieux went down on his haunches before the stone and peered at the Latin inscription, reading the name softly to himself. Then he exhaled deeply and nodded.
‘It is the name I seek,’ he replied quietly. He shifted his position to examine it more closely. ‘It says that he was from Sidonia …’
Huneric had pride in his education, his ability to read the words that Father Audovada had taught him. He nodded in agreement. ‘He was a man from Sidon, which is in the country of the Phoenicians.’
‘ … miles ex-signifer Cohorte Primus Saggitariorum hic situs est,’ the religieux read. ‘He was the former standard bearer of the First Cohort of Archers and this is his grave.’
While Huneric looked on with some bewilderment, the religieux delved into the satchel he carried and drew from it a small wooden tablet, hinged in two sections, and a thin bone stylus. He opened the tablet. The wax in the centre of each wooden section was cold and the religieux spent some time trying to soften it with the warmth of his hand. Once pliable enough, he carefully wrote down the five lines of Latin that comprised the inscription. Then he closed the writing tablet with a snap and replaced it and the stylus in the satchel. He stood for a moment looking down at the monument.
‘Thank you,’ he said in a quiet, almost resigned tone. ‘We can return to Bingium as soon as you like.’
Huneric was bewildered. ‘Is this all that you came to see?’
‘It is enough.’
‘Was this Roman one of your ancestors? You travelled a long way just to read a brief inscription.’
The religieux smiled tightly and shook his head. ‘He was not my ancestor,’ he replied.
‘Then who was he?’ pressed Huneric. ‘Why was he so important that you have made this journey from your country, wherever that is, just to look at a piece of stone under which he lies buried?’
‘Why is he so important?’ The religieux turned sad, tired eyes on the man. Huneric thought for a moment that he was about to burst into tears. His face was gaunt and white. ‘Because that man,’ he gestured towards the grave, ‘may have been the father of a lie that has changed the world.’
CHAPTER ONE
Although it was not yet the end of summer, there was a damp chill in the air and Abbot Iarnla drew his chair nearer to the smoky log fire. No warmth emanated from it, only grey fumes and the hissing of moisture. He exhaled in annoyance.
‘The wood is damp, Brother Gáeth,’ he admonished the moon-faced religieux whose task it was to bring the wood to provide warmth for the abbot’s chamber.
‘Forgive me, Father Abbot,’ the man stammered. ‘It has only just been noticed that the thatch on the woodshed roof was in need of repair. The rain must have came through and soaked into the wood and-’
Abbot Iarnla made a cutting motion with his left hand. ‘Mox nox in rem,’ he snapped impatiently, ‘soon night, to the business. ’ The wood-bearer received this sharp reproof with a bowed head and muttered that he would go at once in search of dry logs to replace the wet ones. Brother Gáeth was a tall man with almost ugly features and a permanently crestfallen expression that made the elderly abbot immediately feel guilty that he had spoken so roughly. It was known that Brother Gáeth was not considered robust in mind and his Latin was limited. The abbot forced a sympathetic smile. ‘If you can find dry wood, bringit quickly, for I feel a chill.’ Brother Gáeth moved obediently towards the door.
When he opened it, he found a tall man with thin, almost gaunt features and pale blue eyes on the threshold, his hand raised as if he were about to knock. Brother Gáeth stood quickly aside, head bowed respectfully, for Brother Lugna was the rechtaire, the steward, of the abbey of Lios Mór, and second in authority to the abbot.
Abbot Iarnla had heard Brother Gáeth’s soft intake of breath and glanced round to see why he had paused before leaving.
‘Ah, come in, Brother Lugna,’ he invited, and motioned to a seat facing him on the far side of the fireplace. ‘I wanted a word with you.’
Brother Lugna was in his mid-thirties; his long, straw-coloured hair was worn with the corona spina tonsure of Rome, which marked him out as one who followed Roman Rule, unlike his abbot who maintained the tonsure of St John, favoured by the Irish clerics. Brother Lugna’s features seemed frozen in a disapproving expression. He entered and closed the door behind the wood-bearer. Then he crossed to the chair indicated by the abbot, lowered himself into it and sat without speaking.
Abbot Iarnla was elderly, with silver hair and mournful brown eyes and a figure that indicated a man who had been used to an easy and indolent way of life. He gestured towards the smoking fire.
‘The wood is wet,’ he explained unnecessarily. There was almost petulance in his voice.
His steward nodded absently. ‘I have already reprimanded our tugatóir, the thatcher, for letting the woodshed roof fall into disrepair.’ His tone indicated that his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘He should have known better than to instruct Brother Gáeth to bring wet wood to you.’
The abbot glanced at him thoughtfully. ‘I asked you to come,Brother Lugna, because I hear that you are still concerned with the well-being of Brother Donnchad. Or is it the Venerable Bróen who troubles you? I hear that in the refectorium this morning he announced that he had seen an angel at his window last evening.’
Brother Lugna’s mouth drooped further. ‘The Venerable Bróen is old and sadly his mind wanders. But it is Brother Donnchad who is of more concern to the community and me.’
‘Such journeys and adventures that have fallen to the lot of Brother Donnchad can leave a marked affect upon the strongest of men,’ the abbot commented.
Brother Lugna pursed his thin lips before replying. ‘The community is worried for him. I am worried for him. I am told that even before he set out for the Holy Land with Brother Cathal, he was of an introspective nature and prone to moods, spending long hours in lonely contemplation.’
‘Surely that is in the spiritual nature of our calling. Why, therefore, be concerned that he displays such tendencies now?’ countered the abbot with a wry smile.
‘I have every respect for Brother Donnchad’s commitment to the Faith and to his scholarship. Nevertheless, his moods cause concern. He has sunk into gloomy contemplation ever since he returned from the Holy Land. Indeed, at times he often displays peevishness with his fellows, especially with Brother Gáeth who, I understand, was once his anam chara — his soul friend.’ He grimaced and added, ‘I always thought Brother Gáeth a curious choice as a soul friend for a scholar of Brother Donnchad’s reputation. But I am told that his current attitude to Brother Gáeth is out of tune with his earlier disposition towards him.’