‘A shame on you for asking, Brother,’ admonished Brother Budnouen. ‘All names mean something. It means “the little river”.’
The wagon rumbled across a wide wooden bridge towards an imposing stone gateway with a high circular arch and a further construction above it reaching heavenwards. Many people were passing to and fro beneath while armed guards were keeping watch on them.
‘This is the main gate of the city on this north side. There are, of course, three other gates,’ Brother Budnouen informed them. ‘That is the style of the Romans. But one of the gates is in bad repair. That’s the one that would have given more easy access to the abbey.’
‘The walls are impressive,’ Eadulf observed. ‘I have not seen the like, other than in Rome.’
‘The locals call Autun the rival city of Rome,’ agreed the Gaul. ‘The walls stretch all around it. We head south through the city to the far side where the abbey is situated.’
Once through the impressive gates, the odours of the city impinged on their senses. Fidelma and Eadulf were used to the countryside, and the towns of their own lands were little more than well-spaced villages without protective walls. Now the smells reawakened memories of Rome: the stench of sewerage, of rotting vegetables and unattended animal waste and offal in the streets, combined with the sweat of people crowded into confined spaces.
Fidelma shuddered, wondering how anyone could actually live in such a place.
Brother Budnouen glanced at her and grinned. ‘It takes some getting used to, if you are country bred,’ he remarked.
She did not respond, fearing the atmosphere would cause her to be nauseous. As they proceeded south along what seemed a principal street, women, whose dress announced them to be of some rank and wealth, passed by them, holding little bunches of flowers before their nostrils. It brought a faint smile to Fidelma’s lips. At least she was not the only one to react to the stink of what some called civilisation. She could not remember seeing such things in Rome but then, of course, the thoroughfares of Rome were much wider. This street was lined with little shops, even blacksmiths and all manner of vendors of goods. The cacophony of noise-the shouting of the traders, vying with one another to attract customers, and the haggling of customers over prices-oppressed her ears in a solid wall of sound.
As they passed through a square, the crack of a whip nearby caused Fidelma to start nervously and peer around. In a corner of the square, she spotted a small platform on which were huddled half a dozen tiny figures. They were difficult to see, as a number of people were crowded before the platform. A tall man stood behind the figures, holding a whip. He was shouting but Fidelma had no idea what he was saying. Then her eyes widened as she saw that they were children, and that each child wore an iron collar about his or her neck. She drew a quick breath in horror.
Brother Budnouen followed her gaze. ‘A slave auction,’ he explained nonchalantly. ‘There is quite a business done in the city. Many foreign merchants pass this way.’
‘It’s disgusting,’ Fidelma muttered.
Brother Budnouen looked amused. ‘What-slavery? How would the world function without slaves?’
‘Easily enough,’ she replied spiritedly.
The Gaul chuckled. ‘Come, do not try to tell me that your people have no slaves.’
‘Not in the sense you have them here,’ she replied.
‘In what sense then?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘We do have a class whom you could call non-free, the fudir,’ she admitted.
‘And how are they bought and sold?’
‘They are not commodities bought and sold for profit like sacks of flour. They are usually captives in battle or those criminals who have lost their rights to be part of the clan, the basis of our society. We call them daer-fudir-they have to serve the clan until they have atoned for their transgressions or done sufficient to gain freedom. They do not suffer the hopelessness of slaves that we see in other lands. The law of our land favours the eventual emancipation of the fudir class.’
Brother Budnouen sniffed in disbelief. ‘I have heard that some merchants of the Angles and Saxons sell children to the Irish as servus and what is that but a slave?’
‘It is true that there is slavery among my people,’ Eadulf intervened, ‘especially among poor people who will sell their children or some other relative to merchants to raise money. I have seen these same merchants selling them in the ports of Hibernia and I hope the fashion will cease, for the Irish take them in innocence, not because of wanting slaves but thinking they are helping to rehabilitate dear-fudir, for the very word fudir, as I have heard it, means a remnant or someone who is superfluous. It is true, my friend, that the concept of one person being able to own another, as one would a piece of cloth or a sword, is beyond comprehension to the Hibernians.’
Brother Budnouen pulled a face. ‘De gustibus non est disputandum,’ he shrugged, dismissing the argument. About tastes there is no disputing. ‘But the Faith accepts the institution of slavery. Slaves who flee from their masters are condemned and are refused Eucharistic communion. Scripture supports this. Does not Peter say, “Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh”. To claim it is wrong to have slaves is heresy.’
Fidelma was angry. ‘Didn’t Paul of Tarsus tell the Corinthians: “If you can gain your freedom, do so…do not become slaves of human beings”.’
Brother Budnouen was enjoying the exchange.
‘In the text from Titus, does not scripture instruct us, “Teach slaves to be subject to their masters in everything, to try to please them, not to talk back to them, and not to steal from them, but to show that they can be fully trusted so that in every way they will make the teaching about God our Saviour attractive”? You seem to be preaching rebellion, Sister. We are here to spread the Faith, not to preach the overthrow of the system and of kings and emperors.’
‘I am not here to conduct a moral argument,’ snapped Fidelma.
‘Quando hic sum, non ieiuno Sabbato-quando Romae sum, ieiuno Sabbato,’ Eadulf quoted, watching her expression.
Fidelma pouted in annoyance. It was the thought of the Blessed Ambrose: when I am here, I do not fast on Saturday. When I am in Rome, I fast on Saturday. It was an admonition to obey local customs and not to try to impose your own.
Nevertheless, the slave market and the sight of children being sold left a bad taste in her mouth. They passed through the square with Fidelma trying to avert her gaze from the forlorn-looking children waiting to be purchased. The sights and smells of the city, the noise that arose on all sides as their wagon trundled along the narrow streets, suddenly depressed her.
‘Don’t worry,’ Brother Budnouen said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Not all streets are like this. This is the main road of commerce. Once we leave this, there are quieter streets which lead up to the ecclesiastical quarters.’
Again he was right.
They turned out of the bedlam, still moving southward. Almost at once, even from the roadway, they could see the imposing structure of the abbey rising over the other buildings. Even the smells were less dominant here, for the houses appeared as more spacious villas, just as Fidelma remembered them in Rome. It was another world from the crowded hovels that were clustered around the gate by which they had entered.
‘Are all the entrances into the city as noisome?’ demanded Eadulf, apparently sharing the same idea.
Brother Budnouen shrugged. ‘The city gate areas are where trade is carried out. Where trade is done you have the most noise and waste,’ he pointed out philosophically.
They came into a large stone-flagged square, reasonably empty of people. On one side, the buildings of the abbey rose skywards. Close up they were ugly and forbidding, and Fidelma viewed them without enthusiasm. From afar they had looked impressive. Now the high walls seemed to intimidate the surrounding buildings, as well as the people passing under their shadows.