“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.