The Gallic vineyard had borne fruit sevenfold in the early days, but was now in need of pruning. Wild shoots grew everywhere. Dead wood rotted on the vines. And the Nazarene had given the mandate: “Every branch in me not bearing fruit he takes away, and every one bearing fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” Ciallanus was sending abbots and monks to Gaul, even as far as the eastern empire, to wield the pruning knife.
Brenos noticed Fiachra’s skin pucker into minuscule bumps and another shiver convulse his body. He rose from his chair and bent down to touch the monk’s shoulder.
“My brother, put off the cloak of envy and dress yourself in humility,” he urged quietly. “Envy shoots others and injures itself. Rejoice in the success of Patricus.” As Fiachra stood and adjusted his robes, Brenos went back to his desk. “But you came to see me about something in that dispatch case?”
Fiachra nodded, but knelt again. “Forgive me, Abbot. Hibernians are known for boasting, yet Padraic also accepted the yoke of humility.”
“His boasting, like Paul’s, is for the Nazarene.”
“Assign me a penance then, as Paul gladly bore with fools for His sake.”
“Enough, Fiachra,” Brenos ordered, sternly this time. “We will speak of it in private confession. Now. What did the messenger bring?”
“Sad news from Ravenna. Our brother Behan of Clonard is dead.”
“You opened the case?” Brenos frowned and reached for it to inspect the bishop’s seal.
“Couriers gossip in the manner of old women.”
“Indeed, Fiachra. Did he speak of the cause of our brother’s death?”
“Drowned in a state of penitential grace. He died in the arms of the Nazarene.”
“There will be a report from Bishop Chrysologos inside.” Brenos snapped the seal and opened the cover. When he pulled out two parchments, he saw that one bore the bishop’s signet, but opened a smaller sheet first, which was sealed with red wax showing the imprint of a rooster. “The cockerel is ready to crow,” he read aloud.
“Cockerel? Crow?” Fiachra looked puzzled. “What does that mean, Abbot?”
Brenos ignored his question, thumbed off the bishop’s seal, and read a moment. “Chrysologos is asking for permission to bury our brother. A surgeon has preserved the body for now, but fears warmer weather. What is the rule, Fiachra? May Behan be interred in Ravenna?”
“There is a precedent, Abbot. Fithal of Limercu lies in Constantine’s basilica at Rome.”
“Indeed?” A sly smile creased Brenos’ gaunt features. “Then, Fiachra, I have thought of your penance. You will accompany me to Ravenna.”
“Ravenna? But…but by spring the body will be—”
“Not in spring,” Brenos said, cutting off the monk’s objection. “We will go there now.”
“In winter? Abbot, consider the dangers. Surely—”
“Surely, the courier just did so. Are we monks lesser men?”
Fiachra desperately looked for an excuse to avoid the hazardous journey. “But…but the holy season marking the Nazarene’s birth will begin soon.”
“All the better,” Brenos replied. “We shall celebrate His nativity in the bishop’s church at Ravenna. You may go about your duties now.” The abbot watched Fiachra stride to the door in poorly concealed fury. “Courage, Brother. Perhaps at Ravenna we shall hear this cockerel crow.”
After Fiachra was gone, Brenos went to the door and slid the locking bolt into its socket. “Indeed we shall hear it,” he muttered, returning to his heavy desk. He felt along the edge of two thick planks that formed the top until he located a groove underneath. Sliding the edge molding aside revealed a compartment containing a square parchment envelope.
Brenos untied the leather thong securing it and took out several sheets of soft white vellum. The top sheet bore a drawing of a cockerel in red ink, with a title underneath.
THE GALLICAN LEAGUE
He touched the symbol, pleased again at his cleverness in thinking of it. At Clonard he had learned that the word gallus was Latin for both a rooster and the land of the Gauls. The Church used the bird as a symbol of vigilance. What more appropriate sign to identify his league of associates on the Continent?
“Little cockerel,” Brenos murmured fondly, “your crowing will soon be heard throughout two empires. Even Ciallanus will be forced to listen.”
Whoever had paid the courier to put the cryptic note in the dispatch case had done his work well, Brenos mused, but the report about Behan was disturbing. Who was this meddling surgeon who had taken it upon himself to preserve the body? Still, it was useless to blame him. Chrysologos was uninformed about monastic jurisdiction, and was merely extending the courtesy of an abbot’s decision, yet why hadn’t the bishop mentioned the prophecy? Surely, Behan had had time to preach it, reveal it.
Brenos’ self-satisfaction overcame his doubt; the first phase of the League’s two-year plan was a success. By now the final legacy of the Nazarene was well hidden by the person Behan had recruited in Ravenna. What code name had the monk given his accomplice? The abbot turned to the last page of the vellum.
“Smyrna,” he read aloud. “Yes, Smyrna will have arranged to conceal the gold case, and for me to read the Gospel of John at the dawn Nativity Mass. There, to fulfill Behan’s prophecy, the Last Will and Testament of the Nazarene will be revealed.”
Brenos recalled the text of John from memory. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us, and we have seen his glory: the glory of an only Son coming from the Father, filled with enduring love.” After he finished reading, Brenos would hold up the Nazarene’s Last Will and announce that, by God’s grace, it had been in the safekeeping of Hibernians since the time of the Apostle Peter. Simultaneously, at concurrent Nativity services in Rome, Constantinople, Mediolanum, Antioch, Alexandria and Autessiodurum, League associates would have visions of the revelation. And he, Brenos of Slana, would be in Ravenna to verify the discovery for his Order. Confusion would result until Sixtus, the Bishop of Rome, called a council of
