Chapter twenty-five
The sunny day had clouded up by evening, as a winter storm came in from the southwest. After flashes of lightning were seen and the rumble of thunder heard, most citizens stayed indoors to avoid being affected by the unseasonable omens.
A thick, wet snow was falling by the time Brenos stood waiting in the shelter of the narthex arches and heard the clomping of a horse’s hooves. He watched the black carriage turn into the Vicus Galla Placidia, shook off the white flakes accumulating on his cloak, and eyed the snowflakes swirling down from the sky. He did not like snow; there was enough of it in Gallic winters. Fortunately, these flakes were melting as soon as they touched the paving stones.
The abbot had gotten there a half-hour early, about the time his stomach began to bother him. The Vigil of the Nativity was a day of fasting, yet he had taken a little fish before leaving the bishop’s residence. It was an oily species from the sea, not the delicate Icauna trout he was used to eating. He suspected that it was spoiled as well, the bad taste hidden under a cumin sauce.
As the carriage stopped a short distance away—perhaps the mute had not seen him—the storm bred a flash of lightning that whitened the black vehicle with a chalky wash. The effect lasted only an instant before the white-spotted darkness closed in again. Brenos thought the flash and distant rumble of thunder were good omens, indicating that even the elements were combining to announce the dramatic end of an age. He ran out and climbed onto the seat next to the driver, this time silently cursing Mutus for not being able to tell him more about his master. Smyrna probably had not been among the assembly at the funeral that morning—the people had all looked like freemen laborers or slaves. And yet Smyrna had been close by, able to hide the note during the service. Was he possibly a churchman?
Brenos eased himself back against the leather seats. Despite the fiery wound in his side, the pain in his stomach, and a dull ache in his head, he felt relatively calm. He expected that at the villa Smyrna would give him the papyri. In a few hours the Gallican League would be recognized as the legal executors of the Nazarene’s will.
The eulogy had gone well that morning until an imbecile presbyter had forced a stop. Even so, he had made his point. There had been only a few people at the funeral, yet word would get out quickly that the Hibernian abbot had preached about a prophecy that would be fulfilled at the Nativity vigil service. The bishop’s cathedral would be packed with citizens attending the night Mass.
Mutus repeated the route he had taken before, flinching at the intermittent lightning flashes, and struggling to control the frightened mare.
Wet snow was coming down heavily when the carriage was waved through the gatehouse. The same guard as the day before appeared in the courtyard and escorted the abbot to the reception room. As the moments passed, the pain in Brenos’s head and abdomen increased. He became aware of the dung smell again, which added to his rising sense of nausea.
Nervous, staring at the six masks on the wall, Brenos felt a hatred for Smyrna slowly surface. Flickering shadows caused by the lamp flame gave the painted faces an animation that resembled a kind of leer, as if they were mocking him. Was Smyrna doing the same from behind the curtain, humiliating an abbot by keeping him waiting as if he were a penitent novice seeking absolution?
What if Smyrna did not have the documents after all? The Alpha-Omega figure had insisted that he did not, yet could the bizarre apparition be believed?
The emperor’s mother knew about them, and Smyrna had boasted of his contacts in the palace. Perhaps Behan had been murdered before he could announce the prophecy, so that Smyrna and his Harlot Queen could use the will for their own purposes. Were they planning to betray the Gallicans? Without proof of the miraculous discovery of Peter’s letter and the will, the League members in the six other cities would be laughed out of the churches when they predicted the discovery.
Brenos doubled over, rocking to relieve the cramps in his stomach and feeling a sense of rising panic at the realization that his life was in danger if Smyrna planned to betray him.
The curtain moved. Brenos looked up. Smyrna, dressed in the Robe of Death, but holding only the apocalyptic Omega symbol of the End, appeared at the same instant as a flash of lightning. It was hard for Brenos to believe that the dramatic coincidence had not been staged, but almost as quickly as the flash, the abbot’s suspicion was replaced by anticipation.
“You have found the Nazarene’s will? Let me have it. There is little time left.”
Instead of showing the papyrus, Smyrna pointed an empty skeletal hand at Brenos. “Who thinks to deceive me, Abbot, deceives himself.”
“Wh…what do you mean? Give me the testament, you fool.”
A muffled sneer sounded from behind the mask. “A drawing of your league’s pet cockerel was in a wall cabinet above the librarian’s work table. Is that where you found the documents, Abbot?”
“Cockerel?” Brenos protested. “What cockerel? The eunuch and I searched the librarian’s office and found nothing. The cabinet was already open.”
“I ask you again, Abbot,” the voice demanded. “What do you intend to do with the will that you have not told me?”
“Nothing. Nothing!” Brenos screamed in frustration. “I don’t have it!”
Smyrna pulled a vellum sheet from his sleeve and held it up. “At least you were truthful in saying Theokritos declared the will to be genuine. I found his results.”
“Good, you brought them,” Brenos croaked. “They will be useful in proving authenticity.” He reached for the sheet, but Smyrna pulled back, and then held one end in the
