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Pelagius in future.’
    Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the complacent features of the monk.
    Was he subtly repaying her by the introduction of this story?
    ‘Pelagius …’ she began, the tone of her voice dangerous, but Eadulf suddenly guffawed, unable to keep his face solemn.
    ‘Let us quit, Fidelma. Though I swear the tale is true. Let there be a peace between us.’
    Fidelma pursed her lips in annoyance, and then let her features relax into a smile.
    ‘We will save the pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed Peter for another day,’ she replied. ‘The deaconess of the house where I am lodged did take me and some others to a place where it is said that Peter was imprisoned. It was astounding. In the cell were a pile of chains and a priest stood by ready with a file which, for some incredible price, he would make filings from – assuring us that these were the chains worn by Peter. Holy pilgrimage to Rome seems to have become a business in which great sums of money are made.’
    She had been aware of the Saxon monk casting glances over his shoulder for a short while now.
    ‘Sister, there is a round-faced monk with a tonsure which might make him Irish or a Briton following us. If you glance quickly behind to your right, you will see him standing under the shade of a cypress tree on the opposite side of the road. Do you know him?’
    Fidelma gazed at Eadulf for a moment in surprise and then turned quickly in the direction he had indicated.

    For a moment her eyes met the astonished widened dark eyes of a middle-aged man. He was, as Eadulf had described him, bearing a tonsure which placed his origin as either from Ireland or Britain, shaved at the front of his head on a line from ear to ear. He wore poor homespuns and his face was round and moon-like. He froze at Fidelma’s gaze and then turned quickly away, the colour on his face deepening, and vanished suddenly into the crowds behind the line of cypress trees at the far side of the street.
    Fidelma turned back with a puzzled frown.
    ‘I do not know him. Yet he certainly seemed interested in me. You say that he was following us?’
    Eadulf nodded quickly. ‘I was aware of him on the steps of the Lateran Palace. As we began to walk up the Via Merulana, he followed. I thought at first it was coincidence. Then I noticed that when we stopped a moment ago, he also stopped. Are you sure that you do not know him?’
    ‘No. Perhaps he is of Ireland and heard my speech. Maybe he wanted to speak with me of home and had not the courage?’
    ‘Perhaps.’ Eadulf was not convinced.
    ‘Well, he is gone now,’ Fidelma said. ‘Let us walk on. What were we speaking of?’
    Reluctantly, Eadulf followed her example.
    ‘I think you were being disapproving of Rome again, sister.’
    Fidelma’s eyes sparkled.
    ‘Yes, I was,’ she admitted. ‘I even find, at our community where I lodge, that there are books to guide pilgrims to the places of interest where shrines and catacombs may be found and at which pilgrims are persuaded to part with what money they have to take away relics and remembrances. There is
such a guide book kept at the community entitled Notitia Ecclesiarum Urbis Romae …’
    ‘But it is necessary that a memorial is kept of where the shrines are and who is buried in them,’ interrupted Eadulf in protest.
    ‘Is it also necessary that great sums be charged to pilgrims to supply them with ampullae or phials which purport to come from the oil of lamps in catacombs and shrines?’ snapped Fidelma. ‘I hardly think that the oil from the lamps of the shrines of saints can be deemed to have miraculous powers?’
    Eadulf heaved a sigh and shook his head in resignation.
    ‘Perhaps we should abandon the seeing of such sights.’
    Fidelma was immediately contrite again.
    ‘Once more I have let my tongue run away with my thoughts, Eadulf. Forgive me … please?’
    The Saxon tried to look disapproving. He wanted to continue his annoyance but when Fidelma