Burning Shadows (13 page)

“We will all die,” said Sanctu-Germainios kindly. “I hope that day may be far off for Mangueinic.”

“I hope so, too,” she said, stumbling a bit as she turned into the corridor; she waited while Sanctu-Germainios locked the door, then asked, “Should I fetch a priest?”

“I will tell you after I have seen Mangueinic.”

“Don’t you need a lamp?” She held out her own.

“I can manage, but thank you.” Like all of his blood, he had no difficulty seeing in the dark: he went along to his office, opened the red-lacquer chest and took out a wood-and-leather case that contained his medical equipment and a number of medicaments. This in hand, he went to the reception-room, and to Mangueinic’s cot, where Hildren was standing guard. “If you will bring a stand of lamps?” he requested not only to give her something to do, but to appear as needful of light as other men.

“I will. There is one stand with six oil-lamps. Will that be sufficient?”

“I should hope so,” he said, and bent over Mangueinic, examining his leg for inflammation and swelling: his calf was bulging around the bandage that covered the unhealing wound, and the Devil’s Fingers, tracks of infection, ran up toward his knee, as Hildren had said; below the bandage, the skin was tight and dark as roof-tiles in Roma. The odor of the wound was metallically acerbic mixed with a cloying sweetness, the stink of suppuration. Straightening up, Sanctu-Germainios pressed his lips together, trying to decide what he ought to do.

Moving slowly so as not to extinguish any of the wick-flames, Hildren came back to Mangueinic’s cot with the lamp-stand, her face carefully blank. “Dom?”

“He is, as you say, very ill.” Sanctu-Germainios hesitated, then went on. “It may be that the only way to save his life is to remove the infected part of his leg. Otherwise the infection will reach the bones, and then he—”

Hildren stared at him, aghast. “You mean
cut it off?”
Her voice rose as the enormity of the idea bore in on her.

“It may be that or death,” said Sanctu-Germainios as levelly as he could.

“But cut off his leg—” She put the stand of oil-lamps down and put her hands to her face.

“It is the only way to save him, and it is no certain method. If he becomes too consumed with fever, he will die no matter what is done. Such fires can consume more than flesh if they remain unchecked. To end it, the fuel must be taken away.” The bluntness of his words was mitigated by the kindness of his tone. “I hope that there is some chance of a recovery for him, but there may not be.”

“Patras Anso should be consulted,” said Hildren. “In case such a drastic … if taking his leg might endanger his soul.”

“Why should it?” Sanctu-Germainios asked.

“An imperfect body … who can say what that would mean to God.” She made the sign of the fish to keep her from evil thoughts, speaking quietly as if to herself, “Some teach that only the Christ had a perfect body, that all others are marked by original sin, but others teach that those who aspire to be one with God, must achieve perfection in mind and body.” Her face crumpled with grief. “He must be worthy to appear before God.”

“If his leg is not removed, he will surely die of the fever. It will be a very hard death, much harder than the amputation would be.” For a moment he said nothing, then observed, “God receives the men wounded in battle for His sake, and crowns the martyrs and saints. Why should He reject Mangueinic for a severed leg?” He studied her tormented face. “Talk to Patras Anso if you think it will be helpful, but realize that once the Devil’s Fingers stretch beyond the knee to his groin he will be beyond anything I can do for him.” Hildren blanched. “Is it really so desperate?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met; she made an effort to regain her composure. “How soon must it be done?” Her voice was quiet now, and tentative. “As soon as possible,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“God save me,” she whispered. “And may He spare Mangueinic.”

Sanctu-Germainios gave a hard sigh. “Then his leg must be sacrificed for benefit of the rest of his body. I will need help, if I am to do this. If my manservant were here, he would assist me, but with him far away, I will require—”

“I’ll ask among the Watchmen, and the newcomers.” She rubbed her face suddenly, as if to warm her skin, or to prevent more tears from coming. “If Patras Anso will permit it to be done.”

Mangueinic thrashed feebly, then moaned before falling into a soft whimpering without waking.

“Oh. Oh.” Hildren clasped her hands together, her self-possession deserting her. “He mustn’t die. He mustn’t.”

Sanctu-Germainios reached out, laying his hand on her shoulder. “It is difficult to remain calm, but if you do not, he will be at more risk than he is already. He needs to be treated, and soon. We can move him into the withdrawing room in the east corner of the villa. All that we are taking from there has been loaded into the wagons.”

As if this reminder of Apulum Inferior’s imminent evacuation spurred her to action, Hildren steadied herself. “I will find Patras Anso. He will be singing Mass soon; dawn is not far off. Then I will visit the Watchmen as they break their fasts, and I’ll send Khorea to deal with the patients so you will be able to devote yourself to Mangueinic.” She ducked her head.

“Have the bath-house heated and the fire”—he nodded toward the hearth—“built up in here.”

“As you wish, Dom,” she said before she turned abruptly and hastened from the room.

Sanctu-Germainios brought a small serving-table from its place against the wall and opened his treatment case atop it, looking over the items secured within it. He would have to order a cauldron of water boiled with astringent herbs; Khorea would deal with it for him. He would need to bring down his wire-saw and flensing knife to be boiled as well. Then he would have to have a metal platter heated to cauterize the cuts and burn away the fever of the infection. And all the while, the people of the town would be finishing their packing and making ready to leave. Travel would be hard on Mangueinic, but he would have a better chance of recuperation at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery than here, where the Huns would undoubtedly return in the near future. He was so preoccupied with these problems that he was unaware of someone next to him until she spoke again, a bit more loudly; he turned to her in surprise. “Nicoris. I trust you are well?”

“Cold but well,” she said. “I have just seen Hildren, who told me of what has happened. I thought I might be of some use to you. She said you would need someone to aid you.”

“Did she tell you what I will have to do?” Sanctu-Germainios asked, impressed by her courage, but wondering if she understood what she was volunteering to do.

“You will have to cut off his leg,” said Nicoris, resolution and revulsion vying for dominance in her demeanor.

“Such a procedure is bloody and difficult. Do you think you can endure it?” He watched her as he spoke, trying to decide if she would be able to stomach what he would have to do.

“I can.” She paused. “I have had sheep savaged by bears, and had to minister to those who could be saved. The butcher took the others. And I helped to treat a mare with a damaged stifle.”

“It is not quite the same,” Sanctu-Germainios said with sympathy.

“I have seen men lose limbs before—with swords.”

“You were not over-set by it?” he asked.

“Not while it was happening. Later, when it was all finished, I shook for half the afternoon.” She was neither apologetic nor defiant, and though there was no eagerness in her, there was also no reluctance. “Someone must help you. This man is a stranger to me, so his suffering will not distress me as much as it would those who know him.”

He looked down at Mangueinic’s leg. “Some may disapprove.”

“So they might,” she said with the appearance of resignation, then brightened, a mordant cast to her tone. “But at least I will have spared them from having to help you themselves. That may count for something.”

Sanctu-Germainios thought a bit longer. “You will need a working-woman’s palla made of heavy cotton or linen to protect you from the blood. And you’ll need a ricinium to cover your hair. Bathe before and after the task is undertaken.” He noticed that Nicoris swallowed hard but did not flinch. “If you decide you cannot do this, tell me so that I may find another assistant. I will think no less of you if you choose not to help me.”

“I can do this,” she insisted. “But I have no such clothing. I do have a short Gepidean cloak much like the one you’re wearing, and it should be adequate. It’s boiled wool.”

“Will you need it later? You should consider that, since you will want to discard it after the leg is removed; blood in that amount does not wash out easily.” He slipped his hand into Mangueinic’s arm-pit and shook his head in alarm. “We must attend to this soon. His fever is increasing.” Saying that, he reached for his medicaments and selected a glass jar. “This is a fortified tincture of willow-bark-and-pansy. If he can be made to drink some, his fever should stop rising, at least for a while, and his pain may be reduced. But he will bleed more freely because of it.”

“That should help diminish the fever in his blood,” she said. “Give me the jar and I’ll try to make him take—how much would you recommend?”

“Half the contents of the jar,” he said after considering for a moment.

“Half the jar.” She took it from him and opened the lid. “Is the taste unpleasant?”

Sanctu-Germainios thought back to the many comments he had heard over the centuries, since he had never tasted it. “It is somewhat bitter and caustic, but not intolerably so.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said as she dipped her finger in the sauce-like solution, then spread it on Mangueinic’s lips; he licked it away, and she did it again. “This should enable me to give him a fair amount.”

“Very good,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I am going to the withdrawing room on the east corner to prepare it for the task. Hildren knows what will be needed; I will tell her to make the bath ready for you.” He could feel a deep fatigue grip him, the accumulation of centuries and the weight of mortality. “We should begin as soon as we may. It is beginning to lighten and it serves nothing to delay.”

“All right,” said Nicoris, tipping the jar to Mangueinic’s lips. “Half of this, you say?”

“Yes,” said Sanctu-Germainios as he went off toward the withdrawing room. He found it empty of everything but a low table and a large, oblong hearth-shield of brass. The table would not be useful to him, but the hearth-shield could be heated for cauterizing the wound; he would order a fire built up, and would bring in the trestle-table from his book-room. The thought gave him a pang, for he would have to leave almost all of his books behind, and he had no hope that the Huns would not destroy them. He removed the shutters from the windows, taking note of the lowering, light-gray clouds that were beginning to pale in anticipation of dawn.

“Dom?” The voice was Hildren’s; she was standing in the doorway, her sagum drawn tightly around her, her face grave. “You are going to do it?”

Sanctu-Germainios turned toward her. “I think I must,” he answered softly. “The amputation may kill him, but the infection most certainly will.”

“Are you sure?” She came into the room, stopping at the table.

“As sure as my experience makes me,” he replied, approaching her. “Did you speak to Patras Anso?”

“He said he could not decide what ought to be done.” She cocked her head to the side. “He told me to pray, and I have tried, but nothing comes to me to ask God, except to spare Mangueinic’s life.”

“Then the only thing that might accomplish that is to remove his leg,” said Sanctu-Germainios as gently as he could.

“There could be a miracle,” she said in a small voice.

“There could,” he told her, with no conviction whatsoever. “But that is a gamble that could cost him his life.”

“So is your plan,” she accused him.

“Yes. But at least if he survives the amputation, he may be able to endure the journey to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit. If his leg is not removed, he will have to remain here, for travel would not only be agonizing, he would not live through it, and that is as sure as sunrise.”

“I want him to live,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

Hildren gave a shudder as if releasing all the pent-up fear. “Then tell me what you need and I will see to it.”

He told her the things he required, and added, “Nicoris has said she will assist me. If you can find two strong men to help hold him down, then I will start as soon as this room is ready and I have had a quick bath.” He looked around the room, thinking that it would soon be splashed with blood. It would be a dreadful sight—not as bad as what the Huns might do, but hideous in its way; it would remind him of how long it had been since he had taken sustenance, and although this was not the kind of blood he would take, he felt famished for an instant. With an impatient motion, he returned to the reception-room, going to Mangueinic’s bed and Nicoris. “How much has he taken?”

“Not quite half,” she answered, holding up the jar. “I’ve tried to get him to drink more, but he gags.”

“Then we must let him be for now.” He tested his arm-pit again. “The fever is still quite high.”