Burning Shadows (14 page)

“Is that a problem?” She held out the jar to him, the lid back in place.

“Fever is always a problem.” He set the jar with his other medicaments and studied the supine figure. “A table will be set up for him in the withdrawing room. I’ll move him as soon as it is prepared.”

Nicoris stared down at Mangueinic. “I’m ready,” she said to Sanctu-Germainios .

“You will be when you have bathed.” He put his supplies and medicaments back in his case, adding, “If you will bring the syrup of poppies before you go to the bath-house? We will have need of it.”

She shrugged and did as he asked. As they entered the withdrawing room, she said, “You will need to build up the fire, won’t you?”

“Yes.” He stared at the window. “There will be more snow soon.”

“Will that delay our leaving tomorrow?” She put the syrup of poppies on the mantel and stared around her.

“We would have to complete an outer wall in a few days if we did, and with the ground frozen, that wouldn’t be possible. Wise as the Goths are to build outer walls, they are not easily maintained in winter.” He turned to her. “Go gather up the clothes you will wear, then hie yourself to the bath-house and wash thoroughly.”

Nicoris nodded. “If you’re sure it’s necessary.”

“It is,” he answered, and turned to see Khorea in the doorway. “Ah. Let me tell you how the room is to be set up, and then I will go to my quarters and then the bath-house.” He motioned to Nicoris. “We will get this done as quickly as we can.”

She gave a single nod and left the reception-room.

He regarded Khorea. “If any of these men should need attending, call upon Patras Iob. He has some experience with the wounded. I will give you my full attention as soon as I have the opportunity, but what Mangueinic requires will take at least a quarter of the morning.” He then described what he needed her to arrange for him.

Khorea made the sign of the cross to call the protection of the Christ upon them all. “I will do my utmost. And I will pray that the Huns do not return today, or tomorrow.”

“Very good,” said Sanctu-Germainios, doubtful that her supplications would make any difference. He went to his quarters, chose his clothes, his special surgical tools, then went out into the frigid morning, all the while hoping that the amputation was not coming too late to spare Mangueinic from death.

Text of two identical letters from Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios to Rugierus, written in Imperial Latin on squares of sanded split leather in fixed ink, then entrusted to Patras Nestor for delivery to the crossing-fortresses at Drobetae and Oescus on the Danuvius. Only the first reached its destination, sixty-seven days after being dispatched.

Rogerian,

When you receive this, we will have moved on to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, where we will spend the winter, and hope that the Huns will not follow us there. We have forty-six carts and wagons, and over four hundred people in our company. A few of the 
Gepidae in Apulum Inferior have decided to take their chances on reaching Aquincum, and have already left.

Since I have received no messages from you, I must hope that this reaches you as you return from Constantinople. So much has been disrupted by the presence of the Huns that I am going to assume that the failure of messages is the result of their actions and not an indication of harm to you. Additionally, I am assuming that Dona Rhea has been established appropriately in the city of her birth——for which I am deeply obliged to you.

If matters go ill at Sanctu-Eustachios, then I will attempt to reach Olivia in Aquileia, and should that fail, I will strike out for Lago Comus. At every opportunity I will dispatch messengers to ports where my trading company has offices, on my own ships if possible, and ask you to do the same so that we may once more reunite.

Sanct’ Germainus

     (his sigil, the eclipse)

7

Glistering sunlight shone off the patches of new snow along the narrow road that led up over the ridge to the little valley where Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit was situated, all but obscured by shaggy pines and ponderous oaks; the wagons and carts and flocks were strung out for almost a league along the way, forced into single-file by the narrow path. Humans and animals kept up a steady walk even as the road grew steeper; the herders strove to keep their animals from bolting into the trees, and mothers kept vigilant watch on their children, knowing how capable they were of mischief and how dangerous it could be for them all. This was their fourth day of travel and the weather was deteriorating, high, thin clouds increasing the glare of the sky, riding on a sharp, searching wind.

Mounted on a large mule, Patras Anso led the people from Apulum Inferior and the refugees from Tsapousso on the torturous road, followed by Enlitus Brevios, the new captain of the Watchmen and master mason, on a mountain pony. Watchmen with spears in their hands walked between the two leaders, alert to any disturbance on the road or near it. Behind them came an assortment of wagons, the third of which held Mangueinic with Hildren and Nicoris to tend him. Immediately behind that wagon rode Sanctu-Germainios on a handsome gray horse—one of six he had brought with him. To protect himself from the biting wind he wore a fine black abolla of boiled wool over his heavy silk pallium and black-dyed doeskin femoralia; his thick-soled boots were of dark-red leather from Troesmis. He carried his case of medical supplies on a strap across his chest. After him came more wagons, and the people from Tsapousso with their vehicles and animals, then the flocks and herds of the region of Apulum Inferior with their keepers flanking them, and finally the carts pulled by donkeys and driven by under-cooks and grooms, holding the foodstuffs, supplies, and household goods from the abandoned town.

Sanctu-Germainios moved his horse up close to the rear of the wagon and called out, “How is he doing?”

Nicoris stuck her head out of the leather panels that covered the back and said, “The syrup of poppies is keeping him asleep for now and the bandage you gave him is allowing the cauterized scar and the skin flap you have sewn over it to breathe, as you said it would. There is no sign of returning infection, though he complains of itching. He drinks when we give him your medicaments in water, and his fever is moderate, not high. Hildren tells me he has made water twice since we broke camp.”

“Has he been awake for any period of time?”

“He has been groggy, not truly awake, about a third of the time; at those times he forgets that we’re traveling. He keeps talking about reinforcing the outer wall. He wants it done before the Huns can return.” A slight frown crossed her face. “If the road gets much rougher, it will take a toll on him.”

“On us all,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Thirhald’s woman could go into labor early if she has to endure much more of this.”

“Agtha rides in the wagon behind us, doesn’t she? All the injured are in wagons or on mules, isn’t that right?” Nicoris asked, holding on to the frame as the trail dipped down toward a fast-running stream.

Sanctu-Germainios adjusted his seat in his Persian-style saddle, with a broad, raised pommel to help him maintain his balance; he held his horse with his lower legs and leaned back as the gelding picked his way down the slope. “She does; Khorea and Dysis are with her. I may ask Isalind to ride with them when next we stop; she has had four children of her own, and has birthed six others—more than Khorea and Dysis combined.” She was, he believed, the nearest thing Apulum Inferior had to a midwife.

“It will calm her, at least, having such good help with her. It will calm Thirhald as well,” said Nicoris, and ducked back into the wagon.

From the front of the line, Patras Anso called out, “We will ford a stream ahead. The water will be cold, but not too deep. It should not rise above your knees. We will group on the far side so the animals can drink, and we may have a short rest before we have to climb to the ridge.”

Four of the Watchmen turned and made their way back along the line, relaying the Patras’ words to all the travelers; a buzz of conversation followed their progress along the line.

As predicted, the water was cold, flowing fast in a rocky bed; it rose a bit higher than the Watchmen’s knees, but no higher than half-way up their thighs. The horses and mules had a dodgy crossing, finding poor footing in the stream; one of the wagons almost lost a wheel as it lurched across. Sanctu-Germainios, feeling queasy as he always did crossing running water, held the team of mules from the back of his horse while half a dozen men worked to keep the wheel in place so that the wagon would not founder. He avoided looking at the water, and instead concentrated on the mules in order to contain his sense of vertigo. If only he were not hungry, he thought, this passage would be less disquieting; the blood of horses that had sustained him on the trail thus far did little to offset his enervation.

By the time the herds and flocks were on the far bank, it was past mid-day and Patras Anso ordered that they prepare a meal before they resumed their journey. “No fires!” he shouted. “No fires! Cheese and bread and apples, but nothing hot! We want no smoke to mark our place.”

There was a discontented rumble of protest, but everyone understood why Patras Anso had ordered it, and they went about putting together meals that needed no fire and that could be eaten quickly.

“Are you never hungry, Dom?” Nicoris asked as Sanctu-Germainios dropped out of the saddle; they were at the edge of the gathering, away from the bustle.

“Of course I am,” he said, aware that he was now; it was more than a week since he had taken any sustenance from a human source.

“But I never see you eat.” She contemplated him, her quicksilver eyes alive with curiosity. “You don’t join the rest of the household for prandium, nor did you when there was a convivium in the town.”

“No; those of my blood dine in private.”

“That’s haughty of them,” said Nicoris as if remarking on the distance they had covered that morning. “How did they come to decide such a thing—are they afraid of poison?”

“Not that I recall,” he said, realizing that she had been observing him more closely than he had supposed.

“Then do their gods demand it?”

“Possibly: they see it as respectful, in any case,” he said, recalling the living god of his people who had brought him to his life before he fell in battle. He drew his horse’s reins over his head and started to lead him to the edge of the stream.

Nicoris tagged after him, her saie dragging on the ground behind her. “Who are your people, that they have such manners?”

He paused, then spoke to her. “Long ago they lived in the mountains east of here, but they were driven away from their native earth by powerful enemies who came out of the east and forced us to the south and the west, away from our native earth. There are not many of us left.”

She had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You had no way of knowing,” he answered calmly, and resumed walking, his horse’s nose nudging his upper arm.

“I know how I feel when I think of my family.” Her voice was small and she looked over her shoulder as if she were afraid of being overheard. “The people of Tsapousso have been kind to me, but it doesn’t change the loss of my family.”

“No; it would not,” he said, sympathy for her burgeoning within him. He shifted the reins so that his horse could drink from the cold, rushing stream. “Why not go get some food. Just because I do not eat hardly keeps you from doing so. You will need nourishment if you are to keep to your tasks. The climb ahead of us is rigorous.” Nicoris stared hard at him. “All right,” she said, and went off to join the growing crowd around the two carts of foodstuffs that had only just arrived.

Once his horse had drunk his fill, Sanctu-Germainios led him to another one of the carts and removed a small bag of grain and a pail. Emptying the grain into the pail, he offered it to the gelding, holding it while the horse fed. When the animal was done, Sanctu-Germainios put the pail back in the cart, told his groom to see to his other horses while he went on a short errand, then vaulted into the saddle and rode a little way up the track to the first level spot on the road in order to have a clearer view of the mountainside: bare rock faces stood out above the tree-line, somberly gray under the massing clouds. In spite of the wind, he made a careful inspection of the road ahead and the road behind. When he was satisfied they were not being followed, he returned to the temporary camp and sought out Patras Anso.

“What did you see, Dom?” the priest asked in roughly accented Byzantine Greek. He was half a head taller than Sanctu-Germainios, making him easily the tallest man in all the people following him; his face was lean and deeply lined, his nose was pointed, and his large ears protruded as if providing handles for his head.

“Nothing troublesome, Patras; a small party bound to the south on the Roman road, either merchants or farmers abandoning their land,” said Sanctu-Germainios in the courtly version of the same tongue.

“God is good to us.” He blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and then made the sign of the fish. “When we reach the ridge tonight, if the weather holds, we will arrive at the monastery tomorrow afternoon. A good passage, considering what we have had to deal with.”