Burning Shadows (15 page)

“Not to discourage you, Patras, but I doubt the weather will hold, not with the way the wind is blowing; there will be rain before nightfall, and the snow may fall here as well as on the crest of the rise,” said Sanctu-Germainios, not wanting to alarm the priest, but seeking to provide him warning. “As you can see, the clouds are gathering in the northwest, and they will reach us before midafternoon.”

“Possibly,” Patras Anso allowed. “But they may not. God has watched over us for most of the way. He may well continue to do so.”

“What if the storm closes more quickly than we expect, and strands us on the upward track? There will be no place for us to make a camp, and we will have to manage for the night on the steep side of the mountain, all strung out along the way.” He gave Patras Anso a little time to consider this. “If it is, as you say, God’s Will that we reach the monastery, then He may seek to render us safe in our climb. In which case, He may well intend to keep us here,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “This hollow can provide protection greater than the ridge will, or the road up the mountain.”

Patras Anso folded his arms. “Why should that be the case? We must show our faith by pressing on. God will know that we trust in Him. He will bring us to the haven of His monastery once we have passed the test He has set for us.”

“We would be almost two leagues closer to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit if we keep climbing: that is true enough, and we may arrive there before sunset if all goes well. It is a pity the ridge is so exposed. If we must make camp there, we will all be open to the weather and without the stream for water. And we will be more readily seen by any foe.” Sanctu-Germainios waited as if something had just occurred to him. “If we stay the night here, we will be far more protected from the weather by the trees, we will have water, and we will be rested in the morning; so will our animals.”

“But it would take at least another day to reach Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit,” said Patras Anso.

“Or more,” Sanctu-Germainios said. “But it is likely that we will all arrive, which might not be the case if we try to ascend now. With so many injured and so many children, pressing on could mean a great risk to all of them.”

Patras Anso glowered at the stream. “And if we are being followed, what then? You say there might be foes behind us. What if they are hidden in the forest as they hunt us? They would be upon us before we were ready to fight.”

“Bad weather will halt anyone behind us as surely as it stops us,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“We will have to make fires if we stay here, and the Huns could use the smoke to find us.” Patras Anso shook his head, weighing alternatives.

“Yes, and in addition, we will have to put up our shelters and set up pens for the animals. But we will have to do that no matter where we pass the night, and it will be more difficult to do that in a storm, and more demanding, since frightened animals tend to bolt. We have no hope of other shelter—there are no estates between us and the monastery.”

They had reached an impasse and both knew it. They fell silent, and into that silence came Enlitus Brevios, his fair skin wind- reddened and his blue eyes watering. He addressed Patras Anso.

“Hovas’ son is missing.” He tried not to seem confused or ineffective, so he spoke bluntly and loudly.

“Are you sure?” Patras Anso asked. “Is it certain he isn’t—” He waved his hand to indicate the confusion of the camp.

“We have searched and called everywhere among the wagons and carts, and there is no sign of him.” Brevios held up his hand as if to swear an oath. “Bacoem is organizing a group of Watchmen to search for him. There’s just the one son, you know, so Hovas is beside himself. His other three children are girls.”

“You mean the nine-year-old? The one called Ionnis?” Patras Anso asked, looking alarmed. This was the second child to go missing since they left Apulum Inferior, and the first lost one had been found dead from cold.

Brevios nodded. “He was last seen when food was being passed out. He got his share and ran to the edge of the trees so that the bigger boys would not take it from him. He is an adventurous rascal.”

“Do you think he wandered off on his own, or there has been something done to him?” The priest made the sign of the cross.

“I haven’t any idea,” said Brevios.

“What does Hovas say?” Sanctu-Germainios asked.

“He says that his son must be found. He and his family will not move on until they know the child is safe, and a dozen men swear to remain with him, and will order their families to remain as well.” 

“What of Hovas?” Patras Anso pursed his lips in thought.

“He is miserable, weeping and decrying his fate. His woman is as if she is asleep.” Brevios put his hand on the short-sword that hung from his belt. “I have said we will find him.”

Patras Anso made up his mind. “Sad as this is, it is a sign. We will camp here for the night, and we will send search parties to look for the boy as long as there is light. Have Hovas go with the Watchmen, and call for the boy often. How old are his sisters?”

“Thirteen, eleven, and six,” said Brevios.

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Patras Anso. “The boy is a clever child, as I recall, and given to mischief-making. If this is a trick, Hovas should beat him for his shenanigans as soon as he is found. Young as he is, he cannot be allowed such license.” He gave Sanctu-Germainios a curt nod, and then he started back toward the greatest concentration of people where they clustered on the edge of the stream, Brevios two steps behind him.

For the rest of the afternoon the evacuees and refugees divided themselves between making camp and searching for Hovas’ son. The clouds continued to thicken and the wind grew keener, so that in the fourth quarter of the afternoon, everyone in camp was seeking out the newly laid fires for warmth. The first odors of cooking rose on the whining wind.

Sanctu-Germainios had tethered his horses to a long remuda-line and was finishing putting down hay for them when Nicoris found him. He felt a pang of dismay as he caught sight of her, presuming her errand was not a pleasant one. “What has happened?” 

“It’s not Mangueinic; he’s doing well enough,” she said as she came up to him. “It’s Kynthie, Thirhald’s woman. She has gone into labor; it began a quarter of the afternoon ago, hard and sudden. Her pangs are still some distance apart, but that will change. Isalind is worried that Kynthie may not manage the delivery well: her heartbeat is very fast.”

“That is not a good sign,” Sanctu-Germainios said, wondering what he could do to ease her birthing.

“Will you come with me now?” Nicoris swept her arm to take in the bustle around her. “If you have other duties …”

“Yes, I will come with you,” he said, putting down the last armload of hay. “Has Thirhald been told?”

“He’s helping to prepare supper for the camp and I don’t want to disturb him. He would be distraught.”

“It would be wise to inform him; at least he should know her labor has begun,” Sanctu-Germainios suggested. “I will go see to her now.”

Nicoris remained where she was as she studied his face. “You’re worried, Dom. You think she is going to die.”

“Perhaps not worried so much as concerned,” he said, aware how intently she scrutinized him. “This is not the place for a delivery, particularly if it has problems attending it.”

“Then you expect problems,” she said.

“Her labor is nearly a month early. That does not bode well under any circumstances. Hard travel has not helped her.” Nor has the danger from the Huns, he added to himself. He patted his gelding on the rump, then started off to where the wagons were assembled. “Where is she?” he called out to Nicoris.

“Four from the far end,” she replied, pointing. “What do I tell Thirhald?”

“Tell him that his wife may be going to give birth tonight— nothing more.”

“He may want to know more,” Nicoris warned him.

“So he may, which is why it will be better for him to learn from you than to hear of it later, by accident. When his work is done, tell him I will inform him of Kynthie’s progress.” He lengthened his stride, moving through the groups of people who were making ready for nightfall; in the distance he could hear the sound of calls for Ionnis, accompanied by the moan of the wind in the trees.

Through sunset and the arrival of the storm, Sanctu-Germainios stayed in the wagon with Kynthie, Agtha, Isalind, and Khorea. The women tended Kynthie, making her as comfortable as they could, while Sanctu-Germainios used all his skill to bring about a quick delivery. In the wavering light of oil-lamps, he tried to massage Kynthie’s swollen abdomen in an effort to align the baby for birth; he could feel the infant and was troubled that its movements were so feeble.

“How much longer?” Isalind asked while a troop of Watchmen left the camp to continue the search for Ionnis.

It was the very question he had been debating with himself. “I wish I could say. It is not encouraging to see her so lethargic. You said she has no other children?”

“She’s miscarried once,” Isalind told him.

“That’s inauspicious.” He had attended difficult births before, some during his long tenure at the Temple of Imhotep, and he knew that the more exhausted Kynthie became, the more problems that could arise.

Isalind lowered her voice to hardly more than a whisper. “Is she going to die?”

“She may,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “If we had a better place, with a tilted table and tincture of hawthorn to calm her pulse; willow- bark and pansy are anodyne, but will not ease her heart. It would be much better for her and the baby if her—”

Kynthie gave a moan, thrashing her legs and attempting to break free of Sanctu-Germainios’ gentle, powerful grip; Isalind and Khorea endeavored to hold her steady while Agtha wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth. Kynthie howled, her voice more like the cry of wolves than anything human.

Khorea started to weep, her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing.

“Shall I fetch Patras Anso?” Agtha muttered to Sanctu-Germainios .

“Not yet,” he replied, and resumed massaging Kynthie’s abdomen. “If a quarter of the night passes and she continues this way, it would probably be wise.” He had noticed the small cross on a leather thong around her neck, and hoped the attention of the priest might help her rally.

“Where is Thirhald? She might respond well to his presence,” Isalind suggested. “If he can bear to see her like this.”

“He has gone to help the Watchmen search for Hovas’ boy; they have taken the dogs to help them, and Thirhald has a good hunter,” said Khorea. “When I spoke to him, he would not want to see her in her present travail, for it could bring him to despair.”

This kind of response did not surprise Sanctu-Germainios; he had seen many men shy away from the process of birth, relegating its mysteries to women rather than have to be party to it. “When he returns, he should come here, for Kynthie’s sake, no matter how late it may be.”

“I will find him and bring him here,” said Agtha, her mouth a grim line.

“Do you think he can wait so long?” Khorea gave Kynthie a worried glance. “She could fail, and if she does—”

“If she does, it will be rapid, I concur.” He touched his fingers to the vein in her neck, shaking his head as he felt its rapidity. “If the babe will shift its position, there may still be a safe delivery.” Sanctu-Germainios stared into the middle distance. With careful circumspection, he regarded Kynthie closely. “If the infant does not move, I could open her belly and take out the child; Kynthie might die, but if she continues as she is doing now, we will not be able to save her or the child. If I—”

“Patras Anso would never allow it,” said Agtha sharply. “Opening the body is a sin. Those who do it are heretics and diabolists.”

Sanctu-Germainios was well-aware of the strictures against surgery; he had encountered such censure during his most recent stay in Constantinople. As a result of that experience, he considered his arguments carefully. “It is a risk, but her present state is precarious and unless I take the baby soon, she will not have strength enough to recover. If she cannot deliver shortly, not only she but her baby will die.”

Isalind gave Sanctu-Germainios a measuring look. “I have seen two women die from such difficulties as this. If you know any means to spare her, then do it and let the priest declaim. What may I do to help?”

“Go to the wagon where Mangueinic rides and ask Nicoris to bring my case and some of the sovereign remedy and the ointment in the red jar. Quickly.” He did not watch Isalind leave, turning at once to Agtha. “I will need boiling water. Take a metal cauldron, fill it with water, and place it over the nearest fire. I will give you herbs to add to the water, and my instruments.”

“This is against God’s Will,” Agtha declared.

“It is a skill I learned in Egypt, where the Christ was taught.” He had studied in many other parts of the world for more than nineteen centuries, but he knew that Christians held Egypt in a kind of awe, and used this knowledge to his advantage.

There was an impressed silence, then Khorea said, “You are a regional guardian for Roma and Byzantium: how is it you have studied in Egypt?’ ”