Burning Shadows (26 page)

Outside, through the bluster of the storm came the eerie wail of wolves. The three in the old chapel exchanged uneasy glances. “They’re after the livestock,” said Nicoris. “And they’re near.” 

“But not inside the old walls,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“No. Not yet.” Nicoris hunkered down beside the fire as if she were without protection from the blizzard or the wolves.

“What more will you do when I have bathed?” Isalind asked, needing to distract herself from the growing chorus of howls.

“Treat your scrape, soak your ankle, and bind it. Then I’ll get you to the dormitory and talk to your man.” He studied Nicoris. “I give the storm two more days; what do you think?”

“At this time of year, two is probably right; there isn’t the northern bite to keep it blowing. A month ago it would have been four days at the least.” She stood up and dusted off the front of her heavy, long-sleeved palla. “And it will melt quickly, flooding the streams and some of the villages down the mountain along with filling the large rivers. There’ll be logs and branches floating in the current, and they may damage the four bridges crossing the Danuvius downstream.”

“The bridges are in poor repair in any case,” said Sanctu-Germainios . “Neither Roma nor Constantinople has seen fit to restore them.” He walked down the length of the main part of the chapel, listening to the counterpoint of wolves and storm. No wonder so many thought these mountains were haunted, he thought. Even in his breathing days most of the inhabitants of the Carpathians had believed that powerful spirits awoke in the remote peaks and valleys during the winter. He remained near the main door for a little while, until Nicoris called to him.

“The water is about to boil.”

“I’ll come and pour the water into the tub,” he responded, and started back toward the main fireplace.

“Dom, do I have to keep from using my ankle—really?” Isalind asked as she watched him heft the cauldron of simmering water and tip it so that it flowed into the wooden tub.

Nicoris took the cauldron. “I’ll get snow, to balance the heat,” she said, and went to the side-door to let herself out.

“There are too many of us in this place,” said Isalind as the door thudded shut.

“I agree,” he said to her. “But there is no place to go in such a storm.”

“The exiled men are out in it, along with the Huns,” Isalind observed. “If he fights again, my man will be one of them.” There was worry in her voice, and although she kept her face averted, he could recognize her distress.

“Then it would be best for him to hold his temper.” His tone was kindly and he made a point of moving around her chair so he could study her. “Spring will be here in a week or so, and then those who wish to travel may do so.”

“And face the Huns alone?” She stared at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “I think, sometimes, that the Huns are just a story made up to frighten us. Other times I almost wish they would come, and end this hideous waiting.”

“You have heard what those who have faced them have said of them.” He went down on one knee. “It is all a gamble, Isalind. The Huns may pay no heed to this place, or they may attack. If people decide to leave, they may or may not be attacked by the Huns. No one can say what will happen, not with certainty. All we can do is prepare for the worst possibilities, and hope we have been too pessimistic.” In his long life he had been in battle many, many times, and each time the battle had not gone as anyone had planned. He thought back to his time in Gaul with Caesar’s Legions, and reminded himself that even that superb strategist Gaius Julius Caesar had often misanticipated the strength and disposition of his opponents. “But for our own survival, we must assume they will come and be prepared to fight them.”

“Fight them and perhaps lose our lives, I suppose? My man says that the monks are trying to keep us here to fight for them.”

“And that may well be part of their motives for allowing us to take refuge here,” he said. “I would rather have stout walls and a supply of food and water than wagons in the open if the Huns arrive in force.”

“Do you want to die?” She seemed repulsed by the very words. He gave a sad chuckle and got to his feet. “Oh, Isalind: there are so many worse things than death.”

She regarded him in shock as the side-door banged open and Nicoris lugged in a second load of snow in the cauldron.

“There are some of Neves’ men on patrol. They claim that the carcass of a deer is missing and they’re planning to find it and bring the thief before Priam Corydon.” Nicoris lugged the cauldron next to the tub. “I’m going to put two pails of this into the water, and you can test it then, to find out if it is not too hot for you.”

“Thank you,” said Isalind.

“Whatever you don’t want to lower the temperature now, I’ll put to heat so you won’t have to sit in cold water, or soak your ankle in it.” Nicoris waved to Sanctu-Germainios. “You may leave, Dom. I will manage things here.”

Sanctu-Germainios offered her a Roman salute. “Call me when you want me to return.”

“That we will,” said Nicoris, picking up the pail to scoop out snow. “I’ll support you to the tub to test the water in a short while,” she went on, talking to Isalind.

Sanctu-Germainios moved away, toward his sleeping alcove, again missing Rugierus. He sat on the end of his hard, narrow bed set atop a chest of his native earth, recalling the many times he had seen enmity erupt among men and women forced to live in contained space under threat. He let his memories range from his living days to the long years of bloody vengeance that followed his execution, to the many decades in the Babylonian prison, to his centuries in Egypt where he regained his humanity again, to the peripatetic existence which he still pursued; all the while his recollections were accompanied by the yammer of the storm and the ululation of the wolves.

Text of a letter from Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, to Octavianus Honorius Regulus, recorder to the Imperial Court of the Roman Empire in the West at Ravenna, written in code with fixed ink on polished linen, carried by Imperial courier and delivered twelve days after it was written.

To the most august Octavianus Honorius Regulus, Ave! The Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, Gnaccus Tortulla, greets you with respect and esteem on this fourth day of April, in the official year of 439.

It is my duty to inform you that in spite of continuing rumors and new bands of refugees, there has been no direct attack on this side of the Danuvius farther west than Odessus. I am certain there may come a time when this is not the case, but at present I see no proof to justify the constant alarm that I hear everywhere. You may inform the Imperial Treasurer that this region will continue to provide revenue from taxes and other payments, such as from customs and assessments for defense. I have imposed a tax upon those refugees arriving here to cover the increased cost of provisions and more hired soldiers to man the defenses here.

From what I have been able to ascertain of his work, the newly appointed Praetor-General of Drobetae in old Dacia, Verus Flautens, has taken his task to heart. He has heard reports from merchants regarding the movements of the Huns, and transmitted them to me. He has sent his own men to the north to determine the amount of damage the Huns have done, and the present areas of their activities. He has compiled a list of towns that have been emptied and the current locations of many groups of refugees. He has also consulted the refugees coming to Drobetae to ferry over the Danuvius, and has made a record of their accounts, a copy of which he has provided for me, and which I will have a true copy enclosed with this. While I commend his thoroughness, it is my belief that he has placed too much trust in the descriptions of these unfortunates, for he has not yet learned that those who flee count three men as twenty, and twenty as an army.

My next communication will require an escort, for it will accompany the accounts of the last six months as well as the readiness reports of my Tribunes.

Gnaccus Tortulla

Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in Moesia

6

There was a steady drone of bees from the hives at the far end of the outer wall, not unlike the continual chanting from the church. It was late in the afternoon and the cowherds were starting to drive their charges back from grazing between the inner and outer walls to the barn; behind them, the goatherds and shepherds guided their charges to their pens. All around there were signs of spring burgeoning: the flowers on the fruit trees were filled with blossoms, and the raised beds of herbs and vegetables were attended by monks and refugees as well as insects. The air was filled with wonderful scents and the barnyard was redolent of livestock and manure. Lambs and shoats kept near their mothers as they moved; cows plodded steadily while their calves romped; foals rushed among the mares, improving their running. Occasionally the young goats rushed together, butting their heads in anticipation of horns.

“The monastery has a good number of young animals,” Rotlandus Bernardius said to Mangueinic as they made their way toward the outer walls where two work-crews were putting up the stockade they wanted to complete before the snows melted in the pass. “I trust we will have had good progress today.”

“It’s to their advantage to have livestock,” said Mangueinic, leaning heavily on his crutch. “Some of it belongs to us, of course.” He steadied himself with difficulty, adding, “I would think there would have to be good progress. We had another load of logs brought in this morning.”

“I saw the sledge being dragged by the mules. A good thing we have them to work.”

“And a good thing we will have them when we leave, given the ground we’ll have to cover,” said Mangueinic, leaning on his crutch in anticipation of the long trek to come. “We’ll need them to negotiate the mountains, as we discovered coming here.”

“When do you think we should leave?” Bernardius inquired. “Shortly before midsummer. The days will be at their longest, and there will be many more companies of travelers on the roads, which may provide us greater protection than keeping to ourselves.” Mangueinic cleared his throat. “There will be goodly crops and enlarged herds, and if we make an equitable arrangement with the monks, we should all benefit.”

“The monks may not see it that way,” warned Bernardius. “Some of them have said that any baby animals should be regarded as a donation to the monastery, including the six mules the mares have dropped.”

“Those of us who are going to remain here into summer wouldn’t mind the monks keeping the babies, so long as we may take the animals we brought with us when we leave. It would be a fair exchange. They have given us a haven—that should be worth a spring’s run of new livestock.” Mangueinic slewed around, aware that half a dozen men were following them; the westering sun dazzled him so that he was unable to recognize any of the men. “I think there are men who want to talk with you, Tribune.”

Bernardius stopped and swung around, shading his eyes as he regarded the men behind him. “Is there something you want of me, fellows?” He turned to Mangueinic. “I believe they’re your Watchmen. They probably want to talk to you.”

Mangueinic blinked and stepped aside so that the sun was behind him; he was startled to realize Bernardius was right. “What do you want of me, Watchmen? Is there some trouble?” he asked.

The men halted; they all had been serving as Watchmen since they arrived at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit and they clearly intended to speak to Mangueinic. “We want you and the others in charge to know that as soon as we can get through the pass, we and our families are going to leave. We’ve had enough. We’ll go south to Viminacium and from there make our way to Pola, where we can take to the sea if the Huns should reach so far into Roman territory, though it doesn’t seem likely that they will.” The speaker, the former house-keeper Urridien, folded his arms. “Say what you will, we are committed to leaving. Our messenger from Apulum Inferior, Vilca Troed, says he knows the way. He will guide us.”

“He knows the way from Odessus to Ravenna,” agreed Mangueinic. “He is a fine guide.” He looked squarely from one to the next as he went on, “So you, Urridien, and Corcotos, and Bacoem, and Thirhald, and Hovas, and you, Enlitus Brevios, wish to leave with your families—”

“Those of us who still have families who can travel,” muttered Thirhald. “My infant son is too young to make such a journey, though my older daughter will be able to. As to Betto, Agtha will care for him. She has already agreed to it.”

Rotlandus Bernardius stared hard at the six men. “You are willing to abandon your comrades from Apulum Inferior? Vertigino me facit. I should be ashamed to treat my people of Ulpia Traiana so shabbily.”

“Do you think it’s what we want to do?” Enlitus Brevios exclaimed. “We’ll all be exiled on some excuse or other if we remain here much longer. The monks disapprove of us, and are looking for reasons to make us leave. We’d rather go of our own choice, with what remains of our property and our animals.”

“What of the Huns?” Mangueinic asked.

“What of them?” Hovas shot back. “There has been no trace of them. For all we know, they have left these mountains and are searching the plains for better pickings. It would be a sensible thing to do. Coming this far into the mountains for mounted warriors is a tremendous risk. The sentries on the peaks have seen nothing of them. Why should we believe that they will bother to attack?”