Burning Shadows (34 page)

Priam Corydon shook his head. “An unfortunate thing.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth, mulling the situation.

“I think it best that he remain in the old chapel until his wounds are truly healing,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

Monachos Niccolae scowled. “If this is his second time fighting, he—”

“Pardon me, Monachos,” said Sanctu-Germainios diffidently, “but it is his right hand that is cut, and if he is turned out of the monastery, he will starve. He will not be able to hunt, or fish, or live on anything more than roots and berries.”

Priam Corydon looked up, his face set with an obstinate sorrow. “That is true, and in this case, it’s unfortunate. But our rules are clear.”

“That’s what I told him,” said Mangueinic.

“But he’s right—with an injured hand, the man will surely die, for he won’t be able to make a fire, even if he had something to eat,” said Priam Corydon thoughtfully. “That will expose him to wild beasts. He would be fortunate to be taken captive by outlaws or one of the gangs of raiders.”

“Exactly. He could not go over to the Huns; unless his hand is sound, they will not accept him,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

Monachos Niccolae glowered in his direction. “And how is it you know such things?”

“I know them from listening to what has been said about the Huns for the last four years,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “As you do.” Priam Corydon held up his hand. “As we all do,” he said, making an effort to enlarge on his observation. “Every traveler has tales about Huns and we listen to each word as if they were angels and their revelations gospel. There is no reason to be suspicious of anyone purporting to have knowledge about the Huns, particularly this man, since he has served as a regional guardian and therefore has heard more than most of us about the Huns.”

Sanctu-Germainios lowered his head. “You are most kind, Priam.”

“Kind? I am a sensible person, nothing more.” He folded his arms. “If you can mine safely, then you may have your malachite.” Then he looked at Monachos Niccolae. “You are circumspect, Monachos, and that is a laudable trait, but neither of these men is an enemy of this place, or anyone in it.”

Monachos Niccolae made the sign of the fish. “As you say,” he muttered, and backed toward the door. “Until our next prayers.”

“God save you,” said Priam Corydon automatically, then, as the door closed, gave Mangueinic a hard look. “So what do you recommend be done about Severac? Do we give him time to heal and then turn him out into the world, assuming his hand is strong enough?” 

“I haven’t decided upon anything yet; not until the Dom tells me how much of a chance Severac has of getting the use of his hand back.”

“It may not be a popular decision,” Priam Corydon warned. “No other man sent away from this monastery has been allowed to delay his departure.”

“No other man had such injuries,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “If he leaves now, I can tell you without doubt that the cuts will putrify and that he will not survive.”

“Then sending him away would be sentencing him to death.” Priam Corydon stared at the elaborate Greek crucifix above the door. “I understand that. You made it clear.”

“The others at least had a chance. Severac has none.” Mangueinic slammed his fist into his palm. “But we must uphold our rules, or there will be chaos here, and we needn’t wait for the Huns to destroy us.”

“Very true,” said Priam Corydon. “Very well; I will pray on the matter and give you my decision tomorrow. Will you be able to assess his condition by then, Dom?”

“I should think so,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I ought to know how severely his hand has been damaged by then—what ligaments have been cut.”

“I thank you for that,” the Priam said. “If he is truly crippled, then we must regard his case differently than those of able-bodied men.” He glanced toward the window. “I’ll be glad when the weather clears. Having almost everyone indoors in such close quarters sours people, like animals kept stalled too long.”

“Truly,” Sanctu-Germainios said. “As does constant worry.” Priam Corydon made the sign of the fish. “As we have reason to see every day.” He sighed, “It shows a lack of faith.”

Mangueinic cleared his throat. “No cause for us to become morbid about it,” he growled. “It isn’t fitting that we should succumb to despair.”

“You’re right,” said Priam Corydon, pushing himself to his feet again. “In fact, it is a sin. Your rebuke is righteous.”

“I’m not rebuking you,” said Mangueinic, shocked at the idea. “Well, it would be fitting, in any case,” said Priam Corydon, going toward the door. “Best not to be laggard all day; it presents a bad example.” He stopped next to Mangueinic and laid his hand on his shoulder. “Difficult though it has been, you’ve shouldered your task well, Watchmen Leader; you deserve far more gratitude than you will probably see.”

Feeling abashed, Mangueinic mumbled, “Most kind, Priam.” Priam Corydon turned to Sanctu-Germainios. “You, too, deserve the gratitude of many and will not see enough of it.”

Sanctu-Germainios said nothing as he followed Priam Corydon and Mangueinic out of the office, though he found himself considering the many hazards he had experienced as the result of gratitude. As they reached the intersection of corridors, he said, “There are many problems still to be dealt with—assuming Severac is not in fit condition to be exiled.”

“There are,” said Priam Corydon. “I’ve been reviewing the various possibilities since I left my office, and I think this may satisfy all those concerned: if Severac were to profess himself a penitent and join this monastery as a monk, I think the people will agree not to enforce his exile. What do you—”

They turned toward the foot of the Orthodox-cross-shaped building, bound for the refectory, when they heard a harsh voice announce, “God is displeased with you all! He has seen your sins!” 

“Monachos Anatolios,” said Priam Corydon, and lengthened his stride, waving to the men with him to hurry.

“God has offered you Salvation, and you spurn His gift! You set yourselves up in pride and rebellion to Christian teaching, and then you add to your error by imploring His aid in your endeavors.” The voice was rising in volume and pitch. “He will not be merciful forever. Every day that you cling to your defenses here, you reveal the failure of your faith.”

Monachos Vlasos was standing in the door to the refectory, a wedge-shaped kitchen knife in his hands, his arms folded. “Priam,” he said as Priam Corydon came up to him, “I could not stop him. He insisted on addressing the monks.”

“And you chose not to fight with him,” said Priam Corydon, resignation in every part of him.

Monachos Vlasos looked abashed. “Fighting isn’t permitted. Otherwise, I would have—”

Priam Corydon held up his hand. “I can’t dispute that.” Monachos Vlasos made the sign of the fish. “He is a most demanding man. His faith is powerful within him.” He kept his voice low so as not to interfere with Monachos Anatolios’ harangue.

“—in the Name of God. With your surrender to His Will, nothing will be denied you. You will walk on water, as Christ did, you will stand amid fire and remain unscathed, and you will vanquish armies with a shepherd’s staff. Yet you prefer to cling to the ways of the world, forgoing the exaltation of His Glory in Paradise!” Monachos Anatolios held his thin arms up, the palms toward the ceiling, his lopsided face suffused with a rapture of rage. “But you fail Him! You impose your will on His Will, like ungrateful children. You do not believe His promise!” He stared at the men seated at the long tables, a hard light in his deep-sunk eyes. “Look at you! Huddling behind walls like rats, giving power to men of violence, not men of prayer. None of you has the courage of your religion to walk beyond the walls armed only with the Gospels. You will not face the Huns but on their terms, blood and fire. And you claim you are Christians!”

Priam Corydon stepped into the refectory. “Monachos Anatolios,” he said firmly, “you are welcome at our table. We are pleased to have you pray with us. But this is not the place for you to preach.” 

“What better place?” Monachos Anatolios rounded on Priam Corydon. “Our Lord preached while his Apostles were at table. I seek only to emulate His perfect example.”

“You seek to disrupt the spirit of community that is present here; you have lost your humility in your pursuit of holiness,” said Priam Corydon, resisting the urge to take a step back from him. “In the name of Christ, you must not bring rancor here.”

“I bring no rancor,” declared Monachos Anatolios, his face becoming red with ire. “I bring only the duty of monks, to submit to God in all things. How can you call that rancor?”

“If you want to make yourself a martyr, so be it,” said Priam Corydon, straightening his posture and meeting Monachos Anatolios’ glare with one of his own. “The monks here are pledged to defend and protect the souls of their fellow-Christians, the refugees and soldiers who are within—”

“Christians!” Monachos Anatolios jeered. “Those soldiers you protect make sacrifices to pagan demons. I have seen them in their red caps, giving up offering to the Persian Mithras. Their heresy has brought you to this sorry pass, for God punishes apostasy.”

“Whatever they do, so long as they honor our faith, God will not be so uncharitable to deny them Grace for fighting our enemies. Their diligence in our cause will bring them Salvation through God’s Mercy.” Priam Corydon made the sign of the cross, holding Monachos Anatolios’ gaze unflinchingly. “Your devotion may compel you to expose yourself to needless danger as a sign of your faith, but I have sworn an oath that I will succor those in my charge, and keep them from the pains of the world, and that is what I will do while there is breath in my body.”

“A false oath, made to men in finery and jewels, living amid the corruption of the Imperial Court, claiming to be true to Christ and His Redemption.”

The monks seated at the table were becoming restive; although speaking was forbidden, a murmuring joined with the whisper of the rain as the men listened to this confrontation.

Priam Corydon noticed this, and he spoke more quietly but with no loss of authority. “You must come away from here so that the monks may take their meal in peace. If you insist on prosecuting your intent, you may address the residents—all of t hem—i n the main courtyard before sunset. I will guarantee that rain or no rain, you will have listeners.” He motioned to Monachos Vlasos. “Take Monachos Anatolios to the kitchen and feed him fish soup and bread, then take him to the church so he may join with our novice in perpetual prayer.”

There was no protest that Monachos Anatolios could make to such offers that would not compromise him in the eyes of the monks, so he made the sign of the fish. “I pray that God will reveal Himself to you so that you will no longer remain in stubborn, willful error.”

“As I pray the same for you,” said Priam Corydon. “May we both become wise enough through Grace that we may be capable of such understanding.” He stepped aside for Monachos Vlasos to provide escort to Monachos Anatolios, then he looked around the room and three times made the sign of the cross.

“If you do not surrender to His Will, God will send you despair and ruin before the end!” Monachos Anatolios promised as he went with Monachos Vlasos toward the short corridor leading into the kitchen.

Monachos Egidius Remigos, the gate-warder, rose from his seat on the bench. “I ask the forgiveness of all the monks here for letting Monachos Anatolios inside the gates.”

“You needn’t do that,” said Priam Corydon. “Monachos Anatolios is entitled to enter the monastery; no one can forbid him access to this place so long as monks live here.”

“He wants the Huns to kill us all,” called out one of the monks.

“He wants us to be martyrs and have crowns in Paradise,” cried another.

Priam Corydon held up his hand. “Whatever may be the case, eat in silence, and meditate on what is owed to the body in the Name of God, Who gave them to us.”

An uneasy silence settled over the refectory, and three of the novices put their hands over their mouths to stop the impulse to speak more.

Mangueinic moved away from his place at the door, signaling Sanctu-Germainios to come with him. When he spoke, it was in an under-voice that hardly carried to the man he addressed. “Dom, something must be done about that hermit-fellow. He’s going to cause more trouble, I can feel it in my bones.”

Sanctu-Germainios did not respond at once, and when he did, his dark eyes were troubled, and his words were sad. “I wish I could disagree with you.”

Text of a letter from Artemidorus Iocopolis, factor in Constantinople for the Eclipse Trading Company, to Rugierus of Gades, presently detained in the Magistrates’ Palace in Constantinople, written in Greek in blue paint on Persian vellum and delivered by Eclipse Trading Company courier.

To the manservant of the distinguished foreign trader Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, Rugierus of Gades, the greetings of factor for the Eclipse Trading Company, Artemidorus Iocopolis, on this third day after the Summer Solstice,

I have spent the last month in negotiations for your release, and I am pleased to report there has finally been some progress. Most accounts from the Eclipse Trading Company factors throughout the region in which the ships trade have arrived and been perused by the various officers appointed to the task, and they report that the information is exemplary, both in content and in compliance with the law by the factors.