Burning Shadows (46 page)

“Would it not keep you from trying to take this place, if you were a Hun?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Fever is as deadly as arrows, and lasts longer than battle.”

Neves considered this, and nodded. “What about the spy? Won’t he tell them that the flag is a deception?”

“If he has contacted the Huns, then yes. But he may have left already, or he may be here, waiting to leave to deliver his report himself,” Sanctu-Germainios said distantly.

“Have you thought who the spy might be?”

“No. I have not.” He hated to admit it. “What troubles me more is if any of the escaping refugees are caught, they might trade their lives for information.”

Neves swore. “Wouldn’t the Huns just kill them?” Sanctu-Germainios shrugged. “It would depend on what they wanted most. If the refugees are clever, they would say they are escaping from the fever, not the Huns, but they would need to keep their wits about them, and that is not easily done in such circumstances.”

This time Neves’ laugh was angry. “Do you think any of them will? keep their wits if they’re caught?”

“Some may,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “If they are caught by Huns and questioned, which is, itself, unlikely.”

“Do you mean caught or questioned?” Neves asked, and before Sanctu-Germainios could answer, he nodded emphatically. “You mean if the Huns find them, they’ll be slaughtered and their goods and livestock taken. The Huns won’t bother with questions.”

“It is what they have done in the past,” said Sanctu-Germainios, going on more pragmatically, “I should find a helmet for this straw soldier. The Huns may see that he has no features if his face is not partially covered.” He looked at Neves, contemplating his scarred visage.

“I almost wish they would attack again. At least we could fight. This waiting and planning, it’s worse than battle. Battle is chaos, but there’s no doubt what’s going on. What we’re doing now … It erodes the will. Whether the Huns come or not, we must get away before we turn on one another and do the Huns’ work for them.” 

“Then I wish you a safe withdrawal and the chance to engage the Huns elsewhere,” Sanctu-Germainios said with genuine sincerity. “You have done well by us. Thank you.”

“So have you, Dom,” said Neves. “Done well by us. I’m obliged to you.”

Sanctu-Germainios stepped back and reached for the top of the ladder; before he descended, he offered Neves a proper Roman salute. “May you find triumph, Neves.”

Neves returned the salute as Sanctu-Germainios continued to climb down. As he reached the ground, he turned to the east, and heard the chanting of the monks grow louder as the first Mass of the day began.

By noon, twenty of the straw-filled dummies had been clothed, armed, helmeted, and pinned in place on the battlements. “This evening,” Sanctu-Germainios told Niklos, “we must shift their positions so that their … inactivity will not give them away.”

Niklos chuckled, looking up at the gate-tower. “What about reducing the number of them showing above the stockade for the night? The scouts might be suspicious of a full complement of soldiers on night duty, particularly with the fever flag up. No need to bring the dolls down to the ground. We can lie them down on the battlement walkways and set them up in the morning before dawn.”

Sanctu-Germainios rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble of the last two weeks beneath his fingers; once again he missed Rugierus, who shaved his slow-growing beard once a week; he also missed Rugierus’ practicality, planning, and good sense. Again he scraped his thumb along the stubble. He had managed for himself since Rugierus left, but he was not satisfied with the results. Realizing that Niklos was waiting for a comment, he said, “It would probably be wise. I’ll speak to Mangueinic about it.”

“He leaves tomorrow, doesn’t he,” said Niklos.

“Yes. He and thirty-one others from Apulum Inferior,” said Sanctu-Germainios, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Will you miss them?” Niklos was surprised. “They don’t regard you as one of them.”

“No one regards me as one of them,” Sanctu-Germainios told him with the resignation of centuries in his tone. “But they have not cast me out.”

“What of those who come to your life: what of them?” Niklos asked. “Olivia—”

“Coming to my life usually brings isolation, as my change brought me, long ago. I know Olivia has said much the same thing.”

Niklos almost offered a witty rejoinder, but saw the expression in Sanctu-Germainios’ dark eyes, and held his tongue. “Do you plan to put the rest of the straw-men into position this afternoon or tomorrow?”

“I think tomorrow. With laborers in the fields, adding to the figures on the battlements might raise Hunnic suspicions. Besides, we will need to find clothes and helmets for the rest of the straw-men we have before putting them in place. They will have to look like men on watch, ready for anything, which means armor of some sort or another. And I will have to find out if Priam Corydon will give us some of the old monks’ clothing. I doubt the Huns know the difference between a pallium, a sagum, and an abolla.” He himself had donned his most austere paragaudion and braccae, both in his habitual black. “Tonight, while we stuff a few more of the straw-men, there is something we must discuss.”

“Has it to do with how we manage here once the rest have gone?” Niklos gave Sanctu-Germainios a quick, fierce smile.

Sanctu-Germainios nodded. “I have a few things in mind,” he said in Greek, then went back to the current dialect of the region. “For now, armor and clothing are needed. I will ask the monks first.” 

“Given that peasants and monks wear garments that are much the same, why not?” Niklos grinned. “The monks may object because you want to use their old garments for defense.”

“So they might,” Sanctu-Germainios said quietly, lifting his head. “The wind is shifting.”

“If it means cooler weather, it’s welcome,” Niklos said, squinting into the sky.

“It could mean rain.” As Niklos looked at him, startled, Sanctu-Germainios added, “It is not unusual for there to be a day or two of rain toward the end of August. This rain is not like the thunderstorms of high summer, but more a first herald of autumn, spawned by cool winds. It could be an indication of an early season.”

“Rain could damage the crops,” Niklos remarked.

“It could also slow down the Huns,” said Sanctu-Germainios, contemplating the gate-tower and the yellow flag flapping above it.

“So it could.” For a short while neither of them said anything, then Niklos declared, “I’m going to help the grooms ready the chests for tomorrow. I’ll help you with these large dolls after nightfall.”

“I will be in the old chapel; Nicoris wants my help in choosing what to take with her and what to leave behind.” Sanctu-Germainios looked up once more. “If the wind continues to rise in that quarter, there will be rain.”

The day slipped quickly away, sunset partially obscured by gathering clouds to the northwest. The chanting of the monks went on throughout the afternoon while Priam Corydon went about organizing those of the monks who were to leave in two days; he dispatched novices to the remaining hermits in the caves above the lake, once again asking them if they wanted to depart with the rest of them; he supervised the packing of the various ritual objects that they would require for worship; he sent monks to help Monachos Vlasos secure as much food as possible for their journey; he visited the infirmary and made arrangements for the accommodation of those who were ill; he met with Mangueinic, Tribune Bernardius, and Neves; then he went to the stable to requisition horses and carts. By the time night came on, he sought out Sanctu-Germainios, entering the old chapel by the main door.

Sanctu-Germainios dropped the cloth he held and got to his feet. “Priam.”

“Dom,” said Priam Corydon, making the sign of the cross. “Are you alone?”

“I am. Niklos and Nicoris are off collecting more straw for our false soldiers. The slaves in the stable should be helping them. They will return shortly.” He patted the cloth, then set the ivory needle in it and motioned to the bench near the fireplace as he laid the half-finished life-sized dummy down. “I have water and some wine, if you would like either, or both.”

“If you have some of each to spare, I would thank you for them; it has been a demanding day,” said Priam Corydon, taking his seat on the bench. “I want to extend you my thanks for your willingness to remain here when the rest of us are gone. If you should fall here, you will surely be a martyr in Heaven.”

Sanctu-Germainios paused in his selecting two cups for the Priam. “I think I would prefer to continue as I am,” he remarked with an ironic smile as he pulled out the jug of wine from the large standing case next to the red-lacquer chest.

“I can understand your feeling on that point,” said Priam Cory- don. “No doubt you’ll still earn your place among the sheep, not the goats.”

“The wine is red: will that suit you?” He held the jug poised to pour.

“Very well,” said the Priam.

Sanctu-Germainios poured the wine, replaced the jug, and took out the ewer of water, and poured the larger cup almost full. “I fear I have nothing else to offer you; I have sent most of the food we have here to Mangueinic to distribute among the companies leaving in the morning.”

“No matter; we take no food from sundown to sunrise; I thought you were aware of that; my monks and the refugees have locked horns about this several times,” said Priam Corydon, looking a bit surprised as Sanctu-Germainios brought him the two cups.

“You have not required the refugees to maintain your Rule.” He handed the cups to Priam Corydon.

“Won’t you join me?”

“No, Priam, I will not: I do not drink wine.”

“Not even your own? How remarkable,” said Priam Corydon, taking a deep sip of the water, and then a taste of the wine, approving it with a single nod. “They’ve told me, some of those you have treated, that you are generous with drink of all sorts. Do you refrain from other kinds of imbibition?”

“Almost all, Priam; almost all.”

“But you advise wine and other inebriants for your patients, don’t you? Wolfsbane and syrup of poppies and something Egyptian, I’ve been told.” He had more of the wine and followed it with water.

“When it will be helpful, not harmful, I believe the right intoxicant can aid recovery from injuries, and ease the pain of the injured.” He drew up another stool and sat down across from Priam Corydon.

“Suffering is our lot in life, because of our sins,” said Priam Corydon. “Penance is necessary for Christians to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Do you think so? Does that not belittle the sacrifice of your Jesus, to seek out hurt and anguish? You teach that His death redeemed all men, or so I have understood.”

Priam Corydon thought this over, and kept his conclusions to himself. “My monks tell me that you’ve requested our worn-out garments—the ones we save to give out to beggars and other unfortunates—to put on your straw soldiers; you left such a message for me.”

“That I did,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “These straw-men need clothing to make the counterfeit believable for the Huns. Clothing and armor,” he added.

“I will authorize the use of our old clothing, since we will not take it with us, and no Christian here has need of it, but we have no armor to offer you.” He sighed. “In spite of faith, the world imposes.”

“We live in the world, Priam, and must answer to its demands,” Sanctu-Germainios reminded him, and would have said more, but the side-door opened and Nicoris and Niklos came in, a large sling between them laden with straw. Sanctu-Germainios rose and went to assist them.

“Dom, we have another sling with as much straw as we have here,” Nicoris cried out as she and Niklos set the sling down on the floor next to the whip-stitched dolls.

Sanctu-Germainios offered her a quick, delighted smile. “Wonderful! We can stuff the rest of the dolls tonight and have them in place before the next parties leave the monastery. Assuming we have hoods and helmets enough to disguise them.”

Priam Corydon drank the rest of his wine and took a large gulp of water, then got up. “You have much to do. I’ll leave you to your work. One of the novices will bring you the old clothing. If there are hoods to spare, I will donate them, as well.” He made the sign of the cross, and then, more circumspectly, the sign of the fish.

“May you and your monks travel safely, Priam,” said Sanctu-Germainios as Priam Corydon went out of the old chapel toward the monastery.

“So he’ll give us the old clothes,” said Niklos with a kind of wry enthusiasm that did not completely conceal his relief.

“So he tells me,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Since the deception was his idea to begin with, he is probably inclined to help us execute it.”

“Will it be enough?” Nicoris asked, her face paling as she looked at the empty dummies spread out on the floor.

“The straw or the clothes?” Niklos flung up his hands. “One more sling to go, and then we can set to work filling the dolls.”

“Or do you mean the dissimulation we are attempting?” Sanctu-Germainios asked her. “It will have to be enough; there is little else we can do.”