Burning Shadows (47 page)

She nodded mutely, and followed Niklos out of the old chapel, leaving Sanctu-Germainios to finish sewing the doll he had been assembling. He checked his supply of thread and realized that, too, was running low, although it would be enough for the remaining figures. He took out the long spool and fingered the fine Coan linen thread that he usually employed to close wounds, then returned to his sewing, working quickly so he would be done with this figure by the time Niklos and Nicoris returned.

By the third quarter of the night all the figures were in place; Sanctu-Germainios and Niklos cleaned the old chapel while Nicoris slept. While he swept up the last of the straw, Niklos said in Greek, “She doesn’t want to go.”

“Yes; I know.”

“She’d probably be as safe with us as with Neves,” Niklos continued.

“Do you think so.” Sanctu-Germainios studied him.

“I do.” Niklos brushed the straw into the fireplace. “We could take her with us when we leave.”

“You assume our plan will be successful,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“Of course I do. Don’t you?”

There was a long silence between them. “I think Nicoris will have a better chance of getting away if she travels with Neves’ men.”

“Perhaps she’d prefer to be with you,” Niklos said, being as blunt as he dared.

“Did she say so?” Sanctu-Germainios asked.

“She … implied it.”

“And you agree?”

Niklos set his long-handled brush aside. “Yes. I do.”

Sanctu-Germainios stood very still; the sound of the monks’ chanting reached them, disturbingly serene. “If that is what she truly wants, then she shall stay with us. But I suspect she will not.”

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Aquileia to Sanct’ Germain Franciscus at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery in the former Province of Dacia, written with fixed ink in Imperial Latin on split leather, never delivered.

To my oldest, dearest friend currently calling himself Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens in Aquileia, although not for much longer:

Sanct’ Germain,

I have just sustained a most annoying visit from our Praetor Custodis, informing me that as I live beyond the walls of Aquileia, I and my estate are not included in the city’s protection, although I pay taxes that are supposed to ensure me security from all threats that are associated with the city. The Praetor Custodis also informed me that nine of my horses are being requisitioned now with another nine to follow in four days, for the city Guards to increase their patrols beyond the gates. It was all I could do to keep from railing at him. But I was mindful of the jeopardy of my position, and kept my words and manner civil—you would have laughed to see me so placating. I very nearly simpered. He puffed out his chest and gave orders like a sea captain in a wealthy port. Magna Mater, I am glad he has finally left, though I am rancorous about the horses! I am irritated by that officious, greedy fool, for it is a reminder of my situation here; this region has enough pettiness among its officials without the efforts of Sixtus Gratian Fulvius Draco.

As you should know by now, Rogerian is with me. I find it curiously amusing that I have your bondsman and you have mine. I trust that Niklos Aulirios is proving useful as well as providing you understanding company. I have to admit that I am uneasy on your behalf—not about the Huns—what with you being at a monastery at present, for Christians are becoming increasingly inflexible in regard to what and whom they deem deviant, such as vampires and ghouls.

In acknowledgment of hazards here, I am about to leave Aquileia for the villa at Lecco on Lago Comus; I expect to arrive there on the twenty-third or -fourth day of September. It will mean giving up more than half my harvest to local farmers, but it may be that they will need it more than I. Everyone here is afraid that the Huns will soon be upon us, thanks to the Praetor Custodis, and that has brought about serious disagreements among the more important personages in the city. Some want to reinforce the walls and prepare for battle, while others want to hire more mercenaries to keep the 
Huns away from Aquileia entirely, and others think that we should treat with the Huns to arrange tribute so that we may lose only our money, not our lives and property. Since all those stances seem to me to be short-sighted, I believe it is time I found a more congenial place to stay until the danger is over. Whether or not any Huns will attack us, or when, disputes, such as the current ones, are not beneficial to those of our blood; when the living are afraid they turn first upon those unlike them, which bodes ill for me, and for Rogerian, or Rugierus, or whatever you wish to call him. Following your good advice of four centuries past, I am removing myself from the fray.

Which is what I hope you will do. That monastery may be protected in its valley, but once the Huns have a taste of gain to be had from a location, they will make every effort to obtain all that they can. For my sake if not your own, do not remain there any longer than you must. As soon as it is practicable, leave the place and get beyond the region controlled by the Huns. I have no doubt that you will conduct yourself honorably, for you have done so for all the years I have known you, and I have no expectation that you would change now, much as I might wish that you would. But please, ask no more of yourself than you would of any living man in that valley. As I read this over, I wonder why I bother to ask this of you; you will do what you decide is necessary, the peril of little consequence to you. Yet I know my warnings will go unheeded, though I give them because of my love for you, which has never wavered from the first time we lay together, when Nero wore the purple and my loathsome husband was still alive.

And now, before I become maudlin, I will commend myself to your good opinion in spite of my hectoring, and look forward to the day when we can exchange bondsmen and enjoy as much time together as will be prudent.

Your most allegiant Olivia

on the tenth day before the end of August in the 1192
^nd
Year of the City, or the 439
^th
year of the Christians

8

A gelid mist hung over Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, not substantial enough to be called even a drizzle but more than fog; buildings were shrouded in clammy wraiths as if they were the artifacts of a ghostly dream. The little daylight that penetrated the obscuring haze was so diffuse, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was. The whole valley was silent, for the last of the monks had gone and there was no more chanting or ringing of the Mass bell to help mark the canonical Hours; no refugees called, no soldier shouted orders, no women supervised playing children. Emptiness haunted the place as much as the murkiness did.

“Do you think the straw-men are too damp to burn?” Niklos asked Sanctu-Germainios in the Greek of his youth as they made their way around the broad space between the two walls, carrying large jugs of oil; they would ladle the oil over each of the dummies. In the hush, his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

Sanctu-Germainios shifted his pluvial of waxed wool more tightly around his shoulders and scrutinized the moist air. “If the rain does not grow heavier, and the Huns arrive before mid-day we ought to—”

“And how do we know when it’s mid-day?” Niklos spoke sharply. “I don’t like this weather, and I don’t like having to wait for the Huns to try to kill us.”

“Before the last of the men left at the end of the night, the guards in the gate-tower saw a large company of mounted men moving up the Roman road. Making allowances for the weather—as you mentioned—they should be here about mid-day, since they will not risk coming too rapidly, with visibility so poor,” said Sanctu-Germainios as calmly as he could. “You heard the guards.” He climbed up the ladder onto the battlement walkway, carrying the jug of oil carefully so as not to spill any of its contents.

“How do we know that the men they saw were Huns? They could be Goths, or Gepidae, or Daci, or Carpi. Or any number of other refugees.” Niklos followed him up.

“They could be,” Sanctu-Germainios allowed. “But it is unlikely; most refugees are trying to cross into Roman territory, not go to ground here.” He poured a ladle of oil over the nearest straw- man. “There is an advantage to the damp: it will tend to keep the fire from spreading.”

“That is most worthwhile,” said Niklos with heavy sarcasm, “considering.”

“Dying in fire would be the True Death for us both,” Sanctu-Germainios observed.

“I’m aware of it,” said Niklos brusquely. “That’s what I mean. What good is it to escape the Huns if we are killed by fire?” He straightened the next straw-man before emptying his ladle over the shoulders of the figure. “I reckon that’s why Nicoris changed her mind about staying; you told her what we were planning to do.” 

“Not all of it, but enough,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “She knows that you and I may not… be able to leave here.”

“She might be attacked on the road, or have to fight the Huns in another place,” said Niklos.

“That is why I asked her to go with Neves and his men. She would have a greater chance with a company of armed men than with just the two of us. She saw the advantages of that.”

“Don’t you want her here, with you?” Niklos dared to ask.

“If everything were settled and the monastery still a haven, then yes. But as matters stand, this is not her risk to take; she deserves protection, and here I cannot give it to her.” He paused. “I hope I have done what will spare her from harm.”

“And I suppose you paid Neves and his men to guard her?” Niklos guessed aloud.

“She is safer with Neves and his men than she would be here,” Sanctu-Germainios reiterated, no emotion in his voice; he told himself again, as he had told her, that he did not want to be the cause of the death that would bring her to his life.

“I guess that means you did pay them, and knowing you, very well,” said Niklos, saying nothing more as he continued on until he reached the next ladder. “Do we do the figures on the outer wall as well?”

“As many of them as we have time to; oil will keep them burning in spite of the damp,” Sanctu-Germainios replied, wondering if Niklos would be willing not to remind him of Nicoris; his anxiety for her had been growing since she had left with Neves and his mercenaries. He concentrated on his immediate situation, trying not to fret for Nicoris. “Once the Huns break through the outer wall we—”

“—set these on the inner wall alight, and then the dormitories, and under cover of the flames, we make our way toward the lake, setting fire to the straw-men on the outer wall, trapping the Huns between the two blazes—that is, if the Huns cooperate. If they fight from outside the walls, we will have to think of another way.” He coughed to express his discomfort at that notion. To keep from dwelling on their chance of failure, he said, “I trust our horses are well enough concealed to escape the notice of the Huns, otherwise we’ll be in a worse situation than we are now. I don’t wish to try to get out of the mountains on foot, not with the Huns about.”

“One of the hermits has them in his cave. I gave him feed and water for the five animals: three horses and two mules; they are saddled, bridled, haltered, and laden: we can ride as soon as we reach the cave. For his service, I offered Monachos Guilielmos the last wheel of cheese from the larder—the one Monachos Vlasos left for us—and the gold crucifix from the wall of the refectory. Money would have insulted him.” He followed Niklos down the ladder.

“Do you think the hermit is reliable? Does he have any idea of what could happen here if he fails us?” Niklos’ nervousness was becoming more apparent; he fidgeted with the tails of his belt.

“He used to be a merchants’ factor before his family died of pustulant fever: he may be a little mad, but he knows the importance of this duty.”

Niklos nodded, going on an instant later, “Do you think we’ll be able to get out of this place unnoticed?”

“I hope we can. The weather favors us.” His hand slid around the hilt of the Byzantine long-sword hanging from his belt in a scabbard. “I have a dozen caltrops as well, and a dagger.” He tapped the satchel slung across his shoulder.

“Then you anticipate a fight,” said Niklos.

“Not necessarily, but I am prepared for one, just as you are,” Sanctu-Germainios said as they crossed the narrowest part of the space between the two stockades.

“Do you think we’re being watched now?” Niklos asked, hesitating a little as they reached the outer wall.

“In this?” Sanctu-Germainios waved his free hand through the air. “They are welcome to try: I can barely make out the stable from here.”

Niklos made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Why have they waited so long? They must suspect the monastery is empty.” 

“Very likely they do. They want to strike when the monastery is most exposed and its defenses are at their weakest.” He stopped at the foot of the ladder and looked closely at Niklos. “You know this. Why do you continue to—”