Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series) (34 page)

“I know you are. Yes, I confess I like her too.

Sometimes I call on her,
and we talk. Of you, rather more than somewhat. Does that please you, too?”

“Very much.”

“She believes in every one of the miracles.”

“The events do happen. No one can deny it. The lame do sometimes walk and the blind see. And the sick child carried in there, when the box was put by it, recovered. But Veronichi, Purita does not know what is in the casket. You know what is.”

“A heart.”

“The heart of a dead animal. A large dog found in the canal.”

“That too is strange, Danielo. Why did the heart, even of a
dog
—not burn up on the pyre?”

“I imagine because the pyre abruptly collapsed inwards, as it was intended to.”

“Most of the wood was consumed. And everything else but for a few bones.”

“I wish I had been there when the executioner raked it out.”

“You were … delayed.”

“Indeed. I missed very much. The death of Isaacus at the pyre’s foot, the fire-flash in the pyre itself, doubtless caused as the trap beneath gave way, but taken for another wonder. And then the Heart of the Maiden which refused to burn. It was lucky that the executioner had just had his conversion to Beatifica, and kept hold of the heart. He would not let the Council have it. He kept it secret, and finally brought it to me, as he said, a man now above the Council. If only that were so. And this was after, so he explained, did I tell you? the Heart had cured his watering eyes.”

“Since the Heart isn’t Beatifica’s, nor even human, how do you suppose it works?”

“Belief. Faith. How most miracles
are achieved.

Through the power of God in each of us. It needs only a focus.”

“Then all who pray in faith are answered? No, Daniel.”

“The strongest faith may be interrupted.”

“But—if even once—then these are true miracles.”

“The true miracle, Venus, is you.” He did not know she saw the weariness in his face. He thought, naively, he had placated her. “Come and bind me with your glory of uncut hair. I have to leave early tomorrow, for the hills.”

Men walked out to welcome him, holding lanterns, and Demetrio went with them. Ermilla came out, too, like the Good House Wife. And the heart of Danielus sank. He chided himself, but to no avail. He had hoped, more than he cared to admit, to see—as they said in the streets of Ve Nera—her girdle lifted. But her belly was as flat as ever. She was not with child.

She seemed radiant, however. Not at all as he recollected. Certainly, a new woman.

They did not eat tonight in the great stone kitchen, but took Danielus into the parlor behind it. She sat down with the men like a lady, and they were served by the cheerful servants. She herself had only, luckily, baked three loaves.

And you
, Danielus thought,
how are you, my dear Demetrio?

He had noticed that Demetrio and Lauro had given each other a couple of almost puzzled looks. No doubt each thought he had seen the other somewhere before.

Witnesses more impartial would be aware that there was a resemblance between them. More than that both were blond, handsome, well-made. Yet, where Lauro had grown more
gentlemanly, Demetrio had not become a peasant out here in the hills. One had learned, he still practiced at his former trade, keeping as fine an edge in play as in earnest. He spoke the Grace, too, in the old way. The story was he had been a soldier, a captain at Ciojha, who gave up war for the land, and his wife.

Ermilla also spoke a prayer after the food. Nothing omitted there, either.

“And where is Suley?” Danielus asked, when the fruit and cheeses had come in. “I saw him last when he brought your letters down.”

“With the horses,” Demetrio said. “Of course he never will eat with us.”

“Of course.”

“When he’s prayed, he’ll be in. He loves to discuss God with you, as you know, Magister.”

Danielus acquiesced. The comforts of old men, to sit debating late into the night, the chessboard between them, the candles burning red and low. Suley had reminded Danielus, in Ve Nera this spring, “The others went home to Jurneia by your generosity, Daniel. But I mean to stay rather longer. If I can, I will win you for the true God. I should hate it, my priest, to see you fall down among the lost.” “But Suley, our Gods are one God.”

“No, Daniel, this you will never convince me of. I know your soul cries out for my God, who is God. One day you will let me feed you the sweetmeat of enlightenment.”

And Danielus had ceased to argue. Just as always, he allowed Suley-Masroor to speak to him of that one God who was God. And to quote from the sacred and exquisite Book which had proceeded from the depth of this God.

Who knows, one day I may even become a convert to the God of Suley. He will be the God I have always known. Is this not what Suley says to me? But
we mean different things. Even so, we are fond of each other. We have each saved the other from likely death. This can make brothers of the basest men. And he is not base in any way. While I am not base in any way which would preclude or offend our friendship. Outside conversion.

Suley had affection, even, for Ermilla. She was shameless, he admitted, like most Christian women, but that was not her fault, she knew no better. She was a child, and a nice child.

He had never known her. Never thought to set together the two halves of Demetrio’s wife, to make the whole woman. After all, he had only seen her once before, from quite some distance, and in an unnatural light.

Danielus did not burden Suley with the facts. Few were privy to them. That was usually best.

Beatifica was dead.

Ermilla sat blithely at the table, eating the red grapes which, in this candleshine, matched her hair. She had put on an azure gown, and on her breast gleamed the little cross her husband gave her on their wedding day, set with one stormy sapphire. He had got the cross in some battle. Why he had kept it he did not seem to know. Perhaps he had meant to present it to the Church, and then forgotten even he had it. He could never have thought of it as a bridal gift.

Demetrio and Danielus and Lauro talked about the harvest. That was reasonable enough. Later, Danielus would have some talk with Demetrio alone, and then they might refer to other things. Danielus thought that doubtless, as years went by, those other things—religion, war, the
past
—would be touched on less. Or with less care.

He was glad they were happy. You saw they were.

Happy as most were not. Surely it could not be many more months before she had
garnered his seed? Perhaps even now it had happened, not visible yet, and Demetrio, embarrassed even would tell him later.

Master of himself, perhaps always, Danielus did not drowse. He did not want to waste the precious time.

How often could he visit here? Twice a year at most.

When Suley came in suddenly, winged by night, and with Reem beside him, Danielus caught that tiny flicker of something all about. A Magister did not
have
favorites. Yet the favorites were jealous. All the ones he loved, in whatever way he loved them, in some slight way of their own, subtly vied with each other. Before, Demetrio had had no rival. He had known it, without comprehending.

If he had been sent to the stake, could I have stayed aloof?

Could I have planned as well as I did? I never loved the girl. I used her. I was sorry. And between us, I and God—or Fate
—

Danielus went out for a turn around Ermilla’s savage garden, with Suley.

“You’re tired.”

“Saddle-tired. It’s nothing.”

“There is a better horse here for you. Demetrio wants to give it to you. Don’t refuse him, he has been perfecting the beast all summer.”

Yes, they vied with each other, but also were protective. Siblings. “Then I will not refuse. You’re wise to warn me. And you?”

“Look,” said Suley. They looked up at the night. “I miss my wife. I make poems to her, which compare her to these stars of Venarh. And she is only a little plain round woman, with a skin like honey.”

“Suley-Masroor, you must go home.”

“Have no fear. None of Venarh’s women tempt me.

While I can stay chaste, I can remain.”

“I should convert at once, and
free you.”

“I would know at once you lied.”

“No. Your God is mine already.”

“So you say. Listen, Daniel. One day you will die.

On that day, you need only cry out to God, He who
is
God, and beg him to forgive and receive you. He will do it. If you do
not
lie.”

“If I swear I will do that, will you go home to your wife?”

“A little longer. I shall stay a little longer. Besides, Reem’s wife died in Jurneia. He feels more at liberty to enjoy a Christian girl. He has one. He’s taught her how to pray. I think she may go with him, to the East. Never fear, for now, they hide it.”

Surprised, Danielus gazed at Suley. Suley-Masroor raised his brows into his head-cloth. “Do you forget, Daniel, we also can deceive.”

Danielus had been sitting that night in his book-chamber, when the Primo guard came for him. There were twenty of them and one priest. Perhaps not so amazing.

The Council might have thought he would yet rally the Bellatae.

He got up at the summons and went with them.

He left everything, even the glossily polished giant’s skull that sat on his desk. In the end, one must leave all. Others would take interest in those things. Or they too would perish.

He desired that his enemies would not destroy any of his books, or smash the skull as an abomination. But even if they did, all things were always lost at last—and perhaps, nothing was lost. Men had souls, beasts too, he suspected. Why not a book, or an object. One saw, they would recur in other forms, yet the same. All lay in the limitless hand of God.

Noise had drained from Fulvia, away to
the marshes, and the amphitheater. He too had considered going there. But he did not want the conceivably ultimate sight he had of the actual world—to be a girl burning alive. He was selfish in that. And immovable.

There were still things to do, anyway. He had made all the provision he could, until the last moment. His final agent indeed had gone down the corridors only a few minutes before he heard the tread of the guards.

If there were any chance, then Danielus had shored it up as firmly as he could. And now that too must be left.

In prison he would never know. Dead—bodily dead—he would. Surely, he would.

It was possible, of course, that he was wrong.

Although God surrounded everything, might Danielus himself not be strong enough to swim or leap the gulf beyond life?

He pondered this as they marched him across the courts below. It was the simple, the uncomplex who found it easy to enter Heaven. Thought was a wall, a tower. The needle’s eye.

Then, leave also thought behind.

Danielus was conducted down into the the under-rooms of the Primo. Above, the silent-seeming City of Ve Nera. And here a silence that sounded in a roar.

He was promised no trial, though doubtless he must suffer one. Neither torture, nor death. Nor life.

Tonight, at the farm, would they again go over it, he, and Demetrio?

Who again would say, “Why did you never
tell
me?”

“I couldn’t trust you. Oh, if it had been your life in a battle, then I would. But not with hers.”

“I would have had some hope—”

“And if it failed?” Would Danielus then
call Demetrio, not by mistake but through recapture of the past, by his former name? “Cristiano, your love for Beatifica was of an extraordinary sort. That’s why you were prepared hopelessly to fight to the death for me—I am mortal. But in her you saw the light of her soul, you knew she could only go to God, and to God you gave her up. With
hope
, God alone knows what you might have done. Think. For all I knew, although my men had sighted and seen to the pyre and the platform, rigged up the trap below that led into the tunnel, still they must wait for the flames to take hold, to hide her. By the time it would be safe to bring her down, she might already be dead—or burned so terribly it would be a kindness to let her die.”

Cristiano, last year, when this had been firstly discussed, standing there in his black, stripped of everything. No longer a Soldier of God, no longer anyone known. Cristiano, in honesty, might be said to have been expunged already. And Demetrio had yet to evolve and remake him.

And to this displaced being, Danielus outlined the plot and scenes of Beatifica’s escape.

How certain men had made sure of the position of the pyre, and others assisted in its construction, supplying it too with the evidential corpse of a dog. The trap below had not been difficult to locate. Beneath lay a cistern and a tunnel. Through here, the Romans had pumped in the sea to fill the arena for their water-shows.

The trap was oiled, counter-weighted. The core of the platform was moveable and the core of the pyre loose, and fashioned to give way at once on the removal of certain props. Danielus’ men must only wait and keep their nerve. Until able to precipitate the structure downwards
as the trap gaped wide. Masked by fire and smoke, the girl would be plunged to a bed of mattresses and straw, and the trap heaved back above.
Then
water, to put out the flames.

If she lived—in any reasonable sense—they would take her, Ermilla’s husband and his gang, through the tunnel, to the open sea. There was a boat in readiness.

Along the coast, others were ready, for when the boat would come back to land.

Cristiano had listened. At first antagonistic, next excitable—then dulling down. Until he said, in a cold voice, “So. She lives?”

“She lives.”

“But burned.”

“There’s no mark on her. Even her garments never took the fire. Or her hair.”

“Then—”

“I don’t know how, Cristiano. Perhaps judgment was unflawed and the men just swift enough. Alive and unscathed. Believe me. At the quay here is another boat to take you to her.”

Danielus received no answer. And soon Cristiano, walking like a somnambulist, went away. Danielus sent a man with him, to be sure he reached the boat.