by Tanith Lee
But the seven Soldiers of God who attended her tonight had never before seen what she could do.
The music had stopped. Joffri turned to Fra Danielus, his eyes brighter than Jian’s.
Cristiano heard the Ducem say, “Will she come in?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Danielus. “If you’re ready.”
“I long to see it, Father. Trust me.”
On his other side, the hoarse priest from the Council said, gratingly, “If we are to believe she can.”
Cristiano thought, How can he doubt? And then, The simplicity of it is what is horrible to me. I believe. I know. I wish I could go out—no, I wish before God this was not to happen.
But God must have decreed it. Miracles were in the provenance of God. God could not make an error. And yet, the Magister had told him she was descended from a witch—
Joffri stood up, and everyone became hushed. A little god upon earth, a man strutting in his crown. Think of the skull behind the skin, Joffri!
Cristiano’s heart beat, a drum in his side. He tried to cool himself, half reached out for the wine. Took his hand back and sat motionless.
“Generally,” Joffri said to the huge, worldly room, “I call jugglers now, and men who swallow birds and let them back out from their ears. Or a poet to sing his latest ode.”
They looked at him. Men drunk, feeding their hounds on bits of swan. Women with the upper moons of their breasts shining.
Joffri said, “Christ’s resurrection is scarcely past. And God has not forgotten us. Men say, let’s eat and make merry and forget the grave gapes for us. But why fear the grave? Christ makes nothing of it. And He, knowing an enemy steals upon us even now, a dragon that slips across the ocean—” They stared. Faces had whitened. Here and there a woman clutched her male companion’s arm, or held her own hand, as if to pray. “God sends signs to us, it seems. We needn’t be afraid even of a mortal foe.” Joffri flipped one nonchalant hand, and the trumpet sounded again. The wide doors at the room’s far end were opened.
The Ducem sat. He shot one gleaming look at the Magister Major. The uncaring hand had said, Oh, let’s do it then, let’s see. The eyes said, You’ll need God’s help and to spare if you fail now, will you not?
It was exactly as Cristiano had thought.
Startlement first.
He had seen the red horse brought for her. But not reckoned on quite how she would look on it. Here in the City, it was at once a symbol of the rare, and too of war … It was a steady animal, despite its lean and graceful, hound-like lines. Ferried through the waterways on a barge, and here to the Rivoalto, it had needed to be. It placed its hoofs with the sure balance of a dancer. In color it was like burnished copper. The saddlecloth was white, sewn with golden stars and suns, and from the white bridle and halter, hung golden bells, which jinked faint but clear in the silence, as it brought her forward.
She was also in her white and gold. Her hair, unbound, was one pure shade brighter than the horse.
The seven Bellatae walked, three on either side, and one at her back. They had come armed into the presence of the Ducem, the only men who might, save for his own guards. And the swords were all drawn, the tips of them dipped earthward.
Down the room the red horse stepped.
Her face was blanker than unwritten paper. All but the wide eyes. Golden. Fixed, as Cristiano remembered, on the Magister. Until, suddenly, they moved, and fixed on him.
The drum in his side jolted. Missed, and began again.
But she looked at Jian now. (He heard Jian catch his breath.) And then straight at the Ducem. Straight, straight, straighter than any sword.
Joffri crossed himself. Then he said, very low, “You never told me, Fra Danielus, she was beautiful.”
Cristiano heard Danielus answer instantly in his quiet voice, “Of course, my lord. Her beauty comes from God.”
Joffri sounded shaken a little. He said, “Doesn’t it always, holy Father?”
“By a conduit, it does. On her, it seems, the Almighty has directly breathed.”
Cristiano heard another voice in his mind, which contemptuously said that No, she was not beautiful. She had no beauty, was more than beauty. Beauty was a tiny word of fools, used to describe what had no word, here on earth.
And a wave of fear followed the inner voice. The instinct to beware.
The horse had passed through the room, and come up to the highest table, where the Ducem sat with his family, and the priests.
They were aware now, most of the crowd, that the young man on the horse was not masculine. As he had predicted, Cristiano heard the quick rills of laughter, the smothered oaths. Until silence resumed.
But the rough-voiced priest spoke loudly.
“This is against the law of God.”
The Ducem said, “Holy brother—”
And the priest said through him, not bothering with him, “A woman clad as a man is blasphemous and immoral. She must be wicked and an imbecile, and those in charge of her too.”
Danielus now used his voice, pitched not raised, to find the far reaches of the chamber. “God makes the law and God can unmake it.”
“You dare to say, Fra, that God—”
As easily as the priest had broken in on Joffri’s sentence, Danielus overrode the priest’s. “Who am I to speak for God, brother. And who are you to speak for Him. I say this: A sword travels in its sheath for battle. Not in a female gown.”
The hoarse priest surged up and now Sarco, the other Council Brother, put out his hand and stayed him. “Let us only see.”
The Magister would have told her what to do, and how and when. At some signal from him, now she dismounted from the horse. She did this without flurry or awkwardness, and with no display. She had the coordination of a knight, used to it.
“This,” said Danielus, as he had on the farm on the plain, “is the Maiden Beatifica. Speak for us now, Beatifica, the Grace.”
She did so.
As Cristiano had expected and predicted. In her perfect Latin.
Hands rose, a roomful of hands, faltering, belated to mark the cross.
From a side door two of the Ducem’s men were coming in. They carried between them a great black pot, and there was oil washing about in it.
They set this down between the girl and the high table, and went away.
One of the seven Bellatae guided the red horse aside. They all drew back, and left the central space clear for the girl and the cauldron.
She would do it now.
Cristiano braced his body and his mind. The Magister had said she drew her impetus from emotion. The room thrummed with it, like the strings of some instrument before a storm. But she should have none from him. Not one jot.
He felt but did not see her golden eyes go over him. He was one among so many.
The Magister spoke. “Bring the fire, Beatifica.”
Cristiano, within a wall of milky adamant that could not be cracked, waited.
It would come.
It came.
He heard it, felt it—felt nothing.
Heard them screaming, and felt the heat of fire, absolutely present. The rasp of the oil igniting with the sound of tearing cloth. Chairs and benches scraped. Dogs volleying and baying in fright, voiding themselves—the silky bundled sound of a woman falling and caught by servants—sparks singeing his own cloak—the smell of burning—
Cristiano blinked to clear his vision, and looked and saw the pot full now of fire—and the Ducem, his eyes open wide and lips parted, and little Arianna, the Duccessa, shrinking away.
A column of smitch and smolder flaring into the roof where the banners hung.
A glass goblet, rare, brought to impress, smashing.
Purple light.
Her hair, deep colored now as blood, fading.
Her white face that seemed also burning from within, paling down to a human paleness that was almost ghostly.
She was bowing her head. Her shoulders drooped.
It cost her someth
ing to do this. He had never realized that before. Now she was tired. Shivering perhaps, he was not certain. But she kept firm, standing there.
Oh, not as a warrior must. From obedience, duty. She had been a slave. It had been whipped into her.
He had remained on guard. She had not penetrated the wall. But inside it now, for a second, he too felt stunned and drained. Into himself however, he also had beaten the strength to withstand his own weakness.
She and he, some long paces apart, stayed upright and in command. And Danielus, and the Bellatae, and the obviously fire-accustomed horse. While the feast chamber of Joffri gave way.
Cristiano glanced aside at the unnamed Council Brother. He was ranting, slavering, clutching his crucifix, which was of plain and modest iron. Sarco prayed, his eyes closed fast.
The Duccessa was fainting now, and her Ladies gathering her. What had this sight done to the child in her womb?
Joffri swung abruptly back. He glared, then laughed shortly.
“Magister Major, you are to blame for this havoc. Come on, let’s go into another room. Bring her, this Maiden. Bring your Soldiers of God. Yes, yes, Brother Isaacus, you and your fellow Council Brother must come with us, of course.
The Ducem’s guards were opening a way for them. Others led the red horse off into the courtyard. As it passed by the dogs now, scented with fire, they shied and barked. A young woman with black, waving hair artfully emerging below her headdress, ran to touch the horse with her fingers. Having done so, she turned, crying for happiness. And on the tables sprawled the remnants of the cloven swans.
“She is proof of God’s love.”
“Of the wiles of the Devil!”
Sarco once more put his hand on Isaacus’ sleeve. “Hush, brother. You’ll hurt your sore voice worse.” And then, “What the Magister says he most truly believes, of that we may be assured.”
Joffri put down his wine cup.
He stared at the Maiden Beatifica, who sat now in one of the carved chairs, her eyes lowered, her hands folded together on her right knee. She did not look wanton, nor unsuitable in her clothes. He did not fancy her, either, which, if he thought of it, surprised him. God must protect her from the lewd inspiration. God, Joffri knew, was clever.
They were in the Scarlet Room, one of the three halls which led from the feast chamber. The ceiling rose to its rafters, which were gilded. The walls were sheeted with hammered bronze, and marble. There was nothing red in the room, (except for the Maiden’s hair, which looked any way far less red than it had done in the feast chamber.) The Scarlet Room took its title from the pageantry which was sometimes enacted there. The recognition of sons, and betrothals, when scarlet and crimson garments were worn.
Fra Danielus stood by the Maiden. His Bellatae were ranked behind him. Nine of them now. They watched with professional faces, war-priests. But their eyes were dazed, or sparkling. All but that one, the one called Cristiano. His eyes were like silver discs found on the ice.
Danielus had lost none of his composure, and he was saying not much. He had told them God had sent them Beatifica. She was motivated by Heaven. In the conflict which the City must face, she would give courage in her turn. He did not say, it went by implication alone, the infidel would be afraid, if they heard stories of her.
Isaacus roared, spitting froth, “She must be questioned.”
“So she has been,” Sarco said.
Joffri said, urbanely, “Let me ask her something.”
He thought Isaacus, (it had seemed essential to learn that one’s name) would interrupt again. No. He only held up his cross, high in one hand.
Danielus said, “Beatifica, look up. There is the Ducem. Answer him.”
Beatifica looked at Joffri.
What eyes she had. Were they gold?
“Tell, me, Beatifica, tell me if you’re able, if you think God sent you this … gift?”
“What gift?” she asked. She did not say ‘My lord’. However, her tone was gentle, inquiring, as if she wished to please—or comfort him.
“Your fire-bringing.”
“My mother,” said Beatifica, “showed me.”
“Yes, the monster claims her mother taught her to do it, after the woman had died. A witch—a witch, what else.’
Joffri risked a small indiscretion. “Be quiet, Brother Isaacus, if you can. The Council of the Lamb has my reverence, but you are only one of its membership. I am Ducem, and you are very rude.”
Did Danielus smile? Invisibly?
Joffri said, “If your mother taught you, Maiden, how did she learn? From a demon?”
“She told me nothing of demons. It was angels that she saw.”
“Angels—”
“An account of that was sent you, Ducem,” said Sarco.
“Yes but—never until this moment did I—” Joffri stopped. He said, “Other than angels, what have you seen?”
Beatifica did smile. She was pleased to speak of herself. In her previous life no one had been interested.
“I only saw the angels once. But also I saw the serpent in the orchard.”
Now a great quiet filled the room.
Many had not learned of Beatifica’s dreams.
“She saw the Serpent,” grated out Isaacus. “Bear witness, Brother Sarco. You heard as well as I. The Serpent.”
Beatifica said, “Magister,” (him she gave a title) “do I tell them of it?”
Danielus said, “I believe you must.”
“Then, I saw it in an apple tree. But the fruits of the tree were gold and silver, like the sun and the moon.” From speaking the Latin, from talking so much, her voice had changed now utterly. It was a lovely voice, mild but of great clarity. It had scarcely any gender, not feminine—but not masculine in any way. “The snake came down the tree to me. I thought it was a cat—but it hadn’t legs, or ears, so it was a snake. It stared in my face with eyes that were profound.” (She had learned this word, found it apt, used it aptly.) “But I never picked the fruit. They would have burned my hands. I knew not to. Before the snake could speak to me, I was woken.”
In the void, it was Jian who spoke, unable to prevent himself. “Eva, the first woman, heeded the Serpent, plucked the apple, and damned the world with her sin. This Maiden could not—would not. And God Himself woke her from her trance.”
Isaacus, in his fury, cast down his iron cross on the floor. It rang.
“She is a seducer sent by Hell. This fire she brings comes from the Pit. Haven’t I heard tales that she burns men alive?” He moved fast and ungainly, snatching a lit candle from its spike. “This is the natural fire of this world, and what she brings is filth from the guts of the Fiend, a sulfurous belch.” Isaacus raised the candle and croaked, in his voice of pebbles, a blessing over it. “Now it is God’s fire. Do we doubt God’s fire is stronger than the flames of Hell?”
He went rolling towards the girl, like some boat cut loose on a lagoon. She gazed up at him, not moving. Changed as she had, still she was the slave.
Jian moved. With a vast thrust, the black priest shoved him away. Jian had not thought he would need much strength, but Isaacus was brimmed by his virtue.
Isaacus seized up the girl’s right hand by the wrist.
“With this she calls her dirty genius. With this I punish her—”
Cristiano saw her start, flinch. Only a little. But she was used to ill-treatment and wounding.
Isaacus dropped her hand.
He waved the candle, victorious.
“She’s flammable despite the Satanic influence. She burns.”
Cristiano sprang around the chair. It was Jian, staggering still, who somehow caught him back. Danielus who reined him in.
“Wait.”
Leaning to the girl, the Magister lifted her hand and looked at it. Tenderly, perhaps. As a father might.
Then he said, “Get up, Beatifica.”
When she did so—her face showing nothing, only her eyes, as if bruised—he raised her right hand in his own, and showed them all.
“You blessed your candle, Brother Isaacus, and called on God.”
“You heard me, Magister.”
“Then God has answered you. And everyone of us.”
On her hand, at her palm’s center, a red and awful, weeping mark.
“Where else,” said Fra Danielus, “have we seen this sign?”
Joffri did not know whether to shout with laughter or hide his eyes. Not one of them was unfamiliar with the cross, the icon of Sacrifice upon it. Nor the holy pictures of its aftermath. How could they be in doubt? The insane Isaacus, seeking to reveal her as devilish, had scorched her hand. With the divine stigmata granted only to saints, the bleeding scar of the nail which had pierced the palm of Christ.
4
Sunset diminished on the sea. They had come far, and had further to go. As darkness bloomed, it gathered the ships, and formed them into one vast single thing, a cloud of wood and sails.
Those that could had answered the cry to pray.
God is great. There is no god save God. Hasten then to greet Him, hasten that His power make you rich in Him, richer than a thousand golden mantles. There is no god save only God.
Suley-Masroor, Master of the Quarter-Moon, came from the trance of prayer. He got up from the deck. The warmth of the day was softly going with the light. The sea was very calm. The oars were at rest.
On every vessel now, the lanterns were lighting high up in the fore-towers, yellow eyes blinking to each other. Sails furled in, described two masts or three. The Quarter-Moon had three, and the wind-catcher at his stern. He was male, the ship, like all the ships of Jurneia and Candisi, for it was the sea which was female, unpredictable, and lovely.
The Master walked forward to the tower. He climbed the ladder, and the watch stood aside for him.
“It’s good to pray,” said the watchman.
“Yes, always good. For those moments we become again as God would have us, and are without sorrow.”
But after prayer, he thought, the world came back, and this sailing on to make a war.
As if he read the Master’s brain, the watchman said, “They are deserving of wrath, our enemies. They cheat us for our silk and spice. They worship a parody of the Most High. A war of trade, but also holy.”