Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series)

by Tanith Lee

  The outer islands were almost deserted—Torchara, Isole. (More inward, also the Isle of the Dead, where the dead had been left to the mercy of God.)

  Those who kept the outer (useless) defenses of Aquila and Fulvia, or on the Silvian Marshes—soldiers and hapless volunteers—soon saw the strategy of the Jurneians was to be as predicted.

  Within half a day they had blasted flat the sea walls. (The infirmaria, marooned on its strip of land, took one blow almost incidentally. Laid indecently open, it displayed its two stories like shelves, stocked with corpses, and worse, the partly-dead and screaming.)

  As the afternoon tide shifted, also as prophesied, the Jurneians used their sailors and their slaves to lay down wooden rollers on the sand-bars thus exposed. Their slaves then dragged over them the ships, by ropes. Where the sea had its narrow access to Fulvia, by the isle of Torchara, they pulled the ships through by means of little boats, taking no chances.

  Into the lagoons, Jurneia came. Making soundings as they came, sensibly. The lagoons were not to be trusted, their floors uneven. Jurneia knew everything. Even not to move in too near. As yet.

  Last isolate cannon fired from Isole, Torchara, and the marsh. And from five ships that sailed around the flank of the Isle of the Dead.

  Jurneia returned fire, as if in courtesy not to belittle, and the Veneran artillery grew silent.

  Like the smashed barrier boats, the five last ships of the fleet of Venus cracked and split, floated, turned over and went down, sails spread out once more like washing, belly full of water. Veneran men swam frantically away, and Jurneia let them.

  Bells rang in Venus. Not for prayer. Everyone that could was praying, probably.

  The bells, like the ballistas, presently fell silent, too.

  Some seven hundred and fifty-eight Jurneian ships had survived the fight at Ciojha. Now four hundred of them were mounted on the waters of the lagoons. They jostled a while. Then they were in order.

  Now, Jurneia did no more. The ships stood there, hiding the water, tall and burgeoned with their rigging.

  Seen from the City shores, they were like one more city.

  They stood there.

  Needing nothing else.

  The Master Suley-Masroor, in the fore-tower of Quarter-Moon, was looking at Venarh, in afternoon light.

  He saw no beauty in it. Like all cities, it had some glamours, the huge gleaming dome of its idolatrous fane, for example. But it seemed strange to him, wrong, the way this host of walls overhung, or went down into, the water. Besides, it was there only to be destroyed. Not by his will, but by the will of those he served. And through destiny, which came from God.

  He was sorry for Venarh.

  In the sea-fight he had not felt that. He slew the Christian devils and assisted in the wreck of their vessels.

  This thing lay passive, and not well defended. It had its own unlovely but cogent life. Yet, men had souls, even if they threw them away in non-belief; there would be a chance for those Jurneia captured as slaves and converted to the true faith.

  But a city’s spirit died with its body. Crows would wheel above Venarh, and sea-birds make their nests in its ruin. The sea it flirted with would wash in and cover it.

  Among the under-rooms of the Primo, the chamber of the Council of the lamb was lit by candles and by torches. It had no window. An iron room, filled full today.

  The Council was in session. But along the great table of polished ebony, there also sat Fra Danielus, and his two fellow Magisters Major, with Ve Nera’s Marshal of Arms, who had come here, swearing, from the quays. Captains of the Marshal sat by or stood at his back, and alongside them, nine of the Upper Echelon of the Bellatae Christi.

  Of the Council too, eleven were seated. The twelfth was on his feet. And there was quiet, save for this one voice. A hoarse and crackled, hurried yelling, spitting out words like showers of darts.

  “If we had cleansed this city—Sodomus, would we have come to this? If we’d done what was there to be done. We were lax—some of us. We let sin run like the water through Ve Nera. Now it will be blood.”

  The Marshal again swore. Softly as a leaf turning.

  Brother Isaacus veered to the tiny sound.

  “Ah—be careful of your tongue. These are the filthy things because of which God abandons us—”

  The Marshal stared at Isaacus. A look of hatred, rage—and fear. He said, “Forgive me, holy brother. What I’ve seen has made me forgetful.”

  “I don’t forget you, Marshal. I shall send to you, when this is done.”

  Danielus spoke. “If any of us live, perhaps you may, Brother Isaacus. To thank this man for all his labor on the City’s behalf. Or should he have sped away with the rest, and left the City like a trencher for Jurneia’s meat and knife?”

  The Marshal said, reverting to his role, “We must send to them, and make terms.”

  “Send! send to them—” screeched Isaacus like some scraping, rusty nail—“they are the Devil! Infidels—”

  “They won’t make terms,” said Danielus. “It was attempted. The Ducem, while he remained, sent letters. And this was before they brought us low. Now they’ll only settle for annihilation. Yes indeed, Brother Isaacus. It will be like the fate of Sodomus. Fire and brimstone. Leaving only a pillar of salt.”

  The Council shuddered as if a whirlwind raked through them. It was fright. They were the makers and causers of fear, yet themselves not immune to it. Or, only one of their number.

  But as Isaacus began another tirade, Sarco got up, holding high both hands.

  “Let’s be calm. Yes, brother, calm. We are here to decide what can be done.”

  Isaacus said, almost gently now, “Nothing. It’s too late. This City is tumbling in the Pit. Too late.”

  “You will tumble with it,” said Danielus, dryly.

  “I am of no account. And my soul’s clear of dirt.”

  A silence fell here, as outside.

  No sound might be heard, but the rustle of the torches.

  Then Sarco said, “For myself, I prefer to let God judge me. And for now, I live. Fra Danielus, have you any advice?”

  Standing at the Magister’s back, Cristiano observed Sarco, Brother of the lamb, who seemed theirs, but who ultimately was in the service, perhaps the pay, of Danielus. Never before had such a thing occurred to Cristiano. It surprised, disgusted him, but remotely. Much had become remote to him.

  As Danielus rose, the other Magisters turned to him. Even the Marshal did so.

  Danielus addressed them in the mildest tone.

  “We are at the brink. Our defenders are pared to a handful, our defenses ill-prepared and overthrown. Our shepherd, Joffri, has—been called away. The Jurneians don’t practice clemency. They kill or enslave. They raze, so one stone fails to stand on another. We need therefore a miracle, sent by God.”

  Isaacus drew back his head and made some horrible noise of derision from his half-throat.

  “Yes, brother,” said Danielus. “I was about to say that we’ve been given one.”

  Sarco crossed himself. “It may be.”

  Isaacus cawed: “Satanus—”

  It was broad Jesolo who rose from the Council, and he roared across the table, slamming down his fist upon it, “Hold your wind, brother! I’ve heard enough from you. Even in the Cities of the Plain, God searched for one good man. Are there no virtuous men in Ve Nera? Hold your foul breath and let the Magister speak.” And turning he said, “Is it this Maiden they talk of?”

  “Yes, Brother Jesolo.”

  “A virgin, a saint—”

  “A virgin, yes. The nuns of the Little Capella have examined her. A saint … that’s for others to decide. But you know her gift, I imagine.”

  The Marshal said, “I know she brought them comfort in the square. She was there three or four hours with the wounded and the dying. Praying with them.”

  Isaacus screeched and hopped in a frenzy of viciousness.

  The bulk of the Brothers shrank away from him. />
  There came another voice. Above.

  Cristiano recognized it, as did the other Bellatae, the Marshal and his captains, now plunging to their feet.

  A long splitting rush. Then a concussion, at which the torches rocked and candles fell. The chamber shook.

  “They’re firing on the City!”

  “The Primo’s struck!”

  “The roof will come down on us—”

  Black dusts trickled down, and up, through the air.

  Cristiano watched some of the Brothers crawling out from under the ebony table. There was the sharp smell of fresh urine.

  “A miracle, then,” said Sarco. “Magister, we’re in your hands. All Ve Nera is in them.”

  Outside, when the bombardment had ceased, Venus sent up columns of dark dust, reminding Cristiano of the candle-soot below. How many candles here had been put out?

  The Primo, clearly a target, they had aimed at. But the discrepancies in the depth of the lagoons had kept the enemy fleet bunched up and still some distance out. Range differed, and by a fluke—or divine design—no missile had hit the Basilica. One barrage had struck somehow behind it, however, and smashed the houses there, and the palace of a prince.

  Towards the Silvian Marshes, the streamers of rising darkness were more pronounced. And from this square, Aquila seemed hidden by a drifting, horizontal pall, that almost certainly was, or had been, the silk market. Apt enough.

  Cries filled the clouded air from all around. Bells came and went, starting and stopping.

  The sun westered. Shapes grew flat and without color. As if the condemned City became unreal.

  Cristiano stared up at the Angel Tower. In the torture cages, did the two lingerers notice any of this? Were they glad, or made worse?

  He put his hand on the carved stone of the Lion Door, to feel it. A war was also in his mind. Pain in conflict—with joy. Exhilaration. Tumult.

  Beatifica.

  Over the water, you could abruptly make out the huge maneuvering of the infidel ships. Testing, regrouping now, to come in closer and do more.

  In the Primo courts a running man ran up to Cristiano, the Soldier of God, and told him Aretzo had died, just now. Cristiano signaled himself with the cross. He could feel nothing new. It was as if he had never known Aretzo, never prayed nor fought beside him. Cristiano was regretful. But it was a politeness.

  “Heaven receive him.”

  “And all of us, Bellator.”

  10

  Sunfall.

  Watchman, in your high tower—what of the night?

  The order had gone out along the waterfronts to make no light. Cannoneers might take sightings on every such beacon.

  Ve Nera, meeting darkness, masked in the dark.

  The Jurneians had not fired again, had not sent boats towards the quays. But like wolves they had come closer. And among the shore watchers, armed with pikes and clubs and hunting arrows, the word was that a horde more ships had been drawn in through Silvia, and through Torchara’s needle’s eye of sea. Five hundred now, in the lagoons.

  Why did they wait?

  Like the Christians, these Godless infidels prayed very often.

  Ve Nera had heard their offices, in the afternoon, and at sunset. A weird howling, it had seemed. Suitable, of course, to wolves.

  Unlike the blackened City, their ships were bright with lanterns. They glowed, and the water sparkled under them as if to welcome.

  They were wolves and tigers, the Jurneians. They liked best to attack by night.

  Activity began to be seen on their decks. They were close enough now, it could easily be made out.

  And then, after the stillness which the infidel had brimmed with animal noises, singing burst from the Primo.

  Although there had been no bells, it was the office of Venusium, the Evening Mass.

  And then the doors of the Basilica were thrown wide, and light, blinding sheets of silver and gold, flung heedlessly on the dark.

  From her crannies and corners, Ve Nera peered to see.

  The Basilica dome had bloomed like a white rosebud that sheltered a kernel of flame.

  On every side of it, the torches were lighting up. Was this madness?

  Among the Jurneian fleet, Jurneia too paid attention. Perhaps asking the same.

  Now from the Lion Door, a massive procession issued. The priests in their black and white, their magenta and purple. Boys singing. Sound with light flared and flew into the other upper dome of night.

  Incense blew so thick they smelled it on the ships. (Incense, which like the spice and silk, had come from the East.) There were a million candles, delicate butterfly points, yellow stars. And tall brands that burned ferociously.

  On Quarter-Moon, Suley-Masroor looked, and thought, They mean to sue for peace, but like kings—affronted.

  At Santa La’La over the marsh, seeing the sudden blaze of the Primo, certain nuns clustered crying that the Basilica had been set alight. They were not alone in this error.

  But it was a pageant for those nearer, in the palaces and cannon-spoilt tennements about, as among the enemy fleet.

  The priests filled the square, and moved aside. They made an avenue. Their singing ceased. Fearfulness crept back into their faces, which the chant had momentarily eased. The candles shook. This looked only charming: a million butterfly stars, flickering.

  And through the avenue stalked the Bellatae Christi, the Upper Echelon, now numbering almost thirty knights. With, walking after them, three hundred more of the Militia of God. All that were left.

  Their steel maculums, their mail, the white cloaks crossed with blood; helmed, each with the sword drawn in one hand. Some with a piece of red cloth like a rose above the badge of the Lion and Child. Within the cordon of the priests they too formed an avenue. Lastly, down this narrowed corridor, two Bellatae marched, bearing between them the Madonna Standard from the Primo’s innermost Sanctum. Ten feet high, the banner swayed, heavy with bullion and pearls. The moon-pure face of Maria looked towards the ships, unmoved. Her pale hand raised to bless all that knew her.

  Murmuring went over the walls of men, armored in mail or purple or black. From the roofs and windows all about. From stations of defense all but abandoned.

  Would this special icon protect them? Or did it only signify the end?

  Then, out of the Lion Door, behind the Standard, alone, as on a previous night, the figure came, but riding.

  On the Jurneian vessels they exclaimed. These fools of Venarh. This must be their Ducem, sent to plead for them. But he was only a boy.

  Nevertheless, they honored him somewhat, the men of Jurneia; they had heard he ran away, but no, he was here. A brave boy. Let them take him as a slave and break him, to reclaim his soul—How well he controlled the horse.

  Cristiano stood among the Bellatae. As they did, he raised his head, and looked up, at the Maiden Beatifica.

  In the Primo, in the floor, were mosaic pictures, parables and allegories. In one, a fox was shown, hoisted up on a pole by a dove, Virtue triumphing over Cunning.

  She had been a fox, a vixen. And before her they had carried the image of the Virgin.

  The brain, spinning with images, words, memory.

  She rode the red horse, which in the torch and candlelight looked like carnelian, as did the waterfall of her hair.

  In her white and gold he saw she was no longer a girl dressed as a man, or a female boy. No travesty. She was as she must be. Of neither sex. Of some other gender. Like an angel.

  There was a humming note, low and tremendous in his ears. It was the murmuring intensity of all who stood here, priests and warrior-priests. A reverberation, part vocal, partly psychic.

  And everywhere about, the City, upturned like a casket of beetles, running every way or petrified. Attending.

  Emotion was her impetus. Danielus had said.

  What had he said to her?

  Her face was raised above Cristiano now, lifted over them all, as the slow horse brought her on. Could any h
uman face be so white? Empty of any features but the eyes of gold.

  Inside him, mounting, mounting, the glory and the terror of ultimate surrender, than which God would accept no less.

  Her shadow, cast from the torches, swept over him. He felt his body drain of everything, of life, even. And how many others felt as he did.

  He could have cried out, to her. He was dumb. Before this presence, he would not speak. But she had given him back his faith. That night when she prayed among the dying, saving them from Hell—she had saved him, too, from the Hell of a world without God.

  Beatifica.

  Beatifica.

  Her shadow, golden as light, passed. He watched her travel on, his soul caught up, on air.

  In some upper room, standing with Danielus, as he showed her the ships out on the lagoon, she would have waited passively, the way she did.

  Had those ships meant anything until explained their purpose and possibility?

  Had the Magister said to her, gravely, “Only you, Beatifica, are able to save us”?

  But she lit candles, she called flame like a garland and dropped it prettily into oil. She was domestic.

  They said, when a slave she had burned her master, the wood-seller. But it was a vulnerable wood-yard. The madman Berbo, who was not mad, had said he saw her walk clothed in fire. But he was drunk.

  “Call the fire, Beatifica.”

  Cristiano heard Danielus speak it, inside his brain.

  Cristiano thought of the dream he had had, all Ve Nera gathered in the Primo, and the Madonna Standard.

  Aretzo was dead.

  Death did not matter. The road was stones but the gates were made of pearl.

  Beatifica.

  If they died now, she would raise them up. They would go with her on her wings. He would go with her, fearing nothing, into the unknown light of eternity.

  When your heart is mine You may do as you will to When my heart is yours Then wish the world good-bye

  The red horse had come to the edge of the square, where the black water lapped below.

  She gleamed, snow white and red as fire.

  In the square, in the City, not a sound now. Nothing.