Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23)

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Cold but well,” she said. “I have just seen Hildren, who told me of what has happened. I thought I might be of some use to you. She said you would need someone to aid you.”

  “Did she tell you what I will have to do?” Sanctu-Germainios asked, impressed by her courage, but wondering if she understood what she was volunteering to do.

  “You will have to cut off his leg,” said Nicoris, resolution and revulsion vying for dominance in her demeanor.

  “Such a procedure is bloody and difficult. Do you think you can endure it?” He watched her as he spoke, trying to decide if she would be able to stomach what he would have to do.

  “I can.” She paused. “I have had sheep savaged by bears, and had to minister to those who could be saved. The butcher took the others. And I helped to treat a mare with a damaged stifle.”

  “It is not quite the same,” Sanctu-Germainios said with sympathy.

  “I have seen men lose limbs before—with swords.”

  “You were not over-set by it?” he asked.

  “Not while it was happening. Later, when it was all finished, I shook for half the afternoon.” She was neither apologetic nor defiant, and though there was no eagerness in her, there was also no reluctance. “Someone must help you. This man is a stranger to me, so his suffering will not distress me as much as it would those who know him.”

  He looked down at Mangueinic’s leg. “Some may disapprove.”

  “So they might,” she said with the appearance of resignation, then brightened, a mordant cast to her tone. “But at least I will have spared them from having to help you themselves. That may count for something.”

  Sanctu-Germainios thought a bit longer. “You will need a working-woman’s palla made of heavy cotton or linen to protect you from the blood. And you’ll need a ricinium to cover your hair. Bathe before and after the task is undertaken.” He noticed that Nicoris swallowed hard but did not flinch. “If you decide you cannot do this, tell me so that I may find another assistant. I will think no less of you if you choose not to help me.”

  “I can do this,” she insisted. “But I have no such clothing. I do have a short Gepidean cloak much like the one you’re wearing, and it should be adequate. It’s boiled wool.”

  “Will you need it later? You should consider that, since you will want to discard it after the leg is removed; blood in that amount does not wash out easily.” He slipped his hand into Mangueinic’s arm-pit and shook his head in alarm. “We must attend to this soon. His fever is increasing.” Saying that, he reached for his medicaments and selected a glass jar. “This is a fortified tincture of willow-bark-and-pansy. If he can be made to drink some, his fever should stop rising, at least for a while, and his pain may be reduced. But he will bleed more freely because of it.”

  “That should help diminish the fever in his blood,” she said. “Give me the jar and I’ll try to make him take—how much would you recommend?”

  “Half the contents of the jar,” he said after considering for a moment.

  “Half the jar.” She took it from him and opened the lid. “Is the taste unpleasant?”

  Sanctu-Germainios thought back to the many comments he had heard over the centuries, since he had never tasted it. “It is somewhat bitter and caustic, but not intolerably so.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said as she dipped her finger in the sauce-like solution, then spread it on Mangueinic’s lips; he licked it away, and she did it again. “This should enable me to give him a fair amount.”

  “Very good,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I am going to the withdrawing room on the east corner to prepare it for the task. Hildren knows what will be needed; I will tell her to make the bath ready for you.” He could feel a deep fatigue grip him, the accumulation of centuries and the weight of mortality. “We should begin as soon as we may. It is beginning to lighten and it serves nothing to delay.”

  “All right,” said Nicoris, tipping the jar to Mangueinic’s lips. “Half of this, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Sanctu-Germainios as he went off toward the withdrawing room. He found it empty of everything but a low table and a large, oblong hearth-shield of brass. The table would not be useful to him, but the hearth-shield could be heated for cauterizing the wound; he would order a fire built up, and would bring in the trestle-table from his book-room. The thought gave him a pang, for he would have to leave almost all of his books behind, and he had no hope that the Huns would not destroy them. He removed the shutters from the windows, taking note of the lowering, light-gray clouds that were beginning to pale in anticipation of dawn.

  “Dom?” The voice was Hildren’s; she was standing in the doorway, her sagum drawn tightly around her, her face grave. “You are going to do it?”

  Sanctu-Germainios turned toward her. “I think I must,” he answered softly. “The amputation may kill him, but the infection most certainly will.”

  “Are you sure?” She came into the room, stopping at the table.

  “As sure as my experience makes me,” he replied, approaching her. “Did you speak to Patras Anso?”

  “He said he could not decide what ought to be done.” She cocked her head to the side. “He told me to pray, and I have tried, but nothing comes to me to ask God, except to spare Mangueinic’s life.”

  “Then the only thing that might accomplish that is to remove his leg,” said Sanctu-Germainios as gently as he could.

  “There could be a miracle,” she said in a small voice.

  “There could,” he told her, with no conviction whatsoever. “But that is a gamble that could cost him his life.”

  “So is your plan,” she accused him.

  “Yes. But at least if he survives the amputation, he may be able to endure the journey to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit. If his leg is not removed, he will have to remain here, for travel would not only be agonizing, he would not live through it, and that is as sure as sunrise.”

  “I want him to live,” she whispered.

  “So do I.”

  Hildren gave a shudder as if releasing all the pent-up fear. “Then tell me what you need and I will see to it.”

  He told her the things he required, and added, “Nicoris has said she will assist me. If you can find two strong men to help hold him down, then I will start as soon as this room is ready and I have had a quick bath.” He looked around the room, thinking that it would soon be splashed with blood. It would be a dreadful sight—not as bad as what the Huns might do, but hideous in its way; it would remind him of how long it had been since he had taken sustenance, and although this was not the kind of blood he would take, he felt famished for an instant. With an impatient motion, he returned to the reception-room, going to Mangueinic’s bed and Nicoris. “How much has he taken?”

  “Not quite half,” she answered, holding up the jar. “I’ve tried to get him to drink more, but he gags.”

  “Then we must let him be for now.” He tested his arm-pit again. “The fever is still quite high.”

  “Is that a problem?” She held out the jar to him, the lid back in place.

  “Fever is always a problem.” He set the jar with his other medicaments and studied the supine figure. “A table will be set up for him in the withdrawing room. I’ll move him as soon as it is prepared.”

  Nicoris stared down at Mangueinic. “I’m ready,” she said to Sanctu-Germainios.

  “You will be when you have bathed.” He put his supplies and medicaments back in his case, adding, “If you will bring the syrup of poppies before you go to the bath-house? We will have need of it.”

  She shrugged and did as he asked. As they entered the withdrawing room, she said, “You will need to build up the fire, won’t you?”

  “Yes.” He stared at the window. “There will be more snow soon.”

  “Will that delay our leaving tomorrow?” She put the syrup of poppies on the mantel and stared around her.

  “We would have to complete an outer wall in a few days if we did, and with the gro
und frozen, that wouldn’t be possible. Wise as the Goths are to build outer walls, they are not easily maintained in winter.” He turned to her. “Go gather up the clothes you will wear, then hie yourself to the bath-house and wash thoroughly.”

  Nicoris nodded. “If you’re sure it’s necessary.”

  “It is,” he answered, and turned to see Khorea in the doorway. “Ah. Let me tell you how the room is to be set up, and then I will go to my quarters and then the bath-house.” He motioned to Nicoris. “We will get this done as quickly as we can.”

  She gave a single nod and left the reception-room.

  He regarded Khorea. “If any of these men should need attending, call upon Patras Iob. He has some experience with the wounded. I will give you my full attention as soon as I have the opportunity, but what Mangueinic requires will take at least a quarter of the morning.” He then described what he needed her to arrange for him.

  Khorea made the sign of the cross to call the protection of the Christ upon them all. “I will do my utmost. And I will pray that the Huns do not return today, or tomorrow.”

  “Very good,” said Sanctu-Germainios, doubtful that her supplications would make any difference. He went to his quarters, chose his clothes, his special surgical tools, then went out into the frigid morning, all the while hoping that the amputation was not coming too late to spare Mangueinic from death.

  Text of two identical letters from Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios to Rugierus, written in Imperial Latin on squares of sanded split leather in fixed ink, then entrusted to Patras Nestor for delivery to the crossing-fortresses at Drobetae and Oescus on the Danuvius. Only the first reached its destination, sixty-seven days after being dispatched.

  Rogerian,

  When you receive this, we will have moved on to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, where we will spend the winter, and hope that the Huns will not follow us there. We have forty-six carts and wagons, and over four hundred people in our company. A few of the Gepidae in Apulum Inferior have decided to take their chances on reaching Aquincum, and have already left.

  Since I have received no messages from you, I must hope that this reaches you as you return from Constantinople. So much has been disrupted by the presence of the Huns that I am going to assume that the failure of messages is the result of their actions and not an indication of harm to you. Additionally, I am assuming that Dona Rhea has been established appropriately in the city of her birth—for which I am deeply obliged to you.

  If matters go ill at Sanctu-Eustachios, then I will attempt to reach Olivia in Aquileia, and should that fail, I will strike out for Lago Comus. At every opportunity I will dispatch messengers to ports where my trading company has offices, on my own ships if possible, and ask you to do the same so that we may once more reunite.

  Sanct’ Germainus

  (his sigil, the eclipse)

  7

  Glistering sunlight shone off the patches of new snow along the narrow road that led up over the ridge to the little valley where Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit was situated, all but obscured by shaggy pines and ponderous oaks; the wagons and carts and flocks were strung out for almost a league along the way, forced into single-file by the narrow path. Humans and animals kept up a steady walk even as the road grew steeper; the herders strove to keep their animals from bolting into the trees, and mothers kept vigilant watch on their children, knowing how capable they were of mischief and how dangerous it could be for them all. This was their fourth day of travel and the weather was deteriorating, high, thin clouds increasing the glare of the sky, riding on a sharp, searching wind.

  Mounted on a large mule, Patras Anso led the people from Apulum Inferior and the refugees from Tsapousso on the torturous road, followed by Enlitus Brevios, the new captain of the Watchmen and master mason, on a mountain pony. Watchmen with spears in their hands walked between the two leaders, alert to any disturbance on the road or near it. Behind them came an assortment of wagons, the third of which held Mangueinic with Hildren and Nicoris to tend him. Immediately behind that wagon rode Sanctu-Germainios on a handsome gray horse—one of six he had brought with him. To protect himself from the biting wind he wore a fine black abolla of boiled wool over his heavy silk pallium and black-dyed doeskin femoralia; his thick-soled boots were of dark-red leather from Troesmis. He carried his case of medical supplies on a strap across his chest. After him came more wagons, and the people from Tsapousso with their vehicles and animals, then the flocks and herds of the region of Apulum Inferior with their keepers flanking them, and finally the carts pulled by donkeys and driven by under-cooks and grooms, holding the foodstuffs, supplies, and household goods from the abandoned town.

  Sanctu-Germainios moved his horse up close to the rear of the wagon and called out, “How is he doing?”

  Nicoris stuck her head out of the leather panels that covered the back and said, “The syrup of poppies is keeping him asleep for now and the bandage you gave him is allowing the cauterized scar and the skin flap you have sewn over it to breathe, as you said it would. There is no sign of returning infection, though he complains of itching. He drinks when we give him your medicaments in water, and his fever is moderate, not high. Hildren tells me he has made water twice since we broke camp.”

  “Has he been awake for any period of time?”

  “He has been groggy, not truly awake, about a third of the time; at those times he forgets that we’re traveling. He keeps talking about reinforcing the outer wall. He wants it done before the Huns can return.” A slight frown crossed her face. “If the road gets much rougher, it will take a toll on him.”

  “On us all,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Thirhald’s woman could go into labor early if she has to endure much more of this.”

  “Agtha rides in the wagon behind us, doesn’t she? All the injured are in wagons or on mules, isn’t that right?” Nicoris asked, holding on to the frame as the trail dipped down toward a fast-running stream.

  Sanctu-Germainios adjusted his seat in his Persian-style saddle, with a broad, raised pommel to help him maintain his balance; he held his horse with his lower legs and leaned back as the gelding picked his way down the slope. “She does; Khorea and Dysis are with her. I may ask Isalind to ride with them when next we stop; she has had four children of her own, and has birthed six others—more than Khorea and Dysis combined.” She was, he believed, the nearest thing Apulum Inferior had to a midwife.

  “It will calm her, at least, having such good help with her. It will calm Thirhald as well,” said Nicoris, and ducked back into the wagon.

  From the front of the line, Patras Anso called out, “We will ford a stream ahead. The water will be cold, but not too deep. It should not rise above your knees. We will group on the far side so the animals can drink, and we may have a short rest before we have to climb to the ridge.”

  Four of the Watchmen turned and made their way back along the line, relaying the Patras’ words to all the travelers; a buzz of conversation followed their progress along the line.

  As predicted, the water was cold, flowing fast in a rocky bed; it rose a bit higher than the Watchmen’s knees, but no higher than half-way up their thighs. The horses and mules had a dodgy crossing, finding poor footing in the stream; one of the wagons almost lost awheel as it lurched across. Sanctu-Germainios, feeling queasy as he always did crossing running water, held the team of mules from the back of his horse while half a dozen men worked to keep the wheel in place so that the wagon would not founder. He avoided looking at the water, and instead concentrated on the mules in order to contain his sense of vertigo. If only he were not hungry, he thought, this passage would be less disquieting; the blood of horses that had sustained him on the trail thus far did little to offset his enervation.

  By the time the herds and flocks were on the far bank, it was past mid-day and Patras Anso ordered that they prepare a meal before they resumed their journey. “No fires!” he shouted. “No fires! Cheese and bread and apples, but nothing hot! We want no smoke to mark our p
lace.”

  There was a discontented rumble of protest, but everyone understood why Patras Anso had ordered it, and they went about putting together meals that needed no fire and that could be eaten quickly.

  “Are you never hungry, Dom?” Nicoris asked as Sanctu-Germainios dropped out of the saddle; they were at the edge of the gathering, away from the bustle.

  “Of course I am,” he said, aware that he was now; it was more than a week since he had taken any sustenance from a human source.

  “But I never see you eat.” She contemplated him, her quicksilver eyes alive with curiosity. “You don’t join the rest of the household for prandium, nor did you when there was a convivium in the town.”

  “No; those of my blood dine in private.”

  “That’s haughty of them,” said Nicoris as if remarking on the distance they had covered that morning. “How did they come to decide such a thing—are they afraid of poison?”

  “Not that I recall,” he said, realizing that she had been observing him more closely than he had supposed.

  “Then do their gods demand it?”

  “Possibly: they see it as respectful, in any case,” he said, recalling the living god of his people who had brought him to his life before he fell in battle. He drew his horse’s reins over his head and started to lead him to the edge of the stream.

  Nicoris tagged after him, her saie dragging on the ground behind her. “Who are your people, that they have such manners?”

  He paused, then spoke to her. “Long ago they lived in the mountains east of here, but they were driven away from their native earth by powerful enemies who came out of the east and forced us to the south and the west, away from our native earth. There are not many of us left.”