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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  This is not a task I can undertake personally, of course, for I would be viewed with suspicion by many of those seeking refuge at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, but I will dispatch my newly freed manservant, Hredus, to go to the monastery and report on all he sees. Hredus has an elementary knowledge of letters and he may be relied upon in this undertaking as I relied upon him assisting me in my dispatching of Sergios of Drobetae, who would surely have betrayed Roman interests to Byzantium in exchange for the advancement he sought. If there is any skulduggery afoot, Hredus will root it out and get word to me as quickly as distance and weather allows. I will charge him also with learning all that he can about the location and number of Hunnic forces in the region and the nature of their attacks: with all the barbarians flocking to the Huns, it will serve us well to know how and where the Huns have enlarged their armies, and any changes they have made in their methods of making war.

  Know by this that my devotion to you and the Roman cause is beyond corruption and unending,

  Verus Flautens

  PART II

  DOM FERANESCUS

  RAKOCZY SANCTU-GERMAINIOS

  Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Aquileia to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus at Apulum Inferior in the Kingdom of the Gepidae, once the Province of Dacia, written in Imperial Latin on two sheets of vellum in fixed ink and carried by Iraeneus Catalinus, but never delivered.

  To my most cherished friend and blood relation, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens from her estate at Aquileia on this, the Winter Solstice of the year 438 according to the Christians, the 1191st Year of the City, and the 2557th year since your birth:

  How long it has been since I have had word from you—and I am assuming you have written—or received any letters from anyone in old Dacia. Were it not for the accounts of increasing Hunnic raids, I would think only that any messages sent to me had been delayed, but given the increasing alarms from that region, I have become more vexed than I was earlier in the year, which is saying a great deal, and now that word has come that the Western Emperor has hoped to bring about an alliance with the Goths or Gauls against the Huns, I am growing truly distressed; there have been so many assaults on Roma that I doubt any of the Empire is safe. You needn’t remind me that I would know if you had died the True Death, but a great deal of harm could come to you without that happening, and I have imagined the most dreadful things.

  A month ago I received a visit from a merchant, Demetrios Maius, whom I had known in Porolissum, who has lost everything that he owned that remained there. He is now attempting to gather what little he has left in the towns and cities where he has done business before this ruin came upon him, telling me that he fears for all of the Empire in the West. Assuming he can amass enough to salvage a small trading company for himself, he then plans to leave for Constantinople and enter into a partnership with a cousin who owns ships. His family and household were spared destruction by leaving Porolissum last July, and are now at Ravenna with the family of his mother and her brothers, most of whom are rich; once he has established himself, he will summon his family to join him. His experience is unusual only because he was so beforehand in his planning, and he made the most of the opportunity to depart ahead of the forces of Attila, the new King of the Huns, who he claims is responsible for their new ferocity. He asked me how many others I knew of had got out before the town was razed, and I had to admit that I knew of fewer than five households. Thinking of you, I provided Maius with ten golden Emperors as an initial investment in his new trading company, and the name of your factor in Constantinople, in case his cousin there reneges on his agreement. It is the sort of gesture you would make, don’t you think?

  How many of the fortunes in what was Dacia can still be secure? How many estates are truly safe? Seharic the Goth is in no position to hire soldiers beyond the ones allied to him by marriage or blood, and he is far from unique among his people. The Gepidae have soldiers, but they fight on foot, not on horseback as the Huns do, which puts them at a disadvantage, even if they had men enough to hold off the Huns. Roma cannot send Legions to protect what is no longer theirs in any case, and the Emperor in Byzantium is not about to risk his troops in Dacia. Stilicho is dead and there is now no General in Byzantium who is willing to take on the Huns as he did. For all his skills, Aetius is in no position to contain the Huns either, and is not likely to act unless he is attacked directly.

  Do not, I beg you, consider this a challenge to you to take up arms against the Huns because no living man will do it. It is exactly the kind of foolhardy thing you would do. You have risks enough without making a target of yourself with the Huns. As regional guardian, you may limit your hazards to preserving Apulum Inferior and its extended vicinity, as you are sworn to do, which is dangerous enough without you taking on more. Remarkable though you are, you cannot oppose the Huns alone. Compassion for the living is all very well in its way, but it should include your own survival—not that I suppose you will consider such advice if you see peril increasing.

  With most of the Roman Court now removed to Ravenna, depending on the Padus and its swamps around the city to defend it from attack better than walls could, Roma itself is ripe for another plundering. For that reason, I have decided to stay here in Aquileia for the time being. I have sent instructions to Adrastus Feo, the major domo at Sine Pari, to reinforce the villa starting with the outermost walls, and to do the same for Villa Ragoczy. I’ve ordered that the inner stockade at both estates be strengthened, and weapons provided for defense, for whether or not the Huns come to Roma, Goths or Vandals or Gauls or other northern barbarians may decide to plunder it now that it is so very vulnerable.

  Cognizant of the hazards of Aquileia’s location, Niklos Aulirios has engaged masons to put a stone wall around the central buildings on this estate. I must thank you again for reanimating him for me. It is more than a century since you restored him to life, and every day he proves his worth a thousand times. He believes stone is the better choice now, since the Huns are known to set wooden walls afire. It is an expensive precaution, but one I endorse, and which I encourage you to consider, as well. Were stonework not so dear in Roma, I would have ordered the walls of our villas ringed with it, but the cost is prohibitive, even with the funds you have provided to me. I may regret my decision in time, and Sine Pari may suffer for it, but I believe that a double wall of standing, close-joined trunks will suffice unless Roma is left entirely without defenders of any sort. It will mean cutting down the wood at Villa Ragoczy, I regret to say, but it is the only way to ensure the work is done quickly and properly, and without paying outrageous prices.

  If conditions continue to deteriorate in this region, and Roma remains exposed, I will go to Lago Comus to the villa there; it is properly fortified and there is a company of mercenaries based near-by. If you need a place to come to and you decide not to go back to Constantinople—which, I remind you, would be prudent—then perhaps you would like to join me there, at least for a short while, say as long as a year? Ordinarily I would agree with your policy of separate lives, but surely two vampires can spend time together without attracting unwanted attention with so much of the world caught up in bloody turmoil; what we do is hardly comparable. We would have the opportunity to enjoy the tranquillity of accepting companionship, which is as advantageous in its way as the passion of the living can be. At least give it some thought, won’t you.

  You may send me an answer with the man who brings it, Iraeneus Catalinus, one of five couriers recommended to me by the Praetor Custodis of Aquileia. He knows the main roads of old Dacia and most of the minor ones, and has three strong horses for his journey, two from my own stable. He has been to Apulum Inferior and promises to find it again. If the roads are blocked by snow when he reaches the frontier, he will wait in Viminacium until the thaw to deliver this. I ask you to reward him handsomely, since many couriers now refuse to venture north of the Danuvius.

  Be safe, my oldest, my dearest friend, and, on behalf of all your f
orgotten gods, be sensible. Let this anniversary of your birth remind you of the value of your longevity. Remember that I want to know where I can find you once you have removed yourself from harm’s way. I should be here for two years unless the Huns come this way, in which case, seek me at Lago Comus. If I leave Lago Comus before you arrive, I will send word of where I have gone to your factors in all the ports where Eclipse Trading operates, so that one way or another, we will reunite, if only for a little while.

  Eternally your devoted

  Olivia

  1

  Priam Corydon rose from the slated floor of his monastery’s church, his shoulders and knees aching; he brushed off the front of his rough-woven pallium, and went to open the doors for the rest of his monks to begin their daily worship. He could barely hear the novice singing the Psalms’ worn-down Latin in the chapel behind the altar, for the wind was ululating so loudly that the icons seemed to be transfixed by the uncanny noise. It was half-way between midnight and dawn, so cold that the Priam’s breath fogged in front of his face as he trudged toward the door, stamping his feet to help warm them, his wool-lined peri feeling woefully inadequate to keep out the razor-like chill. He told himself that this was the heart of winter, the hardest time that always came shortly after the year turned toward light again, and that he should be grateful that the days were getting longer, but at the moment, he found it difficult to praise God for his discomfort.

  Monachos Egidius Remigos, the broad-bodied warder, stood outside the doors, his arms folded, the monks gathered behind him. He made the sign of the fish. “Priam Corydon. God be praised.”

  Priam Corydon made the sign of the cross. “God be praised, Monachos Egidius. Open the doors to our good monks, that they may receive the blessings of God.” He moved aside and let the monks file through.

  The last in line was Monachos Niccolae of Sinu, the recorder for the monastery. “I will need a word with you later, Priam Corydon,” he said just before he entered the church.

  “This evening,” said Priam Corydon.

  “It is a matter of some urgency.”

  “After Mass, then.” Wondering what had happened this time, Priam Corydon nodded his consent, resigning himself to a busy day; all days had been busy since the refugees arrived. He stood still, watching Monachos Egidius close the door, then listening for the first drone of the Mass chanted in Greek. When he knew the ritual was under way, he went off toward the cross-shaped building that held the monks’ cells, the refectory, the kitchens, the library, the infirmary, and the two small offices of the monastery. He would be permitted to sleep until the sky lightened in the east, and this morning, he needed all the rest he could get. With all the refugees inside the monastery’s walls, the demands of his position had trebled, with the promise of more duties to come. He recalled that he would have to meet with the Tribune of the garrison from Ulpia Traiana after they all broke their fasts, and then the delegation from Apulum Inferior; perhaps he should see them at the same time, so that there would be no opportunity for anyone to misconstrue his actions. “Christ be merciful,” he said, more loudly than he had intended, as he entered the dormitory wing of the building—the right end of the main cross-arm of the crucifix.

  “Priam Corydon,” mumbled the dormitory warder.

  “Monachos Bessamos,” said Priam Corydon, passing down the narrow corridor to his own cell at the far end, just off the intersection of the hallways. As he entered his cell, he made the sign of the fish, and then used a small knife to trim the wick on the single oil-lamp burning beneath the Greek crucifix next to the door. In the uncertain light, he made his way to his narrow straw-filled mattress atop a simplified table-bed. He recited his prayers, then lay down, pulling up his single blanket, and did his best, in spite of his worries and the cold, to fall asleep. After a longer time than he had hoped, he was dozing, when a sharp rap on his door brought him awake once again. “What?” he called out.

  “I apologize, Priam, but there is a problem in the main kitchen.” The monk’s voice was strained by his effort to speak softly.

  “The main kitchen? Not the dormitories’ kitchen?” What on earth could be wrong in the kitchen that it should require his attention so early? A chill that came from something more than the cold of the room came over him. He moved his blanket aside and got to his feet. “I’m coming,” he assured the monk outside his door. He made the sign of the fish at the crucifix, then let himself out the door, his patience fading as he pulled the door open.

  Monachos Vlasos, the butcher for the monastery, stood at the door. Even in the indefinite light it was possible to see he had a bruise over his eye. “I’m sorry, Priam Corydon, but I thought this couldn’t wait: there has been an attempt to raid the pantry, undoubtedly by a group of refugees, since no monk would do so uncharitable a thing. Not that I actually saw the men who tried to steal our meat, but I believe they must have been among the groups of outsiders who now make their camp within our walls. I know they must be the culprits, since I can’t imagine any of our monks resorting to theft.”

  Priam Corydon gave a long, tired sigh. “I suppose this shouldn’t surprise us that the refugees might do something so reckless; they have so little. Those coming with the troops from Ulpia Traiana were nearly out of food by the time they arrived here, and had been on short rations. Not all of them have been fed well in the last two days, either.” They went back to the hub of the cross-shaped building and turned down the corridor that led to the refectory and kitchens at the west end of the structure. “Was anyone seriously hurt, aside from you?”

  Monachos Vlasos made the sign of the cross. “One of the novices, who keeps watch on the kitchen fires for the second half of the night—”

  “Would that be Penthos or Ritt?” Priam Corydon interrupted. “Or that youngster Corvius?”

  “Ritt,” said Monachos Vlasos. “He has a broken arm, I think.” They went on a few strides in silence, then he added, “He may have seen two of the men.”

  “Why do you say that: may have?”

  “He is dazed and overwhelmed with pain, and has told me very little,” Monachos Vlasos explained; they had reached the refectory and were passing through it toward the kitchens that were at the foot of the cross at the broadened rooms representing the foot-rest on the Greek crucifix.

  “The monks in the infirmary have their hands full,” said Priam Corydon.

  “They say there is a good physician with the people from Apulum Inferior—their regional guardian, in fact.” Monachos Vlasos knew better than to suggest that the Priam speak to the stranger, but thought mentioning the man would help. “Dom Sanctu-Germainios. He has . . . had land at Apulum Inferior, and a small trading company. Enlitus Brevios has told me that Dom Sanctu-Germainios saved the life of the first leader of their Watchmen, though it cost the man his leg, and he tells me that he yesterday removed two toes from Hovas, whose feet were frozen during the hunt for his lost son. I understand that the Dom has a trading company in Constantinople, though he isn’t Roman or Greek.”

  “Most interesting,” said Priam Corydon, trying to make up his mind if he should send for this man; as regional guardian for the region of Apulum Inferior, he would have to be included in their meeting in the coming morning, so he might as well summon him now. “Will you find him and bring him here?”

  “I suppose I can do that. He has several wagons among those brought here, and a number of servants. No slaves, they tell me. He keeps himself in his own wagon. One of the night Watchmen should be able to point it out to me.” He made the sign of the cross and hurried toward the side-door to the refectory, where he paused. “Shall I tell him what’s happened?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Just say that one of the novices has been injured and requires special treatment. There will be speculation, of course, but at least it need not be too outrageous.” The Priam watched Monachos Vlasos let himself out into the night, then he ducked into the corridor leading to the main kitchen, where he found the novice huddled, whimpering, near
the largest hearth, his arm held across his body, his face white except for the pits of his eyes. “Ritt,” he said, leaning over to inspect the young man, “I am sorry you are hurt. I regret that you have had to suffer for your devotion.”

  “God have mercy,” Ritt said, as if he doubted it were possible. Hunkered down as he was, he looked small for his fifteen years.

  “How do you feel?” It was a foolish question, Priam Corydon decided, so he amended it. “How bad are your injuries?”

  “I’m cold,” he mumbled. “My arm is burning. Corvius ran away.”

  “He will ask God for mercy for such an act,” said Priam Corydon.

  Ritt’s teeth chattered. “It’s so cold.”

  Priam Corydon touched Ritt’s forehead and felt a film of chilly sweat on it. “Then we must warm you. It’s bad enough that you are hurt.”

  “Monachos Anatolios would say that hurt is—”

  At the mention of the apocalypticistic monk, Priam Corydon stiffened but he said nothing against Monachos Anatolios; he would pray for patience later. “I have sent Monachos Vlasos to bring you a worthy physician. He will attend to your hurts.”

  Ritt nodded slowly. “Thank you, Priam.”

  “Thank Monachos Vlasos and God; it is my responsibility to guard you from harm. You ought to expect it of me.” He realized as he said it that he felt deeply guilty, and that Monachos Anatolios would make the most of his failing. “You will have good care, and with God’s Grace, you will recover without lasting harm.”

  “May God be praised,” whispered the novice.

  Priam Corydon went to the wood-box and pulled out two substantial branches cut to fit in the maw of the fireplace. “I’m going to build up the fire, so you will not be so cold.”