“That’s not all I found.” She laughed, her tone a bit too shrill. “There’s water-lettuce from the stream. And nettles, hawthorn, tansy, and purge-root. I saw bear tracks around a large thicket of berry-vines, so I didn’t stay to pick any.” She held out a slightly wilted plant with yellow flowers. “Primrose. You said you can make a healing salve from primrose.”
“Most impressive; I will turn it to good use,” he remarked, coming to her side to see what else she had brought. “Mountain thyme. Pennyroyal.” He sniffed the delicate leaves. “Angelica-root. Fever-few. You’ve been very diligent.”
She flushed. “Thank you for saying so.”
“There’s no reason for thanks,” he said, and saw a flash in her quicksilver eyes and a firmer set to her jaw. “You have no reason to be offended, Nicoris.”
“You remind me that I’m beneath you. I know that. I can’t forget it, Dom.” She put heavy emphasis on his title, and glanced up at the barrel-dome, then back at him.
He met her glare with kindness in his eyes. “I meant only that it is I who should be thanking you.”
It took her a short while to speak up again. “You are a perplexing man, Dom. As much as you are a man at all.”
“Accepted,” he said, knowing she wanted to wound him as she had felt herself to be wounded.
This time the percussion from the clouds rattled all the buildings of the monastery, followed by wails of dread.
Nicoris reached for him and hung on while the thunder rolled away in echoes. “I hate that sound. I hate it,” she whispered, her face pressed against his shoulder.
“It will pass. The rain will come and the thunder will stop,” he reassured her, his arms lightly around her. “The heat makes it worse.”
“God is displeased,” Nicoris exclaimed.
“That seems unlikely, or we must suppose that God is displeased every summer,” he told her gently. “The seasons have temperaments of their own, and I doubt that any god bothers with them very often.”
“There is only one God,” she said, pulling away from him, becoming more discomposed. “All others are false.” She looked around as if she were afraid of being overheard.
“All worshippers say that, of all gods but their own.”
Her eyes widened. “Think where you are, Dom,” she admonished him. “To speak heresy, and with the thunder treading through the heavens . . .”
This time the lightning and the thunder came at once, leaving a sharp odor in the air, and more lamentations. Then the skies let loose their bounty, not as rain but as hail. It rattled on the roof and walls of the old chapel, it ricocheted off the ground and buzzed on the roofs of all the buildings of the monastery; screeching and howls were quickly drowned out by the steady seething of the hail.
Nicoris yelped and flung herself once again into the haven of Sanctu-Germainios’ arms. “Lord of the Heavens, have mercy on me.” In a kind of desperation, she kissed him, her mouth hard on his while the hail bounced and thrummed.
The kiss was a long one, imbued with as much terror as desire; Sanctu-Germainios could feel her need rising, and he felt memories stir, memories that were as unwelcome as they were intense, of long days and nights enclosed in darkness, a darkness that was only alleviated by the monthly offering of a victim to his hunger. Feeding on repulsion and terrified loathing, his loneliness had grown through the decades until all traces of sympathy had drained out of him and he dreaded the burden of companionship even more than he yearned for it. Her fear recalled those years to him, and the wretched desolation that had overcome him; the memory sickened him and he strove to break their embrace without giving her more distress. Finally he ended the poignant, appalling kiss, stroking her hair as he moved a step back from her. “Not this way, Nicoris. Please. Not this way.”
She stared at him wildly, her face working. “I’m so scared,” she hissed. “The storm is—”
“I know,” he said.
Thunder banged like a closing door, and the hail got louder, and then rapidly slacked off to a murmur.
She shrieked and covered her ears. “Make it stop!”
“You know no one can do that,” he said. “If it were possible, I would.”
“It is God’s footsteps. He reminds us that He knows everything.” She made the sign of the fish. “He tells us of our sins.”
“Lightning ignites the air, and the thunder is the sound of it.” He had heard that theory seven centuries before, and over time he had come to believe it was the most accurate of all the hypotheses regarding lightning that he had encountered.
Nicoris shook her head. “God knows all; He warns us of His displeasure at our sins. The monks say so. The monks listen, and they hear the warning God sends, and they bow to His Will.” She bit her lower lip. “Sometimes I think they know when I lie; God whispers to them, and they heed Him. You know when I do; I can feel it,” she said, slowly pacing toward the main door, not looking back at him. “You say it doesn’t matter, that you accept it as part of me, but it does; it matters.”
“Then why do you lie?” he asked, wondering if she would finally tell him the truth, whatever that truth might be.
“Because they’d kill me if they knew.” She turned and came back toward him, her gaze fixed on the floor. “You might not, but . . .”
“I will not kill you if you tell me the truth: my Word on it.” He regarded her steadily, adding, “And I will keep your secret.”
She shook her head. “No. No, you won’t.”
“I will.”
“I can’t.” She looked at him for a searing instant, then turned away.
He went to her but did not touch her. “Shall I tell you what I think your secret is? Would that make it easier for you?”
Although she nodded, she said, “No. You can’t know. You’d despise me if you knew. You’d betray me.”
“I would not,” he said, his voice low and solacing; as he spoke, he sensed his protests were fruitless.
A distant mumble of thunder marked the end of the hail and the start of the rain.
“Is it over?” she whispered.
“The rain should go on for some time,” he said, and lightly brushed her upper arm with his fingers.
She flinched as if she had been scalded. “Don’t! Don’t treat me well when you know I’m not worthy of it. If I told you—” Then she studied his face, her curiosity mixed with contempt. “Why don’t you force me to tell you? No one would blame you, not even I would.”
“When has force ever gained truth?” he asked her, compassion in his dark eyes. “You would tell me what I want to hear, not the truth.” He had a brief, troubling memory of Srau. An ineluctable sadness came over him, and he regarded Nicoris heedfully. “When you decide to tell me, I will be honored to listen.” He could not tell her that he knew because he had tasted her blood, knowing how much such a revelation would distress her.
“Why? Because you take your pleasure with me?”
“No: because I love you, and the pleasure I receive is yours to give.” His compelling gaze rested upon her.
“You love what I provide you,” she countered, unnerved by his serene demeanor.
“Yes: because it is the essence of you.”
She began to weep, making almost no sound, her hands shading her eyes as if to block the sight of her tears from him.
“Nicoris—”
“Promise me,” she said as she cut him off. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”
“That you have a secret? I will not.”
She whispered, “I wish I could believe you.”
He held out his hands to her. “So do I.” He waited, and when she remained still, he added, “You know my secret, and you have kept it.”
Slowly she put her hands into his. “Dom, why do you endure my insults?”
“Because I hope to keep your good opinion,” he said, and realized Nicoris would be puzzled by this explanation, and so added, “To retain your respect.”
“You can command my
respect,” she said.
“If I must command it, it is not respect but concession.” He slowly enfolded her in his arms, remaining silent while she cried.
When her tears had given way to sniffs and hiccups, she finally looked up at him. “I wish we could leave this place.”
“So do I,” he said. “But until we know that we may travel without risk of being attacked, it is safer to remain behind the double walls here.”
She sighed. “Do you think you could go with the soldiers? If Neves and his company left, couldn’t we go with them? Wouldn’t we be safe?”
“Possibly,” said Sanctu-Germainios, cradling her close to him. “But they will not be departing until the crops are in, at the earliest.” And when, he added to himself, the risk of raids would be at its height.
Nicoris thought about this for a brief time. “All right,” she said, “but must we stay here for another winter?”
“I . . . ,” He faltered. “I hope it will not be necessary.”
The wind was picking up and the rain swept the mountains in angled waves; inside the old chapel it sounded as if the storm were breathing.
“It is God, making His Presence known.” She twisted in his arms, listening to the susurrus of the rain. “The monks are right about that.”
“It is the nature of wind and rain,” he said.
“How can you be sure?” She shivered from fright.
Instead of renewing the debate, he kissed her forehead. “It will pass, Nicoris, and if it rains long enough, the fire to the east will be put out. If the wind lessens, we will have a fine day tomorrow.”
She relaxed a little, her body no longer bow-string taut. “It would be a fine thing to have the fire die.”
“The wind has shifted to the north, which will also serve us well.” He turned her face to his. “Let me give you a tincture to help you to rest. By the time you waken, the storm should have lessened and we will have time together.”
“Will I have dreams?” Her apprehension was less apparent than it had been while the thunder was beating the mountains, but it had not faded entirely.
“You may,” he said gently.
“Can you make sure I won’t dream?” she pleaded.
He considered. “I can make it so you probably will not dream.”
She thought about this, then she nodded. “All right. I will take your potion.” She moved out of his arms. “And tonight I’ll welcome you to my bed.”
“If that is what you want,” he said.
“It is. It will be,” she said with conviction.
He started toward the red-lacquer chest. “Then it is what you shall have,” he said.
As she watched him, she said suddenly, “You could give me poison, couldn’t you?”
“I could, but I will not,” he said, turning toward her.
“How can I be sure?” She trembled, but held his eyes with her own.
Certain now that she felt threatened by more than the thunder and lightning, he opened the chest and took out a chalcedony cup, his curiosity about her apprehension quelled for the moment. Selecting his ingredients, he said, lightly and painfully, “I suppose you will have to trust me.”
Text of a letter from Verus Flautens, Praetor-General of Drobetae in the former Province of Dacia, to Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Custodis of Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, written in Greek code on sanded linen and carried by Flautens’ personal courier and delivered twenty-two days after it was written.
To the most esteemed Praetor Custodis of Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, the Praetor-General of Drobetae in the former Province of Dacia, on this, the last day of July in the Christian year 439, Ave!
My colleague and friend, I fear I must once again beseech you to send us troops to guard and to provide escort for the many refugees who are flooding into Drobetae from the north. We have no place to shelter them, and still they continue to come. We have had to house them in all manner of places, from the halls of the basilica to the stables of the inns. There are many among these refugees in need of more care than we can provide, and I despair of their safety if at any time the town should be attacked.
Our supplies of food are also growing crucially low, and with the Huns raiding through the mountains, no one can tell what crops they may actually be able to reap, so it is essential that we have food brought to us, or that places south of the Danuvius agree to take in as many of these refugees as they can. Otherwise we may be facing starvation among many of those who have come to us for safety.
Some several days ago, a Hunnic scout was taken by one of my mounted patrols. He was brought to Drobetae to be questioned, but killed himself before anyone could question him. I find it worrying that he was only four leagues from the town when he was captured, and I have doubled my patrols to search out any others that may be lurking in the hills.
Patras Fortunatos has warned that the churches can no longer provide the charity they are commanded to do, and will have to close their doors to those seeking the succor of the churches. Other priests have said much the same, although a number of mendicant monks have offered to seek out the sick and do what they can for them.
That is another concern I have: that in such close conditions, fever could arise suddenly and spread before we would be able to isolate those who bear the disease, thus making it certain that more of the people in the town, as well as the refugees, would take illness. I have no means of treating such an outbreak, but with the summer in full heat and the people worn and tired, I cannot believe that such a terrible outcome may be completely avoided.
Whatever you have that you may spare to help us would be appreciated beyond anything you can imagine. I pray you will do all that you can to relieve some part of the misery that has come to Drobetae.
Verus Flautens
Praetor-General of Drobetae
the former Province of Dacia
4
By the time Drinus made it down from his outpost at the narrow pass leading to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, the three arrows in his shoulder and back had him reeling in the saddle from pain and loss of blood. He all but fell off his horse as he came through the gate, leaving a trail of blood to mark his progress; three monks and half a dozen mercenaries rushed forward to help him. Dazed as he was, he was able to say, “Huns. With scouts. I got two. Of them. But two more. Got away.”
Oios, now recovered from his wounds of the previous attack, took the time to help Drinus to the ground and position him to lie on his side. “Someone! Fetch Sanctu-Germainios! Tell him to bring his medicaments! Perigrinos! Get Mangueinic! Monachos Benignos, summon Priam Corydon!” He bent over his comrade and said as calmly as he could, “Don’t worry. The Dom will take care of you.” The early afternoon was hot, the sky was clear, and most of the refugees were busy in the orchard, bringing in the first of the ripe fruit; women with baskets collected the peaches and plums and pears so that they could take them, remove their seeds, and set them out, halved, to dry. This violent intrusion brought many of them running from their tasks, while Rotlandus Bernardius’ men rushed to their positions to man the inner walls, weapons in hand.
The flurry of activity rapidly became a maelstrom, monks rushing to discover what had happened, refugees attempting to find out when the Huns would arrive, soldiers hurrying to their stations on the walkways on the stockades, youngsters running for the fenced fields to drive the livestock into the barn, stable, and pens. Someone had begun to sound the alarm, the brazen echoes sounding over the valley in counterpoint to the murmured distraint of those gathered around the fallen look-out.
“Are we ready? to fight them?” one of the novices asked as he knelt beside Drinus. “How many are coming?”
Before Drinus could answer, Oios pulled the novice back. “Leave him alone! Get the Dom!”
The youth stumbled to his feet, then started running toward the old chapel, calling for Dom Sanctu-Germainios, his voice made strident by his fear.
“We have to tell the Priam,” the nearest monk sa
id in a manner that rebuked all those gathered around Drinus for not thinking of this first.
“I’ll go,” said Monachos Erigolos, who had once been a fowler and was now almost blind. He used his stick to find his way, moving as fast as he dared.
“Tell him it’s urgent!” Oios shouted after him.
There were fragments of questions buzzing around Drinus, although no one was willing to raise his voice to ask Drinus anything more; the man had turned a pasty color, and his scars stood out, starkly white in his chalky face. Blood was slowly spreading around him, not so fast, Oios hoped, that it meant Drinus would surely die, but steadily. “Drinus!” He knelt down once more. “Drinus, listen! Help is coming!”
Drinus’ eyelids fluttered and he gave Oios a muzzy stare. “What. Do you. Want?”
Oios bent down so that Drinus would hear him. “I want you to live, Drinus. Hang on!” He emphasized his words by taking the nearer of Drinus’ hands. “Don’t slip away on me. Stay here.”
“What did he see?” one of the refugees shouted.
“Huns,” Oios answered curtly, then once again gave his full attention to Drinus. “Hold on. Drinus. Drinus. Listen to me! Help is coming!” He felt the lethargy that was coming over Drinus in his fingers; he looked up, searching for a volunteer. “Someone fetch a blanket. He’s getting cold.” He waved his arm to emphasize the need for haste.
“I’ll go,” called out a woman’s voice.
“Huns,” Drinus muttered, struggling for breath. “Large. Numbers. Two. Three. Hundred.”
“Where?” Oios demanded. “How far?”
“Half. A day. Or more. Not all. Pass.” He looked into Oios’ eyes. “More. Scouts. Need. To. To.” Then there was a sound in his throat, he spasmed once, and his body went slack.
“Need to what?” Oios asked, aware that the question had come too late. He made the salute of Mithras and rocked back on his heels, letting Drinus’ head drop from his hand. Those gathered around him made the sign of the cross, then the sign of the fish, and a few of them wept for the mercenary.
Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23) Page 28