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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You’re most vexing, Dom,” she said, coming toward him again.

  “I do not mean to be,” he assured her.

  “That,” she said, feeling disheartened, “is most vexing of all.” Before she could stop herself, she went into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, her face averted from his. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  He stroked her hair. “You will not.”

  “How can you be so certain?” She wanted to believe him, but her experiences told her that it would be reckless to rely on him. “Once we are separated, we may never find each other again.”

  “The Blood Bond will remain as long as we . . . live our lives. While we can breathe, you will always be a part of me, and I of you.”

  She shivered in the hot afternoon, clinging to him, wanting to quiet the turbulence within her. “So you do desire me?”

  “Of course,” he said softly.

  “Then why don’t you take what you want?” She tightened her hold on him. “Why do you have to wait for me to want you?”

  “It is my nature,” he said. “I thought you understood that?”

  She turned toward him without releasing him, and kissed him near his mouth. “Then I want you. You can waken my desires: you know that. Do it. If you aren’t afraid to.” This was a direct challenge, one that she expected him to answer. “If you really accept me, show me.”

  His gaze was enigmatic as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed, setting her down gently on the linen sheet atop his firm mattress. He sat beside her. “I want you to understand that I would accept you no matter what does or does not pass between us; I would continue to love you as you are, without your acquiescence to desire, but since you will have it so—” He leaned toward her, drawing her into a long, persuasive kiss, one that illuminated degrees of excitement she had never recognized in herself. When he finally ended the kiss, Nicoris was breathing more quickly and her face was flushed. Very slowly, Sanctu-Germainios unfastened her broad leather belt and set it aside, then lifted the hem of her palla.

  This time when Nicoris shivered, it was in anticipation of pleasure. “Dom . . .”

  “Tell me what would please you,” he whispered, working the hem upward.

  “You know what pleases me,” she breathed, taking his hand in hers and sliding it across her shoulders, then down to her breast; beneath the heavy linen her nipple swelled, and she shifted her posture so that he could remove her palla and unfasten the cotton femoralia, leaving her naked, languid in the sultry heat. “Let your hands tell me what I want.”

  “If that will bring you joy,” he said, and lay down next to her as she stretched out. Compliant to her desire, his hands, light as murmurs, passed over her body, imparting sweet secrets to the nape of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the rise of her breasts, then moved on, his caresses still featherlight, to awaken sensations in her belly, and the cleft between her legs. Softly, persuasively, he made poetry of her flesh, delineating nuances of excitement that she had not permitted herself to feel until now. What his hands could not accomplish, his lips did, exploring, savoring, delighting in her increasing arousal. His esurience made him keenly aware of how much more ardor had been ignited within her, and he did what he could to prolong her stimulation, to bring her to new heights, to give her all the rapture she was capable of achieving.

  “I’ll shatter,” she said quietly.

  “You will have fulfillment,” he promised, moving down her body, sliding up from between her legs to engage her passion at her culmination, sharing the ecstatic pulsations that swept through and over her. His lips on her neck were as light as his fingers were, and as evocative.

  As her transports faded she snuggled next to him, seeking for the first time to maintain the intimacy of their love-making. She was damp all over, and her eyes shone, their silvery color glowing like stars. As her exultation faded, the early afternoon warmth and the aftermath of her gratification made her drowsy; she felt herself drifting into sleep. “I’m not frightened anymore, Dom.” She half-expected him to say, I know; when he did not, she kissed his cheek. “I guess you know already—from my blood.”

  He made a sound between a sigh and a chuckle. “Yes,” he said, moving a little so that she could rest more comfortably.

  “Will you wake me at the end of the second quarter of the afternoon?”

  “If that is what you want,” he said, securing her in the curve of his arm as she closed her eyes.

  Text of a dispatch from Clutherus son of Einhalt, of the Third Gothic Company of Emperor Theodosios, stationed at Oescus in the Province of Moesia Inferior, to Verus Flautens, Praetor-General of Drobetae in the former Province of Dacia, written in Gothic Greek on thin wood with black paint and delivered by courier six days after being written.

  To the Praetor-General of Drobetae in the old Province of Dacia, the greetings from the Captain of the Third Gothic Company of the Emperor in Constantinople, Clutherus son of Einhalt twenty days before the Autumnal Equinox:

  Worthy Praetor-General,

  I regret that the terms of our contract with Emperor Theodosios does not allow our Company to abandon our post to defend any other Roman fortress without specific orders from Constantinople. I will see that your urgent request is passed on to our General in Constantinople, along with our prayers that it will be possible to send troops to you, for we have been told that the Huns have been active all through the summer and may continue to be so for some time to come.

  You say the Emperor in the West has refused to help you with any of his Legions or hired companies, which is unfortunate; know that if it were my decision to make, I would gladly spare you fifty of my men to reinforce your soldiers.

  Captain Clutherus son of Einhalt (his mark)

  by the hand of Patras Tullius, scribe

  7

  Neves took the life-sized, straw-stuffed figure dressed in old, torn garments and attempted to lean it against the wall of the battlements. “It’s going to fall,” he warned Sanctu-Germainios, who, after handing up the doll, had climbed up next to him, two straight tibiae in one hand, a spear in the other. A single lamp was burning, providing wavering illumination in the pre-dawn darkness.

  “Not once I pin its left hand to one of the upright logs, and the other around the shaft of a spear.” Sanctu-Germainios set to work doing just that, setting each short, sharp tibia firmly in the heavy cotton, and had the satisfaction of seeing the awkward figure remain on its feet. “There.”

  Below them the last of this morning’s departing refugees were going out through the improvised gate that had been hastily constructed where the outer wall had burned; there were twenty-four of them—men, women, and five children—with two horses carrying all the goods they were taking with them.

  “How many of these things have you made?”

  “Forty-two,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Nicoris and Niklos Aulirios have worked with me; I could not have finished so many on my own. We should be able to make another six of them before we run out of cloth.”

  “I’d lend you one of my men to help, but most of them are hopeless with needles,” Neves said, watching the cumbersome gate close behind the refugees. “I hope they make it to safety.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “They have a long way to go, and Aquincum may have already been razed by the Huns.”

  “It is a risk,” Sanctu-Germainios agreed, his countenance enigmatic.

  “So is remaining here.” Neves sighed. “Are you sure you want your woman to go with me and my men? The Huns might move against us because we’re a company of mercenaries.”

  “So they might, but they might move against anyone, and at least you and your men know how to fight, and there are more of you than there are men in most of the refugee companies. I also believe your company will be easier to find than some of the others when I leave here.” Sanctu-Germainios patted the straw-filled figure, paying no heed to the flash of pathos in Neves’ eyes. “I only wish that he and the rest of them could be made to throw s
pears.”

  Neves made himself laugh. “A wonderful notion. Perhaps you could have more made: enough to make it appear that there’s still a force here to be reckoned with instead of a token presence. If there were a hundred of these, they might be enough to keep the Huns from an all-out attack for a while—long enough that you and Aulirios could get away.” He clapped his hands. “How many women remain? Do any of them have cloth to spare? Will they sew for you?”

  “Thirty-nine grown women are here still, and five girls,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Sixteen go tomorrow, and the day after that, the first group of monks. Eighty-one of them.”

  “And the rest two days later, along with Tribune Bernardius and his lieutenants—the last to leave here, but you and your comrade—the day after I take my men toward Viminacium,” said Neves, chafing his hands together. “I know the schedule. I’m counting the hours until we go. Three days more, that’s all. If only the Huns will hold off until then. We’ve chosen an hour between midnight and dawn, to slip past the scouts.”

  “A reasonable precaution,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

  “My men are being more diligent than ever, watching for scouts, and they know that the scouts are least active from midnight until dawn. My men want to get away from here without incident.”

  “And Bernardius’ men still on guard?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Do they report more scouts?”

  “So far they haven’t said they’ve seen anything troubling, whether they have or not.” He waved his hand at the mountains. “But where would we look, to be certain?”

  “I suppose we must continue to hope,” said Sanctu-Germainios; he could feel the first stirring of dawn as the eastern horizon began to lighten.

  “At least we’ve been able to get in a portion of the harvest, so those leaving will have some provisions beyond hard bread and old cheese. Out on remote roads, the chance of finding food is slim, and there won’t be many opportunities for hunting.” With another yawn, Neves slapped the back of the dummy next to him. “Hunting and dressing takes time, so vegetable stews will have to keep them going until they reach the next safe fortress.” He paused again. “They say the Huns kill their meat, then put it under their saddles to cook as they ride.”

  Sanctu-Germainios gave a crack of laughter. “The heat of a horse will not cook meat, but it can fill it with rot and make it deadly; that is assuming the horse would tolerate something like a joint of venison under its saddle.” He knew Neves still had doubts. “These tales of the Huns are more the result of exaggerated reports and stories based on rumors than on any actuality—”

  “They train their horses to tolerate the meat under the sad—”

  “No one can train a horse to ignore a lump under its saddle. It would be the same as having a large stone under your armor.” He regarded Neves steadily, sensing his uncertainty. “Think: what does a horse do when there is a burr or a pebble under his saddle—bucks and kicks. A joint of meat would cause—”

  Neves nodded. “All right; Huns don’t cook their meat that way. But they fight like the Devil’s own minions, however they get their food.”

  “They probably carry smoked meats with them, or dried strips of meat,” Sanctu-Germainios suggested; he recalled seeing nomads from the steppes riding with smoked meats hanging from their saddles, and Rugierus had eaten the dried, raw meat during their travels, as had Niklos. “And, of course, they raid for food and take few prisoners, since prisoners have to eat.”

  “So they do,” Neves agreed, his face hardening.

  “All the better, then, for those who are leaving here, to use as much of the harvest as possible,” Sanctu-Germainios said.

  “So the Huns won’t have anything to plunder here,” added Neves. “We’ll have refugees in the fields later today, bringing in as much as is ready to be gathered. Bernardius’ men are supposed to guard the harvesters, although most of the day-Watch are already gone; there aren’t enough guards for all the fields. We’ll have fewer than fifty men in the fields today, guards and harvesters, whose labors will be less than anticipated, their numbers being so few, and they will not remain outside the inner wall beyond mid-afternoon. There will be still fewer tomorrow, so the number of guards won’t matter so much. All but two of Bernardius’ hunters have left, and those two leave tomorrow, to guide two of the departing companies.”

  “There are eighteen of Bernardius’ men left to serve as guards in the fields and on the walls, and thirteen of Mangueinic’s Watchmen; with your men, and those from Apulum Inferior, one more full day of harvesting is still possible,” Sanctu-Germainios reminded him. “They should be able to bring in half the current crops by tomorrow if the Huns keep their distance.”

  “I hope they’ll be enough, those guards, on the walls and on the road,” said Neves. “There are so many preparations we need to make. I’ve been thinking about what the refugees will need if they have trouble during their journeys . . .” His thoughts trailed off; he regarded the dummy attentively. “More than forty of these, you say? They won’t fool the Huns for very long.”

  “No, but it will buy Niklos and me a little time—perhaps, as you say, enough that we can escape.” He saw Neves’ expression change to something grimmer than it had been.

  “I pray you will get away.” Neves did not say to whom he would address his prayers.

  Sanctu-Germainios decided not to dwell on this. “Are you going to go mounted, or leave some of your horses for Bernardius’ last four men, who will leave after you do?”

  “I’ve decided that most of my men—those who are left here—will ride. We need to cover ground as quickly as possible, and that means riding. Some of them will have to ride double.” He looked down, ashamed. “Seventeen of my company have already fled. I wouldn’t have thought they were so craven.”

  “Why not mount all of your—” Sanctu-Germainios began, only to be interrupted.

  “Because some of them are injured, and will have to ride in carts, with our supplies, or go with one of the refugee companies. And we’re short of horses.” He stopped abruptly. “Sorry, Dom. I’m worried, as everyone here is, that the Huns will attack again before we can empty the monastery. We’d surely lose this time, unless the monks suddenly decide to fight.”

  “That is—”

  “—not going to happen. I know. We can hope that the fever flag will hold them at bay for a few more days, even if these straw-men do not.” Neves peered out into the waning night as if attempting to find any Huns lurking among the trees. “Do you think either the flag or these dolls will—? The Huns are single-minded fighters. Is that flag alone enough to stop them?”

  “Would it not keep you from trying to take this place, if you were a Hun?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Fever is as deadly as arrows, and lasts longer than battle.”

  Neves considered this, and nodded. “What about the spy? Won’t he tell them that the flag is a deception?”

  “If he has contacted the Huns, then yes. But he may have left already, or he may be here, waiting to leave to deliver his report himself,” Sanctu-Germainios said distantly.

  “Have you thought who the spy might be?”

  “No. I have not.” He hated to admit it. “What troubles me more is if any of the escaping refugees are caught, they might trade their lives for information.”

  Neves swore. “Wouldn’t the Huns just kill them?”

  Sanctu-Germainios shrugged. “It would depend on what they wanted most. If the refugees are clever, they would say they are escaping from the fever, not the Huns, but they would need to keep their wits about them, and that is not easily done in such circumstances.”

  This time Neves’ laugh was angry. “Do you think any of them will? keep their wits if they’re caught?”

  “Some may,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “If they are caught by Huns and questioned, which is, itself, unlikely.”

  “Do you mean caught or questioned?” Neves asked, and before Sanctu-Germainios could answer, he nodded emphatically. “You mean if the Hun
s find them, they’ll be slaughtered and their goods and livestock taken. The Huns won’t bother with questions.”

  “It is what they have done in the past,” said Sanctu-Germainios, going on more pragmatically, “I should find a helmet for this straw soldier. The Huns may see that he has no features if his face is not partially covered.” He looked at Neves, contemplating his scarred visage.

  “I almost wish they would attack again. At least we could fight. This waiting and planning, it’s worse than battle. Battle is chaos, but there’s no doubt what’s going on. What we’re doing now . . . It erodes the will. Whether the Huns come or not, we must get away before we turn on one another and do the Huns’ work for them.”

  “Then I wish you a safe withdrawal and the chance to engage the Huns elsewhere,” Sanctu-Germainios said with genuine sincerity. “You have done well by us. Thank you.”

  “So have you, Dom,” said Neves. “Done well by us. I’m obliged to you.”

  Sanctu-Germainios stepped back and reached for the top of the ladder; before he descended, he offered Neves a proper Roman salute. “May you find triumph, Neves.”

  Neves returned the salute as Sanctu-Germainios continued to climb down. As he reached the ground, he turned to the east, and heard the chanting of the monks grow louder as the first Mass of the day began.

  By noon, twenty of the straw-filled dummies had been clothed, armed, helmeted, and pinned in place on the battlements. “This evening,” Sanctu-Germainios told Niklos, “we must shift their positions so that their . . . inactivity will not give them away.”

  Niklos chuckled, looking up at the gate-tower. “What about reducing the number of them showing above the stockade for the night? The scouts might be suspicious of a full complement of soldiers on night duty, particularly with the fever flag up. No need to bring the dolls down to the ground. We can lie them down on the battlement walkways and set them up in the morning before dawn.”

  Sanctu-Germainios rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble of the last two weeks beneath his fingers; once again he missed Rugierus, who shaved his slow-growing beard once a week; he also missed Rugierus’ practicality, planning, and good sense. Again he scraped his thumb along the stubble. He had managed for himself since Rugierus left, but he was not satisfied with the results. Realizing that Niklos was waiting for a comment, he said, “It would probably be wise. I’ll speak to Mangueinic about it.”