Flodoard,
Abbott and Bishop Fulda, Sant’ Maclovis,
Santa Fabronia, Emaerich, and Sant’ Fides
by my own hand and under seal
EPILOGUE
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ATTA OLIVIA CLEMENS IN VENICE TO RAGOCZY FRANSICUS IN KIEV, CARRIED BY MERCHANTS AND DELIVERED NINETEEN MONTHS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
To my oldest dearest friend, Ragoczy Fransicus, still in Kiev in the Khazar Empire, the greetings of Olivia in Venice, and a miserable place it is, too, all filled with water and the constant movement of the tides, on this, the onset of Lent in the Pope’s year 815.
Not content with leaving Karl-lo-Magne’s Empire, you have stayed far away from the Empire in the West I cannot believe that you would prefer to remain in that distant city. On the other hand, I can understand why you want to be beyond the reach of the Franks. They certainly excoriated your reputation as soon as you were gone. But Karl-lo-Magne is dead now, for a bit more than a year, and his son, thus far, has not shown his father’s energy the way his daughters do. How unfortunate that power had to pass to Louis and his Court of Bishops instead of Bellatori. If Gisela or Rotruda had been able to rule, things wouldn’t be as precarious as they have become.
Living here in soggy Venice, I often hear from sailors and merchants of what is taking place in the broad world. The merchants from the north—some from as far away as England—say that there are Norsemen coming in long, shallow boats to plunder the western part of Franksland and the northern ports of Hispania. I have seen no proof of this for myself, and I hold such accounts in some question, but there have been enough of them and they have been consistent enough that I am willing to believe that they are true, which means that Louis will have to make some attempt to shore up his harbors against these Norsemen or lose the control of them. Can you imagine what his father would have to say about that? I fear if Louis isn’t strong enough to hold his ports, it will only be the first of his misfortunes. I also understand that Frankish custom requires him to divide his lands among his sons, as Karl-lo-Magne would have done had more of them than Louis outlived him. At a time when the Empire is in peril, dividing it seems to me to be folly. But perhaps I am too much of an old Roman to see the virtue in this arrangement.
One of the many things I dislike about this horrible collection of islands is that I cannot keep my horses here. Everything is boats, boats, boats. I can see the advantages in that arrangement, but I cannot accustom myself to have my horses on the mainland, where any thief might take them, while I am condemned to a small stone house that even Niklos Aulirios finds insufficient to our purposes. Still, it is a place where the Pope does not come, and the Church confines itself to two islands, affording me a degree of license I have lost in Roma. It is unfortunate that I could not mend my break with Leo, but since matters worked out so badly for Gynethe Mehaut and she was my guest, I was tainted in Leo’s eyes, and absenting myself from the city has been prudent. I have heard that Leo is ailing, and if it is so, I may soon be able to return to Roma; eleven years in Venice has been an eternity of discomfort to me. I will be delighted to see the Flavian Circus and all the old Fora once again, and love them, no matter how damaged and battered they are. Roma is my native earth, and I honor it as the first of my lares.
It is a most dreadful thing, the loss of Gynethe Mehaut. Nothing you tell me will convince me that Bishop Iso did not have a hand in her disgrace. And as for Bishop Berahtram—who is now Archbishop of Arles, as you may have heard—I am deeply troubled by all I hear of him. He is high in the ranks of Louis’ advisors and he is regarded as highly as any Grav in the Empire. I think the man is a toad who bullied and frightened Gynethe Mehaut into saying things that would advance him in the Church, not help her soul. It is ironic that the people of Sant’ Yrieix have begun to make shrines to her and ask her to pray for them in times of affliction. Nothing the Church has commanded thus far has stopped them from revering her. It is scant consolation, I know, but it should salve your wounds at least a little.
And do not waste ink telling me your wounds have healed, for I know you better than that. You still blame yourself for what happened to her, or you would have returned to your native mountains before now. Do you think I am unaware of your pattern? When you are dissatisfied with yourself you impose isolation as a kind of penance. Only when you are ready to accept what has happened do you go to the Carpathians and restore yourself. This time has been particularly long—you continue to be vexed by what Csimenae has made of her vampiric life, and now you have Gynethe Mehaut’s death to add to your ledger. No wonder your exile has been so long, and so distant I ought to be thankful you haven’t gone to China again.
Sanct’ Germain, listen to me. You cannot take the world on yourself. From what I have learned, in spite of what the Church teaches, not even Jesus did that. You are more generous than any lover I have ever known, and have been since we first met under the stands. You say it is your nature to extend yourself, but you and I both know it is your kindness and not simply your nature that makes you seek to mitigate the suffering you find. It may be useless to tell you that there is no need for you to seclude yourself in remote parts of the world, but I would not be content with myself if I failed to remind you of this.
Wherever you are, I hope you have found love there. I hope you have not been condemning yourself for things you could not have prevented and cannot now change. I long for the day when I see you again, whether in Roma, in China, or on the moon. And before this becomes intolerably maudlin, I will close it, with my enduring devotion and abiding affection.
Olivia
by my own hand, of course
Night Blooming. Copyright © 2012 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.
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e-ISBN 9781466807662
First eBook Edition: August 2012
Night Blooming Page 62