Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Lago Comus in northern Italy to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus at Yang-Chau, written in Imperial Latin, carried by caravan and delivered to Eclipse Trading Company offices in Yang-Chau four years after it was sent; filed as unreadable.
To my most dear, most absent friend, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus in the farthest reaches of Cathay, the worried greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens on this the Summer Solstice of the 1288th Year of the City, the Pope’s Year 535, although it seems like the end of winter here, with the promise of spring very far off.
It has been an age since I wrote to you, although I suppose it is more like two years. I have hoped to have some word from you, but I have received nothing, and this is beginning to bother me, especially with the world in such chaos as I see around me. My thoughts turn to such horrors as must cause me sleepless nights, if I needed sleep. I comfort myself with the abiding trust that this terrible cold has not touched you in your distant lands, given how far away you are. We in the old Roman world have had to contend with frost well into June, and no end of it in sight, with July coming shortly, when heat should have wrapped us in its embrace, yet so far has done nothing of the sort. The farmers here at Lago Comus are in dismay, for they have not been able to plant new crops, the fields are not producing grass for their flocks and herds, and the orchards have not flowered and so will not fruit. Wolves have come down from the mountains, and bear, and the hunters vie with them for skinny deer and underfed boars. The flocks and herds of the farmers do not fare much better, although I have authorized the opening of the storehouse to provide fodder for sheep, horses, goats, cattle, poultry, and hogs, in the hope that this will stave off the worst losses of starvation. I have grain, oil, salt-beef, and dried fruit sufficient to last for two years, just as you suggested, and I will do all that I can to provide for the people of and around this estate, but I fear what may come once the full impact of the famine is upon us.
The people in this region are much troubled by the very red sunsets and dawns we have been having almost daily for the last four months or so. Many find this an omen, and it frightens them, for they say that blood in the sky means war in Heaven, or so the Christians preach, claiming that in their prophetic texts are allusions to such events, and that they bode ill for humanity. Even the moon is not herself, showing a ruddiness that is unlike her usual pristine face, making her a peach rather than a mirror. There is a demented priest in the village who, combining the distress of the times with the prophecies of his faith, is preaching the final battle of the world, and he points to signs, including red moons and bloody sunsets, as proof that the angels are engaging in war with the demons of Hell. I admit to all the Christians in his flock that it is true the sunsets have been brilliant and unusual, but I doubt this heralds anything more than the cold has done. The priest praises a kind of passionate passivity in the face of tribulation, and many are glad to acquiesce in his repeated assurances that their god is testing their faith in his mercy. I do not comprehend how such catastrophic events can be twisted into a sign of special affection, but then, I was married to Justus, and you and I know that his claims of devotion came with similar conditions, so it may be that my faith failed me then, not to return. Let the priest rail at me for apostasy; I believe it is more important to minimize famine than to preserve their god’s dignity.
The one benefit this dreadful cold has brought to Rome is that for once the summer has no bad air. The fevers of mal aria are absent, and the Pope—and we have one at last, John II, who is reported to be in failing condition—has claimed this one good development to his own credit, insisting that his personal suffering, has spared the people of Rome the burden of disease during this perverse time of cold, so you see, the Church has elevated suffering to an estimable goal, one that has merit, and is deserving of recognition and respect. In fact, it is seen as a means to emulate the suffering of Jesus, and therefore a pious state to achieve: to my view, any deity and any priests that demand more wretchedness from their followers than is given to them by nature are not worthy of worship, and I will say that in spite of what the Popes have done to preserve Rome.
My steward in Gaul, Briacus of Alesia, has sent me word that conditions are worse in his region than they are here. He speaks of an invisible shadow on the sun, and an earth that will not bring forth anything but loam. I have given him leave to use as much of my stored supplies as may be needed, but not in profligate amounts, for if this cold should continue into a second year, it is highly unlikely that there are sufficient foodstuffs in storage to prevent serious hunger for many of the peasants who are tenants of my estates. If the time comes that Briacus must choose prudence or his family, I do not believe he would hesitate an instant to care for his family first and his duties to the estate second. For that reason, I have contacted the Abbot of Santus Spiritu, the monastery a short way beyond the western border of my estate, to ask him to watch over the estate, and in exchange for his service to me, I have arranged to ship him six barrels of wine, two of oil, and nine of grain, for the use of his monks, who live in the manner approved by John Cassian and practice asceticism based upon the Egyptian hermits. Santus Spiritu has forty-six monks in residence, and the capacity to hold another dozen, should their numbers increase.
In the last four months, have received letters from many landowners in Gaul and Germania, and I am much troubled by what they say, for they, too, have been unable to plant, and some have had losses among their stock, not just from wolves and foxes—and poachers—but from miscarriages and stillbirths, which I take as an especially sinister development, for it is one thing to see the danger of famine in this cold, it is far more troublesome to see the animals unable to sustain their young, for that implies that there is worse to come. Some of those who follow the old religions of this region have been offerings pregnant ewes and cows to very old gods. I have come across stone altars in the forest and at the side of the lake, with gnawed bones that reveal the sacrifice. The poor animals may not help the deities to whom they’re offered, but they do help the wolves and cats and foxes and other creatures roaming the woods, as hungry as the rest of us, and as cold. And because of the cold, I have ordered more trees to be cut down, not only to provide more wood for fires, but to allow the farmers to repair and strengthen their houses, for many complain of being unable to maintain what warmth they can create and must act o preserve themselves from the cold. So long as the men cannot plant, they can stay busy with saws and axes. I have sent to Rome for more saws, and I have ordered the local smiths to make ax-heads, using the iron I have laid up for times of trouble.
Sanct’ Germain, my best, my oldest friend, I wish you were here to bear me company, to advise me, to help those unfortunates around me, to reassure me—when it is late and I am lonely and hungry—that this will end and we will thrive again, along with our living companions. Wherever you are in this broad world, I hope you are warmer and better-fed than I am just now, that you have spring and blossoms to brighten your daylight hours, and willing attendants to liven the night. You have been gone too long, or so it seems to me now, on this frosty Solstice night. The sun will rise shortly, and ordinarily I would begin to feel its might at this hour, but since early last March, it has been as if the sun is hiding behind a veil, and it does not leach my strength as has been its wont. In your many centuries, you have probably seen such fluctuations of the sun and could tell me something of its nature, were you here.
Pothinus the Gaul is setting out for Byzantium tomorrow, going into a blood-colored sunrise, and I will entrust this letter to him. He has a regular contact who travels the Silk Road, a Persian, who has carried messages and purchasing orders for Pothinus in the past, to their mutual satisfaction. For a small fee, he is willing to put this letter into the Persian’s hands and instruct him where it is to go. This is entirely satisfactory to me, and I have said that I will also give a fee to the Persian and hope that Pothinus delivers it rather than adds it to the fee I pay him. T
he risk is acceptable to me, although it is hard not to want to leave here and go with Pothinus to Byzantium and beyond, no matter what risk there may be of rape and slavery. But once beyond this veiled sun, the dry expanses of the Silk Road could prove as unpleasant in their way as this cold is in its, and so I will remain here, and wish for your swift return.
Know that this comes with my very nearly eternal love,
Olivia
1
Behind them the ramparts of the Great Wall had fallen below the horizon, lost among the rise of hills and supplanted by the spread of the sands; aside from a hint of mountains to the very distant north and south, the Takla Makan desert stretched around them, like a tongue sticking out from the Gobi in the east. It was a high, oblong, arid declivity of rock, sand, and a cluster of lakes that many of the region’s nomadic people considered sacred. Usually it was scorching in what ought to have been savage high summer, but now the sun did little to relieve the lingering nighttime chill, though it was midmorning.
“We will be in An-Hsi tomorrow,” Zangi-Ragozh said in Byzantine Greek as he squinted into the glare ahead of them; a stiff, cold wind was blowing, flinging a cutting spray of sand at them and their ponies and two horses. “We can rest for a day at least; let the animals recover a little before we continue on.”
“We’d best find camels instead of horses while we’re there,” said Ro-shei from his place in the wagon. His Greek accent was slightly different from Zangi-Ragozh’s, more Roman than his master’s. “These ponies do very well, but I have no confidence in the horses’ ability to hold up through this hard weather, and with food so scarce, we should look for easier keepers than our horses.”
“Yes. They are flagging,” said Zangi-Ragozh sadly. “The sand is bad for their hooves, and nothing I can treat them with has been sufficient to keep them wholly sound.”
“You do not want to give them up, do you?” Ro-shei observed.
“No, I do not,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Why?” Ro-shei indicated the gray Zangi-Ragozh rode. “You have had countless other horses over the years. Surely Flying Cloud is not so remarkable a horse that you do not want to part with him. Celestial horse or not, he is not so very remarkable, is he?”
“Yes, I have had many horses, and no, Flying Cloud is not the epitome of them all,” said Zangi-Ragozh with a sad, wry smile. “But I know how the peoples of this region live, and I know they will not value a Celestial horse—particularly a gelding—very highly. Were Flying Cloud a stallion, he might be worth something as a sire. As it is, he is likely to go into the stew pot before very long. So will many others if there is much more cold.”
“And that offends you,” said Ro-shei.
“And saddens me,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“You cannot save any of them, even if you purchase every last one,” said Ro-shei with an air of resignation that spoke of long experience.
“No, I cannot; that is what troubles me the most.” Zangi-Ragozh shaded his eyes as he looked up toward the sun. “I should not be able to do this.”
“Do you think it is the end of the world?” Ro-shei asked with little emotion.
“I have no idea, if you mean the whole of the world,” said Zangi-Ragozh. He sighed. “Things are dwindling—warmth, sunlight, food—and there seems to be no end to it. I wondered at first if I had sufficient gold for the journey—I should have made more, I fear—now, I am beginning to wonder if I have enough food, for reprovisioning is going to be difficult, and perhaps impossible. The ponies eat little, but they do eat, and they must be fed or they will be worse than useless.”
“If you had the chance, could you make more gold? Or jewels?”
“That is one reason I wanted to go to Kumul. The teaching center there ought to have an athanor, and for a price they should permit me to use it for a few days, which is all I require. If we had a handful of diamonds and a handful of emeralds, we should have enough to pay for anything we may need between here and Byzantium, and they would not weigh as much as gold, nor take up space we need. We can put them in the bottom of the grain-barrels, for safety.” He pointed off to the east where a thin billow of dust shone in the hazy morning light, marking the progress of other travelers. “We are not wholly alone, after all.”
“Which may or may not be a good thing,” Ro-shei warned, eyeing the dust with suspicion. “There are bandits in this region.”
“They are moving no faster than we are, and we are small pickings,” Zangi-Ragozh said.
“The better to take as slaves.”
“They will not take slaves, not now,” said Zangi-Ragozh with remorseless conviction. “If you want slaves to have any worth, you must feed them, and no one can spare food.”
They continued on, west by northwest, throughout the morning and into the early afternoon, finally coming to a stop by a thin stream that welled out of a cluster of rock and ran for a short distance before disappearing into the sand; it was fringed with low-growing green plants, none of which were flourishing.
“Do you think it is safe?” Ro-shei asked, remembering the streams they had crossed that had stunk of sulfur, and from which the ponies had refused to drink.
“It is a spring and should be wholesome,” said Zangi-Ragozh, dismounting and leading Flying Cloud to the spring. He watched as the gray lowered his nose and took a long draft. “I think this is assurance enough.”
Ro-shei got down from the box and led the four harness ponies toward the little spring, the wagon clattering along behind them, then went around to the rear of it to go get the two additional ponies and his horse from their tethers. “Shall I prepare nosebags?”
“Yes. And we’ll let them rest a bit. I want us to keep going until we reach An-Hsi tonight, no matter how late. The ponies will be able to make the journey, and if the horses flag, they can be led.” Zangi-Ragozh pointed to the distant expanse of dust. “They’re no nearer, but no farther, so unless they are bound for An-Hsi as well, they are pacing us, and that troubles me.”
“They could be making for An-Hsi, as you said.”
“Yes, they could,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed so genially that Ro-shei knew he was worried.
“What about them troubles you?” he asked.
Zangi-Ragozh shook his head. “I wish I could tell you. I have a sensation not unlike ants crawling on me, and that, rare as it is, often announces trouble.”
In his nearly five hundred years with Zangi-Ragozh, Ro-shei had known Zangi-Ragozh to make such an admission less then a dozen times, and in all instances it had presaged difficulties. “I wonder if you would want to change our direction slightly. Perhaps, if they do the same, that would reveal their intention.”
“Go west, then directly north?” Zangi-Ragozh suggested; he nodded to the wagon. “I will rest awhile and give you my decision when I rise.”
“The sun does not seem to bother you as much as when we came here years ago,” Ro-shei remarked as he watched Zangi-Ragozh climb into the wagon.
“You are right—it has weakened.” He rubbed his face to get rid of the sand clinging to his skin. “That is the most worrisome of all.” Before he let down the flap to close himself inside, he said, “Wake me if there is any change.”
“You mean the other travelers?”
“I mean any change,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and dropped the flap.
Ro-shei busied himself preparing nosebags for the ponies and horses, mixing grain, oil, bits of dried pears, and chopped hay for each animal, then fitted the nosebags over their bridles. Once the animals were eating, he undertook a little desultory grooming, brushing their coats free of the worst of the chafing sand. That done, he was about to climb back onto the driving-box for a moment’s rest when he noticed a half-dozen large birds hidden in the verdure and decided to trap one for a meal. It took him a while to rig his snare and to bait it with a little pile of the horses’ grain, but he was rewarded with a quick capture, and fresh, raw flesh for a meal. When he was finished, he buried the bones and feathers, then went to wake Z
angi-Ragozh.
“Nothing untoward occurred?” Zangi-Ragozh asked as he came out of the back of the wagon.
“I managed to snare a bird to eat,” said Ro-shei. “It was stringy and tough. The birds are not doing well.”
“Better than dying and falling out of the sky, as so many have,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“The bird was still eaten,” said Ro-shei.
“True enough,” said Zangi-Ragozh, shrugging. “The travelers?”
“Still bearing west by northwest,” said Ro-shei, pointing to the dust.
“Then we will change direction. It may delay us a bit, but we should still arrive at An-Hsi tonight.” Zangi-Ragozh considered the sun. “We have a great deal of light left, but it is past its greatest strength—such as it is.”
“An-Hsi by tonight,” Ro-shei repeated as he led the spare ponies and his horse to the rear of the wagon to secure their leads. “You are determined on this.”
“Yes. An-Hsi by tonight, and the road to Kumul in two days, three at the most, assuming we can buy camels for our horses,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he tightened Flying Cloud’s girth.
Ro-shei nodded. “Camels and ponies. We are joining all the other Silk Road merchants, if we acquire such animals.”
“So much the better,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “We will attract no notice, but for the smallness of our caravan.”
“Would you want to travel with any others? Merchant trains, or others bound westward?” Ro-shei asked.
“Perhaps I might,” said Zangi-Ragozh after a brief consideration. “It would depend upon the group and where they were bound.”
“What about joining a caravan for part of the way?” Ro-shei recommended.
“That is a possibility,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I gather you believe that we would be safer in the company of others.”
“It seems likely,” said Ro-shei as he climbed back onto the driving-box and took the reins in his hands and gave the ponies the office to move, following Zangi-Ragozh westward, where the sun gleamed in the afternoon sky.
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 14