Burning Shadows (11 page)

“Not a great amount,” Sanctu-Germainios said, “but I think it would be best to treat it with a sovereign remedy, one that will reduce the heat in the wound and will halt its progress. I will make more of it, so that you will not deprive any others who need it,” he added, stifling Mangueinic’s protest.

“What sovereign remedy is that?” Mangueinic was suspicious now.

“You have nothing to fear from it. You will take only benefit from it, my Word upon it.” He raised his voice. “Urridien!”

The house-keeper came hurrying along the corridor to the kitchen, his banded hair in disarray, the front of his sleeved tunica stained with orange grease. He ducked his head. “Dom, I am preparing the cauldrons to take food to the Watchmen; they are due their meal at mid-d … day …” His words trailed off as he saw the condition of Mangueinic’s leg. “God on the Cross.”

“And so you shall feed the Watchmen, after one small errand,” Sanctu-Germainios said at his most reassuring, making no reference to the horrified exclamation the house-keeper had uttered. “For now, you will go into my office, where you will find a red-lacquer chest of Roman design next to my writing table. Open it and you will see on the second shelf from the top a group of glass vials about as long and as thick as three fingers held together; they stand in a wooden frame. There is a viscous liquid in them that is pale and opalescent, and the vials are stoppered with long-tongued glass lids. If you would fetch me one of the vials, I would appreciate it. Then you will be free to return to your usual duties.” Again he found himself missing Rugierus and worrying that he had had no word from him—or if a message had been dispatched, it had not yet arrived.

Urridien looked back toward the corridor to the kitchen, then at Mangueinic, then at Sanctu-Germainios, attempting to resolve the dither in his thoughts. “If I can’t find the vials, what then?”

“They were there in the chest earlier this morning, so I am sure you will have no trouble,” Sanctu-Germainios told him.

“If I should bring the wrong—”

Sanctu-Germainios cut him off. “Nothing else in the chests is similar to those vials. If you will take the time to do as I ask, you will soon be back in the kitchen.”

“But—” Urridien bit his lower lip and his shoulders sagged. “On the second shelf from the top, in glass vials, you say?”

“Yes. It is in plain sight.” Sanctu-Germainios turned to the woman again. “If you will bring me the bottle of rose-hip infusion and a clean cloth? And the small pitcher of syrup of poppies? Thank you, Hildren. I’ll want my basin of herbed water when I have finished redressing his leg.”

Hildren, who had been Mangueinic’s woman for several years and found his wound distressing, nodded as if awakened from troubling sleep, and rubbed her dark-ringed eyes. “At once, Dom Sanctu-Germainios. I’ll bring the basin when you’ve done with Mangueinic, unless …” She made a vague gesture toward the occupied cots. “Syrup of poppies,” she reminded herself, and went across the room to the table where their treatment supplies and medicaments were laid to get what Sanctu-Germainios requested. “Urridien?” Sanctu-Germainios prompted.

The house-keeper gave a startled yelp and all but sprinted away, returning as the woman went off to fetch a cup of wine. He held out the vial. “Is this what you asked for, Dom?”

“Exactly,” said Sanctu-Germainios, taking it and slipping it into the pouch on his belt as he went on cleaning out Mangueinic’s injury with the infusion of rose-hips. “Thank you, Urridien.”

One of the other men with extensive burns on his forearms moaned loudly in his enforced sleep; a quiver of dysphoria passed through the room, and the other patients studiously avoided looking at the burned man.

“May I … may I go back to preparing the Watchmen’s prandium?” His voice shook as he asked, and he did his best not to look at Mangueinic or what was being done to his leg. “I’m needed in the kitchen.”

“Yes. And tell the Watchmen that their captain will not join them until this evening. He needs to rest with his leg up. Thank you again.” He put the soiled square of cloth aside, brought out the vial, and opened it, then spread a thin film of the contents on the inflamed skin.

“It’s slimy,” Mangueinic complained.

Urridien blanched and fled.

Sanctu-Germainios watched Mangueinic’s face. “I will bandage your leg again after you have had some of the wine with syrup of poppies. It will be less painful that way, and will allow you to rest.” Mangueinic ducked his head, his neck stiff. “Anything else?” 

“When you get up this afternoon, I will give you some of the sovereign remedy to drink. Then you will want to have something hot to eat. Tomorrow I will want to change your bandages again.”

“I have duties to attend to,” Mangueinic protested truculently. “I can’t be taking—”

“The rain will alleviate your most pressing ones for a day or two; if you use that time to recuperate, when we must be prepared to fight, you will be capable of commanding the Watch.”

Hildren came back with a large tankard of wine. “Dom,” she said, handing it to him. “Save my man, Dom.”

“Thank you, Hildren,” he said, and took the pitcher of syrup of poppies from its place at the end of the bench. He removed the lid and poured a small amount into the wine, then used a long, thin, scoured stick to stir the mixture. “Here.” He gave it to Mangueinic. “Do not drink it too quickly. Sip a little, then wait a dozen heartbeats, then drink a little more.”

Mangueinic took the tankard and, disregarding Sanctu-Germainios ’ instructions, drank a long, deep draft that consumed almost half the mixture, then put the tankard down. “It tastes musty.” 

“That is not unexpected. If you take in so much at one time it will affect you sooner and more emphatically,” said Sanctu-Germainios . “Syrup of poppies is anodyne and soporific.”

“Is there any harm in that?” Mangueinic asked, doing his best to bluster.

“No, it will not harm you, but it will hit you harder.”

Mangueinic scowled at the tankard accusingly. “In that case, do you expect me to drink all of it?”

“Yes, I do,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

There was something in Sanctu-Germainios’ quiet response that quelled the objections Mangueinic had intended to raise; he finished the wine and set down the tankard. “What now?”

“Now you will lie down with a bolster under your leg to keep it from swelling. You’ll drift off to sleep shortly, and should awaken toward the end of the day. This will do you more good than anything else. When you waken, I will have a potion of the sovereign remedy and willow-bark tincture for you to drink, and you may move around again, unless you run a fever.” He rose from the bench.

Hildren spoke up, her manner deferential as custom required. “Dom; how will you know if he has a fever if he pays no attention?”

“I will know because you will seek him out from time to time to test him. If his palms are hot and dry and his breath is meaty, then bring him back here and see that he lies down again. Then inform me so that I may attend to him.” Sanctu-Germainios pointed to one of the beds and turned to Mangueinic. “That will suit your purposes for now.”

Mangueinic was already starting to feel the drink, and he nodded in assent as he struggled to stand up. “I’ll get there on my own,” he declared as Sanctu-Germainios reached out to steady him.

“As you wish,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and spoke to Hildren again. “Please bring a bolster for the captain of the Watch. Then inform his deputy—”

“Oh, no,” Mangueinic exclaimed as he made his way precariously through the rows of cots. “If something needs my attention, wake me.” He sagged against the foot of the nearest cot, and muttered an apology to the carpenter who lay there with a splinted broken arm. Once he regained his balance, he continued on to the bed. He worked his way onto it, trying not to bang his leg against anything firm, finally managing to lie supine upon it.

Hildren came up to Sanctu-Germainios with the bolster and a blanket. “In case he should be cold.”

“A very fine idea,” he said. “Where did you put the basin? I will wash while you put the bolster under his leg from knee to ankle, and then cover him.”

She pointed to a shelf across the room, and told him, “The under-cook says stew will be ready shortly. If any of these men are asleep when the scullions bring it, should I wake them?”

“No. Sleep is more healing than food for most injured people. Be sure you and the other women eat, and have wine and water with your prandium, so that you will gain restoration as you sleep.” He gave her a one-sided smile. “You are all doing well, but do not be profligate with your strength: if you tend patients while exhausted, you are likelier to make errors in their care.”

“I pray not,” Hildren said, dubiety coloring her words. “I have the responsibility for the care all the women provide.”

Sanctu-Germainios sought to reassure her. “There is no lack of virtue in being rested; if monks choose to keep vigil and fast, that is their way, but it is not for everyone. For those caring for the sick and wounded, concentration is needed, and for that, you cannot be fatigued.”

“I’ll tell the other women,” she said, and went off to deal with Mangueinic.

When Sanctu-Germainios had washed his hands, he went out into the forum of the village, looking for the town’s three messengers; he found two of them—Samnor of Porolissum and Vilca Troed—in the tack-room at the back of the stable, busy repairing girths and bridles, and waxing saddles. “Good messengers,” he said courteously, “may I ask a service of you?”

“Dom,” said Samnor as he looked up; he put the girth he was mending aside. “Both of us, or just one?”

“Both of you if you are willing, or one who is willing to travel farther and longer.”

The two messengers exchanged a private look and Samnor said, “Tell us what you want,” as he stood.

“Since my courier is presently at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, I must ask you to undertake to carry messages for me. I will pay you for your service, of course, and you may use my horses.” Since he was known to have the best horses in the stable, this was a welcome offer.

Vilca Troed had taken a little longer to get to his feet; his expression bordered on sullen. “It is going to rain again and the roads are already fairly muddy. Where do you want us to go?”

“I want one of you to find the refugees coming this way and guide them here so that they will not become lost once it starts to rain; that could bring danger to them and to us. The company of Huns who attacked us last night cannot have gone far, and they will be looking for isolated people with limited defenses.” He touched his hands together. “I want one of you to bear a message to the Tribune Rotlandus Bernardius at Ulpia Traiana. Later one of your comrades will have to carry a message to Apulum. Do you know where either one of them may be?”

“Polynices is at the chapel; he should be through with his prayers by mealtime.” Samnor paused. “Why Apulum?”

“To be sure it is still there,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

Again the messengers exchanged glances, and again Samnor spoke for them both. “How far away are the refugees, and where do they come from? Who are they—Goths, Daci, Gepidae, Romans, Byzantines, Carpi, or some unknown barbarians?”

“I do not know, to all questions,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “The woodsmen saw them from higher up the mountain, so I would suppose they may be two or three leagues away, depending on how rapidly they travel. I have no notion where they came from except that it is in some way north of here.”

“What does the captain of the Watch say to this?” Vilca Troed asked.

“He is currently recuperating from the cleaning of the wound on his leg,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I am asking you to do this as regional guardian.”

“How much will you pay us?” Vilca Troed watched Sanctu-Germainios carefully, a sly glint in his eyes.

“A golden Byzantine Emperor to the one who guides the refugees, and three to the one who rides to Ulpia Traiana.”

“Those coins are good metal,” said Samnor.

Sanctu-Germainios regarded the two. “I would expect you to depart as soon as possible. If you have had prandium, then before the first quarter of the afternoon.”

“A pack with food, water, a blanket, and a tent for the one going to Ulpia Traiana,” said Samnor.

“Have the cook give you bread and cheese and smoked meat,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “The man going to meet the refugees, get a sack of bread from the baker.”

“I’ll go to Ulpia Traiana,” said Vilca Troed, making up his mind. “I know the way better than Samnor.”

“Then choose your horses, take what supplies you need from the store-room, and start on your way.” He left them alone, and had the satisfaction of seeing them ride out shortly before he went back into the reception-room to reset a dislocated shoulder, after which he sought out Polynices Ridion and dispatched him to Apulum. He returned to the reception-room to spend the afternoon with his patients, and when supper was served, he went to his private quarters and began to compound more of his sovereign remedy, beginning with gathering moldy bread in a ceramic pail and heating his athanor. As night fell, he continued to work on the remedy along with an array of tinctures and ointments in anticipation of more fighting and more wounded once the rain stopped. A short time later, while he combined camphor and woolfat in a deep stoneware jar, he heard Patras Anso singing the blessing for the dying; he wondered who among his patients was receiving those prayers.