Burning Shadows (17 page)

Monachos Egidius Remigos, the broad-bodied warder, stood outside the doors, his arms folded, the monks gathered behind him. He made the sign of the fish. “Priam Corydon. God be praised.”

Priam Corydon made the sign of the cross. “God be praised, Monachos Egidius. Open the doors to our good monks, that they may receive the blessings of God.” He moved aside and let the monks file through.

The last in line was Monachos Niccolae of Sinu, the recorder for the monastery. “I will need a word with you later, Priam Corydon,” he said just before he entered the church.

“This evening,” said Priam Corydon.

“It is a matter of some urgency.”

“After Mass, then.” Wondering what had happened this time, Priam Corydon nodded his consent, resigning himself to a busy day; all days had been busy since the refugees arrived. He stood still, watching Monachos Egidius close the door, then listening for the first drone of the Mass chanted in Greek. When he knew the ritual was under way, he went off toward the cross-shaped building that held the monks’ cells, the refectory, the kitchens, the library, the infirmary, and the two small offices of the monastery. He would be permitted to sleep until the sky lightened in the east, and this morning, he needed all the rest he could get. With all the refugees inside the monastery’s walls, the demands of his position had trebled, with the promise of more duties to come. He recalled that he would have to meet with the Tribune of the garrison from Ulpia Traiana after they all broke their fasts, and then the delegation from Apulum Inferior; perhaps he should see them at the same time, so that there would be no opportunity for anyone to misconstrue his actions. “Christ be merciful,” he said, more loudly than he had intended, as he entered the dormitory wing of the building—the right end of the main cross-arm of the crucifix.

“Priam Corydon,” mumbled the dormitory warder.

“Monachos Bessamos,” said Priam Corydon, passing down the narrow corridor to his own cell at the far end, just off the intersection of the hallways. As he entered his cell, he made the sign of the fish, and then used a small knife to trim the wick on the single oil- l amp burning beneath the Greek crucifix next to the door. In the uncertain light, he made his way to his narrow straw-filled mattress atop a simplified table-bed. He recited his prayers, then lay down, pulling up his single blanket, and did his best, in spite of his worries and the cold, to fall asleep. After a longer time than he had hoped, he was dozing, when a sharp rap on his door brought him awake once again. “What?” he called out.

“I apologize, Priam, but there is a problem in the main kitchen.” The monk’s voice was strained by his effort to speak softly.

“The main kitchen? Not the dormitories’ kitchen?” What on earth could be wrong in the kitchen that it should require his attention so early? A chill that came from something more than the cold of the room came over him. He moved his blanket aside and got to his feet. “I’m coming,” he assured the monk outside his door. He made the sign of the fish at the crucifix, then let himself out the door, his patience fading as he pulled the door open.

Monachos Vlasos, the butcher for the monastery, stood at the door. Even in the indefinite light it was possible to see he had a bruise over his eye. “I’m sorry, Priam Corydon, but I thought this couldn’t wait: there has been an attempt to raid the pantry, undoubtedly by a group of refugees, since no monk would do so uncharitable a thing. Not that I actually saw the men who tried to steal our meat, but I believe they must have been among the groups of outsiders who now make their camp within our walls. I know they must be the culprits, since I can’t imagine any of our monks resorting to theft.”

Priam Corydon gave a long, tired sigh. “I suppose this shouldn’t surprise us that the refugees might do something so reckless; they have so little. Those coming with the troops from Ulpia Traiana were nearly out of food by the time they arrived here, and had been on short rations. Not all of them have been fed well in the last two days, either.” They went back to the hub of the cross-shaped building and turned down the corridor that led to the refectory and kitchens at the west end of the structure. “Was anyone seriously hurt, aside from you?”

Monachos Vlasos made the sign of the cross. “One of the novices, who keeps watch on the kitchen fires for the second half of the night—”

“Would that be Penthos or Ritt?” Priam Corydon interrupted. “Or that youngster Corvius?”

“Ritt,” said Monachos Vlasos. “He has a broken arm, I think.” They went on a few strides in silence, then he added, “He may have seen two of the men.”

“Why do you say that: may have?”

“He is dazed and overwhelmed with pain, and has told me very little,” Monachos Vlasos explained; they had reached the refectory and were passing through it toward the kitchens that were at the foot of the cross at the broadened rooms representing the foot-rest on the Greek crucifix.

“The monks in the infirmary have their hands full,” said Priam Corydon.

“They say there is a good physician with the people from Apulum Inferior—their regional guardian, in fact.” Monachos Vlasos knew better than to suggest that the Priam speak to the stranger, but thought mentioning the man would help. “Dom Sanctu-Germainios. He has … had land at Apulum Inferior, and a small trading company. Enlitus Brevios has told me that Dom Sanctu-Germainios saved the life of the first leader of their Watchmen, though it cost the man his leg, and he tells me that he yesterday removed two toes from Hovas, whose feet were frozen during the hunt for his lost son. I understand that the Dom has a trading company in Constantinople, though he isn’t Roman or Greek.”

“Most interesting,” said Priam Corydon, trying to make up his mind if he should send for this man; as regional guardian for the region of Apulum Inferior, he would have to be included in their meeting in the coming morning, so he might as well summon him now. “Will you find him and bring him here?”

“I suppose I can do that. He has several wagons among those brought here, and a number of servants. No slaves, they tell me. He keeps himself in his own wagon. One of the night Watchmen should be able to point it out to me.” He made the sign of the cross and hurried toward the side-door to the refectory, where he paused. “Shall I tell him what’s happened?”

“No, I don’t think so. Just say that one of the novices has been injured and requires special treatment. There will be speculation, of course, but at least it need not be too outrageous.” The Priam watched Monachos Vlasos let himself out into the night, then he ducked into the corridor leading to the main kitchen, where he found the novice huddled, whimpering, near the largest hearth, his arm held across his body, his face white except for the pits of his eyes. “Ritt,” he said, leaning over to inspect the young man, “I am sorry you are hurt. I regret that you have had to suffer for your devotion.”

“God have mercy,” Ritt said, as if he doubted it were possible. Hunkered down as he was, he looked small for his fifteen years.

“How do you feel?” It was a foolish question, Priam Corydon decided, so he amended it. “How bad are your injuries?”

“I’m cold,” he mumbled. “My arm is burning. Corvius ran away.”

“He will ask God for mercy for such an act,” said Priam Cory- don.

Ritt’s teeth chattered. “It’s so cold.”

Priam Corydon touched Ritt’s forehead and felt a film of chilly sweat on it. “Then we must warm you. It’s bad enough that you are hurt.”

“Monachos Anatolios would say that hurt is—”

At the mention of the apocalypticistic monk, Priam Corydon stiffened but he said nothing against Monachos Anatolios; he would pray for patience later. “I have sent Monachos Vlasos to bring you a worthy physician. He will attend to your hurts.”

Ritt nodded slowly. “Thank you, Priam.”

“Thank Monachos Vlasos and God; it is my responsibility to guard you from harm. You ought to expect it of me.” He realized as he said it that he felt deeply guilty, and that Monachos Anatolios would make the most of his failing. “You will have good care, and with God’s Grace, you will recover without lasting harm.”

“May God be praised,” whispered the novice.

Priam Corydon went to the wood-box and pulled out two substantial branches cut to fit in the maw of the fireplace. “I’m going to build up the fire, so you will not be so cold.”

The youth mumbled a response, his teeth still chattering as he tried to pray.

“Did you see who attacked you?” Priam Corydon asked as he put the branches onto the glowing embers of the night-fire.

“No. They weren’t monks,” he answered with some vehemence.

“Not monks,” said Priam Corydon as he stepped back to avoid the shower of sparks that accompanied his prodding of the coals with the fire-fork.

“No. They didn’t smell like monks, they didn’t sound like monks …” His voice faded suddenly, becoming a mewl of pain.

Priam Corydon abandoned his efforts on the fire and knelt down next to Ritt. “It won’t be much longer. You will be better by dawn.”

“May God spare me,” the novice cried softly.

“We will pray for you at the morning Office.”

Ritt nodded listlessly.

The sound of a door closing thundered along the corridor, and almost at once there was the sharp report of rapid footsteps from two persons; Priam Corydon had rarely heard such a welcome sound. He got to his feet, anticipating the return of Monachos Vlasos with the physician.

“Priam Corydon,” said Monachos Vlasos as he entered the main kitchen, “this is Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, the regional guardian of Apulum Inferior.”

“God reward you for coming, Dom,” said Priam Corydon, liking the man he saw: a bit taller than most, sturdily built with a deep chest and powerful, well-shaped legs, his dark hair trimmed in the old Roman style; his cheeks were shaved, and his narrow beard was carefully cut; his countenance was regular, although his nose was a little askew. His most striking feature were his eyes: the most compelling dark eyes that seemed almost black but glinted blue. He carried a leather case under his waxed-wool byrrus.

“Monachos Vlasos tells me that he and his assistants were attacked by men seeking to steal meat from the larder.” His eyes went from Priam Corydon’s to the novice. “It looks as if the boy has taken the worst of the fight.”

“I couldn’t see them,” Ritt grumbled.

Sanctu-Germainios crouched next to the novice and eased him out of his huddle so that he could examine his arm. “They bent the arm back and snapped both bones below the elbow; I think they may have intended to break the bone above the elbow, not the two lower ones,” he said when he had finished his scrutiny. “And they unseated the elbow in its joint. I’ll have to align the bones and splint them before I reset the joint.”

“How long will it take?” Priam Corydon asked.

“No longer than it must,” Sanctu-Germainios said, and looked about the kitchen. “How long until the cooks begin the breakfast?” 

“The monastery’s slaves will rise in a short while. They will be here well before sunrise,” said Priam Corydon.

“Then is there a room nearby where I may take this young man?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Preferably one with a large table and torches or oil-lamps for light?”

Priam Corydon answered quickly. “There is a drying room for herbs and fruit. It has a table and two trees of oil-lamps.”

“How far away?”

This time Monachos Vlasos answered. “It is on the west end of this extension—about twenty paces.”

“That should do. When the lamps are lit, I will set to work there.” Sanctu-Germainios looked down at Ritt. “I will carry you, but before I do, I will give you an anodyne drink so that you will not have much pain.”

“Do you want me to summon monks or slaves to carry him?” Priam Corydon asked.

“I can carry him,” said Sanctu-Germainios. He opened his case and took out a small, covered cup, which he held to Ritt’s lips. “Drink this. Not too quickly.”

The novice did his best to comply, only once giving a sputtering cough. “God spare me,” he whispered before he finished the contents of the cup.

Monachos Vlasos left the kitchen, saying, “I’ll light the lamps.” A short while later, Sanctu-Germainios lifted Ritt in his arms with little show of effort, and bore him into the drying room; he was struck at once by the odor of fennel and thyme, rosemary and figs, but he paid no attention to them as he laid Ritt out on the table, took his case from Priam Corydon, and said, “I have slats for splinting, but I may need cloth for a sling.”

“I will have someone bring it to you. Will linen do?”

“Very well.” He paused. “Also, I may be a bit late for the meeting this morning. I hope you will explain my absence to the others.” 

“Certainly. God be thanked for you.” The Priam made the sign of the cross, then withdrew from the room, praying that he had made the right choice and that Dom Sanctu-Germainios would be able to care for Ritt properly. He worried about his decision through prayers and breakfast and the first of his meetings that morning, trying to keep his mind on what the Tribune of Ulpia Traiana had to say rather than fretting about Ritt.

“It is for me to uphold the honor of the Legions, for the sake of my great-great-grandfathers, who served so well. Honoribus Ro- manum, as they would have said.” Bernardius folded his arms to express his determination and pride of heritage, and a lack of awareness of his ramshackle Latin. “I’ll be glad to organize a temporary garrison here, of course.” He was a tall, substantial man with hazel-green eyes and a true Roman nose that was marred by an angled scar; his light- brown hair was thinning, so like Gaius Julius Caesar, over four hundred years before, he combed it all forward and kept it trimmed short.