Burning Shadows (22 page)

“If you believe you will vindicate your faith, Priam,” said Neves with a shrug.

Whatever Denerac would have said was cut short by a voice from beneath them. “Priam Corydon.”

The Priam went to the edge and looked down. “Dom Sanctu-Germainios . What may I do for you?”

“It is not for me, it is for the people in the monastery,” said Sanctu-Germainios, looking up from where he stood. “I fear there are four guards in the refectory who are competing in terrifying one another and all those listening with ever-more-horrific tales of the Huns. Half their stories are about rape and the other half are about torture. There are fifty refugees listening, and most of them are now ready to succumb to terror.”

Priam Corydon clicked his tongue. “What are they claiming? That the Huns are devils and ride on demons?”

“Nothing so ecclesiastical. The same thing that was said of all barbarians: that they sew Christians into the opened bellies of gutted swine and roast them on spits; that they open the bellies of Christians, tie their guts to trees, and force the Christians to walk around the tree until their own intestines bind them in place; that they cut a ribbon of flesh away from a captive’s back, attach it to a spool, and continue to roll the ribbon onto the spool until the captive is entirely flayed.” He had an uneasy moment as he recalled his own death by simple disemboweling. “The women are pale and whimpering, and the men have that transfixed stare that may end in sudden anger.”

Priam Corydon made the sign of the cross. “What fools. May God restore them to their senses.” He shoved past Bernardius as he made for the nearest descent ladder. “I will have to speak to them at once. Comrades, if you will come with me and help me to quell this nonsense. We have regulations for this.”

Denerac sighed. “Why not let them continue?”

“Because it will lead to chaos,” said Priam Corydon, continuing downward.

Neves followed after him. “Why didn’t you try to stop them, Dom?” he asked as he set his foot on the first rung.

“They would not listen to Mangueinic, who did his best to change the nature of their tales; they would not listen to Monachos Vlasos, who chastised them for frightening their women and children; and they would not listen to me,” he said levelly. He reached out and steadied the ladder. “They were too caught up in their tales of torture and havoc, relishing their growing panic for its excitement.” He had encountered this pattern of cultivated dread before, and knew it led to nothing useful. “If you will speak to them, I think they may recover themselves.”

Priam Corydon stepped onto the ground. “I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate that this didn’t happen earlier.” He squared his shoulders. “What of Patras Anso? Did he hear any of this?”

Sanctu-Germainios hesitated for an instant, then said, “He joined in the story-telling, and encouraged the four men in their contest.” He kept slightly behind Priam Corydon, aware that Neves was following him.

“Humph,” Priam Corydon uttered. “You’d think that a man of his position wouldn’t want to encourage that sort of—”

A loud shout from the direction of the refectory halted the men in their tracks. As they stared, half a dozen men boiled out of the refectory door, trying to move and fight at the same time. Shouts and curses sounded from the developing melee. From other buildings people emerged, alarmed and curious about the sudden eruption from the refectory.

Priam Corydon gathered himself up.
“Enough of this!”
he bellowed, pressing forward through the snow. “All you men. Stop this. STOP.”

The combatants wavered, then attempted to resume their battle.

“STOP.”
The sound of the Priam’s voice was as absolute as a clap of thunder; this time the men lowered their fists and dropped their cudgels and knives.

“What possessed you?” Priam Corydon demanded as he came up to the flattened stretch of icy slush outside the refectory door. “Bacoem, you have only one arm—why abuse it? What idiotic notion came over you?” He trod up directly to the tallest of the scrappers and faced him unflinchingly. “If you were a monk, you’d be confined to your cell for a month, and given only water and bread to eat.”

“It’s the Huns—” the man began.

“You decided to do their work for them, did you?” Priam Corydon glared at him.

“No. Nothing like that. There was—” the man blustered, then went silent as Rotlandus Bernardius came up beside the Priam.

“Yes, Woliac of Gardmandus,” he said with excessive cordiality. “Tell Priam Corydon what it was like. Then perhaps I will understand why one of my men should so disgrace himself. Calcitratus sum. I am ashamed.”

Mangueinic, leaning heavily on his crutches, appeared in the doorway, a small crowd behind him. “You six have broken the stated rules for this monastery. You know what those rules are. I warned you when you began your fighting that you would have to answer for it.”

Bernardius looked steadily at the man he had addressed as Woliac of Gardmandus. “The penalty for fighting is five days in a cell for a first offense. You and your three companions will be put in cells for five days. If there is a repetition of fighting, you will be exiled.” He shook his head. “Four against two. You do not even fight honorably.”

Woliac blustered in protest, “We had to fight. You don’t know what they said about us, and—”

“Nor do I care. You were told not to fight. You were ordered not to spread fear. You disobeyed,” said Bernardius.

“But we
had
to. Don’t you understand?” Woliac importuned. Mangueinic pegged over to Bernardius. “My two men are just as much to blame, and they, too, will have five days in the cells to think about the error of their ways.” He turned to Priam Corydon. “I am sorry they forgot themselves.”

Brevios, not to be out-done, declared, “And if any egged them on, they will stand extra Watches while Bacoem and Smardens keep their five-day isolation.”

Mangueinic stood back a pair of steps, looking over the gathering around the six men. “Thirhald, Dom Sanctu-Germainios, will you escort Bacoem and Smardens to their cells?”

Thirhald hesitated, then stepped forward; Sanctu-Germainios came forward from the rear of the gathering. “Which cells are we to use?” he asked Priam Corydon.

“The ones on the third floor of the monastery. The cells for penance.” The Priam turned his attention to the other men. “Tribune Bernardius, will you take these men in hand?”

Neves joined Bernardius, saying as he did, “Lead the way, Tribune.”

The gathered people melted away as the group of ten moved off toward the cruciform monastery and the steep, narrow stairs that led to the penitents’ cells.

Text of a letter from Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Custodis of Viminacium, in the Province of Moesia, to Verus Flautens, land-owner near Drobetae, written on vellum and carried by official messenger nine days after it was written.

To the distinguished Roman and currently acting Praetor-Governor of the Drobetae region of the former Province of Dacia Inferior, my heartiest congratulations and my hope that you will enjoy the privileges of your office.

As I intimated to you last year, your appointment to this position for Romans living within the frontiers of the former province is an honor that is long overdue. I know that you will acquit yourself brilliantly, with devotion to Roma and attention to the welfare of the Romans living around you.

Notice of this promotion is being tendered to the Gepidae and Goths now living in the region, with the assurance that you will receive their cooperation in all matters that bear both upon their concerns and upon Roman ones.

With this in mind, I urge you to dispatch your man to the monastery we have discussed. I know the roads are not yet passable, but I think you should consider authorizing his travel as soon as may be, for once the roads are passable, your servant may have to share them with the Huns, and we need to have information as soon as may be in that regard. Remember, the service you do Roma will bring Roman gratitude and honor for your family.

The refugees we saw in such number last autumn have dwindled to a trickle, but I fear that with the warmer weather, we will once again be overwhelmed with Romans, Goths, and Gepidae fleeing the old province. Any warning of numbers that you can supply will be most welcome.

I hope to have the honor of attending your investiture once spring is truly under way. If circumstances intervene, I ask you to receive this as surety of my alliance to you and your gens.

On the fifty-fifth day since the Winter Solstice,

Gnaccus Tortulla Praetor Custodis

Viminacium, Province of Moesia

4

Aquileia spread out along the gentle rise above the upper end of the Adriatic Sea, a magnificent city, as elegant as Roma at her grandest, the handsomest port in all of the old Empire. It was the home to successful merchants and the newer nobility, and it showed their prosperity to advantage. Nothing about it suggested the trials that the Roman Empire in the West was undergoing, or that the true authority in the region was the Ostrogothic, not Roman; Aquileia remained lovely and serene. Even in March, the city turned the blustery weather into a setting for adventure and intrepid undertakings.

From the vantage-point of the open-ended atrium of her main house at her estate, Atta Olivia Clemens watched the sea through the peristyle; some two leagues away it was a dark slate-blue flecked with foam under thickening clouds and a freshening wind. It was a little past mid-day, and the light was already fading behind the clouds. Contemplating the gathering storm, she gave herself over to apprehension. The day’s chill made no impact upon her, though the tenor of her reverie left her shivering, and the threat of rain before midafternoon only served to sharpen her worry for her most enduring friend—Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, Sanctu-Germainios, whatever he called himself—an emotion she made no effort to conceal as she addressed her bondsman, Niklos Aulirios.

“They say the Huns are moving farther into the Carpathians, where neither Roma nor Constantinople is likely to reinforce the barbarians against them; it is not a good turn of events for Sanct’ Germain, or any other client of Roma still living in the old provinces,” she remarked as she studied the distant expanse of water. “The merchants report that the Hunnic plan supposes that there will be no new troops sent to aid the remaining Romans, although how they can be certain of it, I can’t imagine.” The Latin she and Niklos spoke was more than a century out of date.

“They pass through garrison towns coming south. They probably hear things,” said Niklos. “Do you want to go in? The wind’s getting stronger.”

“Not yet.” She continued to stare. “It doesn’t seem very Roman, leaving the enclaves in the old provinces to fend for themselves.”

“It could be worse than that: if the Huns can persuade more of the Goths and Gepids to join with them, they’ll have fewer enemies to fight, and a better chance to find towns to serve as camps for them, to make their campaign against those towns that won’t surrender more easily prosecuted,” said Niklos, handing her a fan-folded scroll. “The inventories from winter. And the annual purchasing accounts.”

“Very good; I’ll review them properly in a short while, once I go inside,” she said, taking them from him and studying the first open part of the fan. “You don’t think any of the remaining Romans would surrender, do you?”

“Why not?” Niklos answered. “The Huns don’t tax, and they reward good service, or so I’ve been told. Many have gone over to them.”

“Um,” said Olivia as a sign that she was reserving judgment. “What else do you have for me?”

“I have the sales figures from the harvest, and an accounting of the cost of the household for the previous year. There are recommendations for this year’s planting to come. And the report on mares in foal and cows with calf.” He smiled as he pulled out a small bound ledger.

“Is this Aristarchion’s work?” The fussy Greek kept most of the estate’s records, and had done so for more than twenty years.

“It is, as always.” Niklos chuckled. “You know Aristarchion: he says every year he’ll take an apprentice, and every year he puts it off again.”

“I think he will need one this year. His handwriting looks like spider-webs, and his eyesight is beginning to fail,” she said, scanning the faint, angular scrawl. A sharp gust of wind almost pulled the fan-folded scrolls from her hands. Taking a firmer hold, she said, “I think it might be better to go in. The weather is turning.”

“I agree,” said Niklos, nodding toward the door leading to her book-room. “Do you want the fire in the holocaust built up?”

“It would probably be wise. If the floors get cold, the whole house is miserable.” She held the scrolls close to her chest while her lilac-colored woollen palla and trabea fluttered in the rising wind. “And order a small vat of wine heated and spiced for the household.”

“As you like,” said Niklos, holding the door open for her. “Do you think this will bring snow in the mountains?”