Burning Shadows (37 page)

Stories have reached this city that the Huns are breaking through everywhere in the Carpathian Mountains, and because of that, I am taking advantage of your kind offer to receive letters to my master; I must suppose that he is no longer in Apulum Inferior, and might have been driven to any one of a number of havens. If anyone knows where he can be found, it must be you, and so I trust you will send him word that you have heard from me, and that efforts are now under way to end my confinement. Once I have secured my release, if I have heard nothing from him, I will take ship for Aquileia, trusting that you will be able to tell me where my master has gone.

The amount to secure my release is a large one; I am shocked that Patras Methodos should demand so much money. Let me say that it is my ardent wish that the amount can somehow be reclaimed, at least in part, when it can be proven that the accusations laid against me were false. Until that time, I am most humbly grateful to you for your prompt action on my behalf.

Rugierus of Gades bondsman to Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios

on the Feast of Hagia Scholastica, the Christian year 439

3

Thunder had growled in the low-hanging clouds for most of the morning; the air was hot, close, and humid, making for bad tempers and lethargy among the residents of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery. The refugees went slowly about their chores, although a few of them hardly bothered with their assigned tasks, but stayed under the trees, dawdling over the morning beer; when monks patrolling the grounds admonished them for sloth, many of them compounded their sins by cursing. Soldiers manning the battlements no longer looked for Huns approaching, but for fires ignited by lightning, or the tatters in the cloud that promised the relief of rain. The largest company of monks kept to their scheduled rituals, praying for rain along with other blessings.

Mangueinic had come to the old chapel when the morning was half-gone; he had turned surly, claiming his severed leg was aching where the foot had been; his patience was wearing away and he was damp with sweat. He stared at Sanctu-Germainios, daring him to provide relief. “I can’t bear it,” he said loudly. “I can’t sleep. My whole leg is sore, even the part that’s gone. My good leg is swollen, so are my hands, and my calceus doesn’t fit.”

“I have something that may be anodyne,” said Sanctu-Germainios . He went to his red-lacquer chest and took out a jar of greenish pellets. “These are powdered willow-bark, juniper berries, and hawthorn berries mixed with a paste of parsley and ground celery seed. If you take three of them now, and three when you go to bed, you should be less uncomfortable, and your hands and feet less swollen. I can also give you a salve for your scars.”

The leader of the Watchmen held out his hand and counted aloud as Sanctu-Germainios measured them onto his palm. “That bondsman—the one who came last week from Aquileia to seek you out?—he’s making himself useful in the stable. He’s a better farrier than Monachos Cleander. He’s trimmed all the horses’ hooves and all the mules’. He’s got a way with the foals, as well. They’re behaving much better since he took them in hand.”

“It was his calling, training horses, before he became bondsman to my … kinswoman,” said Sanctu-Germainios, recalling his first meeting with Niklos more than a century ago, when he was teaching Olivia to ride as well as drive; his death and restoration to life had provided Olivia with the devoted male companion she required, someone who was increasingly necessary for women in the Eastern and Western Roman Empire. In the decades since his return to life, Niklos had proved to be her loyal friend as well as her defender. “Since he came to her service, he has broadened his skills.”

“Well, whatever accounts for it, he’s a capable fellow, and we have need of him. I’m pleased he came. I didn’t think I would be, at first, but I see he has his uses.” He looked at the pellets in his hand. “Three now and three when I go to bed.”

“Yes. If you want more, come to me tomorrow,” said Sanctu-Germainios .

He picked three pellets and dropped them into his mouth, biting down on them and then swallowing hard; his face squnched at the taste. “Can I take them with my beer? They’re pretty bitter.” 

“As you like,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Or eat them with an apple. That should sweeten them.”

“An apple will do,” said Mangueinic. “How long before this eases? It’s wearing me out, the hurt and the heat together.”

“Once the rain comes, you will be better,” Sanctu-Germainios promised. “When the air is moist and hot, no one is entirely—”

“I mean, how long before I feel more … comfortable?”

“You should notice some improvement before the cooks serve prandium, sooner if the weather breaks,” said Sanctu-Germainios, wondering again where Nicoris had gone. With the weather turning ugly, his concern for her was increasing; he knew how bad weather discomfited her.

“Good enough.” Mangueinic made a positive sign with his hands, then sighed as if under the weight of a heavy burden. “If only it
would
rain, and rain hard and long. Then the chance of fires would go down, and the air won’t be so oppressive. A good heavy thunderstorm would help us all.”

“Then let us hope for the storm to come soon,” said Sanctu-Germainios , handing Mangueinic his crutch, noticing the slight hesitation before he took it.

More thunder bludgeoned the clouds; outside someone screamed.

“I’d best go and find out what that’s about,” said Mangueinic, hitching himself toward the main door. “Thank you for these pellets. I hope they work.”

“You will know by mid-day,” said Sanctu-Germainios, watching Mangueinic depart. Once the door was closed, he went to his chest once again and inspected the jars, bottles, pots, and vials that remained, shaking his head. Olivia’s provisions had been most helpful, but even they would not last through the end of summer. Another, louder cry demanded his attention.

“Smoke!
There’s
a fire!”

A second voice cut in, barking out, “It’s three ridges away, to the east, you fool! The wind is out of the west! It’ll move away from us!”

“The lightning did it!” cried another, from some little distance away.

“Lightning? The Huns, more likely,” shouted someone near the old chapel.

There was an eruption of questions, hollers, and shrieks, the cacophony almost loud enough to rival the next mutter of thunder.

Sanctu-Germainios went toward the door, his curiosity and his growing apprehension for Nicoris getting the better of him. As he stepped out of the old chapel, he saw the level of confusion had increased sharply, with men and women milling about, wringing their hands, glowering at their comrades, or cursing the heavens. A dozen monks were making their way through the churning refugees, ineffectively admonishing those they could get to listen to pray, to entrust their souls to God, to calm their distress. He doubted these pious exhortations would do much good, but he listened to them long enough to realize that more order was needed, for the disruption was spreading, increasing with the band of smoke to the east. Wading into the pandemonium, he sought out Mangueinic, raising his voice to be heard. “You and Neves and Bernardius need to join with the monks to restore order. Look at how the residents are behaving, and it is not simply the thunder that causes them to fret. There will be fighting soon if the refugees are allowed to go on this way.”

Mangueinic thought this over for several heartbeats, then said, “You’re right, Dom. I’ll find Bernardius. You get Neves and we’ll meet at the monks’ church, where Priam Corydon is. We’ll accost him as soon as he’s done with Mass.”

“Very good,” said Sanctu-Germainios, threading his way toward the dormitory assigned to the mercenaries that had the armory attached to it. He found Neves in the armory busy with three of his men in sharpening swords and spear-points on the three turning stone wheels set up for that purpose. Critical gazes turned toward him, watching him for any sign of treachery.

“Dom,” Neves greeted him with a show of bonhomie, “the rabbits are scampering, aren’t they? Imagine being spooked by a little thunder. Or by a foreigner.” This last was pointedly directed at his men.

“If you mean that the refugees are agitated, you have the right of it, and their fright is increasing,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “That is why I would like you to accompany me to the monks’ church, so that we may forestall the kind of disruption we’ve dealt with before, but on a grander scale.” He saw the three lieutenants exchange a sardonic glance. “Order must be restored or there will be trouble for all of us.” He could see that his warning caught Neves’ attention. “The people are afraid, and frightened people are—”

“Skittish and volatile, as we see,” Neves finished for him. “You’re right.” He stopped working the foot-pedal and set aside his Byzantine sword, then wiped his hand across his brow, leaving a grimy smear behind. He rose from the stool on which he had been sitting and said to his lieutenants, “I’ll be back in a little while, with some kind of plan, I trust. In the meantime, Linus, find Luitpald and go out to the men and tell them to keep to their posts unless some danger threatens us from outside the walls, in which case, sound the alarm.” He wiped his fingers with a worn cloth, then said to Sanctu-Germainios, “Let’s be off.”

They kept to the edges of the increasing chaos, passing the dormitories and the small warehouse before they reached the church, where they found Mangueinic and Rotlandus Bernardius waiting for them.

“The Priam is still saying Mass,” Mangueinic announced. “He’ll finish up shortly.” As if to confirm this, the droning chant of the liturgy grew louder at the
Blessings and Honor,
enumerating the various Saints, Martyrs, Patriarchs, Metropolitans, Priams, Patrases, Emperors, and Empresses whom the Church singled out for this ritual attention. “Nothing more now than the
Have Mercy on us
and
Go in the Peace of God.”

The others nodded; Neves said, “They’re going to need the Peace of God if this keeps up.” He angled his chin toward the churning tide of people.

“I’d like to see it rain, rain hard enough to put out any flames in the trees,” said Bernardius. “Carpi diem,” he said, then looked around to see if any of the monks had overheard him, for they disliked hearing even his mangled Latin spoken since their rites were Greek.

The next crack of thunder was louder, shuddering along the mountain as if to break the very stones asunder. For a long instant, there was complete silence from all the residents of the monastery while the peals rolled over them.

“That struck to the west of us, about half a league away, by the look of it,” Sanctu-Germainios said as screams and shouts were renewed, and the monks in the church continued the
Have Mercy on us
with far more fervor than usual.

“Any sign of fire?” Neves asked of no one in particular. “Other than the one to the east of us?”

“Isn’t that bad enough?” Mangueinic asked; he expected no answer and got none; he peered westward. “No sign of smoke.”

“Not yet,” said Neves.

The four men waited, but no cries from the gate-tower sounded the alarm. Their postures slowly relaxed.

“Fire to the west could be a problem,” said Neves.

More thunder battered overhead, accompanied by shouts and shrieks.

“Or to the south; the wind sometimes swings around to the south in the evening,” Mangueinic remarked. “A pity we hadn’t time enough or men enough to build in stone, as the monks did when they made their monastery.”

“We didn’t know when the Huns would be upon us,” Bernardius said. “Semper pre—” He broke off as lightning flickered through the clouds, pursued by thunder.

“Nor do we know now,” Neves added when the noise abated.

Before the two could begin an argument, the door of the church opened and one hundred thirty-eight monks, led by Priam Cory- don, filed out by twos, their heads bowed, their pace stately. They paused to turn and make the sign of the cross to the door of the church before it was closed by two novices. The monks were about to continue on to their cells when they caught sight of the four men waiting. Priam Corydon halted his monks and made the sign of the fish. “What has happened?”

“There is trouble among the refugees,” said Neves.

“And it’s getting worse,” said Mangueinic.

“Fourteen of my monks were sent to calm them,” said Priam Corydon. “The rest are at their duties in the monastery.” He frowned, thinking of the forty-six monks who had left Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit since the arrival of the refugees. “What do you require of us now?”

“Well, your monks didn’t succeed in calming the residents,” said Neves.

“They—the refugees, not the monks—should probably be confined to their dormitories until the rain has passed, and the air is cooler,” Bernardius recommended. “You know, limit the chance for disturbances.”

“Do you think that would help? They might still fight among themselves,” said Mangueinic.

“Double the Watchmen on the towers,” Bernardius suggested. “That way, if there is any trouble beyond our walls, we’ll know it at once.”

Priam Corydon held up his hand, his features set into lines of resignation. “Not here. Bernardius, Neves, Mangueinic, come along to my office. Sanctu-Germainios, it would probably be best if you remained in the old chapel. If there is trouble, you’ll be needed there more than with us.”