Burning Shadows (40 page)

“I wish it weren’t so hot. Where bodies are concerned, the heat benefits no one.”

“Truly,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“It is unfortunate that Patras Anso is taken with fever just now: we may have need of him.” Oios looked down at Drinus’ shrouded corpse. “I best go inform Neves of what we have done.” He stared at Sanctu-Germainios. “Thank you, Dom. This was a kindness.”

“Hardly a kindness: a practical necessity,” said Sanctu-Germainios with a spark in his dark eyes. “If the monastery must be defended, then it is just as well to keep as many bodies out of sight as possible.”

Oios blinked. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, making for the main door. “Do you think the Huns know about the rock-falls?” 

“They may; it depends on how much their spy knows, and what the spy has been able to tell them.” He spoke without inflection as if to lessen the significance of what he said.

“Then I suppose we should assume they do,” said Oios unhappily, shoving open one side of the main door.

“Let me know what the Priam decides,” Sanctu-Germainios called after Oios as he stepped back into the sunlight.

It was sometime later that Nicoris returned from the women’s dormitory, her manner flustered and her face pale. “They say the Huns are coming again,” she stated by way of greeting him. “This waiting is almost as bad as another attack.”

“They also say that there are rock-falls ready to be released upon them,” said Sanctu-Germainios, interrupting the laying out of his medicaments and supplies. “As soon as the sentries see them coming near, they’ll signal the soldiers and mercenaries to don their armor and man their posts.” Privately he doubted this strategy would be useful, for once the rocks were set to falling, the pass would confine the residents of the monastery as surely as an iron prison door would do; the hunters’ tracks were steep and difficult to traverse, and their destinations uncertain.

“Must it come to that?” She made the sign of the fish.

“I hope not, but it may. I think Neves will have posted his sentries back to the peaks by now, to prepare for battle, and to make a count of their numbers.” He saw her agitation. “Are you frightened?”

“Of
course
I’m frightened: aren’t you?” She flung the words at him as if they were weapons.

“I am worried,” he said.

“Just worried,” she said with an attempt at sarcasm.

“If the Huns are truly coming, I will have more than enough opportunity to be frightened later; I have no reason to anticipate their arrival with fear—not yet.” He turned toward her, and saw her shaking. “What is it, Nicoris?” When she looked away, he said, “Another secret, or the same one?”

She swung back toward him. “I can’t tell you.”

He said nothing, remaining still.

“Especially not now,” she added. Making an effort, she steeled herself. “Tell me what you want me to do to get ready for the attack; you will want to have all prepared in case the Huns do come.”

Sanctu-Germainios wished she would accept comfort from him, that she would be willing to allow him to ease the dread that transfixed her, but he realized that it would be folly to add to her dejection with what she would perceive as trespass. “I want you to prepare a dozen pallets for the wounded,” he said, resigned to her obduracy. “Then bring in five buckets of water, and set the cauldron to boil with bitter herbs so my surgical tools will be—”

“I know what to do; more Roman medical nonsense,” she exclaimed brusquely. “Need I do anything more?”

“Not just at present,” he said. “If you would feel safer, I have a leather tunica with brass scales on it that you can wear during any attack. It is in my second clothes’ chest, at the bottom.”

“Don’t you want to wear it?”

“It does not fit me. Nor would it fit most grown men.” It had belonged to the son of the leader of the caravan who had guided him and Rugierus back from Herat to Sinope, twenty years before; his father had presented it to Sanctu-Germainios for saving the youngster’s life.

“Then why do you have it if you can’t use it?”

“It was payment for services provided.” And, he added to himself, he had not, until now, found anyone sufficiently slight to wear it.

“All right,” she said. “When the order to arm comes, I’ll put it on.” Her face was unreadable and her demeanor gave nothing away. “I can help you bring the wounded to be treated if I have it on.”

“Good,” he said.

“What kind of armor are you going to wear?”

It took him a short while to frame his answer; he busied himself measuring out portions of syrup of poppies into small cups, rationing out the little he had left; much as he would have rather not, he decided to hold his Egyptian remedy in reserve. “I have a lorica, and a helmet. They’re both old-fashioned, but they guard my spine.” He had received them from Gaius Julius Caesar himself, during his time in Gaul.

“Good,” she approved with more emotion than either of them expected.

He removed a very old jar from a recess within his red-lacquer chest. “If we run out of syrup of poppies, we will have to use this.” He held up the jar; the lid was marked with hieroglyphics. “It is very powerful, more than syrup of poppies, and therefore harder to gauge its dosage. It brings on euphoria, but it can easily be deadly.”

“What is it?” she asked, coming toward him to look at the alabaster jar he held.

“It is made from the blue lotus and another water-plant. If you rub this on a burn or torn skin, the pain will stop at once, but you must be careful with the amount, not only for the person with the injury, but for yourself, as well. I would prefer you not handle it except in a dire emergency, and then if you do use it, to wash your hands at once when you have medicated the injury. Do not keep the water you use for your hands.”

Nicoris studied the jar, permitting herself to stand next to him. “How much before it is deadly?”

“An amount of the substance in this jar that is half the size of a walnut will kill a large man.” He saw her blanch. “I will make a dilution of it, to lessen its dangers.”

“I won’t touch it unless you order me to,” she said, her pale eyes shining.

“That may be best,” he said, resisting the impulse to touch her. “I’ll fetch the armor for you, shall I?”

“If you would.” She faltered. “And set out your own.”

“As you wish,” he said, and went to his clothes’ chest first, troubled by the way they were speaking to each other, as if they were little more than strangers. What was it about their intimacy that terrified her so that she was more willing to face Huns in battle than to seek out his embraces? The fervor she had shown in the past had not faded, but her dread of what—exposure? censure? condemnation?—had overcome her desire, and now left her filled with panic. “I hope,” he said as he resumed his task, “that you may decide to trust me.”

“I wish I could,” she said, and deliberately turned away from him.

“And I,” he said, but made no push to compel her to explain beyond what she had said already.

They worked until the last quarter of the afternoon in almost complete silence. Nicoris set up the pallets and prepared doses of standard medicaments, taking care not to draw Sanctu-Germainios in for discussion of any kind. When she was finished with the basic tasks, she said, “I am going to get my supper.”

“Very good. The sun will drop behind the peaks in a little while, and we must be ready for the Huns to arrive with the darkness.

Are you so sure of that? That they will come with the night?” she challenged, but did not bother to wait for an answer. She pulled a trabea around her, for although the night was warm, there was a cool breeze coming down from the high peaks, and it made the evening seem chillier than it was.

“For settings of this sort, yes, I am,” he said, his tone and manner level. “Shadows and dusk will make it difficult to judge their numbers, and their positions.”

“Surely the rocks will stop them,” she said.

“Perhaps.” He watched her leave, once again hoping she would not hold herself apart from him, and from all the rest of the people inside the walls of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit. With this distressing rumination for company, he set about preparing the dilution of the Egyptian remedy, taking care not to breathe while he stirred the ointment into a mixture of springwater and berry wine.

Nicoris returned as the monks began their Angelus service, saying as she came into the old chapel, “The sentries say that riders have taken the turn-off leading here.”

“How long ago did they say that?” Sanctu-Germainios asked, wondering why the alarm had not been sounded.

“Not long. I was finishing my meal when one of them came into the refectory. As I came here, I saw Niklos go to tend to the horses; he looked troubled.” She moved nervously but without the signs of consternation that had marked her behavior earlier. “The Watchmen and Bernardius’ soldiers are being called to their stations, as Neves’ mercenaries will shortly be. They expect the fighting to begin before nightfall. Where is that scale armor you said you had?”

“I will get it for you,” he said, leaving his array of medicaments and instruments where he had set them out. He put some of his garments aside and removed the tunica, holding it out to Nicoris. “Here. Would you like me to help you don it? There are buckles at the shoulders.”

She gave an abrupt shrug. “You’ll want to buckle on your lorica.” She glanced toward Drinus’ covered body. “No one’s come for him, I see.”

“They’re preoccupied with the living,” said Sanctu-Germainios, watching Nicoris wrestle herself into the softly jingling tunica.

While she struggled with the buckles, he removed the segmented lorica from his first clothes’ chest and reached for the short, padded tunica that was worn under the lorica to prevent its metal bands from chaffing. “In a little while, I will seek out Mangueinic and inform him of where he should have the wounded brought.”

“Don’t you think he knows?” Her incredulity was caustic. “He’s no—”

She was interrupted by the brazen clamor from the alarm, followed by sudden shouts and the sound of many people running; the chanting from the monks’ church stopped abruptly.

“I will not be long,” Sanctu-Germainios said, striding toward the side-door. He emerged from the old chapel into a sea of activity: men hurried toward their places on and between the walls, the older children secured the livestock, women gathered the youngsters and herded them into the dormitories, monks worked the buckets over the three wells, filling buckets and small barrels with water, novices laid four large fires and bound pitch-soaked rags to staves for torches, and the few old refugees began soaking hides to put on the roofs in case of fire. Working his way through the commotion, until he reached the gate-tower, he found the leader of the Watchmen securing torches in their sconces, and checking the supplies of arrows and spears.

“What do you want?” he asked, beset with too many tasks and not enough time.

“We are ready for any injured. Use the novices to carry them to us.” Sanctu-Germainios paused. “Are there sentries on the hunters’ tracks as well as the road through the pass?”

“That’s Bernardius’ job,” Mangueinic snapped. “Neves’ men have the peaks and the main road, Bernardius the lesser routes. For the next ten days, those leaving here will have to consult Tribune Bernardius, not Neves.” He motioned to one of his Watchmen, saying, “Take two torches and affix them to the outer wall at the battlements.” The Watchman nodded and grabbed two of the torches.

“Men coming through the pass!” the gate-sentry bawled out, his cry passed along the ramparts to alert all those making ready for battle.

A loud crash of falling stones announced the release of the rock-falls, with shouts and screams almost lost in the noise.

“That’ll give them something to think about,” said Mangueinic in great satisfaction. “Wruntha! What do you see?”

From his position on the roof of the gate-tower, Wruntha shouted, “There are horsemen coming! Some got through the pass. Not too many! Probably thirty or so, no more!!”

“Thirty!” Mangueinic crowed, all but dancing on his single leg. “They’ll need time to clear away the rubble and renew their attack, if they come that way for their next assault. In the meantime, we’ll post archers to the peaks above them. Reduce their numbers before they reach the pass.” He laughed. “You see, Dom? Even so small a place as Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit can keep the Huns at bay with a little planning.”

“I hope you are right,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“We’ll keep the torches lit through the night, and by dawn, we’ll be able to keep the upper hand.”

Then the alarm clanged again, and shouts from the other end of the compound erupted.
“Huns! On the hunters’ tracks!”

Everyone in the gate-tower went quiet as the full importance of the cries was borne in upon them.

“A
diversion!”
Mangueinic spat as if it were a curse. “The pass was a diversion! They’re coming in from the hunters’ trails!” He looked around and began shouting orders to shift his men to the other end of the inner wall, to carry torches, to join with Bernardius’ soldiers in manning the far end of the wall to augment what Neves’ mercenaries were just now massing to face.