Sailing to Sarantium (9 page)

The red-faced man shouted, 'Imperial Couriers are not kept waiting,
you vulgar provincial! There is a letter for you!'

Interesting as this undoubtedly was, Crispin found it easy to ignore
him. He wished he had some red vivid as the courier's cheeks, mind
you. Even from this height they showed crimson. It occurred to him
that he'd never tried to achieve that effect on a face in mosaic. He
slotted the idea among all the others and returned to creating the
holy flame given as a gift to mankind, working with what he had.

Had his instructions not been unfortunately specific, Tilliticus
would simply have dropped the packet on the dusty, debris-strewn
floor of the shabby little sanctuary, reeking with the worst
Heladikian heresy, and stormed out.

Men did not come-even here in Batiara-in their own slow time to
receive an invitation from the Imperial Precinct in Sarantium. They
raced over, ecstatic. They knelt. They embraced the knees of the
courier. Once, someone had kissed his muddy, dung-smeared boots,
weeping for joy.

And they most certainly offered the courier largess for being the
bearer of such exalted, dazzling tidings.

Watching the ginger-haired man named Martinian finally descend from
his scaffolding and walk deliberately across the floor towards him,
Pronobius Tilliticus understood that his boots were not about to be
kissed. Nor was any sum of money likely to be proffered him in
gratitude.

It only confirmed his opinion of Batiara under the Antae. They might
be Jad-worshippers, if barely, and they might be formal tributary
allies of the Empire in a relationship brokered by the High Patriarch
in Rhodias, and they might have conquered this peninsula a century
ago and rebuilt some of the walls they had levelled then, but they
were still barbarians.

And they had infected with their uncouth manners and heresies even
those native-born descendants of the Rhodian Empire who had a claim
to honour.

The man Martinian's hair was actually an offensively bright red,
Tilliticus saw. Only the dust and lime in it and in his untidy beard
softened the hue. His eyes, unsoftened, were a hard, extremely
unpleasant blue. He wore a nondescript, stained tunic over wrinkled
brown leggings. He was a big man, and he carried himself in a coiled,
angry way that was quite unappealing. His hands were large, and there
was a bloodstained bandage wrapped around one of them.

He's in a temper, the fool by the doorway had said. The fool was
still on his stool, watching the two of them from beneath something
misshapen that might once have been a hat. The deaf and mute
apprentice had wandered in by now, along with all the others from
outside. It ought to have been a splendid, resonant moment for
Tilliticus to make his proclamation, to graciously accept the
artisan's stammering gratitude on behalf of the Chancellor and the
Imperial Post, and then head for the best inn Varena could offer with
some coins to spend on mulled wine and a woman. 'And so? I'm here.
What is it you want?'

The mosaicist's voice was as hard as his eyes. His glance, when it
left Tilliticus's face and sought that of the older man in the
doorway, did not grow any less inimical. An unpleasant character,
entirely.

Tilliticus was genuinely shocked by the rudeness. 'In truth? I want
nothing whatever with you.' He reached into his bag, found the fat
Imperial Packet and threw it scornfully at the artisan. The man,
moving quickly, caught it in one hand.

Tilliticus said, almost spitting the words, 'You are Martinian of
Varena, obviously. Unworthy as you are, I am charged with declaring
that the Thrice Exalted Beloved of Jad, the Emperor Valerius II,
requests you to attend upon him in Sarantium with all possible speed.
The packet you hold contains a sum of money to aid you in your
travels, a sealed Permit signed by the Chancellor himself that allows
you to use Imperial Posting Inns for lodging and services, and a
letter that I am sure you will be able to find someone to read to
you. It indicates that your services are requested to aid in the
decoration of the new Sanctuary of Jad's Holy Wisdom that the
Emperor, in his own great wisdom, is even now constructing.'

There was a mollifying buzz of sound in the sanctuary as the
apprentices and lesser artisans, at least, appeared to grasp the
significance of what Tilliticus had just said. It occurred to him
that he might consider, at future times, relaying the formal words in
this blunt tone. It had an effectiveness of its own.

'What happened to the old one?' The red-haired artisan seemed
unmoved. Was he mentally deficient? Tilliticus wondered.

'What old one, you primitive barbarian?'

'Sheathe the insults or you'll crawl from here. The old sanctuary.'

Tilliticus blinked. The man was deranged. 'You threaten an Imperial
Courier? Your nose will be slit for you if you so much as lift a hand
to me. The old sanctuary burned two years ago, in the riot. Are you
ignorant of events in the world?'

'We had plague here,' the man said, his voice flat. 'Twice. And then
a civil war. Fires halfway across the world are unimportant at such
times. Thank you for delivering this. I will read it and decide what
to do.'

'Decide?' Tilliticus squeaked. He hated the way his voice rose when
he was caught by surprise. The same thing had happened when that
accursed girl in Trakesia had asked him to take her away. It had made
it difficult to impart the proper tone to the needed dissertation
upon his mother's family.

'Why, yes,' the mosaicist said. 'Dare I assume this is an offer and
an invitation, not a command, as to a slave?'

Tilliticus was too stupefied to speak for a moment.

He drew himself up. Pleased to note that his voice was under control,
he snapped, 'Only a slave would fail to grasp what this means. It
seems you are craven and without aspiration in the world. In which
case, like a slave, you may burrow back down into your little hovel
here and do what you will in the dirt and Sarantium suffers no loss
at all. I have no time for further talk. You have your letter. In the
Emperor's thrice-glorious name, I bid you good day.'

'Good day,' said the man, dismissively. He turned away. 'Pardos,' he
said 'the setting lime was well done today. And properly laid on,
Radulf, Couvry. I'm pleased.' Tilliticus stomped out.

The Empire, civilization, the glories of the Holy City ... all wasted
on some people, he thought. In the doorway he stopped in front of the
older man, who sat regarding him with a mild gaze.

'Your hat,' Tilliticus said, glaring at him, 'is the most ridiculous
head-covering I have ever seen.'

'I know,' said the man, cheerfully. 'They all tell me that.'
Pronobius Tilliticus, aggrieved, unassuaged, reclaimed his horse and
galloped off, dust rising behind him on the road to Varena's walls.

'We had better talk,' Crispin said, looking down at the man who had
taught him most of what he knew.

Martinian's expression was rueful. He stood up, adjusted the
eccentric hat on his head-only Crispin among those there knew that it
had saved his life, once-and led the way outside. The Imperial
Courier, dudgeon lending him speed, was racing towards town. The
sanctuary lay in its own enclosure just east of the city walls.

They watched him for a moment, then Martinian began walking south
towards a copse of beech trees outside the yard at the opposite end
from the burial mound. The sun was low now and the wind had picked
up. Crispin squinted a little, emerging from the muted light of the
sanctuary. A cow looked up from grazing and regarded them as they
went. Crispin carried the Imperial Packet. The name 'Martinian of
Varena' was writ large upon it in cursive script, quite elegantly.
The seal was crimson and elaborate.

Martinian stopped short of the trees just past the gate that led out
from the yard to the road. He sat down on a stump there. They were
quite alone. A blackbird swooped from their left, curved into the
woods and was lost in leaves. It was cold now at the end of day with
the sun going down. The blue moon was already up, above the forest.
Crispin, glancing over as he leaned back against the wooden gate,
realized that it was full.

Ilandra had died at sunset on a day when the blue moon was full, and
the girls-sores ruptured, bodies fouled, their features hideously
distorted-had followed her to the god that night. Crispin had walked
outside and seen that moon, a wound in the sky.

He handed the heavy packet to Martinian, who accepted it without
speaking. The older mosaicist looked down at his name for a moment,
then tore open the Chancellor of Sarantium's seal. In silence he
began taking out what was within. The weight turned out to be silver
and copper coins in a filigreed purse, as promised. A letter
explained, as the courier had said, that the Great Sanctuary was
being rebuilt and mosaic work was much a part of that. Some
compliments upon the reputation of Martinian of Varena. There was a
formal-looking document on superb paper which turned out to be the
Permit for the Posting Inns. Martinian whistled softly and showed the
parchment to Crispin: it was signed by the Chancellor himself, no
lesser figure. They were both sufficiently familiar with high
circles-if only here in Batiara among the Antae-to know that this was
an honour.

Another document proved, when unfolded three times, to be a map
showing the location of the Posting Inns and lesser stopping places
on the Imperial road through Sauradia and Trakesia to the City. Yet
another folded sheet named certain ships calling at Mylasia on the
coast as reliable for sea transport if they happened to be in
harbour.

'Too late in the year by now for commercial ships,' Martinian said
thoughtfully, looking at this last. He took out the letter again,
opened it. Pointed to a date at the top. 'This was issued at the very
beginning of autumn. Our red-cheeked friend took his time getting
here. I think you were meant to sail.'

'I was meant to sail?'

'Well, you, pretending to be me.'

'Martinian. What in Jad's-?'

'I don't want to go. I'm old. My hands hurt. I want to drink mulled
wine this winter with friends and hope there are no wars for a while.
I have no desire to sail to Sarantium. This is your summons,
Crispin.'

'Not my name.'

'It ought to be. You've done most of the work for years now.'
Martinian grinned. 'About time, too.'

Crispin did not return the smile. 'Think about this. This Emperor is
said to be a patron. A builder. What more could you ask for in life
than a chance to see the City and work there in honour? Make
something that will last, and be known?'

'Warm wine and a seat by the fire in Galdera's tavern.' And my wife
beside me in the night until I die, he thought, but did not say.

The other man made a disbelieving sound.

Martinian shook his head. 'Crispin, this is your summons. Don't let
their mistake confuse things. They want a master mosaicist. We are
known for our work in the tradition of Rhodian mosaic. It makes sense
for them to have someone from Batiara be a part of this, east-west
tensions notwithstanding, and you know which of the two of us ought
to make the journey.'

'I know that I have not been asked. You have. By name. Even if I
wanted to go, which I don't.'

Martinian, uncharacteristically, said something obscene involving
Crispin's anatomy, the thunder god of the Bassanids, and a lightning
bolt.

Crispin blinked. 'You will now practise speaking like me?' he asked,
not smiling. 'That will have things even further reversed, won't it?'

The older man was flushed. 'Do not even pretend that you don't want
to go. Why did you pretend not to know about their sanctuary?
Everyone knows about the Victory Riot and the burning in Sarantium.'

'Why did you pretend not to be yourself?' There was a little silence.
The other man looked away, towards the distant woods. Crispin said,
'Martinian, I don't want to go. It isn't pretending. I don't want to
do anything. You know that.'

His friend turned back to him. 'Then that's why you must go. Caius,
you are too young to stop living.'

'They were younger and they weren't. They stopped.'

He said it quickly, harshly. He hadn't been ready for Martinian's
words. He needed to be ready when such things came up.

It was quiet here. The god's sun going down red in the west,
preparing to journey through the long dark. In sanctuaries throughout
Batiara the sunset rites would soon begin. The blue moon was above
the eastern trees. No stars yet. Ilandra had died vomiting blood,
black sores covering her, bursting. Like wounds. The girls. His girls
had died in the dark.

Martinian took off his shapeless hat. His hair was grey, and he had
lost most of it in the centre. He said, quite gently,' And you honour
the three of them by doing the same? Shall I blaspheme some more?
Don't make me. I don't like it. This packet from Sarantium is a
gift.'

'Then accept it. We're nearly done here. Most of what's left is
border work and polishing, and then the masons can finish.'

Martinian shook his head. 'Are you afraid?'

Crispin's eyebrows met when he frowned. 'We have been friends a long
time. Please do not talk to me that way.'

'We have been friends a long time. No one else will,' said Martinian
implacably. 'One in four people died here last summer, following the
same numbers the summer before. More than that, they say, elsewhere.
The Antae used to worship their own dead, with candles and
invocations. I suppose they still do, in Jad's sanctuaries instead of
oak groves or crossroads, but not. . . Caius, not by following them
into a living death.'

Martinian looked down as he finished at the twisted hat in his hands.

One in four. Two summers in succession. Crispin knew it. The burial
mound behind them was only one among many. Houses, whole quarters of
Varena and other cities of Batiara still lay deserted. Rhodias
itself, which had never really recovered from the Antae sack, was a
hollow place, forums and colonnades echoing with emptiness. The High
Patriarch in his palace there was said to walk the corridors alone of
a night, speaking to spirits unseen by men. Madness came with the
plague. And a brief, savage war had come among the Antae, as well,
when King Hildric died, leaving only a daughter after him. Farms and
fields everywhere had been abandoned, too large to be worked by those
left alive. There had been tales of children sold into slavery by
their parents for want of food or firewood as winter came.