Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (2 page)

Bishop Claudo’s dry voice broke in on his thoughts. “Marcus Valerius, I have read your commentary on the
Summa Spiritus
. It is … not without merit. But when you say that one does not know, indeed, that one is not even capable of knowing, whether a particular form or being possesses an immortal soul, are you not treading perilously near a concept that could easily be construed as heresy? Or is this passage nothing more than the sophomoric pedantry of a young scholar who has manufactured a reason to doubt the immutable fact of his own existence?”

Marcus gulped. Claudo was cutting straight to the point. Are you a heretic or a fool, boy? That was the real question being posed to him now. The Church didn’t burn heretics at the stake anymore, but nevertheless he knew he had to be very careful about what he said next. He closed his eyes and thought quickly before answering.

“Only a philosopher or a fool doubts his own existence, Excellency,” he said. “It is true, however, that the two all too often prove to be one and the same. I assert that I am neither. The verb ‘to know’ contains a number of interpretations, and in the sentence of which I believe you are speaking, I made use of the concept in its most concrete sense, the sense in which a thing is proven beyond any reasonable possibility of doubt. As in the case, for example, of a mathematical equation.”

Marcus paused. Was that a frown clouding over the Sanctiff’s face? He shook his head, took a deep breath, and tried to clarify his meaning.

“Your Excellency, as you know, where there is surety, there is no faith, no belief, per se. And therefore, knowledge of the soul rightly belongs in the realm of faith, not mathematics.” He placed his right hand over his heart. “Do I have a soul? Yes, I believe so, with all my heart. But regardless of my faith, it is either so or it is not, as the Castrate wrote so wisely. My personal belief does not have the capacity to dictate the truth. Indeed, before the eternal truth of the almighty God, my own humble opinion is of no account.”

In the silence that followed, Claudo finally snorted and his eyes narrowed, but he did not speak. Father Aestus looked as if he were about to burst out laughing.

The Sanctiff smiled. “He has you there, Claudo. Unless you did not apprise me of a divine revelation, all your wonderfully conclusive eloquence remain just that—eloquence.”

Claudo shrugged. “It is so. And yet decisions must be made, though the decision makers befallible.” He regarded Marcus coldly and stepped back into the shadows.

Marcus stared at the carpeted floor, chagrined. He wondered what was wrong with his answer and hoped he hadn’t greatly offended the acerbic ecclesiastic.

“I too have a question for the young scholar,” Father Aestus announced. His green eyes danced impishly. “Do you ride?”

“Do I … Horses?” Marcus asked, taken aback.

“I wasn’t thinking of cows,” the Father replied tartly.

“Yes, oh, yes. Of course.”

Every Amorran nobleman rode, especially those of the Valerian house. Marcus wondered what kind of trap was being laid for him now. It just didn’t make any sense.

“I have no further questions, your Eminence.”

Father Aestus bowed theatrically to the Sanctiff and joined Bishop Claudo behind the makeshift Sanctal throne.

Marcus was thoroughly confused now. At this point he wouldn’t have been surprised if the Sanctiff suddenly leaped out of his chair and demanded that he demonstrate an ability to juggle apples.

“I anticipate no objections, then?” the Sanctiff asked the two Churchmen.

“None at all,” Father Aestus said cheerfully. Bishop Claudo slowly shook his head in silence.

“Very well.” A smile creased the Sanctiff’s lined face, and he leaned toward Marcus. “I realize this has been a little unusual for you, my son. But I have a problem, you see, and you, Marcus Valerius, are going to help me solve it.”

“Me?” Marcus shook his head. “How could I help you, your Holiness?”

“Let me tell you about my problem first. You see, these illustrious jewels in the crown of the Church,” he nodded toward Claudo and Aestus, “have each penned a marvelous work on man and his place in this world. The
Summa Spiritus
you have read. The
Ordo Selenus Sapiens
you have not, though Father Aestus will no doubt be interested in what you might have to say about it. In many points they are in agreement, but on one very important point they are at variance. It is that particular point which I would like you to help me settle.”

Marcus nodded. “I am yours to command, your Holiness. But what is this point of contention, and how could I ever help you settle it?”

The Sanctiff sighed wearily. “I am an old man, Marcus Valerius, and my days of seeing through this glass darkly will soon come to an end. I am sending a party to Elebrion, you see, but I fear I would not survive the trip. Therefore you, my son, shall accompany Bishop Claudo and the good Father in my stead.”

Marcus put his hand over his mouth. Now he understood what the Sanctiff had in mind, and the sobering realization of terrible responsibility hit him like a blow to the stomach.

“By the blood of the martyrs,” he cried despite himself. “You’re going to decide if the elves have souls!”

Videtur quod aelvi habeant animae naturaliter sibi unita. Dicitur enim Gen. II, Deus hominem de limo terrae, et inspiravit in faciem eius spiraculum vitae, et factus est homo in animam viventem. Sed ille qui spirat, aliquid a se emittit. Ergo anima qua homo vivit, est aliquid de substantia Dei. Subsistentes cum aelvi, et diversi homini, non acciperunt substantiam Dei ab Deo. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter sibi unita.

THE LAST VESTIGES of the setting sun had long since disappeared by the time the small troop of crimson-cloaked Redeemed escorted Marcus past the gate of his uncle’s domus.

By day, Amorr belonged to God. But its night was claimed by the worst of His creations. Peril lurked in far too many shadows of the narrow, high-walled, circuitous streets called vici. Even a mounted nobleman born to horse and sword could find himself beaten, stripped, and, if fortunate, merely robbed by the cruel gangs of half-human breeds and bandits who ravaged the city by night.

Still, even the most lawless of brigands feared crossing the path of the Redeemed, the most fanatical of the Church’s militias. The Redeemed were former gladiators, now rehabilitated— hardened men of violence who had chosen to leave the bloodstained sands of the Coliseum behind them. Slaves they had been and slaves they were still, but they served a different Master now.

Marcus was not entirely comfortable in their hulking, creaking, red-cloaked presence, but he appreciated their company in the darkness of the Amorran night. As they neared the estate, slaves from the household swarmed around Marcus’s horse.

He inclined his head politely toward the troop’s commander. “My thanks, Captain. A good evening to you and your men.”

The captain saluted grimly, bringing his fist to his chest, without a hint of personality crossing his scarred, sun-weathered face. He showed no sign of interest in either Marcus or his House. He’d done his duty, nothing more. “Glory to God, sir.”

Without another word, the ex-gladiator turned his mount around in a swirl of crimson and horsestink. The five Redeemed riders followed him, torches held high, returning confidently into the noisome shadows of the city.

Marcus watched them go, fascinated. He wondered what it would be like to be such a man. To be so sure, so secure in one’s faith—surely that was a wonderful thing! And yet, what was a man’s mind for, if not to use it?

It was another question to ponder, but far less pressing than the one that looked to have him departing on the morning following the morrow. Marcus sighed and dismounted, waving aside the proffered hands of a tall slave offering him assistance. He affectionately patted the soft, fleshy nose of his big grey, a magnificent steed named Barat, before handing the reins over to another slave, this one young, olive-skinned, and thin. But human.

Like most patrician families, it was beneath the dignity of House Valerius to own half-breeds or inhumans. This slave looked familiar. He wore the blue badge of the stables, but for the life of him Marcus couldn’t remember his name.

“What are you called?” he asked the young slave.

“Deccus, Maester Maercuss,” the boy replied in heavily accented Amorran, not meeting Marcus’s eyes as he carefully stroked Barat’s ears.

Marcus nodded. Now he remembered. The boy was a Bethnian, one of the lot purchased by his uncle’s head steward at the spring auction. Erasto had bought twenty-five or thirty. Bethnians were absurdly inexpensive now, thanks to Pontius Balbus’s crushing of a rebellion in that province the year before. But they knew their horses well. Barat would be in good hands with this boy.

“Then please take good care of him tonight, Deccus, and tomorrow as well,” Marcus instructed. “It seems I’ve a journey ahead of me, and he must be fit for the riding.”

The slave nodded, and a faint smile crossed his lips at the sound of his name. The Valerian slaves were treated no worse than most and better than some, but the stables were a rough place for a youngster to serve. Marcus knew it could have easily been months since Deccus was last addressed by anything but a curse. The use of the boy’s name might be a small enough kindness, but it counted for something. At least, Marcus hoped that it did.

• • •

Rumor spread faster than sickness in the slaves’ quarters, so by the time Marcus entered the atrium Marcipor was already there waiting for him. Marcipor, Marcus’s bodyslave, was a handsome, broad-shouldered man of Savondese descent. He was the illegitimate offspring of an officer captured twenty-four years ago by his uncle. He and Marcus were of the same age, almost to the day.

It was obvious that Sextus had not kept the news of the Sanctiff’s summons to himself, because Marcipor’s blue eyes were alight with curiosity even as they carefully avoided meeting his own. His demeanor was proper today—far too proper, in fact—and Marcus stifled a smile as Marcipor gave an uncharacteristically elaborate bow as he offered Marcus a fresh tunic of light muslin to replace his dusty day-clothes.

“Why don’t you just come right out and ask me?” Marcus wondered aloud as he held out his arms and let Marcipor assist him out of the sweat-stained tunic.

“This slave would not dream of such presumption, Master.”

Marcus snorted. “Save it for the girls, pretty boy. My uncle should have sold you to the theater long ago. It’s a pity Pylades didn’t have you for a protégé.”

Marcipor grinned and abandoned the servile pretense. He puffed his chest out and struck a dramatic stance. He was a striking young man, with a strong jaw and a close-cropped, golden beard. More than one slave girl living in the vicinity of the Valerian house had given birth to a fair-haired, blue-eyed baby after Marcipor had passed his sixteenth year.

“Indeed,” he said, “I daresay I would have outshined Hylos. But you must tell me about this mysterious summons. Is it true you saw the Sanctiff himself? The whole domus has been utterly agog with rumor ever since you left with Father Aurelius! Sextus says they’re going to ordain you early and make you a cardinal!”

“What?” Marcus burst out laughing as he donned a clean tunic. He knew a bishopric would soon be his for the taking. No noble, not even one with plebian blood, would expect anything less. And it was even possible that an archbishopric might be in the cards. But not even a scion of House Severus could hope to be crowned prince of the church before reaching thirty. “Sextus, as you so often inform me, is an idiot.”

Marcus folded his arms, enjoying the feel of the fresh muslin against his skin A pity he hadn’t the time to visit the baths before vesperna. “So, what’s the bet?”

He was sure there was a stake involved somehow, for both his cousin and his slave were inveterate gamblers. Marcipor’s coin-hoard far exceeded his own. In fact, more often than not he was in debt to his slave. Marcipor’s rates were usurious, but paying them was easier than trying to extract money from his uncle’s iron fists.

“The archbishopric, of course. Even your lily-white hands aren’t clean enough for the lazulate. Which is a good thing, seeing how you’re barely even a man yet and you’ve too much living to do before you seal yourself up in that white mausoleum for the rest of your life.”

“You’re lying, Marce. And if the bet is which one of you I’ll tell first, well, you both lose. I can’t tell you anything. In fact, I don’t even know if I’ll be free to talk to anyone when I return.”

“Return…? So you’re going somewhere!” Marcipor’s face grew calculating for a moment, but then his eyes widened with surprise. “Wait a minute, you can’t go anywhere without me!Unattended? Your uncle would never hear of it! And if you think you’re going to take that irresponsible lunatic of a cousin—”

Marcus held up a hand. “Peace, Marce.” He yawned and shook his head. “Of course you’re going with me. Assuming I go anywhere, that is, for I must ask Magnus’s permission first. But you should probably start getting things together for a six-month journey tonight, because if we do leave, my understanding is that the Sanctiff intends we shall begin the day after tomorrow, and I can’t imagine even Magnus would deny him. Now, leave me to attend him. It seems everyone in that ‘white mausoleum’ is too holy to bother with food anymore. I’m hungry enough to eat a boar.”

• • •

Marcus found Magnus reclining in the triclinium, accompanied in his evening meal only by his three favorites.

The room was large, but stark, with no decorations on the white stuccoed walls to detract from the only furniture, a low, tiled table that filled the center of the room and couches on three sides. The colorful tiles told the story of Valerius, the founder of the house, and showed the wounded hero lying in a grove being tended by the wolf who licked his wounds and succored him until his triumphant and vengeful return to Amorr. Magnus often entertained a score or more of Amorr’s great citizens here, senators and equestrians, but fortunately tonight he was as near to alone as Marcus was ever likely to find him.