Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (24 page)

Caitlys rolled her eyes. Marcus flushed, trying not to look at her as he realized how happy he was that he could see her for a little while longer. If only he could fly with her and not one of the others.

“The brass eagles,” Cassius Claudo said. “And the dwarf and the men. Further, this boy has a young slave. He, at least, bears no guilt.”

The elf king waved an indifferent hand. “I care nothing for any of them. They shall be returned to Amorr under guard, alive and well, and you may dispose of them as you see fit. Mark you, Amorr will bear the cost—if it wants them, it can pay for them. I’ll send the eagles with them, assuming your cursed dwarf-fire didn’t melt them down. And never again shall man set foot in Elebrion. Oh, I suppose there may be the need for the occasional emissary, won’t there? Very well.” The king rose from the divan. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m in no mood to pontificate. Now go away, Cassius Claudo, and be damned or blessed as you please.”

“It shall be even as you command, High King.” Claudo actually smiled as he bowed, deeply, to the king of the elves. “
Farae thutoth genel naraeparan
.”

“And also with you,” the king said. “An admirable sentiment. Now go, before I change my mind and blade storm you all—including you, Lady Shadowsong.” Without delay, they all made haste to obey the elf king’s command.

Ad quartum dicendum quod vivificare effective simpliciter perfectionis est. Unde et Deo convenit secundum illud I Reg. II, dominus mortificat et vivificat. Productio horum animalium ordinatur secundum ordinem corporum quae eis ornantur, magis quam secundum propriam dignitatem. Praeterea, perfectior est vita in aelvis quam in hominem quantum ad anima vivificat corpus. Quandoquidem aetas hominum solum septuaginta, sed aetas aelvorum plusquam quingenti. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter unita.

DEAD LEAVES CRACKLED under Barat’s hooves as Marcus approached the Pontus Rossus, the division between Amorr the city and Amorr the empire. The cool October breeze seemed to grow chillier the closer he came to the rushing water, and he pulled his red cloak closer around him to keep warm. The two guards at the bridgehead waved him through without stopping him, most likely due to the two columns of Redeemed that were riding in formation behind him, or perhaps only because they were lazy.

It was good to be astride his own horse again. The elf king had been true to his word and sent all of the Amorran possessions, from the legionary eagles to the captive mercenaries to Marcus’s own horse, to the Civitavecchia. He’d met Lord Fáelán at the seaport and was surprised to have the chance to welcome not only Marcipor but also two of Cassius Claudo’s guards who had somehow survived both the mercenary attack and the dwarf’s unintentional attempt to set fire to Elebrion.

The sight of the city gates made Marcus think of Lodi, and he smiled. He’d freed the dwarf the morning after their arrival at Kir Donas. Inexplicably loyal, the dwarf protested, insisting that it was his duty to see Marcus safely back to House Valerius. But once Cassius Claudo had arrived at their ship with ten Petrine monks fortified by a squad of Church troops, Lodi allowed that, barring shipwreck, he needn’t fear for Marcus. In addition to confirming the dwarf’s manumission with his personal seal, the bishop had given Lodi a handsome purse of gold at Marcus’s request. Then of his own volition Claudo presented the dwarf with a necklace from which dangled a gilded phalange from the foot of Saint Saturus.

Marcus knew that Lodi harbored little trust in the saint’s ability to protect him against future imprisonment or poverty. Still, as Claudo pointed out with the customary haughtiness that Marcus was beginning to suspect might actually conceal a sense of humor, even so intrepid a dwarf as Lodi might find a token that proclaimed him to be a friend of the Church to be useful. Especially, the bishop noted, in the event that the Sanctiff determined that it was not only the elves but all ahomum that did not, in fact, possess souls.

On that same morning, Marcus had had to part with Caitlys. They had spoken but little during the journey, though each conversation had been sweet and imbued with something Marcus did not properly understand. Sextus could’ve explained it, though, he was certain. Marcus knew he must be parted from her, whether because of race or distance or the vows of the Church. Nevertheless, he felt … incomplete. And then there had been the matter of the kiss. He felt his cheeks blush furiously at the memory.

Marcipor, for his part, had been subdued upon his return. This was partly due to his feelings of guilt, but it was mostly from witnessing the death and degradation of so many men he’d come to like and even admire. Zephanus, Ecclesiastus, and Captain Hezekius were dead, while Cladius Serranus and Habbakus had been turned over to the Order of Saint Michael, along with their nineteen surviving comrades.

Marcipor refused to discuss his freedom with Marcus but insisted on claiming responsibility for his previous duties. For the present Marcus was inclined to leave the subject alone if that was his friend’s wish. Marcipor hadn’t accompanied him to the Michaeline’s great citadel at MountCassanus, from which Marcus was now returning with the Redeemed. The trip there had been to bring the mercenaries to the Michaeline’s Knight-General for judgment, and Marcipor wanted no part in that.

The captives had acquitted themselves well for the most part. They showed no fear, but only a little uncertainty when they first encountered the true warrior-priests in all their blue-and-gold splendor.

Cladius Serranus, catching Marcus’s eye, gestured with his chained hands. “I don’t suppose you’d spare the condemned one last draught?” The scarred mercenary winked.

“I surely would, Cladius Serranus, if I only I had it. Will you answer a question?”

“I don’t see why not. Although I’ll be disappointed in you if it involves the word ‘why’.”

Marcus laughed. “Oh, I know why, Serranus. You’re mercenaries. You kill for gold. And seven hundred florins is an excellent price for three deaths. I’m honored that my head should have commanded such a bounty.”

“Well, it wasn’t you as such, Marcus Valerius,” Serranus said drily. “Not that there aren’t those who wouldn’t like to see you dead now. Best watch your back now that you’re in the city. The captain’s dead, but there might be some sign of them who hired us in his papers.”

“The bishop thinks so too. He’s got men looking into that now. No, Serranus, what I wanted to know is how you knew so much about the Michaelines. How did you manage to impersonate them so successfully?”

Cladius Serranus stared at him for a second, then threw his head back and laughed. He lifted his iron-bound hands and wiped first at one eye, then the other. “You’re the bloody scholar, Valerius. You of all men should know. When we got the contract, the captain sent Zephanus out to find every scratching and scroll concerning those cursed priests that we could find.
De Munitionibus Castrorum
was the most useful. Those of us that can read took turns reading it out loud to those that couldn’t.”

“Hyginus?”

“Precisely. When the captain found out you were a scholar, I thought I’d have to kill you that first day.”

“I never got around to reading him.”

“So I noticed. Lucky for you, lad. Unlucky for me.” Serranus shrugged indifferently. “Lady Fortune is a whore. Trust in your sword or trust in your God, but don’t put your faith in her. Now, do you think this Knight-General might be persuaded to sell us to the stables? Or even the salt mines? Not much profit in killing us now. The elves could have taken care of that business.”

“I don’t know, Cladius Serranus,” Marcus had replied with a smile. It was impossible to dislike the man’s indomitable spirit. “But I rather suspect he knows a good fighting man when he sees one. If there’s to be crusade, he’ll need all the fighters he can find. Try trusting in God for once, Serranus, instead of your sword, and I shall pray that one day the Immaculate One will wash that blackened soul of yours as white as a Sanctiff’s beard.”

• • •

The Sanctiff received Marcus in the same poorly lit chamber as before. Cassius Claudo was with him, wearing his usual black robes. But this time the ambience in the small room felt small and petty rather than intimidating. Had everything else gotten smaller, or was it possible that he had grown? And of course, Aestus was not there.

He bowed to the two churchmen, thinking how well they would serve as icons of the two species of virtues. The bishop would stand in for the intellectual, and the Sanctiff himself would stand as the moral.

“Holiness. Excellency,” Marcus said. “Knight-General Francescus Centurionus conveys his warmest regards from MountCassanus. He wished me to extend his particular gratitude to you, Excellency, for the gift of the imposters.”

“Impudence,” sniffed Claudo. He had been more offended by the false Michaelines than any of the Michaelines themselves. “Did Centurionus tell you what he intended for them?”

“Yes, Excellency. They shall be slaves of the Order for seven years and a day, and they shall serve Saint Michael as their skills best dictate.” Serranus, at least, would be content with his lot. The warrior would live to fight another day, but now he would fight in God’s name, notmammon’s.

“A judicious decision, and wise,” remarked the Sanctiff. He looked older since Marcus had seen him last. The creases under his eyes had grown deeper. It was as if he had borne the heavy weight of his contemplations as a physical burden. “And have you reached your own decision, Marcus Valerius?”

Marcus took a deep breath, knowing that this was the moment toward which he felt God had been leading everything. Not that his own opinion would carry more weight than the bishop’s, much less the Sanctiff’s. But it was no less than his duty before God to render a sober and well-reasoned conclusion. He squared his shoulders and met the Sanctiff’s eyes.

“I have indeed, Holiness. It is my considered opinion that the elves do indeed possess immortal souls.”

Both men’s eyebrows rose unexpectedly, making him nervous. He rushed to support his statement.

“Yes, I believe that logic conclusively dictates that elves do possess souls which are naturally united to them. And I would even assert the possibility that many more so-called ‘sub-human’ species of Selenoth may possess the spark of the eternal, depending, of course, upon how one precisely defines the ‘Imago Dei.’ I have presented this logic in a philosophical text I have entitled
Summa Elvetica
. It is modeled on Oxonus, and of course, His Excellency’s own … Why are you laughing?”

“My dear boy,” the Sanctiff said, shaking his head as he smiled gently, “I meant what decision you have come to about whether or not you are going to take your priestly vows as a servant of the Church.”

Marcus sputtered. “I … You … ”

“Alas, Marcus,” Claudo said, himself still chuckling, “I’m sure His Holiness would have been delighted to take your
Summa
into consideration when he composed his bull on the matter.”

Marcus was chagined. Why had they sent him on this journey if they did not care for his findings? Why had he spent hours assembling his thoughts and agonizing over the wording in his
Summa
? He bowed to them, more from anger and shame than reverence. “I sought only to serve.”

“And well you have served, Marcus Valerius,” the Sanctiff said. “I shall indeed read your findings, and with great interest. But at this moment I still await your vocational decision.”

Marcus straightened, no longer afraid to look either man in the eye. “I have decided to serve God, Holiness.” He let the statement hang in the air. They could interpret it as they liked. Then he finished. “But I believe I may serve Him best by remaining outside the Church.”

The Sanctiff surprised him by smiling. “I am pleased to hear that, Marcus Valerius. Well pleased! The Excellency said, and I concur, that despite your immense love for the Immaculate, your vocation is essentially intellectual, not spiritual. Do not ever confuse the Church with the God it serves, young man.”

“Nor God’s voice on Earth with the still, small voice that speaks after the wind, the earthquake, and the fire,” Cassius Claudo added.

The Sanctiff shot an irritated glance at him, but the bishop’s face did not so much as hint at a smile.

“Even so,” the Sanctiff allowed after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “Tell me then, Marcus—if you will not take vows, what do you intend to do?”

Marcus felt light. Immensely relieved. He had just broken out from under what felt like a holy but heavy burden, and the Sanctiff had praised him for it. “After consulting with my uncle, Lucius Valerius Magnus, I have decided to put myself forward for tribunus plebis in two years, when I am of age. And in the interim I hope to join my father on campaign. If I have learned one thing since we last spoke, it is that not all knowledge can be gleaned from texts.”

“Indeed.” The Sanctiff distractedly stroked his beard. “Your ambitions appear to be as consequential as your advisors. I wish you well in them. But first, I would know if you would be willing to accept one more charge from the Church before you begin your career outside it.” It seemed that a great weight had settled on the Sanctiff’s shoulders. What was this new development?

“I hope you consider me always to be at your service, Holiness.”

“Well said!” The Sanctiff glanced at Cassius Claudo, who nodded, then went to a shelf and retrieved two scrolls. One was larger than the other and was capped with engraved gold over the red wax seals. “Like you in your many thoughts, Marcus Valerius, I too have made a decision. I require you to bear this,” he said, gripping the larger scroll, “to Elebrion as Amorr’s formal and inviolate emissary, and present this document to the elf king. It contains the text of a sanctal bull that will be published in one month’s time. You must deliver it to the elf on that same day—the first of November. The Immaculate preserve you.”

Marcus bit his lip and bowed obediently to mask the emotion that rushed through his body. So it was to be war. Holy war based on one man’s word and death on both sides.