by Tanith Lee
And on the ships also great stillness. They were intrigued, perhaps, by this last show.
Speak the Grace, Beatifica.
All across the short divide of water, aided by the square’s design, they heard her voice, which was neither female nor male, speaking to God in the Latin tongue. She did not speak, the Grace. It was an ancient Psalm which invoked assistance, from the mountains. Had Danielus guided her too in this?
Undoubtedly the Jurneians did not follow it. But Cristiano, and how many more, felt his body part along its seams, painless, like a chrysalis.
The world itself is opening like some colossal door, to let another world come through.
The girl stands in her stirrups, well-trained to horsemanship on a farm of the plain. And the horse, well trained, stays steady as a rock. Through everything.
She raises her arms.
Oh Beatifica, the Word is God’s, and now the Word is made Fire.
They saw, on the ships and on the land, an invisible great hand, which swept up all her burning pelt of hair, and as it rose, enfurled it into living flame.
Flame towered. It raced upward, higher than the walls of flesh and architecture, high or higher than the rose-white dome of the Primo Suvio. And in the flame, the heart of it, stood Beatifica, the Maiden, burning and unconsumed. (And under her the horse, a rock.)
For perhaps a minute this was seen.
For perhaps a little more.
And then the Maiden gestured with her fiery hands, and all the scarlet whorl of the fire curled over to them like some tidal comber of an ocean. She balanced this enormity in her grasp.
She held the monumental fire. All saw her hold the fire.
Then saw her set it free.
It sprang, the fire, redder than any sun, blinding hot, dry as a desert wind, balled and sizzling, with a shriek that tore the night across. It sprang straight for the Jurneian fleet.
Less than a minute they had. Some few seconds.
The time that was needed for one great breaking cry.
Suley-Masroor beheld, where dark had been, the burning wave, its heat scorching him, and casting up his eyes, saw Quarter-Moon’s topmost sails alter, from dull white canvas clouds to a fire-cloud bright as day.
Thousand on thousand, all the white clouds were burning.
Flames leaped a hundred feet, tossing up and away huge limbs of masts that shattered as they seemed to hit the sky, falling in tails of gold. Flaming flowers, the rigging of five hundred and three vessels billowed and conjoined above the water, turning it to blood.
Through the roar and bellow, as the ships’ wooden sides split wide, here and there interceded the screams of men, with a thin, disembodied sound.
Then thunder detonated, rang round the lagoons over and again as the powder of the cannons exploded. Black metal shapes hurled through the air. The water disbanded to receive them. Stripped skeletal, slender vessels tilted, diving like sharks with blazing backs.
The lagoons drank thirstily.
But now it is all the thunder, the lightning, and a rain of burning red, and sparks like shards of cinnabar, and ruby carbuncles and white gold, and streams of liquid gold that fissure the water of smashed mirrors, and the pillars of smoke that is black-red granite, pushing back the night to give—
this arson room—
this clamour space—
this apocalypse its legend.
PART TWO
By me this way is for the City Sorrowful,
By me this way is for eternal pain…
Your every hope desert, that enter in.
DANTE ALIGHIERI
The Divine Comedy
(Part of the inscription over the entrance to Hell)
1
FROM THE DUCAL ESTATE at Forchenza, the mountains were visible in some detail. Joffri sat long hours looking at them, brooding.
Those whose business it was to cheer him, tried. He wondered how long they would bother.
The dogs, as usual, were the best. Especially his second white Gemma, who sat patiently at his feet, not minding what he had done.
Joffri attempted to ignore what he had done. This was impossible, naturally.
He saw it very distinctly. Everything. Delay and indolence, not wanting to think of it. Allowing others to decide and make mistakes. Finally a dramatic unavoidable awareness. A bravura, (as at the feast, when the girl did her trick with the fire.) Even his letter to the Primo, in which he declared his sure belief in his own army, in his ships, in the Bellatae, in God. Then the panic. The packing. The running away.
If Venus survived, she would take him back. She would be, like him, too weak and lazy to demand another lord. But though she might forget with time what he had done, she would never forgive.
On the other hand, it must be faced, there was a probability he could not return to his enchanting island.
Jurneia might destroy it, and the City too. (He thought of the lovely colored birds in the trees of the Rivoalto, potted by heathen savages, and wept again.)
After a victorious interval, Jurneia would come inland, up the plain. They would harry the farms and burn down the old houses on the estates, this one included. And he would have to run again, up over those horned peaks he could so clearly see. Into coarse Frankish lands. Or else, he could retreat westwards through Italy, his house on his back, scorned, mocked, and a beggar in the courts of other princes.
The Ducem looked at the mountains.
When they brought him the messenger, Gemma the bitch hound stood up. Joffri meant to, but his legs were like leaden water.
He took the letters, and sent everybody out. Let them question the man themselves if they were so eager to learn of horrors.
Joffri sat with the letters in his hands.
He said to Gemma, quietly, “I’d do better at once to hang myself.” At his voice, and inappropriately, his dog wagged her tail.
He smiled at the irony, and broke the first seal.
Joffri read the letters, one of which was signed by the Marshal of Arms, and undersigned by three captains, the second and third of which were signed by two Magisters Major of the Primo, (neither Danielus). The fourth was signed by five members of the Council of the Lamb, not including Isaacus. Having read the four letters, Joffri read them again. Then once more.
He had drunk a lot of wine that night she called the fire. Even so he had, at the time, been partly overthrown by what she did. Joffri remembered now the bizarre tale of the man who discounted Jesus, saying the Christ had only risen once from death, who knew if He would be able to do it again.
Ah. If only he had had faith.
After this, Joffri sat on the chair.
Gemma came and put her head on his knee, because he was crying again.
‘No sooner did the fire take hold, which was instantly, than a great many of their ships exploded, from the powder kept for the cannon, and stores of oil. The sky was red and the water boiled, and a rain fell on the shore of wood splinters and iron nails and other things, alight or melted.’
‘Later we learned that the conflagration did further work. Seeing the distress of their fleet in the Laguna Fulvia, the Infidel sent in yet more ships from the sea mouths at Silvia and Torchara. And from Aquila, where the fire-blast did not go, also they tried to come in, by the wider canals. But no sooner did any draw near, than the fire spread contagiously to them, and so too through into Aquila.’
‘The quays and waterfronts, even the roofs, and all the Primo Square, were littered with bits and parts of the Jurneian ships, which had been blown off. The citizens have since taken them for momentoes. One large wooden piece, thought to have been wrenched from a forecastle, was carried into the Primo and laid before the Great Altar. Strangely no fires were begun in the City from the rain of sparks, and the damage done by objects which fell is slight.’
‘The sea and lagoons were full of swimming men, but many drowned, and countless others will have burned. Those we have are our prisoners. Their ships cracked and went down. A few ships l
eft afloat, though shambled, were consequently towed away. In all, the belief is they lost more than six hundred of their craft. As it was learned presently from the marshes and next the outer islands, the rest at length turned tail and fled. We had not the vessels to pursue them. But they have lost very much. Besides, they were shown, God was with us. They will not dare come back. And the word they sow in Candis and the East will muzzle all those cities there which will us harm.’
‘For the girl they call the Maiden, whom truly God gave to us, she was carried away dead. Her fire, sent from Heaven, was too vast for her fragile vessel. There must always be a sacrifice.’
2
Before Cristiano was Jian, emerging suddenly from the shadows of the knights chapel, like a moving figure of steel. Defiantly, Jian said, “I am here, as you are, for her.”
“Is that my reason?”
“What else, Cristiano. We must keep this Vigile together. We were her first witnesses among the Bellatae. Aretzo would be here, if he’d lived.”
Cristiano said, “You know, I keep the Vigil alone. I’ll come here tomorrow.”
Jian’s pale angry face, stony now as Cristiano’s face. “You’re petty, Bellator. You won’t share with me? What are we, boys tussling for an onion? I’d use this night to pray for her.”
“Yes.”
Cristiano turned.
But Jian was after him at once. His hand fell hard on Cristiano’s arm.
“Stay. Won’t you do this for her? No? You’re jealous then, I think. You want the Maiden to yourself, Cristiano. No one else must have her—and when they do, you avert your eyes.”
“I assumed that was your own argument.”
Jian stood back. He said, “You must always be the best, must you not? You treat God like some blind old father, who hears of your wonders and never sees the pride of you.” Cristiano stood looking at him. Jian said, “You’re swoll with pride, about to split from it.”
The white glare of his rage and envy filled up the capella, but Cristiano reflected it back upon him like a polished shield. In his mind, Cristiano heard an inner voice telling him to be still. Perhaps Jian did also. Neither could heed it; And Jian’s hand fell abruptly on the hilt of his sword.
“No,” said Cristiano then. He stepped forward, and flung one arm about Jian, who resisted him a moment as (Cristiano surmised) a woman might. Then gave in.
“Pardon me, Cristiano.”
“I do. I ask your pardon in exchange.”
They fell back from each other and stared away in opposite directions.
“She lives,” Cristiano presently said.
“So the Magister told us.”
“You doubt him?”
“No.”
Cristiano considered, as if they were events which another had undergone, the time—hours or moments—after the ships of Jurneia had been riven.
In the upheaval of the firestorm, the flickering light, the detonations, water and land, the City of Ve Nera, seemed equally to be quaking, collapsing.
To this he had come back. Perhaps for Jian too, for many of them, it was like that. But not, Cristiano thought, (And is this only my swollen, overweening pride?) as it had been for him, what they returned from.
When she brought the fire—
He had not walled himself away, not protected himself. Rather, he gave himself.
The first time, at the Magister’s farm, had been nothing to this.
Even to himself, he could neither describe it nor properly recollect.
This alone he knew. The white light of God he had found in the Vigil, the crimson light of war-fury, they were less.
There had been an upsweep, this he did recall. A whirling and soaring, as if in flight. And all the shore of Venus had gone up with him, caught on her fire-wings, to some realm that blazed.
The sweetness of it, and the joy—the power, which unlike any power of the earth, came from an assimilation, from a total loss of everything—
And no more remained of it, to him, when once it cast him back.
Then there were only the ships burning under their rose-red billow of sails and smoke. And Ve Nera, shaking.
The army of men shouted and screamed as in battle. Thunder. Leviathon the Dragon crashing in the deeps.
After this he saw that she had slumped down on the horse’s back. It was fire-trained, and—unscathed as she was—had kept stock-still.
In a body that seemed made only from the hollow mail and armor of a knight, he hauled himself forward, to support and guard her, in case she should slip down.
He found Jian was on the other side of her, doing the same.
Somehow, through the great confusion and exaltation, they two led the horse.
Men had been leaping and running around them. The Bellatae were howling. Bells rang. A macrocosm of faces lit by fire. And through all this, which Cristiano barely saw, they led the horse away into the Primo’s yards.
In the courtyard with the lion fountain, some grooms and servants dashed up.
They lifted her off the horse.
She looked asleep. Her mouth smiled a little, as the mouths of children sometimes did in slumber—or the dead.
But she was alive. The pulse thumped steadily in her throat.
Jian took her from them all and carried her inside the high walls.
She seemed a child, too, in his grasp. Or some creature of another race.
Her hair, hanging down along his arm, was faded and brownish, nearly gray, or flaxen, Cristiano thought, in the uncanny light.
Jian said now, “The Magister keeps her locked away. A secret. They’re saying in the City she died.”
“She never did.”
“Aretzo died in the hospital, days after Ciojha. It could have been like that.”
“No.”
“The Fra spoke to you? Why to you and not to me?”
“He didn’t speak to me. She’s alive. Sleeping, I suppose.”
“Perhaps it burnt out her mind or soul. Perhaps she’s only a shell, the kind the crab-fish leaves.”
Cristiano said shortly, “She’s no fish.”
“You know where she is.”
“I don’t.”
“Tell me.”
“Jian, take your hand from the sword. I won’t stop you again. Do you think you can match me?”
“Can’t I match you?”
“Jian. No more. In God’s name.”
“I’d die for her.”
“I know it.”
“But you—”
Ah, said Cristiano, she has killed me already. He did not speak aloud.
Jian turned away.
“Pray for her, Jian,” Cristiano said. “There’s no greater loving token.”
“You talk to me as if—I were her lover.”
But when Jian turned yet once more, to confront Cristiano, the capella was again empty, save for Jian himself.
In its black, lit room, the Council sat in silence.
Jesolo repeated. “It’s very strange.”
Sarco said, “Our dungeons are bursting, nevertheless.”
“Perhaps they are.”
“Remember, brother,” said Sarco, “our task is to recruit for God all those men we may. These infidel may be converted, and their souls salvaged.”
Jesolo answered bleakly, “Faced with the prospect, several have already taken their own lives.”
“We’ve seen this before. Not all are so violent, or sinful.”
Isaacus’ crunching voice stirred in the dark.
“They should be cinders.”
“The quick immersion saved them.”
“Cinders—ash. Did you not see the fire, brothers? It burned.”
Sarco spoke peaceably. “The fleet burned and is no longer a threat. Some of the Jurneians, evidently, drowned. Or died in other ways. And some are burned—”
“Scorches. Singes.”
Another of the Council spoke ominously. “Brother Isaacus, what is the pith of these reflections?”
“T
his devil-witch called her fire. It burnt up the ships and made a show. But the men, these idolators, these infidel, these children of Satanus—these she spared. In such a conflagration, how could any survive? Yet many did. Beyond a few slight wounds, they have no mark of it.”
Jesolo said, “It’s so. It’s strange.”
“And yet,” said another, “the City is rife with tales of men this Maiden is said to have burnt alive.”
“Christian men,” declared Isaacus.
“What are you saying?”
“What do you suppose I say? She incinerates true believers. The friends of Lucefero she spares.”
Sarco said loudly, quickly, “Why then destroy their ships and save Ve Nera?”
“Are you a fool, brother?” Isaacus asked. “A fool, or in someone’s hand?” Sarco said nothing. Isaacus said, “To gain power over us. Why do men ever turn to the Devil? They sell their immortal souls for help and comfort in this world. She has helped us. Saved us. Does she now receive our soul for her master in Hell?”
Danielus sat in his book-chamber, and watched the prisoner they had just brought him.
He was a tall man, dark skinned like most of the Jurneians, although the tones varied through amber and wood to a somber shade like bronze. Curiously, he had green eyes.
“Please sit.”
“I will stand.”
“Tell me at least where you learned the Italian tongue?”
“In trade. Where else. But you speak my tongue, so my countrymen told me. When they could not speak your own.”
“I’ve studied some of the languages of the East.”
Suley-Masroor, his turbaned head unbowed, said, “Oh, a pastime.”
Outside, not very far away, came a soft rolling roar, then a sharp crack. The ship’s Master started. Danielus said, “They’re clearing the rubble of a house.”
Suley said, fiercely, “Where we struck your city?”
“Just so. Be reassured. You’ve left us scars.” He added winningly, “Please, do sit. It will make me more comfortable in your presence.”
The Jurneian blinked. Then slowly he grinned. He sat down in the carved chair with its golden scrolls. “Are you a priest? You dress like a priest.”
