by Tanith Lee
She spoke of the crocodilius in purple, wallowing up from the lagoon the priests who changed to beasts. Their noises. How they fought and floundered. Toppled each other down.
Cristiano, hearing her, his heart changing to a piece of ice, thought, If ever God gave her a true vision, here it is. Just so they are. The Church herself made into a monster, and toppled by their antics.
She looked about. The lower priests were stunned by horror. The representatives of the people—picked carefully for their loyalty, their self-serving which the Council aided—were outraged. The judges had faces of white murder. The Pro-Sequitor—a grimace on him almost like terror—The Council blank as stone tablets unwritten on. Even Isaacus.
Beatifica did not speak for very long. The dream had made her, while dreaming, laugh, but now seemed nothing to her. She had been careless with misery. She was only careless, now.
She was not a fool. Nor mad. But what had she ever met or learned to teach her another course? At first beaten almost for breathing, then protected in a shell of glass, and encouraged always to speak
If Danielus had known, he would have curbed her, and obedient, she would have kept this hidden.
In her despair—she had not thought to tell him. Caught too in her despair, he had not thought to ask.
After her voice, hubbub.
The judges, the Council, waited it out, until it ended in a bloated, rocking nothingness.
Then, the speaking Shepherd rotated himself in his chair. He fixed his eyes on Danielus.
Danielus spoke, not getting up. “Will you give me leave to tender some explanation?”
“No. No, Magister. What can you say?”
“She is unlessoned. To her—”
Jesolo said loudly, “Be quiet, as you were warned. The Devil pulls her under. Do you want to go with her?”
“The Fra is her patron,” said Isaacus. “He is with her, never doubt.”
Beatifica’s light was gently dying in her face. She had been lost. Did she know?
All the Council of the Lamb was on its feet.
Jesolo spoke to them, and then one or two others spoke. A medley of low mutterings.
“End this session of the court, revered Shepherds,”
Jesolo said then. “Our scribes need time to put down all these terrible words. And you, Magister, take your Bellatae and go up.
“Yes,” said the speaking Shepherd. “Leave this court, Magister. Fra Matteo shall come in, instead. We have no need of you.”
Danielus rose. “There are things I should say to you.”
“Not yet,” said the Shepherd. He said, almost bitterly, “But your hour will come. Be ready, Magister, for that hour.”
3
Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, the crowds were roiling, moving together and apart and together, like waves. From the upper windows, they did not seem to matter so much, despite their spasmodic motions, and the whirring, rolling noise they made, now and then split by some higher, vaster cry. And they did not, in a way, matter much, truly. Just as they seemed to be, they had been swayed, and were altering. It was facile, to move them. Avowals and gossip, drinks bought or angers kindled. Not one single man at its back, this campaign, no not even Isaacus. Some almost unhuman force, streaming from the entity of the Church itself, driving the chariot. Powers behind powers behind powers. None quite aware, perhaps, what in turn moved them. Sensing only familiar mortal things, a wise rage, an essential piety, the need to survive, the wish not to crack the surface of a colossal code.
It would have been like this, Cristiano thought, in Gerusalemme, when the crosses jutted on the hill. In Rome, when San Pietro had been nailed up like a dead crow. And when a hundred saints were disposed of.
Trouble comes in the guise of goodness—or great and perfect good in the guise of an enemy. Kill it then. Be rid of it.
No one had told Ve Nera that the City would have done better to suffer and bleed in order to be healed.
Only that it had been spelled and misled by a witch, who performed one rescuing deed, in order to beguile and thrust Ve Nera down to Hell—
Legends surfaced like sea serpents from the ocean of the crowd. Had the woman not burned more than twenty fine Christian men? If they let her go on, what might she not do, with that talent of hers for burning things?
Yet, if she were possessed of fire—how could she be stayed?
There was now no need to fear her. The Church, alerted, had hold of her at last. It was possible to damage her, it had been done, it seemed. Before the Name of the Most High, she was brittle as a straw. God would drive the evil from her. God might, through his priests, do anything; all would be well.
“No, Jian,” Danielus said.
“Magister—three hundred men, and more, will rush—”
“No. The Bellatae Militia won’t turn their swords against their own City. No, not even against the Council. I have never taken a life, and will never do so, even to keep my own. Nor shall you, by my consent, do anything so injurious to yourselves.”
“Magister—”
“Jian. I’ve things to do and little time.”
“We must get you away. It can be done.”
“There are other things to do. I’ve said.”
“How can the Council bring you down?” Jian stammered. He was hushed with fury and disbelief.
“Simply, now.”
“God’s will?”
“Did I say that? No. The will of men.”
Cristiano stayed silent. Danielus offered him nothing, let alone anything for the girl. They had already spoken, before the trial began. What need for more?
When the two Bellatae were out, Danielus went by another way across the Golden Rooms. He noticed, as he passed, their man-made beauty—frescoes, draperies, metal-work and jewels. Beatifica had been indifferent to these things. In a manner unlike her own, so was Danielus, now.
They had passed their days in the small rooms about the little courtyard. Sun came into the court, and by the sun they were able to judge the times of prayer. No one hindered them in this. Nor were they offered any forbidden or obnoxious foods.
Aside from the young male servants, Suley-Masroor and his twenty companions saw no one. But the high priest Daniel had previously described this solitude, assuring Suley he would not leave them to it for longer than he must.
Among Suley’s twenty chosen men, were his three cousins, and the three brothers of his wife, four of his crew that Daniel’s spies had been able to locate in the prisons of Venarh, and others Suley had named, knowing them to be virtuous and courageous.
These things too, perhaps, Daniel—though an infidel—might be. To Suley he was an enigma.
“Trust none of those benighted dogs,” insisted the eldest brother of Suley’s wife. And one of the oldest men from the wrecked ship Quarter-Moon, announced, “They are not even properly human.”
“God has never told us that,” Suley had answered.
“This man took us from captivity. And their flies of conversion haven’t bothered us since.”
“Magicians, then. We saw it. They’re in league with the Evil One.”
Now, sitting under the shade tree in the sunny court, Suley looked up and saw the high priest coming in through the gate in the wall.
All about him, Suley’s men muttered. Only the three brothers and cousins, and Reem from the ship, came up and stood with Suley, to receive the priest who had been their saviour.
Daniel seemed older. The skin of his face, untouched by sun, looked thin. But the eyes were as Suley recalled. And he had told all these men to look at the eyes of Daniel, and then say again he was a dog, or a sorcerer.
Danielus greeted them all by name, politely, and with sound pronunciation, as if welcoming guests. Then begging their pardon, in the Jurneian tongue, he took Suley-Masroor to one side, and the men also moved off, glancing at them.
“We have been treated well, lord priest. You have kept all your promises. But one.”
“To send you to you
r home? I will keep it, if I can. But for now you must go elsewhere.”
Suley frowned. “Where?”
“To a farm I have, on the plain.”
“That’s some way to journey.”
“You will be given permits, which I regret, as foreigners to Ve Nera, is necessary. My servants will then guide you. I request that you treat them well. From the farm, a method can be found to take you on, by some roundabout means. Others will assist you to the coast, or overland otherwise. As you say, a long journey. But it will eventually bring you where you wish to be. My plans, you see, weren’t complete. Hence this unfortunate randomness.”
“Then we will wait on you.”
“I regret not. I think you must be gone.”
Suley said, “There is some dissent over us, and what you’ve done.”
“Not yet. Very few know. Those that do, agree with it, or else have been paid to find it very appealing.”
“Then the bowman aims only at you.”
“A nice expression. Yes, Suley-Masroor. You are acute.”
Suley leaned back on the air, folding his arms.
“You should have left us to be fettered and scourged and made converts to your blasphemous religion, and so destroyed.”
“Would you have converted?”
“To a strong cord, or a knife’s edge. Am I to lose Paradise to make such dirty priestlings glad?”
“Suley, God is great. This you know. He gave you life to live. Did He ever say to you that to lie is worse than to deny?”
“A riddle.”
“No. But there’s no time for us to talk. Wait for my servant, and be ready, all of you. If any accost you, I fear you must after all pretend to our blasphemous religion.”
“Some won’t, lord priest.”
“Then let them pretend to having been struck dumb.” Over the face of Danielus there passed a swift dark cloud. Suley saw, oddly, how he had been when very young, hotter and more rash than now. But Danielus only said, “Arrogance is a sin, Suley. God knows everything. He knows a man’s heart.”
“So He does.”
“How He must suffer then, Suley, at our idiocy and stubbornness. You will be given an unguent to lighten your skins and so perhaps save you from notice in the City. Think of your lies about conversion in the same vein. Both may be washed off.”
“I will tell any who ask I worship your prophet, Yesu. And the others must keep quiet.”
“Think of God, made happy by your freedom.”
“He will also know to thank you, Daniel. And yes, my God too is capable of graciousness.”
The priest smiled, solely with his eyebrows, but the Jurneian noted it. Danielus only said, “There’ll also be money, and City clothing. I know you must cover your heads, but use the hoods to cover that covering. Your guide will be an educated man, who also speaks your tongue. He will appear to be nothing of the kind. His name is Sarco.”
“Yes. Will we meet again?”
“I think—” Danielus halted. “No, Suley.”
“What is this arrow that points at you?”
Danielus said, “That arrow which points at all men.”
“Death.”
“Death, Suley.”
“From your priesthood here?”
“Enough now, Suley. Forgive me, but I have so much to do.”
“Before the arrow strikes.”
Danielus clasped Suley’s hand, and the other men looked on. “Farewell. Go with God, Suley-Masroor.”
“Can nothing save you?”
“A miracle.”
Suley stood watching as the priest walked from the courtyard. Then, turning about, Suley crossed to these men that, in war, he had given orders. And his face too was the face he had for war, just the same.
The husband of Ermilla, the stone-mason, came from the Magister’s book-chamber. Well and plainly dressed, head bowed respectfully, he received no challenge. He had been this way besides, often before. There were, now and then, things to do for the Magister.
But this would be fast work, even with the foundations laid.
How many men would he need for it?
A score, to be certain.
The stone-mason crossed the great courtyard with the lion fountain. From here, the noise of the crowds outside was hideously loud, though it would be worse on the Primo’s other side, where the square stood over the Chamber of God’s Justice.
A house the mason had built had fallen to Jurneian shot just beyond. He had obtained a right to take back some of the blocks. They might be useful as counterweights.
Of course, it was chancy, all this. But all life was chancy. And long ago, Fra Danielus had saved this man from penury. From near death. As he had also saved Ermilla.
The crowd boiled under the Angel Tower, from which one last dead rotting thing—that was once a woman—hung in its cage. Ignored.
They were howling now, a gust of howling under the cage and its unspeakable stink of decay. Demanding, jolly with viciousness, to burn a witch.
Changeable as the sea, and not as constant as the sea. She had been a saint not long ago. Though all kinds of provocation, untruth, slander and inducement had been used, to swing Ve Nera about, what scum they were, the race of Man.
Would I have shouted too? Saying that girl loved Lucefero, mocked God and lured us to the brink? Am I such a fool?
But the stone-mason recalled how he had been in youth, acts he had committed, thoughts he still had.
If you never see the light of day, how can you know there is a sun? And some were born blind.
4
She had liked to talk, and to answer questions. The sudden interest of others in herself, enjoyed. But now, so many questions. So much talk—hers, and theirs. And this fume of their emotion, like the slightly unwashed smell of scorching.
Additionally, many questions were repeated.
Sometimes prefaced by, Now can this be a fact? Or, Will you assure us that your meaning is such and such?
They had taken her out. She had been allowed water to drink, and was glad of it for the dark torchlit room was very hot.
When she was taken back, the room was hotter, or seemed so. The priests, even the Shepherds and Council, and the princes in their silks, were sweating. At last, one of the princes, Ulisse, begged the leniency—groveling—of the Council, and went staggering out on the arms of two servants of the court. He did not return.
Nor did the Magister return. Another man sat now where Danielus had. He was old and dry, with sad, accommodating eyes. Behind him, seven Primo guard.
Not the Bellatae. Not Cristiano.
Her angel was alive. She knew this. But—where had he gone?
The powers of the court, though overtly threatening to Beatifica, were not fully understood by her. And she had missed many parts of her own trial. Waking dreams had obscured it. The image of Cristiano, thoughts of a cool place, of her accustomed habitual prayers which, now and then even here, she murmured.
(To this, once, the man with the loud crushed voice, had taken exception. He cried out that she recited a spell. But when the judges asked her what she had been saying, Beatifica repeated it at once. Her flawless Latin was received unfavorably. One of them said she masked her actual words. Or, she thought to impress them with her piety. Deo volente—God’s will be done.)
She was exhausted, took no notice of that—for a slave, it could mean nothing.
But having been brought back to life, she was by now afraid.
She knew herself among extremely harsh masters, and no one to stand between herself and them. As in the beginning.
Beatifica was afraid. And yet, she had learned, inadvertently, to sit there as if collected and proud, to speak clearly when her own heart and breath choked her. But, if ever she had begun to cease to be a slave, that was gone.
She was a slave. Without rights, without redress. No one to help her. But for God, perhaps, for whom she had no real name or true realization. (God, Invisible. Why else send down His heralds, saints and a
ngels.)
“Why then did you dress as a man?”
“I was given the clothes to wear.”
“By whom?”
“A servant.”
“This woman plays with words—”
“Do you mean the servant of the Magister Major, Fra Danielus?”
Beatifica, unsure.
“Write down: it may be supposed so.”
“Beatifica, was a reason given you for this immoral dress?”
“No.”
The Interlocutor: “It seems, from other things she says, and that I have learned, that the Magister thought she would be discounted if she appeared as a woman, since women are naturally counted less. For a similar reason, he chose that she should be seen often, mounted and riding on a horse, as horses are not common in the City. The Soldiers, it has been said, took note of her in this way, for they themselves go mounted in war, outside Ve Nera.”
The Pro-Sequitor: “That excuses nothing, makes it worse! He must know better than us all. An arch-manipulator,”
“Beatifica, when you danced about the trees, did anything appear to you? Any imp or creature?”
“Once I thought so.”
“Describe it.”
“I thought it was my mother. But then I thought it was a beast that lives in a fig tree and eats men. But it was only a scrap of rubbish.”
“What thing is this you speak of? That lives in a tree—?”
She did not know. It seemed she had been told of it.
“Instructed in demons.”
“Beatifica, what purpose do you have when you bring the fire?”
“No purpose.”
“Come, come. Why do you do it?”
“Because I am asked.”
“Why then have you killed some—and spared some?”
“I remember neither.”
“You have said, you were shown God’s priesthood changed to animals and birds?”
She knew this they were angry at. (Unreasonably. Why should it concern them?) But she tried now to evade. “I was only dreaming.”
“And in the dream, were shown it?”
“Yes.”
She had never learnt tact, or to lie. If she had learned either, at the very first might she not tactfully have lied to Ghaio Wood-Seller, words, flesh, allowing him to rape her?
