by Tanith Lee
Jian, now, gazing up at her. His mouth working.
The priests over there were conferring. And a guard, summoned, turned towards Jian in his nondescript black.
And Isaacus, prowling like a mangy tiger at the pyre’s foot, slavering, all his corded neck showing, as he stretched it to watch the girl. And on the neck a muddy scar, an old injury, that, to Cristiano now, looked like the lusterless loop of some ancient serpent—but which was the bruise of a hangman’s rope—
Two guards reached Jian. One spoke. Jian reacted with an off-hand blow, and sent the guard sprawling. The other seized Jian.
Jian arched his whole body towards the top of the pyre, as if to shoot himself upwards and join her in the flames.
And his voice came breaking out of him. It was loud and very precise. His mouth had worked and worked to form this and have it right. Not one who did not hear. Like the Primo Square, this arena of death had been fashioned to relay, with trumpets and swords, a footfall or a whisper.
“Beatifica—you are God’s own light! And this is the fire of wickedness—of the devil’s putrefaction. Oh God, send her your divine spark—let her blast their bloody filth of fire with God’s own flame—Beatifica—make the fire burn!”
The second guard had got up. He clubbed Jian across the head. Jian toppled.
Cristiano moved. Stopped.
A sound had burst out from the pyre. It was like something roaring there, then splitting open.
There was a flash like lightning. And a gush of flames and smoke poured suddenly upward.
The girl had been visible. Now she vanished. She was gone.
Plumes of thunder—smoke billowed, dwarfing the pyre. Flames scratched at the sky.
Was she screaming? Could he hear her screaming?
He strained to hear.
No—women in the crowd—in a combination of horror and exaltation—they screamed, not she.
In fire, the throat was swiftly cauterized.
They were pulling at Jian. One of the guards kicked him, and then one of the men from the crowd did so.
And a priest of the Council went to them pompously, and spoke, and they left off.
Only the crash of the fire now, was audible. Limbs of trees, laid there, cracked with the note of whips.
Through all that pierced a soaring, whistling shriek, which was air escaping, freshening the fire.
Cristiano heard his voice then, saying over and over, “Quickly, let it be quickly. Quickly, oh God, be quick—”
You fool, he thought. It may be only moments, and seem to her like a hundred years. And for me, it is forever now.
He strove to see her in the flames. But there were only the flames, and smoke.
Be quick. Quickly. Is it over now? Let it be over for her.
Never for me.
He thought of Judeo at the foot of the cross, and then self-hanged on a tree.
As Cristiano thought this, stupidly his eyes roved back to Isaacus by the edge of the pyre. And Cristiano thought, That man was hanged. But some other might have been thinking it.
And then Cristiano saw Isaacus dancing. Presumably a dance of delight, of madness.
No. Isaacus clutched at his neck. His eyes bulged in the sockets. His face was turning to the color of a Magister’s purple robe. He was strangling.
A couple of the priests hastened to him, trying to draw Isaacus back from the pyre. Many now were coughing from the smoke, and burnt and daubed with falling cinders. (As yet there was no smell of roasting flesh.)
But Isaacus was down on the ground. He was rolling and bumping there, clawing at his throat. Priests bent over him and jigged abruptly back.
His legs kicked out, again and again. He was like a man dangling from a noose.
All at once a gout of blood and matter erupted from his mouth, and after it a stiff length of swollen and blotched tongue.
Isaacus flopped sluggishly on to his side. He relaxed. His starting eyes had now an uninterested look. Cristiano watched all this. He did not know what it was, and soon forgot it.
But he did not look up again until a second explosion shook the pyre.
Huge bits of wood and charcoal showered down. A sawn tree trunk, the width of a full-grown man, was catapulted out, and landed with a smack on the arena floor.
The top of the pyre caved in. The smoke, scarlet now, creamed into the sky.
Nothing stood in the pyre. The stake they had bound her to had been devoured. She was devoured.
High in the air, the red smoke formed the shape of a mountain, long and low, fissured with veins of reflected fire.
Cristiano walked across to the guards and Jian, who was sitting half-unconscious on the ground.
Cristiano’s legs had no feeling in them. None of him had any feeling. His mouth had no muscle, but still said, slurred a little, “Let him go, boys. He’s just bladdered on bad ale.”
“What was he shouting? Saying the sacred fire was wicked—”
“Her fire he meant. Don’t you know the stories?
Come on, get up,” he added to Jian, whom he could barely see, as he could barely see anything. “Get up and come home.”
The guard, more interested in the fallen Isaacus, were not uninclined. Cristiano found he had pressed some coins on them, too. (To bribe. Where had he learned that?) They clapped his shoulder. There was a sense of disappointment in the shortness of the show.
Other Bellatae, mostly Militia, clad as monks or laborers, were idling over. One got Jian on his feet.
With a sighing hiss, more of the pyre collapsed. And in the sky the red mountain had darkened.
Then wish the world good-bye.
EPILOGUE
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
WILLIAM BLAKE
The Book of Thel
THE SKY OF HEAVEN was always blue. So this was not Heaven.
Even so, today it was a Heaven sky, and Ermilla was singing in the fields, as she worked with the other women among the sheaves.
Her husband heard her, while he rode down between the long rows. She had a lovely voice, crystal in the sunny harvest air.
Then, through the sheaves, he saw her. Demetrio reined in his horse. It was a solid patient beast, always too ready to stand still. He sat there, looking at her. She was leading the other women in the song. Quite right.
Though she worked among them, she was their mistress.
But he was always glad, after her other life, to see her so untrammeled. She wore a light dress, saffron color, like the grain, and her hair was tied in under a white scarf.
Then she in turn saw him. She sang the last line of the song, and left everything, moving towards him between the golden land and the summer blue sky.
Reaching him, she said nothing, but put up her face, kissed by sun.
“We’re to have a visitor.” She only looked. “Yes, who else but Danielus.”
Then her face did change. It became serious and thoughtful. At first he had always taken this gravity for unease. No longer. It was simply the face she kept for the Magister.
They walked back together, Demetrio leading the horse. His wife began to pick flowers from the verges of the hilly fields, and clumps of red poppies.
She was not a profound housekeeper. She preferred the work she did in the open, or her garden, where she was successful if haphazard. Peaches doubly ripened on the walls of the farm and great tussocks of herbs bubbled from their beds. She had known this sort of work, before cruelty and religion claimed her. Her cooking though was terrible, and others saw to the food.
Demetrio did not mind any of this. Danielus had saved both of them—a thousand years ago it seemed—and now they lived, Demetrio sometimes thought, like the first couple in the first Garden. Except, this was the earth.
Even so, as they saw below the russet roofs of the farm, she said proudly, “I baked bread this morning.
”
And Demetrio visualized Danielus, chewing steadfastly through the black husks.
The sun had burned. But now the fire was out.
Gradually the mountains were mixed with the sky.
An apron of shadow spread across the plain.
Danielus thought he was tired, riding the slope up through the foothills. He had been in the saddle most of the day, many hours behind his messenger. Before that, he had been traveling three or four days, visiting all of his farms. This hill farm was the highest up. The summer air was sheer and sweet, and birds still rose and fell like notes of music through the twilight.
But he must be growing old, to feel so tired. Even last year, a ride like this would not have wearied him so much.
Then again, might it not be tiredness—more the enervation of a slight anxiety—or an anticipation—
He had not paid this visit to them before, his tenants here, Demetrio and Ermilla.
At his back, his servant, Lauro, had got off his horse, and was walking her. Kind Lauro.
“Not far now, Lauro, I think. Look, there’s the path. You see that stand of poplars? Half an hour.”
“That’s good, Danielo.” (Lauro called him always this, when they were alone; the guard had been left behind at the last farm.) “I was beginning to believe I’d fall asleep. It’s this air.”
Kind Lauro. He saw me flagging. Veronichi was clever, finding him. But, she always is.
He had gone first to her before setting out. She was back in her house on Eel Isle. There, since last summer, they had had five of those dinners, crowned with peonies, garlanded by the making of love. “You see,” she would say, “I never had to cut off my hair.” Or die, he thought.
On this occasion, he had had the new miracle to report.
Veronichi listened solemnly, and then said, very seriously, “Is it true, do you suppose?”
“True, yes. Not a miracle. How can it be?”
“But Danielo—you have always told me miracles may occur. And we know that, because of Beatifica.”
“Not this.” He had smiled. “I’m glad of it naturally.
And it does good not harm. Or, only harm that once.”
“He was an evil man.”
“Yes. His tragedy.”
“Almost ours. And hers.”
“In any case, Isaacus’ death may not have been so Heaven-sent as it appeared. The rope ruined his throat in boyhood. And he overtaxed his voice. Then his extreme excitement, and the thick smoke—Of course, I wasn’t there, but from what I heard described, he choked himself. Or some vital vessel burst.”
“It thrills me to reflect on it.”
“Ah. Veronichi.”
“I can’t pretend to your pureness of spirit.
Remember, my God is still the Jews’ God of vengeance.”
“He is God, as is the God of everyone of us.”
She had asked, however for many details of the latest miracle. Possibly, it was that little jealousy of hers, too. For the miracles took place, most of them, at Santa La’ Lacrima, where the Domina was Purita.
She had looked, Danielus thought, when he saw Purita again, a proper Mother of nuns. Though she had kept the accent of her inn, her Latin, when she read, had become more clear. Her general speech, too, was finer.
So with all of her. She stood straight and quiet in her gray robes, and her face, which long ago was the pretty coarsened face of Luchita, had passed through a gaunt adolescence of middle-age and unhappiness, to this containment, remote—yet approachable. Her dark eyes had grown beautiful, large and luminous. The lined parchment lids enhanced them. Under her hand stood, (at her side) the walking stick with the carved head of a bird.
Purita had told Danielus the previous Domina had given it to her, and therefore she cherished it. Also, of course, it had leant her some of the previous Domina’s authority, a staff of office. She seemed not aware of that, and now had great authority of her own.
After pleasantries and a cup of wine Domina Purita asked two of her nuns to bring in the sister on whom the miracle had been worked.
Danielus then beheld a dried up little woman, with a spiteful mouth suddenly all softened, and wild eyes.
“Here is Sister Gratzilia, Father. I shall let her tell you herself.”
And Sister Gratzilia began to speak. She spoke at great length, and no one checked her.
“I committed a great sin, Magister. I have asked for a penance for it. I went to the casket where the Heart is—the Heart of the Maiden which would not burn—and I said, You heal all these lame and diseased. You give the blind back their eyes. Then why not me? Why not me? Give me my speech like other women.” Danielus nodded. Domina Purita had explained beforehand.
Sister Gratzilia did so as well. “You see, holy Magister, since I could talk, I stuttered. It was very bad.
And the more I tried not to, the worse it was. In my family, in my family, I was mocked and laughed at. And they said, since I was ugly, too, I’d have to be a nun.”
Sister Gratzilia lowered her eyes. Through her casing one saw the hurt and raving, inarticulate child. Then everything eased once more. “I’ve been a poor handmaid, Magister. I’ve been harsh and surly. I’ve taken out my pain on others. But I was miserable. I like this life—but have been useless. And when they let me read out from the Book of God—how patient they were, and only sometimes, the novices would—but I thought they all jeered at me, and made fun of me. I could hardly get out a word. And sometimes, trying to recite properly. I’d spit, not being able to help it—and make noises—like a chicken—or a pig, my brothers used to say. And I thought the sisters here said that, too.”
They waited.
Sister Gratzilia resumed, “So I made my rude demand of the Heart of the Maiden in the golden casket, above the altar. And I turned away in anger, sputtering and cawing for breath. And then—”
Gratzilia stopped. Her face, from being only mild, suffused with a blush like a young girl’s.
“Oh Mother,” said Gratzilia. “Even now, now I can speak, I haven’t any words—”
“You must try to tell the Magister,” said Purita, calmly. “You underestimate your powers, sister. You always have. Say it as you did to me.”
Gratzilia said then, “I felt myself—drop away from myself. Like a cloak thrown down. I’d never needed it. I was warm enough.” She paused. Her eyes went far off and returned. “That was all. I opened my mouth and words came out, and I heard myself offering praise to God, like any other.”
“This is a true miracle, Father,” said Purita. “Like the rest. And like the rest, it has been written down. I’ve testified to it. And if you will add your authority and seal, the documents may be put away. Until the next time.”
She was very efficient in everything. Of course, she had run an inn.
When Gratzilia was gone, Danielus asked Purita if she had awarded a penance, as Gratzilia had seemed to want, for her rough address to the Heart.
Purita said, “Doesn’t Christ tell us only to knock upon the door, which will then open. I think He says nothing about the knock being urgent or too loud. If God rewarded her for it, who am I to punish? I’ve always felt, we learn better through joy.”
“I am pleased with Purita,” he told Veronichi.
“I know you are. Yes, I confess I like her too.
Sometimes I call on her, and we talk. Of you, rather more than somewhat. Does that please you, too?”
“Very much.”
“She believes in every one of the miracles.”
“The events do happen. No one can deny it. The lame do sometimes walk and the blind see. And the sick child carried in there, when the box was put by it, recovered. But Veronichi, Purita does not know what is in the casket. You know what is.”
“A heart.”
“The heart of a dead animal. A large dog found in the canal.”
“That too is strange, Danielo. Why did the heart, even of a dog—not burn up on the pyre?”
“I imagine because
the pyre abruptly collapsed inwards, as it was intended to.”
“Most of the wood was consumed. And everything else but for a few bones.”
“I wish I had been there when the executioner raked it out.”
“You were … delayed.”
“Indeed. I missed very much. The death of Isaacus at the pyre’s foot, the fire-flash in the pyre itself, doubtless caused as the trap beneath gave way, but taken for another wonder. And then the Heart of the Maiden which refused to burn. It was lucky that the executioner had just had his conversion to Beatifica, and kept hold of the heart. He would not let the Council have it. He kept it secret, and finally brought it to me, as he said, a man now above the Council. If only that were so. And this was after, so he explained, did I tell you? the Heart had cured his watering eyes.”
“Since the Heart isn’t Beatifica’s, nor even human, how do you suppose it works?”
“Belief. Faith. How most miracles are achieved.
Through the power of God in each of us. It needs only a focus.”
“Then all who pray in faith are answered? No, Daniel.”
“The strongest faith may be interrupted.”
“But—if even once—then these are true miracles.”
“The true miracle, Venus, is you.” He did not know she saw the weariness in his face. He thought, naively, he had placated her. “Come and bind me with your glory of uncut hair. I have to leave early tomorrow, for the hills.”
Men walked out to welcome him, holding lanterns, and Demetrio went with them. Ermilla came out, too, like the Good House Wife. And the heart of Danielus sank. He chided himself, but to no avail. He had hoped, more than he cared to admit, to see—as they said in the streets of Ve Nera—her girdle lifted. But her belly was as flat as ever. She was not with child.
She seemed radiant, however. Not at all as he recollected. Certainly, a new woman.
They did not eat tonight in the great stone kitchen, but took Danielus into the parlor behind it. She sat down with the men like a lady, and they were served by the cheerful servants. She herself had only, luckily, baked three loaves.
And you, Danielus thought, how are you, my dear Demetrio?
