Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23)

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Who has told you that? Is our predicament so bad as that?” Sergios asked, the words not coming out quite right. As one of Flautens’ slaves refilled his cup, he muttered a thanks and sat back to listen to all that his host was telling him, his linen lacerna hanging open over his cotton tunica, both garments feeling too heavy and hot for this sultry afternoon.

  “It is bad enough. The reports from the north are growing troublesome, what with the Huns raiding well into Gothic territory,” Flautens said, not quite as bibulous as Sergios was, but no longer as lucid as he had been when they sat down together, “and yet we have to continue to pay off the Gepidae in order to keep the lands left to us by our parents and their parents, or lose all. Yet it is far from clear that the Gepidae are in any position to preserve our holdings for us. And now the remaining Romans are demanding that we all contribute to building and reinforcing defenses throughout the region, bearing the expense of our own protection. Yet there is no assurance of those defenses being extended to our lands, which is a dreadful imposition, what with paying taxes to Constantinople as well as the Gepidae.”

  “True enough,” Sergios rumbled, reaching for a wedge of cheese set out upon the central table on a tray with flat-breads. He had a little difficulty putting the wedge on a slice of bread, and leaned toward the table to keep from spilling his food.

  “Have you been in contact with Gnaccus Tortulla?” Flautens asked with little sign of interest.

  Sergios chewed energetically, gulped the cheese and bread down with more wine, then said, his face turning ruddy from the wine and the heat, “The Praetor Custodis of Viminacium? I am awaiting an answer from him in regard to our worsening predicament. I’ve received a brief note from Rotlandus Bernardius, the Tribune of Ulpia Traiana, who’s as worried about our situation as I am. He has been attempting to gain support from all the towns in his region, but he is having little success.”

  “Do you suppose the Roman garrison will be allowed to remain in Ulpia Traiana? Will the Gepidae permit them to remain with the garrison?” Flautens asked. “Half the troops are barbarian of one stripe or another: can they be counted upon to remain faithful?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sergios, abashed that he did not have such vital information. “If they’re Dacians, I think they might.”

  “Sarmizegutusa, that’s the Dacian name for Ulpia Traiana, isn’t it?” Flautens said a bit absently, finishing the wine in his cup and signaling for more.

  “Yes, it is. There’re standing stones there, and some other religious structures. The Christians don’t like it,” said Sergios. “Impressive stoneworks, quite ancient.” He had more wine. “This is very good. Local, is it?”

  “From Drobetae, truly.” Flautens drank less eagerly than Sergios. “One of the heartier grapes.”

  “Not from your land, though—according to the records, you don’t have vineyards.” Sergios felt a rush of pride that he was alert enough to recollect this. “You grow oats and barley, and some wheat, and beans and lentils.” He was a bit surprised that, given his state of mind, he could remember something so specific. Perhaps he was beginning to lose the undercurrent of dread that inspired his coming to Flautens’ villa. “You raise hogs, sheep, horses, and donkeys. And mules, of course.”

  Flautens nodded. “Also timber: oak, larch, and pine. In addition, the hogs eat the acorns, and we get nuts from the pine. And I have two stands of hives.” He drank again. “All in all, this land produces well for me. I would not like to lose it.”

  “Are you making any plans to defend it on your own?” He reached for more cheese. “Do you think you might hire fighting men to guard your stock and crops?”

  “It may come to that, I fear.” He snorted in dissatisfaction and drank more deeply. “I am sending my wife and children to Aquileia with a Roman noblewoman bound there from Porolissum. I met with her two days ago, at the Triceum Fortress, to make our arrangements. No doubt you will enjoy meeting her. She has a company of forty-seven servants and household with her, including armed men, and in exchange for six mules, she has agreed to include my family in her company.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I will be pleased to know they’re safe.”

  “Aquileia,” said Sergios. “A fine place. I hope your family will be happy there.”

  “They will be gone for some months, I fear.”

  “But they won’t be alone, will they?” Sergios asked.

  “I have a cousin whom I am asking to receive them,” said Flautens. “He has dealt with many of our relatives and we are all grateful to him. He can arrange for my family to establish themselves in a villa until I can join them.”

  “Very good,” said Sergios, and signaled for more wine. “I will do my utmost to keep you informed of anything having to do with Aquileia.”

  “I will appreciate that,” said Flautens, and leaned back on his couch. “How long do you think the Constantinopolitans will be in Drobetae?”

  “Three or four days—that’s as long as they’ve stayed in the past.”

  “Do you intend to meet with them at all?” Flautens watched his slave fill Sergios’ cup again.

  “On the last day, so I may offer them a report that will be useful to them; I will be able to say that I have been gathering more immediate information for them.” He made a gesture that might have been intended to show how clever his intention was. “If I had more rank, I would have a clerk present the report. Since I’m a freeman, I need to be as accommodating as possible, and to put myself at the service of the Byzantines in the most obvious way possible.”

  “So you’ll stay out of the town while the Byzantines are gathering their information, will you?”

  “Until the last day.” He drank again, his manner more at ease. “They will have less opportunity to judge me, and that is a wise precaution for me to take, given how much we have to contend with. I want to give them little occasion to find fault with what I have done. For all I know, they’ll want to put one of their own in my place. It has happened in other towns.”

  “Do you know the inspectors?” Flautens did not change his posture or his demeanor, but his eyes grew brighter as he slipped a small plate from under his couch and felt for what it held.

  “Possibly,” said Sergios. “They usually send one man who has made the journey before, so that there will be someone who can compare the present circumstances to past conditions.”

  “Do you think this person will remember you?” He took a preserved fruit, popped it into his mouth, then held out a shallow bowl of the delicacies to Sergios. “Have some. They’re preserved in honey.” To emphasize how tasty the fruit was, he smacked his lips as he finished eating one of the dark fruits.

  “Thank you,” said Sergios, helping himself to two of the fruits, and drinking more wine. “Very good—more tart than sweet.” His face flushed to a mottled red, and he gave a little flurry of dry, hacking coughs. “Very good. In fact, delicious.”

  Flautens watched Sergios with mild concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Just a touch of the heat and dust, nothing to bother about,” Sergios said, and coughed again a bit more energetically.

  “You are quite roseate,” said Flautens with a suggestion of a laugh. “Shall I have my slave fetch you some cheesed-cream? We keep it quite cool.”

  Sergios shook his head even as he whooped out more strained coughs, his face growing livid. He tried to speak, but managed only a wheeze, then doubled over and vomited suddenly, his face and neck empurpling.

  “Are you ill?” Flautens asked.

  For an answer, Sergios jerked off the couch onto the floor, where he thrashed and convulsed, his body voiding spasmodically; the room began to reek. His eyes grew huge and seemed to start out of his head. For an instant he went rigid, then Sergios gave a short, ragged howl and lay still.

  Flautens rose from his couch and clapped for his slave. “See this is disposed of without notice. No one is to know he’s dead. Say only that after the afternoon nap, he wanted the tepidarium so he could be reliev
ed from the heat.” He was wiping his hands on the linen cloth the slave handed him. “Take his freeman’s ring from his finger, so I have something to show to Gnaccus Tortulla’s messenger. He will want proof that Sergios is dead.”

  “That I will,” said the slave, who was the custodian of the house. He bent to work the ring off the first finger of his right hand.

  “And tell the household slaves, when they clean this room, that Sergios suffered a violent attack of indigestion and has gone to lie down.”

  “They might not believe it,” the slave warned as he gave the ring to Flautens. “Slaves sometimes gossip.”

  “No matter; they will not learn of his misfortune,” said Flautens, moving away from the body. “And get rid of the honied fruit. Make sure none of the livestock or poultry can get to it. There’s enough poison in that bowl to bring down a horse.” He handed a small dish to the slave. “And wash this yourself, so that no one will suspect that I didn’t share everything he ate. Use one of the troughs.”

  “I’ll seal the remaining fruit in a jar and put it in the back of the wood-room behind the bath.”

  “A very good notion. All it can poison there is rats.” Flautens sighed. “You’ll have to hide him for now.”

  “I know. I can’t dispose of him permanently until after dark,” said the slave. “But he has to be hidden until nightfall.”

  “Where can we conceal him?” Flautens asked furtively.

  “In the rear of the creamery, in the drainage ditch,” the slave reminded him. “But he’ll have to be moved soon—the heat will add to the stink, and even if I wrapped him in a hide, he could be discovered.”

  Flautens nodded. “True enough. And his escort will want to know what has become of him, come evening.”

  The slave went and closed the door leading into the atrium, putting the brace into position so that it could not be opened. “Yes, I will say he has been feeling unwell. By morning he will have vanished.”

  “Is there any way to put him into the midden?” Flautens asked suddenly, the idea only now occurring to him. “No one will notice the smell, not with the two dead pigs in it. And they won’t want to poke into it.”

  “It might be more difficult than the original plan, at least until nightfall. The barnyard is active all day.”

  “If you can arrange it, that would be a good solution,” said Flautens. “Better than the potters’ kiln, which I had thought of before.”

  “The potters are keeping near the kiln, and they might notice the odor of burning flesh,” the slave reminded him. “But the midden will be unattended after the convivium. I will double him over in the ditch so that when he stiffens, he will fit into the midden when I move him into it.” He went to the far corner of the room and pulled a rolled blanket from under the serving-ware chest, and brought it back to Sergios’ corpse, where he laid it down clear of the effluvia.

  “Hredus,” Flautens said as he watched the slave maneuver the body onto the blanket, “when this venture is finished, you will have your freedom. You have my word on that.”

  “Then what can I do but thank you?” He touched his iron slave’s collar in a kind of acknowledgment, then lowered his head and did his best not to look at Sergios’ body as he folded the blanket around it, then tugged the blanket away from the center of the room, sliding it into the small hallway that connected to the vomitorium and led out into the farm. He was back in a short while, his face impassive.

  “No one saw you?” Flautens asked. He had spent the time wiping down the floor, and now he held two filthy cloths away from his linen pallium.

  “The goose-boy saw me rinsing the plate in the sheeps’ trough, but he’s simple,” Hredus said. “He was carrying a basket of eggs toward the kitchen.”

  “A basket of eggs?” Flautens wondered aloud.

  “For the cooks,” said Hredus. “A very good sign. It means he won’t be looking for eggs again until tomorrow morning, and won’t stumble on the remains before I move them into the midden.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Flautens reached for the wine and drank the last of what was in his cup. “Have Chrodi come to my records-room after we dine tonight; he is to leave for Viminacium before dawn.”

  “I will.” He took the two cloths from Flautens. “Let me dispose of these for you.”

  “Fine. Then send in a pair of house-slaves to wash the floor.” He shook his hand as if to rid it of any lingering taint. “I will go bathe and then repair to my records-room to compose a report for Gnaccus Tortulla.” He went toward the small door that led out to the vomitorium, adding over his shoulder, “And a writ of manumission for you. You may claim it after the convivium.”

  “I will ask the local priest to say a month of Vespers for your kindness,” said Hredus.

  “The smith will strike your collar off tonight,” Flautens added, then left the reception-room.

  Hredus looked around the reception-room, trying to see if any tell-tale sign remained of Sergios’ death, but there was only a patch of slimy moisture, which would not cause any suspicions once he explained that Sergios had been unwell and was resting. He went and opened the door to the atrium, looking to see if the footman were at his post. Satisfied that Ayard was dozing, Hredus went down the corridor in the direction of the slaves’-room, where he found nine of them working at small tasks while the heat of the day passed.

  Nomrid, Hredus’ older sister, who was the webster for the household, was setting up the loom in the corner, her long fingers moving with rapid ease. She stopped as she saw her brother coming toward her. “What brings you to this room?”

  “Thaeta and Urius are needed to wash the floor in the reception-room. The guest became sick and has gone to rest. He has asked not to be disturbed. If he is still unwell, he’ll remain in his room until morning.”

  Thaeta and Urius rose from their places at the long table where they had been sorting mushrooms and bundling herbs for drying. They said nothing as they trudged off toward the kitchen to get pails of water and brushes.

  Had they been alone, Hredus might have told his sister about his coming freedom, but with others of the household still tending to their chores, he said nothing but, “I will see you at dinner, after the convivium is served.” As the household custodian, he would supervise the serving of the meal.

  “Certainly,” she said, and went back to stringing the loom.

  “Have you seen Chrodi?” he asked as he made for the door.

  “He said he was going to the stable. The roan foal cut his pastern, and he is going to treat it with honey and pepper.” It was Vache who answered while he continued to braid a new driving-whip.

  “I’ll find him,” Hredus said, and left, continuing on toward the barnyard and across it to the stable, calling for Chrodi as he went.

  Flautens’ courier answered from the stall. “What is it?”

  Hredus made his way down the broad aisle toward the sound of Chrodi’s voice. “Dom Flautens wants to see you in his records-room when he has finished the convivium. He has a message for you.”

  Chrodi came out of the stall, frowning. “The colt-foal is in a bad way. I don’t like leaving while he’s doing so poorly. He’s going to need constant care for several days, or we may lose him.”

  “Have your apprentice care for him. The message you are to carry is an important one.”

  “The colt-foal is well-bred. The Dom would not like to lose him.” Chrodi lifted his jaw stubbornly.

  “Ask him about that when you report to him tonight,” said Hredus.

  Chrodi shrugged, but said nothing more; he went back into the stall and knelt down on the hay next to the miserable four-month-old.

  Hredus remained in the barn for a short while, looking out into the large paddocks where most of the horses stood in the shade of trees, their tails moving constantly to keep off the flies. Finally he said, “You’ll have to depart at first light, for Viminacium,” and left the barn without expecting anything more from Chrodi. Crossing the stable-yard, he noticed that Pa
tras Eldom’s mule was tied to the hitching-rail, meaning the priest had come early for the convivium so that he could hear the confessions of the household. He whispered an ironic prayer of thanks that the priest had not arrived while he and Flautens were disposing of Sergios of Drobetae. As he went into the house again, he resisted the urge to seek out his master, going instead to the solarium, where he assumed Flautens’ wife, Maryas, had gone to sew pearls on her new tablion.

  “Hredus,” she said as he called through the door. “What news?”

  “Patras Eldom has come. Shall I send him up to you?”

  “Would you please?” She waited a moment, then asked, “Has he seen my husband yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Hredus answered, certain that Flautens would delay his confession as long as possible. “He may wait until tomorrow, so that he can fast.”

  There was another brief hesitation. “He may want that,” she said in a troubled voice. “I will ask him.”

  “Will you join the convivium or would you prefer to eat alone?”

  “Since there are no other women to attend, Patras Eldom would not approve of having me among the company. I will dine in my withdrawing room. Tell Lysianna to arrange this for me.”

  “Yes, Dama,” he said, trying to decide how best to inform Flautens of his wife’s intention.

  “Be good enough to remind my husband that I have packing to supervise tonight and tomorrow, so I will have little time for entertainment were it appropriate. My husband will understand that, at least.”

  “The Roman noblewoman is expected to come here tomorrow afternoon, isn’t she?” Hredus asked.

  “She is staying at a travelers’ fortress two leagues from here. No doubt she will be here by sundown tomorrow.”

  “Very good,” said Hredus, admitting to himself that he would miss Flautens’ soft-spoken, beautiful Byzantine wife; as soon as he realized this, he forced the knowledge from his mind. “God give you a good evening, Dama.”

  “And you, Hredus.”

  As he turned away from the solarium door, Hredus tried to decide how to avoid confessing, for Patras Eldom would condemn him not only for helping to kill Sergios of Drobetae, but for daring to hold his master’s wife in affection, and for betraying Flautens if he should admit to either sin.