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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “And Mangueinic—is he still sleeping? I do not wish to usurp his authority.”

  “He was asleep when I came through the reception-room. He may be wakened by the furor by now.” The under-cook flapped his arms in the direction of the growing shouting. “What’s to be done?” He stared at Sanctu-Germainios so intently, he almost tripped as they turned toward the outer door that led onto the courtyard.

  “We will determine that after the newcomers are identified.”

  “But once they’re inside, how will we expel them?” Thirhald shook his head repeatedly, like a horse bitted up too tightly.

  “There may be no need to do that,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and opened the side-door onto the courtyard.

  The people of Apulum Inferior had come out of their dwellings, most carrying torches, a few with covered oil-lamps, for the clouds had soaked up the remaining daylight. They were anxious and curious at once, huddling together as the gates were pulled open.

  “Who gave the order to admit them?” Thirhald muttered. “The Watchmen should not do it without orders.”

  “Samnor did, I suspect,” Sanctu-Germainios responded before he walked toward the center of the courtyard, feeling the first stinging drops of rain strike his face and hands.

  Samnor was at the head of a bedraggled band: there were nine carts in all, and five wagons; nineteen women and eleven children rode in the wagons, with fifteen men riding horses and mules, two of them sagging in their saddles. Twenty-eight horses pulled the carts and wagons, and another eleven were tied to them with lead ropes. A flock of long-haired sheep tagged after them, kept in a group by a solitary woman riding a mule. They all drew up in the center of the courtyard, and Samnor dismounted and offered an off-handed salute to Sanctu-Germainios.

  “Here are your refugees, Dom. All that remains of Tsapousso, they tell me.” He sighed. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Put them in the old storehouse for tonight,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Tomorrow we will arrange things more equitably. For now, they should be given something to eat—Thirhald, if you would see to that?—and given a chance to bathe. Urridien, order the bath heated. I will want to talk to their leaders later.”

  “They told me their leaders died at the hands of the Huns. They are traveling without a leader, following the road hoping to find someone untouched by the Huns.” Samnor’s mirthless chuckle ended in a snarl. “The man with the patch over his eye is as much of a leader as they have, and the woman on the mule. They’re Daci and Carpi, for the most part.”

  “Ah.” Sanctu-Germainios moved closer to the wagons. “Welcome,” he said in Dacian. “Dismount and let us extend you hospitality as custom requires.” He went on in the Latin vulgate of the region, “Everyone here will be glad to help you. Watchmen, see to the gates! Urridien, escort our guests to the dining room. Herdsmen, see to the horses and the goats!” Activity erupted around him, and he stepped back toward the central villa, satisfied that the new arrivals would be taken care of. He was about to go back into the villa when the woman on the mule rode up to him.

  “Good Praetor,” she began in careful Latin.

  “You do me too much honor. I am the regional guardian.” He took the reins of the mule and offered her his arm to assist her to dismount.

  She all but slid off the mule, and leaned against the saddle before she turned to face him. “Regional guardian, then. Where would you wish to assign me?” She looked up at him, the light of the doorway torches revealing her unusual features: her face was angular, and just now shaded by enervation, with broad, high cheekbones and a wide, pointed jaw. Her mouth was well-shaped, accented by a small, red birthmark in the shape of a leaf at its corner. Her hair, braided and coiled on her head, was a color that was not quite black. What was most striking was her eyes: pale gray and shiny, like quicksilver. She appeared to be about twenty-five or so.

  “With your people, of course,” Sanctu-Germainios said after a brief, intense pause.

  “That would be impossible. My people are dead.” She said it unflinchingly but with an air of profound grief. “I am a . . . a servant to the village of Tsapousso. They gave me a hut, a mule, three flocks of sheep, and two of goats to herd. I wouldn’t mind sleeping in the stable, or the barn,” she offered, taking the mule’s reins from him. “If you will point the way?”

  Sanctu-Germainios thought a moment, then said, “For tonight, I’ll place you with the women of the household. There is a dormitory where you will find a bed. In the morning we will decide what is to be done.” He opened the door behind him and began to think of how he would explain this to Hildren. “When you have been assigned a bed, you may go to the kitchen for something to eat.”

  “I thank you for that,” she said, lowering her head and following him into the central villa.

  At the end of the corridor, he stopped and asked her, “What shall I call you? The women will want to know your name.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I am Nicoris.”

  Text of a letter from Priam Corydon of the Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery to Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, regional guardian of Apulum Inferior in the Kingdom of the Gepidae, written on cotton with paint, carried by Sanctu-Germainios’ personal courier, Estaphanos Stobi, and delivered in eleven days, having been delayed for six.

  To the honorable regional guardian Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, ave and benedictions from the monastery of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit on this second day of November in the 438th year of the Christ:

  I have your request for the protection of the monastery for the people of your region, who are much plagued by the Huns. Since Christ enjoined His followers to succor the weary and the helpless, what can I do but agree to receive you? If I refused I would not be true to my faith, and unworthy of my calling, though I fear there will be great crowding with so many inside our walls.

  You may wish to consider the weather that has become cold so suddenly. Two days ago we had our first snow—very light, but there will be more and heavier, which may make your travel difficult. At present, it should take you eight days to reach here, but after more snow comes, that time may easily double. I advise you to consider weather in your evacuation plans, and to send a messenger when you leave Apulum Inferior, so that we will know to anticipate your arrival. We may soon receive the people of Ulpia Traiana as well, so our resources will be much strained. Anything you can do to diminish your demands on our limited stores would earn our gratitude and the favor of God: your offer of food and the providing of your own basic household equipment is greatly appreciated; also your offer of weapons, for we keep none here. If you have men who can hunt, or animals that give milk, we ask you to bring them with you.

  May God guard and keep you and your people, and so I will pray every morning and every night.

  Priam Corydon

  Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit

  In the former Province of Dacia Superior

  6

  Three open braziers stood in the reception-room of the central villa of Apulum Inferior, the short logs burning in them adding their warmth to that of the embers in the fireplace, all throwing off enough heat to make the room only chilly instead of freezing in this dark hour between midnight and dawn. Sixteen of the cots remained set up and occupied, a patient lying on each wrapped in heavy blankets. All the other cots had been taken apart and now were stacked in anticipation of their coming departure the following day. A solitary scullion dozed at the entrance to the kitchen corridor, as far from the dying fire as possible, guarding the room and its occupants, but otherwise, nothing intruded—all was still except for an occasional groan from one of the patients.

  Then Hildren came in from the dining room dormitory, groggy from too little sleep and shivering from cold, a heavy trabea flung around her shoulders over the woollen palla she had donned. She held an oil-lamp with two wicks burning as she made her way among the cots, evaluating the condition of her patients and trying to decide how best to transport the injure
d men.

  A grumble from one of the cots attracted her attention, and she turned toward the voice; she gasped as she caught sight of Mangueinic, for he had thrown off his blankets and his face was flushed; above the bandage on his leg, distinct, dark-red lines ran up to his knee. She could tell he was delirious—his eyes were only half-open and only the whites were visible, and fragments of words slipped through his lips, angry and incoherent at once. Uttering a little shriek, she hurried from the reception-room and ran to Sanctu-Germainios’ quarters, pounding as loudly as she could on the door.

  Sanctu-Germainios opened the door quite promptly, dressed in a black-wool pallium and black femoralia, an abolla shrugged on as an afterthought. He held an oil-lamp in his hand and a folded book in the other. “Hildren—what has happened.”

  Hildren began to tremble, tears spilling down her face. “Oh, Dom Sanctu-Germainios . . . You must do something. You must. If you don’t, he will not live more than a day or two, his fever being what it is . . . He can’t travel . . . that would almost certainly kill him. But we shouldn’t leave him behind, not with Huns in the regions . . . and who would be willing to stay with him? If the Huns should find him . . .”

  Seeing how distrait she was, Sanctu-Germainios brought her into his withdrawing room and urged her to sit down in his most comfortable chair. He then went to a small cabinet and removed a bottle of strong, boiled-plum wine. He poured a small cupful for Hildren and took it to her. “Here. Drink this. It will calm your nerves. Then you can tell me what has upset you.”

  She set her oil-lamp down on the floor beside her and took the cup with trembling fingers. When she had drunk a small amount, she coughed, then said, “He’s much worse.”

  “Which man?” he asked, anticipating the answer with unhappy certainty.

  She summoned up her courage to answer. “It’s Mangueinic.” The breath caught in her throat. “He has fever enough for him to throw off his covers, and there are Devil’s Fingers running up his leg.”

  “How far have they gone?” Sanctu-Germainios asked, taking care to conceal his alarm from Hildren; for in the six days since Mangueinic was injured, his three lacerations had developed a deep infection that not even his sovereign remedy had been able to obliterate, although the progress of the infection had been much slowed. He had seen this kind of injury many times, treated worse resultant fevers to full recovery. But in rare instances, the wounds had remained open and feverish in spite of his best efforts; he recognized the signs and knew that they boded ill for the builder who was captain of the Watch.

  “The longest looked to be above the knee a little way, the other two are shorter, but their color is dark, and . . . the skin itself is darkening . . .” She took more of the wine. “This is very potent,” she said, sputtering a little.

  “That it is. You may have more if you like.”

  She shook her head. “Much as it would steady me, it would dull me as well, and I need my wits about me, thank you. There is so much to do through this coming day, and more again tomorrow. As it is, this will be enough to make me bacchic,” she told him, closing her eyes for a half-dozen heartbeats. “Can you come? It would be very bad if he dies, wouldn’t it?”

  “I can come, and yes, it would be most unfortunate to lose him. Eight dead already, and five men still hampered by their hurts—adding Mangueinic to their number would discourage the Watchmen; they depend upon him,” he said, putting his book away and setting his abolla aside as he picked up a voluminous closed saie that hung on a peg near the door. He pulled it over his head and nodded to Hildren. “Let me get my treatment case and I will join you in the reception-room directly.” He held the door open so that she could leave.

  She drank the last of the boiled-plum wine and picked up her oil-lamp, then rose carefully and minced out of the room. “Will he die?”

  “We will all die,” said Sanctu-Germainios kindly. “I hope that day may be far off for Mangueinic.”

  “I hope so, too,” she said, stumbling a bit as she turned into the corridor; she waited while Sanctu-Germainios locked the door, then asked, “Should I fetch a priest?”

  “I will tell you after I have seen Mangueinic.”

  “Don’t you need a lamp?” She held out her own.

  “I can manage, but thank you.” Like all of his blood, he had no difficulty seeing in the dark: he went along to his office, opened the red-lacquer chest and took out a wood-and-leather case that contained his medical equipment and a number of medicaments. This in hand, he went to the reception-room, and to Mangueinic’s cot, where Hildren was standing guard. “If you will bring a stand of lamps?” he requested not only to give her something to do, but to appear as needful of light as other men.

  “I will. There is one stand with six oil-lamps. Will that be sufficient?”

  “I should hope so,” he said, and bent over Mangueinic, examining his leg for inflammation and swelling: his calf was bulging around the bandage that covered the unhealing wound, and the Devil’s Fingers, tracks of infection, ran up toward his knee, as Hildren had said; below the bandage, the skin was tight and dark as roof-tiles in Roma. The odor of the wound was metallically acerbic mixed with a cloying sweetness, the stink of suppuration. Straightening up, Sanctu-Germainios pressed his lips together, trying to decide what he ought to do.

  Moving slowly so as not to extinguish any of the wick-flames, Hildren came back to Mangueinic’s cot with the lamp-stand, her face carefully blank. “Dom?”

  “He is, as you say, very ill.” Sanctu-Germainios hesitated, then went on. “It may be that the only way to save his life is to remove the infected part of his leg. Otherwise the infection will reach the bones, and then he—”

  Hildren stared at him, aghast. “You mean cut it off?” Her voice rose as the enormity of the idea bore in on her.

  “It may be that or death,” said Sanctu-Germainios as levelly as he could.

  “But cut off his leg—” She put the stand of oil-lamps down and put her hands to her face.

  “It is the only way to save him, and it is no certain method. If he becomes too consumed with fever, he will die no matter what is done. Such fires can consume more than flesh if they remain unchecked. To end it, the fuel must be taken away.” The bluntness of his words was mitigated by the kindness of his tone. “I hope that there is some chance of a recovery for him, but there may not be.”

  “Patras Anso should be consulted,” said Hildren. “In case such a drastic . . . if taking his leg might endanger his soul.”

  “Why should it?” Sanctu-Germainios asked.

  “An imperfect body . . . who can say what that would mean to God.” She made the sign of the fish to keep her from evil thoughts, speaking quietly as if to herself, “Some teach that only the Christ had a perfect body, that all others are marked by original sin, but others teach that those who aspire to be one with God, must achieve perfection in mind and body.” Her face crumpled with grief. “He must be worthy to appear before God.”

  “If his leg is not removed, he will surely die of the fever. It will be a very hard death, much harder than the amputation would be.” For a moment he said nothing, then observed, “God receives the men wounded in battle for His sake, and crowns the martyrs and saints. Why should He reject Mangueinic for a severed leg?” He studied her tormented face. “Talk to Patras Anso if you think it will be helpful, but realize that once the Devil’s Fingers stretch beyond the knee to his groin he will be beyond anything I can do for him.”

  Hildren blanched. “Is it really so desperate?”

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met; she made an effort to regain her composure. “How soon must it be done?” Her voice was quiet now, and tentative.

  “As soon as possible,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

  “God save me,” she whispered. “And may He spare Mangueinic.”

  Sanctu-Germainios gave a hard sigh. “Then his leg must be sacrificed for benefit of the rest of his body. I will need help, if I am to do this. If my manservant
were here, he would assist me, but with him far away, I will require—”

  “I’ll ask among the Watchmen, and the newcomers.” She rubbed her face suddenly, as if to warm her skin, or to prevent more tears from coming. “If Patras Anso will permit it to be done.”

  Mangueinic thrashed feebly, then moaned before falling into a soft whimpering without waking.

  “Oh. Oh.” Hildren clasped her hands together, her self-possession deserting her. “He mustn’t die. He mustn’t.”

  Sanctu-Germainios reached out, laying his hand on her shoulder. “It is difficult to remain calm, but if you do not, he will be at more risk than he is already. He needs to be treated, and soon. We can move him into the withdrawing room in the east corner of the villa. All that we are taking from there has been loaded into the wagons.”

  As if this reminder of Apulum Inferior’s imminent evacuation spurred her to action, Hildren steadied herself. “I will find Patras Anso. He will be singing Mass soon; dawn is not far off. Then I will visit the Watchmen as they break their fasts, and I’ll send Khorea to deal with the patients so you will be able to devote yourself to Mangueinic.” She ducked her head.

  “Have the bath-house heated and the fire”—he nodded toward the hearth—“built up in here.”

  “As you wish, Dom,” she said before she turned abruptly and hastened from the room.

  Sanctu-Germainios brought a small serving-table from its place against the wall and opened his treatment case atop it, looking over the items secured within it. He would have to order a cauldron of water boiled with astringent herbs; Khorea would deal with it for him. He would need to bring down his wire-saw and flensing knife to be boiled as well. Then he would have to have a metal platter heated to cauterize the cuts and burn away the fever of the infection. And all the while, the people of the town would be finishing their packing and making ready to leave. Travel would be hard on Mangueinic, but he would have a better chance of recuperation at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery than here, where the Huns would undoubtedly return in the near future. He was so preoccupied with these problems that he was unaware of someone next to him until she spoke again, a bit more loudly; he turned to her in surprise. “Nicoris. I trust you are well?”