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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She saw the sly shine in his eyes and she wagged her finger at him. “Don’t you go playing with me, Niklos. You know that I am hungry, but I won’t prey upon anyone of my household. Later this evening, if you will seek out Italicus Erbertus when he returns from the markets, and ask him to join me in my withdrawing room, I believe I may relieve my hunger without any intrusions among my servants and slaves, and to his satisfaction as well as mine.”

  “Bondama Clemens,” Niklos responded with a respectful lowering of his head, modified by a quick wink, “would I even so much as imply such a thing about you? We have been together long enough that I know you will not approach anyone who would dislike your way of taking nourishment.”

  “And yet you have doubts about Italicus Erbertus,” she said.

  “I suspect you do, too,” he said with a more serious mien. “I doubt he’ll be here tonight, given the weather that’s developing. There are inns in Aquileia that will keep him fed, and warm, and dry. He’s not a man to put himself out when he has no inspiration to do so.”

  “I am not sufficient inspiration?” she asked.

  “I doubt he would risk traveling in pouring rain to spend the night with you, not when he need not do so.”

  “Another aspect of the man you have your doubts about?” Olivia prodded.

  “Enough to caution you. Do you question my motives?”

  “Only when you want to beleaguer me,” she replied baldly. “Or when you disapprove of my choices for a partner.” She studied Niklos’ face. “Why do you object to Italicus Erbertus?”

  Niklos stood still for a long moment, his remarkably handsome features still. “I don’t know precisely what it is that bothers me, but I can’t quiet the vexation he rouses in me. He’s a bit too smug—but he’s a successful merchant, after all, and such men are often smug. He’s boastful about women—but so is almost every other man in Aquileia, so that isn’t the cause, little as I like his manner. In that regard, he behaves as if he is lord of your estate—but so have others before him. It may be that he is unworthy of you, or that I don’t believe he will keep your secret.” He shrugged, his expression puzzled. “It may be all of those things, or none. But there is something badly amiss in him. Be careful of him, Olivia.”

  Neither of them thought it odd that her bondsman would call her by her personal name; he would not have done it had they been overheard. “I will, but I think you’re being over-cautious.”

  “As you are with Sanct’ Germain,” he suggested.

  She tried to smile and almost managed it. “I take your point. I wonder,” she added in a more speculative tone, “if I would care half so much about the Huns if Sanct’ Germain weren’t in their path.”

  “Wait until he is safe and find out.” He escorted her to the couch near the main table in the room. “If you want to lie down for a bit, I’ll see to the securing of the house, and then I’ll report to you.” He took a blanket from the foot of the couch and opened it.

  “I will be glad to recline for a while; there is so much to do later,” she said, exaggerating a yawn as she came up to the three couches in front of the empty hearth and chose the one with the most cushions. She sat down and prepared to lean back. “I suppose I’ll be up most of the night.”

  Niklos grinned. “That will depend upon the storm, I think. Let me put the estate in order for you while you recruit yourself. May you have a pleasant rest, Bondama.”

  “Niklos, stop it,” she admonished him playfully. “You are too willing to make light of our position.”

  “Not I,” he objected. “I know that we must not remain here for more than a decade, or anywhere else, for that matter. You are older than I am, but our ages are sufficiently beyond the average that we would not want to be subject to scrutiny. And longevity is the least of it.” He took the blanket and held it up for her as she settled onto the couch. “I’ll deal with the stable and then the household.”

  “You are good to me, Niklos.” She lay back as if prepared to nap, but there was only acuity in her gaze. “When you return, we must consider Sanct’ Germain’s problems more closely.”

  He touched his forehead respectfully and left her alone on the couch, her household records held closely to her chest. Moving out through the atrium, he shouted to summon grooms and cowmen to him, snapping out orders as he went toward the stable.

  “The storm will be upon us shortly,” said Tarquinus, the head-groom. “It will be best to get the animals in.”

  “So Bondama Clemens thinks,” said Niklos, helping to pull open the side-doors of the stable. “And have the youngsters round up the ducks and chickens; get them into their coops.”

  “That I will. We should be closed up before the rain begins.”

  “And have warm mash for the horses tonight,” Niklos added, hurrying on to the barn on the far side of the stable, where the cowmen were already herding their charges into the building. “Make sure you have hay enough for them. Check the loft. Get rid of the rats if you find any.”

  “There are always rats,” said Bynum, the cowman from Gaul who was in charge of the barn. “But we’ll kill as many as we can. We have ten cats to help us, and that scrappy dog Darios brought from the market.”

  “Very good. Make sure the windows have their shutters in place, and barred closed.” Niklos went on to the sheep-sheds and the pigpens, making a cursory sweep of them, then he circled around back toward the main house. He stopped on the way to urge four young slaves to close the shutters on the windows of the house. “Then get indoors yourselves.”

  “Yes, Major Domo,” said two of them at the same time.

  Niklos knew it was useless to remind them that he was not the major domo for the estate—that titled belonged to Sylvandrus Polli and had for eight years—but the personal bondsman to Atta Olivia Clemens, the owner of the estate and all it contained. There was no reason to stop and explain again; he kept on, passing the footman as he entered the house on his right foot. “Make sure the door-lamp has enough oil to last the night, Sergius.”

  “And there will be someone manning the door until the weather clears,” Sergius pledged, trying not to cough.

  “Get yourself to Briareus and have him give you some tincture of hawthorn-and-honey. You don’t want that cough to get worse.”

  “Yes, Bondsman,” said Sergius, still doing his utmost not to cough.

  Niklos went to the kitchens and summoned the main cook. “It is going to be a hard night, Patricius. Make sure there is a cauldron of hearty soup simmering all through the night. We may have travelers arrive.”

  “Not willing to go all the way into Aquileia,” remarked the cook.

  “Not in the middle of a bad storm, no,” Niklos agreed. “Have you seen Sylvandrus Polli about?”

  “He went to the cellars at mid-day. He may still be there. Aristarchion is with him.”

  “I’ll find them once we’re settled here.” He looked around the kitchen. “Could you and Nicodemus manage another baking this afternoon? Not a full one, a half, so that there will be small breads only.”

  “Probably,” said Patricius. “Since there is no convivium this evening.” He did not add any such obvious word as fortunately or luckily, but his satisfaction at this arrangement was obvious in every aspect of his demeanor.

  “Had the Bondama arranged for one, she would most likely cancel it, given the weather. No one would want to come out of the city during a tempest.” Niklos pointed to the box in which Patricius kept his recipes. “Mixed meats and root vegetables, I’d think, and wine to give it body.”

  “With onions and garlic as well as turnips and carrots. A good basic soup,” said Patricius, both satisfaction and regret in his demeanor. “Not like the old days, when they stuffed ducks with larks’ tongues and sweetbreads.”

  “That dish hasn’t been made in two centuries,” said Niklos, and pointed to the handled bowls stacked on the shelf across the room. “Plan to serve the soup before everyone retires.”

  “A late supper?”
Patricius asked, startled at the suggestion.

  “Yes. To help them all sleep a little more soundly on a hard night,” Niklos ordered, and then said, “The main cellar, or the wine cellar?”

  “The main cellar. Onions, apples, turnips, sacks of grain, boxes of honeycombs, and smoked meats. All the signs are for a late spring, and we’ll need to know our reserves. We don’t want to have to slaughter all the shoats and lambs.” He nodded toward the main hearth, where three large geese turned on spits manned by a bored scullion, dripping sizzling grease onto the bricks. “This will be ready for prandium, in less than an hour now.”

  “I hope you will have a pleasant meal,” said Niklos, as good manners required. He nodded and started off toward the door that led to the main cellar. “Is there an oil-lamp I can use?”

  “Just inside the door at the top of the stairs, on a hook; see you put it back,” said Patricius, and began to make his way through the baskets of vegetables, selecting those that would go into the soup.

  The stairs zigzagged down into the cellar—three large, stone rooms filled with barrels and sacks and baskets of all manner of foodstuffs. The place was cool even at the height of summer; just now it was chilly. Sylvandrus Polli and Aristarchion were in the second room, the only one with a window, and they stood next to a sealed vat of olive oil. One that had been broached was slightly behind them.

  “Major Domo,” Niklos called out, “the Bondama is closing the house for the storm, and is calling all the livestock in.”

  “There,” said Polli. “I told you she wouldn’t take any chances.”

  Aristarchion pulled at the edge of his short beard, now more than half white, and said, “It is a good precaution.”

  “There will be soup and bread for a late supper. If the storm turns more dangerous, a good part of the household will be up during the night.” Niklos regarded the two men. “If you will be good enough to help arrange this?”

  “It is our duty,” said Polli somberly. “We have done about half the inventory down here, but under the circumstances, the rest can wait. We can postpone the rest until the storm passes.” He took a piece of chalk and made a note on the vat in front of him. “We can resume with this in a day or so.”

  “It is going to be a long night,” Aristarchion said, folding up the scroll in his hands. “How soon must we be ready to engage the storm?”

  “As soon as it starts,” said Niklos, going toward the stairs, holding his oil-lamp up to help light the way for the other two. “So my shadow won’t block your lamplight.”

  When they reached the kitchen, three more scullions and a pair of under-cooks were huddled with Patricius, discussing supper and the second night meal. “This is all to the good,” said Patricius as he caught sight of the major domo. “We should have a pleasant night, storm or no storm.”

  “So long as there are no disruptions,” said Patricius.

  As if to punctuate the cook’s remark, there was a clanging from the main gate, and the sound of activity as a number of household slaves rushed to discover who had arrived.

  “Is it raining yet?” Aristarchion asked. “The wind is rising.”

  “No rain, but it won’t be long,” said Patricius.

  “Then it will be all to the good that we admit travelers now. Once the rain begins, there will be mud everywhere,” said Orandus, the older under-cook.

  “See that the vestibule is ready for visitors,” said Polli. “And have guest rooms made up.”

  Niklos considered this, and added, “As soon as we know who has arrived and how many are in the party, inform me so that I may tell Bondama Clemens how many travelers will be stopping here for the night.”

  The wind was drubbing the house with heavy gusts, and more of the household staff came into the kitchen on the way to the dining room set aside for their use. The thick glass in the windows rattled and the shutters quivered against their iron braces.

  “Pity the mariners at sea tonight,” said Polli, whose nephews worked on merchant ships.

  “True enough,” said Niklos. “But let us prepare to welcome the travelers.” He started toward the front of the house. “I leave you to tend to the evening meals.”

  “The baking is under way,” said Patricius, paying very little attention to Niklos. “The ovens are heating and the doughs are being kneaded. They’ll be in the oven by nightfall.”

  “When do you want to present the travelers to Bondama Clemens?” Polli called after Niklos.

  “As soon as they are dried and warm,” said Niklos, striding toward the main door of the house, listening to the roaring wind. He saw Sergius busily lighting more oil-lamps, and he paused long enough to say, “If you will learn the names of the travelers, where they came from, and where they are bound?”

  “Of course. We will have no strangers in the Bondama’s house.” He had donned an abolla over his sleeved tunica, but he still looked cold.

  Niklos went out through the main door, making sure to cross the threshold on his right foot. The wind struck him like a weighted club, and he steadied himself against it. He saw the flickering oil-lamp in its glass cage beside the door and wondered if anyone would be able to see it when the rain began. He went out toward the main gate, standing open to admit the small party of merchants; all the while he listened to the boom of the wind. When he was near enough to be heard, he called out, “Travelers! On behalf of Bondama Clemens, whose estate this is, you are welcome to shelter from the storm as her guests.”

  There were three men riding mules, huddled into their byrri, their hoods pulled forward to protect their faces; they led seven mules, all well-laden. Their escort was five armed men mounted on horses. They, too, had heavy abollae to keep out the cutting wind. Four grooms had run up to help the men dismount and to lead their animals to the stable. The three slaves manning the gate were struggling to close it once again.

  One of the merchants got down from his mule and turned to Niklos. He steadied himself by holding on to the broad pommel of his saddle. “Thank the Bondama for her hospitality,” he said, his Latin heavily accented with Greek. “I am Orestes of Naissus. We are bound for Ravenna and Roma. These are my companions, Fulvius Gaudiensis, and Marcellos Basilios.” He indicated the other two merchants. “I fear Fulvius has taken ill, and is in need of succor.”

  For an instant, Niklos wished that Sanct’ Germain were with them and not in the remote mountains of the old Province of Dacia. “Certainly,” he said. “Kardens, see that the ailing man is taken to his room at once, and make sure that Mater Rhodanthe is sent to care for him.”

  The slave who had finally secured the gate nodded. “Yes, Bondsman,” he said flatly, and went to the last mounted of the merchants, where he helped the ailing man out of the saddle, then offered him his shoulder to lean on.

  The escort had already dismounted and were leading their horses and the pack-mules toward the stable, following the groom with the enclosed oil-lamp. The day was dark now, with no trace of color in the clouds, but it was mid-afternoon. The remaining grooms took the riding mules in hand and went off after the others.

  Orestes of Naissus regarded Niklos narrowly. “It is rare to find so . . . so fine a reception on the roads these days.” He walked unsteadily, as if his back were sore.

  “Bondama Clemens keeps to the Roman traditions,” said Niklos, indicating that the two merchants should accompany him. “We will have rooms for you, and a simple meal in a short while, but no convivium.”

  “On such short notice, no one would expect otherwise. And I fear Marcellos Basilios and I are tired and would be poor company.” He turned to Basilios and said, “I trust you are willing to have simple fare tonight.”

  “After what we have endured on the road, simple fare is splendid; some meat, some wine, and a bread and I will think myself blessed,” Basilios answered.

  Niklos was almost at the main door when he thought of something more to ask. “Have you any news of the Huns?”

  Orestes moaned, “They kept winter at the
foot of the mountains. Odessus and Tomi are thoroughly in their hands, where the cities are not in ruins. The Huns have spent their time improving their weapons and learning more about Roman defenses. They were boasting that by next winter they will control the Carpathians down to the Danuvius.” He crossed the threshold on the right foot and made sure Basilios did the same. Sergius made a sign of approval, and held out his hand for their byrri, saying, “There are laenae laid out for you in your rooms.”

  “Do you think they will succeed?” Niklos pursued, for once paying no heed to the courtesy the men had been given. “The Huns? coming so far south?”

  Orestes nodded. “I would wager on it,” he said grimly. “They are not inclined to idle bragging.”

  Sylvandrus Polli came up to the newcomers. “Be welcome in the house of Bondama Clemens,” he said. “Your companion is being treated by Mater Rhodanthe, who will tell you of his condition later. If you will come with me, I will show you to your rooms. Your personal cases are being brought in from the stable. Will you need a servant to help you, or would you prefer to manage on your own?”

  The merchants exchanged glances, then Basilios said, “If you could spare one to wait upon two of us?”

  “Of course,” said Polli. “This way,” and he started off under the overhang of the atrium, leaving Niklos to go to Olivia.

  She was seated at her writing table, a tree of oil-lamps providing illumination for the reports Niklos had given her earlier. “What have you learned?” she asked when he had explained the basics.

  “They’re worried about the Huns, that was conspicuous, and not just in words, but the whole of their expression: more worried than they are about Roman tax collectors.” He paused, then added, “Orestes said that they have their sights on the Carpathians.” As he said that, the first rush of rain washed down over the hillside, sounding like a continuous load of pebbles had been dropped across the land.

  Olivia looked up at the ceiling and a shiver of discomfort went through her, but she spoke calmly enough. “I have been thinking that I should send you to Sanct’ Germain with my next letter to him, as soon as the storm is over. You can see for yourself how he is faring, and you may add your voice to mine if you think he would be wiser to leave the mountains than to stay.”