A short time later, Sanctu-Germainios pushed through the crowd, and stopped beside Oios. “I see I am too late.”
“Unfortunately,” said Oios, rising. “He must have lost more blood than I thought he had.”
“He has lost a great deal of blood,” said Sanctu-Germainios, who could sense his depletion, but added, “Look at the color of his face and you can tell.”
“I should have brought him to you at once,” said Oios, ashamed of himself.
“It would not have made any difference,” Sanctu-Germainios said as he put his case of medicaments down and dropped onto one knee beside the body. “He did not have enough left in him to rally.”
“Are you sure of that?” Oios asked.
“As sure as anyone could be.” He moved Drinus’ corpse enough to examine the arrows that stuck out from his shoulder and back. “They penetrated deeply, so they were probably loosed at close range. Perhaps they closed in on his position and all fired at once.”
“Do you think he . . . he saw what he said he saw? that the Huns are coming at last?” Oios caught sight of Neves approaching from one side of the compound, and Priam Corydon coming from the opposite direction.
“I think he must have,” said Sanctu-Germainios.
“Because he died?” Oios asked.
“Because the arrows in him are Hunnic. Because there is dust rising on the road to the east, a great deal of dust,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “A large number of travelers are coming this way. We need only determine who they are.” He had first observed the dust not long after sunrise, perhaps five or six leagues away, and had mentioned it to Priam Corydon when the Priam came from his private sunrise prayers.
“Do you know they’re Huns?” Priam Corydon had inquired.
“No; I only know they are raising a long plume of dust,” Sanctu-Germainios had told him.
“Then they could be more refugees,” Priam Corydon had said.
“It is possible,” Sanctu-Germainios had conceded, thinking it would be prudent to make ready for a real attack. “It is more likely that the Huns are moving this way.” He could feel fear clutch those around him.
“I noticed the dust,” Oios said, cutting into Sanctu-Germainios’ reflection. “Tribune Bernardius said it was probably from refugees who had abandoned their town to the Huns. Huns, he thought, would be moving faster, and would raise less dust, their fighting forces traveling at speed. He is of the opinion that dust means wagons, not horsemen. He said that Priam Corydon would have to decide if they are going to be allowed in, the refugees. If they take the turn-off toward us, that is.”
The two men said nothing for several heartbeats, then Sanctu-Germainios asked, “What does Antoninu Neves say?”
The mercenary leader coughed delicately. “I think we had best prepare for the worst. I’ll post my men on the slope above the pass, not only to keep watch, but to roll the rocks down to block it if we must.”
Priam Corydon stared at him, his expression aghast. “What do you mean, roll the rocks down?”
“I mean my men have set up barriers for falls of stones. All they need do is release the braces, and heavy rocks will descend on anyone foolish enough to try to come through the pass.” Neves smiled, satisfied. “Bernardius’ men helped us with building the barriers and gathering the rocks.”
“But that would block us in,” exclaimed one of the refugees.
“Only on the main road. There are still three other tracks that lead away from here, and, if it comes to that, we can evacuate using those paths,” Neves declared.
“Hunters’ tracks,” scoffed another of the refugees.
“Which the Huns could use,” Oios cautioned.
Before Neves could counter this remark, Priam Corydon said, “There isn’t room enough in the mortuary just now to lay him out.” He pointed to Drinus. “I will assign some monks to preparing a place for him, and readying his shroud.” Stepping back, he addressed Neves, his whole demeanor condemning. “They say one of your men made the sign of Mithras over him.”
Neves shrugged, unimpressed by the Priam’s disapproval. “You know the aphorism: Mithras in war, Jesus in peace.”
“Some of the monks will not want to let him lie in consecrated ground if he is a follower of Mithras.” Priam Corydon was already striding back toward the monastery, Neves pursuing him.
“However you decide, neither my men nor I will protest it,” Neves assured him. “If you want him buried beyond the outer walls, we’ll attend to it.”
More of the crowd around Drinus moved away, leaving Oios and Drinus at the center of a widening circle; Oios took a step toward Sanctu-Germainios. “What are we to do with him? We can’t leave him here.”
“Bernardius may have a place for him,” Sanctu-Germainios suggested. “He may be willing to let you leave him where he puts his own dead to await burial.”
“I should find out,” Oios answered, but stayed where he was, reluctant to leave his fallen comrade. He squatted once more and began to break off the shafts of the arrows so that Drinus could lie nearly flat, then rose, wiping his hands on the hem of his heavy cotton pallium. “There. That’s better.”
The crowd was thinning now that Drinus was dead. As the refugees began to drift back to their interrupted labors, the woman who had gone to get a blanket came through the diminishing crush, a rough woolen blanket over her arm. “Here,” she said, holding it out and casting a careful eye on Drinus as she made the sign of the fish. “It should be long enough to cover all of him.”
“We don’t need—” Oios began.
Sanctu-Germainios took it from her. “Thank you, Brynhald.” He unfolded the blanket and placed it over the corpse. “I will see this is returned to you.”
“No. No, don’t bother,” she said promptly. “Keep it for others who may also . . .” She made a gesture to finish her thoughts as she started away.
“Where shall we take him for now?” Oios asked, looking directly at Sanctu-Germainios.
“Priam Corydon will tell us where he is to lie when he and Neves have agreed,” Sanctu-Germainios said. “If you would rather not appeal to Tribune Bernardius, you might wish to move him out of the sun, at least; we can carry him to the old chapel.”
Oios nodded, and bent to lift Drinus’ shoulders. “Take his feet, Dom. It isn’t fitting for him to lie in the dust.”
Sanctu-Germainios did as he was asked, lifting the fallen man carefully so that he would not appear to be as strong as he was. He felt the remaining people part behind him as he backed toward the old chapel, moving deliberately slowly for Oios’ sake; it would have been no difficulty for Sanctu-Germainios to carry Drinus’ body himself, but that would cause unwanted scrutiny for him, so he continued to back up cautiously. Once in the old chapel, the two men laid the body out on a pallet, and adjusted the blanket over him.
“I wish it weren’t so hot. Where bodies are concerned, the heat benefits no one.”
“Truly,” said Sanctu-Germainios.
“It is unfortunate that Patras Anso is taken with fever just now: we may have need of him.” Oios looked down at Drinus’ shrouded corpse. “I best go inform Neves of what we have done.” He stared at Sanctu-Germainios. “Thank you, Dom. This was a kindness.”
“Hardly a kindness: a practical necessity,” said Sanctu-Germainios with a spark in his dark eyes. “If the monastery must be defended, then it is just as well to keep as many bodies out of sight as possible.”
Oios blinked. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, making for the main door. “Do you think the Huns know about the rock-falls?”
“They may; it depends on how much their spy knows, and what the spy has been able to tell them.” He spoke without inflection as if to lessen the significance of what he said.
“Then I suppose we should assume they do,” said Oios unhappily, shoving open one side of the main door.
“Let me know what the Priam decides,” Sanctu-Germainios called after Oios as he stepped back into the sunlight.
It was sometime later that Nicoris returned from the women’s dormitory, her manner flustered and her face pale. “They say the Huns are coming again,” she stated by way of greeting him. “This waiting is almost as bad as another attack.”
“They also say that there are rock-falls ready to be released upon them,” said Sanctu-Germainios, interrupting the laying out of his medicaments and supplies. “As soon as the sentries see them coming near, they’ll signal the soldiers and mercenaries to don their armor and man their posts.” Privately he doubted this strategy would be useful, for once the rocks were set to falling, the pass would confine the residents of the monastery as surely as an iron prison door would do; the hunters’ tracks were steep and difficult to traverse, and their destinations uncertain.
“Must it come to that?” She made the sign of the fish.
“I hope not, but it may. I think Neves will have posted his sentries back to the peaks by now, to prepare for battle, and to make a count of their numbers.” He saw her agitation. “Are you frightened?”
“Of course I’m frightened: aren’t you?” She flung the words at him as if they were weapons.
“I am worried,” he said.
“Just worried,” she said with an attempt at sarcasm.
“If the Huns are truly coming, I will have more than enough opportunity to be frightened later; I have no reason to anticipate their arrival with fear—not yet.” He turned toward her, and saw her shaking. “What is it, Nicoris?” When she looked away, he said, “Another secret, or the same one?”
She swung back toward him. “I can’t tell you.”
He said nothing, remaining still.
“Especially not now,” she added. Making an effort, she steeled herself. “Tell me what you want me to do to get ready for the attack; you will want to have all prepared in case the Huns do come.”
Sanctu-Germainios wished she would accept comfort from him, that she would be willing to allow him to ease the dread that transfixed her, but he realized that it would be folly to add to her dejection with what she would perceive as trespass. “I want you to prepare a dozen pallets for the wounded,” he said, resigned to her obduracy. “Then bring in five buckets of water, and set the cauldron to boil with bitter herbs so my surgical tools will be—”
“I know what to do; more Roman medical nonsense,” she exclaimed brusquely. “Need I do anything more?”
“Not just at present,” he said. “If you would feel safer, I have a leather tunica with brass scales on it that you can wear during any attack. It is in my second clothes’ chest, at the bottom.”
“Don’t you want to wear it?”
“It does not fit me. Nor would it fit most grown men.” It had belonged to the son of the leader of the caravan who had guided him and Rugierus back from Herat to Sinope, twenty years before; his father had presented it to Sanctu-Germainios for saving the youngster’s life.
“Then why do you have it if you can’t use it?”
“It was payment for services provided.” And, he added to himself, he had not, until now, found anyone sufficiently slight to wear it.
“All right,” she said. “When the order to arm comes, I’ll put it on.” Her face was unreadable and her demeanor gave nothing away. “I can help you bring the wounded to be treated if I have it on.”
“Good,” he said.
“What kind of armor are you going to wear?”
It took him a short while to frame his answer; he busied himself measuring out portions of syrup of poppies into small cups, rationing out the little he had left; much as he would have rather not, he decided to hold his Egyptian remedy in reserve. “I have a lorica, and a helmet. They’re both old-fashioned, but they guard my spine.” He had received them from Gaius Julius Caesar himself, during his time in Gaul.
“Good,” she approved with more emotion than either of them expected.
He removed a very old jar from a recess within his red-lacquer chest. “If we run out of syrup of poppies, we will have to use this.” He held up the jar; the lid was marked with hieroglyphics. “It is very powerful, more than syrup of poppies, and therefore harder to gauge its dosage. It brings on euphoria, but it can easily be deadly.”
“What is it?” she asked, coming toward him to look at the alabaster jar he held.
“It is made from the blue lotus and another water-plant. If you rub this on a burn or torn skin, the pain will stop at once, but you must be careful with the amount, not only for the person with the injury, but for yourself, as well. I would prefer you not handle it except in a dire emergency, and then if you do use it, to wash your hands at once when you have medicated the injury. Do not keep the water you use for your hands.”
Nicoris studied the jar, permitting herself to stand next to him. “How much before it is deadly?”
“An amount of the substance in this jar that is half the size of a walnut will kill a large man.” He saw her blanch. “I will make a dilution of it, to lessen its dangers.”
“I won’t touch it unless you order me to,” she said, her pale eyes shining.
“That may be best,” he said, resisting the impulse to touch her. “I’ll fetch the armor for you, shall I?”
“If you would.” She faltered. “And set out your own.”
“As you wish,” he said, and went to his clothes’ chest first, troubled by the way they were speaking to each other, as if they were little more than strangers. What was it about their intimacy that terrified her so that she was more willing to face Huns in battle than to seek out his embraces? The fervor she had shown in the past had not faded, but her dread of what—exposure? censure? condemnation?—had overcome her desire, and now left her filled with panic. “I hope,” he said as he resumed his task, “that you may decide to trust me.”
“I wish I could,” she said, and deliberately turned away from him.
“And I,” he said, but made no push to compel her to explain beyond what she had said already.
They worked until the last quarter of the afternoon in almost complete silence. Nicoris set up the pallets and prepared doses of standard medicaments, taking care not to draw Sanctu-Germainios in for discussion of any kind. When she was finished with the basic tasks, she said, “I am going to get my supper.”
“Very good. The sun will drop behind the peaks in a little while, and we must be ready for the Huns to arrive with the darkness.”
“Are you so sure of that? That they will come with the night?” she challenged, but did not bother to wait for an answer. She pulled a trabea around her, for although the night was warm, there was a cool breeze coming down from the high peaks, and it made the evening seem chillier than it was.
“For settings of this sort, yes, I am,” he said, his tone and manner level. “Shadows and dusk will make it difficult to judge their numbers, and their positions.”
“Surely the rocks will stop them,” she said.
“Perhaps.” He watched her leave, once again hoping she would not hold herself apart from him, and from all the rest of the people inside the walls of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit. With this distressing rumination for company, he set about preparing the dilution of the Egyptian remedy, taking care not to breathe while he stirred the ointment into a mixture of springwater and berry wine.
Nicoris returned as the monks began their Angelus service, saying as she came into the old chapel, “The sentries say that riders have taken the turn-off leading here.”
“How long ago did they say that?” Sanctu-Germainios asked, wondering why the alarm had not been sounded.
“Not long. I was finishing my meal when one of them came into the refectory. As I came here, I saw Niklos go to tend to the horses; he looked troubled.” She moved nervously but without the signs of consternation that had marked her behavior earlier. “The Watchmen and Bernardius’ soldiers are being called to their stations, as Neves’ mercenaries will shortly be. They expect the fighting to begin before nightfall. Where is that scale armor you said you had?”
“
I will get it for you,” he said, leaving his array of medicaments and instruments where he had set them out. He put some of his garments aside and removed the tunica, holding it out to Nicoris. “Here. Would you like me to help you don it? There are buckles at the shoulders.”
She gave an abrupt shrug. “You’ll want to buckle on your lorica.” She glanced toward Drinus’ covered body. “No one’s come for him, I see.”
“They’re preoccupied with the living,” said Sanctu-Germainios, watching Nicoris wrestle herself into the softly jingling tunica. While she struggled with the buckles, he removed the segmented lorica from his first clothes’ chest and reached for the short, padded tunica that was worn under the lorica to prevent its metal bands from chaffing. “In a little while, I will seek out Mangueinic and inform him of where he should have the wounded brought.”
“Don’t you think he knows?” Her incredulity was caustic. “He’s no—”
She was interrupted by the brazen clamor from the alarm, followed by sudden shouts and the sound of many people running; the chanting from the monks’ church stopped abruptly.
“I will not be long,” Sanctu-Germainios said, striding toward the side-door. He emerged from the old chapel into a sea of activity: men hurried toward their places on and between the walls, the older children secured the livestock, women gathered the youngsters and herded them into the dormitories, monks worked the buckets over the three wells, filling buckets and small barrels with water, novices laid four large fires and bound pitch-soaked rags to staves for torches, and the few old refugees began soaking hides to put on the roofs in case of fire. Working his way through the commotion, until he reached the gate-tower, he found the leader of the Watchmen securing torches in their sconces, and checking the supplies of arrows and spears.
“What do you want?” he asked, beset with too many tasks and not enough time.
“We are ready for any injured. Use the novices to carry them to us.” Sanctu-Germainios paused. “Are there sentries on the hunters’ tracks as well as the road through the pass?”
Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23) Page 29
