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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He leaves tomorrow, doesn’t he,” said Niklos.

  “Yes. He and thirty-one others from Apulum Inferior,” said Sanctu-Germainios, a touch of sadness in his voice.

  “Will you miss them?” Niklos was surprised. “They don’t regard you as one of them.”

  “No one regards me as one of them,” Sanctu-Germainios told him with the resignation of centuries in his tone. “But they have not cast me out.”

  “What of those who come to your life: what of them?” Niklos asked. “Olivia—”

  “Coming to my life usually brings isolation, as my change brought me, long ago. I know Olivia has said much the same thing.”

  Niklos almost offered a witty rejoinder, but saw the expression in Sanctu-Germainios’ dark eyes, and held his tongue. “Do you plan to put the rest of the straw-men into position this afternoon or tomorrow?”

  “I think tomorrow. With laborers in the fields, adding to the figures on the battlements might raise Hunnic suspicions. Besides, we will need to find clothes and helmets for the rest of the straw-men we have before putting them in place. They will have to look like men on watch, ready for anything, which means armor of some sort or another. And I will have to find out if Priam Corydon will give us some of the old monks’ clothing. I doubt the Huns know the difference between a pallium, a sagum, and an abolla.” He himself had donned his most austere paragaudion and braccae, both in his habitual black. “Tonight, while we stuff a few more of the straw-men, there is something we must discuss.”

  “Has it to do with how we manage here once the rest have gone?” Niklos gave Sanctu-Germainios a quick, fierce smile.

  Sanctu-Germainios nodded. “I have a few things in mind,” he said in Greek, then went back to the current dialect of the region. “For now, armor and clothing are needed. I will ask the monks first.”

  “Given that peasants and monks wear garments that are much the same, why not?” Niklos grinned. “The monks may object because you want to use their old garments for defense.”

  “So they might,” Sanctu-Germainios said quietly, lifting his head. “The wind is shifting.”

  “If it means cooler weather, it’s welcome,” Niklos said, squinting into the sky.

  “It could mean rain.” As Niklos looked at him, startled, Sanctu-Germainios added, “It is not unusual for there to be a day or two of rain toward the end of August. This rain is not like the thunderstorms of high summer, but more a first herald of autumn, spawned by cool winds. It could be an indication of an early season.”

  “Rain could damage the crops,” Niklos remarked.

  “It could also slow down the Huns,” said Sanctu-Germainios, contemplating the gate-tower and the yellow flag flapping above it.

  “So it could.” For a short while neither of them said anything, then Niklos declared, “I’m going to help the grooms ready the chests for tomorrow. I’ll help you with these large dolls after nightfall.”

  “I will be in the old chapel; Nicoris wants my help in choosing what to take with her and what to leave behind.” Sanctu-Germainios looked up once more. “If the wind continues to rise in that quarter, there will be rain.”

  The day slipped quickly away, sunset partially obscured by gathering clouds to the northwest. The chanting of the monks went on throughout the afternoon while Priam Corydon went about organizing those of the monks who were to leave in two days; he dispatched novices to the remaining hermits in the caves above the lake, once again asking them if they wanted to depart with the rest of them; he supervised the packing of the various ritual objects that they would require for worship; he sent monks to help Monachos Vlasos secure as much food as possible for their journey; he visited the infirmary and made arrangements for the accommodation of those who were ill; he met with Mangueinic, Tribune Bernardius, and Neves; then he went to the stable to requisition horses and carts. By the time night came on, he sought out Sanctu-Germainios, entering the old chapel by the main door.

  Sanctu-Germainios dropped the cloth he held and got to his feet. “Priam.”

  “Dom,” said Priam Corydon, making the sign of the cross. “Are you alone?”

  “I am. Niklos and Nicoris are off collecting more straw for our false soldiers. The slaves in the stable should be helping them. They will return shortly.” He patted the cloth, then set the ivory needle in it and motioned to the bench near the fireplace as he laid the half-finished life-sized dummy down. “I have water and some wine, if you would like either, or both.”

  “If you have some of each to spare, I would thank you for them; it has been a demanding day,” said Priam Corydon, taking his seat on the bench. “I want to extend you my thanks for your willingness to remain here when the rest of us are gone. If you should fall here, you will surely be a martyr in Heaven.”

  Sanctu-Germainios paused in his selecting two cups for the Priam. “I think I would prefer to continue as I am,” he remarked with an ironic smile as he pulled out the jug of wine from the large standing case next to the red-lacquer chest.

  “I can understand your feeling on that point,” said Priam Corydon. “No doubt you’ll still earn your place among the sheep, not the goats.”

  “The wine is red: will that suit you?” He held the jug poised to pour.

  “Very well,” said the Priam.

  Sanctu-Germainios poured the wine, replaced the jug, and took out the ewer of water, and poured the larger cup almost full. “I fear I have nothing else to offer you; I have sent most of the food we have here to Mangueinic to distribute among the companies leaving in the morning.”

  “No matter; we take no food from sundown to sunrise; I thought you were aware of that; my monks and the refugees have locked horns about this several times,” said Priam Corydon, looking a bit surprised as Sanctu-Germainios brought him the two cups.

  “You have not required the refugees to maintain your Rule.” He handed the cups to Priam Corydon.

  “Won’t you join me?”

  “No, Priam, I will not: I do not drink wine.”

  “Not even your own? How remarkable,” said Priam Corydon, taking a deep sip of the water, and then a taste of the wine, approving it with a single nod. “They’ve told me, some of those you have treated, that you are generous with drink of all sorts. Do you refrain from other kinds of imbibition?”

  “Almost all, Priam; almost all.”

  “But you advise wine and other inebriants for your patients, don’t you? Wolfsbane and syrup of poppies and something Egyptian, I’ve been told.” He had more of the wine and followed it with water.

  “When it will be helpful, not harmful, I believe the right intoxicant can aid recovery from injuries, and ease the pain of the injured.” He drew up another stool and sat down across from Priam Corydon.

  “Suffering is our lot in life, because of our sins,” said Priam Corydon. “Penance is necessary for Christians to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “Do you think so? Does that not belittle the sacrifice of your Jesus, to seek out hurt and anguish? You teach that His death redeemed all men, or so I have understood.”

  Priam Corydon thought this over, and kept his conclusions to himself. “My monks tell me that you’ve requested our worn-out garments—the ones we save to give out to beggars and other unfortunates—to put on your straw soldiers; you left such a message for me.”

  “That I did,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “These straw-men need clothing to make the counterfeit believable for the Huns. Clothing and armor,” he added.

  “I will authorize the use of our old clothing, since we will not take it with us, and no Christian here has need of it, but we have no armor to offer you.” He sighed. “In spite of faith, the world imposes.”

  “We live in the world, Priam, and must answer to its demands,” Sanctu-Germainios reminded him, and would have said more, but the side-door opened and Nicoris and Niklos came in, a large sling between them laden with straw. Sanctu-Germainios rose and went to assist them.

  “Dom, we have another sling wi
th as much straw as we have here,” Nicoris cried out as she and Niklos set the sling down on the floor next to the whip-stitched dolls.

  Sanctu-Germainios offered her a quick, delighted smile. “Wonderful! We can stuff the rest of the dolls tonight and have them in place before the next parties leave the monastery. Assuming we have hoods and helmets enough to disguise them.”

  Priam Corydon drank the rest of his wine and took a large gulp of water, then got up. “You have much to do. I’ll leave you to your work. One of the novices will bring you the old clothing. If there are hoods to spare, I will donate them, as well.” He made the sign of the cross, and then, more circumspectly, the sign of the fish.

  “May you and your monks travel safely, Priam,” said Sanctu-Germainios as Priam Corydon went out of the old chapel toward the monastery.

  “So he’ll give us the old clothes,” said Niklos with a kind of wry enthusiasm that did not completely conceal his relief.

  “So he tells me,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Since the deception was his idea to begin with, he is probably inclined to help us execute it.”

  “Will it be enough?” Nicoris asked, her face paling as she looked at the empty dummies spread out on the floor.

  “The straw or the clothes?” Niklos flung up his hands. “One more sling to go, and then we can set to work filling the dolls.”

  “Or do you mean the dissimulation we are attempting?” Sanctu-Germainios asked her. “It will have to be enough; there is little else we can do.”

  She nodded mutely, and followed Niklos out of the old chapel, leaving Sanctu-Germainios to finish sewing the doll he had been assembling. He checked his supply of thread and realized that, too, was running low, although it would be enough for the remaining figures. He took out the long spool and fingered the fine Coan linen thread that he usually employed to close wounds, then returned to his sewing, working quickly so he would be done with this figure by the time Niklos and Nicoris returned.

  By the third quarter of the night all the figures were in place; Sanctu-Germainios and Niklos cleaned the old chapel while Nicoris slept. While he swept up the last of the straw, Niklos said in Greek, “She doesn’t want to go.”

  “Yes; I know.”

  “She’d probably be as safe with us as with Neves,” Niklos continued.

  “Do you think so.” Sanctu-Germainios studied him.

  “I do.” Niklos brushed the straw into the fireplace. “We could take her with us when we leave.”

  “You assume our plan will be successful,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

  “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

  There was a long silence between them. “I think Nicoris will have a better chance of getting away if she travels with Neves’ men.”

  “Perhaps she’d prefer to be with you,” Niklos said, being as blunt as he dared.

  “Did she say so?” Sanctu-Germainios asked.

  “She . . . implied it.”

  “And you agree?”

  Niklos set his long-handled brush aside. “Yes. I do.”

  Sanctu-Germainios stood very still; the sound of the monks’ chanting reached them, disturbingly serene. “If that is what she truly wants, then she shall stay with us. But I suspect she will not.”

  Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Aquileia to Sanct’ Germain Franciscus at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery in the former Province of Dacia, written with fixed ink in Imperial Latin on split leather, never delivered.

  To my oldest, dearest friend currently calling himself Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens in Aquileia, although not for much longer:

  Sanct’ Germain,

  I have just sustained a most annoying visit from our Praetor Custodis, informing me that as I live beyond the walls of Aquileia, I and my estate are not included in the city’s protection, although I pay taxes that are supposed to ensure me security from all threats that are associated with the city. The Praetor Custodis also informed me that nine of my horses are being requisitioned now with another nine to follow in four days, for the city Guards to increase their patrols beyond the gates. It was all I could do to keep from railing at him. But I was mindful of the jeopardy of my position, and kept my words and manner civil—you would have laughed to see me so placating. I very nearly simpered. He puffed out his chest and gave orders like a sea captain in a wealthy port. Magna Mater, I am glad he has finally left, though I am rancorous about the horses! I am irritated by that officious, greedy fool, for it is a reminder of my situation here; this region has enough pettiness among its officials without the efforts of Sixtus Gratian Fulvius Draco.

  As you should know by now, Rogerian is with me. I find it curiously amusing that I have your bondsman and you have mine. I trust that Niklos Aulirios is proving useful as well as providing you understanding company. I have to admit that I am uneasy on your behalf—not about the Huns—what with you being at a monastery at present, for Christians are becoming increasingly inflexible in regard to what and whom they deem deviant, such as vampires and ghouls.

  In acknowledgment of hazards here, I am about to leave Aquileia for the villa at Lecco on Lago Comus; I expect to arrive there on the twenty-third or -fourth day of September. It will mean giving up more than half my harvest to local farmers, but it may be that they will need it more than I. Everyone here is afraid that the Huns will soon be upon us, thanks to the Praetor Custodis, and that has brought about serious disagreements among the more important personages in the city. Some want to reinforce the walls and prepare for battle, while others want to hire more mercenaries to keep the Huns away from Aquileia entirely, and others think that we should treat with the Huns to arrange tribute so that we may lose only our money, not our lives and property. Since all those stances seem to me to be short-sighted, I believe it is time I found a more congenial place to stay until the danger is over. Whether or not any Huns will attack us, or when, disputes, such as the current ones, are not beneficial to those of our blood; when the living are afraid they turn first upon those unlike them, which bodes ill for me, and for Rogerian, or Rugierus, or whatever you wish to call him. Following your good advice of four centuries past, I am removing myself from the fray.

  Which is what I hope you will do. That monastery may be protected in its valley, but once the Huns have a taste of gain to be had from a location, they will make every effort to obtain all that they can. For my sake if not your own, do not remain there any longer than you must. As soon as it is practicable, leave the place and get beyond the region controlled by the Huns. I have no doubt that you will conduct yourself honorably, for you have done so for all the years I have known you, and I have no expectation that you would change now, much as I might wish that you would. But please, ask no more of yourself than you would of any living man in that valley. As I read this over, I wonder why I bother to ask this of you; you will do what you decide is necessary, the peril of little consequence to you. Yet I know my warnings will go unheeded, though I give them because of my love for you, which has never wavered from the first time we lay together, when Nero wore the purple and my loathsome husband was still alive.

  And now, before I become maudlin, I will commend myself to your good opinion in spite of my hectoring, and look forward to the day when we can exchange bondsmen and enjoy as much time together as will be prudent.

  Your most allegiant

  Olivia

  on the tenth day before the end of August in the 1192nd Year of the City, or the 439th year of the Christians

  8

  A gelid mist hung over Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, not substantial enough to be called even a drizzle but more than fog; buildings were shrouded in clammy wraiths as if they were the artifacts of a ghostly dream. The little daylight that penetrated the obscuring haze was so diffuse, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was. The whole valley was silent, for the last of the monks had gone and there was no more chanting or ringing of the Mass bell to help mark the canonical Hours; no refu
gees called, no soldier shouted orders, no women supervised playing children. Emptiness haunted the place as much as the murkiness did.

  “Do you think the straw-men are too damp to burn?” Niklos asked Sanctu-Germainios in the Greek of his youth as they made their way around the broad space between the two walls, carrying large jugs of oil; they would ladle the oil over each of the dummies. In the hush, his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

  Sanctu-Germainios shifted his pluvial of waxed wool more tightly around his shoulders and scrutinized the moist air. “If the rain does not grow heavier, and the Huns arrive before mid-day we ought to—”

  “And how do we know when it’s mid-day?” Niklos spoke sharply. “I don’t like this weather, and I don’t like having to wait for the Huns to try to kill us.”

  “Before the last of the men left at the end of the night, the guards in the gate-tower saw a large company of mounted men moving up the Roman road. Making allowances for the weather—as you mentioned—they should be here about mid-day, since they will not risk coming too rapidly, with visibility so poor,” said Sanctu-Germainios as calmly as he could. “You heard the guards.” He climbed up the ladder onto the battlement walkway, carrying the jug of oil carefully so as not to spill any of its contents.

  “How do we know that the men they saw were Huns? They could be Goths, or Gepidae, or Daci, or Carpi. Or any number of other refugees.” Niklos followed him up.

  “They could be,” Sanctu-Germainios allowed. “But it is unlikely; most refugees are trying to cross into Roman territory, not go to ground here.” He poured a ladle of oil over the nearest straw-man. “There is an advantage to the damp: it will tend to keep the fire from spreading.”