“It isn’t kindness, Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, and stopped himself from going on. With a flourish, he opened the door for her. “There. You see, you have a chest for your clothes, and your bed should be made up for you.” He supposed that Ombrosius would see to that if he had not done so already.
Gynethe Mehaut looked about the sitting room with its two couches and three chairs, all provided with silken pillows. There was a writing table with an ink-cake and a box of quills waiting to be used, and a tree of oil-lamps waiting to be lit. “This is … splendid.”
“Hardly,” said Rakoczy, who had seen real splendor many times in his long, long life and realized that while this was more comfortable than what she was accustomed to, it was far from luxurious. “If it gives you a pleasant stay, then I am well-satisfied.” Again this was less than the truth, but it was no deception.
“I will be comfortable here,” she said, “more than comfortable.” She smoothed her hand over the lovely pine-green silk of the nearest cushion, her fingers lingering on the glistening fabric. “I wish I could…” She stopped.
“You wish you could what?” he prompted, coming half-a-dozen steps into the room.
“I wish I could wear such grand material. No one would pay any attention to my skin if I dressed in jewels of cloth.” She sounded wistful.
“I shall order a gonella and a stolla made for you of whichever color you would like. It will be my gift for you, for your stay in Roma.” His smile was meant to reassure her.
She moved away from him, her bandaged palms folded. “If you can assure me that no blame would come for such opulence, I will accept, although I should not.”
“You are my guest, Gynethe Mehaut,” said Rakoczy, sensing that she wanted time to herself. “It is my privilege to offer such things to you. The Pope doesn’t expect you to come before him as a lost soul, with nothing to recommend you but the calluses on your knees and the wrappings on your hands. He has a Court, and the Cardinal Archbishops are as grand as any Comes of Great Karl’s. You would do well to dress in silks and gems, so that you will not seem someone who can be overlooked or dismissed.”
“Harlots dress in silks and jewels,” she said brusquely.
“And Queens,” said Rakoczy.
Gynethe Mehaut was very still, then made a gesture of dismissal. “I am tired, Magnatus.”
“Then you must rest,” said Rakoczy. “If you need anything, pull the chain by the door and someone will come to you.”
“And where will you be?” she asked as if to keep him with her.
“I’ll go to the caladarium. It’s at the south end of the tepidarium, in a small stone building with two tall chimneys at the north end. When comestus is over, I should be finished. If you would like to bathe in warm water, I will tell the servants to keep a fire in the holocaust.”
“I … I may,” she said. “Where should I dine? I cannot sit down with the soldiers, not even here.”
“Have Ombrosius bring your food to your rooms,” Rakoczy suggested.
“I am no invalid,” she reminded him.
“No; but you may dine alone in any case. I have had guests who prefer to keep to themselves,” he said, faintly amused. “Those of my blood also take nourishment in private. Ombrosius is used to such requests.”
She turned away from him. “I would be glad of a hot bath.”
“Then you shall have it,” said Rakoczy. “Would you prefer to go before me?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “No.”
“Very well,” he said, reverencing her. “I’ll have a servant escort you to the caladarium when I have left it.”
She nodded. “Yes. Fine.”
Rakoczy stepped back to the door. “Summon Ombrosius. He’ll assist you.”
“Are you sure he will come, and not some other?” She held up her hand as if to keep him from leaving, but then motioned him away.
“Yes.” He swung the door closed, then continued down the corridor to his own apartments. Once inside his sitting room, he pulled off his gonelle, tossing it aside. He then shed his black linen camisa and unfastened the ties of his femoralia, pulled off his tooled-leather Persian boots and tugged off his tibialia, leaving them all in a heap. Wearing only his breechclout, he reached into one of the two chests in the room and drew out a drying sheet of dark-dyed cotton. He wrapped this around his shoulders and looked for a pair of sandals. The earth in them had not been changed in years, but he donned them as much out of habit as need and prepared to go to the rear stairs that led down to the caladarium and tepidarium. Pulling the ends of the drying sheet across the wide band of scar tissue that covered his torso from the base of his ribs to the top of his pubis, he opened the door and slipped out into the corridor. He glanced in the direction of Gynethe Mehaut’s apartments and was both relieved and saddened to see the door closed; he moved quickly toward the rear stairs and went out into the evening, where the intense odor of broiling fish wafted toward him, with a second aroma of baking bread.
Outside the caladarium there were two torches fixed in sconces, their flames making dazzling flags in the encroaching dusk. Rakoczy took one of the torches and went into the smaller outer room, where he used the torch to light a stand of oil-lamps before going into the central room where the heat enveloped him. The pool itself, fifteen hands deep, was twice as long as it was wide, and long enough for a man half again as tall as Rakoczy to stretch out full length, which would accommodate even Karl-lo-Magne easily. After he dropped the drying sheet, Rakoczy got into the water, the heat settling into him with such clarity that he felt it as if it were metal and not water at all. He was uncomfortable for a short while, but then grew accustomed to the heat and lay back, half-floating, letting the tension and the grime of the days crossing the mountains fade from his body. He let his thoughts wander, remembering the two years during which this villa had been built. Roma had been slightly past its zenith, but was still dynamic, safe and fairly prosperous. He had chosen this place for his villa after a journey to his homeland had detoured along Lake Como; he had been taken with the beauty and tranquility of the location and had paid the full price demanded for it, in gold. All the buildings sat on foundations filled with his native Carpathian earth, and not even the water in the tepidarium could cause him discomfort. The villa became his retreat: when politics in Roma became dangerous, Rakoczy often came to this villa to keep from being caught up in the chaos that was increasingly the style of the Senate in its dealings with the Emperor and the Legions.
“Have I done wrong?” Her voice was so tentative that at first Rakoczy supposed he had imagined it. “If I have, I will go.”
Rakoczy opened his eyes and stared into the steamy half-light. “Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, standing upright in the hot water.
“I only thought you wouldn’t mind if I came … you said I could use this caladarium. I wanted not to be alone here. So I have come.” She took a few more steps toward the pool. “If you don’t want me here, I will go.”
“No; I am pleased to have you here.” He pointed to his drying sheet “Put your stolla there, and your sandals.”
She hesitated. “Is it wrong? Should I not be here?”
“Bathing in hot water?” he asked, knowing she did not mean that. “No, it isn’t wrong. You may find it a bit too warm, but if it is, I will open a spigot from the tepidarium and cool it off.” He moved to the edge of the pool and indicated the place where there was a shelf in the pool. “You can step on that until you become accustomed to the heat.”
Taking uncertain steps, she came up to where he leaned on the side of the pool; she loosened her girdle and dropped it on the heavy tiles. “Oh. I will have to wear this wet when we are done.” Next she took the stolla off in an impulsive hurry, standing awkwardly once she was nude. “What about my hands?”
“You should leave your bandages in place, I think; the heat is likely to increase the bleeding and you’ll want to know if it becomes serious.” He wondered if he should hide his scars
, but he had no notion how he could, and he was sure his efforts would only draw attention to them.
“I think you should turn your back while I get in,” she said, trying to conceal her breasts and her loins.
He did as she requested. “You needn’t worry, Gynethe Mehaut. I won’t importune you.”
“Only Fratre Nordhold at Sant’ Audoenus ever has. And even he only tried when he was drunk.” She sighed. “I don’t want to have to endure that again, but I would like someone to look upon me as something other than loathsome.” She put her linen-wrapped hands to her face. “I am too strange for any man to want me; I have known that for many years. That may save my virginity, but it is not because of my virtue.”
Rakoczy shook his head. “I don’t find you too strange—you are no stranger than I am. In some ways I am stranger than you are.” He remained standing with his back to her; he remembered more than seven hundred years ago, how he had spent an evening in his caladarium at Villa Ragoczy outside of Roma; it was much larger than this pool was, and decorated with mosaics. Tishtry had joined him there, and they had made love in the hot water. He made himself put such recollections behind him.
“You are kind to me, Magnatus, and I believe you are sincere, but I don’t—” Gynethe Mehaut sat down on the side of the pool and eased her legs into the water. “This is very hot.”
“It’s supposed to be.” He moved away from her so that she would have more room to herself. “Get in slowly until you get used to it.”
“It is … not unpleasant,” she said, the sloshing of the water telling him she had lowered herself still farther into the water.
“In time you will come to like it,” he said, going to the far side of the caladarium. “Choose where you would prefer to stand, or lean back and float.”
“I can’t do that,” said Gynethe Mehaut “Standing is all I can manage.”
Rakoczy laughed softly. “If you would like to try floating, I will help you, if you like.”
There was a long silence between them while Gynethe Mehaut settled into the pool. Finally she said, “If you would like to turn around, all you will see is my head.”
Rakoczy swung about, stretching out toward her, half-floating. “If you will let the water carry you, you will find the heat restful.”
“I may try, but not just yet.” She considered what he had said. “If you will show me?”
“Of course; this is how it’s done,” said Rakoczy and lowered his feet to the bottom of the pool, then gradually lay back, letting the water support him until he was on his back, his scarred abdomen almost completely exposed.
“Your injuries must have been … dreadful,” Gynethe Mehaut said, moving toward him as if impelled by the heat of the pool.
“They were, but that was a long time ago,” said Rakoczy.
Gynethe Mehaut stared at him. “No wonder you said you understood.… I thought you had dreamed or imagined … But this is…”
“And it is more than you see,” he said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.
“How?” She came up close to him. “What did that?”
“Broad knives and hooks, for the most part,” said Rakoczy; they had been made of bronze, and tended to dull quickly, so that the edges of his scars were jagged, a reminder of those bronze knives. He resisted the urge to turn away or stand upright again. The day of his death, more than twenty-eight centuries ago, remained vivid in his mind, though it no longer repelled him as it had once.
“God and the Saints,” she marveled. “Do you never fear that people may become upset by those scars?”
“Yes; that is why I rarely show them. Unlike you, I can conceal my differences. But they are very real, nonetheless.” He held out his hand to her. “Let me see how you’re managing.”
She reached for him. “This is very nice. But my hands feel odd. They tingle.”
“The heat is probably—” He lifted her hands. “You are bleeding, but not alarmingly.” The nearness of her blood was intoxicating, reminding him of the satisfaction that he had missed for so long, that after his most recent encounter with Csimenae, he could not believe he deserved.
“Shall I remove the wraps?” She was staring into his face as if she had sensed something of his need.
“No. Not yet. Not until you are ready to get out.” He let go of her and took a step back.
“Why? Are you afraid the water will harm me?” She held up her hands. “What am I to do? If this blood is a sign of perfidy, as Bishop Iso has said, won’t you need a priest to bless this water, whether I keep my bandages on or not?”
“No,” said Rakoczy. “But I will put a little oil of primrose in the water, against contamination, as I do every time I use this caladarium.” He smiled at her, his own misgivings fading. “So long as the water is clear and hot, it cannot do you harm.”
She made a complicated little sigh. “So I pray.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt?” he asked, trying to understand her anxiety.
“… No.” She raised her arms and splashed them down. “No! I have nothing to doubt!” Her burst of laughter echoed eerily in the steamy room. “I may come to a bad end, or a good one, but just now, I will enjoy myself.”
“That would give me great honor,” said Rakoczy. “I thank you for—”
She put her hand to his mouth; he had to stop himself from licking her bandages. “No. Say nothing. Help me to enjoy this, but don’t explain if to me.” She ran her hand down his chest to the scars. “I will accept all you do here. You know what suffering can be, and you will not use that against me.”
Little as he liked having his scars touched, he let her explore the white swath; he made no effort to stop her, nor did he say anything. It was an odd experience for him, having his fatal injuries so thoroughly scrutinized, and he struggled to maintain his composure, thinking that Gynethe Mehaut had to endure much worse every day of her life. Finally he said, “It was all done long ago.” He waited while she considered this, then added, “After this, I was an exile.”
“Then your enemies did this,” she said.
“The enemies of my people,” he said. “They killed most of my family and made me a slave. Eventually they punished me.” He said nothing about his success in battle that had so frightened his captors that they dared not leave him alive to rally others around him.
“They used you cruelly,” she said.
“So I think,” Rakoczy agreed. “But it was a long time ago.”
She shuddered in spite of the heat and took shelter in his arms. “For this little while, will you pretend that I am just like any other woman, and you like any other man?”
He stroked her neck. “Yes, Gynethe Mehaut. I’ll pretend.” And saying that, he bent to kiss her.
TEXT OF A DISPATCH FROM KARL-LO-MAGNE AT STRASBOURG IN ALEMANNIA TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY AT LECCO, LAKE COMO IN LONGOBARDIA, CARRIED BY AN OFFICIAL KING’S COURIER AND DELIVERED ONE WEEK AFTER RAKOCZY AND HIS BAND LEFT FOR ROMA; FROM THERE, CARRIED BY CHURCH MESSENGER FROM SANT’ CHRYSOGONUS TO BOBBIO IN LONGOBARDIA AND FINALLY DELIVERED FIVE WEEKS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
To the most excellent Magnatus, the foreigner Hiernom Rakoczy, Comes Sant’ Germainius, the greetings of Karl-lo-Magne, King of all Franksland, on this, the beginning of May by the Pope’s calendar in his year 800.
Magnatus, it is my intention to extend your right of paravareda, so that you may requisition horses and lodging as you need them in your journey through Longobardia, where my Will is recognized by all as being the equal to any Longobardian King, and therefore as binding on the Longobardians as it is upon the Franks and all the people of Franksland.
I am relying upon you to arrive in Roma as soon as you may, and to establish yourself there within the walls, so that you may always be reached quickly if the Pope’s staff should require that you present the Pale Woman to the Papal Court. You are not to leave her unguarded at any time, nor are you to permit her to travel abroad without your escort to ensure no mishap befalls her. It is stil
l my intention to arrive in Roma by the end of October, but if I cannot make good time, or if my enemies keep me here for months more than I have anticipated, then perhaps it will be up to you to reassure Leo’s Court that I will indeed arrive in time for the ceremony we have arranged. The Pope’s own difficulties we may have hit upon a way to relieve, but I will consult my Bishops and Archbishops before I consider the matter settled When I have had the full benefit of religious council, I will inform you of how we will progress. I will not ask you to take an active role in this unless it becomes necessary, in which case, I will dispatch men to help you maintain the Pope’s authority, should that flag in his absence. If you should hear of anything that may compromise the Pope more than has been the case thus far, I ask you to send me word of it with all haste. Use an episcopal courier from one of the Frankish Bishops or Archbishops, for only they may be relied upon to bring me a full and true account of your concerns.
If you cannot find the means to maintain a proper household within the city walls, then I instruct you to put yourself in the protection of Archbishop Hesengarius, who will house you until I come. I would prefer that you keep your own establishment, but the Pope may not permit this, for he may feel the need of keen ears in Roma upon which he can repose confidence. You will be expected to do your utmost to act in Leo’s interests so long as it also coincides with mine. However you must carry on, I want you to strive for independence; the climate of Roma is rife with politics as it is with the mal aria. It is not an environment that I would like you to become entrapped in, let alone participate in. Leave that to the good Bishops and Cardinal Archbishops of the Church.
It is being arranged for Leo and I to meet north of Roma and to enter the city together, which suits me very well. I am convinced that this show of unity will tend to persuade the Byzantines that the Church of Roma will stand any upheavals, and that all of Europe will band together for the sake of the Church. The Pope will be absent from Roma until I may accompany him there, although many of his Cardinal Archbishops will visit him at Spoleto to settle matters that need the Pope’s attention, and cannot wait against my arrival. Leo is an apt pupil of the affairs of state that impinge upon the Church, and for that reason he is keeping abreast of all that transpires in Roma during his absence.
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