Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I will not cheat you,” said the peasant in disgust. “If the market were busy and the crops bountiful, I might slip a stone or two into the sack. But not now, when people sicken and starve, and sheep and goats wander untended in search of grass.”

  “Sheep and goats are not the only ones wandering,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, thinking of the Desert Cats and many of the other clans that roamed the steppes.

  “That does men like me no good—the eastern men come with their flocks and their herds, and before my neighbors and I can drive them off, half our crop is gone, and not one coin or a pair of goats to show for it.” He spat again and got the last scoop of grain out of the hempen bag. “There. Is it satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and handed over the twenty coppers, counting each one aloud as he placed it in the peasant’s cupped palms.

  “If you are returning this way, remember me,” said the peasant as Ragoczy Franciscus lifted the sack and went to secure it to his mule’s pack saddle. “Be careful on the road. There are desperate men about.” He stepped back from the foreigner on the handsome mare. “You and your companion should have guards.”

  “If they are safe,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If not, the guards are more dangerous than outlaws.”

  The peasant laughed raucously, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. “True. True. True,” he repeated as Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh rode away, their mules following up behind them.

  Beyond the market-square a dozen children thronged around them, most of them begging belligerently; Ragoczy Franciscus took out a few small brass coins and cast them some distance away. The children rushed after the money, shrieking as they strove to gather up the coins. Once again Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh slipped away, bound toward the southwestern gate and the road that led toward the Black Sea.

  A pair of unkempt men served as guards at the gate; they demanded payment of Rojeh and Ragoczy Franciscus, accepted four copper coins, and shouted after them that the first inn on the road could not be reached by sundown.

  Ragoczy Franciscus glanced toward the expanse of water visible through the trees. “At least the dizziness has stopped.” His voice was raw.

  “There are still the Dnieper and the Bug to cross,” Rojeh reminded him.

  “And the Dniester and perhaps even the Danube,” he said as they entered the shelter of a copse of willow, taking care to keep on the poorly maintained track.

  Rojeh nodded. “Will we reach your homeland by autumn, do you think?”

  “I hope we may,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I would prefer not to spend another winter on the road.”

  They continued on through the willows and out across a field of cold-dry grasses, then into another stand of trees; the road led almost due west and they marked their progress by the angle of the sun ahead of them. Occasionally they caught a flash of ever-more-distant water through the trunks and branches, but by midafternoon, this was lost to sight as they angled away from the Sea of Azov.

  “What town do we reach next?” Rojeh asked as they noticed a distant barn at the far side of an empty field.

  “Poranache, as I recall,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If it is still there.”

  “I take your point.” Rojeh said nothing more for almost a league, then spoke up again. “Do you think that we should ride until we reach that inn?”

  “The one the guards shouted about? Who knows if they are to be believed,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. He noticed a few head of cattle standing in the shade of the trees. They were skinny and messy enough to have been on their own for some time, and so he approached them with caution, only to have them bolt away, lowing in distress. “They are wise to run, I suspect.”

  “You mean that they would tempt more than animals?” said Rojeh.

  “Either as stock or as meat,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “At least there is a little grass coming up now, and so they can forage for their food.” He continued on away from the cattle. “Whoever had claim on them no longer does.”

  “But think of them, out there, where anything might befall them,” said Rojeh.

  “They are no worse off than we are,” Ragoczy Franciscus reminded him.

  “We have weapons and—” He got no further, for a sudden burst of whooping and shouting made the woods ring as a small band of heavily armed men on ponies rushed down upon them, swords and lances drawn, and murder in their impassive faces.

  “Back against the largest trees!” Ragoczy Franciscus ordered, moving his blue roan with pressure from the side of his leg. “Use your shimtare.”

  Rojeh struggled to comply, holding the stallion and pulling on the mule’s lead; he managed to get his shimtare out, but could not bring it into play without risking cutting the mule. He swung the curved blade around his head, hoping to deflect anything the attackers might hurl at him. “I can’t get the mule around.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus did as much as he could to make more room for Rojeh’s mule and nearly exposed himself to a number of furious blows. He drew his mace from its sheath and swung it, striking the nearest attacker on the clavicle so forcefully that the sound of the bone breaking and the man’s immediate shriek of pain rose above the general clamor of the fight; the injured outlaw reeled in the saddle and almost fell.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” one of the other attackers shouted, rushing directly at Ragoczy Franciscus, his wedge-shaped sword positioned to strike.

  This time Ragoczy Franciscus changed hands and brought the head of the mace crashing in under the man’s raised arm, pummeling his side and knocking him off his horse.

  Rojeh had struck one of the assailants on his forearm, opening a long cut that bled freely; he lashed out at another man who rode as close as he could, a long-handled ax in his fist. The shimtare parried the chop, but the raider was able to get hold of the mule’s lead and, in an abrupt jerk, broke Rojeh’s hold, riding off with the mule before Rojeh could attempt to recapture the animal. In his efforts to catch the mule, he hacked an attacker in the thigh, and another on the hand.

  Although he had struck the most heavily armed man in the group, Ragoczy Franciscus could not stop the assaults completely; he maintained his position and used his mace to keep most of the raiders at a distance; his mule had backed up against the trees and stayed there, letting the blue roan provide protection from the battle.

  The man who had fallen clambered to his feet and was picked up by one of his comrades; riding double, they hurried away from the encounter; their departure acted as a signal to the rest, for they hurried after the two, the man with Rojeh’s mule’s lead in his hand shouting his victory at the capture of the mule.

  “Are you all right?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked Rojeh as the raiders disappeared on faint trails among the trees.

  “I am,” said Rojeh, chagrined. “I should not have let the mule go.”

  “Had you tried to hold him, you might have been badly hurt,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, wiping the stellated head of his mace before returning it to its sheath.

  “Still, I shouldn’t have let him go,” said Rojeh.

  “You could have done no differently and been safe,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he started away from his defensive position by the trees; his mule came with him reluctantly, the lead taut.

  “But we’ve lost your chest of native earth,” Rojeh exclaimed. “And you have need of it.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus nodded once with maddening composure. “But I can manage better without my native earth than I could manage without you.” He made no indication that he saw Rojeh’s astonished expression, adding only, “We will contrive something, and for now, old friend, we will travel by night.”

  Rojeh could think of nothing to say as he and Ragoczy Franciscus presumed their journey toward the Black Sea and the town of Olbshe at the mouth of the Dnieper River.

  Text of a letter from Brother Theofeo in Antioch to the Holy See in Roma, through the office of the Papal Secretary Archbishop Julianus Fabinius of Ravenna, carried by merchant ship and
delivered in July 537.

  To the most reverend, devoted, and well-reputed Papal Secretary, his Grace the Archbishop Julianus Fabinius, the heartfelt salutations of Brother Theofeo at the Church of the Apostle Luke in Antioch, on this the beginning of the Paschal Season as the priests and monks here reckon the time, and not being wholly in accord with the True Church in such matters, nor endorsing the calculations of the Eastern Rite, but following what they believe is set forth in the teachings of Saint Peter, in the 537th Year of Salvation. Amen.

  It is with a heavy heart that I take pen in hand to tell you of recent events in this place: Lice Fever has struck here in Antioch, and many of the faithful Christians have succumbed to the disease, so many that Father Augustulus has not been able to keep pace with the dying and has had to have bodies interred before all the liturgy they need has been offered for the salvation of their souls. I, myself, have assisted him as much as I am able and have joined with other monks in helping to care for the dying and the dead. So far, this congregation has lost twenty-nine members, all of whom were sincere in their faith to the end, and whose deaths have left great holes in the fabric of our community. Amen.

  One cannot walk abroad without finding dead animals, many of them from starvation, but others from all manner of ills that beset their kind, from heated bowels to colic, to the Madness, to bloat from bad water. As there are many who cannot bury the Christian dead, so there are few to tend to the animals, and so there are many vultures, and rats, and even jackals, all coming to feast on what cannot be interred before the sun has hatched the maggots in the dead flesh, for although the sun remains weak, it is strong enough to engender maggots. Both the Bishop here and the preachers of the Eastern Rite have let it be known that those persisting in eating the flesh of dead animals risk not only sickness but excommunication if they are obdurate. Thus far, only one man has suffered that fate, and he is a butcher who claims not to be able to make a living for his family if he does not take flesh from dead animals. Now, he cannot sell anything to Christians and his family has lost the right to their home for his apostasy; we must ask what profit was so great as to make such losses worthwhile. Amen.

  Because of this and similar developments, it may be a blessing that trade remains poor, for the Lice Fever is everywhere and it could easily expand its miasma as more strangers enter Antioch. Some of the officials in the city had declared that the city must be closed for holy days, so that all may pray for the alleviation of this terrible fever, and for the general protection of all Christian souls, here and throughout the world. The churches here—Eastern Rite and Roman—have endorsed this plan and have appealed to the city’s officials to do their utmost in preparing the populace for the observance of all fast days and holy days, during which time no one is to enter or leave the city, and even the port is to be closed; any ships arriving on such days will be required to anchor in the harbor and keep all the sailors, passengers, and others on board until the fast day or holy day is past. I and many other monks have been asked to aid in enforcing these civic regulations, and so we shall do. Amen.

  There are constant rumors here in Antioch that the Emperor Justinian is determined to summon. all churchmen to Constantinople for the purpose of establishing leadership and suzerainty in the Church once and for all, ending the schism that currently exists between East and West. This has already been established by Christ Himself, Who declared that Saint Peter was His Rock upon whom His Church was to be built, so the successors to Saint Peter must be leaders and sovereigns of the Christian Church, no matter where the Empire is seated. Roma is where Saint Peter made his Church, and it is in Roma that the center of the Church must remain or lose its right to minister to the peoples of the earth in the Name of Christ, to ensure the salvation of all, and to proclaim the Kingdom of God when the Last Judgment is at hand. If the Emperor persists in promulgating this council, he must be aware that he flies in the face of Christ Himself, and that questioning the authority of the Pope is concomitant to denying the Will of God. If the Pope accepts the summons to Constantinople, it must be assumed that the Emperor has abandoned his faith for the exercise of worldly power, surely as much a sin as any ever committed in the long history of sinful Man. Amen.

  Most highly esteemed Archbishop, I ask you to inform the Pope that we in Antioch have need of the support of more clergy. Daily we see the increase among those of the Eastern Rite, and we know that without more of our own, the Roman Rite will fail, and all these souls be lost to the True Church, and the Glory of God. Once the danger of the Lice Fever is over, we will need every priest and monk who can be spared for the task to come to aid us in this difficult time. For the sake of the Church and the fulfillment of God’s promise, I ask you to plead with the Pope on our behalf, and for which merciful act I send my blessing and the pledge of my prayers at Mass for as long as I am in this city. Amen.

  Brother Theofeo

  6

  Both the eastern and northern walls of Poranache had been torn down, the thick double ranks of logs left strewn about the wild fields that spread out from the ruined walls like skirts; at the back of the village, a wide, shallow stream ran amid birches and sycamores. Beyond the stockade, pens and pastures were empty, and the grasses had been indiscriminately hacked down, emphasizing the hunger behind the ruin that had been visited upon Poranache no more than a week before; a lingering odor of decay soured the night air, and the last of the scavengers were at work among the corpses of the defenders of the village. As they approached Poranache shortly after midnight, Rojeh stared ahead into the night, his skin cold with anticipation of trouble.

  “The town isn’t deserted,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “There are many people in the far part of it.”

  “You hear them,” said Rojeh, knowing how keenly Ragoczy Franciscus’ senses were attuned.

  “I also see the lights they have left from burning lamps,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, pointing to the jumbled center of the town. A dozen little sparks of brightness wavered deep within the part of the village that was still standing; a clumsy barricade of hewn logs had been set up across the exposed streets, and some of the buildings now served as guard posts. “Not everyone was killed, or taken.”

  Rojeh sighed. “Do you think they will admit travelers?”

  “They must realize we are here, so we may as well discover if they will let us in,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and rode his horse nearer to the improvised wall. “Hello to Poranache,” he called out in Byzantine Greek; his voice was still somewhat rough; he repeated the cry, then waited while a light in the nearest window flickered more brightly, casting sharp, irregular shadows on the face that peered out.

  “Who are you?” The question came in a deep bass, resonant and meant to impress.

  “I am Ragoczy Franciscus, merchant, returning to my homeland with my companion, Rojeh, and our animals,” he answered patiently.

  “Where is your homeland?” The demand boomed across the night.

  “At the far side of the Black Sea, beyond the Dniester—you may know that river by another name.” Ragoczy Franciscus listened to hurried whispers.

  “Where is your caravan, if you are a merchant?” the big voice challenged.

  “Most of our goods have been lost on our journey, along with the animals that carried them.”

  “Through misfortune or bad business?” The voice made this question seem more a test than a simple inquiry.

  “By the look of your village, you know something of our losses.” It was a risk to mention the destruction around them, but Ragoczy Franciscus dared it.

  “The band of marauders came from far away,” said the voice. “We have done what we could, and we will continue our fight.”

  “You present a fine example to others,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.

  “And may you have an opportunity to help in that good fight, as you are bound in that direction.” This was clearly intended to determine his loyalty to his homeland. “You must do all you can to preserve your people.”

&
nbsp; “If I reach my homeland, I will: like you, I am pledged to defend my native earth.” He did not add that his people had been gone from their mountains for twenty-five centuries, and that he was the only one of them left.

  “A worthy sentiment,” the voice approved, and was caught up in another round of eerie whispering. “You say there are only two men, and three horses?”

  “Two horses and a mule,” Ragoczy Franciscus corrected gently.

  “Two horses and a mule,” the voice confirmed. “You are not scouting for a band of warriors, and you do not bring a miasma with you, to overwhelm us with sickness?”

  Ragoczy Franciscus coughed, then went on, “If I were planning to do you ill, I would not tell you. We have been traveling for more than two years, and we have no sickness.”

  “You are either very clever or you are very correct. If you are honest, you do your people honor.”

  “Dulce et decorum est,” said Ragoczy Franciscus: It is sweet and fitting; he did not add the last of the Latin aphorism—to die for one’s country.

  “The language of Roma,” the voice announced. “You are conversant with that tongue?”

  “Yes,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, continuing in slightly old-fashioned Latin. “I have spent some time in Roma, in my travels.” He had not been in the city for more than two centuries—then he had stopped Diocletianus’ agents from seizing his estates, creating a Deed of Succession to protect his property. How important that had seemed then, and how insignificant he thought it now.

  Another buzz of whispers, and one or two hushed outbursts, then there was a long silence. Then the voice spoke again. “You must dismount and lead your horses and mules. We will draw back the logs next to the church, and you may enter. Be aware that six armed men will be waiting for you, and they will not hesitate to use their weapons if you do anything untoward. They are instructed to aim for the chests of your animals and then for your guts.”