“As it has been for more than two thousand years,” said Sanct’ Germain with a tranquility that Rogerian found disturbing. “Looting armies care nothing for chests of earth, and even if they should do, half of the chests are well-hidden.” He smiled fleetingly. “It is good of you to think of it.”
“One of us must,” said Rogerian, more abruptly than he had intended. “Since she has not chosen to accept you as her—”
“Exactly. Her what? She is concerned wholly for the well-being of her child. It is all that matters to her—securing his position.” Sanct’ Germain picked up the barrel and carried it the rest of the way to the midden. He tipped it over gingerly, making sure the water did not run too fast. When he was finished, he righted the barrel and returned it to the shed where Rogerian was once again panning milk. “I am not entirely a fool,” he said genially.
“Not a fool, no,” said Rogerian. He set the pan down on the rack above the others and laid a rough, damp cloth over it. “Fools are not the only ones who . . . But you do not always . . .” The words died out.
“Possibly not,” said Sanct’ Germain with an ironic inclination of his head. “But I have not yet died the True Death. And I am in no immediate danger of doing so.” He righted the empty barrel. “We go on well enough, old friend.”
Although he nodded, the trouble did not leave Rogerian’s eyes.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens to Sanct’ Germain at his manor near Tolosa.
To my oldest, most treasured friend, my eternal greetings from the Eternal City, as this poor embattled place fancies itself.
It has been too long since we have exchanged news of our lives. To set an example, I will tell you that the eastern Goths are in charge here still, pretending they are managing as well as the Caesars did, and all the while intimidated by Constantinople. They have changed the walls of the city and do not maintain the aqueducts as they should in order to keep the water pure. They have let the baths go to ruin because they do often bathe. This is not the place you remember, Franciscus, not even as it was fifty years ago. Most of the city seems to be cobbled together out of the old buildings from my youth. It saddens me to see so many fine buildings of all sorts turned into heaps of brick and marble rubble, and that rubble used to make houses my father would not have thought adequate to stable his mules. To hear the people of the city point to that golden statue of Nero in front of the Flavian Circus, saying it is Apollo, and calling the Circus the Colosseum for the statue puts me near laughter. Niklos understands some part of my amusement, but not as you would do if you were here.
Which brings me to ask why you have left Toletum. From all you have said in earlier letters, I would have thought you would have come back to Rome or gone to Constantinople or Alexandria. When your letter finally arrived—taking seven months to reach me—I was startled at your decision. I can truly comprehend why you might want to go into Frankish territory, but it would seem more prudent to seek out more
genial places. From what you have said of the Franks, you might not be entirely welcome in their territory. Not that the Byzantines would welcome you open-heartedly. They are so caught up in their Court-life and their Church, that it would not be easy for one as foreign as you are to be able to manage without suspicion falling on you. So perhaps the Franks are safer than the Greeks.
It has been a hard winter; there have been more storms than usual and the roads are in dreadful disrepair. If the rest of the world has suffered as we have, no wonder it is taking months for letters to come instead of the weeks of five hundred years ago. Do you recall how swiftly a letter could travel from upper Gaul to Rome? Eighty-five thousand paces a day. That, I fear, is long-lost. Say what you will about the Empire, it did move the mail quickly and well.
Mind you, I am not prepared to hail old Rome as the epitome of all cities, nor decry it as the sink of debauchery some claim it was. It was never as fine as some say, nor as decadent. Rome was a happier place to live when I was still alive. I can say that in spite of my own wretched state at the time, for I know the difference between my suffering and the society that was around me. When I came to your life, Vespasianus was Caesar, and the law avenged me. Today no one would say anything if I were treated now as I was then.
Enough of this. I am sending this along to your estate near Tolosa in the hope you will be there to receive it. I am also sending four crates of your native earth from your stores here, in case you have not enough of them. In these times, with the fortunes of the world so unpredictable, I believe it is wise to be prepared for misfortune as well as to anticipate a need rather than be surprised by it. Do not think unkindly of me for doing this—you have done the same for me in times past and I know it is fitting to repay you for your attentive concerns. I will not dispute the matter with you. It is not my intention to make decisions for you, but I am keenly aware that you may be left in difficult circumstances if you do not have your native earth readily to hand.
Tell me how long you will be near Tolosa; I may decide to pay you a visit, that is, if I cannot persuade you to come to Rome for a time. I am willing to wait for letters to arrive, but not forever. So I will tell you how long I am prepared to remain here, expecting your answer: if I have no word from you by this time next year, I will gather my chests and come to Tolosa myself, to see if you are well. I would hope that I have news of you before then, for just now I abhor travel, having done
more of it than I wanted a century ago—conditions have not improved since I left Constantinople in a miserable fishing boat. To subject myself and Niklos to the horrid roads just to ascertain you are well is a trifle more than I am eager to undertake, so you had best answer this before the year is up.
Since it is foolish to implore gods or Heaven to look after those of our blood, I will only assure you of my continuing affectionate devotion, which the Church is beginning to claim for itself alone, insisting that piety is for God and not for human souls; it seems to me that humans need that affectionate devotion more than any god ever has. You have been more constant for me than any Saint or Emperor, and so you have my fealty, in such a way as I demonstrate fealty.
May this find you well and in no danger. May you know the happiness you seek. May you continue to thrive. May all the usual end-of-letter benefices be yours.
In the old Roman sense of the word, piously,
Olivia
at Rome, June 1
st
,
Christian year 622 according to the Pope and the 1575
th
Year of the City
There were nine people at the gates: two men, a woman, two boys—one with the mark of the Great Pox on his cheeks—two girls, a toddler and a babe-in-arms. All were thin and pale enough to make it apparent that they had not fared well in the last months; their garments were worn and fraying, and two of them were barefoot. They came, empty-handed, up the narrow, rutted road to Mont Calcius, all seeming to be at the end of their strength.
“This is our place,” said the older of the two men as he reached the gate and faced Sanct’ Germain, who waited just inside the newly repaired gates. “We are trying to return to our homes.”
“Perhaps,” Sanct’ Germain replied steadily in Latin, as the man had addressed him. He knew his black hippogaudion and dark-red Persian leggings of Damascus silk marked him as a stranger as much as his accent, the silver eclipse ornamenting the fibula that held the shoulder of his clothing, and the Byzantine dagger through his belt. He kept his expression cordial as he regarded the nine over the top of the gates.
“It is,” the man insisted, his hand on the hilt of a short, wide-bladed sword that had seen better days. “We have lived here for generations.”
“You left it,” said Sanct’ Germain in a level voice; out of the corner of his eye he saw Csimenae hurrying toward him.
“But we have returned,” the man said, desperation making his tone sharp. “It is our home. We have come a long way. We want to . . . There are others, too. They will come here before summer is done.”
The afternoon sun was bright, shining like brass in the sky; beneath its rays, the land hummed with heat so that even the dust drowsed.
“Will they?” Csimenae laughed aloud as she reached the gate. “Rogerian told me,” she said to Sanct’ Germain, then, without waiting for anything he might say, she addressed the people outside the gates. “Let them come. They will face what you face. They will have to kneel to my son.”
The younger man stared at Csimenae. “Your son?”
“Aulutis. He is named for my father,” she said defiantly in a mixture of Latin and the ancient tongue of her people. “You will have to promise him your fealty if you are to be allowed to return here.”
The younger man laughed. “How can you keep us out?”
“I have weapons and men to use them,” Csimenae announced, smiling.
At this Sanct’ Germain intervened. “You did not come all this way to fight, surely. You wish to come back to your village, as what man does not?” He glanced at Csimenae. “You must be willing to have your neighbors back without making a contest of their presence. They should have no reason to refuse giving loyalty to your son for the sake of the village, and you will need their help to keep the place going.”
“They left. They left me to die.” She pointed to the younger man. “You. Tacanti. I remember what you did. You took the last of my meat when you left.”
The younger man looked away. “It would have been wasted. Your husband was dying, and you . . . You could make no use of it, not with a husband to bury. How could I know you would find robbers to help you?”
“Robbers?” Csimenae laughed, merriment mixing with spite. “This man is many things, but he is no robber. He has taken nothing from the village; he has brought good things. He has kept me and my son alive through his skills as a hunter, and has made the walls stout again, so that beggars like you, yes, and robbers, cannot come here without my leave.” She glanced at Sanct’ Germain. “You will not let them harm me, will you?”
“No,” he said. “But I have no wish to harm them, either,” he added, anticipating her displeasure.
He was not disappointed. “You will do as I tell you, or you will leave this village; no one comes here now, but on my sufferance,” she said sharply. “I will allow no one to diminish my position, for that will harm my son. He is master here now, and you will have to acknowledge him so.” She pointed out through the planks of the gates at the returning villagers. “I will have water brought out to you, and you may think about what you wish to do.” She turned and called out to Rogerian to fill two buckets at the well. “These will be yours,” she said, addressing the nine once more.
“But,” the older man said, “we have nothing to eat. We have gone two days without food.” He held out his hands. “Surely you will not deny us something?”
“You were ready to deny me food. You left me almost nothing to sustain me—a few cheeses, a half-dozen barrels of flour, a few strings of onions. You took everything else and you knew I was pregnant, so you were willing to condemn my child, too.” She leaned against the gates. “Weren’t you?”
The older man shook his head unhappily. “You proved us wrong. You lived and your child is alive. You understand, then, how we feel.”
“I certainly do. All the more reason to consider my terms,” said Csimenae, her black eyes shining. “You say you want to come back inside the village, yet you bring nothing but your appetites with you. Is your fealty so much to ask, when you offer so little?”
The older man lowered his head. “It is our home, woman, just as it is yours. Can you find nothing useful in our presence?”
Sanct’ Germain wanted to speak up, but held his tongue; Csimenae would not welcome any interjection he might make during this bargaining.
“I am a builder,” Tacanti reminded her. “You have building to be done, haven’t you? You have need of me. And my nephew, Blada, he has tended flocks before. You will want to have a herdsman for your flocks, won’t you? You cannot keep your flocks penned all through the summer; they will sicken if you do. They must be let out to graze and to run. We are willing to do what needs to be done.” He held his hands out to her. “It was wrong to take food from you, I will say so. But if you hold me in contempt for doing it, how can you refuse to take us in?”
“So you have studied the village,” Sanct’ Germain remarked, and saw the quick look the two men exchanged.
“We feared robbers,” muttered the older of the two.
Csimenae’s temper flared. “You mean you decided to see if you could sneak back. You thought I would be dead along with the rest.” Her accusation was so stern that all but the infant looked abashed.
“Then you will not let us in,” said the woman, hopelessness showing in every line of her body. “You refuse to let us return to our home.”
“But I do not refuse,” said Csimenae directly to the woman. “Ione, I cannot let you displace me and mine from our station, though you have drunk the blood of horses. You left and my son and I remained. I found a defender for the village and I have kept it safe with that defender. You cannot discount what I have done.” She looked at each of the people standing before her on the far side of the gates. “If you swear allegiance to my son, and kiss his foot in token, you may come into the village at once. I will assign you a house and see that you have food. But you must swear allegiance to Aulutis or you may not enter.”
Tacanti sighed as he wiped his brow. “I had a house of my own in the village—”
“You will take the one I give you, or you will have nothing,” Csimenae said, cutting him off. “This is my village now; I hold it for my son.”
The older man nodded. “She has the right. She has the right. We cannot deny it. When we left, she stayed here—”
“Did she?” Tacanti interrupted. “Or did she flee and then return?”
“I was
pregnant,
” Csimenae reminded him. “How could I flee? It took all my strength to bury my man when he died. How could I have gone away, then come back before you, with sheep and goats?”