“As you said, you had that man”—he pointed to Sanct’ Germain—“to help you.”
“He came to this village with his servant,” Csimenae said, her head coming up. She cocked her chin in the direction of the well where Rogerian had just begun to fill the first of two buckets. “You know how I was. You, Tacanti, have no right to say I did not remain.”
Ione laid her hand on Tacanti’s arm. “It is for her son that she holds the village. We cannot deny her his authority.”
“Perhaps not,” said Tacanti, his features sullen and his voice truculent. “
If
she has truly not left the village.”
“If you would take my Word,” Sanct’ Germain interrupted, “I will swear that she has not left the village since my servant and I got here, and that was very soon after you left.”
“Ha. An easy thing to say, when you hold the village,” Tacanti countered.
Sanct’ Germain smiled faintly. “Why should that concern me? This village means little to me. I have no reason to lie to you.”
“You have a woman to lie for,” Tacanti accused.
In answer, Sanct’ Germain laughed. “Not I,” he said. “Nor would Csimenae do anything that would compromise her son. She still grieves for her man, who died after you left.” He folded his arms. “I am not some proud Gardingio, to claim women as a ram claims ewes. My servant and I came upon Mont Calcius by chance, and stayed for . . . convenience. You impugn Csimenae’s devotion if you say otherwise.”
Tacanti was about to speak again; his demeanor crackled with indignation; but the older man put his hand on Tacanti’s shoulder. “For now we will accept what this stranger says, Csimenae. Later we will talk again.”
“Oh, no. You are not through the gates yet,” Csimenae reminded him. “Rogerian, give them the water. We will return after we have tended to the animals. You may say then what you have decided to do. And if you are allowed in, that will be the end of it. There will be no discussion, only your oath to my son.” She stepped back from the gates to allow Rogerian to open them sufficiently to hand out the two buckets of water. As Sanct’ Germain closed and bolted the gates again, she leaned back against the heavy planking, saying, “Nine of them. We can keep them off if we must.”
“Yes, for a time.” He nodded to a place along the wall where the stones were higher and thicker than near the gates. “They will not be able to overhear us as readily.”
“Oh,” she said, glancing uneasily at the gate. “Yes; they could listen.”
Sanct’ Germain motioned to Rogerian, indicating he should go along to the barns. “You know what has to be done.”
“That I do,” said Rogerian, and strode away from the gates.
Csimenae had not paid much attention to this exchange; she took hold of Sanct’ Germain’s wide sleeve. “We can hold them off, keep them out, can we not?”
“So we can,” said Sanct’ Germain, “if that is what you truly want.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her frown as startling as it was intense. “Why would I not want to keep this village for my son?”
“I only mean that it seems wise, at least to me, to admit these nine. They will make their vow and they will then have to defend the village against others who may return. If you do not admit them, then they might make common cause with the rest. I agree it would not be hard to keep those nine from coming in, but double that number, or triple? If more should come, I would not want them to add to our opponents.” He gave her a long moment to think over what he had said. “And if they should attack as a group, they would surely kill Aulutis and you when they break through the walls.”
This last held her attention as his other observations had not. “They would not dare,” she said with more bravado than conviction.
“Do you think so,” he said. “They were willing to let you die with your man. What would stop them from killing your son? Or you?” He waited while she began to pace. “It would be useful to have a herdsman, to look after the sheep and goats. Then these people will want to defend the village.”
“That Tacanti will try to hurt my son. He is too proud. I do not trust him.” She held up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “He is despicable.”
“He may be.” Sanct’ Germain took a step away from the wall. “Yet it might be most prudent to have him where you can watch him than leave him to work against you where you cannot touch him.” He took a step closer to Csimenae. “If he gives his vow to Aulutis and then breaks it, the other villagers will see that he pays the price. If he gives no oath, then he will be able to do away with you and your son without disgrace.”
She studied him in silence for some time. “You do not know how he is.”
“I have some experience of treachery,” Sanct’ Germain said, a sardonic edge to his voice as he recalled the assassins in the Temple of Imhotep, the uncle of the Farsi warlord, Led Arashnur in Rome, Nicoris’ half-brother at the Hodiopolae . . . “Tacanti may be unknown to me, but perfidy is not.”
“Then why should I not refuse to let him in?” She was growing petulant, seeming very young. “You see for yourself that he is—”
“I see that he must be watched. I see that he may well prove unreliable. But I see also that it is better to have him where you can see him than where you cannot. If you exclude him, then he becomes your declared enemy and those who are of his blood may side with him against you,” Sanct’ Germain said, keeping his tone low and steady. “If he gives his vow of allegiance, his family will be bound by that even if he is not.”
Slowly she nodded. “Yes. I see that; I had not thought of it,” she said, condemning herself for her lack of foresight. She straightened her shoulders. “Very well. If he will swear fealty to my son, I will allow him to be in this village again. But he must be housed as far from me and mine as he can be.”
“That would put him near the gates,” Sanct’ Germain pointed out. “That could prove unwise if he should decide to admit your foes.”
Csimenae stamped her foot. “Very well! What do you suggest?”
Sanct’ Germain paused before he answered. “Where was his house before he left?”
“Near the market square, the one with the grinding stone beside it.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth.
“Let him return there. Rogerian and I can keep watch on him there without seeming to.” He shrugged. “He may be satisfied with having his house again.”
“Do you think so?” She watched him out of the corner of her eye.
“No,” he admitted. “But it will give him less opportunity to complain, and his complaints will not be as much heeded.” He was not entirely convinced, nor was Csimenae, but they were both satisfied for the time being.
“Then, if he says he will give his oath to Aulutis, he will have his house back again. Otherwise I will bestow it on one of those who is willing to kiss my son’s foot, to show how loyalty is rewarded.” She almost clapped with satisfaction, then her brow darkened once more. “If he will not swear, then I will send him down the mountain. Let him eat berries and mushroom and bark as the wild pigs do.”
“You do not want him to have good reason to act against you, for that would persuade others that he was right in his opposition,” Sanct’ Germain said, still doing nothing that would appear argumentative. “Think of the long years before Aulutis is grown and what you will need to do to keep him safe. The more of your villagers you may draw to his cause, the better his chance of ruling here for many years to come.”
She stared at him resentfully. “You have no reason to help him. You are not of this village. You have told me you will not remain here. So what use is your advice?”
Sanct’ Germain was ready to answer her. “It is useful
because
I will not linger here. I have nothing to lose and nothing to gain from his success. This is your home, not mine, and so I have no ties to this village that might color my thoughts.” He managed a smile. “You may doubt me, but I give you my Word that I wish nothing but success to you and your son.”
“You helped him into the world,” Csimenae allowed. “That should bind you to him as his protector.”
“If you like,” Sanct’ Germain said, his memories stirring. “He has nothing to fear from me: nor have you.”
She studied his face, shading her eyes with her hand, the better to read his expression. “I will think about what you have said,” she announced before she turned away from him and walked back toward the gates.
For a short while Sanct’ Germain remained where he stood, his thoughts far away; the sun bore down on him as relentless as an invisible flood, sapping his strength and making him tired. Recollections of the desert outside Baghdad—only thirty-five years ago—drove him into the shelter of the creamery as much as the brightness did. He busied himself with tending the ripening cheeses until he heard Csimenae calling his name. He set aside a clothful of new curds and stepped out into the blazing afternoon where he found her waiting, Aulutis in her arms, a clean cloth wrapped loosely around him.
“I have told those outside the gates that they have until sundown to make their decision. Two of them want to come in now.” She squinted against the light. “I want to know what you think is best. I may not agree with your recommendation, but I want to hear what it is.”
“Well enough,” Sanct’ Germain said. “I would allow any to enter as soon as they say they are willing to swear fealty to your son. It is often such concessions that wear down the most obdurate will.”
Csimenae made a single nod. “So I think. Henabo has said he is willing to kiss Aulutis’ foot this instant.”
“Henabo?” Sanct’ Germain asked.
“The older man. He and his daughter Pordinae have asked to be admitted. So has Blada, but Tacanti says he will not permit it.” She laughed aloud. “It shook his pride, to have his nephew speak so.”
“You would be wise not to gloat. That would turn some of the others against you. Particularly Tacanti—he will hold such satisfaction against you.” Sanct’ Germain saw her glower. “You said yourself that he is a proud man. Why make him angrier than he is? You will only put Aulutis in danger if you do.”
“Why do you say so?” Csimenae demanded, her voice so sharp that Aulutis wakened and began to fret. “There? You see what you have done?” She bent over the baby, rocking and whispering consolations to him until he dozed again. Then she addressed Sanct’ Germain, her tone a threatening murmur. “If you cause any ill to my son, you will regret it.”
“I mean him no harm, Csimenae,” Sanct’ Germain said gently. “I mean none to you.”
She watched him narrowly; when her scrutiny was over, she said, “Come with me. I need to have you at my side when I hear what those outside the gates have to say to me. They must see that I am not alone.” Without looking to see if he obeyed, she set off down the street, holding her child as if he were a talisman of profound power that commanded her devotion; her determination was apparent in every movement.
By the time Sanct’ Germain reached the gates, Ione, Pordinae, and Henabo were pressing against them, calling to Csimenae. He took up his place next to Csimenae, saying in an undervoice, “Have you made your decision?”
“I have,” she told him as quietly. “I will let Henabo come in first. He is the oldest and his oath will mean the most. Then Blada, if he wishes to be admitted. That will sway the others, I think.”
“Perhaps not Tacanti,” Sanct’ Germain warned.
“Perhaps not,” Csimenae said coolly, “but the rest will heed his swearing, and they will remember.” She indicated the horse-skulls over the gates. “And they will know who has sworn.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sanct’ Germain asked.
“Be sure they come through one by one. They are not to be allowed to pass in greater number. I will not be rushed by these people. They will do as I demand or they will remain outside.” She took a deep breath. “Very well. Open the gates enough to admit one.” Raising her voice, she called out, “Henabo, you may come through. My son is waiting to receive you.”
Sanct’ Germain drew back the heavy bolt and eased the right side of the gates open far enough to admit the older man, then swung them closed again behind him, keeping the rest outside.
“I will vow fealty to your son, Csimenae,” Henabo declared as soon as he was inside the gates. “I will kiss his foot to seal my oath.”
“That you will,” said Csimenae as she held out her baby to the old man; in response to this disturbance, Aulutis began to squall.
“He is a lusty boy, and you have shown yourself able to defend him,” Henabo approved as he bent and touched his lips to the infant’s right foot. “Very well, I will accept the terms. I am his until death.”
“It is witnessed,” said Csimenae, unable to keep the triumph from her voice. “Blada, you may come next.”
There was a fierce, whispered squabble the other side of the gates, and then Blada shouted out to be let in. “I will swear!”
“You fool!” Tacanti bellowed, the pitch of his voice rising half an octave in choler. “The boy is still at his mother’s teats. She is only a woman. He is not yet walking. What use to swear to him?”
“I will be back in my village,” said Blada as Sanct’ Germain eased the gate open for him.
“You are being foolish!” Tacanti shouted. “All of you are.”
In response to this, Aulutis made more noise, and his face turned an astonishing shade of plum.
“You! Tacanti!” Csimenae cried out. “Be silent or I will never open the gates to you, no matter what vows you offer. You are offending my son!” She began urgently to soothe her distraught infant.
“How can you swear fealty to that?” Tacanti scoffed. “I would be ashamed to do it.”
“You do not have to,” Csimenae yelled back. “You may remain outside the gates until you starve.” She held Aulutis close to her, making hectic efforts to quiet him.
During this exchange, Sanct’ Germain eased Blada through the gates and nodded in the direction of Csimenae. “Make your vow before her. She will tell you where to live once you kiss the child’s foot.”
Blada made a sign to show he understood. As he approached Csimenae, he lowered his head. “I swear fealty to your son, from this day until I draw my last breath,” he said before he kissed Aulutis’ foot, then went to stand beside Henabo; he looked relieved as he smoothed his dusty tunica.