With my prayers and blessing,
Episcus Luitegild
Sanctissimus Resurrexionem
at Toletum, the summer Solstice and the Mass of the Redeemer, in the 622
nd
year of man’s Salvation, as given in the calendar of Sanct’ Iago
Over the next few months as summer swelled and began to wane, another twenty-seven villagers returned, and twenty-five of them were willing to kiss Aulutis’ foot and swear their allegiance to him in order to stay. The two who refused cursed Csimenae and swore vengeance upon her, promising terrible ruin for her and her son, who had not been bathed in the blood of a sacrificial horse; they had come at the end of summer, and Csimenae had assumed the threat of winter would incline them to make their vows to Aulutis. When they refused, she had pointedly ignored them, laughing as they execrated her name and the whole line of Aulutis. Only when they had gone and she was alone in her house did she give way to the tears that had almost overwhelmed her. She sat in the single chair and held Aulutis close to her while she did her best to stifle her sobs.
“You have been very brave,” Sanct’ Germain said to her as he came through the narrow rear door that led to the barn and the sheepfold.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice shaking with her effort to control it; she put both her arms around Aulutis.
“I have finished my chores and I feared you might be in some distress. Rilsilin told me what happened at the gates.” He had expected such a confrontation, but had not thought it would come so soon.
She looked up sharply, glowering as she wiped her eyes. “I am angry. I weep when I am angry.”
“No doubt,” said Sanct’ Germain. “Others before you have done the same.”
“No one should see me cry,” she said earnestly, still glaring at him. “They think when women cry, it is a sign of weakness, not of fury. If I had horses, they would know better. I would make a sacrifice that all would remember.” She began to rock Aulutis, calming him and herself at the same time.
“Rilsilin said that five men refused to make their vows to your son,” Sanct’ Germain went on.
“Five? What five would be so defiant?” She did not quite laugh, but the barking sound she made might pass for harsh amusement to someone listening outside. “Two; just two. One was Dantho, who keeps . . . kept the olive trees. He said he is entitled to rule here, not my son. He says as long as the trees are growing he has the right to rule.”
“And did he rule here before the Great Pox?” Sanct’ Germain asked, watching her more closely than she knew.
“His cousin did. Occathin. He and his father before him. My grandfather was lord here until he brought a foreign wife to the village; he was disgraced by her. Before then, it was the old priests who ruled here. Occathin’s father changed that, more than my grandfather could. He was head of the woodsmen. Dantho says that Occathin lost his sight and has gone to a monastery where the monks will take care of him. The other was Barago, who trapped animals for their hides. He has no importance here. No one will mind if he stays away.” She had mastered herself now, and she sat up straight. Her face was alert and she spoke with banked emotions. “Occathin’s sons have gone to one of the Gardingi, to find a living for themselves. His daughters have been given to their men.” Her chuckle was more successful than her laughter had been. “The horses did not hold much honor in his sacrifice, and those men have no interests here, not with Occathin gone.”
“Did Dantho say so?” Sanct’ Germain could see the corners of her mouth pull down and the edges of her eyes tighten.
“No. Dantho says that all of Occathin’s blood will come to claim what is theirs. As if they have a right to any of this.” She held up her head. “You do not know what scorn I feel for all of them.”
“I may have some idea,” he said, his tone lightly ironic as a way to shore up her flagging spirits; some of his own memories were equally harsh, but he did not speak of them.
She wiped furiously at her eyes. “I do not want them here. If they despise me, let them live in the forest, with the rest of the beasts.” Her face tightened. “The signs are for an early winter. Perhaps they will starve.”
“Perhaps they will have to ask you to take them in,” Sanct’ Germain suggested, his gaze enigmatic.
She let out a single exclamation of derision. “Let them in? Why should I do anything so foolish? They have chosen their way.” As Aulutis began to cry, she rocked him automatically, but did little else to comfort him.
“It might be prudent to show them clemency, should they ask for it, for the sake of the other returning villagers,” he said, taking care not to argue the point. He glanced at the shelves that served as a pantry, and noticed that there were very few bits of bread left. “Have the monks sent any more flour?”
“Not yet,” she said, not looking at him. “We have not made a donation, so they—”
“If you need a few coins for the donation, I will provide them. You will want the flour shortly, or the rains will make it hard to fetch the barrels up muddy tracks.” He realized he should have tended to this on his own, that she would never ask anything of him for fear of being beholden to him.
“Why should you pay for flour when you eat no bread?” she challenged, daring now to look him full in the face. “It would be better to let me have one of your two horses, for a true sacrifice.”
“I want the flour for the sake of the village,” he said quietly. “I do not plan to leave here before spring, and perhaps not then. Why should I want to see all of you starving simply because my appetites are not what yours are.” He came a few steps closer to her. “Tell me you will let me do this for you, as a sign of my devotion to Aulutis.”
Her voice and her manner were sharper. “Why should Aulutis have it as a sign of anything?”
“Because he is a baby; one day soon he will eat bread and cheese, as you do. It would be best if you have bread to give him when that time comes. You have not enough of a crop planted to provide bread for more than a week or two after you harvest it.” He did not change his demeanor, but something in his compelling gaze convinced her.
“All right. Since you will be here until spring, and perhaps longer.” She cocked her head. “Why do you want to stay so long? You do not have to remain, and yet you do. There must be a reason. Are you seeking a haven from the Gardingi, or the Church?” It was the first time she had broached the matter so directly, and she regarded him with interest as he answered.
“I am sure there are Gardingi who would be pleased to detain me because I would be of use to them. And I am certain there are monasteries where the monks would be glad to command my skills. But I left Toletum with the good-will of the Episcus and the Jews, and no one has countermanded their good words—no one that I know of.” He sighed, knowing she expected more. “I told you that I am an exile, that I am going to Tolosa where I have holdings. I have a blood relative in Rome, and I may visit there to show honor to—”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “But it is still odd to me that you would prefer to stay in this place than go to Tolosa.”
“If the roads are in bad repair, I would have to stay in another village on another road in another part of the mountains. This one is as good as any of them.” He smiled briefly. “And here I have been made to feel welcome.”
“Because you are useful,” said Csimenae.
“Fetching flour is useful,” he pointed out.
“I will believe you because it suits me to believe you,” she said at last, stroking her child through the worn linen of his tunica. “And because my son will need bread come spring. So will the villagers. In better times this would not be necessary, for the villagers would have planted enough grain to make bread of their own to last all through the winter. Well. They have sworn allegiance to my son, and in his name I must take care to see they are taken care of.”
Sanct’ Germain saw her quick frown. “Do you want to send word to the monastery at Templo Antica? It is near Osca. They have flour to sell.”
“If you will go there and bring back what we will need, I will be grateful. I will not ask for either of your horses if you do this for us. And if you go and do not return, I will know you for a miscreant and a liar.” Csimenae showed her teeth. “Your manservant will remain here, of course.”
“Of course,” Sanct’ Germain echoed, and busied himself with tending to the herbs hung out to dry on the doors of the pantry. He thought of her precarious situation, wondering what else she could do if she was going to maintain her authority. “I will tell the villagers that this is your wish that I fetch the flour.”
“Why?” She was suspicious as well as surprised.
“Because this is your home, as you have reminded me often.” He gave her a long moment to consider this. “I am a stranger here, and anything I do is questioned: you are not the only one to have doubts about me, Csimenae. I know I am not wholly welcome among you. I am useful, which gives me some credibility, but not very much. I am little more than tolerated. Yet the villagers comprehend your wishes, and respect them; anything you do is to ensure your position and the position of your son for the future. No one questions this. So your decisions are not regarded as suspect.”
In the silence that followed, he left her alone with Aulutis while he went out to the market square, searching for Rogerian; he looked about the village until he found his manservant in the creamery, washing curds and turning the ripening cheeses on their shelves. When he finished explaining the mission he was about to undertake, he said, “I will send a few letters from the monastery while I am there. I should be able to find men willing to carry them for me if I pay them for the service; if I am careful in my choice of messengers, one or two should reach their destinations.”
“Why do you do this for her?” Rogerian asked in ancient Greek.
“She is fighting a very lonely battle, and the odds are against her,” Sanct’ Germain replied in the same language. “I know how difficult that can be.”
Rogerian said nothing while he tapped one of the cheeses. “It is almost ready. There is an ample supply here.”
“Good,” Sanct’ Germain approved. “The winter is going to be hard, I think. The more foodstuffs we can prepare, the better.”
“And you?” Rogerian inquired. “What plans have you made for providing for yourself during the winter?”
“I will hunt, as I have done,” said Sanct’ Germain calmly.
“It is not sufficient, not if you limit your feeding to animals. You have said as much yourself, many times. You may not wish to admit it, but you are losing flesh, as you do when you are deprived of . . . touching. Why do you remain here if you are reduced to this?” His eyes were worried. “Do you seek that from her?”
Sanct’ Germain understood his deliberately vague reference; he shook his head. “It hardly matters: she does not seek it from me.”
“Then why do we remain here?” Rogerian persisted bluntly, unaware he was echoing Csimenae’s question. “This place is the edge of nothing. You could be in Rome, or in Tolosa, or in your homeland, for that matter, and you would be—” He broke off, seeing something haunted in Sanct’ Germain’s dark eyes.
“I would be as much a stranger there as I am here. I would have to find a means to make myself acceptable. At least in this place I am useful. And there are no invaders pouring down the slopes, or harrying up them, for that matter, and no barbarians seeking slaves and livestock, as there are from my homeland to the Frankish uplands. You recall what it was like there, only twenty years ago; there is no reason to think it has improved. Here, at least, I have no greedy men watching me in the hope of increasing their riches through claiming mine. I have no one watching me and reporting to others for his own benefit, as we had in Toletum. We tolerated it because it was necessary, but I am pleased not to be perused so relentlessly. There are few havens we could find as accessible as this one, and both you and I know it. If I must live on the blood of animals for a time, what harm is there?” His wan smile was vastly troubling to Rogerian, who spoke to him in Latin.
“When do you plan to leave to get the flour?” It was a safe question, and one that could be overheard without causing alarm.
“In a day or two: within a week, most certainly. I have to hunt tonight, I think; tomorrow I will make arrangements.” Sanct’ Germain did his best to encourage Rogerian. “Do not fret, old friend. We will be gone from here soon enough. A week, a year, both are gone in no time.”
This did nothing to reassure Rogerian; he continued to work with the cheeses. “When that time comes, I will be ready,” was all he allowed himself to say.
“I take your meaning,” Sanct’ Germain assured him, doing his best not to feel tired, although a sensation like fatigue insinuated itself through him. “And I will consider your apprehension.”
For an instant, Rogerian hesitated, then asked, “Do you miss Viridia?”
Sanct’ Germain nodded. “And Nicoris, and Olivia, and—” He made himself stop. “I could not bring Viridia to my life; that does not mean I have no love for her, or that I have forgot her.”
Rogerian kept himself from saying anything more, for he knew it was of no use. He went on with tending the cheeses, finally saying, “I will see your horse is ready when you need him.”
“And a mule,” Sanct’ Germain recommended. “I will need both if I am to bring back enough barrels to carry the village through the winter.”
“As you say,” Rogerian conceded.
Sanct’ Germain spent the rest of that afternoon in the house Csimenae had allocated for his use; he busied himself making compounds of herbs and olive oil and wine that could be used to treat many ills, and which he supposed would be necessary to get the village through the winter, for he knew from long experience that cold and pernicious coughs traveled together, as heat and bad air did. This activity satisfied him, for it provided him with the means to occupy himself as well as demonstrate his value to the people around him. Over the centuries, he had been calmed and soothed by preparing medicaments; the afternoon faded quickly as he went about the familiar work. By twilight, he had done as much as he could with the little equipment he had, and reluctantly he put his materials away, thinking he would soon have to gather herbs or accept more shortages still. Now he missed his athanor and his reductio almost as much as he missed having moldy bread, from which he made his sovereign remedy against all fevers. At another time, he might have built a small athanor, but in Mont Calcius, he doubted the villagers would tolerate so foreign an object being used inside their walls, no matter what its potential benefit might be. So he would have to content himself with the compounds he could cook up in a pot over the fire. At least, he told himself, he would soon have moldy bread; it was a consolation of sorts.