Night sent the villagers indoors, and the odor of cooking filled the dusk. Last chores were done in pens and the barn as the livestock were bedded down for the night. One of the villagers walked down the two streets calling out the names of those inside, and making a record of all replies. This was soon followed by darkness in the houses, and a breathing silence that was as familiar to Sanct’ Germain as the pull of blood. When Rogerian came in from tending to the animals, Sanct’ Germain greeted him in passing. “I am going after goats tonight, I think.”
“I will be ready to dress your kill, as soon as you bring it back,” said Rogerian. “There is not much meat left in the village.”
“I am aware of that,” Sanct’ Germain said, adding, “If there is time, I will try for a second animal.”
“Good hunting,” Rogerian said without a trace of irony in his voice.
Sanct’ Germain slipped out into the night, his black hippogaudion and black Persian leggings making him one with the shadows and the dark, his movements flexible as a cat’s, as fluid as a shadow. He knew his way through the trees now, and he went swiftly toward the glades where the wild goats could be found; he was anticipating an easy kill, one that would feed his hunger and provide for the village, allowing him half the night to find other game that would serve as surplus, and one that was much needed if winter came early. Before he reached the little meadows, he sensed something was wrong—the night was too still, and the air too alive. He approached the clearing cautiously, testing the air as he went. Then he stopped moving, his attention fully on the sounds that came from the place where he expected to find goats, for he heard men’s voices instead of bleating, and in a short while he saw the wavering light of a single torch.
“—could burn the gates down,” one of the men said, raising his voice to be heard.
“It would have to be at night,” said another. “There aren’t enough villagers to keep a proper guard. They do not watch after the mid-point of the night, and that watch is kept by one of the foreigners.”
“Not . . . for the baby,” quipped a third, some of his remark so quiet that Sanct’ Germain could not hear it; whatever he said was seconded by laughter.
“We’ll roast him on a spit,” said the second speaker, his tone venomous.
This was met with chuckles and muttered approval from more than a dozen voices.
“And that mother of his, we’ll—” This speaker broke off, laughing nastily.
“Save her for an offering,” suggested a man with a gravelly tone. “After we have done with her.”
The others chuckled again, more angrily; Sanct’ Germain took advantage of the sound to move a little nearer to the clearing.
“Tomorrow night, then: we’re agreed?” This was a fourth man. “It’s time we took back what is ours. Occathin’s kin should rule in Mons Calcius, not this stupid woman.”
“We must drink the blood of horses,” said the gravel-voiced man.
The rest muttered agreement.
“Then we must get our weapons in order. A pity we have only the one small ram, but it will knock down the sheepfolds and the barndoors.” The second man relished what lay ahead. “Those who fight us will die or be our slaves.”
“That’s right,” the first man declared. “It should have been ours all along.”
Sanct’ Germain slid back into the forest, skirting the clearing; he would have to return to the village by a round-about path, in case these men should decide to venture up to the walls in preparation for their coming attack. He paid only cursory attention to game in the forest, telling himself he would hunt later, after Mont Calcius was ready to fight off the men in the woods.
As he scaled the walls, he was struck by an unpalatable thought: the men in the forest must have someone inside the village to keep them informed of what was happening in the town; they had known he and Rogerian patrolled the village at night, and the implications of that knowledge burgeoned in his mind. As cautious as he had been, he now felt he had been careless. He landed near the house he occupied, and waited a moment until Rogerian came out of the main door. “There is trouble,” he said quietly.
“So it seems,” said Rogerian. “You bring no game.”
“It may be a fortunate thing that I do not; I have come upon something more important than meat in my hunt,” Sanct’ Germain said, going on steadily. “There are men gathering in the forest who plan to attack the village. I found them in a clearing and overheard some of their talk.” He paused. “From what they said, they have at least one spy inside the walls. I had hoped we were done with spies.”
Rogerian did not look astonished. “They have blood ties to the people here,” he said. “You, of all men, should appreciate that.”
“I do,” Sanct’ Germain said with irony to match Rogerian’s.
“What do you think? Are those men in earnest?” Rogerian prompted. “What are you going to tell Csimenae?”
“About the coming attack?—as much as I can. About the spy, I have not made up my mind. I do not know what she will believe.” He began to pace. “My accusation would mean little, since I am an outsider. But she must be alerted to the presence of the spy, or it is useless to plan our defenses.”
“Then you are going to help her fight,” said Rogerian, his certainty so strong that Sanct’ Germain paused in his pacing and stared at him. “You could leave, could you not?”
“Of course I could, but I will not,” he replied sharply. “Why should I put the village in danger because I fear for my skin?”
Rogerian did not quite smile. “Apparently you do not think that reason enough to leave, though nothing holds you here.” He touched his forehead lightly in a gesture of acquiescence. “I am not surprised.”
“You know me too well, old friend,” said Sanct’ Germain.
“I have had time to know you,” Rogerian pointed out. “I would have been surprised had you decided to leave.”
“That is a compliment of sorts, I suppose,” said Sanct’ Germain. Making up his mind, he started off toward Csimenae’s house. “Come. She should hear of this now.”
“Will not waking her in the dead of night alarm her?” Rogerian suggested as he followed Sanct’ Germain.
Sanct’ Germain walked a bit faster as he answered, “I should hope it would.”
Csimenae answered her door promptly enough to suggest that she had not been sleeping; her eyes were brilliant and she moved decisively to block their way. She held Aulutis in the crook of her arm as she regarded Sanct’ Germain uneasily, her face faintly illuminated by the single oil lamp that burned just inside her door. “You have no game,” she said, making it an accusation.
“No; I have something of greater import than that.” He did not try to cross her threshold, in case someone else should be awake at this hour, and watching.
“You must, to come to my house at this hour. If the villagers find out, they will say my grandfather has cursed our family again.” She lifted the edge of her tunica so that Sanct’ Germain could see the long knife thrust through her belt. “I will not let you do anything that would call me into question.”
“Nor would I,” Sanct’ Germain said. “It is not my purpose to discredit you.” He saw her eyes sharpen. “Yes. You must hear me out: there was more than game in the forest tonight,” he told her, and went on to relate what he had stumbled upon. “I think there are a fair number of them; a dozen or perhaps more. Mont Calcius is not the only village to lose its people. It is possible a number of them have banded together with the intention of claiming this place as their own.”
She stared at him, outrage distorting her features. “How
dare
they?” she demanded of the darkness. “I gave them the chance to return, and they do this to me.” She lifted her son up so that his head was on her shoulder. “They would deprive Aulutis of what is his.”
“They want the village,” said Sanct’ Germain. “They will not hesitate to kill you—and your boy—to claim it. They know they must do that or fight again.” He saw her flinch, and added, “They would do the same to anyone holding this place if they wanted to make it theirs.”
She nodded. “We must prepare. You were right to warn me, Sanct’ Germain,” she said, her manner transformed again, this time by diligence. “Will they come tonight?”
“No,” Sanct’ Germain assured her.
“That is good,” she said. “I will have a little time to ready my people to withstand the attack.” She was about to go inside her house when Sanct’ Germain stopped her.
“You will not want to be too obvious about what you are planning,” he said, and, as he saw her frown, he continued, “They expect to attack an undefended village. It is best that they continue to think the place undefended, for that gives you an advantage against them, for they will be surprised, not you.”
Csimenae stood quite still as she considered this. “An undefended village. Yes. You have a point,” she conceded at last. “I must think about this, to decide what is best for Aulutis. At least we have your horses, and your mules: better than nothing. If we must, we will take one for a sacrifice, but only if we must. You did well to come to me, and to give me your thoughts. Now it is for me to decide what is best for my son.” With that she closed her door, leaving Sanct’ Germain and Rogerian in the darkness.
After a while, Sanct’ Germain said, “I had better hunt in a different part of the forest tonight.”
“You are going out again?” Rogerian was almost shocked at this calm announcement.
“Because there are desperate men in the forest does not lessen our need for sustenance.” Sanct’ Germain shrugged. “They will need meat if they are to fight.”
“And you will need blood if you are to endure the daylight,” Rogerian said, turning away and starting back toward the house they occupied.
“Yes,” Sanct’ Germain said before he sprinted for the walls. “I will.”
Text of a letter from Frater Morduc, Scribe of the Archangeli monastery to Episcus Honorius of Caesaraugusta.
Now may God be praised for your delivery from the Great Pox, my half-brother, and may He continue His Favor to you for all of your days. Amen.
We of Archangeli monastery have prayed day and night for all Christians struck with the Great Pox, and finally, our faith has prevailed. Amen.
There has been no new case of Great Pox for more than a month, and the few travelers we see at this place have all given testimony that the Great Pox is everywhere in retreat. No one has come here to escape the Great Pox in more than a month, as well, and we have heard no tales of more outbreaks. For this we are most truly grateful. Amen.
To the most eloquent Episcus of Caesaraugusta, Honorious, the greetings of Frater Morduc, with the assurances of my continued devotion to the Church we both serve and the family whose blood we share: your own plight was reported to us some months ago, and therefore we have been diligent in the exercise of our faith in the hope that God would spare us, and you, and all those worthy souls who must guide the work of God before the Last Days are upon us. It was most troubling to learn of your ordeal, for if God visited so much upon you, who are known for the holiness of your life, what could such men as ourselves expect? We have striven to endure our travail in patience and in humility. Our own numbers are decreased, although we rejoice that so many of our Fraters are called to see God’s Face; we have much to do to maintain this place with so few monks remaining to do the tasks once shouldered by half-again as many as now abide here. Not that we do not thank God for our lives every day, for we do not question His Wisdom, nor do we seek any attainment beyond the fulfillment of our vows to Him, and to Holy Church.
It would ease our conditions if you would encourage the Gardingi on the road between Caesaraugusta and Roncesvalles to allocate men to rebuild the road, for as it is now, few travelers are able to transverse
these mountains. Ours is not the only monastery left in isolation because of the neglected roads. We have heard those few, intrepid men who have made the journey in spite of all, say that without immediate efforts, the passage will be more arduous next year. If the road were in better repair, we might have more men to use it, to bring alms to the monastery, and to add their tolls to the coffers of the Gardingi. You are in a most favorable place in this respect and I beseech you, my dear half-brother, to prevail upon the Gardingi and Exarchs of your region to participate in this necessary work.
Certainly the Great Pox has robbed the Gardingi of men, as it has robbed this monastery of monks, but it is fitting and right that the road be restored, for without it, many of the villages along the way will lose their ties to the Church and the Gardingi, and become what they were before Salvation—wild tribes of savages preying upon one another and upon any who venture into their territories. This cannot be seen as anything but the triumph of the Devil, and the denial of the Greatness of Our Lord. What benefit could that be? Yet if the Gardingi do not act, it could yet come to pass, and that would be a great misfortune for us all.
We are informed that the men of Tolosa have ordered their portion of the road restored to full use; you cannot want it said that Franks will do what Goths will not. I am certain that if the Gardingi and Exarchs know of this, they will strive to see that the road is again in as good repair as when the Romans of old first laid its foundations. Pilgrims and merchants alike will benefit from the road being repaired, and so will the Gardingi, whose men will not have to make their way along the goat-tracks that pass for roads among the people of the mountains. This will be useful to everyone.
You may well fear that the Exarch will not be willing to grant money for such a task, and that may be true, but he can assign men to the work as part of their vassalage. We here at Archangeli have a few monks and tertiaries working on our portion of the road, but there is not much we can do, given our numbers and our lack of equipment. The road-bed has washed away in some of the steeper sections, and until we can restore the bed-work, the problem is going to continue; to fill in the damage is useless, for it will only wash away again with the first rains. No one can keep the road in repair for its underpinnings are gone. Tell your Gardingio and Exarch that there could be an avalanche that would bring down the whole of the road that would render it unusable
and unrepairable for years to come. Such an avalanche could also damage various forts and watch-towers if it struck a wide enough part of the mountain, which would mean trouble for the Gardingi as well as for the Exarchs. It is a danger that is very real, as we have seen with our own eyes. May God spare us from such a calamity. To that end, I implore you to impress upon the Exarchs and Gardingi the necessity of seeing this task attended to in good time.