Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series) (13 page)

Her hair had become a score of torches, and behind them shone the summer sun.

And with her thin white hands, she reached upward, and clasped this sun, and it came away in her hands, a nest of flame, sparkling and crackling,
alive
.

She held the fire high up in the dark, and gave them light to see. Then softly let it down, and all the candles caught at once, gushed up with a hiss, and spume of smoke. And on the table cloth, some little rivulets of fire ran off—and faded, harming nothing.

Marco’s wife sank to her knees. Men and women knelt.

But Cristiano came to his feet, and as he did so the pressure reached and burst in his brain and all the whiteness of eternity, which for six bitter times he had not been able to attain, entered in. For one second such joy, such ecstasy was there, it shattered him. He died. But only in a second. Only
for
a second. And then he simply stood in the earthly room, and there was low candlelight and the smell of food. And a brown-haired girl in the clothing of a man, her eyes downcast.

His two fellow knights had gone out to the chapel. Even though it was a sanctified stable.

The rest of them—God
knew. The girl to her chamber, certainly. Slight and dowdy. Her damnable eyes cast down.

Danielus was in his room.

Regardless of the chaos, someone had come in and seen to the fire.

Cristiano looked at the fire, and then at the Magister, sitting in a chair, turning an apple in his hand. At each turn, the emerald in the ring flashed green. But the face of the Magister gave nothing at all.

“You’re still angry, Cristiano.”

“Yes, Magister.”

“Anger is—shall I say a fault, rather than a sin?”

“I’ll beat myself later.”

“Oh. Sophistry. That’s not you, surely, Cristiano?”

Cristiano stood, white with rage.

“Tell me, Magister. Was it a
trick
?”

“I see now, despite your words, you never believed me when I told you what she did.”

“
What did she do?
”

“You saw quite well.”

“I saw—something. Am I to trust my eyes?”

“Have your eyes lied to you before?”

“No.”

“Then, perhaps, trust them.”

“
How
can she—for the love of God—”

Danielus got up. He walked across the room and back, and in passing put the apple into Cristiano’s unwary hand.

“Look. Here is a wholesome fruit we eat. Meat may be forbidden at certain times, and wine. But apples—never, And yet, Cristiano, on the Tree in the Garden of Genesis, the apples were forbidden. And eaten but once, brought about the fall of Man, as later only the rebellion of Lucefero
felled the angels of Hell. By God’s will, things may change.”

Cristiano gripped the apple. His eyes flamed cold.

So he looks in a battle
, Danielus thought, having never seen it. He pitied those adversaries who had.

“The Bible itself informs us of miracles,” continued the Magister Major. “Nowhere, I think, does the Bible say that miracles have ended. Rather that they may attend World’s End, or perhaps the dawn of another age.”

Cristiano stared at him.

But the eyes of Fra Danielus, as others had found, gave no purchase.

At last Cristiano turned away.

“Magister, does the Bible say a woman should be dressed as a man, and have a man’s freedom?”

“Some would tell you it does not,” said Danielus.

“Then she—”

“She dresses for her work.”

“She’s
female
.”

“Do you go into a skirmish, Knight, without your shield or sword?”

“
Yes
, Magister, you amaze me—you dressed her as a noble
boy
—where then is
her
sword?”

Danielus laughed. He tipped back his head and laughed—and this Cristiano had, before, never seen or heard.

Danielus said, “You ask why she wears no sword.”

“Yes, then.
Yes
.”

“She,” said Danielus, no longer laughing, “
she
is the sword.”

“What are you saying?”

Danielus now looked deep into the fire on his hearth.

He said, apparently at
random, “Do you reckon they’ll keep silent about this? I mean Marco and his brood.”

“
No
. Whatever oath you made them swear. How can they?”

“How can they, indeed.” Danielus now smiled.

“They’ll blab. And then go to their priest in the village, to confess the sin of blabbing. And he will send a message to the Church. And soon, between the gossip in the markets of the City, and the questioning of the priests, everyone will have heard of her, a red-haired virgin who can call down fire.”

“It was deliberate then, to let them see.”

“Of course.”

“And I—and Jian, Aretzo—”

“She requires emotion, generally it seems that of others, since nothing stirs her very much. Oh, attempted rape did. That began it. But afterwards, the tears, fright, fury of those about her. Perhaps, their
need
. Her fire isn’t always awarded as a punishment. It may be a gift.”

“So you employed us, Magister. The Soldiers of God. Our doubt and—anger—”

“You alone were enough.”

Cristiano did not move. In his hand the apple, (crushed) began to bleed wine-scented juice that dropped on to the floor.

“Was I.”

“Your brother Soldiers gave themselves over quite soon. You resisted. Anger, or terror? Have you ever experienced fear, my Knight, to know it when it comes at you?”

Cristiano reacted suddenly. He flung the broken fruit into the fire. It hissed, as the candles had done, and a wonderful smell rose where the white flesh began to bake.

“How can I credit any
of this?” he said.

“You saw it. How can you credit anything, otherwise.”

Cristiano’s face was bleak and the eyes wide.

“There you have it then. How can I?”

Danielus walked again across the room. Close to Cristiano, they were of a height. Nevertheless, as a father would, he took the younger man in his arms.

“You suffer, my son. Do you really believe God wants only penance and agony? He loves us, Cristiano. He wants us to be happy, too. Yield to Him, only that.” 

“I always have yielded, to God,” Cristiano whispered.

“Do it only this once more.”

“But she—”

“What did you feel then?”

“What I’ve felt only alone—before the altar.”

Danielus held the young man; he stroked the blond hair of the bowed head pressed now to his shoulder. “God is your father. You must trust Him as the child must trust the parent. His purpose may seem unconscionable. But He will know more.”

“I’ve said I can’t debate with you.”

“Then God forbid you should try to debate with Heaven.”

After a moment more, Fra Danielus moved Cristiano from him. The Magister left him to stand there, by the fire, and crossed the room.

Danielus opened the shutter of the small window, and looked out at the snow and the night. Beasts might faintly be heard trampling in their byres. No other sounds now but the emptiness of winter.

“Beatifica recounted her dreams to the priests who first questioned her. Sarco obtained details of all her speech with them. But I found these dreams especially interesting.
They’re beautiful, and innocent. And bright with power. But they might well have swayed those men further to the idea she was a witch. How lucky they were not beneath corruption.”

Cristiano glanced at him. “You bribed them?”

“How else do you think she came to me, after all the fuss that had been made?”

“The Council of the Lamb—”

“Oh, the business hadn’t reached high. They thought her nothing much.”

Danielus was silent a moment. Then he said, almost tenderly, “There are wolf tracks in the snow, down there. They’ve circled the farm, poor starving things, and gone away.”

“You pity wolves.”

“I pity all the world, Cristiano. Myself not exempted. If it weren’t blasphemy, I would pity God. So much pain and such a little spice and sweetness.”

“That’s how we learn. The harsher the school—”

“The greater the achievement? Later, in Heaven, we can be glad of it. Let me tell you what the girl said she dreamed. A country of sands and stones, with slim tall trees that had a foliage like fringes of gold. And a scarlet mountain, which seemed to burn like a terracotta lamp, from within.”

“Where did she see such a thing to dream it?” Cristiano’s voice was almost idle. Exhausted, he leaned on the wall, watching the apple in the flames.

“Where indeed. She said she saw the people there, and they were black as if burnt. The animals were curious. She describes one like a hare, but taller than a man. And a bear that sat in a tree and ate the leaves. Except, the leaves weren’t consumed.”

“Her mind—”

“Curdled? Well. Let me tell you something
else. Now while you lean there, dying for sleep.”

“Pardon me, Magister—”

“Rest yourself a while, Cristiano, from being always perfect. I’d rather have you tired, to hear this. Perhaps then your own dreams will make space for it.”

Danielus closed the shutter. The room drew close about them.

“I keep a library in the island house. While I was there, I searched for and found a certain book. The writings of Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. You will know, he was a Roman much given to anecdote and to history. Suetonius reports the tale of a Roman sea captain who, while questing for a large and unknown island in the Mare Arabicus, was overtaken by a mighty storm. The vessel outlasted the tempest, but lost her course. For some while she was blown southward. Then when the gale dropped, having not enough crew left alive to man the ship, they were driven east of south. The legendary island had failed them. Instead they reached several small islets, which sustained them with water and peculiar fruits. Months passed. Suetonius heartlessly describes their prayers to their pagan gods, begging salvation, and thinking they must die.”

Cristiano watched the Magister Major.
Watched
. On guard against weariness, and any miracle.

But up in the watchtower, O sentry, remember night must come.

“At last the ship reached landfall. No island. It was a country large as any they had come from. And in their talk of it, when years after some of them returned, they named it, this place, God’s Other World.”

Cristiano said, “Since it was so unlike anything they knew.”

“So unlike. A
land of mountains and deserts and lush forests, filled by plants and creatures never seen, never imagined, not even in the remote East. They had fallen, they thought, from the edge of the earth. But being imperfect, this was not Heaven. Nor was it fearful enough for Hell. Another world then.”

“If they returned and said this, were they reckoned liars?”

“Of course. Simply because they had returned, as Suetonius points out. The captain and his men claimed to have brought proofs, nevertheless. Unluckily, if unsurprisingly, none of the animals or plants had endured the journey back, which had been quite as harsh as the setting out. Only the woman survived, and was taken with them to Rome, to be shown to the Emperor Vespasian.”

“A woman. Was she as different as the world they said they’d found?”

“She was black. But then, she might have been from Africanus. The Romans were acquainted with Nubians. However, her features weren’t of this type, and the language she spoke had never been heard.”

“What became of her?”

“I regret to say, she was a slave. The Roman men had made her that, treating her, the writer comments, quite well. They thought her an inferior, as they thought any foreigner, especially one whose skin was unmatched to their own. The white and freckled skins of Britains, for example, seem to have disgusted them. She was disputed over in Rome, whether she should be shown as an exhibit, or carried by the ship’s captain to his farm. In the end, bored no doubt, the emperor generously permitted the captain to keep his spoils.”

Cristiano thought the apple in the fire perished very slowly.
It had not yet burned away. He said, “Is that all the story?”

“She lived as a slave. And died as one. She reputedly bore several children. They said she was docile and biddable, but for all that, a sorceress.”

“Why?”

“She could bring fire.”

“Yes, I guessed that would be it.”

“According to Suetonius, they called her
Cucua
, the nearest they could get to her name. She told them her knack of lighting the fire and lamps had been given her from a mountain, which she visited in her childhood. A red mountain, which was the home of spirits.”

“Did her gift pass on?”

“Well, Cristiano. Perhaps it did.”

“But it was long ago. And do they say where she died?”

“Gaius Suetonius names the place. I can’t discover it. In Italy, for sure.”

“She might by now have many descendants.”

“Blood dilutes. As water does.”

Danielus slowly drew off his cross and put it down. It seemed heavy to him, as he handled it. “Maybe all of it is only my fancy. Or a Roman fancy. Or an ancient lie. But the fire, Cristiano, that’s quite real. Go and sleep now. Yes, go on. Throw yourself off into the abyss of slumber. Perhaps the answer is there for you, waiting.”

Cristiano straightened.

Danielus looked at him, thinking of the boy of fifteen long ago—the girl’s age now, probably. And, strangely,
her
eyes also, here clouded only by another color, by masculinity, and by intellect.

It was in this one he had seen her gaze. And this one who held
also her power of fire, but frozen cold as ice and trapped for ever inside.

Cristiano approached and dropped to his knee.

The Magister extended the emerald for him to kiss.

Presently, in the chamber outside, Cristiano’s step was firm, then sluggish. The pallet groaned. Then silence.

But even after the candles had been dowsed, the inner room smelled on and on of burning apples.

Beatifica lay curled on her right side, one palm under her cheek.

She was dreaming, and did not know it.

Most likely she would not recall her dream on waking, only that she had been, as always, a great distance from the earth.