Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series) (26 page)

When
they
saw it, all the priests began to make a great noise. This noise was not human.

There were squawks and trills, roars and grunts, and long foolish braying sounds.

Beatifica understood the lizard, now upright on its tail, was a crocodilius, for she had been shown one in a book. As for the others, two or three bent over, and then several more, and as they bent, she saw ears stand up on their heads. Cowls and tonsures vanished away. The priests jerked about, hopping heavy-bodied round the crocodilius—they were the huge hopping hares she had seen in previous dreams. And there went others on four little feet, and spines stuck up through their purple. Several had become birds, more gaudy than their garments, with crests, and pink wattles. They fought for perches where there were none. Another, like a pig with fur, rolled grumbling on the terrace, to get free of his priestly gown. A colossal toad sat burping.

Beatifica began to laugh. It pleased her, the silliness of it all. She was yet so young. An adolescent and a mage. She had never been a woman, even in her dreams.

But the black crone, again, was laughing too.

Then she said, “Go back now, girl. They call you.”

Beatifica looked over her shoulder. There was a dim doorway behind the terrace, where the stair had been. She stopped laughing.

“Is Cristiano safe?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I knew he would be. He
can’t come to harm. But then the Magister said he might—since, like Christ, he took on mortal shape …”

“Even the Magister lies.”

Beatifica, troubled.

The beasts on the terrace had all begun to fight. They tore at each other and scratched and bit, snorting, defecating. No longer funny.

The old woman took Beatifica to the doorway.

“Where’s mumma?”

“There,” said the old woman. Her teeth were long and clean. She put her hand on Beatifica’s forehead. Her skin was so richly black, would the fingers leave a mark? Like a flower, maybe, or a star.

“
There’s
mumma. You, girl. Me and mumma, and all.
You
. Listen now, listen now.”

But then she only shook her head.

The dim door enclosed Beatifica.

The last she saw before she woke, completely and at once, was the purple-robed crocodilius being tumbled back into the lagoon.

And after that, a woman’s face, but quite young, and pale.

“God’s mercy—you’re wakened. Lie still, take care. I’ll call to Milla. And the Fra only minutes gone—”

The girl lay down again. She felt dizzy and weak. She had none of the sense of strength and elation that had been with her in the dream.

There was a faint rumbling sound beyond the Primo. Thunder, perhaps.

Had she done what was asked?

What had it been?

Oh, as always. To call fire.

Because she must safeguard her
angel.

The room was dark and closed by shadows. In her fluster, the running woman had put out the candle with the breeze of her skirt.

Beatifica took the candle up. She waited to feel the essence, so familiar now, rise in her. When she did not feel it, still she stroked her hair. Stroked as mumma had shown her. For the fire.

It did not come.

Her hand was empty, and warm with cold.

So the women found her, Ermilla and her sister, Ve Nera’s saint, sitting forlorn on her blanket, the unlighted candle beside her, in darkness.

In a raucous voice, the boatman sang, rowing through into the Silvian Marshes. Sometimes he broke off and glanced at Danielus uneasily. “Be sure you don’t mind it, holy Father?” Danielus said he did not. He did not add he wished the man could sing better. “It’s relief, and proper thankfulness. Praise God.”

“Yes,” said Danielus. “Sing if you want.”

Ve Nera had sung, and was singing. In the dusk, she was lit up extravagantly by an excess of candles and brands, and faces beaming in windows, at turnings between the walls. Here and there, where Jurneian missiles had struck, they were clearing rubble. The worst hits were about Fulvia. From those places rose businesslike noises, as if in a stone-yard.

On the narrow canals that led through from the marsh, they were out too, trying to gather the rubbish up they had dumped, to choke them off from small craft of the enemy fleet. In some areas the waterways were impassable. Probably they would not
flow freely now till the winter tides, and the smell was viler than usual.

A woman pointed in the water, lamenting. “He flung in our bed—our bed we had from my uncle’s house. We won’t need a bed if the Jurneians come. That’s what he said. Now he says, let’s couple on the floor, but I say No, no, husband. Buy me another bed first.” Seeing a priest rowed by, she made a motion of fake shame. “Forgive me, holy signore.” He raised his hand gently.

He was glad for them, glad they were enjoying this respite from fear and worry. Indulging in petty events. It would not last. What could, in such a world?

They went by long outer ways, to avoid the closed canals.

Set in twilight, where the marsh broadened and liquefied to great lakes, Danielus glimpsed a ruin on its hill, the amphitheater of the ancient Romans. It was a smaller replica, a bastard babe perhaps, of their Colosso in Rome. Here, as there, they had watched men fight to the death, and criminals fed to beasts of prey. Through cunning drains and traps in the arena floor, they had sometimes flooded the theater from the sea, and staged mock battles in tiny ships, mock battles where gladiators and slaves died by scores.

Over it the gulls wheeled, crying mournfully. Nothing had improved for the gulls. Worsened, doubtless: ancient Rome and modern Jurneia would both have provided them with corpses to pick.

Santa La’La, also on its hill above the marsh, let him in.

He climbed up the stairs, preceded by two chattering nuns, a servant now carrying the books he had brought, seventeen in all.

Her rooms were not too unpleasant, but she
had not been able to soften them much, which, where she could, she had skill in doing. Here, Veronichi stayed circumspect. However, when the servants and nuns were out and the door locked, she lit more candles, and pulled off the ugly cap to let her hair fall, newly washed, blue-black.

“Have you seen your Domina yet?”

“Not yet. After the Luna Vigile I will.”

“She was anxious, I think. She’s afraid she won’t have satisfied you.”

“She’s only had the post a short while, and in time of war.”

“I’ve seen nothing bad in her. She has a temper, but curbs it. She wept when the old woman was buried.”

“Purita has a curious heart. Are you jealous?” Veronichi smiled. “How well you know me. A little.”

“Though never of my lovers.”

“No. Never of those.”

They ate the meal, which was sparse but well cooked.

“On the island,” said Veronichi, “we would have chickens stuffed with pigeons and apples, and sit crowned by chaplets of lilies and peonies.”

“And other, better things.”

“Do you want—the door’s fast—”

“No, dearest. Not here.”

The wine, which he himself sent to the cellars of his churches, was very good. They ate and drank in silence. One by one, the candles burned down.

Danielus and his sister rinsed their hands, and sat side by side on a bench before the window of the second room. They leaned close, became disturbed by it, and in mutual consent, drew apart. Their bodies were used to love making, but must be
denied. (Beyond, night hung low, its stars obscured.)

“Why have you brought so many books?”

“You also know me well.”

“What else, my Daniel, when I’ve studied you all these years?”

“Your island’s safe. Soon I hope you may go back to it. In which case, I’d like it best if you would store these books in the secret place.”

“But—Pliny—”

“Perhaps all the Roman books, and the Greeks, must go in there. For a while.”

“Carpocrates is there already.”

“Wise Venus. Thank you.”

You think that the Council will dare—”

“To question me. It’s conceivable.”

“And to
search
your rooms—”

“Also.”

“Oh, Daniel—”

“Hush. Listen to me. Your race of all the earth knows the injustice and the pain of life.”

She had put her hands to her face. She took them down. She said simply, “Tell me. I’m ready.”

“I have many plans, and many who may assist. However, I’m vulnerable now. I have shown my hand clearly, and at the last moment, lost the valuable weapon—which obviously I considered mine by right. So the arrogant bring themselves to grief. The girl is still in her trance, this I wrote to you. I think she may wake quite soon. But—too late. In the days and nights directly after the firestorm,
then
she was needed. I’ve been a fool. How could such a power pass through her and not suck her dry? I only pray she’ll come back of sound mind. Able to see and speak and walk.”

“Pray God she will.”

“Meanwhile the Brothers of the Lamb,
and others discontented, are working like yeast in dough. The man Isaacus—I have learned his history. He was a felon, a thief and cut-throat, at eleven years sentenced to hanging. They duly hanged him. And he lived. Yes, after a day, when cut down, and as they carried him to the Isle of the Dead, he revived. Now we know the reason for his hoarseness. The rope impaired his voice, but could do nothing else. It seems he thought God had worked a miracle for him. He entered the priesthood. Such was his self-denial, his devotion—his fanaticism—that he rose high. To the spot where now we find him. No one is more zealous than a convert. One has only to consider San Paolo, after Damascus. This Isaacus is stronger than I thought—and still, it seems, immune to violent death. Since I’ve also learnt certain lords of the City recently tried to have him slain. But he survived the attack unscathed, and the assassins have disappeared.”

Veronichi rose. She brought the wine and gave it to him. Danielus drank. He said, “Isaacus sees the world as the mirror of himself. It must be as corrupt and evil as he, in his beginning, and, like him, must go through the school of agony to redemption. Only through suffering can mankind be made whole. But this is the lesson our Church teaches men. The Church has made Isaacus.” He sighed. “I was so careful all these years. I spoke publicly only what was permitted, merely seasoning it a little, tempering the whirlwind. And here and there, now and then, trying to let fall a little light. So the intelligent might see through the windows I tried to make. Some have. But the
slowness
of it, Veronichi—Then the girl with her fire. I thought I too had been given my miracle.”

“I know, my love. You deserved a miracle.”

“If she’d slept only an hour or
so. A day. If I could have taken her out to them—I see it in my head a thousand times. The acclaim of her, the shouting and vivacity. They would have swarmed to her—a war won, without bloodshed,
gladly
. Yes, even the priesthood. How could they deny her gift or God’s promise? It occurred before their eyes. And I could, by the light of Beatifica, have thrust the Council away, down to Hell where it belongs. Sarco would have helped me—he was primed and ready—not even for gain. From an anger like my own. That man, with his face that men see as ugly and evil—and his good, sensible heart. And Isaacus, who has no look of anything, who at ten years raped grandmothers and drowned cats for entertainment.”

“Could you not—”

“No, sweet love. I have said, too late. She slept. She sleeps. The City already forgets. The old order is coming back. I saw a woman tonight who thought more of the loss of her bed than the incredible saving of her life. This is how we are. The many-colored Wonderful is no coat we can put on for everyday. And there’s a new story besides. The Maiden, it seems, misled us all. She burned the ships—but failed to kill the heathen enemy, because she is the Devil’s dupe. Ve Nera was spared destruction, in order to damn all the souls that are in her. As one spoils a child, giving it only sweets. We are the plaything of Satanus, now.”

“I see.”

“If the worst comes … It won’t. It may. You too must deny me.” Veronichi turned her head. “
Deny
me. If they examine you, speak of my harshness. That I beat you and kept you ignorant. If they examine you physically, then I forced you.”

“Daniel—no—”

“Yes. I raped you, and have often raped
you. You were kept in fear, and could never even confess it, for fear—of me.”

“Very well.”

“Deny you can read any script save Latin. They know you read Latin. I made you learn it to assist me. Of course in practices and strategies you never understood. I beat you worse if you asked.”

“Very well.”

“You are rejoiced that now you need no longer endanger your soul, but can speak to them freely. They are your rescuers.”

“Very well.”

He took her face in his own hands, now. He kissed her lips, abstemiously. “Remember, if I die—I shan’t, but I may—I have faith in God. I believe this imbecilic world is not one half of what exists. Once dead, I shall know. And I am free.”

“I shall die too. The Romans are fine teachers of method.”

“Ask to become a nun. That will save you.”

She leered now like a wolf. Her face was cruel. “What? And cut off my hair? Never. I’ll die.”

He nodded. “Only if it’s your wish. I can wait.”

Now, with no excitement, they held each other.

He said, “But this may never happen.”

Outside, a hand struck on the door, and next moment tried the latch.

Veronichi got up at once, thrusting her tresses, with a practiced hand, inside the bald cap.

Into the room came a man from the Primo. He handed the Magister a paper.

Danielus read. He looked unhurried, almost indifferent.

“Yes, I’ll come, then.” He sent the man off with
the conducting nun, for refreshment. “Veronichi, seek Domina Purita, will you, and beg her pardon for me. Beatifica’s awake. Tell Purita, too. It hardly matters now.”

“Is the girl—”

“In her right mind? They’re unsure. She’s weeping and won’t stop. They can make no sense of what she says.”