Come Twilight (10 page)

“That is very generous of you,” said Sanct’ Germain, who knew he should not ask for anything beyond the most minor aids. “A pail of hot water and a small brazier would be very useful, and three men to carry this tabletop to the quarters you have assigned to me.” In response to the startled look on Gardingio Witteric’s features, he added. “I will tend him.”

“Why should you care for a juggler?” asked Gardingio Witteric. “You can put him with the others and tell them what to do. You are not a player, going from place to place.”

“No,” said Sanct’ Germain bleakly. “I am an exile.” There was something in his aspect that silenced the Gardingio, and set the men-atarms to whispering as they watched the black-clad foreigner.

Gardingio Witteric cocked his head, considering Sanct’ Germain’s remark. “Yes. A man may travel for many reasons, I suppose. Pray you have no need to regret your traveling.” He made an abrupt sweeping gesture. “There is nothing more to see here. Go back to your tasks, all of you. Ruda, the braziers are low on fuel: bring more wood to keep them well-lighted.” Without another word to Sanct’ Germain, the Gardingio stumped away toward the entrance to his villa.

Those around the table hastened away, leaving Sanct’ Germain to deal with Alboin on his own. “Do we know which quarters are ours?” Rogerian asked when all but one soldier and an old slave were left nearby; he spoke in the language of Sanct’ Germain’s long-vanished people.

He was answered in the same tongue. “No. But if someone is bringing water. I trust he will guide us.” Sanct’ Germain looked down at Alboin. “I do not like his color. He is too pasty.”

Rogerian considered the juggler, his expression hard to read. “He is very cold.”

“Exactly,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “I fear we may not be able to keep him from fever, for the longer he is cold, the hotter he will burn.” He had learned that lesson long ago, in the Temple of Imhotep, and although experience had modified his opinion, he still regarded the teaching as sound. “He will have to be watched: closely.”

“Yes,” Rogerian agreed. “As soon as there is a brazier lit, I will take up that task.” He regarded Alboin’s waxen features. “There is one sure way to restore him.”

Sanct’ Germain shook his head emphatically. “Turn a young man like this out into the world as one of my blood, unprepared, with no knowledge of what he has become? This is not Kozrozd; he would not comprehend his nature. He would be stoned or burned the first time he tried to satisfy his need. That is hardly restoring him, it is only trading one misery for another.” He went silent, then said, “I am sorry, old friend. I know you meant that to his good, but you know how dangerous it would be, for all of us.”

Rogerian nodded and was about to turn away. “Do you not long for those of your blood?” he asked wistfully.

“I long for the knowing, the touching,” Sanct’ Germain said, his voice distant. “I cannot have either with those who have come to my life.” He shook his head. “We had best get this man inside, before he becomes colder. Finally,” he said in the language of the western Goths as a young slave came up to them, carrying a pail of water warm enough for faint tendrils of steam to be rising from it. “Lead the way.”

The slave lowered his head and pointed. “Over there,” he said before he went on.

“You’d best take one end of the table-plank,” Sanct’ Germain recommended. “I want to keep speculation about my strength to a minimum.”

“Of course,” said Rogerian, taking the foot of the plank in his hands and lifting it as Sanct’ Germain raised the head of it; with Alboin suspended between them, they followed the slave toward the east side of the villa.

Text of a report from the scribe Aspar for the records of Gardingio Witteric.

On my life and on my honor, I swear this is a true account of the activities at the villa of the Gardingio Witteric in the Paschal Season in the 622
^nd
year since God came to earth for the salvation of Men.

In accordance with the teachings of the Episcus at Caesaraugusta, the Gardingio duly ordered the slaughter of pigs for the last night before we give up meat and ale to show our devotion to the Sacrifice. All of the people of the villa and its region showed their veneration of the Resurrection by vowing to eat no meat from this feast until the priests tell us that God has departed the world yet again. In that spirit, there was feasting and dancing, and the jugglers who have spent half the winter at this villa entertained everyone with their antics.

Two of the Gardingio’s women are with child, and have been sent to their quarters until their babies come. One of the women, the one sent by the Iacetani clans, is showing signs of distress; slaves have been ordered to wrap her feet in hot tarragon leaves twice a day and to mas
sage her belly with wool-fat. The priest’s wife has been ordered to pray at her side morning and night, and to place the Gospel under her pillow in the night. With such excellent care, surely she will be safely delivered of the son she has promised to give the Gardingio.

Messengers have come from the east to inform the Gardingio that although the Great Pox is abating, it has not stopped its ravaging of the villages up the mountain, and that the presence of the Pox has kept travelers from venturing toward the passes, not for fear of cold and snow, or robbers, but of the Pox. When word comes that travelers have completed their journeys without falling ill, the Gardingio will send his men-at-arms to secure the countryside again.

There have been more rats, mice, and other vermin in the store house, and slaves have been set to the task of guarding the grain and clubbing to death any such creatures as they may see. Also three small dogs have been kenneled outside the storehouse to prevent more of the rats and mice from entering and adding to the numbers already stealing the food from the villa. These dogs are said to be adept at the killing of vermin, and for that reason they have been entrusted with the task of killing those rats and mice that seek to deplete the stores of our villa. The cooks have offered to bring their cats to the storehouse, but Gardingio Witteric has said he will not have such malign animals protecting his grain and other food.

One of the jugglers, a man who suffered a broken bone, has at last succumbed to fever. The foreigner who undertook to minister to him, Sanct’ Germain, has been sent away from the villa with his manservant, two horses and two mules, an act of great mercy, for Gardingio Witteric might have had Sanct’ Germain’s life in recompense. With the death of the juggler, it was the Gardingio’s judgment that the foreigner had forfeited all right to his men-at-arms and their mounts and supplies. The juggler lasted for nearly a month, far longer than anyone thought he would, and for a time he appeared to be on the mend. But his fever returned and he abandoned his life nine days since. The foreigner and his manservant made no protest to the ruling of the Gardingio; they departed four days ago with the assurance they will not remain in the lands of Gardingio Witteric any longer than it must take them to leave.

The shepherds from the village six thousand paces distant have brought three lambs for the Feast of the Resurrection; they will be fat
tened while we fast, and when the priest proclaims the sacred day, the lambs will remind us of the Gift of Life as we eat their flesh in memory of God.

Nine men have been executed by hanging alive in chains for their looting of houses of those who have died of the Great Pox; they were condemned by the Gardingio and the priest for what they had done, and their execution was duly carried out over the main gate of the villa’s outer walls. The strongest of them took four days to die—by then his eyes had been pecked out by kites and he was raving. These robbers have shown themselves to be beyond the redemption of religion as well as the salvation of law, and as such, can make no appeal to Episcus nor Gardingio to excuse their actions or their goals. Gardingio Witteric said this would warn all other such criminals of what will befall them, if they do not honor the Gardingio’s authority.

The cooper, Duvoric, was ordered castrated for fondling Gardingio Witteric’s second wife. The family of Duvoric was cast out of the villa and sentence was carried out by the farrier; Duvoric subsequently took a fever and putrescence from the wound killed him, a warning to all who trespass on the family of the Gardingio.

This spring has begun with heavy rains and the rivers are bursting their banks in the valleys. Homes have been demolished by the flood, as have been roads and bridges. There are reports of landslides higher up the mountains, some wide enough to bring down stands of trees and bury small villages; we have not seen such catastrophe here on the plateau. The ground everywhere is shining with water and the roads are seas of mud from the rains. As soon as the waters have receded, the banks of the rivers must be rebuilt so that the farms and villages of this region will not be swept away entirely. The Gardingio has declared that all peasants must give one day of labor each week to this rebuilding. If he should fail in this duty, his lands will be seized and given to those willing to be worthy of it.

Submitted on this first day of Paschal Mourning,

Aspar

Scribe to Gardingio Witteric

Skulls of horses hung over the broken gates of the little village tucked away among the oaks and pines of the narrow mountain valley; the slanting rays of the westering sun imparted a glow to it that was belied by the shallow graves on the lower slope of the hill where spring had laid its first, tentative touch with pale new grass and a few white flowers. Marks painted hastily on the stone walls around the village indicated that the Great Pox had struck the place and that many had died.

“The rest have probably fled,” said Sanct’ Germain to Rogerian as they drew up at the gates; both of them rode a horse and led a mule. “That has been the pattern. When the Great Pox arrives, the people hide or die.” This village was on a secondary road, one not often used by travelers bound for the pass into the Tolosa region of Frankish lands; the main road was reported to be flooded out higher up the mountains, so Sanct’ Germain had decided to attempt the crossing by lesser routes; he had not anticipated finding abandoned towns and farmholds, yet this was the second such village he had seen in as many days.

“So it has,” said Rogerian. “And if the village is empty, we can shelter here for a day or so. The animals need rest.”

“As do we,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “You are right.” He slid out of the saddle and caught his horse’s rein as he approached the gate. “No locks, no bolts. It will not be hard to open.”

Rogerian also dismounted. “How many died, would you say? And how many fled before they died?”

“There are twenty-three new graves on the hill, on the other side of the town from the olive orchard. Judging from the number and condition of the houses, the village may have had as many as three hundred occupants: at least five families, perhaps six or seven.” He reached for the gate and took hold of the iron brace, lifting it and leaning into it; the gate moaned as it opened.

“There could still be people here,” Rogerian said.

“There might be,” Sanct’ Germain said with a nod. “We shall try to find them if they are here; there is only a faint smell of smoke in the air—no one has burned a fire for at least one full day.” He pointed to an old well just ahead of the gates. “See if the water is wholesome and give it to the horses and mules if it is.” He glanced at the skulls over the gate. “This is a very old village, if those are any indication.”

Rogerian paused in his attempt to drag the well-bucket up from the depths. “The people here in the mountains have kept to their old ways; no one has changed them.”

“For many centuries,” said Sanct’ Germain. He glanced at the stone buildings with their plank-shingled roofs. “The men here are foresters and hunters, by the look of it. The orchard isn’t large enough for more than oil and olives for the village.”

“That is the way in these mountains,” said Rogerian as he finally pulled the well-bucket onto the stone rim; it was large, its wooden sections bound by rusty iron, and water sloshed as he sat down. He cupped his hand and dipped it into the water to taste it. “Good enough. Not brackish and without bitterness.”

“Let the animals have it,” Sanct’ Germain said, somewhat preoccupied as he contemplated what he could see of the village. “No dogs,” he remarked. “If they fled, they did not go in a panic, or the dogs would be left: and hungry.”

Rogerian had let the larger mule drink first and was now holding the bucket for the second mule. “Just as well,” he said with emotion born of memory.

“No chickens or ducks, either, judging by the silence. Sheep and goats and pigs could be turned loose in the forest to be recaptured later, but not chickens and ducks. They would have to be taken away, or eaten.” Sanct’ Germain looked down one of the two cart-wide streets running through the town from the front gate; a number of smaller alleys radiated in all directions, but Sanct’ Germain gave his first attention to what were obviously the most important corridors in the village. “There is probably a market square at the center of this town,” he said, starting along the nearer of the two streets.

“Do you intend to go there? to the market square?” asked Rogerian; Sanct’ Germain’s gray and his own red-roan were nudging at him for water.

“It might give us a better notion about where everyone has gone,” Sanct’ Germain said.

“Do you think sickness has chased them out?” Rogerian went back to the well to get a second bucket of water.

“It is the most likely explanation,” said Sanct’ Germain as he glanced down an alley. “If the sickness had remained here, we would know.” His expression combined distress and compassion. “The odor would be undeniable.”

“Truly,” Rogerian agreed as he lowered the bucket. “Where do you suppose they have gone?”

“I have no notion,” said Sanct’ Germain. “No one is here to tell us. We saw few travelers as we came up from Gardingio Witteric’s holdings; certainly nothing like a whole village on the move.”