Come Twilight (3 page)

“I have no notion,” said Sanct’ Germain. “But these Exarchs—and there are so many of them these days—tend to claim all manner of rights for themselves by virtue of having a Byzantine title, just as the town leader calls himself a Praetorius, to make it seem he holds his position from the time of the Romans.” He paused, his brows flicking together. “You were right, old friend. The longer the Byzantines have been gone from the region, the more of the nobles have claimed that title for themselves, and squabble over territories that overlap, and the townspeople have adhered to the Roman honors.”

“But they could return,” said Rogerian, his eyes very bright. “The Byzantines, not the Romans, could they not?”

“They might, if it were to their advantage,” Sanct’ Germain allowed. “But I doubt they have any interest in these barbaric places; they have barbarians enough of their own to contend with, and so long as the ports are safe, they can use their soldiers to better purpose.” He considered the possibilities in silence.

Rogerian looked at Sanct’ Germain, perplexed. “You have told the Episcus that Constantinople will surely reinforce Hispania if it becomes necessary.”

“And I meant it,” said Sanct’ Germain. “But I did not mean the necessity would be the Episcus’. If Constantinople sees its own influence being compromised, they will tend to instill the respect they demand; at least they have done so in the past. The Episcus might find the aid he desires comes at a ruinous price. It would not be the first time that the rescuers proved to be more unwanted than a foe.” He brushed his palms together and walked a short distance away from the athanor. “The Episcus is in an awkward position, having so little official authority in the world. If he has reservations about our remaining here a little longer, I will send him a pair of these new rubies I am making: that should smooth over any difficulties that might arise.”

“Can you spare them?” Rogerian was startled at this suggestion. “I supposed you intended them for our travels.”

“And so I do. But I will have time to make more, if the weather continues to worsen,” Sanct’ Germain pointed out. “If we wait until spring, I can amass a tankard of jewels; doubtless they can be put to good use, at least among those men who value jewels over weapons. There are many who would be glad of jewels, and would not mind waiting awhile for them.” He managed a slight, ironic smile. “The Episcus would not begrudge us a few weeks for such an exchange.”

“True enough,” Rogerian said, and went to the fireplace to add another log to the rest. Once the new fuel had lit, he turned back to Sanct’ Germain, saying, “I had not thought it would matter so much to me.”

“Finding your descendents?” Sanct’ Germain inquired. “Why should this surprise you, old friend?”

“I thought I had put that part of my life behind me. When I was made a bondsman and sent to Rome, my family was lost to me, in any case.” He shrugged. “After so many years. Why should it trouble me that our name has been forgotten? Since my grandchildren left Gades, it was likely that our family would disperse.”

“But you hoped they would not,” said Sanct’ Germain. “There was certainly no harm in looking.”

“It still troubles me,” Rogerian said quietly.

“That you have not found them, or that you wanted to look for them?” Sanct’ Germain asked, his dark eyes compassionate.

“Some of both,” Rogerian answered after a short, thoughtful silence. “I thought I had accepted that they were lost to me; I came back to that again and again, and it troubles me anew each time I grasp it.” He shrugged. “Repetition will not change anything.” He folded his arms. “I cannot keep from believing that I should not have undertaken this search.”

“Because it turned out in ways you did not anticipate?” Sanct’ Germain went back to the athanor, a slight frown between his fine brows.

“I suppose so,” Rogerian said ruefully. “More foolishness.”

“Hardly foolishness,” said Sanct’ Germain. “Loneliness, more likely.” He saw the shock in Rogerian’s eyes and knew he was right. “The peril of long life is loneliness.”

“So you have said,” Rogerian allowed. “And I thought I understood. I did not, not until now.” He took a long deep breath. “When did you go searching for your family? You have said little about that.” Over the centuries, he had found Sanct’ Germain’s reluctance to speak of that time of his life puzzling. At first he had not minded, but over time he had become both curious and wary about Sanct’ Germain’s taciturnity.

Sanct’ Germain’s single laugh was immeasurably sad. “I had not that luxury for many, many hundreds of years. I was enslaved, and then, when I took vengeance for what was done to us, I had no thought to find my family’s descendants, for the few there were had also been made slaves and their names lost, and I was consumed by bitterness and despair. Once I was captured, I was taken far away. By the time I returned to my homeland, thirteen centuries had gone by, and all traces of my people had been lost except as figures of myths. It is nothing like your desire to find your family.” He stared into the middle distance.

“Do you regret any of it?” Rogerian knew the answer from Sanct’ Germain’s demeanor, but needed to hear it spoken.

“Of course. There are many things I would rather now I had not done. No one lives long without having something to regret.” Sanct’ Germain lifted his hands in a philosophical gesture. “But that is what I believe now, and had I not done those things that I now deplore, would I have the understanding to regret the actions?” He shook his head. “It is the storm, I think, and the delay, that fill our minds with such fruitless reflection.”

“Fruitless, no doubt,” said Rogerian darkly.

“Thought is always of value, and memory, no matter how painful, can illuminate life. It took me centuries to realize these things, and centuries more to be convinced they were so, but I am persuaded now.” He touched the athanor gingerly. “Not quite.”

Wind screeched in the chimney, blowing smoke back into the house. Rogerian batted at the air with his arms, coughing; he glowered at the fireplace as if accusing it of deliberately failing. “Again!” he muttered. He made a gesture of exasperation. “This will not do.” Turning to Sanct’ Germain, he said, “I am going to climb onto the roof. I think the chimney-cap has blown off.”

“See you go carefully,” said Sanct’ Germain, who agreed with this assessment; that was one Roman invention he was pleased had not been forgotten. “The roof will be slippery.”

“I will take no chances: I have no wish to fall into the grain emporium next to us,” said Rogerian, and hurried into the corridor to the narrow wooden stairs that led to the loft in the rafters and the roof beyond.

Sanct’ Germain stood beside the athanor listening to Rogerian work. He realized he had not offered Rogerian the consolation he sought; he stared at his athanor, his thoughts ranging far into his past, to the centuries alone, and the immensity of loss he had experienced over the thirty-five hundred years he had walked the earth. Rogerian deserved better from him, he knew; there was so little he could do to lessen the self-condemnation his old friend embraced. He was keenly aware of Rogerian’s grief, and knew beyond all doubt that time alone would mute its fury.

A clatter and scramble overhead announced Rogerian had completed his task; the smoke in the room began to dissipate as the chimney recommenced to draw properly once more. Clambering footsteps traced Rogerian’s progress back across the roof to the trapdoor, and the sound of him coming down the stairs to the attic. He came directly to Sanct’ Germain’s library, his clothes wet and spangled with melting snow. “It was the cap,” he said. “It’s taken care of.”

“So I perceive.” Sanct’ Germain rubbed his chin with his thumb. “How is the storm?”

“It is growing worse. The wind is as cold as if we were once again in the Celestial Mountains.” Although they were far away in the fastness of north-western China, the memory of the autumn a century ago when they had crossed that branch of the Old Silk Road brought back sharp recollections of marrow-chilling bitterness. “Not a good sign, such weather.”

“No,” said Sanct’ Germain slowly, continuing. “If there were no snow in the mountains, I would still try to leave now, but as it is, we must winter over somewhere until the passes are clear, and this is a better place than the villa of a Gardingio we do not know, and who may not be pleased to have strangers under his roof.” He sighed once. “So it is probably just as well that we wait here a few months.”

“You are not angry?” Rogerian asked, suspicion in every aspect of his demeanor.

“Not at all. In fact, given the severity of the storm, I am grateful; this would have been an unpleasant surprise were we traveling,” Sanct’ Germain replied with a trace of amusement in his attractive, irregular features. “I have no wish to be abroad in such weather.”

Rogerian did not say anything for a long moment, then remarked. “I do not like storms, either.” As if this concession was as much as he could offer, he turned, prepared to leave Sanct’ Germain to his alchemy. “I shall send a note to the Episcus, to inform him of your postponed departure.”

“Thank you,” said Sanct’ Germain tranquilly. “Inform him also that I will call upon him in a few days, to review my plans.”

“Of course, my master,” said Rogerian as he withdrew.

By the time Sanct’ Germain emerged from his library, the first, feeble glow of sunrise was struggling to disperse the clouds; the library hearth was cold, and the athanor had been emptied of its treasure; the house was cold enough to make him glad of his heavy tunica beneath his dalmatica. Despite his satisfaction with the accomplishments of the night, Sanct’ Germain could not rid himself of a vague, persistent unease that had taken hold of him as the storm came on; he had not been able to rid himself of it; he had stayed in Toletum longer than was wise, and might yet regret his delay. As he went along the corridor to his private apartment, Sanct’ Germain weighed the pouch he carried in his hand, trying to calculate the value of the stones he had made; five rubies, two opals, two sapphires, and an amethyst, more than enough to pay for the journey into Frankish lands. He had just stepped from his sitting room into his bedchamber when he heard a rap at his door. Slipping the pouch under the clothespress near the foot of his bed, Sanct’ Germain went to open the door.

“My master,” said Rogerian. “I do not mean to disturb you—” He stopped himself, unable to go on.

“What is it, old friend?” Sanct’ Germain asked after Rogerian fell silent. “Is something the matter.”

“I need a word with you,” he said. “I would rather not wait until you arise in the afternoon.”

“All right,” said Sanct’ Germain, no sign of dismay in his manner. He stepped aside to allow Rogerian to enter. “Tell me what is troubling you.”

“I had a most . . . disturbing caller,” said Rogerian, and then took a deep breath, delivering his news in a single rush. “Ithidroel came a short while ago, immediately after his morning prayers, to warn me that there was going to be an attempt to seize your house and goods after Mass on Sunday, because you do not attend the holy services. The Praetorius’ scribe told him the whole of it. Your apostasy is the excuse they intend to use.” He held up his hands before Sanct’ Germain could speak. “Ithidroel said that it is not enough that you come to the synagogue to discuss the writings of the Prophets and Patriarchs, for you are not a Jew any more than you are a Roman Christian. The Praetorius is short of money, and you are rich.”

Sanct’ Germain shook his head; his apprehension now had shape and meaning. “I suppose I must be grateful for that introduction Episcus Luitegild provided, after all; although it was probably one of the Episcus’ slaves who passed on my need of the introduction. The Praetorius’ intentions are not coincidental, I suspect, with our plans to depart. Praetorius Chindaswinth may not have a Byzantine garrison to protect him any longer, but he is not entirely powerless, either, and his coffers may well be empty. It is not surprising he would think of me, for I am a foreigner and he knows I have gold and property.” He fell silent for a brief moment, then spoke as calmly as if he were arranging for feed for his horses. “We will have to move our goods outside the city over the next two days, as unobtrusively as possible. We can explain our need to have the villa well-stocked in case the storm should cut it off from Toletum.”

“And if this is forbidden?” Rogerian asked without any significant change in his demeanor.

“I cannot be the only resident of Toletum who has to provide his country house for the winter,” said Sanct’ Germain calmly. “Everyone who keeps a villa will be doing the same thing; to refuse me would expose the Praetorius’ intentions before he can put them in motion. I doubt he would be so foolish. If he wants my property, he will have to justify his seizure or risk having his court rebel.”

“Would they do that to support a foreigner,” Rogerian wondered aloud.

“It has happened before,” Sanct’ Germain pointed out. “The Gardingi withdrew their men-at-arms from the city and taxed the Praetorius for it. No, we have a little time, and we must make the most of it.”

Rogerian had been with Sanct’ Germain long enough that this swift shift in plans did not astonish him. “What do I tell the servants here?”

“Tell them that they will not suffer on my account. I will pay them two years’ salary and grant writs of manumission for all slaves as well for when I leave. I want none of them to starve, so I will also provide—through the synagogue—to have money enough to maintain this household for some time to come. I suppose Ithidroel will be able to manage that for me, I will visit him this afternoon and make the arrangements, including a suitable donation to the monastery when I have settled matters with Ithidroel.” He strode about the room, stopping beside a red lacquer chest of Roman design where he kept his medicaments. “Choose such items as you know I will need, and prepare the rest for storage. This must come with us. I will attend to the athanor myself.” He paused. “A pity I did not have time to make more jewels. These, and the gold I made last week, will have to suffice.”

“Then you do not doubt that the Praetorius will act once he is ready?” Rogerian asked.