Come Twilight (4 page)

“Certainly not—if I did, I would expose us both to consequences neither of us wants. And the Jews have the most reliable information about such matters. The Episcus does not concern himself with the Praetorius’ authority; he cannot afford a clash of wills and purposes.” He flung up his hands to show his exasperation. “I should have known this was coming. I should have realized that as soon as the Episcus issued our introduction, that the Praetoris would be informed and would demand some price for my departure. Three days to depart—fewer than I would like, but it is better than no warning. It is my lapse. I should have been more vigilant.”

“The Praetorius is greedy, the Exarch is greedy; they are all greedy,” said Rogerian, his voice level; only the light in his faded-blue eyes showed how condemningly he meant this.

“As I knew, and as you reminded me,” said Sanct’ Germain, dismissing this. “This is not the first time we have ever had to deal with such a man as Chindaswinth.” He looked at Rogerian. “We will need to get the strongest horses out of the stable, and the best mules. At least we can move them to the villa without questions being raised.”

“I will see to it,” said Rogerian.

“Give me time to trim their hooves before taking them out of the city; if I leave such tasks until we reach the villa, someone will remark on it.” Sanct’ Germain pointed to the clothespress in the next room. “I will need my sturdiest garments, and so will you. Be sure you take some that are for ordinary wear, or the guards at the gate may report what we are doing.”

“Do you think they will bother with such concerns?” Rogerian did not wait for an answer; he supplied his own. “We must suppose they will.”

“You comprehend the matter,” said Sanct’ Germain, approvingly.

“I, too, remember,” said Rogerian with a hint of a smile.

Sanct’ Germain nodded. “I will rest for an hour and then call upon Ithidroel. I do not want to be so hasty that the servants remark upon it, not with our departure near at hand. I would appreciate it if you would be good enough to let it be known that I am planning to restock the villa as part of my winter preparations. That should provide a cover for our true purpose.”

“Certainly,” said Rogerian. “I will also choose two or three slaves to accompany us to the villa. That will show that we are not trying to escape.”

“We will make more than one trip to the villa and back in the next two days, so the guards will become used to what we are doing. Go and return at the same time of day, and they will accept the routine. When you return from the villa this evening—you are planning to go there today, are you not?”

“Yes. I think we might set out at mid-day, when the sun is highest. The storm is not diminishing, but we will have the most light then.” Rogerian waited, clearly anticipating the rest of Sanct’ Germain’s instruction.

“When you come back into the city, take the occasion to complain of repairs needed. You may lament my strict requirements in such circumstances, saying that I will not listen to reason. Tell them that I insist on prompt repairs, and that I am not willing to be satisfied with less than full compliance with my orders. In weather like this, the rectifications must be done quickly or worse damage may ensue.” Sanct’ Germain was already pulling off his silver collar. As he set this down on a low wooden chest with a pair of Burmese dragons carved on its panels, he pulled the hem of his paragaudion up, tugging the garment over his head and turning it inside out with the same movement; he tossed it aside as he reached for his black linen kalasiris in which he slept. “If I have not risen, wake me in an hour; I cannot afford to lie abed very long, so be accurate in your timing. Use the old water-clock, in the atrium.” This relic of the Roman occupation had proven one of the most useful devices in the house; it was one of the things he would miss when he was gone from Toletum.

“An hour; very well,” said Rogerian, preparing to leave the room.

“Oh, and Rogerian,” Sanct’ Germain said, stopping Rogerian in mid-motion. “I will need a gift for Viridia; nothing elaborate, but enough for her to remember me with kindness.”

Rogerian considered the matter for a moment. “Would some of the silk do? There are six or seven bolts of it left in the storeroom. It does not promise too much, but few women in Toletum can boost of wearing silk from China.”

“An excellent notion. Perhaps we should take a few of the bolts with us. Not of fine cloth, but good, sturdy wool and thick linen. No doubt they would make welcome gifts for our hosts in our travels.” He bent to remove his leggings, and when he had put them aside, he added, “Cut them into generous lengths, enough for good-sized garments. They will be more easily carried off the bolt, and we will have more to give, having smaller portions.”

“As you wish, my master,” said Rogerian.

“You are very good, Rogerian. Thank you.” He watched the door close, then went into his bedroom, a chamber of such austerity that it might have been a monk’s cell; it contained Sanct’ Germain’s bed atop three large chests, the clothespress near the foot of the bed, and a stand for books which just now held an unlit lamp and Pliny’s
Historia Naturalis.
Sanct’ Germain pulled back the black coverlet and lay down on the thin mattress, falling into a sudden and profound sleep, taking restoration from his native earth in the chests below.

When Rogerian rapped on Sanct’ Germain’s outer door an hour later, he found Sanct’ Germain just risen and finishing shaving; clothes fresh from the press were laid out on the low couch in the sitting room. “You should have summoned me,” said Rogerian.

“You have more urgent tasks,” said Sanct’ Germain as he wiped the last of the oily soap from his face with a length of old cotton. “I have shaved myself for many centuries without needing my reflection to guide me.”

“Just as well,” said Rogerian. “I have taken a bolt of bronze silk from the storeroom; it is in the library. Your gray gelding is saddled and waiting for you in the stable.”

“How are the other preparations going?” Sanct’ Germain asked as he picked up the horseman’s dalmatica of black wool. This Roman garment was more than a century out of fashion but it was of superior quality, and no one would regard it as inappropriate for the foreign al-chemist to wear such clothing. “I need my high boots.”

Rogerian opened one of the chests against the wall and pulled out a pair of tall Mongol boots lined in goat hair. The heels and soles were thicker than was usual for Mongols, a detail that no one in Toletum would know. “The preparations are going well. I believe we will have two wagons ready to go by mid-day.” He handed over the boots without comment.

“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain, taking the boots. “I will attend to the horses and mules as soon as I return from my errands.” He continued dressing.

“Will that include Viridia?” Rogerian asked without inflection.

“I think so,” said Sanct’ Germain after a short silence. “I will present her with her gift, and the deed to occupy this house in my absence. Once I have seen her, there will be no way to keep my plans secret; her slaves barter every scrap of news they come by.” He gave a wry chuckle then added, “Fortunately Viridia does not allow them to watch her at her pleasure, or I would not be safe with her, no matter how accommodating she may be.”

“Will she say anything of that when you have gone?” There was nothing in his question to reveal his own uncertainties.

“With tenancy of this house settled on her, she would be foolish beyond imagining to do anything that would compromise me. She might, if there were advantage in it, but it would mean more danger for her than I think she wishes to bring on herself. If she speaks against me, no man after that would trust her enough to lie with her except by force. It is no easy life to be a woman of her station—better than a common prostitute, but not quite a courtesan. She will be very careful how she deals with all she knows; she has no wish to end up branded and in prison, and there are those who would be glad of a reason to condemn her.” Sanct’ Germain shook his head. “She is not inclined to play into the hands of the envious. That would be ultimate folly for her.”

“Might her slaves decide to sell what they know . . .” Rogerian suggested, leaving the possibilities open.

“If they were trying to gain advantages for themselves at Viridia’s cost, they would be more likely to carry tales of her other lovers, men with position and power greater than any I could have here. They are far more vulnerable than I am, having place and reputation to lose. I am an oddity among her patrons, a foreigner with little influence in the city, and so I do not offer the advantages the others can.” He fastened the lacings of his boots and straightened up. “I will need my pluvial,” he said; the heavy cloak of heavy waxed linen would be necessary for many weeks to come.

“Yes, you will,” Rogerian agreed. “It is in the vestibule.”

“I will take it as I leave,” said Sanct’ Germain as he gathered up his belt and pouch and buckled them into place. “How long are you going to need to pack the wagons?”

“For the first trip to the villa?” Rogerian asked. “As I have said, we should be ready to depart by mid-day. When I return, I will spend more time readying your goods for travel.”

“I need not have asked,” said Sanct’ Germain with an apologetic wave of his hand. “I am preoccupied, or I would not have done.”

For the first time Rogerian frowned; it was unusual for Sanct’ Germain’s attention to be distracted. “My master,” he ventured. “What is troubling you?”

Sanct’ Germain picked up his long Byzantine dagger. “I dislike being pressed,” he said curtly as he thrust the dagger through his belt. “Still, it is not the first time, nor will it be the last.”

Rogerian had to be content with this observation; Sanct’ Germain went out of his private rooms leaving his manservant to begin the task of packing his belongings for travel.

By the time Sanct’ Germain reached Viridia’s house, afternoon was closing in, the storm-clouds looming overhead, the wind whooping down the narrow streets; the people of Toletum had been driven indoors, so few curious eyes watched as Sanct’ Germain was admitted by Viridia’s single slave, a middle-aged woman from the north. “Is your mistress busy?” he asked as he removed his pluvial, letting it drip on the rough paving-stones of the entry. He took the large, brightly colored sack from under his arm, preparing to present it as custom required.

“She will be pleased to see you in her private reception room,” said the slave, taking care not to look at him directly, or the gift he carried.

“Thank you,” Sanct’ Germain said as he handed her a silver coin. He climbed the narrow stairs quickly, and stepped into the central hall of the house. The private reception room was on the left; he paused before entering the room.

Viridia sat on an upholstered bench near the fireplace; she was dressed in Byzantine splendor; her dalmatica of mulberry silk and fine woollen palla were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and her elaborate gold earrings—gifts from Sanct’ Germain—set off her lovely face and russet hair. She had been waiting for him, and now she smiled, extending her arms to him without rising. “I did not know whether or not you would come,” she said, chiding him gently.

“Nor did I,” he responded with more candor than she had expected. “The Praetorius is making matters difficult for me just now.”

“I had heard something of that,” she said, still waiting for him to approach her.

Finally Sanct’ Germain went to her, and made a proper presentation of the sack. “I regret only that this is not sufficiently fine for you,” he said, as good manners required.

“I am sure you honor me too much,” she said, equally formulaically. “I am humbled by your high opinion.” Taking the sack, she opened it, and for the first time her smile was wholly genuine. “Oh,
oh,
Sanct’ Germain, it’s beautiful. Where did you ever get such silk?” she exclaimed as she ran her hands over it. “Let me look at it,” she went on before he could answer.

“I brought it from the other side of the world,” he said, recalling his long journey on the Old Silk Road.

She laughed as she spread out the shining fabric, measuring it with care. “There are lengths and
lengths
of it,” she approved as she caressed the silk as she spread it out around her. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Wrapping herself in the fabric, she flung herself into his arms. “This is wonderful.
Wonderful.
” She kissed his chin. “How did you know to bring me this?”

“You have said you like silk,” he said indulgently.

“Well, yes; who does not?” She slipped away from him, almost dancing. “I will have the most
beautiful
dalmatica made from it. I have fifteen gold coins that can be sewn into a tablion for it. That would be magnificent.”

“I am pleased you are satisfied with my gift,” he said, making her a reverence.

“I am
delighted,
” she told him as she came back to his side. “You make me sad that you are leaving.”

Sanct’ Germain shrugged. “I am not wholly jubilant about it, either,” he said, his eyes enigmatic. “But it would not be wise for me to remain. It would be dangerous for you, as well.”

“The Praetorius is not interested in women like me,” she said, dismissing his concern. “If I sold myself in the marketplace, he might imprison me, but I am discreet, I have only a few lovers and I see them here. What danger is there in that?”

“There could be, if the Praetorius believed you were . . .” His voice trailed off as he watched Viridia gather up the silk he had given her, put it into a chest against the wall, and then begin to remove her palla. “The Praetorius is not the only danger you face.”

She let the palla drift to the floor. “If you mean the Episcus, I do not fear him.”

“No,” he said as she slowly shrugged out of her dalmatica, letting it puddle around her feet in a shimmering mass; now all she wore were her felt house-shoes and her earrings. “I mean that I can be dangerous to you, that even if I were not leaving this place, it would not be wise for me to continue to . . . visit you.”

“What nonsense you talk,” she said as she stepped out of the pool of silk and came toward him. “You have done nothing to hurt me. You do not beat me. You do not tup me. Where is the danger?” As she reached him, she put her arms up to his shoulders and leaned against him. “I’m cold, Sanct’ Germain. You must warm me.” She glanced toward the curtained alcove where her bed was.