Dark of the Sun (46 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
The Church continues to gain converts, and in such a time as this, it is hardly a wonder, for with so much uncertainty in the world, and with conditions that may appear to be the end of the world—as many of the Bishops here preach—many people believe that the promise of the life after death is more dependable than this life. Daily Roma is filled with funeral processions, and the incense from the churches all but blots out the sun. Those who venture to the old temples do so circumspectly, for there are bands of Christian youths who go about the streets with cudgels, attacking any who seek to worship at places other than their churches. Already they have appropriated some of the old temples for their own use, changing the dedications to those of Christian Saints instead of the older gods of Roma. For many Romans, the changing of the Pantheon to Santa Maria ad Martyres was a final blow to the old ways of Roma, when many faiths were practiced and many gods were welcome. I have seen the temple of the Bona Dea usurped in the name of the Virgin Mary, and surely the statue of a pregnant woman is suitable both to Mary and the Magna Mater.
You have asked about the Pope, and I regret to tell you that I have very little knowledge about the current state of Silverius, except to say that the Pope is at odds with the Emperor Justinian in Constantinople. Now that the Ostrogoths no longer have the strong leadership and their so-called nobles contend for power, the Emperor in Constantinople can act almost with impunity here, for the Ostrogoths will not agree to unite long enough to throw back so powerful an opponent as Justinian’s General Belisarius. In this disarray the Church is left to flounder. For all the prestige that was gained when Pope Leo bribed the Huns to save Roma, the Church has assumed a position that it cannot fulfill with the support of the Ostrogothic army, which is not theirs to command. Because the Church is without military champions in Roma, the Eastern Church has increased its pressure on the Pope, attempting to reunify all Christians, under their leadership, of course. There is a convocation of churchmen ordered to take place in Constantinople, but it is not at all certain that Pope Silverius may attend. It is said he is in poor health and that such a journey may be enough to bring about his death. I have no direct information to confirm this; I am only repeating what has been propounded by Senators and other officials. Since the Eastern and Roman Churches broke apart, each has tried to gain ascendancy over the other, and that is detrimental to both, for it means that conflicts within the Churches become more important than what is transpiring in the world. Those prestigious Archbishops would gain more support and assistance if they were to leave spiritual politics to God and extend themselves to their people with charity and succor. I am sorry if this distresses you, but if you think I say this to cast aspersions on the Church, come to Roma and see for yourself. I have no reason to deceive you, but, of course, as I am a woman, I am not privy to the inner workings of the Papal court and must tell you only what I have gleaned from knowledgeable sources.
As part of Justinian’s plan, his army is still in the south, not very active at present because of the weather. Some of the companies of soldiers have been recalled to help contain the increasing troubles on the eastern borders of the Byzantine Empire, but many still remain, and it has been the sad lot of the peasants of the south to have to house and feed these interlopers. Some have taken this much to heart and have appealed to the Senate to provide some relief for what they have endured. But the Senate has little to give and even less authority to give it, and so the people in the south languish under a double yoke—that of Roma and Constantinople. With food so scarce, I have been hearing stories of peasants capturing Byzantine soldiers and slaughtering them. I know of no one who has actually witnessed such a meal, but the tales are everywhere, and they are increasing. I have no doubt that men on the edge of starvation have eaten other men, but in this case, the stories have an air of convenience about them—peasants not only getting a meal, but striking back against an enemy—that makes them less plausible than if the peasants were said to have devoured their neighbors.
They say that bears and wolves have been coming down out of the hills to the north of Roma and attacking villages for food. If this is so, and not some often-repeated rumor, it does not augur well for the year to come. I cannot put full credence in it, for I know that bears sleep in the winter and do not venture out until spring. But it may be that in the fall there were instances of lone farms being attacked, for such has happened before after a hard year. I would not put too much stock in such reports, but I would not go abroad alone, either, and not just because of wolves and bears: there are many desperate men who have turned to outlawry and who prey upon the unprotected. You may dislike the notion, but I would advise you to take at least six men, properly armed, as escort when you go abroad in the country, for I fear you are far more likely to fall to a brigand’s arrow or spear than to the jaws of a wolf. I would also require your monks to travel in groups of at least ten, for much the same reason. I know they may carry knives and staves, both of which are useful weapons.
I will look forward to your next letter. If I learn anything that may be useful to you, I will send a message to you as soon as I may, if the roads are not still so muddy that the courier would risk ending up in a quagmire. I will hope that the spring is kind to us all, and that you and your monks are spared more tragedies than you have suffered already, that our crops become bountiful once again, and our livestock flourish. I thank you for the good service you have rendered me, and I trust that in time, the service I render you will prove of equal worth.
Atta Olivia Clemens
Emrach Sarai’af scratched his beard and contemplated the sheet of parchment on the table in front of him. “You say this is written in the Byzantine tongue? You know the language, do you?” he asked Rojeh suspiciously. He was reclining in a padded-leather chair, but not at rest.
“Yes, it is in Byzantine Greek. Ask Patriarch Stavros if you doubt me. I would offer to read it, but I suppose you would prefer your translator be a disinterested party,” Rojeh answered blandly. He had dressed in a long paragaudion of a deep green shade with a Romanstyle abolla of heavy, rust-colored wool hung artfully around his shoulders, giving him a somewhat formal appearance for this occasion. His Persian leggings were a deep brown, almost the same shade as his boots.
“Perhaps tomorrow; I have too much to attend to today,” said Emrach, stretching out and staring off into the distance. “The last storm was the worst so far—more than a dozen houses have been destroyed and all the builders are busy, as is most of the town. Who knows when we will have such a break in the weather again? I must see as many of you foreigners as I can until the next storm comes.”
Rojeh preserved an unperturbed manner, continuing, “My employer would appreciate knowing what your final disposition will be in regard to this—”
“What can it be? I am powerless in this situation. It is a Jou’an-Jou’ an matter, surely?” Emrach asked with an elaborate shrug. “The Jou’an-Jou’an are camped outside the walls, where I have no authority.”
“You could admit her to the town,” Rojeh said patiently; he saw the obstinate set of Emrach’s jaw, and he strove to keep his tone level. “If my employer can pardon her for her attempt on his life, surely you can let her into the town. Otherwise she is likely to die.”
“But your master is just the problem, don’t you see?—she made an attempt on his life, and that would mean I could be permitting a would-be murderer to enter our gates, which would not be accepted by those whose town this is. You are a foreigner, your master is a foreigner, and you will soon be gone, and what would we do with the woman then? With the prison burned down, we have no secure place to put her, and her people have already forbidden her to shelter and eat with them. It would not be wise for me to allow her to come into Sarai, for not only is she dangerous, she might not want to leave, and what then?” He shook his head. “No. No. If the Jou’an-Jou’an have decided to be shut of her, why should I countermand their decision?”
Rojeh sighed. “You have made up your mind.”
“I have,” said Emrach with vast satisfaction. “I think it is fitting that you should bear in mind the obligation I have to all Sarai, particularly to those who live here, for as Master of Foreigners I must answer for what the foreigners do. Your Jou’an-Jou’an woman is no different than the rest. If she is allowed inside the walls, she might well begin to attack the people of the town, and that would not do. You have said that in this account, your master pardons her. I must not be guided by leniency, but by the strictures of my position.”
“My employer is willing to vouch for her,” Rojeh persisted. “He would offer her a place but—”
“Exactly. But! He cannot take so bloodthirsty a creature into his house.” Emrach held up an admonishing finger, clearly enjoying the exercise of his authority. “You say your master has no fear, and that may well be true, but he cannot be allowed to conduct himself in such a lax manner.”
“He is able to protect himself; the staff has been sufficient for his needs. There is no need for guards,” said Rojeh, for the first time feeling the pluck of fear in his viscera.
“And who is he that I should pay him any mind?” Emrach challenged, his black eyes brightening.
“He is a man of vast experience who has been about the world for most of his life. He has witnessed things you and I can only imagine—and I say it, though I have been with him for a time.” Rojeh tried to be as accommodating as possible, but he was having difficulty keeping his annoyance from his demeanor.
“Do the Jou’an-Jou’an think so?” Emrach asked, appreciating his power tremendously. “How can you tell me they have a high regard for him if they permit one of their own to—”
“My employer is not a man to demand satisfaction of those who do him injury, but he seeks a just resolution to disputes. Even the Jou’an-Jou’an woman has said she is deeply saddened about what her gods demanded of her,” Rojeh pointed out. “She cannot long survive without shelter, let alone food.”
“No, she can’t.” Emrach slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “And why should your master offer to provide either food or shelter for her, considering what she has done? Is it his own pride, or is it truly his idea of justice, to permit an offender to go free?”
“My employer explains that in his report,” said Rojeh. “He has said that she was forced to make a decision that redounded badly—”
“And you expect me to heed his request in regard to the woman Dukkau?”
“Dukkai,” Rojeh corrected. “That is the reason I am here.”
“Yes, so you said at the beginning,” said Emrach. “Do you think the Jou’an-Jou’an master—what do they call him?”
“Kaigan. His name is Neitis Ksoka,” Rojeh supplied.
“Terrible names,” Emrach declared. “Would the Kaigan see it as your master does?”
Rojeh sighed, unwilling to argue. “This is my employer’s account: I am ordered to leave it with you.”
Emrach sighed his gratification at such an acknowledgment. “If that is what Ragoczy Franciscus has told you to do, then you have fulfilled your mission. I will assume he is giving a truthful report, and I will make a decision shortly.”
“If I may ask, why are you so reluctant to extend mercy to this woman?” Rojeh asked.
“Ah, you see, Sarai is a funnel, and everyone traveling on the northern routes comes here one way or another. For that reason I must maintain order here that will extend protection not only to the town, but to anyone living within the walls, whether or not it is to their liking. Otherwise Sarai would be visited by more scoundrels than you can imagine, and no one in the town could maintain order.” Emrach’s smile was wide and shallow. “I am sure your master will understand when you explain it to him.”
“This woman will not endanger that,” Rojeh said.
“Perhaps not, but the next one might. And there is always a next one.” Emrach laid his hand on the parchment. “I will speak to Patriarch Stavros later today and ask him to read this to me and assess what has been asked of me. That much I assure you I will do.” He coughed delicately. “Your master must know that I have a duty to the town before any I have to foreigners.”
Rojeh reverenced him. “Then I am most appreciative that you are willing to receive me at all.”
“Very gracious—just what I would expect from your master.” Emrach sighed and pointed to the side door. “I fear I must attend to the next petitioners. I have three Armenians to deal with, and they would not be pleased that you got here before them.”
“As you wish,” said Rojeh, not at all certain this was the true reason for Emrach’s ordering him to leave in this atypical fashion. The door opened onto a small corridor, which led to a door opening onto an alleyway. Rojeh closed the door and stepped out into the street, walking with care on the rough paving stones covered in slushy snow.
“Ehi! Foreigner!” a scrawny youth called from the wall of the nearest house and, before Rojeh could respond, shied a rock at him. “That’s for taking our food!” He scrambled out of sight, his derisive laughter echoing along the stones of the alley.
Rojeh inspected his shoulder where the rock had struck, using his fingers to ascertain how much harm he had sustained; satisfied no real damage had been done, he continued on as the path curved and twisted among the buildings, some of which had been damaged by fire and smoke, but most of which were still fairly sound. As he walked, he realized he had lost his sense of direction and now had no idea where the alley would take him.
A mangy, emaciated dog slunk across the road a short distance ahead of Rojeh. Its hair was patchy, but what there was looked matted. There were rat bites half-healed on its shoulders and flank, and its tail had been broken and now hung at a disconsolate angle. It growled miserably and slipped away through a gap in a blackened wall.
Rojeh was feeling distinctly edgy; he considered retracing his steps and trying the other direction from Emrach Sarai’af’s house. He listened closely to the mingled sounds that the walls magnified and melded to a roar like a waterfall. The pale winter light provided little more than shadows, so narrow was the path among the buildings. Now Rojeh was glad he had slipped a dagger into his sleeve, for although it was forbidden to carry weapons into meetings with the Master of Foreigners, he had not been searched and now was ready to face any unexpected opponent he might encounter, he told himself as he pulled the dagger out. The alley made a jog to the right and ended abruptly at a little square near the east wall of the town, where a small knot of men stood about a fountain-trough, leading all manner of animals to drink: horses, ponies, donkeys, mules, camels, goats, and two pair of oxen. Sliding his dagger back into the sheath buckled to his forearm, Rojeh looked about for a wide street that would take him to the Foreigners’ Quarter.
“The Westerner is lost,” scoffed one of the men at the trough, a Volgaman by the look of him.
“I believe that will take me to the Foreigners’ Quarter,” said Rojeh calmly, pointing to one of the two broadest streets entering the square.
“Anyone who ventures into the Crooked Lane has to be lost,” said another of the men, this one a Uighur with a string of shaggy ponies.
“that’s what it’s for,” said a man with a string of goats.
“Do you still have all your fingers and toes, or were they taken from you?” This from an Armenian with oxen.
Rojeh laughed as much because it was expected of him as from amusement. “It is a strange byway.”
“It doubles back twice,” said a Sarai native with a pair of skinny horses. “How did you come to take such a route?”
“I mistook it for another alley,” said Rojeh. “I must have misunderstood the directions I was given.”
This time the laughter was less jeering, and the Armenian nodded emphatically. “It is always thus. In a place like Sarai, only the true natives can find anything.” He waved at the road Rojeh had decided to take.
Rojeh went up the street toward the Foreigners’ Quarter, all the while wondering what sort of prank Emrach had played on him. By the time he reached Ragoczy Franciscus’ house, he was torn between deepening worry and mild exasperation with the Master of Foreigners. He found Thetis and her children in the kitchen, watching Dasur prepare their midday meal; jointed fowl lay in a heap along with onions, two tiny cloves of garlic, and a small cabbage.
“These all go into the pot. If we had any, I would add slices of pork and lentils and use olive oil to give it body, but none can be found in the markets, so we make do with this and be thankful for it. It would also be tastier if we had pepper.” He opened a jar of rough wine from Edessa. “This is almost the last of what I could buy. It will make the food taste better—wine and salt, to bring out the flavor. It’s a pity about the wharves; there is not much fish to be had since all fishing has been confined to the shore and to the smallest craft, ones that can be launched into the streams of the Delta.”
“I would like fish,” said Aristion wistfully.
“So would we all,” said Thetis in a tone that discouraged complaint.
Dasur caught sight of Rojeh and became much less genial toward the widow and her children. “This meal will be ready on time, not that you will notice.” He tittered. “The Master of Foreigners has sent two men to this house. They are in the slaves’ room”—he cocked his head in the direction of the room behind the pantry—“for now.”
“Two guards,” said Rojeh, deciding that he understood the reason for sending him the wrong way out of Emrach’s headquarters. “When did they arrive?”
“Not long ago. The fire Aethalric started for them has only just begun to burn, and he is putting the room in order.” Dasur fidgeted. “I will have to feed them, I suppose.”
Rojeh ignored the intended barb. “Since I have told you that I fend for myself, and my master cannot yet eat anything, providing food for the guards should not be a problem. Failure to do so could make for trouble for all of us.” He came a few steps farther into the kitchen. “Whatever Ragoczy Franciscus and I might do, the rest of you are entitled to a proper meal twice a day, and cheese or bread to break your fast in the morning.”
Dasur heard him out with an air of long-suffering patience. “Speaking of your meals, I was able to purchase a duck for you. It’s alive and in the side-passage to the herb-garden.” Dasur stared in Rojeh’s direction, not quite daring a direct confrontation.
“That was good of you,” said Rojeh, paying no heed to the cook’s rancor, which had been increasing since Rojeh had refused his help in nursing Ragoczy Franciscus. “I will deal with it a little later.” He looked about the kitchen. “So: Aethalric is busy with sweeping the slaves’ room for two guards to use, and Chtavo is still mucking out the stalls?”
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