Come Twilight (12 page)

An owl drifted past him on huge, hushed wings, and for an instant the wood was silent. Then the wind ruffled through the branches and movement returned: insects bored and flittered and hummed, badgers trundled along in the underbrush, martens scrambled in the branches, a sounder of boar rutted among the roots of the trees some short distance away, wild cats prowled in solitary pursuits of prey, higher up the slope careful deer minced under the trees. Then there came the bleating call of a wild goat, and Sanct’ Germain moved off toward it, quiet and agile as a shadow.

Four wild goats grazed in a small meadow; a short distance away an old male stood guard over the four, his shaggy coat matted with shedding hair.

Moving carefully with the skill of long experience, Sanct’ Germain crept up on the goats, knowing he would have one chance to catch his prey without a chase. The goat nearest to him was a young male with a scar on his nose; the animal was good-sized and well-fleshed for this time of year: he would supply meat for Rogerian and the woman for several days. He concentrated on the goat, using his ability to influence animals to lull the young goat into a stupor, just dazed enough to give Sanct’ Germain the opportunity he sought.

His rush at his prey was so sudden that the other goats barely had time to look up in alarm before the young male was gone, rendered unconscious and carried away by something swift and powerful. The old male on guard let out a challenging squeal as he came rushing down, head lowered, pursuing Sanct’ Germain and his prize. But Sanct’ Germain sprinted at a speed that the goat could not match, and in a short time he had outrun the herd leader and began to make his way back toward the village with his prize, seeking out the paths the animals and shepherds used.

He came to a broad path at the edge of the forest, one that was intended to carry oxen and carts and wagons. Thinking this must lead back to the village, Sanct’ Germain set out on it, glad that he could move more quickly. He had gone roughly a thousand paces when he saw something lying in the road ahead, looking like a heap of tattered leather and smelling of dried blood. Approaching carefully, he saw it was the remnants of a man, one who had been cruelly killed, for the man’s abdomen had been abraded away, leaving internal organs exposed and worn. Broken ribs like barrel staves stuck through his chest. The head was nothing more than a mass of shattered bone; the face had been obliterated, the eye sockets crushed, and part of the jaw gone. Only the legs were relatively intact, and the feet were almost black, the ankles still bound with rawhide strips.

Sanct’ Germain decided he would have to return to bury the body—he had to get the goat back to the village now—to keep it from being devoured by cats and wolves. He stepped away from the hideous corpse and continued on toward the village. As he neared the walls, he took what he needed from the limp goat before breaking its neck and killing it; only then did he feel a pang of regret for what he had had to do, for it reminded him of the battered dead figure out on the road.

Carrying the goat slung over his shoulders, he went through the gate and down the street to the one house that had light behind its shuttered windows. At the door of the house, he put down his burden and called out to Rogerian, “I have food. He will need to be hung and dressed at once.”

“Of course,” Rogerian replied without any sign of urgency or worry. “I will come tend to it at once.” He emerged from the house a moment later, carrying a long skinning knife in one hand and a wide, flat pan in the other. “A goat?” he said as he looked down.

“It was near,” said Sanct’ Germain. “It’s good-sized.”

“So it is.” Rogerian nodded. “I will have my portion as I dress it. That will leave the rest for the woman. Shall I save the skin?”

“Of course; she cannot afford to waste any of the animal,” Sanct’ Germain said. “And smoke the rest; it will last longer that way. If you roast it, it will be useless in a week. I will hunt again in a night or two, and that will also be smoked for her. This woman will not be able to provide for herself until the end of summer. She cannot hunt as laden as she is with child, and once the babe is born, it will be many weeks before she can leave the infant unattended.” As he helped Rogerian to shoulder the goat, he asked, “Has she said anything?”

“Only that her man died of the Great Pox. She disdains speaking to me because I am a servant,” Rogerian said without rancor. “She believes she is above servants and slaves, and probably anyone born beyond the walls of the village.” He prepared to move off, but added, “Still warm. You came back quickly.”

“If I had thought I would be much longer, I would have gutted him myself. I did not kill him until I was almost at the gate; the smell could bring cats or wolves, or bear. I do not intend to waste any part of the meat: it would insult the animal and it would be foolish.” Sanct’ Germain folded his arms. “Olive-wood should give the smoke a pleasant savor.”

“So I thought. I will make a smoke-house tomorrow morning if I cannot find one in this place. Oh, there is a spot of blood on your cheek.” With that he wiped it away, then turned and was gone down the narrow alley between the houses.

Sanct’ Germain paused as he prepared himself to face the woman, knowing he would have to reassure her; he ran his hand over his chin, then went into the house. “You will have goat to eat,” he announced.

She was still in the chair where he had left her, but she no longer sat with her knees drawn up as far as her belly would allow; she slumped with fatigue but there was no trace of defeat about her. The bear-skin draped around her more for warmth than protection; the fire was lively enough to provide warmth as well as light. She looked up at him, showing him black eyes sunk in dark circles. “You did come back.”

“Did you think I would not?” Sanct’ Germain inquired lightly. “My bondsman, my horses and mules, and my belongings are here. Why should I not return?”

“The Great Pox drives everyone away, if it does not kill them.” She stopped to drink from a cup in her hand. “Your man mixed hot water with honey for me.”

“Your throat isn’t dry,” said Sanct’ Germain, wondering how Rogerian had convinced her to drink the preparation. “This is all to the good.” He glanced toward Rogerian and nodded his approval.

“Not dry anymore. My voice has returned. It is most useful, to have my voice again.” She looked at him for a long moment. “I am Csimenae,” she said at last, as if making a tremendous concession to him. “My man was—” She stopped herself before she spoke his name. “He died of the Great Pox after almost everyone was gone from here. They made a grave for him before they left.”

“So you—” Sanct’ Germain began, only to be interrupted.

“I dragged him out to his grave and rolled him in and covered him with earth. My babe moved within me the whole time. Then I was overcome.” The condemnation in this admission surprised Sanct’ Germain.

“Who would not be?” He came a step nearer to her. “Did everyone leave but you?”

She glared at him. “I would not abandon my man. They would not leave anyone with me. Nor did I need anyone. I saw him die and I buried him.” Her voice rose and she stopped to drink again. “If they come back, I will not let them in.”

Sanct’ Germain realized he had to be careful. “Because they left you alone.”

“Not me: the babe I will have. I have managed for myself, but the child is powerless. They said he would be born poxed, but I will not believe it.” She tossed her head in scorn and the long black braids plaited around her head, already loosened, swung free. “I would think nothing of my welfare, but this”—she laid her hand on her swollen abdomen—“is as helpless as stranded fish. For that they deserve to be shut out.”

“Even those of your blood?” Sanct’ Germain asked gently.

“They most of all,” Csimenae declared, and stopped to cough. “They should have cared for the babe. As it is, I . . .” She faltered, her black eyes filling with tears. “I may have to make a grave for him, too. I took no Pox, but his father did, and it may have penetrated my womb.”

“If the child is still moving, it is probably alive, and if it is alive, it should not be poxed.” Sanct’ Germain hoped he was reassuring her; nothing in her expression showed any emotion other than defiance.

“I do not want to bury this child; he must thrive and be worthy,” she said stubbornly. “This village will be his, when he is grown. I will see that he comes to rule here, for he will deserve to rule. It will be his because all the rest ran away, and so it falls to him by right. He must have the strength to hold it. My grandfather was unable to hold the village—my son shall restore us to mastery here.” Her hands were fists, and she almost kicked out at him.

“If that is what you seek for him, who am I to deny him,” Sanct’ Germain said quietly. “Let us see him safely into the world, and then, perhaps, you may decide on his fortune.”

She said nothing for a long moment, staring at him defiantly. “It is the right of my blood to rule here. I have remained here when others fled. I have proved this is ours once again. My grandfather shamed us, and they dragged him behind a horse until there was nothing left but his legs: my son will vindicate our honor.” Then she lowered her eyes. “If I had a horse left, I would kill it to ensure my son is safe.”

Aware that her hopes might be in vain, Sanct’ Germain asked, “And what if you have a daughter; what of her?” He thought of the body lying in the road, and he knew he, too, had been dragged, face-down, behind a horse.

“God is not so cruel to give me a daughter, not after my man is dead.” She shook her head repeatedly. “No. I will have a son. It is my right to have a son.”

“That may be,” said Sanct’ Germain. “But many a mother has loved her daughters as well as her sons.”

Her laughter was harsh. “I scorn such women!”

Knowing Csimenae was overwrought, Sanct’ Germain kept his thoughts to himself; he hoped, for the sake of the child, that the babe was male. “You should not tire yourself,” he said gently. “You need your strength.”

“To keep my son strong,” she agreed as she drank the last of the honied water. “He will be ruler here, and all the other villages will show him honor. I will see to it, or I will die defending him.” She sat upright, a martial light in her eyes and determination in every line of her body. “No one will slight him.”

It would be easy, he knew, to give her an easy answer, to agree with her desires for her child, but she might as readily take offense at such a remark as be bolstered by it, so he said, “Time enough for that when he is grown.”

“He will be lord here before he is grown,” she announced. “Mont Calcius will be his when he is sturdy enough to run around its walls.”

“Is that the name of this place?” Sanct’ Germain asked. “Mont Calcius?”

“The Romans called it Mons Calcius,” she replied evasively. “As do the other villages in this region. It has an older name.”

“No doubt,” said Sanct’ Germain, picking up a length of wood and adding it to the fire.

Csimenae looked at him as he tended the fire. “You have a servant to do servant’s work,” she said.

“He is busy with dressing the goat I killed.” He was silent for a moment.

“Does it shame you to kill a goat? There are deer and boar to hunt as well.” She gave him a genuine smile. “You did not much dishonor yourself. Even Gardingi hunt the goats in this region. You need not trouble yourself on that account.”

He knew she would not understand his ambivalence about killing, so he said only. “I am not troubled.”

She almost grinned. “To have meat again! I have lived on onions and cheese for days.” She threw back her head and shouted out three hard syllables in a language he did not recognize. “There. I will do it properly at the edge of the trees once my babe is born, but this will do for the time being. The spirits will respect what you have done, now. You may hunt without fear of them.”

“You are good to do this,” he said; whatever she believed about the animals in the mountains, he was willing to accept it.

“I have my son to preserve; nothing else matters so much as he.” She folded her arms. “I am still thirsty.”

“I will fetch water from the well and heat it for you,” Sanct’ Germain offered, wondering at the sternness in her face.

She nodded to acknowledge his service but said nothing more.

As he went down the dark street, Sanct’ Germain cogitated on what Csimenae had revealed as well as what he had inferred; drawing water from the well, he decided to remain in Mont Calcius at least until Csimenae was delivered of her child, for it took the sting out of his need to travel.

Text of a letter from Episcus Salvius of Tarraco to Episcus Gerundol of Corduba.

To my most esteemed peer and Brother in the Church, my greetings and the assurance of my prayers to guide and comfort you in this time of travail. We are being tested, and beyond all question, our souls will hang in the balance when our ordeal is ended.

Your tomus has been put into my hands, and I read with dismay of the spread of the Great Pox. It has not yet come to Tarraco in any great force, for which I must thank my good Angel, for it is God’s goodness that preserves us. It is not so for much of the countryside. I am told by travelers that the mountains are filled with it: indeed, the pestilent vapors are so powerful that many of the Gardingi are refusing to repair any damaged roads, fearing that will bring the Pox more quickly. Nothing that the Exarchs have ordered has been carried out, nor will it be until the Pox is gone from the land.