Come Twilight (13 page)

Byzantine ships have refused to take cargo from any port west of Massilia, saying that to do so would carry the Pox to Constantinople, which they will not do. This is making for hard times among the merchants of this city; they must watch their goods spoil in warehouses or face empty ones, with none of their goods delivered. Because of this, many men have been unable to find work and are now asking for charity of the churches here, saying they face starvation. We have extended ourselves as much as we are able, but we, too, have been deprived of goods, so our position is perilous.

I implore you, as a worthy Christian, to consider making work available to men from Tarraco if they can get to Corduba. With the Great Pox killing your people, surely you will have need of strong and willing workers. If you will but assure me that you will be able to secure them employment, I shall recommend that able-bodied men depart from here as soon as you think prudent. I am aware that it will take time for your reply to reach me, so I will tell you that I would want to be able to send these men on their way before Midsummer Day. It would be best for them to travel in good weather and long days.

The Episcus of Caesaraugusta has already said that there will be no work until the Gardingi authorize the rebuilding of roads, and so I cannot recommend that these men go there, although it is closer. I have
sent requests also to Saguntum and Toletum, but have not heard from either Episcus. I beseech you to do as much as you can to find employment for these unfortunate men: in Tarraco we are at the limits of our resources and God has not yet seen fit to end our tribulation. If you will but give me a sign of hope, I know those who come to the church for succor will be thankful and more sure of God’s goodness than if they are left to languish as beggars. Many men do desperate things when they are in such straits as these men are. Several of them have seen their wives and children die of hunger, and without help, there will be more called to the Throne of God.

You may think that because we have not been much visited by the Great Pox that God has spared us, but I tell you it is not the case. TheGreat Pox is a subtle and deadly enemy, capable of any ruse to bring down men. Each of us must bear burdens, as Christians must to be worthy of Salvation. Here we have starvation instead of Pox, but both are equally deadly. I cannot offer hope to those without bread and whose fields are barren. If you will only consider letting me send these men to you, I know your act will redound to your benefit in Paradise.

In return for your generosity, I will send with the men the olive-wood crucifix from Jerusalem that has long hung in our church. This is a most holy object, doubly sanctified by the place it was made and the Sacrifice it exemplifies. You will find its presence imparts a sanctity to all that come near it. All of Corduba will know it is your greatness of heart that brings such a treasure to your people, and it will strengthen their faith.

May God show His Face to you in this and in all things, may your children never abandon the ways of virtue, may your wife do you honor, may your flock always hold you in esteem, may the Church reward your fidelity, may you never falter in devotion to Christ, may your dedication never flag, may you never neglect any pious act, may you be fearless in the cause of God’s Right, may you never have reason to regret any act you may perform, may your body be preserved from all ills, may you live in wisdom and die in grace, and may your name be heralded in Heaven.

In the Name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

Salvius

Episcus of Tarraco

on the 9
^th
day of April, in the 622
^nd
year since the Coming of Our Lord

Her delivery had been hard after a day and a night of labor; the child had come at last shortly after dawn, red, wrinkled, and outraged. Now Csimenae lay exhausted on the straw-filled mattress, her face wan, her hair damp and tangled, but her eyes shone like burning embers, and she managed a smile that was all teeth. “I said I would have a son,” she told Sanct’ Germain defiantly as she looked down at her infant. “I should have sacrificed a horse. I should have drunk its blood.”

Sanct’ Germain nodded, showing no dismay at her wish. “You have your son.” He had a bowl of warm water in one hand and a soft cloth in the other. “If you will let me wash him?”

She held the baby more fiercely. “No. You will take all his strength from him. He must have all the juices of his birth upon him, to guard him from death. He should be washed in horse’s blood.” She put a protective hand over her son’s head. “You must give me the cord you cut. He will have to wear it around his neck until he is five years old. And I must keep the afterbirth preserved in oil until he marries, or he will not be fruitful.”

“And the cord? What benefit will it provide?” He knew better than to argue with her, although he had never learned that such a practice served any worthwhile purpose.

“He must be strong,” she said as if he were a fool. “You are a stranger, and you do not know anything.”

“That I am a stranger is beyond question,” said Sanct’ Germain quietly, “but it does not follow that I am wholly ignorant.” In his long centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, he had learned about difficult births—the only kind the priests ever saw, for all others were handled by midwives—and knew that fatigue would soon overtake Csimenae; she would require careful nursing to regain her resilience. “Your babe will need you to restore yourself if you are to be able to tend to his needs; he will be hungry in a short while, and he must be fed then, or he will lose strength. You would not want that to happen.” He indicated the partitioned room beyond the hearth where she lay, thinking again that it had been wise to move her into the largest house in the village; here she felt safe as well as confident of having the greatest power in Mont Calcius. He saw her hand shake from exhaustion. “You will be able to gain stamina only if you rest.

In his improvised swaddling bands, the infant began to fuss, soft, harsh cries indicating his dissatisfaction.

“He will be a mighty leader; all the signs point to it,” she said, trying not to yawn. “He is full of promise.” She smoothed his forehead and blinked slowly as sleep began to take hold of her. “When the others come back, they will . . . They will own him the lord here.” Sighing deeply, she struggled to keep awake. “Do not wash him.”

Sanct’ Germain carefully said nothing. He signaled to Rogerian. “You had better make a strong broth for her. The venison would be best. Add garlic and tarragon and a little of the angelica root to clean her blood.”

Rogerian looked away. “And you? What of your blood, my master? How long as it been since you—?”

His response was hardly more than a whisper. “I would never seek a woman in her state; I could harm her, and give her more distress than joy. It would put her at risk, and perhaps her child as well. I could not have that on my conscience.” He looked at Csimenae for a long moment. “The animals will suffice for the time being,” said Sanct’ Germain brusquely, then went on in a kinder tone. “I am grateful you are concerned for me, but, truly, you have no reason to worry.”

“So you tell me,” said Rogerian, plunging on, “and yet, you have said that when you do not have—”

“She’ll hear you,” Sanct’ Germain warned as he moved toward the table where Rogerian was chopping herbs with his dagger.

Rogerian went silent at once. When he had finished with the tarragon leaves, he looked directly at Sanct’ Germain. “You will have to seek touching eventually, or you will suffer for it.”

“Perhaps,” said Sanct’ Germain, being deliberately evasive. “Let me know when she begins to stir, or if her infant wakes again. Both of them are tired, but Csimenae is worn out. With so long a labor and so hard a delivery, she may be feverish. She is worried for her babe, which is not astonishing; soothe her if you can. Be sure she has plenty of broth and water, and a little toasted cheese, if she wants it, but do not give her other food until tomorrow. If she seems too depleted, tell me.” He had raided the cheeses from the other houses in Mont Calcius; there were still five good-sized rounds left; in another month there would be new ones from the small flock of sheep he had acquired.

“And if she takes a fever, what then?” Rogerian asked. “If she is ill for long, her child may die from it.”

“Keep your voice down,” Sanct’ Germain cautioned. “It is important that she not be distressed.” He rubbed at the short beard he had grown over the last seven weeks. “I am going to tend to the stock, and then I am going to try to find some eggs for her. I should not be long.”

“The sun is strong today, and it will grow stronger until mid-day,” Rogerian pointed out, giving an oblique warning. “You will have to have new earth in your soles soon.”

“Yes; you are right about that,” said Sanct’ Germain as he went out of the house into the street; he made his way toward the only real barn in the village where his two mules and two horses were stabled, and the three feral nanny-goats he had managed to capture were penned inside high walls. Birds nesting in the loft twittered and screeched as he came inside; he paid them no mind as he checked the water in the stalls, and then in the pen. “You’ll all be fed,” he told the animals. “No need to fret.” Using the rickety ladder he climbed into the loft and grabbed two armloads of hay which he threw down to the goats. Then he gathered the same again and carefully backed down the ladder. He fed the mules first, then went up once again to get hay for the horses. Once the fodder was in the mangers, he went and fetched a skin of olive oil, and poured a little onto the hay for the horses and mules, to help their coats stay healthy. Those chores done, he took a large armload of hay and strolled out of the barn, thinking as he went that he would have to trim his horses’ and mules’ feet soon. He dropped the hay into the village sheep-fold and smiled wryly at the occupants’ bleating; he chided his own longings, commenting aloud, “If only I were so readily satisfied,” before he went on about his self-appointed chores.

There were three places where the newly arrived wild geese occasionally laid eggs, and he checked each place; the geese and any eggs were missing. He frowned, trying to decide what to offer her instead—honied goat’s milk, perhaps—when a movement above him caught his attention. A hawk flying high overhead skreed to its mate, and was answered from another part of the sky. The wind was picking up, coming in from the south-west smelling of wild thyme and juniper. From far down the slope came the distant, unmusical sound of a bell: a goatherd was leading his flock out to feed; it was a reminder that Mont Calcius could expect visitors from time to time, and that some preparation should be made to receive them, whether friendly or hostile. The villagers who had left might also decide to return, and Csimenae would insist that they be humbled for their desertion; she spoke of her intentions often, taking pride in her anger. She would make them bow to her and to her son or she would shut the gates against them. Sanct’ Germain decided to make an inspection of the wood-and-stone wall that surrounded the village in order to be certain it was in good repair, and went out the gate to attend to it at once. On the north side of the wall he found half a dozen timbers were loose, leaning at an angle: these would have to be replaced, and soon. As he went around to the eastern side, he discovered two of the broad planks had fallen completely, and a whole section of the remaining wall listed at a precarious angle—one good rainstorm and it would all come down.

Sanct’ Germain reproved himself that he had not bothered to check the wall more thoroughly before now; returning from the hunt, he usually approached from the west, and had not paid much attention to the state of the wall. He would have to go to work soon: that night, he told himself, he would bring back logs from the forest instead of meat. Continuing around the outside of the town, he was relieved to find the south side of the village wall was intact, and he had already repaired the gate on the west side of the village. If he did the work at night, when he was strongest, he could have the whole of it refurbished in a matter of two or three nights: Csimenae’s apprehension would be assuaged by the restoration of the wall and it was an easily done task.

“My master?” Rogerian was calling as Sanct’ Germain came back through the gate and set the heavy wooden bolt in place.

“Here, Rogerian,” he answered. “Is anything the matter?”

“The baby is awake, but Csimenae is not. I put him to her breast to suck, but he is fretful.” Rogerian appeared at the end of the street.

“Hardly surprising after such a delivery,” said Sanct’ Germain quietly as he lengthened his stride. “Is he well otherwise?”

Rogerian shrugged and fell into step beside Sanct’ Germain. “He is only a few hours old. I cannot tell.”

Sanct’ Germain raised his brows in speculation. “How does he appear to you? Is his color good?”

“I would know more if she would allow us to wash him and swaddle him,” said Rogerian with a slight frown of concern.

“I am not certain swaddling is much use. Those I have seen over the years have not been helped by such confinement: babies will grow straight or crooked according to their natures, not because they were swaddled or not.” He was almost at the door of the house where Csimenae now lay. “Whether or not she will let us bathe the child, she must certainly wash as soon as she is awake again.”

“And if she refuses?” Rogerian asked.

“We must convince her it is for the good of her child.” He stopped, his hand on the latch. “Which it is: it will do the boy no good to have his mother ail.”

Rogerian nodded. “Is there anything I can do for her now?” He paused. “She wants to wash him in horse’s blood.”

“I know.’ Sanct’ Germain considered briefly. “Milk the nannies, then, this evening, heat the milk with honey and a little of the wine in the pantry here. Then give her broth again. It is fortunate that there are ewes in the sheepfold at last—we will soon make a fortifying cheese for her. For now, we must make do with what we have.” Sanct’ Germain was about to step inside, but Rogerian halted him once more.