Come Twilight (14 page)

“What of the Great Pox? Has the child escaped it?”

“He is alive and his skin is clear: I must assume he has. He cries readily and he is active, so it would seem he is well enough.” He went through the door without giving Rogerian a chance to speak again. The odor of sweat and blood was still strong in the room in spite of the aromatic branches Rogerian had thrown on the fire. For a brief instant, Sanct’ Germain felt a pang of esurience that was all the more poignant for its brevity. He stilled the need as soon as he was aware of it, chagrin taking its place.

“Rogerian?” Csimenae’s voice was thready, hard to hear.

“No: Sanct’ Germain,” he replied as he went toward her partitioned room. “Rogerian has gone to milk the goats. He will be back when he is finished.” Then, in order to keep her interest, he continued, “I went to inspect the walls of the village, to be sure they are strong. I will shore them up where it is needed.”

She blinked in an effort to bring his features into focus as she held her son against her nipple. “I am so tired,” she said to account for her drowsiness.

“You had an ordeal to bring your son into the world.” He took a step nearer. “What shall you call him: do you know?”

“It is not time to speak his name,” she said, doing her utmost to be severe. “If I say his name before he has been alive for three days, the old gods will surely take him from me. He is in their hands for the first three days. The God of the Church guards him after that, and the gods of this village . . .” Her face was darkening with effort.

“Shh,” Sanct’ Germain said, calming her. “Your ways are not my ways, and I have no children. I did not know this.”

“How could you not?” she demanded, her agitation communicating itself to her infant, who began to wail. She immediately clutched him in her arms and tried to roll onto her side to shield him with her body.

Sanct’ Germain took a step back. “Care for him, Csimenae. Then rest.”

“I am no weakling,” she snapped before curling protectively around her squalling son. Only when she felt his mouth at her nipple did her anxiety diminish.

There was nothing he could say that would comfort her now. Resigned, he went to stoke the fire so that she would not become chilled; she might easily take any sickness that lingered in the village, for the effort of delivery left many women prey to all manner of debilitation; he had seen such collapses many times before. The fire would keep her warm, he reminded himself as he put the cut branches on the wood that already burned. That done, he took the largest cauldron from the cabinet next to the pantry and prepared to carry it out to the well: it would not do for Csimenae to bathe in cold water; she would have to remain in the bath for a good while in order to loosen her muscles to alleviate the discomfort she felt. He was sorry no Roman bath remained at the village, for it would have been an easy task to fire up the holocaust and heat the caladarium. As it was, he had a fair amount of work ahead of him. Making his way to the well, he studied the sky, noticing the high clouds and marking their course, for the weather would dictate much of his work.

By the time Sanct’ Germain had filled the barrel with hot water and aromatic herbs, Csimenae was awake enough to be curious about what he was doing. Holding a length of linen across her body, she sat up to watch him, curiosity flavored with suspicion. She still carried her son close to her, but she no longer looked as if she expected the infant to be torn from her hands. She smiled to show her inquisitiveness was untainted by leeriness. “This is an unusual thing—washing a mother before her birth-courses have stopped.”

“You will find you and your babe will benefit from it,” said Sanct’ Germain in a tranquil tone. “Come. You will want to make the most of the warmth.”

She faltered. “You will not hurt my son, will you?”

“Of course not,” said Sanct’ Germain, more worn than surprised by the question, for he had become familiar with her deeply held suspicions. “You have made your wishes clear and I will honor them: I will not even attempt to wash him, although I believe it would be to his good to do so.”

Csimenae shook her head emphatically. “He would suffer if you were to do such a thing. It is bad enough he is not bathed in horse’s blood.” She glared at him. “I will curse you if you betray your Word, and phantom horses will trample you and the fires of the sky shall burn you.”

“I will not betray my Word,” said Sanct’ Germain patiently, recalling the dead man on the road.

She did not appear convinced, but she carefully rose from her bed and, wrapped in a length of rough linen, made her way toward the barrel, all the while glancing back at her son, who lay in a pile of bear-skins half-asleep. Csimenae smiled at the boy, a tenderness in her face that she reserved only for him. As she reached the improvised bath, she said, “You must not watch. Turn away. It would be dangerous to my child if anything weakens me.” There was resentment in her voice, and a deeper emotion that was more than anger. “You are too close, foreigner.”

“Would you not like my help?” Sanct’ Germain asked as if he had not heard her.

“I will climb on the stool. That will suffice.” She glowered at that item of furniture as if she were accusing it of being in league with Sanct’ Germain. “You must not come near,” she said with emphasis as she dropped the linen cloth on the plank-topped table and tugged the stool up to the barrel. “Turn around. You are not to look at me.”

This command struck him as absurd, but he said nothing as he complied with her order; he listened as the stool rubbed against the stays of the barrel and heard the splash as Csimenae let herself down into the water. “Now you may turn back.”

“That I will,” he said as he did.

“It is very warm,” she announced, not imparting approval or condemnation in her tone of voice.

“Do you think so.” Sanct’ Germain hitched one leg over the far end of the table and half-sat there. “The herbs will help you to regain your strength and to add virtue to your milk. When you are done, I have prepared a little wool-fat to ease the cracks in your skin, and your lips. When I have caught more sheep, I will prepare more for you. I told you about the sheep.” He had found five sheep wandering in the hills a few days before; one had been belled and all flocked around him, so he had brought them back to the sheepfold near the market square.

“I remember,” she said, turning in the barrel so she could watch him. Her black hair spread out like trailing vines around her and she almost smiled. “You have promised new cheese.”

“That I have,” he agreed.

“The rest will be jealous when they return, to see that I have not died.” Her satisfaction showed in her smile. “Perhaps we should bar the gate and keep them outside the walls until they have owned my son their leader.”

“Why not wait until they come to decide?” Sanct’ Germain suggested. “You may have to suit your intentions to the purpose of the others.” He had cautioned her before and each time she had scoffed at him. This time, she cocked her head in consideration.

“You may be wiser than I have supposed,” she conceded after a long moment of consideration. “Have you seen anyone in the hills?”

“A goatherd or two,” Sanct’ Germain said, “And I think there may be a band of robbers nine thousand paces to the north of here.”

“A band of robbers?” she repeated uneasily. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Because I am not sure they are robbers. They may be villagers driven out of their homes by the Pox.” He did not think this was the case; the signs pointed to robbers who preyed upon travelers. He said nothing of the dragged corpse.

“Then they might be from here,” she said and flicked water off her fingers to show her contempt for them. “They could be villagers.”

“If that were the case, I would have thought they might come this way before now. The weather has been good and there has been no word of Pox, and if they supposed the village was empty, why should they not come.” he said calmly. “You said your people went to the south-west when they left. These robbers are north of here.”

“Still, they might be from here, keeping themselves by robbing before coming back,” she said stubbornly just before she sank down in the barrel, ducking her head under the water. As she emerged, she wiped her face and looked at him. “You do not know the people of this village.”

“True enough. But the robbers have bear-skulls mounted on their walls, not horse-skulls as you have here.” He let her consider this, then went on. “If your people come back, I would expect them to come from the direction they left, and I would expect them to have their flocks with them.”

“They could have gone to the north as well,” she said stubbornly, her chin beginning to quiver.

Although Sanct’ Germain did not agree, he said, “It is possible,” and let the matter go.

For a little time there was no sound in the house other than the quiet lapping of water. Then Csimenae spoke up as if they had been conversing all along. “You do not want to let in anyone who comes here, of course. This is to be held for my son.”

“As you wish,” said Sanct’ Germain. “If someone should arrive, I will send for you at once and you may decide what is to be done.”

“And no one will be permitted to claim this house. It is mine by right. I remained in the village, and that makes my son lord here. No one can deny me this.” She had raised her head as if she expected him to challenge her. “Well?”

“He is very young to be lord,” said Sanct’ Germain carefully.

“Do you mean he is not worthy of being lord?” Her voice rose with emotion and furious tears stood in her black eyes.

“No; I mean he is very young to have enemies,” Sanct’ Germain replied in a level voice. “If you seek to have him advance, you will have to hold the position for him. You must have thought about this, Csimenae. You have talked about your hopes for your son often enough. You are capable of doing much for him, as you have shown already.” He did his best to reassure her. “You have prevailed. You have brought your son into the world. You have held the village for him. You can keep him from harm.”

“He will rule in this village. He may extend his powers throughout the mountains.” She nodded to herself. “It is his right.”

“As you have proven,” Sanct’ Germain agreed; he sensed her exhaustion under her assertions. “I will bring you a clean cloth to dry yourself.”

She shot him a stern glance. “You will leave this house while I do that.”

“If you wish,” he said, not wanting to offend her. “I will dispose of the water as you instruct me.”

“You will,” Csimenae said bluntly. “There is blood in the water, so it must be poured away from the house, otherwise you will bring trouble here.” She slipped under the water one more time. “I will need my comb,” she said as she emerged again.

“I will bring it with the drying sheet,” he said, and went to fetch the large square of clean linen for her. Her comb, he remembered, was on the shelf over the bed where she had delivered her son. Taking care not to disturb the sleeping infant, he retrieved the comb before he went to the barrel where Csimenae was wringing as much water as she could from her hair, and struggling to keep herself wholly upright as she did. “Your comb,” he said as he put it on the table. “And your drying cloth. There is an open dalmatica on the chair for you to put on. You may reach it without difficulty. Do you need help getting out?”

“No. It is unfitting that you assist me. Leave the house,” she responded, and remained still until she saw him leave. Emerging from the barrel, she was careful to be sure none of her birthing blood got onto the floor; she wadded one end of the drying sheet between her legs and used the other end of it to blot her skin dry, then tied it in place. Finally she picked up the old Roman garment and tugged it on, shrugging to adjust its drape; the material was old and soft with use and little as she wanted to admit it, she liked the feel of it on her skin. She went back to her bed, comb in hand, ready to work the knots out of her hair and braid it once again in the fashion of married women.

“Csimenae?” Sanct’ Germain called from outside the door. “May I tend to the barrel?”

“Yes,” she said as she gazed down at her son. How proud she was of him, and what great things he would do! Taking pains not to disturb his rest, she dropped down next to him. “Do not make noise,” she whispered.

Sanct’ Germain saw her stretch out and smiled faintly, knowing it would not be long before she was, once again, asleep. Standing so that she could not see what he was doing, he lifted the barrel and started for the door. The blood in the water was a tantalizing reminder of all the need he had kept in check for so long; he did his best to keep from yearning too much for the intimacy he missed. If she had shown any inclination to welcome him, he would have been overjoyed, but there had been no sign of such willingness, or any desire for more than he already provided her. Her strength fascinated him as much as her vulnerability awakened his protectiveness, though she sought neither of them, and would fervently deny both. He made a small gesture of resignation and went about his self-appointed chores. As he stepped out into the debilitating light of early afternoon, he had to admit that the blood of animals was to him hardly more than bread-and-water to the living.

Rogerian was working in the shed that served as a creamery; he looked up from his panning as Sanct’ Germain went by, bound for the midden. “She bathed?”

“Yes.” he had almost reached his destination but stopped, setting the barrel down and sighing. “How much more native earth do I have in the chests?”

“The smaller chest is still full, the larger has perhaps a third of its contents remaining.” He set the broad, shallow copper pan aside and considered Sanct’ Germain carefully. “You do not have enough to last more than two years, if we are careful and you find a lover to help sustain you.”

“Two years should be long enough for us to reach Roma. I have more than enough of my native earth there. Olivia has ten chests of it at her estate and I have the same at Villa Ragoczy.” He looked toward the east.

“You assume nothing has happened to the chests,” Rogerian said firmly. “But there have been armies at Roma, and they have looted and robbed, as have all armies before them. You cannot be certain that your chests are still intact, or that they can be found, not now.” He gave a worried stare at Sanct’ Germain. “Your homeland, too, is filled with barbarians.”