Come Twilight (22 page)

Ione said nothing in reply; she kept her position, looking nervously from the door to Csimenae and back again. She bit her lower lip as the noise outside increased.

As soon as Sanct’ Germain had prepared his herbal paste, he gave the vial to Rogerian. “Mix this with wine for me, if you would. Not too much. She is too weak for much syrup of poppies.”

Rogerian took the vial. “This will not—”

“Do it,” Sanct’ Germain said softly.

“There is one thing you can do to save her, my master. You cannot restore her, as you did me, for you haven’t all the material you would need. But you can save her.” Rogerian went about diluting the syrup of poppies as he spoke.

“You know what coming to my life has done,” Sanct’ Germain said, his voice brittle.

“You mean what it did to Nicoris,” Rogerian said evenly.

Sanct’ Germain began to spread the paste on the side of Csimenae’s head, covering the whole area; she moaned and mumbled a few scraps of protest, but was unable to gather strength enough to stop him; she paddled the air with limp hands and stared out at Sanct’ Germain with glazed eyes. “What do you mean?” He gave Rogerian his full attention as soon as he had finished.

“I mean that Nicoris was not Csimenae, and that what Nicoris found a curse would be salvation for Csimenae. Think of what will happen if you do not.” Rogerian spoke bluntly, meeting Sanct’ Germain’s dark gaze unflinchingly. “Do you think Olivia finds her life a curse?”

“Csimenae is not Olivia: she has no notion of what I am, or what my life is,” Sanct’ Germain said as he scrutinized Csimenae, trying to read her pale face.

“At least if you save her, she will have time to learn,” Rogerian handed him a cup with the syrup of poppies. “It would mean her son would live. She has done so much for her son.” Beneath his stern self-control, Rogerian felt a pang as he remembered his own children, now centuries dead.

“That she has, and with scant reward,” Sanct’ Germain said, comprehension in his response. “All right. For the sake of her son, and for you, old friend.”

Csimenae muttered, “Horses.”

Rogerian made a formal reverence. “I will see to Ione,” he offered, and went to the woman at the door. “Will you help me? I have silk to cut.” He added, “It will be to bind Csimenae’s head.”

She made a gesture to the door. “If anyone should come inside.”

Aulutis began to wail, his tiny fists waving in his struggle to get away from his mother’s convulsive hold on him.

“Set the bolt,” Rogerian recommended as he put action to his suggestion. “That should keep them out.”

Ione shrugged, and gave a tug to her stola. “It should, for a little while.”

Wriggling, Aulutis managed to work himself out of Csimenae’s arms; he lay beside her, his eyes tearing from the effort of what he had done.

“They may not even try it,” Rogerian assured her. “It is almost dawn and they are exhausted. They will tire, and then no one will disturb us.” He led her away from the door and the place where Csimenae lay.

Sanct’ Germain looked down at Csimenae’s curled body and gave a tiny shake to his head. Then he began to peel back the scab on his arm, letting the blood well as he went down on his knees next to her. Very gently he took her head in one hand and guided her mouth to his own wound, holding his arm so that his blood ran over her lips. “Drink, Csimenae,” he urged her, and felt her swallow once, twice, and then several times; she murmured a disjointed phrase, and finally began to suck on her own. As she did, her body began to relax, opening from her tight position to an attitude of peaceful half-slumber; although she remained pallid, the shine of sweat went from her brow, and she held onto him gently, taking what he offered without distress, her ghost of a smile revealing her satisfaction. After a while, there was a small trail of blood running from her lips to her chin. Only when his arm stopped bleeding did he rock back on his heels, knowing that she was now protected from death. “Rogerian,” he called out softly, “It is sufficient.”

Rogerian came to his side. “She looks better.”

“I suppose so.” He rose unsteadily to his feet then paused, listening intently. “The villagers have retired. And the sun has risen.” His dark eyes were livid with exhaustion. “I must rest.”

“I will tend to the livestock and then—”

“The mule will have to be killed if he isn’t dead already. Smoke the meat.” His voice was soft and when he took his first step, he nearly stumbled.

Ione, who had picked up Aulutis and was rocking him in her arms, stopped, regarding Sanct’ Germain with alarm. “Are you ill?”

“No,” he said. “Only tired.” He looked at Ione for an instant. “You will have goat’s milk for the child before morning is gone. Rogerian will bring it. I will return later in the day, when I have restored myself. I will watch Csimenae. In the meantime, do not worry at her condition. I expect there will be a crisis some time today. She may enter a very deep swoon, and her breath might be hard to detect. By tomorrow at this time, she will be recovering.” He did his best to calm her fears. “She will rise from her bed, I promise you.”

“For the sake of this boy, I hope so,” said Ione, making no secret of her doubts.

“Let no one see her until tomorrow. I do not want the others to panic because Csimenae is injured.” He made himself stand straighter. “Rogerian will leave my chest here for today in case I should need any medicaments to treat her tonight.”

Rogerian, who had gone to the door, now inclined his head to show obedience. “It is time you retired, my master,” he said. “Leave me to my tasks.”

“Well enough,” said Sanct’ Germain, and nodded to Ione. “You will be rewarded for your kindness.”

She held Aulutis up in her arms. “Milk for the boy, and soon, will be reward enough,” she said, certain that if Csimenae survived she would be shown favor far beyond any she might have expected before this night.

“I will bring it directly,” said Rogerian as he opened the door. Sunlight streamed in, brilliant and powerful.

Sanct’ Germain lifted his arm to shield his face from the light. “Let us hasten,” he said to Rogerian, feeling as if acid ate at his skin.

Rogerian complied at once, doing his best to keep between Sanct’ Germain and the early morning light. As they went through the debris of the market square, he said to Sanct’ Germain, “You did well, my master.”

“Did I.” Sanct’ Germain told himself his uneasiness came from fatigue and sunlight, not from Csimenae’s unprepared passage into his life. There might be difficulties for her, and for him, since only she had tasted blood; he had gained no knowledge with his bond to her. He would have much to tell her when she wakened that night; shewould have to learn quickly. Vampiric life had immediate demands she would have to understand; he hoped she would not be repulsed by what she had become, that she would understand the necessity of what she had become. Entering his house, he sank down gratefully on the largest chest of his native earth, and as he lay in a stupor for most of the day, none of his misgivings troubled him.

Text of a letter from Episcus Luitegild of Toletum to Episcus Salvius of Tarraco.

To my most esteemed Brother in Christ and the Church we both serve, my prayerful greetings from Toletum on this most fortuitous day, when all Christians must give thanks to God for the bounty of harvest and the fulfillment of prophesy, and when it is agreeable in God’s Eyes that we Episcus Brothers inform one another of the events occurring since the Paschal Feast; in such devotion I tender this to you, as I will provide similar reports to our fellows.

On this day, at the Feast of the Virgin, there has been word brought to this city that the Gardingi have finally agreed to rebuild the road to Tolosa in the spring. That will not have any benefit for this year, but winter will soon be upon us in any case, and any repairs that could be made will be of no use in this season. While we of Toletum may rejoice in this decision, you at Tarraco may have less reason to thank God for moving the Gardingi to action, for it may mean fewer pilgrims will sail from your port than have done this year because they could not travel on the road. It is still to our benefits that the road will once again be open, for whatever the case, it is of importance to all of us; once the road is repaired, Christians may once again undertake to walk to Rome to pray at the Tomb of Sanct’ Petrus and seek the blessings of the Pope. Those who are going to Jerusalem are still going to arrive at Tarraco to take ship for that most sacred place.

The Praetorius of Toletum has announced a tax on all travelers, including pilgrims. I have appealed to him to remove the tax, but he has remained adamant. I warn you of this, for many of the Gardingi have also begun to levy such taxes, and it is possible that you, in a place where pilgrims gather, may find your flock equally burdened. The tax must be reduced for the sake of our faith. If your Praetorius is not willing to excuse pilgrims a tax, you may find that many more pilgrims will decide to travel by road rather than spend what little money they have on the taxes of Praetoria and Gardingi.

We have been told that there have been fewer Greek ships coming to Gades; have you seen a similar reduction in Greeks? If you have, do you know the reason why there has been such a reduction? There are rumors here, but I can discover no part of the truth. I have spoken to the Jews of the city, for they are powerful and their trading ships go everywhere, but we are too far from the ports for them to know anything more than what we have been told. If the Greeks have found other ports more to their liking, it would behoove us to know which ones they have decided to favor. The price of good cotton is rising in the
markets and if that is to continue, we will have to provide other woven goods to our religious communities in this region. The Greeks have made cotton their own, and we have no choice but to pay their price for it or make our own linen. Would it be possible to grow cotton here, do you think? God has favored our industry in such matters in the past. Might He not do so now? I know there is no sin in our poverty, but I do not like to see our monks ragged as beggars—I leave that to solitary mendicants and penitent pilgrims. It is said that the Romans of old had cotton planted in this region, but whether this is true or not, I have no way to know: there is no cotton here now.

We have received the hand of Sanct’ Procopius and have commissioned a proper reliquary for it. Fortunately a portion of the monies provided to us by the foreigner Sanct’ Germain, who left Toletum many months since, remains and will allow us to have the hand reverentially displayed for the veneration of the people. It is altogether fitting that we demonstrate our piety in this way, let the Greeks say what they will. The sanctity of Procopius is present in the least part of him, and by being in the presence of his hand, Christians may share in his holiness. Those of your flock who may come to Toletum will be welcomed in Christ to receive the virtue of this hand.

Our hearts are full of gratitude that God has finally ended all signs of the Great Pox. Those who died of it are surely martyrs as those eaten by wild beasts in the time of the monstrous Nero, in whom the Devil moved to bring an end of our faith and thereby leave the world without Salvation. The Great Pox is the tool of the Devil, and as such it must be answered with fasting and prayer. Those who sought the help of soothsayers and perished have lost all hope of Paradise. The Christians of Toletum have decided that any who perished of the Great Pox without the Last Confession may not be buried with those who died in Grace. The Praetorius has levied a tax on all families seeking such burial for their kin. Because of this, many bodies have been taken outside the city walls and left at crossroads, where no tax may be imposed. A few monks have gone to pray for these unfortunates, but this is not encouraged, for the dead are beyond our help.

I anticipate the arrival of your tomus with the certainty that you will provide me information that will comfort all good Christians and assure the continuing strength of our faith, for surely your example will renew the devotion of us all. I have not yet heard from our Brothers in
Gades or Corduba, but I await their promised communications with the same tranquility of spirit that I expect yours.

May God bring you the joys of wisdom and the serenity of piety. May He make your sons strong and worthy of you. May He lift up your eyes to the wonders of His Realm. May He guide your flock in the ways of virtue. May your worldly prestige enhance your faith. May your city always be a haven for those who have affirmed their trust in Our Lord. May you never know want or sin. May goodness be upon you from this moment until the Last Days. May God keep you in His Sight on earth and at His Right Hand in Paradise. Amen.

Episcus Luitegild

of Toletum and

the Seat of Sanctissimus Resurrexionem

Written and sealed the 30
^th
day of September in the 622
^nd
year of man’s Salvation in the calendar of Sanct’ Iago.

“I am hungry,” Csimenae announced as she looked across the main room of Sanct’ Germain’s house. “The sun is down. How soon can we hunt?”

“Not yet,” Sanct’ Germain warned. “There are villagers still awake. If they saw you leave with me, some of them might become suspicious.”

“You said I could visit them as they sleep,” she reminded him, smiling in a way that revealed her determination. “You have said you will tell me how it is done. There are many things you have said you will tell me.”

“Yes, and I will. But I also told you visiting your people in their sleep is not safe. Your neighbors know you, and once they associate you with dreams of the sort we give—” He broke off. “It would expose you to more danger than is wise.”

She thought about his answer. “Have you ever visited any of the villagers in their sleep?” Before he could respond, she continued, “I want to know; this is my son’s place. Do not lie to me.”

“I would not lie to you, whether Aulutis had anything to do with the village or not.” He paused, making sure he had her attention. “No, I have not visited any of the people of this village in dreams. I never would; not in a place so small and isolated—I would endanger myself and any I visited. You are all untouched by me. People here are suspicious about me as a foreigner. How much worse would their fears be if they discovered that I was more of a foreigner than they knew. I would not be able to remain here were my true nature revealed.”