Come Twilight (29 page)

She murmured a few indistinguishable syllables and turned onto her side.

“In your dream, you are happy and carefree. No one troubles you. You embrace it with all your heart. This dream is an end to sorrow. You are in the house of your family, and all is well. You are deprived of nothing.” He moved a little closer to her. “All your sacrifices have been rewarded, and you are restored to joy.” A distant echo from his own life sounded deep within him. In the first few centuries after he had become a vampire, how he had yearned to be restored to his family, to life as it had been before the forces of the long-forgotten Hittites had come into the Carpathians, killing his father and enslaving him and his brothers and sisters. That had been nearly three thousand years ago, but the loss still caused a remote ache within him, and an abiding understanding of her loss. “You know delight, and you welcome it. In the gardens of your house, you have flowers and birds to gladden you; nothing diminishes your elation.” He was at her side; he knelt down next to her cot as he sensed her enveloping herself in her dream. “You are overcome with unmarred happiness.”

Deep as her sleep had become, her breathing slow and regular, she smiled, changing her careful, closed features to the enchanting face of a lighthearted young woman. Her body softened as well, one hand sliding off the edge of the cot, the palm upturned and slightly open.

“You are graceful and lithe as you move about your garden; you are warmed by the sun and caressed by the fragrant breeze. Everything you do is imbued with your radiance—plucking a flower from a branch, tossing your shining, red-gold hair, stopping to admire yourself in a pool of clear water.” He touched her as he spoke, as lightly as the dream-wind would, barely grazing her arm with his fingertips. “Your dream is so sweet, so filled with enchantment: you immerse yourself in it, so that every fiber of your being quivers to its pulse.”

Her tongue ran slowly over her lips and her head rolled back.

His hands were gentle and persuasive as he roused her, opening her flesh to his touch as reverently as he would open a budding rose. “You are filled with raptures as with music. All of you is absorbed in fulfillment, in ecstasy.”

Culmination came quickly, the first pulsations taking him by surprise; she gave a little cry, her body trembled as he bent to her neck. She sighed with contentment as he moved away from her; her breathing steadied and slowed.

Rising from her side, San-Ragoz stood for a long moment, then spoke again, very softly. “You are strong and kind, Fountes. You are worthy of all good things. No God would punish you for your fortitude, nor your humanity, no matter what others tell you. You do not deserve the pain you have been given; you have no sin to expiate.” Turning away toward the door, he felt a pang of sadness for this young woman whom he now knew so profoundly, and to whom he was so grateful; he wanted to shield her from her fears, and understood he could not.

Dawn found him more than ten thousand paces from Fountes’ cell, in the long, rising valley that led eastward, toward Zaraugusta. He was sufficiently restored that he did not look for shelter until the sun was risen; he did not take the first place he came upon, but settled at last on a cellar of an abandoned farmhouse some distance from the road. His rest was deep but without the ache of vitiation that had worn him down since he left Corduba, and for that, he thanked Fountes in his thoughts.

It was five days before he took nourishment again. By this time, he was close behind the Berber army that was holding the Eberuz for the Caliph as the soldiers of Islam struck across the mountains into Toloz and beyond. This time he was more hurried than he wished to be, and the woman—a potter’s widow living on the outskirts of Zaraugusta—was fretful, the woes of her daily life pursuing her in sleep, intruding on the illusory exaltation San-Ragoz imparted, so that she nearly woke as soon as she had achieved her fulfillment.

Without his native earth in the soles of his houseauz, he did not dare to cross running water in daylight; it would be hard enough in darkness. So it was after sunset that he made his way down the banks to where a number of small boats were tied to a wooden wharf cobbled onto the old Roman stone supports. The place was used by fishermen and they did their utmost to be gone from it before dark. Insects hummed in the air, but none of them touched San-Ragoz as he untied one of the shallow boats, took its single long oar in his hand, and slipped into the river. By the time he reached the eastern bank, he was dizzy and nauseated from the running water, and becoming disoriented; he tugged the boat up the jetty and secured its bow-line to expose tree roots. Had he possessed any coins, he would have left some in the bottom of the boat under the oar to recompense the owner, but he had nothing. He climbed away from the river, unsteady as a drunken man, and headed away from the large encampment of the Moors.

“Halt,” said a sharp voice in the Berber tongue.

San-Ragoz almost stumbled as he rounded the corner of the encampment walls. He blinked at the lamp the Berber carried as he answered in the language of the Visigoths, “What do you want?”

The Berber spat. “Infidel.”

San-Ragoz pretended not to understand. “Your insults mean nothing,” he said.

“Who are you?” The Berber drew his long, curved scimitar. “Where are you going?” His command of Gothic was clumsy, but he made his questions comprehensible.

“I am a pilgrim,” said San-Ragoz. “I am bound for Roma, on orders of the Church.” He spread his small hands over the front of his habit in a show of piety.

“Pilgrim, is it?” Again the Berber spat, as if such alien words had to be expelled from his mouth.

“Yes. From Gadez.” He lowered his head to show respect.

“A beggar, in other words,” said the Berber in disgust.

“I live on the compassion of good Christians,” he responded, a trace of irony in his voice.

“A beggar,” the Berber said. “Well, you’ll get no charity this day, not the sort you hope for. We show charity to our own.” He gestured with his scimitar, and spoke again in his native language. “You’ll pass the time in our prison. We’ll let you out in due course.”

San-Ragoz looked puzzled. “What are you saying?”

“You are going to our prison,” the Berber said in poor Gothic. “Your case will be heard before sunset.”

“Prison?” San-Ragoz exclaimed. “Why are you imprisoning me?”

“I do not know you are truthful. You do not put your hand on your Book, or the Holy Koran.” He made a prodding gesture with his scimitar. “Move along.”

San-Ragoz hesitated. “This is unjust,” he protested as he weighed up the possibilities of his predicament: he could overpower the Berber and flee, but that would bring unwonted attention to his presence at a time when his strength was depleted; he could go along and spend the day in a cell, which would afford him rest, but risked ending in capture or a beating.

“We’ll give you justice,” said the Berber, and slapped San-Ragoz’s shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Move along. To the left at the gate.”

“Where are you taking me?” San-Ragoz saw a dozen soldiers approaching and realized his opportunity for flight was over.

“Go through the gate,” the Berber told him.

San-Ragoz complied, noticing that the low walls of this side of the encampment were recent and in some places incomplete. “Where now?” he asked as he looked at the neatly laid out tents of the Moors. This late at night, there was minimal activity; guards patrolled and a few officers hastened to meetings, but otherwise only the sounds of sleep and the occasional recitation of prayers were heard.

“To the right. To the wooden building at the end of the alley.” He pointed to underscore his instructions.

Walking between the long rows of tents, San-Ragoz noticed the heaps of supplies that stood beside them, making the intention of the Moors plain: they were preparing another attack on Frankish lands; this encampment was a staging area for the army of the Caliph to continue its conquest of Christian lands. He was careful not to make his curiosity too obvious as he continued down the brazier-lit alley.

“Halt,” came the order from the doorway of the wooden building; San-Ragoz noticed that it was an old Visigothic guardhouse.

“Omma ibn Ali, may Allah give you long life and many sons,” said the Berber who escorted San-Ragoz, salaaming to his superior. “The Christian dog is a pilgrim. Nothing to gain from ransom or fines. He’s harmless enough, and he is of the Book.”

San-Ragoz kept his expression carefully blank as he listened.

Omma ibn Ali sighed. “Put him in the usual place. It’s nearly empty, so lock him in by himself. I don’t want these unbelievers to talk together; they become defiant when they do.” He cocked his head toward the side of the building. “You know where to take him.” As an afterthought, he added, “Do not bother to feed him. It is too late for eating.”

“What are you saying?” San-Ragoz complained, looking from one man to the other.

“He is saying,” Omma ibn Ali said in very good Gothic, “that you will spend the day in a prison cell. You would do well to pray while you are held there. At the end of the day, the Imam will decide when you may be released. We cannot waste daylight on such as you; we have too many obligations to fulfill.” He regarded San-Ragoz with distaste. “You might do well to bathe.”

“I must not, except if God bathes me in rain,” said San-Ragoz; many of the Moors knew that pilgrims were not supposed to wash their bodies or their garments until they reached their destination—he would not be caught in so obvious a trap.

“Just so,” sighed Omma ibn Ali. “Tend to him, Jahdim.”

“That I will,” said San-Ragoz’s captor. “You,” he went on in Gothic. “Go to the side door. Then down.”

“All right,” said San-Ragoz, and made the sign of the Cross.

“It is as well that you pray,” said Jahdim; he took San-Ragoz by the shoulder and shoved him along. The stairs were steep and narrow, their ancient wood creaked as the two made their way down. A strong odor of earth permeated the cellar, as well as a sour, latrine stench. Three doors were closed with bolts, two others stood open; Jahdim propelled San-Ragoz to the nearer of these. “Inside,” he ordered, pushing the foreigner through.

San-Ragoz noticed the mound of straw that was clearly intended for a bed. “There is no window,” he remarked.

“No, there isn’t,” said Jahdim, and shut the door, thrusting the bolt into place without further ado. He left the cellar quickly, going up the stairs two at a time.

Listening to Jahdim depart, San-Ragoz took stock of his situation and decided it could be much worse. At least he would be able to rest in this little cell, and although he would not lie on his native soil, he would garner some restoration here. He sank down on the damp straw, stretched out and let the night flow over him.

Text of a letter from Ruges to Atta Olivia Clemens, written in Imperial Latin and delivered the end of June 722.

To the most respected widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, the greetings of the bondsman Ruges who is presently bound for Tarraco from Neapolis.

I have finally been able to trace my master from Tunis and the Emir’s territory to Corduba but I have lost the trail beyond that city. It has taken years to discover this, and I cannot tell you the relief I have felt on obtaining this knowledge. He is reported escaped and there is no notice of his capture. Had he been killed, notice would have to be sent to the son of the Emir who owned him; I have not learned of such notification, and therefore I assume he is still alive and free. Considering the current state in Hispania, it is possible he might have fallen in battle, or have been killed by soldiers of either side, but then you should be aware of it, due to the nature of your blood-bond. He could have suffered a misadventure and been injured, and may be recovering as I write this. There are a dozen misadventures he might have suffered, but I will assume he has made good his escape and will await me in the agreed-upon place. Unless there has been a change since your last letter to me, I believe that there is no reason to mourn him yet.

I am leaving for Tarraco, and when I arrive there, I will make my way to Mont Calcius, for that little village would afford him some protection—he left one chest of his native earth there, as he did in Toletum—and although there has been fighting in the mountains, it has been sporadic; the Moors have more important targets than small villages in remote places, which is another reason for my master to seek it out again. It would be far riskier for my master to go to Toletum than to return to Mont Calcius, and you and I know he does not take unnecessary risks. If he is not there, I will travel to Toletum. Once I have reached Tarraco, I will send you word of my arrival, and I will hope to have a letter from you. I will ask at the Sacra Lux monastery for any message that might come to me. The Moors will not forbid the monks receiving letters on behalf of travelers, but they will also read the letters the monks receive; you would be wise to be discreet in anything you send me there.

You have told me you intend to remain at Comus for some time to come, and so I will continue to write to you there, at your villa. If the lake is as beautiful as I remember, it must be a most pleasant retreat—surely far more lovely than Roma is now, and safer.

The ship leaves in the morning and I must put this in the hands of the courier, and load my chests aboard. I apologize for the brevity, but I know you will understand the reason for it.

Ruges

at Neapolis, the 2
^nd
day of May, 722

Most of the old road had washed away, and the new path up the mountains was little more than a sheep-track. San-Ragoz had skirted the three Moorish work-camps he had seen since he left Usca; they had been busy places, where slaves labored to cut down trees for the Moors’ ships as well as reducing the places where enemies might hide. He was still a considerable distance from Mont Calcius and already he was certain he would not find all he sought in that place. Still he kept on, trusting he would find some remnants of the village, and perhaps his native earth to restore him. As the mountain became steeper, he once again entered the trees, for the Moorish workers had not come this far up the slopes for their trees.