Come Twilight (5 page)

“This will be the fifth time we lie together. It is the last time, Viridia,” he said gently. “More than six times, and you would have much to fear.” His kiss was light and persuasive at once and it stirred her need as well as his own. Their second kiss was longer, more involved, and it left Viridia breathless.

“Come,” she urged him. “I am eager for you.”

“But not too eager to savor this time together,” he said as he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the alcove.

She held onto him, a little breathless in anticipation. “I wish you did not have to leave,” she said as she nuzzled his neck.

“I would have had to, eventually,” he said softly, an expression in his eyes that was unlike anything she had ever seen before: longing and loneliness and compassion, and something more than all three—a kind of endurance that baffled her.

“Will you miss me when you are gone?” She asked it lightly enough, but there was apprehension in her voice that her flirtatiousness could not disguise.

He stopped still and looked down into her face. “Yes. I will.”

She snuggled closer to him, taking comfort in his surprising strength. “Then I will not be too angry with you for leaving.”

“Thank all the forgotten gods for that,” he said, and kissed her brow as he resumed walking. As he carried her beyond the curtain into the alcove, he felt her shiver. “Are you still cold?”

“A little,” she admitted as he put her down on the heap of woollined silk blankets that were strewn across the raised platform which two banded chests supported. She reached out for him. “I will be warmer in a little while.”

He sank down beside her pulling one of the blankets around her so that she was wrapped snugly in it. “Your cocoon,” he said. “You are about to emerge as a butterfly.” His smile was intriguing, and it roused her appetite.

“All because of you,” she said, and drew his head near so that she could kiss him. “When you kiss me, that is all you do. The world might well vanish and be gone. You think of nothing but me, and the kiss,” she marveled as she released him, beaming with delectation.

“What would be the point of kissing you if I did not pay attention?” he asked, almost playfully, as he began to explore her body, starting at her feet; he removed her felt shoes, tossing them away as he took one foot in his hand, stroking the arch with a firmly gentle touch. “You have such pretty feet.”

“Do you really think so?” She stretched the other, flexing the arch. “They say if a woman’s feet are too big, she will always stray.”

He laughed quietly. “It is not the feet that stray, it is the heart, and the soul.” There was no condemnation in his tone, only a kindly resignation that made her wonder briefly how he came to believe that. Then she stopped all contemplation and gave herself over to the enjoyment of all the sublime sensations he awakened in her, to the passion that she did not often experience with her other lovers. He moved gradually up her body, finding the secrets of her legs and thighs, and then the center of her flesh. He was elating and he was patient; nothing he did—no touch, no kiss, no caress—hurried her or seemed intended to force her response. His mouth was as inciting as his hands, and she succumbed to the luxury of his touch, from the stroke of his finger on her breast to the numberless kisses he bestowed all over her, now tantalizing, now tender.

Her ardor consumed every part of her, thrilling her to her core. Everything that Sanct’ Germain did—every kiss, every caress—summoned her most intimate rapture, and as she felt herself carried to the culmination of her exultant delirium, she clasped Sanct’ Germain more closely, holding his head to the curve of her neck; there was a moment of keenest ecstasy that made her tremble with fulfillment as she succumbed to rapture. When she came back to herself, she held Sanct’ Germain tightly, wanting to hang onto the ephemeral elation she had felt, but as cold needled her skin, the last of her bliss faded. Finally she released him, once again wrapping herself in the blanket. “Almost a butterfly,” she said at last.

Sanct’ Germain met her gaze steadily. “Surely, for an instant, a butterfly.”

Viridia sighed, “I want to think so,” she said, and blinked as he rose from her side. “I hate to see you go.”

“I fear I must,” he told her, bending down to kiss the corner of her mouth one last time, aware of her nearness with all the poignancy of loss.

She caught his hand before he could turn away. “Sanct’ Germain, what is it you long for?”

“Something those of my blood may never have,” he replied, the kindness in his voice making her want to weep.

“What is it?” She held his hand more tightly. “Tell me.
Tell
me.”

He shook his head very slightly. “It would not be wise for you to know.”

“You mean it could be dangerous to you?” she asked, hoping to provoke him into answering her.

“No, Viridia,” he said calmly. “It would be dangerous to you.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, releasing him.
“Oh!”
She refused to look at him so that she would not have to see him go.

Text of a letter from Ithidroel ben Matthias to Episcus Luitegild of Toletum.

To the most respected Episcus Luitegild, the greetings of Ithidroel ben Matthias, spice merchant of Toletum.

In accordance with the instructions of Franciscus Sanct’ Germain, I am sending to you the sum of fifteen gold Apostles as his donation to your good works in the city, and your continuing protection of his former slaves, whose writs of manumission you and I both witnessed. It is the intention of Sanct’ Germain to continue his donations annually until he himself, or one of his descendants, shall return to claim his holdings. I have among the instructions Sanct’ Germain has given me the conditions of identification that must be met when and if one of his blood comes to claim his estate. I or my successors will be responsible for verifying the identity of anyone attempting to establish himself as Sanct’ Germain’s heir. This sum may not be taxed even though it is held and administered by Jews.

I commend you for your intercession with the Praetorius. Without your timely arbitration all of Sanct’ Germain holdings within the city walls would now be in the hands of the Praetorius and the fighting men who surround him. Your efforts have been noted by all who live here and are praised everywhere; you found an authority in your position that the Praetorius had to honor. Had you not succeeded, I would have
been powerless to protect Sanct’ Germain’s holdings no matter how persuasive my position might be, for I would not have had the additional jurisdictional influence you bear by right of your position within the Church. The devotion of the Praetorius Chindaswinth to your faith has at least been of benefit to more than himself or his court. It is to your credit that you have been willing to extend yourself to the benefit of someone who is not of your flock.

Those of Sanct’ Germain’s servants who are continuing to care forhis house and villa are now protected from any claims against their master. You will have no reason to fear that you might have to provide for them from the donations Sanct’ Germain has made to your Church. I have just received the necessary signatures on the deeds that ensure their position and their livelihood. Since money is not an object in this instance, the servants will not have to worry that their situation might be suddenly changed on account of debt. I am pleased to see how be forehand Sanct’ Germain has been in his planning. This speaks well of him, on that you and I can agree, I am certain.

In that Sanct’ Germain has granted lifetime residence to Viridia, a high-ranking whore of the city, you and I may deplore his decision, but it is as binding as any of his other donations, and to question his gen erosity would result in all his gifts being diminished; this is provided in the terms of the grant he has left in my keeping. He has stated that she has been good to him, and as such, deserves a sign of his friendship. As I have no desire to deprive my people of the beneficence of this for eigner, I will not endanger the good he is doing by questioning this one lapse in judgment, for that way lies many losses. So I will see that his wishes are carried out in regard to this woman and I will advise you to acquiesce in this, or face the prospect of having your donations cut in half, a result you cannot want.

I have taken the liberty, which has been granted to me by Sanct’ Germain, to make a contribution toward the repair of the Roman Gate and the public cistern. This will not diminish the donation made to your Church, but it may decrease the money to be given to the beggars of the city, at least for this year. I judged that water and protection were more urgent needs of Toletum than tending to those who beg; there are other places charity can be found than from Sanct’ Germain’s purse. I do not mean that you should carry the burden wholly, only that I am convinced that it is appropriate to put the welfare of the city ahead of the welfare of its beggars. If I have failed to do as Sanct’ Germain would have done, I
will tender him an apology upon his return, and I ask you to record this letter in the archives of your seat, Sanctissimus Resurrexionem, so that his heirs might have the opportunity to read it, should the title to his holdings pass to them before he himself returns.

May the God whom we both adore guide and protect you, your wife, and your children. May you suffer no ills of the world. May you never know the sting of ingratitude nor the pangs of doubt. May you always be worthy of your high office, and may God prepare a place for you in His Sight.

Ithidroel ben Matthis

Merchant and teacher

the Red House, Roman Hill, Toletum, ten days after Christian Epiphany, in the Christian year 622

Sunset lay behind them, reddened by the wind that chafed the plateau which rose from the eastern bank of the Iberus toward the mountains that were little more than a jagged line beneath the ominous clouds gathering ahead. A few stands of tattered oaks provided the only shelter from the wind, but the road ran straight between them, leading toward the old Roman town of Aeso and its grand estate, Aqua Alba in Iberus. Behind them on the western bank of the river sprawled Caesaraugusta, a Roman town around a ferry crossing that was the merchants’ gateway to the central Iberian Peninsula: Sanct’ Germain and his escort had passed three days there before the weather improved sufficiently to allow them to travel.

“How much longer?” Rogerian had to yell although he rode only an arm’s-length from Sanct’ Germain.

“I don’t know. We will need shelter soon. The wind is getting worse; it is almost dark.” He squinted at the five out-riders who led the train of mules and provided protection for them. “I think Wamba is ill. I have watched him and he is pale and sweating,” he remarked as he gave his attention to Rogerian once again. “Either he is ill, or he is carrying a skin of wine instead of water.”

“Wamba is given to drink, as we saw in Caesaraugusta,” Rogerian agreed, struggling to hold his Mongolian mantel around him, the wool side turned in, to keep him warm. “I do not entirely trust him.”

“I do not trust any of them, old friend.” Sanct’ Germain wore a hooded Roman paenula of black Persian lamb over a Byzantine paragaudion of heavy-strand embroidered black silk that had weathered far worse conditions than these; his leggings were knit lambswool and his Mongol boots came almost to his knees. “But they are eager for gold, so I am willing to believe they will do no ill while we are on the old roads. Once we go into the mountains, I am not certain we will continue to be safe in their company.”

“The Exarch at Caesaraugusta said that there is a monastery on this road that will take in travelers for a donation,” Rogerian reminded him, holding the lead of the mule behind him with force; the animal had been trying to lag behind for some time. “The escort resents having to travel at night.” He had not intended this observation to be a warning, but as he spoke, he felt a niggle of apprehension come over him.

“I know,” said Sanct’ Germain. “They are afraid of demons.”

“Demons,” echoed Rogerian, and cracked a single laugh as he tugged on the lead once again. “Wolves, more likely. At this time of year, there could be packs about.”

“These men are not shepherds, or goatherds, to be afraid of wolves,” said Sanct’ Germain, but wondered if Rogerian might be right.

“If there is a howling,” Rogerian began, leaving Sanct’ Germain to finish his thought.

“It is the wind,” said Sanct’ Germain. “Once we get into the mountains, then there may be wolves, but out here, on this plateau, the winter is not hard enough for wolves to come so far out into the open.” It had been more than three centuries since he had seen wolves running loose in the open in winter; the memory was not a comfortable one.

They went on for another two or three thousand paces, and then Childric, who rode in the van of the party, held up his hand. Swinging around in his saddle, he shouted, “Building ahead! An old outpost by the look of it!”

“Any sign of occupants?” Sanct’ Germain called back.

“Nothing!” Childric answered in his blunt way. “We’re tired! The beasts are hungry!”

“Time to stop!” Wamba joined in.

“Is the outpost safe?” Egica asked, his voice rough from shouting. He swung around in the saddle, hanging on to keep his seat.

“Why should it not be safe? What is there to fear?” asked Recared, his voice pitched a bit too high.

“I need food and drink,” shouted Egica, and ended his demand with a harsh cough. “If the place is safe, why not—”

“If the outpost is deserted, there is no point in stopping,” said Sanct’ Germain at his most reasonable. “Let us press on; the monastery is not more than two thousand paces ahead.”

Childric glowered and put his hand on his sword. “I say we stop.”

“And I say we go on.” This came from Leovigild, the sartrium for the escorts. “The patron is right. The outpost will give shelter but very little else.” He was older than the others—over thirty—grizzled, scarred and proven: he commanded them with the ease of long experience. “Two thousand paces, even in this wind, is not so far.”