Come Twilight (8 page)

I have charged him to make note of all he sees in his journey to you, and to make a full and faithful account to you, telling only what he him self has witnessed. There are rumors everywhere, and in each of them, the Great Pox is worse; what Frater-tertiary Terio sees he will tell you, no more and no less. You may rely on him to report aright, and without guile, for so he is charged to do, on pain of eternal damnation. You may find such information useful as the seasons warm and the sickness is absorbed into the air from the infected earth.

May God reward you for your charity to Frater-tertiary Terio. May He open the doors of Paradise to your cousin, our Primor, and show him God’s Peace. May you not suffer the visitation of the Great Pox. May all your family remain untouched by it. May your lands be in good heart. May your fields and orchards be bountiful. May your herds and flocks thrive. May you live in favor with your peers. May your enemies be struck down. May your coffers fill with treasure. May your name be spoken with respect from now until God comes again to deliver His People from the pains of this world.

Frater Morduc, Scribe

Half-brother to Episcus Honorius of Caesaraugusta

at Archangeli monastery near Roncesvalles, written on the 21
^st
day of
January in the 622
^nd
year of God’s Incarnation, in the calendar of
Sanct’ Iago.

A band of jugglers had arrived the day before Sanct’ Germain and his escort, and so the villa of Gardingio Witteric was filled with activity: musicians playing bladder-pipes and drums rushed about, creating noise, their half-masks transforming them into otherworldly beings as their fantastical clothing flapped in the icy wind. There were soldiers and men-at-arms lounging in the central courtyard—a heavily fortified addition that had been erected after the Romans left—laughing at the musicians and watching the entertainers put their talents to balancing and throwing and other feats of skill. Two large braziers provided as much smoke as heat to those who crowded around them, seeking their warmth even as they batted at the soot and coughed. A dozen large dogs watched all this uneasily, occasionally growling when one of the musicians ventured too close. Servants and slaves did their best to continue at their tasks in spite of this distraction: a few actually succeeded.

The sartrium at the gate looked over the new arrivals, accepted a few silver coins from Sanct’ Germain, and agreed to introduce him to the Gardingio at once instead of demanding the usual delays. “Your men may put their mounts in the open stalls—the box-stalls are for our horses. They’ll have to curry their animals themselves, and see to their feed and water—Gardingio Witteric does not care for the animals of those not in his household, or of his invited guests.” He laid heavy emphasis on the word
invited.

This was not unusual, although Sanct’ Germain knew his escort would complain. “Well enough. My bondsman will supervise the rest, if you have no objection.” He paid no attention to those who stared at his black pluvial over a black-and-silver Byzantine hippogaudion riding habit and high boots of red leather.

“If that is your wish,” said the sartrium. “Gerdis will show them the way.” He whistled through his teeth and shouted for a young man-at-arms. “Take them to the stable. Let them have a measure of hay for each horse and mule, and time at the water trough, as courtesy to travelers.” His scowl cut off any protest from Gerdis, who gestured at Leovigild to follow him. “See you do well by the Gardingio,” the sartrium called after them.

“I will return when I have made an appropriate introduction,” said Sanct’ Germain to Rogerian, and went after the sartrium. “You are in charge of the horses and mules.”

“That I will, my master,” said Rogerian as he dismounted and signaled the men-at-arms to do the same.

“We are hungry,” said Egica. “And we are cold.”

“That will be attended to as soon as I have presented myself to Gardingio Witteric,” Sanct’ Germain said over his shoulder as he continued through the disorder of the courtyard.

The sartrium paused just inside the door of the central villa, his expression severe. “You are not expected.”

“No. I have an introduction from Primor Ioanus that should reassure Gardingio Witteric; they are kinsmen, as I understand it.” Sanct’ Germain showed no sign of distress as he spoke but he could not keep from wondering what kind of welcome he might expect to receive in this place in so hard a season. “No doubt there are many who trespass on the Gardingio’s hospitality, but you need not fear I am one such. I do not bring my men here to sup and drink without obligation. As a stranger, I am beholden to his generosity as no relation would be. You may tell your master that I am prepared to offer recompense for his courtesy.”

“Oh, if you can pay he will be glad to have you in his court,” said the sartrium. “And your men-at-arms seem worthy sorts; not laggard and not swagger.” He nodded once as if to indicate he was satisfied, then he continued toward a U-shaped inner court that had once been a proper Roman atrium but was now as much a fortress as the outer walls around the villa. Among the other changes wrought upon the villa was a second story, cobbled on in a rougher style than the original building, with narrow slits for windows and an array of chimneys that smoked like miniature volcanos.

Sanct’ Germain kept up with the sartrium, remaining a respectful two paces behind him as they entered the villa. The light was halved, and the smoke from the fires burning in braziers and on the hearths of two enormous fireplaces did little to alleviate the gloom; the fireplaces had been added to the villa recently and were made of rough-hewn stone, not the marble the Romans had built with. The few windows were covered with thin-cut alabaster screens, providing a diffuse, milky illumination that did not penetrate far into the chamber. Here there were more slaves, many of them women, and not all were working at tasks; a group of children ranging from age three to about ten were in one corner near the vast, smoking fireplace in the main chamber, playing with paddles and balls where they were watched over by two elderly women with widow’s veils over their plaited hair. There were half a dozen slaves in the chamber, most of them preparing the long table for the prandium, which would be served before the next canonical Hour. In the corner opposite the children was a dais of two stairs, and on the dais stood an old Roman chair; a ruddy-haired, scar-faced man of early middle-age—perhaps thirty or thirty-five—was sitting in it, legs set wide, one hand holding a staff of office, the other thrust deep inside the enveloping fur robe of the young woman who stood beside him, smiling distantly.

The sartrium saluted as he faced the man on the dais. “Hail, Gardingio Witteric. May God show you favor and advance your—”

“Have mercy, Ruda,” said the Gardingio, cutting off the sartrium, and revealing a mouth full of discolored and broken teeth. “You are a faithful man, and for that I am grateful. I have seen proof of your loyalty. You need not call Heaven to witness it.” He pulled his hand out of the robe and patted the young woman, a lazy, sensual smile almost negating the severity of his scars. “This is not for you, woman. Go away until I call for you.”

She lowered her head and departed, going toward the door that led to the inner rooms of the villa.

Ruda straightened up and began in a formal voice, “This is Sanct’ Germain. He is traveling over the mountains with an armed escort and a servant. They have horses and mules and good tack, so it is not as if he is a criminal escaping. He says he has a letter from your half-brother—”

“Which one?” the Gardingio asked sarcastically.

“Primor Ioanus,” said Sanct’ Germain before Ruda could speak.

“My men and I stayed at his monastery some days ago on our journey from Toletum, and he was good enough to provide me an introduction to you.” He did not mention that he had another introduction to another Gardingio, for that might give offense to these men, or add to an already existing rivalry.

“Primor Ioanus,” said Gardingio Witteric in mild surprise. “Who would have thought that he . . .” He let that thought drift away. “So you are going over the mountains? What is your destination?”

“Tolosa, on the far side of the mountains,” said Sanct’ Germain at once. “I have a blood relative there.” It was near enough to the truth that he spoke confidently: Atta Olivia Clemens had holdings there where he would be made welcome, whether Olivia herself was there or not.

“Is that your homeland?” Gardingio Witteric demanded sharply, leaning forward as he asked.

“No. My homeland is many, many thousands of paces to the east, in the hands of invaders.” It was true enough as far as it went, and Sanct’ Germain did not add that the conquest of his homeland had happened more than twenty-five hundred years ago, for invasions were common enough in these times, and needed no explanation.

On the far side of the room there was a sudden burst of activity among the children, then shouts and angry sobbing; the two widows bustled around the children doing their best to restore order.

After casting one fulminating glance in the direction of the commotion, he looked squarely at Sanct’ Germain. “So you came west,” said the Gardingio approvingly. “Will you return?”

Sanct’ Germain knew the answer that was expected of him. “In time.” That he measured his time in centuries he kept to himself.

“You want the help of your kinsmen,” said Gardingio Witteric, satisfied. “Thus you go to find them, to rally them.”

“It may come to that,” said Sanct’ Germain. “I must get to Tolosa first to find out. I ask your aid to do this.”

Gardingio Witteric laughed aloud. “Clever, too.” He slapped his free hand down on the arm of his chair. “I cannot fail to show you courtesy, since my half-brother asks it of me and you claim you do not come to join my household. I could not receive you into my Court as you must know. But barring that, you are welcome to be my guest. You should have the opportunity to do as you wish as one received in my half-brother’s name,” he announced. “You may remain here until word comes that the passes are open. You will need only to pay for the food your animals consume.”

“That is most gallantly done,” said Sanct’ Germain. “But I would be less than honorable if I did not offer you more than that: I have three jewels that I would want to give to you to acknowledge your courtesy. As a traveler, I am beholden to the charity of lords like you to aid me in my journey. It is fitting that I show my appreciation.” If the Gardingio accepted the jewels, Sanct’ Germain knew that his horses and mules could not be confiscated when he left.

“Let me see them. You may come up to me,” said Gardingio Witteric with a grand gesture.

Sanct’ Germain reached under his black woolen pluvial into the leather wallet that hung from his belt; he drew out an emerald and two diamonds, the emerald as large as the end of his thumb, the diamonds somewhat smaller. “Here,” he said, placing them in the Gardingio’s palm. “Better are not to be found anywhere. Set your artisans to polishing them and they will add to the treasure of your House.”

Behind Sanct’ Germain, Ruda the sartrium let out a whispered oath.

“These are very good,” said Gardingio Witteric, his eyes shinning with greed. “Yes, very good.”

They are yours for the kindness you show to me and my escort and bondsman, and our animals. I would be an unworthy guest if I did nothing to express my gratitude for your hospitality.” Sanct’ Germain made a gesture of submission and moved back a few steps down the dais.

Gardingio Witteric held up the emerald and squinted at the play of light through it; in spite of the dimness of the room, he liked what he saw. “Very fine, truly very fine. This is first quality, as good as any I have seen,” he approved as he studied the gem. “Where did you get it?”

“I have sworn not to reveal that,” Sanct’ Germain said. “I must ask you to let me honor my oath.”

“So it is stolen,” said Gardingio Witteric, shrugging to show his unconcern. “What is that to me?” He looked next at the diamonds, his attention less focused. “These are very fine, also.” Weighing them in his palm he considered the gift. “All right, foreigner. I will accept these on behalf of the villa, and I will remember your munificence when you depart.”

“I am doubly grateful to you, Gardingio,” said Sanct’ Germain, lowering his head in a show of deference.

“In winter, any traveler is at the mercy of the storms and those of us with walls to protect them,” said Gardingio Witteric complacently.

Ruda the sartrium intervened. “What about the mules and horses? They are going to eat and drink more than the men.”

Gardingio Witteric laughed. “These jewels will buy a summer of hay, and our wells have not run dry. Let them have what they need and do not press them about it,” he ordered, his joviality gone as swiftly as it had come.

Aware that there was no point in belaboring the matter, Ruda saluted and turned away, pulling Sanct’ Germain’s elbow to pull him along. “You have men to attend to,” he said to account for his abrupt actions.

“And you have duties, no doubt,” said Sanct’ Germain, only mildly offended by this brusque treatment; had the sartrium been a Roman servant, it would have been another matter, but these western Goths lacked the grace of Roman society and could not be expected to conduct themselves otherwise.

“You will have to put your men in with our household guards,” Ruda told Sanct’ Germain as they neared the outer courtyard once again. “We have no quarters to spare for them if we are to provide for you.”

“I doubt the men will mind,” said Sanct’ Germain with a trace of irony. “They enjoy their own kind.”

“As do all men,” said Ruda pointedly. “You cannot suppose that tending to a foreigner brings them honor.”

So that was it, Sanct’ Germain thought; these men-at-arms did not want to compromise themselves by remaining too devoted to a man who could not advance them. “Ah, yes,” he said, “but I pay very well.”

“Money does not bring honor, and cannot hoise us,” said Ruda bluntly. “If you were not foreign you would know that; foreigners always think the world is set right with gold. No one can say that riches are better than favor and advancement.” He glowered at a juggler who approached them, a long sausage balanced on his nose. “Come. I will show you where you are to stay.”