Come Twilight
Her delivery had been hard after a day and a night of labor; the child had come at last shortly after dawn, red, wrinkled, and outraged. Now Csimenae lay exhausted on the straw-filled mattress, her face wan, her hair damp and tangled, but her eyes shone like burning embers, and she managed a smile that was all teeth. "I said I would have a son," she told Sanct' Germain defiantly as she looked down at her infant. "I should have sacrificed a horse. I should have drunk its blood."
Sanct' Germain nodded, showing no dismay at her wish. "You have your son." He had a bowl of warm water in one hand and a soft cloth in the other. "If you will let me wash him?"
She held the baby more fiercely. "No. You will take all his strength from him. He must have all the juices of his birth upon him, to guard him from death. He should be washed in horse's blood." She put a protective hand over her son's head. "You must give me the cord you cut. He will have to wear it around his neck until he is five years old. And I must keep the afterbirth preserved in oil until he marries, or he will not be fruitful."
"And the cord? What benefit will it provide?" He knew better than to argue with her, although he had never learned that such a practice served any worthwhile purpose.
"He must be strong," she said as if he were a fool. "You are a stranger, and you do not know anything."
"That I am a stranger is beyond question," said Sanct' Germain quietly, "but it does not follow that I am wholly ignorant." In his long centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, he had learned about difficult births-the only kind the priests ever saw, for all others were handled by midwives-and knew that fatigue would soon overtake Csimenae; she would require careful nursing to regain her resilience. "Your babe will need you to restore yourself if you are to be able to tend to his needs; he will be hungry in a short while, and he must be fed then, or he will lose strength. You would not want that to happen." He indicated the partitioned room beyond the hearth where she lay, thinking again that it had been wise to move her into the largest house in the village; here she felt safe as well as confident of having the greatest power in Mont Calcius. He saw her hand shake from exhaustion. "You will be able to gain stamina only if you rest.
In his improvised swaddling bands, the infant began to fuss, soft, harsh cries indicating his dissatisfaction.
"He will be a mighty leader; all the signs point to it," she said, trying not to yawn. "He is full of promise." She smoothed his forehead and blinked slowly as sleep began to take hold of her. "When the others come back, they will...They will own him the lord here." Sighing deeply, she struggled to keep awake. "Do not wash him."
Sanct' Germain carefully said nothing. He signaled to Rogerian. "You had better make a strong broth for her. The venison would be best. Add garlic and tarragon and a little of the angelica root to clean her blood."
Rogerian looked away. "And you? What of your blood, my master? How long as it been since you-?"
His response was hardly more than a whisper. "I would never seek a woman in her state; I could harm her, and give her more distress than joy. It would put her at risk, and perhaps her child as well. I could not have that on my conscience." He looked at Csimenae for a long moment. "The animals will suffice for the time being," said Sanct' Germain brusquely, then went on in a kinder tone. "I am grateful you are concerned for me, but, truly, you have no reason to worry."
"So you tell me," said Rogerian, plunging on, "and yet, you have said that when you do not have-"
"She'll hear you," Sanct' Germain warned as he moved toward the table where Rogerian was chopping herbs with his dagger.
Rogerian went silent at once. When he had finished with the tarragon leaves, he looked directly at Sanct' Germain. "You will have to seek touching eventually, or you will suffer for it."
"Perhaps," said Sanct' Germain, being deliberately evasive. "Let me know when she begins to stir, or if her infant wakes again. Both of them are tired, but Csimenae is worn out. With so long a labor and so hard a delivery, she may be feverish. She is worried for her babe, which is not astonishing; soothe her if you can. Be sure she has plenty of broth and water, and a little toasted cheese, if she wants it, but do not give her other food until tomorrow. If she seems too depleted, tell me." He had raided the cheeses from the other houses in Mont Calcius; there were still five good-sized rounds left; in another month there would be new ones from the small flock of sheep he had acquired.
"And if she takes a fever, what then?" Rogerian asked. "If she is ill for long, her child may die from it."
"Keep your voice down," Sanct' Germain cautioned. "It is important that she not be distressed." He rubbed at the short beard he had grown over the last seven weeks. "I am going to tend to the stock, and then I am going to try to find some eggs for her. I should not be long."
"The sun is strong today, and it will grow stronger until mid-day," Rogerian pointed out, giving an oblique warning. "You will have to have new earth in your soles soon."
"Yes; you are right about that," said Sanct' Germain as he went out of the house into the street; he made his way toward the only real barn in the village where his two mules and two horses were stabled, and the three feral nanny-goats he had managed to capture were penned inside high walls. Birds nesting in the loft twittered and screeched as he came inside; he paid them no mind as he checked the water in the stalls, and then in the pen. "You'll all be fed," he told the animals. "No need to fret." Using the rickety ladder he climbed into the loft and grabbed two armloads of hay which he threw down to the goats. Then he gathered the same again and carefully backed down the ladder. He fed the mules first, then went up once again to get hay for the horses. Once the fodder was in the mangers, he went and fetched a skin of olive oil, and poured a little onto the hay for the horses and mules, to help their coats stay healthy. Those chores done, he took a large armload of hay and strolled out of the barn, thinking as he went that he would have to trim his horses' and mules' feet soon. He dropped the hay into the village sheep-fold and smiled wryly at the occupants' bleating; he chided his own longings, commenting aloud, "If only I were so readily satisfied," before he went on about his self-appointed chores.
There were three places where the newly arrived wild geese occasionally laid eggs, and he checked each place; the geese and any eggs were missing. He frowned, trying to decide what to offer her instead-honied goat's milk, perhaps-when a movement above him caught his attention. A hawk flying high overhead skreed to its mate, and was answered from another part of the sky. The wind was picking up, coming in from the south-west smelling of wild thyme and juniper. From far down the slope came the distant, unmusical sound of a bell: a goatherd was leading his flock out to feed; it was a reminder that Mont Calcius could expect visitors from time to time, and that some preparation should be made to receive them, whether friendly or hostile. The villagers who had left might also decide to return, and Csimenae would insist that they be humbled for their desertion; she spoke of her intentions often, taking pride in her anger. She would make them bow to her and to her son or she would shut the gates against them. Sanct' Germain decided to make an inspection of the wood-and-stone wall that surrounded the village in order to be certain it was in good repair, and went out the gate to attend to it at once. On the north side of the wall he found half a dozen timbers were loose, leaning at an angle: these would have to be replaced, and soon. As he went around to the eastern side, he discovered two of the broad planks had fallen completely, and a whole section of the remaining wall listed at a precarious angle-one good rainstorm and it would all come down.
Sanct' Germain reproved himself that he had not bothered to check the wall more thoroughly before now; returning from the hunt, he usually approached from the west, and had not paid much attention to the state of the wall. He would have to go to work soon: that night, he told himself, he would bring back logs from the forest instead of meat. Continuing around the outside of the town, he was relieved to find the south side of the village wall was intact, and he had already repaired the gate on the west side of the village. If he did the work at night, when he was strongest, he could have the whole of it refurbished in a matter of two or three nights: Csimenae's apprehension would be assuaged by the restoration of the wall and it was an easily done task.
"My master?" Rogerian was calling as Sanct' Germain came back through the gate and set the heavy wooden bolt in place.
"Here, Rogerian," he answered. "Is anything the matter?"
"The baby is awake, but Csimenae is not. I put him to her breast to suck, but he is fretful." Rogerian appeared at the end of the street.
"Hardly surprising after such a delivery," said Sanct' Germain quietly as he lengthened his stride. "Is he well otherwise?"
Rogerian shrugged and fell into step beside Sanct' Germain. "He is only a few hours old. I cannot tell."
Sanct' Germain raised his brows in speculation. "How does he appear to you? Is his color good?"
"I would know more if she would allow us to wash him and swaddle him," said Rogerian with a slight frown of concern.
"And if she refuses?" Rogerian asked.
"We must convince her it is for the good of her child." He stopped, his hand on the latch. "Which it is: it will do the boy no good to have his mother ail."
Rogerian nodded. "Is there anything I can do for her now?" He paused. "She wants to wash him in horse's blood."
"I know.' Sanct' Germain considered briefly. "Milk the nannies, then, this evening, heat the milk with honey and a little of the wine in the pantry here. Then give her broth again. It is fortunate that there are ewes in the sheepfold at last-we will soon make a fortifying cheese for her. For now, we must make do with what we have." Sanct' Germain was about to step inside, but Rogerian halted him once more.
"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.
"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?"
"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."
"As it has been for more than two thousand years," said Sanct' Germain with a tranquility that Rogerian found disturbing. "Looting armies care nothing for chests of earth, and even if they should do, half of the chests are well-hidden." He smiled fleetingly. "It is good of you to think of it."
"One of us must," said Rogerian, more abruptly than he had intended. "Since she has not chosen to accept you as her-"
"Exactly. Her what? She is concerned wholly for the well-being of her child. It is all that matters to her-securing his position." Sanct' Germain picked up the barrel and carried it the rest of the way to the midden. He tipped it over gingerly, making sure the water did not run too fast. When he was finished, he righted the barrel and returned it to the shed where Rogerian was once again panning milk. "I am not entirely a fool," he said genially.
"Not a fool, no," said Rogerian. He set the pan down on the rack above the others and laid a rough, damp cloth over it. "Fools are not the only ones who...But you do not always..." The words died out.
"Possibly not," said Sanct' Germain with an ironic inclination of his head. "But I have not yet died the True Death. And I am in no immediate danger of doing so." He righted the empty barrel. "We go on well enough, old friend."
Although he nodded, the trouble did not leave Rogerian's eyes.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens to Sanct' Germain at his manor near Tolosa.
To my oldest, most treasured friend, my eternal greetings from the Eternal City, as this poor embattled place fancies itself.
It has been too long since we have exchanged news of our lives. To set an example, I will tell you that the eastern Goths are in charge here still, pretending they are managing as well as the Caesars did, and all the while intimidated by Constantinople. They have changed the walls of the city and do not maintain the aqueducts as they should in order to keep the water pure. They have let the baths go to ruin because they do not often bathe. This is not the place you remember, Franciscus, not even as it was fifty years ago. Most of the city seems to be cobbled together out of the old buildings from my youth. It saddens me to see so many fine buildings of all sorts turned into heaps of brick and marble rubble, and that rubble used to make houses my father would not have thought adequate to stable his mules. To hear the people of the city point to that golden statue of Nero in front of the Flavian Circus, saying it is Apollo, and calling the Circus the Colosseum for the statue puts me near laughter. Niklos understands some part of my amusement, but not as you would do if you were here.
Which brings me to ask why you have left Toletum. From all you have said in earlier letters, I would have thought you would have come back to Rome or gone to Constantinople or Alexandria. When your letter finally arrived-taking seven months to reach me-I was startled at your decision. I can truly comprehend why you might want to go into Frankish territory, but it would seem more prudent to seek out more genial places. From what you have said of the Franks, you might not be entirely welcome in their territory. Not that the Byzantines would welcome you open-heartedly. They are so caught up in their Court-life and their Church, that it would not be easy for one as foreign as you are to be able to manage without suspicion falling on you. So perhaps the Franks are safer than the Greeks.
It has been a hard winter; there have been more storms than usual and the roads are in dreadful disrepair. If the rest of the world has suffered as we have, no wonder it is taking months for letters to come instead of the weeks of five hundred years ago. Do you recall how swiftly a letter could travel from upper Gaul to Rome? Eighty-five thousand paces a day. That, I fear, is long-lost. Say what you will about the Empire, it did move the mail quickly and well.
Mind you, I am not prepared to hail old Rome as the epitome of all cities, nor decry it as the sink of debauchery some claim it was. It was never as fine as some say, nor as decadent. Rome was a happier place to live when I was still alive. I can say that in spite of my own wretched state at the time, for I know the difference between my suffering and the society that was around me. When I came to your life, Vespasianus was Caesar, and the law avenged me. Today no one would say anything if I were treated now as I was then.
Enough of this. I am sending this along to your estate near Tolosa in the hope you will be there to receive it. I am also sending four crates of your native earth from your stores here, in case you have not enough of them. In these times, with the fortunes of the world so unpredictable, I believe it is wise to be prepared for misfortune as well as to anticipate a need rather than be surprised by it. Do not think unkindly of me for doing this-you have done the same for me in times past and I know it is fitting to repay you for your attentive concerns. I will not dispute the matter with you. It is not my intention to make decisions for you, but I am keenly aware that you may be left in difficult circumstances if you do not have your native earth readily to hand.
Tell me how long you will be near Tolosa; I may decide to pay you a visit, that is, if I cannot persuade you to come to Rome for a time. I am willing to wait for letters to arrive, but not forever. So I will tell you how long I am prepared to remain here, expecting your answer: if I have no word from you by this time next year, I will gather my chests and come to Tolosa myself, to see if you are well. I would hope that I have news of you before then, for just now I abhor travel, having done more of it than I wanted a century ago-conditions have not improved since I left Constantinople in a miserable fishing boat. To subject myself and Niklos to the horrid roads just to ascertain you are well is a trifle more than I am eager to undertake, so you had best answer this before the year is up.
Since it is foolish to implore gods or Heaven to look after those of our blood, I will only assure you of my continuing affectionate devotion, which the Church is beginning to claim for itself alone, insisting that piety is for God and not for human souls; it seems to me that humans need that affectionate devotion more than any god ever has. You have been more constant for me than any Saint or Emperor, and so you have my fealty, in such a way as I demonstrate fealty.
May this find you well and in no danger. May you know the happiness you seek. May you continue to thrive. May all the usual end-of-letter benefices be yours.
In the old Roman sense of the word, piously,
Olivia
at Rome, June 1st, Christian year 622 according to the Pope and the 1575th Year of the City