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."
"Very good," said Sanct' Germain quietly, not willing to continue a debate that could only lead to greater acrimony.
One of the jugglers was standing atop a stool placed on a barrel and was spinning a dish on a stick, his face rigid with concentration. the plate leveled out and the juggler took a second stick, and using his shoulder to brace the second plate, began to set that one spinning as well. He had just got the plate moving when a bull of a soldier deliberately lurched into the barrel, setting the juggler, the plates and stick, the stool, and the crowd around him scattering. As the juggler landed, he screamed as his collar-bone broke.
Sanct' Germain motioned to Ruda to stop. "The man is hurt," he said when Ruda expressed surprise at the foreigner's concern.
"He's a juggler," said Ruda as if speaking to someone addled in his wits.
"All the more reason to help him; his arms are his living. If he should lose the use of one, he might as well take up a begging bowl and be done with it." Ignoring the look disbelief the sartrium shot him, Sanct' Germain went over to the juggler, who was now lying curled into a ball of agony. "I am going to look at your injury," he informed the juggler as he dropped to his knee beside him.
The juggler shrieked as Sanct' Germain touched him, and kicked out feebly; a few of the men who had run off now came back to see what was happening, looming over the juggler and the foreigner as if waiting for more entertainment.
"Ruda," said Sanct' Germain, "would you be good enough to send a servant to fetch my bondsman? I assume he is in the stable." He could see the shine of sweat on the juggler's face and the white line around his mouth; in a little while the man would begin to shake from cold, and then it would be more difficult to help him.
Ruda sighed with exasperation. "Why bother?" he asked.
"Because he is suffering," said Sanct' Germain, and tried again to touch the juggler. "You have broken the front of your shoulder, the bone that is at the top of your chest," he said, doing his best to calm and reassure the man as he made another attempt to examine the injury; he sensed more than saw blood, and realized that the broken bone had penetrated the skin. "Can you lie back?"
The juggler whimpered. "The pain," he whispered.
"Yes," said Sanct' Germain, "But it will be no worse if you will lie on your back." He was not sure this was the case, but he knew that he could not treat the man if he remained huddled in a ball.
One of the men-at-arms of the villa whispered a crude joke to his companion and the two men laughed; the juggler who had been balancing the sausage rushed up, his face pale with worry. A moment later, the senior juggler was beside him, worry in every aspect of his demeanor. Neither man dared to speak.
"If you three will move back?" Sanct' Germain said to the men-at-arms whose shadows were falling across the disabled juggler; reluctantly the men complied, one of them grumbling that now he could not see what was happening.
Then the crowd was shoved aside as Leovigild pressed through the knot of men, dragging Rogerian behind him. "What's this?" he demanded as he caught sight of Sanct' Germain on the ground beside the juggler. He came nearer, arms akimbo, his brow thunderous as he stared down at his foreign guest. "Have you been slighted? Did that fellow offer you an affront?"
"No," said Sanct' Germain patiently. "He had the misfortune to be thrown from his perch and has broken a bone from his fall: this one, here, in the front of his shoulder." He pointed to the place on himself as he looked about in the hope that some of those watching would understand the severity of the situation; what he saw did not encourage him. "Rogerian, would you bring my red chest? I believe I have medicaments that will help relieve his hurts."
Rogerian acted promptly. "Of course, my master; immediately," he said before he hurried back toward the stable, shoving his way through the gathered men-at-arms, jugglers, musicians, and slaves. By the time he returned with the chest, the juggler was lying supine, Sanct' Germain's black pluvial covering him. Rogerian had to force his way back to Sanct' Germain. "What do you need, my master?"
"The anodyne paste in the green vial," said Sanct' Germain, not looking around. "You know the one."
"That I do," said Rogerian, opening the chest and taking out what Sanct' Germain had asked for. "What else?"
Before Sanct' Germain could answer, the senior juggler spoke up. "Is he going to die?"
"I hope not," said Sanct' Germain. "If he takes no putrid humors, he will recover." He did not want to admit how worried he was; the juggler was clammy and his breathing quick and shallow.
"But you will treat him?" The senior juggler clasped his hands together, imploring the black-clad foreigner as if Sanct' Germain were lord of the villa and not Gardingio Witteric.
"I can tell you nothing more until I have dressed the wound. I will need a good-sized table to lay him on if I am to set this bone." He smeared some of the pasty substance from the vial over the bleeding, torn skin. "It must be set if he is to have any chance of recovery."
"It is not fitting that a juggler should be taken into the villa," said Ruda stiffly. "He is not sworn to the Gardingio."
"Perhaps not," said Sanct' Germain, "but Gardingio Witteric has received the jugglers and let them entertain his men-at-arms: he has some obligation to see to their well-being while they remain. If he fails to treat them well, his reputation will be damaged, and that would be intolerable to him." He stood up. "Find me a table I can use, and I will undertake to set the broken bone."
Ruda stared at Sanct' Germain in angry disbelief. "You cannot give orders here. You are here on sufferance as much as much as they."
Sanct' Germain glanced toward Leovigild. "Sartrium, can you find a table where I can do my work?"
"That I will," said Leovigild. "You will have to answer to the Gardingio if I act against his will." With that warning, he pushed through the crowd, shouting to Wamba and Childric to aid him.
"You are an ungrateful guest," said Ruda, and spat to show his contempt.
"He is not," said a loud, hoarse voice from the entrance to the villa; Gardingio Witteric strode forward, those gathered around the fallen juggler moving back to open a pathway. "If he can help this man, let him show it."
Everyone hearing this knew Sanct' Germain was being tested; two of the men-at-arms muttered bets with each other on the outcome, spitting and slapping their palms to seal the wager. As if aware of this additional excitement, the senior juggler made a wretched attempt at a smile, ducking his head ingratiatingly, first to Gardingio Witteric and then to Sanct' Germain.
"A table first, then," said Sanct' Germain, his manner composed as if he were unaware of the challenge he had been issued.
"Let him have what he wants," said Gardingio Witteric, and the men around him sprang into a action to obey.
In short order, a trestle table had been assembled of saddle stands and planking near the entrance of the single open room in the outer walls that had been allocated to the jugglers' use; the crowd watching had grown, and the women of the household had gathered in the narrow windows of the second floor of the villa to see the excitement.
"Shall we lift him for you?" Leovigild asked, not quite able to conceal his reluctance to render such service to a mere juggler.
"Never mind," said Sanct' Germain as he knelt and carefully took the semi-conscious man in his arms; he did his best to shift the juggler's torso and arms as little as possible, doing his utmost to minimize the pain he gave, and to minimize the additional damage such moving could inflict. He stood slowly so that the juggler would not be shaken or jarred, and laid him on the improvised table. This uncanny display of strength gained the awed approval of all the men who saw it, a circumstance that troubled Sanct' Germain, who preferred to keep this capability to himself whenever possible. As he adjusted his pluvial around the juggler, he asked one of the man's companions. "What is his name?"
The senior juggler hesitated. "Alboin," he said at last. "He is a Lombard."
Gardingio Witteric chuckled unpleasantly. "And fallen so far; named for a King and reduced to wandering the world with a pack of vagabonds," he mused aloud. "Well, the Lombards are always inclined to take on more than they can accomplish." He took a wider stance as if preparing to defend himself against attack. "Still, do what you can for him, Sanct' Germain."
"It is my intention," was Sanct' Germain's answer. "If your people would step back a bit, my task would be easier." He addressed himself to Gardingio Witteric. "If I have no room to work, I cannot help this man."
"Oh, very well," Gardingio Witteric sighed. "Do as he says." He gave a single, fussy gesture to indicate his men-at-arms should do as Sanct' Germain requested.
Leovigild stood his ground. "If you have need of me," he said stubbornly.
"Not just at present, sartrium," said Sanct' Germain as he folded his pluvial back from Alboin's injury and inspected it for bleeding; the blood flow was lessening and becoming tacky to the touch, although there was already heat in the wound. "Rogerian," he said, "take his left arm, stretch it out and hold it firmly. He will probably fight you, but do not let go until I tell you."
Rogerian paid no notice to the new wave of excitement that passed through the crowd; he took the juggler's wrist and stretched out his arm, holding it though Alboin moaned and struggled against him.
"There are pieces of bone in the wound. I will have to pull them out later, after the break is set," Sanct' Germain said as he took his position to realign Alboin's collar-bone. When he moved, he was so swift that any watching him were certain he had accomplished the feat by magic: he tugged the juggler's right arm out and up with his right hand, and with his left, pressed the bone back into position.
Alboin screamed and fainted.
"You have killed him," Ruda said with grim satisfaction. "The Gardingio will have your life for it."
Sanct' Germain moved aside. "You will see he is still breathing." He motioned the senior juggler to approach. "Verify it for yourself. You as well, Ruda. Come look at him and tell me if he is dead or not."
The senior juggler put his hand to Alboin's mouth, and nodded. "He breathes. The bone is in place."
Reluctantly Ruda came to the side of the table and stared down. "He speaks truth. The man is breathing."
There was a general sigh from the crowd, some in relief, some in disappointment; the jugglers exclaimed their thanks aloud and the senior juggler crouched down to kiss Sanct' Germain's foot.
"That's not necessary," Sanct' Germain said at once, trying to conceal his distaste. "I have done nothing more than any other physician would do." He saw Gardingio Witteric was studying him attentively. "I have only set the bone," he said to explain himself. "The man has not yet recovered. There is time for gratitude when the man can practice his skills once more."
"You set the bone and he is still alive," said the Gardingio. "Not even the farrier could manage that."
"Possibly not," Sanct' Germain said, bending over Alboin, his fingers pressed lightly to the unconscious man's neck to check his pulse. "He has a way to go before there is cause for hope." This was nothing more than the truth, but it served as a warning to the jugglers and men-at-arms alike.
Leovigild spoke up. "Sanct' Germain cured Wamba when he was taken with fever, and gave ease to a traveler who had blackened feet. I saw it all."
"The traveler did not live," Sanct' Germain reminded the sartrium.
"Who does, with cold-blackened feet?" Leovigild asked, and was answered with muttered agreement. "At least he was not screaming, or shaking himself to pieces in spasms." His pride in Sanct' Germain's accomplishment was obvious and his boasts were listened to by everyone but Sanct' Germain himself.
"Did you do this?" Gardingio Witteric demanded, coming toward Sanct' Germain impulsively. "Have you the power to assuage the agony of blackened limbs?"
"Sometimes I can provide an anodyne," Sanct' Germain said cautiously: he had given the traveler syrup of poppies, and that had made his passage out of this life less arduous than it would have been without the ameliorative slumber the syrup of poppies bestowed.
"You can do this for other hurts?" Gardingio Witteric asked before anyone else could speak.
"Sometimes, yes; it depends on the injury and the nature of suffering. Not all ills may by relieved in this world." He wanted to give his full concentration to Alboin, but knew that if he refused to answer the Gardingio, he might well be expelled from the villa without his men-at-arms, horses, mules, or any other possessions. "There is suffering that only a man's God may treat."
"True enough," said Gardingio Witteric, beginning to pace around the table where Alboin lay. "Well, we shall see how he goes on. In a few days, if he has not taken a fever, it may be possible to tell if he has any sensation in his hand."
The senior juggler clapped his hands to his face in a show of horror. "Nothing so terrible as that."
"We will not know for a time," Sanct' Germain warned. "It would not be wise to hope for too much until then." He was aware that Gardingio Witteric was dissatisfied with these remarks, and added, "There are things that cannot be rushed, any more than a blossom can be rushed on a branch. When Alboin is able to tell how much he can move his hand, then we will know something."
"And if the man has no sensation in his hand, what then?" Gardingio Witteric challenged.
"Then we must wait until the bone knits to find if he has any strength in the arm. If he does, he can learn some new skills. If he does not, then..." He let his words die away. When he spoke again, his manner was brisk. "The sooner I can pull the splinters from the wound, the sooner his shoulder can be bandaged and the greater his chance for recovering the use of his hand and arm."
"Oh, very well," the Gardingio fumed. "Tend to the juggler. If you have need of anything from my household, send your servant to fetch it, and if it is not unreasonable, it shall be yours."
"That is very generous of you," said Sanct' Germain, who knew he should not ask for anything beyond the most minor aids. "A pail of hot water and a small brazier would be very useful, and three men to carry this tabletop to the quarters you have assigned to me." In response to the startled look on Gardingio Witteric's features, he added. "I will tend him."
"Why should you care for a juggler?" asked Gardingio Witteric. "You can put him with the others and tell them what to do. You are not a player, going from place to place."
"No," said Sanct' Germain bleakly. "I am an exile." There was something in his aspect that silenced the Gardingio, and set the men-at-arms to whispering as they watched the black-clad foreigner.
Gardingio Witteric cocked his head, considering Sanct' Germain's remark. "Yes. A man may travel for many reasons, I suppose. Pray you have no need to regret your traveling." He made an abrupt sweeping gesture. "There is nothing more to see here. Go back to your tasks, all of you. Ruda, the braziers are low on fuel: bring more wood to keep them well-lighted." Without another word to Sanct' Germain, the Gardingio stumped away toward the entrance to his villa.
Those around the table hastened away, leaving Sanct' Germain to deal with Alboin on his own. "Do we know which quarters are ours?" Rogerian asked when all but one soldier and an old slave were left nearby; he spoke in the language of Sanct' Germain's long-vanished people.
He was answered in the same tongue. "No. But if someone is bringing water. I trust he will guide us." Sanct' Germain looked down at Alboin. "I do not like his color. He is too pasty."
Rogerian considered the juggler, his expression hard to read. "He is very cold."
"Exactly," Sanct' Germain agreed. "I fear we may not be able to keep him from fever, for the longer he is cold, the hotter he will burn." He had learned that lesson long ago, in the Temple of Imhotep, and although experience had modified his opinion, he still regarded the teaching as sound. "He will have to be watched: closely."
"Yes," Rogerian agreed. "As soon as there is a brazier lit, I will take up that task." He regarded Alboin's waxen features. "There is one sure way to restore him."
Sanct' Germain shook his head emphatically. "Turn a young man like this out into the world as one of my blood, unprepared, with no knowledge of what he has become? This is not Kozrozd; he would not comprehend his nature. He would be stoned or burned the first time he tried to satisfy his need. That is hardly restoring him, it is only trading one misery for another." He went silent, then said, "I am sorry, old friend. I know you meant that to his good, but you know how dangerous it would be, for all of us."
Rogerian nodded and was about to turn away. "Do you not long for those of your blood?" he asked wistfully.
"I long for the knowing, the touching," Sanct' Germain said, his voice distant. "I cannot have either with those who have come to my life." He shook his head. "We had best get this man inside, before he becomes colder. Finally," he said in the language of the western Goths as a young slave came up to them, carrying a pail of water warm enough for faint tendrils of steam to be rising from it. "Lead the way."
The slave lowered his head and pointed. "Over there," he said before he went on.
"You'd best take one end of the table-plank," Sanct' Germain recommended. "I want to keep speculation about my strength to a minimum."
"Of course," said Rogerian, taking the foot of the plank in his hands and lifting it as Sanct' Germain raised the head of it; with Alboin suspended between them, they followed the slave toward the east side of the villa.
Text of a report from the scribe Aspar for the records of Gardingio Witteric.
On my life and on my honor, I swear this is a true account of the activities at the villa of the Gardingio Witteric in the Paschal Season in the 622nd year since God came to earth for the salvation of Men.
In accordance with the teachings of the Episcus at Caesaraugusta, the Gardingio duly ordered the slaughter of pigs for the last night before we give up meat and ale to show our devotion to the Sacrifice. All of the people of the villa and its region showed their veneration of the Resurrection by vowing to eat no meat from this feast until the priests tell us that God has departed the world yet again. In that spirit, there was feasting and dancing, and the jugglers who have spent half the winter at this villa entertained everyone with their antics.
Two of the Gardingio's women are with child, and have been sent to their quarters until their babies come. One of the women, the one sent by the Iacetani clans, is showing signs of distress; slaves have been ordered to wrap her feet in hot tarragon leaves twice a day and to massage her belly with wool-fat. The priest's wife has been ordered to pray at her side morning and night, and to place the Gospel under her pillow in the night. With such excellent care, surely she will be safely delivered of the son she has promised to give the Gardingio.
Messengers have come from the east to inform the Gardingio that although the Great Pox is abating, it has not stopped its ravaging of the villages up the mountain, and that the presence of the Pox has kept travelers from venturing toward the passes, not for fear of cold and snow, or robbers, but of the Pox. When word comes that travelers have completed their journeys without falling ill, the Gardingio will send his men-at-arms to secure the countryside again.
There have been more rats, mice, and other vermin in the storehouse, and slaves have been set to the task of guarding the grain and clubbing to death any such creatures as they may see. Also three small dogs have been kenneled outside the storehouse to prevent more of the rats and mice from entering and adding to the numbers already stealing the food from the villa. These dogs are said to be adept at the killing of vermin, and for that reason they have been entrusted with the task of killing those rats and mice that seek to deplete the stores of our villa. The cooks have offered to bring their cats to the storehouse, but Gardingio Witteric has said he will not have such malign animals protecting his grain and other food.
One of the jugglers, a man who suffered a broken bone, has at last succumbed to fever. The foreigner who undertook to minister to him, Sanct' Germain, has been sent away from the villa with his manservant, two horses and two mules, an act of great mercy, for Gardingio Witteric might have had Sanct' Germain's life in recompense. With the death of the juggler, it was the Gardingio's judgment that the foreigner had forfeited all right to his men-at-arms and their mounts and supplies. The juggler lasted for nearly a month, far longer than anyone thought he would, and for a time he appeared to be on the mend. But his fever returned and he abandoned his life nine days since. The foreigner and his manservant made no protest to the ruling of the Gardingio; they departed four days ago with the assurance they will not remain in the lands of Gardingio Witteric any longer than it must take them to leave.
The shepherds from the village six thousand paces distant have brought three lambs for the Feast of the Resurrection; they will be fattened while we fast, and when the priest proclaims the sacred day, the lambs will remind us of the Gift of Life as we eat their flesh in memory of God.
Nine men have been executed by hanging alive in chains for their looting of houses of those who have died of the Great Pox; they were condemned by the Gardingio and the priest for what they had done, and their execution was duly carried out over the main gate of the villa's outer walls. The strongest of them took four days to die-by then his eyes had been pecked out by kites and he was raving. These robbers have shown themselves to be beyond the redemption of religion as well as the salvation of law, and as such, can make no appeal to Episcus nor Gardingio to excuse their actions or their goals. Gardingio Witteric said this would warn all other such criminals of what will befall them, if they do not honor the Gardingio's authority.
The cooper, Duvoric, was ordered castrated for fondling Gardingio Witteric's second wife. The family of Duvoric was cast out of the villa and sentence was carried out by the farrier; Duvoric subsequently took a fever and putrescence from the wound killed him, a warning to all who trespass on the family of the Gardingio.
This spring has begun with heavy rains and the rivers are bursting their banks in the valleys. Homes have been demolished by the flood, as have been roads and bridges. There are reports of landslides higher up the mountains, some wide enough to bring down stands of trees and bury small villages; we have not seen such catastrophe here on the plateau. The ground everywhere is shining with water and the roads are seas of mud from the rains. As soon as the waters have receded, the banks of the rivers must be rebuilt so that the farms and villages of this region will not be swept away entirely. The Gardingio has declared that all peasants must give one day of labor each week to this rebuilding. If he should fail in this duty, his lands will be seized and given to those willing to be worthy of it.
Submitted on this first day of Paschal Mourning,
Aspar
Scribe to Gardingio Witteric
