Читать книгу The Vampire Megapack - Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Страница 4
ОглавлениеLOST EPIPHANY, by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
A Story of Saint-Germain
There was no doubt that the man chained to the other massive steering oar beside his own was dead; the body was stiff, the rigidity making him as great a weight as the long oar was. His skin was cold and taking on the color of clay; he lay bent almost double over the oar, his elbows poking out at awkward angles because of his manacles. Not that Sant-Germainus cared, for he was consumed in the misery that only travel over water could bring him. He had ceased to feel the hard blows of the oar-master’s lash two days ago, nor did he bother any longer to look for distant land beyond the heaving sea as the merchant ship plowed on through the advancing storm; rain-clouds obscured the distance and heaving seas demanded his full attention. The steering-oar shuddered as the ship climbed the side of a wave. Below-decks all but a dozen oars were pulled in; those that remained in the water were plied with steady purpose to keep the boat from floundering.
“You there! Steersman!” The captain’s first officer, known as Ynay, struggled along the deck, clinging to the rope as the ship pitched and wallowed. His language was a variation of Byzantine Greek, but with an accent that indicated the man came from Colchis.
Sant-Germainus lifted his head, his body aching with fatigue, his clothes soaked and clammily cold, his eyes almost swollen shut from the relentless waves washing over the deck. He stared at the first officer and forced himself to speak.
“What is it, Ynay?”
He knew his response could earn him a beating for insolence, but that hardly seemed to matter; being on running water without the protection of his native earth was more punishment than any whip could mete out. He found it ironic that this night or perhaps the next would be the anniversary of his birth.
“The other steersman!” shouted the first officer.
“He can’t answer you,” Sant-Germainus responded.
Ynay was almost up to the steering-oar; blinking into the wet; he reached to shake the second steersman, then hesitated. “Is he ill?”
“No longer,” said Sant-Germainus. “He stopped breathing some time ago.”
The first officer faltered. “Dead?”
“From a fever,” said Sant-Germainus, who had recognized the disease as something that could not be treated on this boat at sea. “It settled in his gut. He complained of it last night: to you.”
“But…he hasn’t fallen,” said Ynay, reaching for the amulet that hung around his neck.
“Because he is closely chained to me, and I can only hold the oar standing up. His oar is chained to mine,” Sant-Germainus said as patiently as he could.
The first officer blinked, then nodded twice. “Yes. Yes. You shouldn’t have to…I’ll have the oar-master come and release you.” He was hesitant to touch the corpse. He stood as straight as he could without letting go of the safety rope. “The captain is ordering the two of you to remain on deck until the skies clear. In such a storm as this, and with long nights, we must have the attention of every man.”
“One of us cannot comply, Ynay,” said Sant-Germainus. He looked over his shoulder at the frothing sea. “We should be nearing Paros or Naxos. You will need a guard in the bow as well as a second steersman.”
“How can you be sure? We’re probably off-course by leagues.”
“Possibly. But there are more islands than those two in the Cyclades, and we should be wary of them. They are around us in the dark, and we may not see them until we are up against their shores.” Sant-Germainus had to shift his stance as the dead body struck his legs. “We will all drown if we scrape a rock in this gale.”
The first officer looked uncomfortable. “The captain doesn’t want to risk any more lives. He’s afraid anyone on deck could be washed away.” As if to support this idea, the ship pitched toward its port side and tried to turn abeam to the wave, which would bring a fatal shift in position. Sant-Germainus held the oar with all his strength, and gradually the prow slid back to taking the waves straight on while the dead man slid as far down the other steering oar as his manacles permitted. Ynay dropped to his knee in an effort to keep hold of the safety rope.
“If you lose your steersmen, you will sink. That is certain,” said Sant-Germainus.
“The storm could lessen,” the first officer growled.
“If it does, we may run aground on one of the islands—if we are lucky,” Sant-Germainus warned. “If we’re not dashed apart on rocks or cliffs.”
“I suppose,” said Ynay, regarding the corpse of the second steersman with increasing distress. “He’s got to go over the side.”
Sant-Germainus nodded, trying to keep the steering-oar steady. “If there is no lookout, we may lose the bottom of the ships to unseen shoals.” As much as he longed for solid earth under his feet, he dreaded the shoals, no matter how solid they were, that would rip the bottom out of the ship; he, unlike the others aboard, could not drown, and the thought of lying, chained in a wreck, alert and aware until his flesh was eaten away by sea-creatures appalled him. “Then more than cargo would be forfeit.”
“I know,” muttered the first officer; his voice did not carry over the roar of the waves and the wind’s moan.
“The winds are rising,” Sant-Germainus pointed out. “They have changed direction three or four times.”
“We’ve furled the sail and pulled in half the oars. I don’t know what else we can do.” Ynay was clearly worried but unwilling to admit as much to this captured foreigner. “The captain won’t permit us to lighten our load.”
“You can put a watchman in the bow,” said Sant-Germainus. “And bring that Egyptian oarsman to steer with me. He knows these waters and he has come through his share of storms.”
“The Egyptian from your ship?” The first officer shook his head. “The captain would never agree.”
“He must have someone else on the other oar, and all of you know it,” said Sant-Germainus. “No one man can hold the ship on a single steering oar alone. If the other steering oar breaks, you will have no control on the starboard side, and the ship will roll more heavily than it does now.”
“But you and…he…are chained together. Your oar and the other one are linked by the chain,” said Ynay in a desperate attempt at reason.
“Think of the risk of my falling, or worse.” Sant-Germainus regarded him steadily as the seas pitched around them.
“I suppose that’s what you would have done on the Morning Star,” said Ynay.
“At the very least, had I been caught in such a storm,” said Sant-Germainus with more emotion; the loss of his merchant-ship five days ago to these Greeks still rankled; bales of silk lashed to the deck bore the eclipse symbol of his trading company, serving as a constant reminder of his capture, the capture of his men, and his cargo’s theft. “You would do the same, Ynay; you know the sea.”
“Our captain is not so willing to put lives—”
“He may risk one or two, or he may risk all,” said Sant-Germainus over a new wash of wave.
“It is dangerous, to chain a man on deck in such a storm,” said Ynay, then realized what he had said, and to whom; he added, “Your crew could drown if they are brought to help you. Let them be safe at their oars.”
“Then the captain is risking all,” said Sant-Germainus, relieved that he had taken no nourishment for more than six days, for had he received sustenance since then, he would now be enduring crippling nausea as well as severe pain in his muscles and joints from his exposure to water and light. His hunger was growing as he tired and with it his formidable strength was waning—another day or two like this and he would be utterly exhausted and disoriented by the enervation the water gave. He clutched the oar to his chest and hung on as the waves pounded over the bow of the ship, washing back to where he stood on the after-deck. “We will all pay the price for his greed and cowardice.”
Ynay winced as he nodded. “So I fear.”
“Then, for your own sake, convince him of what he stands to lose.”
The first officer clung to the safety-rope, his face distressed. “I will ask the captain if he will accept volunteers to man the oar, and the watch. And I’ll send the oar-master to—” He motioned to the corpse.
Sant-Germainus watched Ynay lurch back toward the middle of the ship and the hatches that led below. He frowned at the man’s struggle to keep his footing. The ship rolled ponderously and threatened to capsize, but Sant-Germainus held the oar, his whole body leaning into it; the wood moaned in his hands, and for a long moment he feared the oar would break, leaving the ship at the mercy of the storm. The ship topped the swell and righted itself, sliding down the wall of water into another trough, and he used this short time to align the bow more safely.
How he hated crossing running water! At least it was the dark of the year, so that sunlight did not join with the sea in wearing him out. Even the hard months crossing the Takla Makan in the Year of Yellow Snow, thirty years ago, was less arduous than this passage through the Aegean Sea—then there had only been cold and hunger to exhaust him, not the vitiation of running water and unrelenting labor. He wondered briefly how Rutgeros was doing below-decks and hoped that his bondsman was faring better than he was. Looking over at the dead man, he said, “May you rest quietly.”
* * * *
Some while later, the oar-master—a massive fellow from Odessus called Dvlinoh—came wallowing along the safety-rope and unlocked the manacles holding the corpse to the oar. “I’ll bring someone up to help you,” he said bluntly. “No one can hold these oars alone, not in a storm. The captain’s a fool.”
Sant-Germainus said nothing, watching as the body slid down the after-deck; the oar-master caught it by the ankle and let the next wave that broke over the ship carry it off.
* * * *
Dark water heaved around them, changing from mountain to valley and to mountain again in restless progression, but the wind had died down, so that the waves no longer piled up like hissing battlements. The ship was still afloat, but half the oarsmen were on the mid-deck, helping to bail out the holds on a bucket-chain. A wan swath of reddish sunlight smeared the eastern horizon off their port side ahead, its light revealing in the distance the suggestion of an island.
Sant-Germainus hung over his steering oar and regarded Khafir-Amun, who held the other next to him. “I think the captain will relieve us shortly.” He spoke the Egyptian tongue with an old-fashioned accent.
“A foolish, frightened creature, not worthy of this ship; he makes no offering to Poseidon,” said the Egyptian, a tall, wide-shouldered, leather-skinned man with arms as tough as tree-trunks from his long years at the steering-oar; he had a wide, irregular scar along his jaw and another cutting through his eyebrow, and his left hand was missing its little finger. “What made him think he could command a ship, let alone a band of sea-robbers?”
“A family trade, perhaps?” Sant-Germainus ventured, making himself stand upright in spite of the ache in his limbs; his sodden dalamatica adding to his chill. He rarely felt cold, but combined with damp, Sant-Germainus was now distinctly uncomfortable.
“Then he should have left the trade and apprenticed himself to a camel-drover,” said Khafir-Amun. “Ynay is better suited to this work than the captain will ever be.”
“That is often the case,” said Sant-Germainus, thinking back to the many times he had seen outwardly powerful men who were supported by more capable assistants. “Ynay is a true sailor, and sensible.”
“Your man—Rutgeros?—volunteered to watch, but the captain wouldn’t allow it, nor would he allow anyone who had been among your crew. He said you and they would hatch mischief if you were allowed to work together.” He glanced toward the island in the distance. “Do you know where we are?”
“I know we are not at Naxos, or Paros. We cannot have been blown as far as Crete. Amorgus or Ios, perhaps.” Sant-Germainus squinted in the increasing sunlight, his skin starting to feel tight, as if he stood too near a flame.
“Amorgus is long and thin and much too far south,” said Khafir-Amun. “From here, that island looks small and probably fairly round. There are no very high peaks I can make out.” He thought a moment. “The small island east of Naxos—what is it called?—that might be it.”
“We may be east of Naxos,” Sant-Germainus conceded. “Not so far south as Koufonisia or Karos, I would reckon.”
“Dhenoussa,” said Khafir-Amun. “That’s the island. I wish I could see it more clearly. I am almost certain I am right.”
“I doubt we could have been blown so far to the east,” said Sant-Germainus, but even as he said it, he began to think of the long night and the furious wind. They might well have gone farther than he had assumed. He looked over his shoulder toward the west but could not make out the three peaks of Naxos. “We could have reached Dhenoussa,” he said with less certainty; now that they had come through the heart of the storm, he realized he was more exhausted than he could remember being in more than a century.
“It’s too big for any of the Makaris, so it must be Dhenoussa. After such a night as we have passed, I would not be surprised to see Melos ahead, had we gone southwest, or Mykonos, had we been driven backward.” He chuckled to show he knew this was impossible.
“With the seas still running so high, I wonder if we will find a safe harbor, whatever island it may be.” Sant-Germainus bore down on his oar as the ship crested another wave; his arms shook with the effort and he felt his grip beginning to fail in spite of the manacles holding him in place. “We will see more as it gets lighter. We’ll be better able to work out where we are.”
“Dhenoussa has two shelters—one on the northwest side of the island, the other on the northeast, and there is a bay on the south-southwest side, and a few coves and inlets as well, but it is much more exposed.” Khafir-Amun recited from memory. “The southern inlets can also give protection, but not very good anchorage.”
“If we cannot find them, it hardly matters,” said Sant-Germainus.
“If the captain would post a watch, we would manage better. We need to know where we are,” said Khafir-Amun, repeating the cause of his anxiety. “We needs a man in the bow, and one in the stern.”
“Yes; but the captain is not willing to order that,” said Sant-Germainus, and after a glance at the brightening sky ahead beyond the bow, added, “And I fear I must rest soon.” This admission made him flinch inwardly.
Khafir-Amun nodded. “No man should pull a steering oar longer than a full day or a full night.”
“Including the day or night at the dark of the year?” Sant-Germainus asked.
“The days are short now, but in bad weather it hardly matters—every hour seems a day or more.” Khafir-Amun looked again toward the island, now appearing a bit larger. “We’re getting closer.”
“More risks of rocks,” said Sant-Germainus uneasily.
“I hope the captain will decide to anchor here. He should order a full inspection of the ship.”
“After she’s bailed out,” said Sant-Germainus, and shoved his end of the oar upward as the ship dropped down a swelling wave; men on deck grabbed hold of the two safety-ropes as water cascaded over them and into the open hold. Shouts from below erupted at once, and Sant-Germainus saw three more oars shipped inside. “One way or another, she will not go much farther.”
“No. Nor will the men,” said Khafir-Amun.
“The captain will order Dvlinoh to beat them.”
Khafir-Amun laughed unpleasantly. “It will do no good. They have no food. All three water cisterns have been breached, so there is nothing to drink unless we open the amphorae for their wine—not that the men would object to that. The barrels of salt pork were washed away some time last night. And the beans are sodden—the cook says they are going to spoil, and must be thrown overboard. He’s only going to cook up the few that are dry, and when they’re eaten—”
“Then he must reprovision,” said Sant-Germainus, holding the shuddering oar so tightly that he felt his manacles dig into his wrists.
“If he wants to get back to Thera,” said Khafir-Amun with grim satisfaction.
“Thera: is that where he is from?” asked Sant-Germainus. As another wave slopped over the side of the ship, he wobbled on his feet.
“So he said,” Khafir-Amun said, frowning as he watched Sant-Germainus balance himself against his oar. “He could be from there.”
Sant-Germainus regarded the men striving to move more buckets of water out of the hold. “It is cold enough that the oarsmen will soon have chilblains, if they do not already. They will have to be given something warm to drink, and soon.”
“They are all cold,” said Khafir-Amun. “It was folly to set out so late in the year.”
“It was that or have the ship impounded and the oarsmen taken as slaves,” said Sant-Germainus. “Storms were a more acceptable hazard.”
“Storms are one thing, pirates are another.” Khafir-Amun nodded slowly.
“The Morning Star could weather storms,” said Sant-Germainus. “But storms and pirates were beyond her to withstand.”
Khafir-Amun touched his hands together. “You did not know about the pirates, or that the storm would be so severe. Every man must decide these things for himself.” He narrowed his eyes as the first long rays of dawn broke through the clouds, lighting them from beneath so that it looked as if the sky were afire.
“Then steer for the island until the captain tells you otherwise,” Sant-Germainus recommended, then collapsed to his knees.
“YNAY!” Khafir-Amun bellowed as he reached to seize Sant-Germainus’ oar. “Take Sant-Germainus below and send up another steersman!”
It was Dvlinoh who answered the summons, shoving through the bailers and keeping hold of the safety-rope as he came to the after-deck. He gave Sant-Germainus a thoughtful stare. “Is he alive?” He did not wait for Khafir-Amun to answer, but leaned forward and unlocked the manacles. “Hang on until I come back. I’ll take his place at the oar, and the Captain may say what he likes.” Without another word, he slung Sant-Germainus over his shoulder and made his way back to the hold.
* * * *
Sant-Germainus opened his eyes; he was still cold and groggy, but he could feel the day waning above him, and although the hold stank of rotting cargo, unwashed bodies, and the effluvia of confinement, it was preferable to being on deck in the fading sunlight. He tried to move and almost fell out of the narrow bunk in which he had been sleeping as the ship weltered through choppy water; he muttered an oath in his native tongue and heard Rutgeros answer.
“So you are awake, my master,” he said in old-fashioned Latin.
“I am,” Sant-Germainus responded. “Where are we?”
“We are coming into a small harbor on Dhenoussa. Khafir-Amun found it about an hour ago. It is a small cove on the south side of the island. There are two long crests through the island, one in a straight line, the other curved; the inlet is in the last curve of that second crest. Approaching it is proving difficult: the seas are still high, and we cannot use the sail, and the oarsmen are being cautious not to splinter their oars on hidden rocks.”
“Did Khafir-Amun have any more information about the island?” Sant-Germainus asked, wanting to concentrate on something other than his discomforts.
“There is no spring on the island, or so the sailors say, so we will have to get water from cisterns on the island, which should be full after such a storm as we have had, assuming the shepherds and fishermen will allow us to have enough for our needs,” said Rutgeros. “Also, there is a monastery on the north end of the island; the fishermen are on the south side, so there should be food available somewhere. The monks should be charitable at this time of year, for their faith.”
“Assuming the captain is willing to pay for it,” said Sant-Germainus sardonically.
“Alas, I fear he has other plans; he intends to seize what he wants and to leave the island before anyone knows we have come.” Rutgeros bent down to offer the support of his arm. “And speaking of the captain, I have informed him of the severity of your sea-sickness so he will not expect you to ask for food.”
“Prudent of you, old friend,” said Sant-Germainus with a rueful smile. “Not that I am not ravenous.”
“As is the rest of the crew,” said Rutgeros. “If the captain had decided to make for Thera without taking on food and water, there would have been mutiny.”
“Or a dead crew,” said Sant-Germainus flatly; he would hate to have to drift in a damaged ship with nothing but decaying bodies and only Rutgeros for company.
“The captain is greedy and foolish, but he knows he could lose everything, including his life, if he starves his oarsmen.”
“I should hope so; his men must know it,” said Sant-Germainus. He managed to squeeze out of the bunk and get to his feet, but he discovered his head still ached and his strength was at low ebb.
“Hold steady,” Rutgeros recommended in Byzantine Greek as he offered the support of his arm to Sant-Germainus; there were other men near them who were listening to their conversation and would be suspicious of what they did not understand. “I discovered one of your chests in the cargo hold, the only one they took from the Morning Star. Apparently the straps and locks intrigued the captain; he couldn’t get it open, and so he brought it aboard, hoping he will find treasure inside.”
“And so he shall, if only he knew it,” said Sant-Germainus drily, still speaking the Latin of five hundred years ago. “If the earth is not soaked, I will take advantage of having it here once we are safe in harbor.”
“You might have to wait until the crew is sleeping,” Rutgeros pointed out.
“Which most will do, with only a few put on watch through the night. They will not notice what I do, if I am cautious,” said Sant-Germainus.
“I could attend to it for you,” Rutgeros volunteered.
“It may come to that,” said Sant-Germainus as he looked toward the open hold where the ladder was beginning to shake; someone was climbing down. “We will make our decisions in this regard later.”
“A very good notion,” said Rutgeros. He stepped back as a middle-aged man with Greek features but dressed in Syrian finery came into the hold. “Captain Argourus,” he said, effacing himself.
“I see you are awake,” said the captain, ignoring Rutgeros and addressing Sant-Germainus; he fingered his curled beard, his lower lip protruding. “May God give you a good day on the Eve of His Nativity.” He made a great show of signing himself. “On this day, we must all be doubly thankful.”
“He may have provided our deliverance, more or less.” He indicated the pitch and roll of the ship. “We are not safely anchored yet.”
“Can you doubt it, on this of all evenings?” Captain Argourus pointed directly at Sant-Germainus. “Do you question His mercy? You will tempt God to allow the sea to swallow you.”
“The last few days have been demanding, yet I am still here.” Sant-Germainus steadied himself by holding onto the edge of the top bunk of the tier; his Byzantine Greek was impeccable, but slightly accented. “I do not know if this is because of fate or chance or the season; the Christians in this crew must have effective prayers at this time.” He paused and added, “If there is reason for thanks, then I am thankful.”
Captain Argourus regarded him narrowly, then decided not to make an issue of it. “You did well, they tell me. You kept us from going completely off course. We wouldn’t have made this landfall without your seamanship.”
“You are most generous to say so, but it was more luck and the whim of the sea that brought us safely through the heart of the storm,” said Sant-Germainus, keeping most of the irony from his voice; only the arch of one fine brow suggested any mordant intent.
The captain studied Sant-Germainus for a long while, and again chose not to argue. “Do you know this island: Dhenoussa?”
“I have passed it many times, but I do not know it. This is the first time I have landed on its shores.” He did not add that except for his first voyage to Egypt roughly two thousand years before, in the past he had been in the hold of his ship, atop his chests of his native earth, in a stupor, not struggling on deck, chained to an oar.
“But you are not adverse to going ashore,” Captain Argourus said.
“No, I am not,” said Sant-Germainus, who was eager to have earth beneath his feet, and the chance to find an animal—a goat or a sheep would do—to allow him to ease his hunger.
“Good. I will send you to the monks; they are more likely to help us than any fishermen—my crew will deal with the fishermen. The monks are supposed to aid seafarers, aren’t they? Their cisterns are full, no doubt, and for the monks, these being their Holy Days, they will not begrudge us water and food, in the name of their God. But the request will do better coming from you than from me.”
Although Sant-Germainus agreed, he asked, “Why do you think so?”
The captain snorted. “Monks don’t like pirates. They’re likely to refuse me on that point alone.”
“But you think they will provide me with food and water because I am a captive,” said Sant-Germainus.
“It would be like them; their faith requires it,” said Captain Argourus, his smile widening. “Especially if you tell them I will kill you and all the men from your ship if you fail. They would rather be martyrs than betray their calling.”
Sant-Germainus regarded the captain steadily. “And you intend that I should plead for all of us?”
“And the monks, of course, since we would kill them, too, or lock them to the oars if they deny us. They can further their good acts by taking those of the oarsmen who are stricken, and treating their ills. We will lose half a dozen men to frostbite, I fear, and will need replacements for them. The monks could provide us with strong arms.” He coughed. “Tell them that during their Holy Days, they should uphold what their founder taught, and suffer for the good of others.”
“Ship oars!” came the shout from the rowing-hold.
“We must be close to shore; you can hear the breakers and smell the beach,” said the captain. “We will have to use the small boats to get to and from the land; there is no dock or quay at the inlet, not that it would be safe to tie up to any such structure with the seas still so high.” He pointed to Sant-Germainus. “Be ready to go ashore. I will not stomach delays. Our need it too urgent.”
“I will have to find a cloak. My clothes are not sufficient to keep a mouse warm, not out in the open wind,” said Sant-Germainus. He did not want the clothes for protection against the elements, but to secure himself from prying eyes.
“Your manservant can find that for you,” said the captain as he made for the ladder leading to the deck above. “Be ready. I will take your reluctance out on the hide of the oarsmen,” he declared ominously as he set foot on the lowest rung.
“I will find what you need,” said Rutgeros to Sant-Germainus.
“Thank you,” said Sant-Germainus, a troubled line settling in between his fine brows. He stood, accustoming himself to the roll of the ship, trying to put the discomfort of his headache and nausea behind him; forcing himself to listen to what the sailors and oarsman were shouting, he was able to reach a point where he could ignore his water-caused irritations, and to put his attention on what was going on around him, so that by the time Rutgeros came back from his search with a fine, if old-fashioned abolla, its deep pleats smelling of salt and rosemary; he was able to pull it on with little more than a wince. It’s color—a dark olive-gray—made him seem one with the shadows.
“It is a bit damp,” Rutgeros said apologetically.
“What is not?” Sant-Germainus countered with a hint of amusement. “It is mostly dry, and it is heavy enough to keep out the wind.” He saw Khafir-Amun descending the ladder into the hold. “How is this anchorage?”
Khafir-Amun was tired; his big shoulders slouched and there were purplish shadows around his eyes. “It is the best we can have in this location,” he said. “This ship will not go much farther, in any case. We need food and water and the hull requires patching.”
“Is it breached?” Sant-Germainus asked, trying to conceal his alarm.
“Nothing too serious, but the hull must be patched; the damage will get worse if it isn’t attended to now. Three of the oars are in need of repair, as well.” He rubbed his lips. “I am hungry, and I need sleep.”
Sant-Germainus nodded. “As are we all: hungry.”
“The captain will have to provide for us, and soon,” said Khafir-Amun, scowling as he looked for a bunk in which to nap. “And everyone is tired, I know I am not alone. Some are asleep at their oars.”
“Then the captain will provide rest and food,” Sant-Germainus agreed, thinking of the errand ahead for him. “If he has any sense.”
“Six of the oarsmen have been set to fishing from the fore-deck,” said Rutgeros. “They should catch something to cook.”
“Octopus,” said Khafir-Amun. “I like octopus.”
“I suspect anything would do now,” said Rutgeros. “Except, perhaps, sponges.”
“In storms like this, fishing is uncertain,” said Khafir-Amun, no longer paying much attention as he covered his yawn.
“All the more reason for me to make haste,” said Sant-Germainus, as much to spur himself on as to explain his mission.
“So say we all,” muttered Khafir-Amun.
“Is there a lantern I can take with me?” Sant-Germainus asked, for although his eyes did not require the extra illumination to see in the night, he knew better than to forge off into the fading light with nothing to light his way.
“I’ll find one for you,” Rutgeros said, and went forward in the chilly, malodorous hold, moving carefully among the groups of worn out oarsmen who sat on the floor, bent with fatigue.
“So you really are going to speak to the monks, are you?” Khafir-Amun asked Sant-Germainus.
“The captain insists,” said Sant-Germainus, resignation in every aspect of his body.
“Just like that? On your own?”
Rutgeros returned, carrying a simple oil-lantern, its wick just starting to burn. After blowing gently on the wick to increase its brightness, he held it out to Sant-Germainus silently; Sant-Gemainus took the oil-lantern and studied it for a brief moment, then looked att Khafir-Amun. “He has promised to kill you and all those he took from the Morning Star if I do not persuade the monks to feed and help us. I have no doubt he would carry out his threat.” His face was impassive but there was a glint in his dark eyes that revealed the contempt he felt for the captain. “That is not the way I would prefer to mark the remembrance of my birth.”
“I see. So you aren’t likely to do anything other than what the captain requires,” said Khafir-Amun. “He’s a clever old devil, Captain Argourus is.”
“Do you admire him?” Rutgeros asked in disapproving surprise.
“No,” said Khafir-Amun. “But many pirates would simply cut their losses and strand the captives and the injured on this island to fend for themselves. At least we have something more than thirst and starvation ahead of us.” He listened to the outburst of activity on the deck, and smiled. “Ah. Someone has caught a fish. As soon as the men get the fire going again, we will have a little to eat.”
“I hope the fish is of good size,” said Rutgeros.
“Or that more are caught, and soon. They will put the fish in with the driest of the beans that are left into the pot, and anything else that we can still safely eat that hasn’t been washed overboard.” Khafir-Amun touched the charm that hung around his neck on a hin brass chain. “We will not die tonight, or tomorrow.”
“If I can convince the monks to aid us,” said Sant-Germainus, going toward the ladder, his oil-lantern raised.
Khafir-Amun coughed discreetly. “I have some information to pass to you, which Ynay told me: none of us from the Morning Star are permitted to take you ashore, or to go with you. We are hostages, to gain your compliance. The captain said you must stay with his men as far as the shore, and then go on your own. If you aren’t back by dawn, he will throw one of us into the sea at noon, and another at sunset, and then he will storm the monastery with his men, and take what they want.”
“Why did he not tell me himself?” Sant-Germainus asked, preparing to climb to the deck.
“Because he said there was nothing to discuss, and he wanted no argument from you—it would avail you nothing.” He lowered his head. “I am sorry to have to tell you, but it is something you have to know. Ynay insisted that you be informed.”
Rutgeros, listening to this, said softly to Sant-Germainus. “If you can escape, my master, do it. We are all dead men in any case.”
“This is an island, old friend—where can I escape?” said Sant-Germainus as he began to climb into the brilliant red light of sunset.
* * * *
The boat that provided a crossing from the boat to the shore was small enough to have difficulties in the swells. Six oarsmen tugged and pulled while Ynay held the steering-oar in the stern. The overcast sky caught the low light from the sinking sun; the lambent light making the sky appear to be filled with lava, and lending the land ahead a smoldering shade of orange. Sant-Germainus sat in the middle of the boat, vertigo threatening to claim him as the oarsmen plied their way through the raucous sea.
“There are no houses anywhere I can see,” Sant-Germainus forced himself to say.
“Your steersman said that this cove isn’t sheltered enough for that. According to him, there is a small village around the point to the west, or there was eight years ago.”
“And you’re planning to go there, are you?”
“As soon as you are safely landed, yes. I’m sorry you have to go ashore at night,” said Ynay to Sant-Germainus, pointing to the eroded peak on the west side of the cove. “They say spirits hold this island at the dark of the year, and not all of them are helpful, or inclined to give aid to visitors.”
“I will keep that in mind,” said Sant-Germainus. He held his abolla closed; the oil-lantern rested on his knee. As the shore grew nearer, he took stock of the rocky inlet and the narrow beach. “How many of you will remain here while I visit the monastery?”
“Two will remain,” said Ynay. “The captain wants the boat to go on to the fishing village as soon as you are landed. They will have something we can eat.”
Sant-Germainus thought that over, and disliked the conclusions he reached about this decision. He would have liked to have a knife with him. “Are there wild animals on the island, do you know?”
“Goats and some pigs,” said Ynay. “There are also a few sheep; the monks maintain a flock for their own use.”
“In folds at this time of year, I suppose,” said Sant-Germainus.
“Very likely,” said Ynay, and wiped his face as the boat rode through the first breakers.
“Do you know where the monastery is?” Sant-Germainus asked. “I can not see anything from here.”
“On the northeast corner of the island, on a rocky crest,” said Ynay, and ordered the oarsmen to slow their efforts. “Front oars, prepare to land.” The boat rocked up, then down, and as the bow fell, the two front oarsmen jumped out into waist-deep surf. They took hold of the bow-line and began to drag the boat toward the sand while the other oarsmen pulled in their oars. The bottom scraped and the boat leaned to the port side as the two front oarsmen tugged the boat out of the water. Ynay climbed out of the boat and held it steady for Sant-Germainus, who struggled over the side and into thigh-deep water; his senses rocked as he tried to move out of the spent waves and onto the sand. Although the water was unpleasantly cold, it would have been disorienting to Sant-Germainus had it been warm and still. His first stride almost sent him off his feet, and he flailed to keep from toppling under the water. His hands sunk like talons into the side-rail of the boat, and he clung to this as he made his way the five steps it took to get onto the beach where he sat down, panting, beyond the touch of the water. He looked westward where the orange light was now tinged with violet and tarnished silver, and the sun was a brilliant pool of brass hanging just above the horizon, blocked in part by the cliff at the western edge of the cove, and the mass of Captain Argourus’ ship.
“Not much light left,” said the lead oarsman from his place at the top of the narrow swath of sand. “And the tide is coming in.”
“High water should be at the edge of the sand, against the cliff,” said Ynay.
“And the tide is coming in,” said Sant-Germainus.
“The two of you who remain here should find shelter up there.” He pointed to a broad ledge on the face of the cliff, slightly higher than Ynay was tall.
“Is that high enough?” The second oarsman shook his head. “I don’t want to be trapped on a ledge for half the night.”
“If the winds stay down, you should be fine there,” Ynay said.
“There’s a shoulder a little higher up. It would provide a little protection, and surer footing,” said Sant-Germainus as he studied the rocky face. “You can see that part of the cliff fell in recently, and that ledge is close to the slip; it could also fall.”
“So might the whole cliff,” said Ynay. “Perhaps we should return to the boat.”
Sant-Germainus was not distressed by Ynay’s acerbic observation. “The cliff may not be as secure as it seems.”
Ynay scowled at him. “If that part of the cliff were going to fall, it would have done so during the storm.”
“Possibly,” said Sant-Germainus, remaining calm. “But the slope is sodden, and that can loosen the—”
“Very well!” Ynay cut in. “Phaon, you and Kai climb to the shoulder.” Having issued his orders to the two oarsmen, he rounded on Sant-Germainus. “There. They will go higher. Are you satisfied?”
“I am reassured,” said Sant-Germainus, standing and reaching into the boat to claim his oil-lantern. “Let me get my bearings, and I will start for the monastery. It will take me a good part of the night to get there.” This was not entirely accurate, but for most living men it was true.
“You must be here at dawn, or the captain will select who among your crew is to go into the sea. By noon the first will be drowned. He is entirely serious about this.” He looked abashed at this threat.
Sant-Germainus sighed. “What purpose does it serve to kill good men?”
“I told him it would be foolish to waste men, but he is determined not to let you get away from him. He is afraid of what you might bring down upon us.”
“I understand that; I will do all that I can to bring the monks by mid-morning. They have dawn rites to perform, and I doubt they would abandon them,” said Sant-Germainus, and began to walk toward the cliffs, which were not particularly high—no more than three times his height—but could prove difficult to climb. He found a narrow defile down which a storm-made stream splashed, providing a less precipitous access to the crest above. Little as he liked straddling running water, he began his ascent, sorry that he had not been able to line the soles of his Persian boots with his native earth. The climb was not very difficult and he made good progress upward. In spite of the slight dizziness the running water imparted. Every step on the aneling earth returned a little of his strength. The night would ease his discomfort somewhat, but he would be up the cliff before the sunlight faded, and would need to husband himself against the long walk he was about to make. Grimly he kept on, ignoring the shouts from the men beneath him.
By the time he reached the top of the cliff, he was aching, slightly dizzy, and feeling unusually weak. He coughed experimentally as if to assure himself he could breathe again, then lifted his oil-lantern and cast about for some kind of pathway that would lead him toward his goal. Almost at once he found a narrow goat-track leading northward along the ridge. As the last streamers of sunlight flashed through the clouds, Sant-Germainus began walking, his stamina gradually increasing, and with it, his hunger. On this, one of the longest nights of the year, he took comfort in the dark ahead. The moon would be half-full, he thought, but invisible behind the fading storm, so he would have only the light of the lamp, which for him was more than sufficient; his eyes were little impeded by night. With no one to see him, he moved quickly, covering the ground faster than the living could do. He held the oil-lantern aloft so that he would be readily visible to any shepherd or goatherd; he did not want to seem furtive or surreptitious. There as a great deal of low-lying brush but no tall trees; the few stunted cypress that grew in the clefts and gullies were bent from the constant force of the wind; they offered little shelter. As he walked he smelled thyme and rosemary, an odd perfume in the blowing night. He passed two large cisterns as he followed the path, and noticed both were full, an observation that gave him genuine satisfaction, and the assurance that his journey had not been in vain. He stopped once near a sheep-f0ld and considered using one of the animals to slake his tremendous thirst, but the sleepy bark of a dog kept him from acting on that impulse, and he went on, promising himself sustenance when he reached the monastery.
Some time later, he topped slight a rise and saw below him a closely locked compound of two long rows of L-shaped cells angled toward a square chapel topped with a drum-cupola and a large crucifix; there were three other buildings, one for poultry and livestock, one that appeared to be a kitchen or bakery, one that was probably a communal hall, and four large cisterns, all within a high rectangular stone wall surmounted at each corner with a Greek crucifix. He nearly smiled. “The monastery,” he said aloud, and started down the trail toward the southern gate, the nearest to him; the path was steep, and he went slowly so as not to take a misstep. He was almost at the wall when a bell began to chime its single, monotonous note, and shortly after it began to sound, the drone of chanting arose. Sant-Germainus stopped on a bend in the path, watching intently.
Gradually a number of men formed a line from their cells and walked slowly toward the low building in which the bell was kept. A few of the monks carried oil-lamps, providing light for their slow advance. They continued their three-note chant as they walked, reciting the words of ancient psalms in Anatolian Greek. At the front of the chapel, all of them knelt, prayed aloud in ragged unison, prostrated themselves, then rose. As they entered the chapel, they fell silent.
After a short while, Sant-Germainus approached the gate again, searching for some means of summoning the monks to admit him. He had almost decided to knock when he heard a shout from inside the walls.
“Glory to God! Glory to God! The Angels proclaim the Birth of the Savior!” followed by a clamoring of the single bell, accompanied by shouts of “Glory! Glory!”
“On this night, God pledges His Love!” cried one bass voice. “In the darkest hour we are redeemed.”
“God have mercy on us. Christ have mercy on us,” the others clamored.
Sant-Germainus hovered at the gate, his oil-lantern still in his hand. He waited until the exclamations died down and the chanting resumed. Then he used the flat of his hand to pound upon the thick wooden gate in four strong blows. He waited, and when nothing happened, he pounded again, this time shouting, “Help! We need help!”
The chanting broke off, and there was a guarded, listening quiet.
“Brothers!” Sant-Germainus shouted as he bludgeoned the gate more emphatically, using the dialect of Constantinople. “Brothers, lives are in danger! Without your help, men will die!”
This time a deep, rough voice answered. “We are at worship.”
Sant-Germainus waited a long moment. “There are sailors and oarsmen in need of food and water and shelter, Brothers. They will perish if they receive none. The storm has deprived them of their food and water.”
“Is that what you want us to give?” the gravely voice asked, as if he had not heard.
“Yes: water and food. There is almost none of either left aboard the ship. With your help, we can return to the home port. The men are worn out and they suffer from the cold and two days of heavy weather. On this night of all nights, have mercy upon them, as your god has mercy upon you.” He paused, giving the monks time to speak; when they remained silent, he continued. “The ship needs repairs, and there is not much wood on this island to use, so we may ask for your help in—”
“We have no lumber to spare,” said the monk who had spoken for the rest. “This island has few trees.”
“Then the oarsmen will improvise, if you will let us have a few empty barrels,” said Sant-Germainus. “If they have food and water, they will be able to work, and the staves may be enough to hold the hull together.” He had to stop himself from thinking what it would be like to return to the boat, and the relentless enervation of the sea.
“It is the Nativity. We cannot stop our worship for such things.” The voice had a finality to it that boded ill for Sant-Germainus and the crew of Captain Argourus’ ship. “I ask you to leave us to our rites.”
Sant-Germainus took a chance. “How can you say this and maintain your faith?” He recalled the many Christians he had encountered in the last five centuries and knew that each group had its own interpretation of the religion, but he persisted. “Charity is a duty for Christians, is it not?”
“We are true to our faith: this is a sacred time for us. This is the time we devote to the birth of the Christ, not to the misfortunes of this world.” His tone was becoming testy. “We will be thankful to God for what He has provided to us.”
“Yet how better to show your devotion, than to give succor to those in need?” Sant-Germainus countered. “It is what your founder bade you do, is it not? It is what your god did for you in your Christ’s birth.”
There was a short silence, and then the harsh voice said, “How many men are there on this ship?”
“Thirty-four, counting the captain,” said Sant-Germainus quickly. “Five are suffering badly from cold, and all are hungry.”
The speaker hesitated, then said, “Where is this ship?”
“At a cove on the south side of this island. There are two boats left undamaged aboard to bring the men ashore.” He faltered, trying to discern the impact his words were having, then said, “If you are willing to help them, some lives will be saved. It will bring glory to your faith. Their prayers of gratitude will be heard in Heaven.” He listened closely, trying to be aware of their response.
This time there was a low murmur of conversation before the speaker said, “We will open the gate for you. You and I will speak while the Brothers continue with their prayers. Ordinarily we would not consider dealing with seamen tonight, but, as you say, God provides. Whatever I decide then will be final.”
“Thank you,” said Sant-Germainus, holding the oil-lantern so that it cast some light on his features.
The gate groaned open, revealing a narrow courtyard and the two rows of cells lined up back from the chapel. A group of about forty monks in rough-spun habits with raised cowl-hoods stood just beyond the swing of the gate. A few carried oil-lamps, but most were nothing more than dark spaces in the night. As Sant-Germainus entered the monastery, one man stepped forward, a thick-bodied man not quite so tall as Sant-Germainus, his features hidden by his hood. “I give you welcome on this holy night,” he said, his voice still rough. “Enter and be welcome, if you are unarmed.”
“I thank you, good Brother, for your kindness to me and the men of the ship.” He held out his right hand, showing it empty. “My mission is peaceful.”
“So you have said,” the blocky man said. “I am Brother Theron, named for my patron saint, the senior of the monastery. I am leader of these monks. Come with me to our dining hall. There is a fire burning and you can warm yourself while we prepare to fetch your shipmates.” His smile was not very convincing, but it might have been because the man had a long scar through the corner of his lip and down to the jaw, which was as much of his face as Sant-Germainus could see. “We will do what God gives us to do.”
“Thank you, Brother Theron,” he said, going toward the building the monk had indicated. “You are most gracious.” Even as he spoke, he thought the name—meaning hunter—an odd one for a monk, but he kept his reflection to himself; this region was filled with all manner of legends and tales of old demi-gods transformed by piety into stories of saints—undoubtedly Theron was one such.
“It is, as you said, the time of the Christ, and we should emulate Him to His glory.” He pointed to another of the Brothers. “This is Brother Hylas. He will help you, and stay with you.”
“That is kind, but unnecessary,” said Sant-Germainus. “I will take you back to the ship. I can show you the way.”
“Nevertheless, he will do it. Together you can offer up prayers for our success. There is no need for you to accompany us.” Brother Theron motioned to the others. “You say they need food and water, and that the ship requires repair?”
“I do.” Sant-Germainus hesitated. “Some of the oarsmen are captives, others are part of the original crew.”
“Ah. Then you must be one of the captives,” said Brother Theron.
“What makes you believe that?” Sant-Germainus asked, startled by the observation.
“It is what I would do,” said Brother Theron obscurely. “The Captain needs his men to contain you captives, doesn’t he?”
A cold knot formed itself under Sant-Germainus’ ribs and he strove to keep steady. “Yes, he does.”
“We will keep the plight of the captives in mind. We may even turn it to our advantage.” He signalled to the monks. “We will take as much as we can carry—food and water, and make for the south coast on our mission. We will leave as quickly as we can. Brother Hylas, guard the gate and the monastery while we are gone. Admit no other stranger. You must not mind the care we take,” he went on to Sant-Germainus, “but sometimes desperate men have sought to seize this haven through arms or stealth, and to turn it to their own uses. We have become cautious. But, as you reminded us, God provides for those who have faith in Him. Tonight you have brought us a gift from God.”
“Caution is wise—guile is often the nature of men,” said Sant-Germainus, thinking that Brother Theron was guileful in his own way.
Brother Hyals, who did not resemble the handsome young Argonaut for whom he was named, set a meaty paw on Sant-Germainus’ shoulder and prodded him in the direction of the dining hall. “Come. First you will get warm, and I will prepare food for you.” There was enough pressure in his grip that Sant-Germainus realized he was under guard; he held his oil-lantern more tightly. These monks, he thought, must have had more than a few encounters with pirates in the past, and had come by their distrustful posture through those conflicts.
“I am hungry,” Sant-Germainus admitted, and noticed that the monks were taking up spears. He felt a new certainty come over him: the monks were planning to do more than defend themselves. There had been pirates in these waters for as long as Sant-Germainus could remember, a period of more than twenty-five centuries, and as long as there had been pirates there had also been men who preyed on the pirates, benefitting from pirate misfortunes.
“You will be cared for,” said Brother Theron over his shoulder.
Sant-Germainus allowed himself to be ushered toward the squat building with narrow windows along the side facing the courtyard and a door at either end of its length. “Your Brothers are most…gracious.”
Brother Hylas said nothing, his hand weighing heavily as he increased the length of his stride. He lifted the outer latch and all but shoved Sant-Germainus into the dining hall, then closed the door and set the latch again. “I am going to the bakery,” said Brother Hylas through the door. “Stay where you are and you will soon be fed. You have nothing to fear if you are not unruly. But become fractious and I will lock you into the dining hall until my Brothers return and give you nothing to eat.”
This reassurance only increased Sant-Germainus’ certainty that he was a captive; how much experience the Brothers must have, to have developed such safeguards against attack. “So be it,” he said aloud in his native tongue. He decided to take stock of his prison until Brother Hylas returned; he lifted his oil-lantern to begin his exploration.
The dining hall was long and narrow with a single plank table flanked on both sides by benches. The open hearth at the back of the chamber showed only a few glowing embers, and nothing to replenish the fire. Near the door through which Sant-Germainus had come stood a statue, very old, of weathered wood. Studying it, Sant-Germainus recognized the statuary smirk of Etruscan portrait carvings, and the simple coronet offered to athletes and artists of high achievement. The figure held a cup in his right hand; his left hand had been broken off. As always, seeing this art from the descendants of his own people struck him with a profound loneliness, and he turned away. Distantly he wondered if he should expect food, and if any was offered, how he would explain his refusal; he felt more precarious, for if he stayed here, men of his crew would be killed, but if he attempted to leave, Brother Hylas might well do his best to stop him. He paced the length of the room, then returned to the door through which he had been shoved, and called out to Brother Hylas, who gave no answer. For the next while, Sant-Germainus remained by the door, listening intently, curious to know what was transpiring beyond the dining hall. He closed his eyes, hoping to concentrate more fully on listening. Finally he went back to the hearth to see if he might bring the few embers to life.
“I’ve fired up the bake-oven,” Brother Hylas announced from beyond the door. “The dough is rising. There will be loaves ready at the time of first devotions, three hours before dawn.” The monk chuckled. “We will have to delay our prayers, but we will say them in gratitude and thanksgiving.”
“The men will be grateful for any food you provide,” said Sant-Germainus.
“There will be meat, too, once I make the spit ready.”
“If you let me out, I might help you,” Sant-Germainus suggested.
“I am not permitted to do that, and well you know it,” said Brother Hylas. “I am required to keep you where you are.”
“Because I might be a diversion, or my story could be a ruse?” he guessed.
“Or you might warn your comrades: we won’t allow that,” said Brother Hylas; the last of this faded as he walked away from the door.
Sant-Germainus listened to the departing footsteps, his vexation increasing as he considered what he had stumbled into. At least he was on dry land, he reminded himself, and he would not have to deal with the pirates wholly on his own. But there was so much he needed to understand before the monks returned. Hoping to better understand his predicament, he took another turn about the long, narrow, dining hall, making note of the height and condition of the windows—too narrow to climb out of easily—as well as the layout of the room itself: dining hall it might be, but it also served as a prison. Finally he was satisfied that he had scrutinized the dining hall sufficiently—he understood how expertly he had been rendered ineffective. He sat on the end of the long bench and looked toward the far door. What on earth did these monk intend for the men of Captain Argourus’ ship? He sighed slowly, letting the possibilities play through his head. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Each of them are preparing an ambush, the monks and the pirates.”
“You can make a plea to Saint Dismas,” said Brother Hylas from beyond the door some little time later. “He may protect you. He protects thieves.”
“Saint Dismas?” Sant-Germainus repeated.
“Our patron. We have taken good and slaves when it has been necessary. Saint Dismas aids us, in the name of Christ. His likeness stands near you. Lift your oil-lantern and see him. You know he is the thief because his hand is struck off. We have made him our protector, and our guardian.” He laughed and repeated “He protects thieves.”
Sant-Germainus felt himself go cold. “Then I must suppose your Brothers are going to steal or capture the cargo and crew of the ship—as much as is left for the taking.”
“Of course: we are thieves in honor of our saint. How else could such a place as this survive on this island? What God sends us, we gladly accept, in the name of our patron.” He laughed. “Jesus paid for our sins, and we are redeemed through our faith. Saint Dismas is our provider, and as is his wont, he sends us plunder when we are in need. As to how we live, we live how we must.”
“Holy criminals, in other words?” Sant-Germainus asked.
“Some might say so,” Brother Hylas said, sounding both proud and amused. “We have often done deeds worthy of salvation, for which we give eternal thanks.”
“And the men from the ship—?”
“They will be fed and given water if they will surrender and be sold. If they will not, then the sea shall have them, and God may spare them or leave them to the Devil.”
“As has happened to many another?” Sant-Germainus guessed aloud.
“As you say,” Brother Hylas chuckled. “You will have the right to choose if you will be slaves or drowned.”
“All of us?”
“Yes. All of you.” Brother Hylas paused. “In a month, ships will set out from Rhodes, and they will come here. We will exchange you seamen for the food and drink and oil the merchants of Rhodes bring us. There are enough of you that we may also get some gold.”
“I see,” said Sant-Germainus. “What will you do with us between then and now?”
“Set you to work,” said Brother Hylas, as if it were obvious. “There is much to be done to this monastery, and to the harbor in the inlet below. You shall not be kept as hogs, to root and wallow all day. You shall labor as oxen labor.”
Lowering his head, Sant-Germainus tried not to give way to ironic despair. After all the sea and pirates could do, that it should come to this! How fitting, he thought, that Captain Argourus would be captured by these Brothers! A pirate seized by thievish monks! He hesitated before he spoke again, for he would have to find a way to keep himself away from the rest of the men in their captivity—he and Rutgeros. He decided to take a risk. “You and your Brothers—do you accept ransoms as well as slave-prices?”
“If ransoms can be got,” said Brother Hylas. “Why?”
“I am a merchant with many ships. The one on which I sailed, the Morning Star, was taken by pirates, and the crew and oarsmen put to work on their ship, which now lies on the south side of this island. They did not kill me because I have gold in Constantine’s City, and in Tyre and Alexandria, which they planned to demand in ransom, and I am the blood relative of a rich widow of Roma: Domina Clemens. If you will keep me and my manservant, and the oarsmen and sailors from the Morning Star safe until spring, I will arrange for a handsome payment to you, through this woman, and supplies as well, as much as anything Captain Argourus could gain you.”
“Gold in far places is gold on the moon,” said Brother Hylas.
“My ships stop at Naxos; I can send word to my captains when shipping resumes. Until then, I will see that my crew and my manservant do nothing against you.” As he said it, he shivered a little, knowing how much his men had already been pushed, and how difficult it would be too keep them in order.
“Why should you do this?” There was an edge in his question that revealed how great his doubts were.
“They are in danger from sailing on my vessel. I should do my utmost to see they do not suffer greater harm.” He would have to dispatch a letter to Olivia as soon as any ship put in to the harbor; once Olivia knew he was in the hands of these monks, she would order a half-dozen of his ships to come after him, ready to deal with the monastery and its monks.
“Do you have gold to offer while we wait for shipping to resume?”
“I have a dozen jewels,” countered Sant-Germainus. “The pirates did not find them because they did not know where to look.” He knew Rutgeros would have the hollow brass sea-guide with him, and its concealed contents.
“And these are true jewels, not ones counterfeit?” Brother Hylas made no effort to conceal his interest.
“They are true jewels.” Sant-Germainus had made them himself in his athanor. “If you will accept them, and spare my men, I will arrange for you to receive more.”
“What is to stop me from taking your sea-guide from your servant and keeping the jewels for our monastery?”
“Only that this is the season of the Nativity, and your god sent us to you,” said Sant-Germainus. “My manservant will point out the Morning Star crew when he and the others return.”
“Brother Theron will have to decide. He rules here,” said Brother Hylas, his voice sounding already half-persuaded.
“He would be a fool to refuse jewels, gold, and provisions,” said Sant-Germainus.
“He would be a greater fool to keep worthless men about,” Brother Hylas countered.
Sant-Germainus was silent for a short while, letting Brother Hylas reflect. Then he said, “Twenty gold coins for each of the oarsmen and crew, forty for my manservant, and fifty for me. It will be delivered on the first ship of my trading company to reach here from Ravenna in the spring.” He knew the amount was double what they would fetch in a slave-market, and larger than many ransoms paid in the last decade. “And ten silver Emperors for every day you keep us here.” The amount was not so much that it would tempt the Brothers to hold onto them, but enough to make housing and feeding them worthwhile.
“It is a goodly sum,” said Brother Hylas. “And a promise easily made. It might not be so easily kept.”
“Speak to the men from the Morning Star and they will tell you what I say is true. They know my ships and the wealth I may draw upon.” He kept his tone level and his words unhurried.
Brother Hylas waited a while, considering. “If we do this, how do we know you will not summon fighting men rather than pay us?”
“I am a merchant, but I am also an exile. If I summon fighting men, they might well turn on me as much as you.” It was true as far as it went; he took a deep breath, and added, “I have money enough to pay the amounts I have mentioned. Any ship of mine wintering on Paros or Naxos will be able to give you a first payment. You needn’t release any of us until the full sum is paid.” He would need to find a way to feed discreetly during the time they waited, but he had endured far worse in times past; he would be able to manage.
“Brother Theron might agree, but he might not: it is his decision.”
“Then swear to me you will speak with him,” said Sant-Germainus, “so that he may decide.”
“If you lie, you will roast on a spit,” said Brother Hylas.
“If I lie, I will deserve such a fate. A lie at the dark of the year is a double lie.”
Brother Hylas was satisfied with this answer. “Very well. I will tell him.” He hesitated. “You cannot escape. Even if you broke out of that hall, you cannot get out of the gate, and if you do, you are still on this island.”
“I am aware of that,” said Sant-Germainus drily.
“Then you will know that any falsehood will bring retribution, and quickly.” Brother Hylas coughed importantly.
“I have more lives than mine to consider; I will not endanger us all,” said Sant-Germainus. “I will do what I must to keep every one of my men from harm.”
“And the pirates? Will you protect them, as well?”
“The pirates must make their own terms with Brother Theron,” Sant-Germainus answered, grimness in his voice.
This time Brother Hylas took longer to speak. “If that is what you wish,” he said, drawing his words out, “then Brother Hylas may agree.”
“A mercy upon all of us,” said Sant-Germainus with only a hint of sardonic intent.
“We are Christians here. We revere mercy, for love of God. We are thankful for Him and all He provides us,” said Brother Hylas, apparently sincerely, going on, “I will now fetch a lamb to slaughter, so there will be food when my Brothers and the men from your ship return. If I bring you wood, will you build up the fire?”
“Will you allow me to slaughter the lamb?” Sant-Germainus asked quickly, a surge of energy running through him at the prospect of blood, even lamb’s blood. “To give thanks for my deliverance from the storm?”
Brother Hylas laughed again. “You want to slaughter the lamb? I should warn you, it is nearly grown; one of the last from spring.”
“No matter,” said Sant-Germainus, adding with deliberate obfuscation, “It will suffice.”
“I shouldn’t give you a knife. Brother Hylas will have me whipped if I do.”
“Do not fret,” said Sant-Germainus, as if improvising a plan. “I will break the neck and hang it to bleed. I’ll use a nail to open its throat.” A nail would account for the nip of his teeth in the animal’s neck. “There are nails in your benches. I will work a loose one out.” He had not checked for loose nails but was confident he could find one or two.
Again Brother Hylas thought over his answer. “I don’t see any danger in it. If you make the meat useless, I will tell Brother Theron and he will give you cause to regret it.”
“When it is blooded, I will give it to you to gut,” said Sant-Germainus, thinking back to the Year of Yellow Snow, when he had lived on less savory blood than lamb’s. “The meat will be untainted.”
Brother Hylas pondered the possibilities. “I will let you blood the lamb,” he said, and was unaware of the sense of relief that washed through Sant-Germainus. “After that, you may turn the spit while I prepare the fish. Bread, fish, and lamb is a fitting meal for any Christian, particularly at the Nativity.” So saying, he trudged away from the door, humming as he went.
Sant-Germainus returned to the long table and sat on its edge, his mind intent on the many things he would have to arrange in the next day or so if he, Rutgeros, his oarsmen and crew were to survive until their ransom could be brought. He did his best to ignore the hunger pangs that flared in him at the thought of lamb’s blood; he had more urgent plans to make before Brother Theron returned. For an instant he recalled himself as a living youth, going at the dark of the year—the anniversary of his birth—to the sacred grove of his people, to drink the blood of his god so that he would become one of them upon his death, twenty-five centuries ago. With an impatient gesture, he banished that recollection from his mind. With an oath in a language only he remembered, he rose and began to look for a nail he could pull out of the table or bench to account for the holes that he would make in the throat of the lamb.
In a short while, Brother Hylas opened the door. “Come. I’ve got the lamb for you.”
“Very good,” said Sant-Germainus, and followed him to the barn at the edge of the monastery wall.
“I should watch you kill him, to be sure you keep your word.”
Little as he wanted this to happen, Sant-Germainus feigned indifference. “If you think I have any way to harm the meat, then watch.”
“I have work to do in the larder,” said Brother Hylas, and shoved Sant-Germainus toward the pen where a small sheep bleated. He pulled the gate open and shoved Sant-Germainus inside. “I’ll be back in a while. If the lamb isn’t dead and blooded, you will answer for it.”
“I will,” agreed Sant-Germainus, and set about alleviating his ravening esurience. Only when the sheep was hanging from a rope did Sant-Germainus call out for Brother Hylas to finish the task of butchering the animal. While he waited, he thought again of the irony that had brought him to this place, at this time of year: among the centuries that had passed since his death at the hands of his enemies, few of them had marked the anniversary of his birth so pointedly as this one. No matter how he might end up leaving the island, this first night on Dhenoussa would remain unique and vivid in his memory until the end of his undead life.
