Skulls of horses hung over the broken gates of the little village tucked away among the oaks and pines of the narrow mountain valley; the slanting rays of the westering sun imparted a glow to it that was belied by the shallow graves on the lower slope of the hill where spring had laid its first, tentative touch with pale new grass and a few white flowers. Marks painted hastily on the stone walls around the village indicated that the Great Pox had struck the place and that many had died.

"The rest have probably fled," said Sanct' Germain to Rogerian as they drew up at the gates; both of them rode a horse and led a mule. "That has been the pattern. When the Great Pox arrives, the people hide or die." This village was on a secondary road, one not often used by travelers bound for the pass into the Tolosa region of Frankish lands; the main road was reported to be flooded out higher up the mountains, so Sanct' Germain had decided to attempt the crossing by lesser routes; he had not anticipated finding abandoned towns and farmholds, yet this was the second such village he had seen in as many days.

"So it has," said Rogerian. "And if the village is empty, we can shelter here for a day or so. The animals need rest."

"As do we," Sanct' Germain agreed. "You are right." He slid out of the saddle and caught his horse's rein as he approached the gate. "No locks, no bolts. It will not be hard to open."

Rogerian also dismounted. "How many died, would you say? And how many fled before they died?"

"There are twenty-three new graves on the hill, on the other side of the town from the olive orchard. Judging from the number and condition of the houses, the village may have had as many as three hundred occupants: at least five families, perhaps six or seven." He reached for the gate and took hold of the iron brace, lifting it and leaning into it; the gate moaned as it opened.

"There could still be people here," Rogerian said.

"There might be," Sanct' Germain said with a nod. "We shall try to find them if they are here; there is only a faint smell of smoke in the air-no one has burned a fire for at least one full day." He pointed to an old well just ahead of the gates. "See if the water is wholesome and give it to the horses and mules if it is." He glanced at the skulls over the gate. "This is a very old village, if those are any indication."

Rogerian paused in his attempt to drag the well-bucket up from the depths. "The people here in the mountains have kept to their old ways; no one has changed them."

"For many centuries," said Sanct' Germain. He glanced at the stone buildings with their plank-shingled roofs. "The men here are foresters and hunters, by the look of it. The orchard isn't large enough for more than oil and olives for the village."

"That is the way in these mountains," said Rogerian as he finally pulled the well-bucket onto the stone rim; it was large, its wooden sections bound by rusty iron, and water sloshed as he sat down. He cupped his hand and dipped it into the water to taste it. "Good enough. Not brackish and without bitterness."

"Let the animals have it," Sanct' Germain said, somewhat preoccupied as he contemplated what he could see of the village. "No dogs," he remarked. "If they fled, they did not go in a panic, or the dogs would be left: and hungry."

Rogerian had let the larger mule drink first and was now holding the bucket for the second mule. "Just as well," he said with emotion born of memory.

"No chickens or ducks, either, judging by the silence. Sheep and goats and pigs could be turned loose in the forest to be recaptured later, but not chickens and ducks. They would have to be taken away, or eaten." Sanct' Germain looked down one of the two cart-wide streets running through the town from the front gate; a number of smaller alleys radiated in all directions, but Sanct' Germain gave his first attention to what were obviously the most important corridors in the village. "There is probably a market square at the center of this town," he said, starting along the nearer of the two streets.

"Do you intend to go there? to the market square?" asked Rogerian; Sanct' Germain's gray and his own red-roan were nudging at him for water.

"It might give us a better notion about where everyone has gone," Sanct' Germain said.

"Do you think sickness has chased them out?" Rogerian went back to the well to get a second bucket of water.

"It is the most likely explanation," said Sanct' Germain as he glanced down an alley. "If the sickness had remained here, we would know." His expression combined distress and compassion. "The odor would be undeniable."

"Truly," Rogerian agreed as he lowered the bucket. "Where do you suppose they have gone?"

"I have no notion," said Sanct' Germain. "No one is here to tell us. We saw few travelers as we came up from Gardingio Witteric's holdings; certainly nothing like a whole village on the move."

The mention of Gardingio Witteric brought a frown to Rogerian's face. "His gratitude left much to be desired."

"He had no reason to be grateful," said Sanct' Germain. "The juggler died of fever. Not I, not anyone could have prevented it. The bone was too badly splintered. The sickness had gone too deep. The sovereign remedy was not enough to preserve his life." He swung around to look directly at Rogerian. "And do not tell me my blood would have spared him: I had no time to prepare him for my life even had he sought it." He thought briefly of Nicoris, who had ultimately refused the gift he gave her; she had died the True Death not quite two hundred years ago but the memory of her loss was still a stern rebuke within him.

"He need not have died," said Rogerian stubbornly.

Sanct' Germain came back toward his bondsman. "Many others have died before now and you did not resent it; there is little place in the world for those of my blood: we are tigers, not wolves, and our nature makes us solitary by necessity. Those who are prepared to live as vampires must are few in number and far apart, for their own protection as well as the protection of those around us. You have understood this from the time you first learned what I am. What was it about Alboin that was different?"

Rogerian pulled up the bucket before he answered. "I do not know. Perhaps it was his youth. He seemed so...so cheated by life."

"Ah," Sanct' Germain said, nodding his understanding. "He had that about him, did he not." He went toward the other street in swift, long strides. "I will find a place we can shelter for the night, and then I will go into the forest and find a meal we can share: blood for me, flesh for you."

"That would be welcome," said Rogerian, giving water to Sanct' Germain's gray.

Sanct' Germain stood still for a short while, then said, "I am sorry I could not save him; the sovereign remedy is usually sufficient to stop fever, but this time it could not."

"That does not mean he had to die," said Rogerian at his most blunt.

"No, it does not," Sanct' Germain conceded. "If I had more time, and an athanor to make more of the remedy, he might have lived." He looked about the village. "You cannot doubt that I have done all that I could to preserve the lad."

"Oh, I know that," said Rogerian with uncertainty. "But the fact of the matter is that I expected your skills to save him, and if you did not, that your blood would bring him to life again."

"And you are angry because of it," said Sanct' Germain.

"Not angry: disappointed," Rogerian allowed.

"For that I am truly sorry," Sanct' Germain said before he started down the second street; this one was slightly narrower than the first, and the stone houses huddled together like a flock seeking companionship and warmth. They had the look of sudden desertion about them.

"Mind how you go," Rogerian called after him.

Sanct' Germain nodded, although he knew that Rogerian could not see this. He kept his senses alert and his thoughts marshaled to the exploration he had undertaken: there was a mounted whetstone in front of one of the houses, Roman in design, which told Sanct' Germain that this place had not remained wholly isolated while the Romans held the region. This, he told himself, was an excellent sign. He hoped that if he found an inhabitant, they could understand one another well enough to converse, for if they could not, he had no doubt that he would have to move on. The whole village still had the faint odor of humanity about it; the occupants had not been gone more than two or three days at most. A half-dozen steps farther along the street he came upon a vat lying on its side. Stopping beside it, he was aware of the penetrating savor of olives.

A half-open door flapped in a sudden gust of wind; the sound made Sanct' Germain jump as he realized that there was something moving inside the house; this was confirmed by a soft clatter, as if a chair had been overset. "Is someone there?" he called out first in the Visigothic dialect and then in Latin. "Is anyone there?"

His question was met by a whimper and a low cry that made Sanct' Germain move forward hurriedly, for he could tell that the voice that made the sound was human, and that the human was in distress. He took his Greek dagger from its sheath as a precaution just as he crossed the threshold into the dark interior of the house.

The house consisted of two rooms separated by a large stone fireplace open on the front and back, flanked by plank walls, with a loft above the far chamber. There was a long table in the nearer room, with a long bench drawn up beside it. Two chests, standing open and empty, were against the west wall, mute testimony to the abrupt departure of the household; a basket that had once contained bread lay on its side and open on the floor. On the far side of the hearth eight cooking pots hung on brass hooks, showing the residents had some wealth. Sanct' Germain stood facing the fireplace, listening intently. Finally he heard a soft moan coming from the loft.

"Are you ill? Are you hurt?" Sanct' Germain called out, beginning in Latin this time, and repeating in the language of the Visigoths.

"Ill," said the voice in Latin, panting with the effort of talking; the voice was low and cracked, more a croak than speech.

Sanct' Germain was already looking for a ladder to gain access to the loft. "I will come up to you."

There was a silence, and then the voice spoke again. "I...I have...a knife."

"A knife?" Sanct' Germain hesitated as he picked up the ladder that lay beneath the loft. He wondered briefly how long the ladder had lain there, and if the person in the loft had been trapped there because of it: or had it just been kicked over, and that was the sound that had attracted his attention? "I will not hurt you; I mean you no harm."

"I...have...knife," the voice repeated.

"You need help," Sanct' Germain said as he put the ladder in place. "I am going to climb up to you. I will not hurt you."

"...knife..." the voice breathed.

Sanct' Germain went up the ladder slowly, talking as he went, hoping to reassure the person in the loft, "My bondsman and I came here on our way toward Tolosa. The main road is not passable, and we were told that there was another way. It led to this place. We found the village empty. People and most animals were gone. There was no one guarding the gate. I saw the new graves, and I supposed that the place had been struck by sickness."

"Great Pox," the voice said just as Sanct' Germain climbed into the loft. "I have-"

"-a knife. Yes; I know," said Sanct' Germain, ducking his head to fit into the low space. He could smell the sweat from the huddled mass of bear-skins and rough-woven blankets. "You have more than a knife. You have had a fever."

"It's gone," the voice told him.

"How long?" Sanct' Germain asked; he crouched down, waiting for his opportunity to move forward. "When did it end?"

"...Two days?" There was a flash of metal as the person brandished the knife weakly.

Sanct' Germain reached out and with surprising gentleness took the knife. "You will not need that."

The person in the bed gave a distressed cry and flailed out with one arm, knocking over the ewer of water that stood on the little shelf beside the wall; water spilled onto the bed. As if trying to escape, the person hunched back against the wall, the bear-skin an engulfing-but-cumbersome protection. "I am pregnant," the voice announced with as much strength as the speaker could summon.

"All the more reason to accept my help," said Sanct' Germain after an infinitesimal pause. "Come," he went on persuasively. "You cannot want to remain here in a wet bed. You are probably hungry and thirsty." When he received no answer, he added, "You cannot remain here forever. Let me help you down the ladder. I will start a fire to keep you warm and my bondsman will make you a meal as soon as I have gone hunting."

The woman peered suspiciously at him, her large, black eyes bright with emotion. "I am...hungry," she admitted at last.

"If you are pregnant and recovering from a fever, this is not remarkable. It is also necessary that you eat, for the sake of your child as well as your own," he said dryly. "Keep the bear-skin, if you like. I would not want you to take a chill." He held out one arm to offer her assistance. "Lean on me. I can hold you."

"If you will?" She stared at him, sensing his foreign clothes. "Who are you?" Her voice cracked half-way through the question and she had to ask it again.

"Sanct' Germain," he said. "You will tell me who you are when you are downstairs and fed. That is our first concern-to see you are not starving. And you will tell me how it happens that you are in this deserted village." He steadied himself on one knee and held out both hands to her. "Come."

She was just about to take his hands when Rogerian called out from the doorway, "Is all well, my master?"

The woman retreated as far up the bed as she could, hunkering down in the bear-skin.

Doing his best not to show his exasperation, Sanct' Germain answered Rogerian over his shoulder. "I have found someone. If you will build up a fire and start it burning, we can help this unfortunate woman to restore herself." He glanced at the woman. "You would like that, wouldn't' you?"

The woman made no move. "Are there...more?"

"My bondsman and I, and our horses and mules; no one else." He tried to reassure her. "You must not fear us, good woman. We mean you no harm."

She glared at him.

"I cannot think you want your babe to suffer," Sanct' Germain said, taking the chance that she would be more protective of her unborn infant than herself. "Let me help you down the ladder and let my bondsman tend to you while I hunt. It will be night soon, and without a fire, you will surely be cold." He continued to hold his hands out.

After a long moment, the woman sighed with exhaustion as she gathered the bear-skin close around her and began to move toward Sanct' Germain.

Sanct' Germain waited for her to take his hands, making no further move that might frighten her. "I will back toward the ladder; you may watch as I do it," he said as he began to guide her; he could feel her shaking as she gripped his hand and arm. "I will go down ahead of you, and you may come after, so that if you should slip, you will not fall. That should reassure you."

There was a soft light coming from below; Rogerian had found a number of oil lamps and lit them; the scent of olives filled the air.

As he reached the edge of the loft, Sanct' Germain hooked his foot over the top rung of the ladder to make sure it was still in place. When he was satisfied, he began his descent, taking care to guide the woman's hands to the ladder.

"I am going out to get wood," Rogerian called up to Sanct' Germain.

"Very good," said Sanct' Germain a bit distantly, his concentration on assisting the woman down the ladder. "Your foot will need to be a little lower, and you will have to kick it free of the bear-skin," he warned as he went down another rung. He could see by the way she moved that her pregnancy was well-advanced; she was probably in the seventh month. "Hold on tightly," he said as he guided her foot onto the next rung.

She made her way gingerly down the stairs, shaking with the strain of it; she clung to the bear-skin as best she could, and dragged it closely around her when she finally reached the floor. "Cold," she said, her voice hardly audible.

"Rogerian will build up your fire. Never fear." He smiled at her, trying to ease her apprehension. "Is there somewhere you would like to sit?"

"Chair," she muttered, and pointed. In the lamp-glow, her face looked yellow but Sanct' Germain did not let this alarm him; morning light would tell him if she was jaundiced.

"You will have food in a while. Is there anything here I can give you now." Sanct' Germain took a step toward the covered shelves he assumed held food.

"Gone," said the woman. "Cowards. All cowards. They ran and left me here." She had found the chair she had wanted and now squatted on it, trying to make herself as comfortable as she could. Snuggling into the bear-skin, she watched Sanct' Germain narrowly.

"Did the others take it when they left?" he asked as he opened the shutters to reveal empty shelves.

"Not all," she answered, and grunted, rubbing her belly where her baby had kicked her; she sighed as her discomfort eased.

There was more to be learned, but he did not want to press her. "You need rest," he said. "If you can doze there, I will instruct my manservant to see to your comforts. I must go hunting if we are to have sustenance before midnight." He did not add that he would dine first, on the blood of the animal he caught.

She yawned and looked about anxiously, obviously struggling to stay alert; the climb down from the loft had sapped what little strength she had.

"You are not to worry," Sanct' Germain told her, understanding her distress. "We will do nothing to harm you." He had said so already, but realized she had not believed him then, nor did she now.

Rogerian came back through the door, a load of wood in his arms. "There is plenty of this; they left most of it behind, by the looks of it." He set the pile down in a heap and turned his attention to the hearth. "I put the horses and mules in the barn behind this house. I've given them all some grain. I will find hay for them later."

"Very good." Sanct' Germain rubbed his jaw. "I should not be too long. Night is coming on, and there will be deer about."

"And wild boar," Rogerian reminded him by way of warning. "You should be wary."

"What about wolves and bear?" Sanct' Germain asked lightly as he slipped out of his pluvial and handed it to Rogerian; he wanted nothing to encumber him on the hunt, and cold did not trouble him nearly as much as wet did. "They run in these mountains as well as boars. Something is always hunting, old friend." He shrugged, showing his acceptance of the danger the animals posed. "I will try for deer and be back as quickly as I can. See that the woman stays warm."

"That I will," Rogerian said, and began to lay wood in the fireplace.

Sanct' Germain slipped out into the dusk; he went to the village gate and let himself out onto the hillside, tasting the coming night. Moon-rise would be late tonight but that was no inconvenience to him; he saw at night as readily as a fox. The nearest stand of trees was just beyond the new graves and he made for them at a speed that would have astonished anyone seeing him, for now that the sun was down, all Sanct' Germain's strength flooded through him. The forest promised game and good hunting. Once into the trees he stopped to listen, his senses extending into the darkness as if to embrace every living thing on the mountainside.

An owl drifted past him on huge, hushed wings, and for an instant the wood was silent. Then the wind ruffled through the branches and movement returned: insects bored and flittered and hummed, badgers trundled along in the underbrush, martens scrambled in the branches, a sounder of boar rutted among the roots of the trees some short distance away, wild cats prowled in solitary pursuits of prey, higher up the slope careful deer minced under the trees. Then there came the bleating call of a wild goat, and Sanct' Germain moved off toward it, quiet and agile as a shadow.

Four wild goats grazed in a small meadow; a short distance away an old male stood guard over the four, his shaggy coat matted with shedding hair.

Moving carefully with the skill of long experience, Sanct' Germain crept up on the goats, knowing he would have one chance to catch his prey without a chase. The goat nearest to him was a young male with a scar on his nose; the animal was good-sized and well-fleshed for this time of year: he would supply meat for Rogerian and the woman for several days. He concentrated on the goat, using his ability to influence animals to lull the young goat into a stupor, just dazed enough to give Sanct' Germain the opportunity he sought.

His rush at his prey was so sudden that the other goats barely had time to look up in alarm before the young male was gone, rendered unconscious and carried away by something swift and powerful. The old male on guard let out a challenging squeal as he came rushing down, head lowered, pursuing Sanct' Germain and his prize. But Sanct' Germain sprinted at a speed that the goat could not match, and in a short time he had outrun the herd leader and began to make his way back toward the village with his prize, seeking out the paths the animals and shepherds used.

He came to a broad path at the edge of the forest, one that was intended to carry oxen and carts and wagons. Thinking this must lead back to the village, Sanct' Germain set out on it, glad that he could move more quickly. He had gone roughly a thousand paces when he saw something lying in the road ahead, looking like a heap of tattered leather and smelling of dried blood. Approaching carefully, he saw it was the remnants of a man, one who had been cruelly killed, for the man's abdomen had been abraded away, leaving internal organs exposed and worn. Broken ribs like barrel staves stuck through his chest. The head was nothing more than a mass of shattered bone; the face had been obliterated, the eye sockets crushed, and part of the jaw gone. Only the legs were relatively intact, and the feet were almost black, the ankles still bound with rawhide strips.

Sanct' Germain decided he would have to return to bury the body-he had to get the goat back to the village now-to keep it from being devoured by cats and wolves. He stepped away from the hideous corpse and continued on toward the village. As he neared the walls, he took what he needed from the limp goat before breaking its neck and killing it; only then did he feel a pang of regret for what he had had to do, for it reminded him of the bartered dead figure out on the road.

Carrying the goat slung over his shoulders, he went through the gate and down the street to the one house that had light behind its shuttered windows. At the door of the house, he put down his burden and called out to Rogerian, "I have food. He will need to be hung and dressed at once."

"Of course," Rogerian replied without any sign of urgency or worry. "I will come tend to it at once." He emerged from the house a moment later, carrying a long skinning knife in one hand and a wide, flat pan in the other. "A goat?" he said as he looked down.

"It was near," said Sanct' Germain. "It's good-sized."

"So it is." Rogerian nodded. "I will have my portion as I dress it. That will leave the rest for the woman. Shall I save the skin?"

"Of course; she cannot afford to waste any of the animal," Sanct' Germain said. "And smoke the rest; it will last longer that way. If you roast it, it will be useless in a week. I will hunt again in a night or two, and that will also be smoked for her. This woman will not be able to provide for herself until the end of summer. She cannot hunt as laden as she is with child, and once the babe is born, it will be many weeks before she can leave the infant unattended." As he helped Rogerian to shoulder the goat, he asked, "Has she said anything?"

"Only that her man died of the Great Pox. She disdains speaking to me because I am a servant," Rogerian said without rancor. "She believes she is above servants and slaves, and probably anyone born beyond the walls of the village." He prepared to move off, but added, "Still warm. You came back quickly."

"If I had thought I would be much longer, I would have gutted him myself. I did not kill him until I was almost at the gate; the smell could bring cats or wolves, or bear. I do not intend to waste any part of the meat: it would insult the animal and it would be foolish." Sanct' Germain folded his arms. "Olive-wood should give the smoke a pleasant savor."

"So I thought. I will make a smoke-house tomorrow morning if I cannot find one in this place. Oh, there is a spot of blood on your cheek." With that he wiped it away, then turned and was gone down the narrow alley between the houses.

Sanct' Germain paused as he prepared himself to face the woman, knowing he would have to reassure her; he ran his hand over his chin, then went into the house. "You will have goat to eat," he announced.

She was still in the chair where he had left her, but she no longer sat with her knees drawn up as far as her belly would allow; she slumped with fatigue but there was no trace of defeat about her. The bear-skin draped around her more for warmth than protection; the fire was lively enough to provide warmth as well as light. She looked up at him, showing him black eyes sunk in dark circles. "You did come back."

"Did you think I would not?" Sanct' Germain inquired lightly. "My bondsman, my horses and mules, and my belongings are here. Why should I not return?"

"The Great Pox drives everyone away, if it does not kill them." She stopped to drink from a cup in her hand. "Your man mixed hot water with honey for me."

"Your throat isn't dry," said Sanct' Germain, wondering how Rogerian had convinced her to drink the preparation. "This is all to the good." He glanced toward Rogerian and nodded his approval.

"Not dry anymore. My voice has returned. It is most useful, to have my voice again." She looked at him for a long moment. "I am Csimenae," she said at last, as if making a tremendous concession to him. "My man was-" She stopped herself before she spoke his name. "He died of the Great Pox after almost everyone was gone from here. They made a grave for him before they left."

"So you-" Sanct' Germain began, only to be interrupted.

"I dragged him out to his grave and rolled him in and covered him with earth. My babe moved within me the whole time. Then I was overcome." The condemnation in this admission surprised Sanct' Germain.

"Who would not be?" He came a step nearer to her. "Did everyone leave but you?"

She glared at him. "I would not abandon my man. They would not leave anyone with me. Nor did I need anyone. I saw him die and I buried him." Her voice rose and she stopped to drink again. "If they come back, I will not let them in."

Sanct' Germain realized he had to be careful. "Because they left you alone."

"Not me: the babe I will have. I have managed for myself, but the child is powerless. They said he would be born poxed, but I will not believe it." She tossed her head in scorn and the long black braids plaited around her head, already loosened, swung free. "I would think nothing of my welfare, but this"-she laid her hand on her swollen abdomen-"is as helpless as stranded fish. For that they deserve to be shut out."

"Even those of your blood?" Sanct' Germain asked gently.

"They most of all," Csimenae declared, and stopped to cough. "They should have cared for the babe. As it is, I..." She faltered, her black eyes filling with tears. "I may have to make a grave for him, too. I took no Pox, but his father did, and it may have penetrated my womb."

"If the child is still moving, it is probably alive, and if it is alive, it should not be poxed." Sanct' Germain hoped he was reassuring her; nothing in her expression showed any emotion other than defiance.

"I do not want to bury this child; he must thrive and be worthy," she said stubbornly. "This village will be his, when he is grown. I will see that he comes to rule here, for he will deserve to rule. It will be his because all the rest ran away, and so it falls to him by right. He must have the strength to hold it. My grandfather was unable to hold the village-my son shall restore us to mastery here." Her hands were fists, and she almost kicked out at him.

"If that is what you seek for him, who am I to deny him," Sanct' Germain said quietly. "Let us see him safely into the world, and then, perhaps, you may decide on his fortune."

She said nothing for a long moment, staring at him defiantly. "It is the right of my blood to rule here. I have remained here when others fled. I have proved this is ours once again. My grandfather shamed us, and they dragged him behind a horse until there was nothing left but his legs: my son will vindicate our honor." Then she lowered her eyes. "If I had a horse left, I would kill it to ensure my son is safe."

Aware that her hopes might be in vain, Sanct' Germain asked, "And what if you have a daughter; what of her?" He thought of the body lying in the road, and he knew he, too, had been dragged, face-down, behind a horse.

"God is not so cruel to give me a daughter, not after my man is dead." She shook her head repeatedly. "No. I will have a son. It is my right to have a son."

"That may be," said Sanct' Germain. "But many a mother has loved her daughters as well as her sons."

Her laughter was harsh. "I scorn such women!"

Knowing Csimenae was overwrought, Sanct' Germain kept his thoughts to himself; he hoped, for the sake of the child, that the babe was male. "You should not tire yourself," he said gently. "You need your strength."

"To keep my son strong," she agreed as she drank the last of the honied water. "He will be ruler here, and all the other villages will show him honor. I will see to it, or I will die defending him." She sat upright, a martial light in her eyes and determination in every line of her body. "No one will slight him."

It would be easy, he knew, to give her an easy answer, to agree with her desires for her child, but she might as readily take offense at such a remark as be bolstered by it, so he said, "Time enough for that when he is grown."

"He will be lord here before he is grown," she announced. "Mont Calcius will be his when he is sturdy enough to run around its walls."

"Is that the name of this place?" Sanct' Germain asked. "Mont Calcius?"

"The Romans called it Mons Calcius," she replied evasively. "As do the other villages in this region. It has an older name."

"No doubt," said Sanct' Germain, picking up a length of wood and adding it to the fire.

Csimenae looked at him as he tended the fire. "You have a servant to do servant's work," she said.

"He is busy with dressing the goat I killed." He was silent for a moment.

"Does it shame you to kill a goat? There are deer and boar to hunt as well." She gave him a genuine smile. "You did not much dishonor yourself. Even Gardingi hunt the goats in this region. You need not trouble yourself on that account."

He knew she would not understand his ambivalence about killing, so he said only. "I am not troubled."

She almost grinned. "To have meat again! I have lived on onions and cheese for days." She threw back her head and shouted out three hard syllables in a language he did not recognize. "There. I will do it properly at the edge of the trees once my babe is born, but this will do for the time being. The spirits will respect what you have done, now. You may hunt without fear of them."

"You are good to do this," he said; whatever she believed about the animals in the mountains, he was willing to accept it.

"I have my son to preserve; nothing else matters so much as he." She folded her arms. "I am still thirsty."

"I will fetch water from the well and heat it for you," Sanct' Germain offered, wondering at the sternness in her face.

She nodded to acknowledge his service but said nothing more.

As he went down the dark street, Sanct' Germain cogitated on what Csimenae had revealed as well as what he had inferred; drawing water from the well, he decided to remain in Mont Calcius at least until Csimenae was delivered of her child, for it took the sting out of his need to travel.

Text of a letter from Episcus Salvius of Tarraco to Episcus Gerundol of Corduba.

To my most esteemed peer and Brother in the Church, my greetings and the assurance of my prayers to guide and comfort you in this time of travail. We are being tested, and beyond all question, our souls will hang in the balance when our ordeal is ended.

Your tomus has been put into my hands, and I read with dismay of the spread of the Great Pox. It has not yet come to Tarraco in any great force, for which I must thank my good Angel, for it is God's goodness that preserves us. It is not so for much of the countryside. I am told by travelers that the mountains are filled with it: indeed, the pestilent vapors are so powerful that many of the Gardingi are refusing to repair any damaged roads, fearing that will bring the Pox more quickly. Nothing that the Exarchs have ordered has been carried out, nor will it be until the Pox is gone from the land.

Byzantine ships have refused to take cargo from any port west of Massilia, saying that to do so would carry the Pox to Constantinople, which they will not do. This is making for hard times among the merchants of this city; they must watch their goods spoil in warehouses or face empty ones, with none of their goods delivered. Because of this, many men have been unable to find work and are now asking for charity of the churches here, saying they face starvation. We have extended ourselves as much as we are able, but we, too, have been deprived of goods, so our position is perilous.

I implore you, as a worthy Christian, to consider making work available to men from Tarraco if they can get to Corduba. With the Great Pox killing your people, surely you will have need of strong and willing workers. If you will but assure me that you will be able to secure them employment, I shall recommend that able-bodied men depart from here as soon as you think prudent. I am aware that it will take time for your reply to reach me, so I will tell you that I would want to be able to send these men on their way before Midsummer Day. It would be best for them to travel in good weather and long days.

The Episcus of Caesaraugusta has already said that there will be no work until the Gardingi authorize the rebuilding of roads, and so I cannot recommend that these men go there, although it is closer. I have sent requests also to Saguntum and Toletum, but have not heard from either Episcus. I beseech you to do as much as you can to find employment for these unfortunate men: in Tarraco we are at the limits of our resources and God has not yet seen fit to end our tribulation. If you will but give me a sign of hope, I know those who come to the church for succor will be thankful and more sure of God's goodness than if they are left to languish as beggars. Many men do desperate things when they are in such straits as these men are. Several of them have seen their wives and children die of hunger, and without help, there will be more called to the Throne of God.

You may think that because we have not been much visited by the Great Pox that God has spared us, but I tell you it is not the case. The Great Pox is a subtle and deadly enemy, capable of any ruse to bring down men. Each of us must bear burdens, as Christians must to be worthy of Salvation. Here we have starvation instead of Pox, but both are equally deadly. I cannot offer hope to those without bread and whose fields are barren. If you will only consider letting me send these men to you, I know your act will redound to your benefit in Paradise.

In return for your generosity, I will send with the men the olive-wood crucifix from Jerusalem that has long hung in our church. This is a most holy object, doubly sanctified by the place it was made and the Sacrifice it exemplifies. You will find its presence imparts a sanctity to all that come near it. All of Corduba will know it is your greatness of heart that brings such a treasure to your people, and it will strengthen their faith.

May God show His Face to you in this and in all things, may your children never abandon the ways of virtue, may your wife do you honor, may your flock always hold you in esteem, may the Church reward your fidelity, may you never falter in devotion to Christ, may your dedication never flag, may you never neglect any pious act, may you be fearless in the cause of God's Right, may you never have reason to regret any act you may perform, may your body be preserved from all ills, may you live in wisdom and die in grace, and may your name be heralded in Heaven.

In the Name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

Salvius

Episcus of Tarraco

on the 9th day of April, in the 622nd year since the Coming of Our Lord

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