Dark of the Sun (Saint-Germain #17)

Dark of the Sun (Saint-Germain #17) Page 9

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Lago Comus in northern Italy to Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus at Yang-Chau, written in Imperial Latin, carried by caravan and delivered to Eclipse Trading Company offices in Yang-Chau four years after it was sent; filed as unreadable.

To my most dear, most absent friend, Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in the farthest reaches of Cathay, the worried greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens on this the Summer Solstice of the 1288th Year of the City, the Pope's Year 535, although it seems like the end of winter here, with the promise of spring very far off.

It has been an age since I wrote to you, although I suppose it is more like two years. I have hoped to have some word from you, but I have received nothing, and this is beginning to bother me, especially with the world in such chaos as I see around me. My thoughts turn to such horrors as must cause me sleepless nights, if I needed sleep. I comfort myself with the abiding trust that this terrible cold has not touched you in your distant lands, given how far away you are. We in the old Roman world have had to contend with frost well into June, and no end of it in sight, with July coming shortly, when heat should have wrapped us in its embrace, yet so far has done nothing of the sort. The farmers here at Lago Comus are in dismay, for they have not been able to plant new crops, the fields are not producing grass for their flocks and herds, and the orchards have not flowered and so will not fruit. Wolves have come down from the mountains, and bear, and the hunters vie with them for skinny deer and underfed boars. The flocks and herds of the farmers do not fare much better, although I have authorized the opening of the storehouse to provide fodder for sheep, horses, goats, cattle, poultry, and hogs, in the hope that this will stave off the worst losses of starvation. I have grain, oil, salt-beef, and dried fruit sufficient to last for two years, just as you suggested, and I will do all that I can to provide for the people of and around this estate, but I fear what may come once the full impact of the famine is upon us.

The people in this region are much troubled by the very red sunsets and dawns we have been having almost daily for the last four months or so. Many find this an omen, and it frightens them, for they say that blood in the sky means war in Heaven, or so the Christians preach, claiming that in their prophetic texts are allusions to such events, and that they bode ill for humanity. Even the moon is not herself, showing a ruddiness that is unlike her usual pristine face, making her a peach rather than a mirror. There is a demented priest in the village who, combining the distress of the times with the prophecies of his faith, is preaching the final battle of the world, and he points to signs, including red moons and bloody sunsets, as proof that the angels are engaging in war with the demons of Hell. I admit to all the Christians in his flock that it is true the sunsets have been brilliant and unusual, but I doubt this heralds anything more than the cold has done. The priest praises a kind of passionate passivity in the face of tribulation, and many are glad to acquiesce in his repeated assurances that their god is testing their faith in his mercy. I do not comprehend how such catastrophic events can be twisted into a sign of special affection, but then, I was married to Justus, and you and I know that his claims of devotion came with similar conditions, so it may be that my faith failed me then, not to return. Let the priest rail at me for apostasy; I believe it is more important to minimize famine than to preserve their god's dignity.

The one benefit this dreadful cold has brought to Rome is that for once the summer has no bad air. The fevers of mal aria are absent, and the Pope-and we have one at last, John II, who is reported to be in failing condition-has claimed this one good development to his own credit, insisting that his personal suffering, has spared the people of Rome the burden of disease during this perverse time of cold, so you see, the Church has elevated suffering to an estimable goal, one that has merit, and is deserving of recognition and respect. In fact, it is seen as a means to emulate the suffering of Jesus, and therefore a pious state to achieve: to my view, any deity and any priests that demand more wretchedness from their followers than is given to them by nature are not worthy of worship, and I will say that in spite of what the Popes have done to preserve Rome.

My steward in Gaul, Briacus of Alesia, has sent me word that conditions are worse in his region than they are here. He speaks of an invisible shadow on the sun, and an earth that will not bring forth anything but loam. I have given him leave to use as much of my stored supplies as may be needed, but not in profligate amounts, for if this cold should continue into a second year, it is highly unlikely that there are sufficient foodstuffs in storage to prevent serious hunger for many of the peasants who are tenants of my estates. If the time comes that Briacus must choose prudence or his family, I do not believe he would hesitate an instant to care for his family first and his duties to the estate second. For that reason, I have contacted the Abbot of Santus Spiritu, the monastery a short way beyond the western border of my estate, to ask him to watch over the estate, and in exchange for his service to me, I have arranged to ship him six barrels of wine, two of oil, and nine of grain, for the use of his monks, who live in the manner approved by John Cassian and practice asceticism based upon the Egyptian hermits. Santus Spiritu has forty-six monks in residence, and the capacity to hold another dozen, should their numbers increase.

In the last four months, have received letters from many landowners in Gaul and Germania, and I am much troubled by what they say, for they, too, have been unable to plant, and some have had losses among their stock, not just from wolves and foxes-and poachers-but from miscarriages and stillbirths, which I take as an especially sinister development, for it is one thing to see the danger of famine in this cold, it is far more troublesome to see the animals unable to sustain their young, for that implies that there is worse to come. Some of those who follow the old religions of this region have been offerings pregnant ewes and cows to very old gods. I have come across stone altars in the forest and at the side of the lake, with gnawed bones that reveal the sacrifice. The poor animals may not help the deities to whom they're offered, but they do help the wolves and cats and foxes and other creatures roaming the woods, as hungry as the rest of us, and as cold. And because of the cold, I have ordered more trees to be cut down, not only to provide more wood for fires, but to allow the farmers to repair and strengthen their houses, for many complain of being unable to maintain what warmth they can create and must act o preserve themselves from the cold. So long as the men cannot plant, they can stay busy with saws and axes. I have sent to Rome for more saws, and I have ordered the local smiths to make ax-heads, using the iron I have laid up for times of trouble.

Sanct' Germain, my best, my oldest friend, I wish you were here to bear me company, to advise me, to help those unfortunates around me, to reassure me-when it is late and I am lonely and hungry-that this will end and we will thrive again, along with our living companions. Wherever you are in this broad world, I hope you are warmer and better-fed than I am just now, that you have spring and blossoms to brighten your daylight hours, and willing attendants to liven the night. You have been gone too long, or so it seems to me now, on this frosty Solstice night. The sun will rise shortly, and ordinarily I would begin to feel its might at this hour, but since early last March, it has been as if the sun is hiding behind a veil, and it does not leach my strength as has been its wont. In your many centuries, you have probably seen such fluctuations of the sun and could tell me something of its nature, were you here.

Pothinus the Gaul is setting out for Byzantium tomorrow, going into a blood-colored sunrise, and I will entrust this letter to him. He has a regular contact who travels the Silk Road, a Persian, who has carried messages and purchasing orders for Pothinus in the past, to their mutual satisfaction. For a small fee, he is willing to put this letter into the Persian's hands and instruct him where it is to go. This is entirely satisfactory to me, and I have said that I will also give a fee to the Persian and hope that Pothinus delivers it rather than adds it to the fee I pay him. The risk is acceptable to me, although it is hard not to want to leave here and go with Pothinus to Byzantium and beyond, no matter what risk there may be of rape and slavery. But once beyond this veiled sun, the dry expanses of the Silk Road could prove as unpleasant in their way as this cold is in its, and so I will remain here, and wish for your swift return.

Know that this comes with my very nearly eternal love,

Olivia