In the Ruins

She savored the silence. Every soul there was cowed, as they should be, wondering what power she had that she might raise. The skopos was most powerful of all, and it was necessary for them to remember that.

“Come, Jonas,” said Berthold quietly behind her. “Wolfhere and the others should have come now with the horses from the stable. Let’s go.”

Something about the tone of his voice bothered her. “You will deliver the decree, Lord Berthold,” she said in a low voice, not wanting her words to carry. “Others will follow on your trail, in case you do not survive the journey. Lest you think to shirk your duty to the skopos.”

Out in the nave and aisles, no one had yet gained enough nerve to act or speak.

“I will survive the journey. The Eagle will guide us.”

“So he will. He was spared for that purpose. As were you.”

“Think you so?” he asked defiantly, and she would have had him scourged for his disrespect, but then it would be all to do over again. No one else had heard. This one time, she would have to let it go.

He rose and, with Jonas following at his heels like a dog, walked down the center of the nave until he and his companion faded into the gloom between the ranks of clerics. She heard the door open, but not close. As they waited they all of them heard a few distant comments, the cheerful ring of harness, and caught a glimpse of a lantern raised high and moving out of sight as the riders left the courtyard on the first stage of their long journey.

All the foreigners were, at long last, gone. Even the cremated remains and pickled heart of Lady Elene had been packed into a box and sent with Berthold. The skulls of Hugh’s party, though, had long since been cast out onto the trash heap.

After a long silence came the snick of flint on metal and the flare of a wick catching a spark as one of Adelheid’s servants lit a lamp. Down the nave Antonia faced that other flame, placed behind the empress and her consort. What is holy and what is profane must ever be at odds, and yet they must work together as well, because the world is imperfect, stained by darkness.

“Come, Holy Mother,” said the empress. “We have rid ourselves of the Wendish at last. In the morning, we will rise free of the taint of northerners. Let them rot without God’s blessing, so I pray.”

With so many soldiers accompanying the general, Antonia could not mention that the easterners plagued them still.

And yet.

At least the Arethousans knew civilization of a kind, unlike the raw barbarians out of the north who had learned only a hundred years ago to dress in decent clothing instead of a patchwork of skins. The Arethousans were heretics, of course, but at least they had known the name of the blessed Daisan for as many centuries as had the noble Aostans. The northerners had worshiped hills and stones and graves and trees until a generation ago, and some still did in secret, hoarding their heathen ways despite knowing that such falsehoods would bring disaster down on their heads.

Well. Her knees hurt, and her back had a twinge. The robes weighed on her shoulders, and she would be sore tomorrow from standing for so long. She signaled, and folk hustled out of the church in unseemly haste, as if the ceremony had disturbed them when it should have bolstered their determination. Her attendants rushed to help her, bringing a chair. They carried her under the dome decorated with stars and heavenly creatures: a dragon, a griffin, a serpent with a woman’s body and face, and a sphinx. A private door was nestled behind a curtain, concealing a small room to one side of the apse. Here, in private, they helped her out of the mantle and vestments. They offered her a couch and wine to rest on. Here, empress and general settled side by side on a second couch, then sipped wine out of golden cups.

“Is there more we can do?” Adelheid asked. “What of the galla, Holy Mother? Surely they could be sent hunting. A Wendish biscop here, a Varren lord there. That would frighten them, would it not?”

“And might rebound against us, if we are accused of harboring malefici, Your Majesty.”

“Sorcery is a weapon, like a sword is a weapon,” said Alexandros. “If you can thrust, then thrust.”

“The ruling of the Council of Narvone has never been superseded,” said Antonia patiently. “In western lands it is specifically forbidden to use black sorcery.”

“What is this Council of Narvone?” the general asked. “In the east there is only one council that speaks on sorcery. In the holy year of The Word, the year 327, the Council at Kellai did not prohibit magic. Magic is allowed if it is supervised by the church. This ruling we follow in Arethousa. When is—was—this Council at Narvone?”