Glistering sunlight shone off the patches of new snow along the narrow road that led up over the ridge to the little valley where Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit was situated, all but obscured by shaggy pines and ponderous oaks; the wagons and carts and flocks were strung out for almost a league along the way, forced into single-file by the narrow path. Humans and animals kept up a steady walk even as the road grew steeper; the herders strove to keep their animals from bolting into the trees, and mothers kept vigilant watch on their children, knowing how capable they were of mischief and how dangerous it could be for them all. This was their fourth day of travel and the weather was deteriorating, high, thin clouds increasing the glare of the sky, riding on a sharp, searching wind.

Mounted on a large mule, Patras Anso led the people from Apulum Inferior and the refugees from Tsapousso on the torturous road, followed by Enlitus Brevios, the new captain of the Watchmen and master mason, on a mountain pony. Watchmen with spears in their hands walked between the two leaders, alert to any disturbance on the road or near it. Behind them came an assortment of wagons, the third of which held Mangueinic with Hildren and Nicoris to tend him. Immediately behind that wagon rode Sanctu-Germainios on a handsome gray horse - one of six he had brought with him. To protect himself from the biting wind he wore a fine black abolla of boiled wool over his heavy silk pallium and black-dyed doeskin femoralia; his thick-soled boots were of dark-red leather from Troesmis. He carried his case of medical supplies on a strap across his chest. After him came more wagons, and the people from Tsapousso with their vehicles and animals, then the flocks and herds of the region of Apulum Inferior with their keepers flanking them, and finally the carts pulled by donkeys and driven by under-cooks and grooms, holding the foodstuffs, supplies, and household goods from the abandoned town.

Sanctu-Germainios moved his horse up close to the rear of the wagon and called out, "How is he doing?"

Nicoris stuck her head out of the leather panels that covered the back and said, "The syrup of poppies is keeping him asleep for now and the bandage you gave him is allowing the cauterized scar and the skin flap you have sewn over it to breathe, as you said it would. There is no sign of returning infection, though he complains of itching. He drinks when we give him your medicaments in water, and his fever is moderate, not high. Hildren tells me he has made water twice since we broke camp."

"Has he been awake for any period of time?"

"He has been groggy, not truly awake, about a third of the time; at those times he forgets that we're traveling. He keeps talking about reinforcing the outer wall. He wants it done before the Huns can return." A slight frown crossed her face. "If the road gets much rougher, it will take a toll on him."

"On us all," said Sanctu-Germainios. "Thirhald's woman could go into labor early if she has to endure much more of this."

"Agtha rides in the wagon behind us, doesn't she? All the injured are in wagons or on mules, isn't that right?" Nicoris asked, holding on to the frame as the trail dipped down toward a fast-running stream.

Sanctu-Germainios adjusted his seat in his Persian-style saddle, with a broad, raised pommel to help him maintain his balance; he held his horse with his lower legs and leaned back as the gelding picked his way down the slope. "She does; Khorea and Dysis are with her. I may ask Isalind to ride with them when next we stop; she has had four children of her own, and has birthed six others - more than Khorea and Dysis combined." She was, he believed, the nearest thing Apulum Inferior had to a midwife.

"It will calm her, at least, having such good help with her. It will calm Thirhald as well," said Nicoris, and ducked back into the wagon.

From the front of the line, Patras Anso called out, "We will ford a stream ahead. The water will be cold, but not too deep. It should not rise above your knees. We will group on the far side so the animals can drink, and we may have a short rest before we have to climb to the ridge."

Four of the Watchmen turned and made their way back along the line, relaying the Patras' words to all the travelers; a buzz of conversation followed their progress along the line.

As predicted, the water was cold, flowing fast in a rocky bed; it rose a bit higher than the Watchmen's knees, but no higher than half-way up their thighs. The horses and mules had a dodgy crossing, finding poor footing in the stream; one of the wagons almost lost a wheel as it lurched across. Sanctu-Germainios, feeling queasy as he always did crossing running water, held the team of mules from the back of his horse while half a dozen men worked to keep the wheel in place so that the wagon would not founder. He avoided looking at the water, and instead concentrated on the mules in order to contain his sense of vertigo. If only he were not hungry, he thought, this passage would be less disquieting; the blood of horses that had sustained him on the trail thus far did little to offset his enervation.

By the time the herds and flocks were on the far bank, it was past mid-day and Patras Anso ordered that they prepare a meal before they resumed their journey. "No fires!" he shouted. "No fires! Cheese and bread and apples, but nothing hot! We want no smoke to mark our place."

There was a discontented rumble of protest, but everyone understood why Patras Anso had ordered it, and they went about putting together meals that needed no fire and that could be eaten quickly.

"Are you never hungry, Dom?" Nicoris asked as Sanctu-Germainios dropped out of the saddle; they were at the edge of the gathering, away from the bustle.

"Of course I am," he said, aware that he was now; it was more than a week since he had taken any sustenance from a human source.

"But I never see you eat." She contemplated him, her quicksilver eyes alive with curiosity. "You don't join the rest of the household for prandium, nor did you when there was a convivium in the town."

"No; those of my blood dine in private."

"That's haughty of them," said Nicoris as if remarking on the distance they had covered that morning. "How did they come to decide such a thing - are they afraid of poison?"

"Not that I recall," he said, realizing that she had been observing him more closely than he had supposed.

"Then do their gods demand it?"

"Possibly: they see it as respectful, in any case," he said, recalling the living god of his people who had brought him to his life before he fell in battle. He drew his horse's reins over his head and started to lead him to the edge of the stream.

Nicoris tagged after him, her saie dragging on the ground behind her. "Who are your people, that they have such manners?"

He paused, then spoke to her. "Long ago they lived in the mountains east of here, but they were driven away from their native earth by powerful enemies who came out of the east and forced us to the south and the west, away from our native earth. There are not many of us left."

She had the grace to look chagrined. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"You had no way of knowing," he answered calmly, and resumed walking, his horse's nose nudging his upper arm.

"I know how I feel when I think of my family." Her voice was small and she looked over her shoulder as if she were afraid of being overheard. "The people of Tsapousso have been kind to me, but it doesn't change the loss of my family."

"No; it would not," he said, sympathy for her burgeoning within him. He shifted the reins so that his horse could drink from the cold, rushing stream. "Why not go get some food. Just because I do not eat hardly keeps you from doing so. You will need nourishment if you are to keep to your tasks. The climb ahead of us is rigorous." Nicoris stared hard at him. "All right," she said, and went off to join the growing crowd around the two carts of foodstuffs that had only just arrived.

Once his horse had drunk his fill, Sanctu-Germainios led him to another one of the carts and removed a small bag of grain and a pail. Emptying the grain into the pail, he offered it to the gelding, holding it while the horse fed. When the animal was done, Sanctu-Germainios put the pail back in the cart, told his groom to see to his other horses while he went on a short errand, then vaulted into the saddle and rode a little way up the track to the first level spot on the road in order to have a clearer view of the mountainside: bare rock faces stood out above the tree-line, somberly gray under the massing clouds. In spite of the wind, he made a careful inspection of the road ahead and the road behind. When he was satisfied they were not being followed, he returned to the temporary camp and sought out Patras Anso.

"What did you see, Dom?" the priest asked in roughly accented Byzantine Greek. He was half a head taller than Sanctu-Germainios, making him easily the tallest man in all the people following him; his face was lean and deeply lined, his nose was pointed, and his large ears protruded as if providing handles for his head.

"Nothing troublesome, Patras; a small party bound to the south on the Roman road, either merchants or farmers abandoning their land," said Sanctu-Germainios in the courtly version of the same tongue.

"God is good to us." He blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and then made the sign of the fish. "When we reach the ridge tonight, if the weather holds, we will arrive at the monastery tomorrow afternoon. A good passage, considering what we have had to deal with."

"Not to discourage you, Patras, but I doubt the weather will hold, not with the way the wind is blowing; there will be rain before nightfall, and the snow may fall here as well as on the crest of the rise," said Sanctu-Germainios, not wanting to alarm the priest, but seeking to provide him warning. "As you can see, the clouds are gathering in the northwest, and they will reach us before midafternoon."

"Possibly," Patras Anso allowed. "But they may not. God has watched over us for most of the way. He may well continue to do so."

"What if the storm closes more quickly than we expect, and strands us on the upward track? There will be no place for us to make a camp, and we will have to manage for the night on the steep side of the mountain, all strung out along the way." He gave Patras Anso a little time to consider this. "If it is, as you say, God's Will that we reach the monastery, then He may seek to render us safe in our climb. In which case, He may well intend to keep us here," said Sanctu-Germainios. "This hollow can provide protection greater than the ridge will, or the road up the mountain."

Patras Anso folded his arms. "Why should that be the case? We must show our faith by pressing on. God will know that we trust in Him. He will bring us to the haven of His monastery once we have passed the test He has set for us."

"We would be almost two leagues closer to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit if we keep climbing: that is true enough, and we may arrive there before sunset if all goes well. It is a pity the ridge is so exposed. If we must make camp there, we will all be open to the weather and without the stream for water. And we will be more readily seen by any foe." Sanctu-Germainios waited as if something had just occurred to him. "If we stay the night here, we will be far more protected from the weather by the trees, we will have water, and we will be rested in the morning; so will our animals."

"But it would take at least another day to reach Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit," said Patras Anso.

"Or more," Sanctu-Germainios said. "But it is likely that we will all arrive, which might not be the case if we try to ascend now. With so many injured and so many children, pressing on could mean a great risk to all of them."

Patras Anso glowered at the stream. "And if we are being followed, what then? You say there might be foes behind us. What if they are hidden in the forest as they hunt us? They would be upon us before we were ready to fight."

"Bad weather will halt anyone behind us as surely as it stops us," said Sanctu-Germainios.

"We will have to make fires if we stay here, and the Huns could use the smoke to find us." Patras Anso shook his head, weighing alternatives.

"Yes, and in addition, we will have to put up our shelters and set up pens for the animals. But we will have to do that no matter where we pass the night, and it will be more difficult to do that in a storm, and more demanding, since frightened animals tend to bolt. We have no hope of other shelter - there are no estates between us and the monastery."

They had reached an impasse and both knew it. They fell silent, and into that silence came Enlitus Brevios, his fair skin wind- reddened and his blue eyes watering. He addressed Patras Anso.

"Hovas' son is missing." He tried not to seem confused or ineffective, so he spoke bluntly and loudly.

"Are you sure?" Patras Anso asked. "Is it certain he isn't - " He waved his hand to indicate the confusion of the camp.

"We have searched and called everywhere among the wagons and carts, and there is no sign of him." Brevios held up his hand as if to swear an oath. "Bacoem is organizing a group of Watchmen to search for him. There's just the one son, you know, so Hovas is beside himself. His other three children are girls."

"You mean the nine-year-old? The one called Ionnis?" Patras Anso asked, looking alarmed. This was the second child to go missing since they left Apulum Inferior, and the first lost one had been found dead from cold.

Brevios nodded. "He was last seen when food was being passed out. He got his share and ran to the edge of the trees so that the bigger boys would not take it from him. He is an adventurous rascal."

"Do you think he wandered off on his own, or there has been something done to him?" The priest made the sign of the cross.

"I haven't any idea," said Brevios.

"What does Hovas say?" Sanctu-Germainios asked.

"He says that his son must be found. He and his family will not move on until they know the child is safe, and a dozen men swear to remain with him, and will order their families to remain as well."

"What of Hovas?" Patras Anso pursed his lips in thought.

"He is miserable, weeping and decrying his fate. His woman is as if she is asleep." Brevios put his hand on the short-sword that hung from his belt. "I have said we will find him."

Patras Anso made up his mind. "Sad as this is, it is a sign. We will camp here for the night, and we will send search parties to look for the boy as long as there is light. Have Hovas go with the Watchmen, and call for the boy often. How old are his sisters?"

"Thirteen, eleven, and six," said Brevios.

"That's right, that's right," said Patras Anso. "The boy is a clever child, as I recall, and given to mischief-making. If this is a trick, Hovas should beat him for his shenanigans as soon as he is found. Young as he is, he cannot be allowed such license." He gave Sanctu-Germainios a curt nod, and then he started back toward the greatest concentration of people where they clustered on the edge of the stream, Brevios two steps behind him.

For the rest of the afternoon the evacuees and refugees divided themselves between making camp and searching for Hovas' son. The clouds continued to thicken and the wind grew keener, so that in the fourth quarter of the afternoon, everyone in camp was seeking out the newly laid fires for warmth. The first odors of cooking rose on the whining wind.

Sanctu-Germainios had tethered his horses to a long remuda-line and was finishing putting down hay for them when Nicoris found him. He felt a pang of dismay as he caught sight of her, presuming her errand was not a pleasant one. "What has happened?"

"It's not Mangueinic; he's doing well enough," she said as she came up to him. "It's Kynthie, Thirhald's woman. She has gone into labor; it began a quarter of the afternoon ago, hard and sudden. Her pangs are still some distance apart, but that will change. Isalind is worried that Kynthie may not manage the delivery well: her heartbeat is very fast."

"That is not a good sign," Sanctu-Germainios said, wondering what he could do to ease her birthing.

"Will you come with me now?" Nicoris swept her arm to take in the bustle around her. "If you have other duties ..."

"Yes, I will come with you," he said, putting down the last armload of hay. "Has Thirhald been told?"

"He's helping to prepare supper for the camp and I don't want to disturb him. He would be distraught."

"It would be wise to inform him; at least he should know her labor has begun," Sanctu-Germainios suggested. "I will go see to her now."

Nicoris remained where she was as she studied his face. "You're worried, Dom. You think she is going to die."

"Perhaps not worried so much as concerned," he said, aware how intently she scrutinized him. "This is not the place for a delivery, particularly if it has problems attending it."

"Then you expect problems," she said.

"Her labor is nearly a month early. That does not bode well under any circumstances. Hard travel has not helped her." Nor has the danger from the Huns, he added to himself. He patted his gelding on the rump, then started off to where the wagons were assembled. "Where is she?" he called out to Nicoris.

"Four from the far end," she replied, pointing. "What do I tell Thirhald?"

"Tell him that his wife may be going to give birth tonight -  nothing more."

"He may want to know more," Nicoris warned him.

"So he may, which is why it will be better for him to learn from you than to hear of it later, by accident. When his work is done, tell him I will inform him of Kynthie's progress." He lengthened his stride, moving through the groups of people who were making ready for nightfall; in the distance he could hear the sound of calls for Ionnis, accompanied by the moan of the wind in the trees.

Through sunset and the arrival of the storm, Sanctu-Germainios stayed in the wagon with Kynthie, Agtha, Isalind, and Khorea. The women tended Kynthie, making her as comfortable as they could, while Sanctu-Germainios used all his skill to bring about a quick delivery. In the wavering light of oil-lamps, he tried to massage Kynthie's swollen abdomen in an effort to align the baby for birth; he could feel the infant and was troubled that its movements were so feeble.

"How much longer?" Isalind asked while a troop of Watchmen left the camp to continue the search for Ionnis.

It was the very question he had been debating with himself. "I wish I could say. It is not encouraging to see her so lethargic. You said she has no other children?"

"She's miscarried once," Isalind told him.

"That's inauspicious." He had attended difficult births before, some during his long tenure at the Temple of Imhotep, and he knew that the more exhausted Kynthie became, the more problems that could arise.

Isalind lowered her voice to hardly more than a whisper. "Is she going to die?"

"She may," said Sanctu-Germainios. "If we had a better place, with a tilted table and tincture of hawthorn to calm her pulse; willow- bark and pansy are anodyne, but will not ease her heart. It would be much better for her and the baby if her - "

Kynthie gave a moan, thrashing her legs and attempting to break free of Sanctu-Germainios' gentle, powerful grip; Isalind and Khorea endeavored to hold her steady while Agtha wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth. Kynthie howled, her voice more like the cry of wolves than anything human.

Khorea started to weep, her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing.

"Shall I fetch Patras Anso?" Agtha muttered to Sanctu-Germainios .

"Not yet," he replied, and resumed massaging Kynthie's abdomen. "If a quarter of the night passes and she continues this way, it would probably be wise." He had noticed the small cross on a leather thong around her neck, and hoped the attention of the priest might help her rally.

"Where is Thirhald? She might respond well to his presence," Isalind suggested. "If he can bear to see her like this."

"He has gone to help the Watchmen search for Hovas' boy; they have taken the dogs to help them, and Thirhald has a good hunter," said Khorea. "When I spoke to him, he would not want to see her in her present travail, for it could bring him to despair."

This kind of response did not surprise Sanctu-Germainios; he had seen many men shy away from the process of birth, relegating its mysteries to women rather than have to be party to it. "When he returns, he should come here, for Kynthie's sake, no matter how late it may be."

"I will find him and bring him here," said Agtha, her mouth a grim line.

"Do you think he can wait so long?" Khorea gave Kynthie a worried glance. "She could fail, and if she does - "

"If she does, it will be rapid, I concur." He touched his fingers to the vein in her neck, shaking his head as he felt its rapidity. "If the babe will shift its position, there may still be a safe delivery." Sanctu-Germainios stared into the middle distance. With careful circumspection, he regarded Kynthie closely. "If the infant does not move, I could open her belly and take out the child; Kynthie might die, but if she continues as she is doing now, we will not be able to save her or the child. If I - "

"Patras Anso would never allow it," said Agtha sharply. "Opening the body is a sin. Those who do it are heretics and diabolists."

Sanctu-Germainios was well-aware of the strictures against surgery; he had encountered such censure during his most recent stay in Constantinople. As a result of that experience, he considered his arguments carefully. "It is a risk, but her present state is precarious and unless I take the baby soon, she will not have strength enough to recover. If she cannot deliver shortly, not only she but her baby will die."

Isalind gave Sanctu-Germainios a measuring look. "I have seen two women die from such difficulties as this. If you know any means to spare her, then do it and let the priest declaim. What may I do to help?"

"Go to the wagon where Mangueinic rides and ask Nicoris to bring my case and some of the sovereign remedy and the ointment in the red jar. Quickly." He did not watch Isalind leave, turning at once to Agtha. "I will need boiling water. Take a metal cauldron, fill it with water, and place it over the nearest fire. I will give you herbs to add to the water, and my instruments."

"This is against God's Will," Agtha declared.

"It is a skill I learned in Egypt, where the Christ was taught." He had studied in many other parts of the world for more than nineteen centuries, but he knew that Christians held Egypt in a kind of awe, and used this knowledge to his advantage.

There was an impressed silence, then Khorea said, "You are a regional guardian for Roma and Byzantium: how is it you have studied in Egypt?' "

"I am an exile. Exiles travel."

There was a silence, then Kynthie moaned again, and spasmed as blood frothed between her legs.

Sanctu-Germainios responded promptly. "Give me a knife. She and her child will be dead almost at once if I do not remove the baby," he said, holding out his hand; Isalind put her knife into it. "Move the lamps as near as you can," he ordered, and cut.

When the Watchmen returned with the terrified Ionnis, sometime near midnight, Thirhald hurried to the wagon where Kynthie lay. He called her name as he approached, faltering now that his goal was in sight.

"Thirhald. You have a son," said Sanctu-Germainios, coming out of the wagon to speak with him. "But I grieve to tell you that your woman is dead." He could see disbelief in Thirhald's face, and softened his tone. "The boy is with a wetnurse, and will remain in her care as long as it is needed." He watched as incredulity became shock and sorrow, and Thirhald swayed on his feet as if the ground had shaken beneath him. "You have my sympathy."

"Does Patras Anso know?" Thirhald asked blankly.

"He has blessed her and will supervise her burial when we reach Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, so she may lie in sacred ground." He met Thirhald's vacant gaze with his own. "I wish we could have saved her."

Thirhald nodded once. "Yes," he mumbled, and turned away.

Text of a letter from Verus Flautens, landholder of Drobetae, to Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Custodis of Viminacium, written in code on vellum with fixed ink and carried by Tortulla's confidential courier; delivered in eight days.

Ave to the esteemed Praetor Custodis of Viminacium, Gnaccus Tortulla, on the twentieth day before the Winter Solstice. I am honored to be of service to you once more, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to perform the useful deed you have informed me you require.

I can understand your fear regarding the large numbers gathering at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery. Too many of those living in the Carpathians and on the plains the mountains surround have gone over to the Huns of late, and I agree that the monastery could prove an opportunity for subversion. Those who have lost their lands and goods to the Huns may seek to regain them through Hunnic favor. I also agree that leaders of any such movement constitute a threat to the remains of Roman-and-Byzantine rule in the region and cannot be allowed to continue their illegal course. I am eager to comply with any actions that will bring about an end to the Huns' invasion.

This is not a task I can undertake personally, of course, for I would be viewed with suspicion by many of those seeking refuge at Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, but I will dispatch my newly freed manservant, Hredus, to go to the monastery and report on all he sees. Hredus has an elementary knowledge of letters and he may be relied upon in this undertaking as I relied upon him assisting me in my dispatching of Sergios of Drobetae, who would surely have betrayed Roman interests to Byzantium in exchange for the advancement he sought. If there is any skulduggery afoot, Hredus will root it out and get word to me as quickly as distance and weather allows. I will charge him also with learning all that he can about the location and number of Hunnic forces in the region and the nature of their attacks: with all the barbarians flocking to the Huns, it will serve us well to know how and where the Huns have enlarged their armies, and any changes they have made in their methods of making war.

Know by this that my devotion to you and the Roman cause is beyond corruption and unending,

Verus Flautens