Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series) by Tanith Lee Page B

perforce, for the benefit of their souls.” “Of course,” said Joffri. “I didn’t imply, brother, any feeling against the esteemed council. Only against myself, the poor Ducem, should I require to
add
to the burden.”
    Far down the table, another man spoke. He was a new one, Joffri thought, swarthy and hoarse-voiced. The name refused to surface.
    “Already the City’s stirred up with fear of war.
    When they’re afraid, men become more pious, or else they give way and run amok. They indulge appalling vices. Things are done at such times that invite the brimstone of Sodomus and Gomorrah. Do we recall the years of the Death Plague?”
    Joffri grimaced. He had been born toolate for that horror, and was extremely glad of it. He nodded any way, to keep the unnamed misery in temper.
    Sarco finished, “Such scenes must be prevented.”
    “Oh, quite.”
    “We have here a letter in which we, the Council, set out that extra scope we consider proper to us, for the season.”
    One or two of them rose, and came to Joffri, with the thick scroll, bound by a spotless tassel, and stuck with vermilion wax. The wax was imprinted by the seal of the Lamb.
    It was a nice little lamb, as it kneeled there. A gentle lamb.
    God knew what they wanted now. All a-bed at the Venusium bell … a new tax on any traffic along any canal—worth a fortune, that one … or on the carnal act, perhaps, within marriage
    They could order a rich merchant or even a lesser prince to ride publicly in sackcloth, in a Styx boat, to the Primo, beating himself the while, for some heinous (exaggerated?) crime of blasphemy or sloth. Now and then, in the last two years, they had done so.
    “I am grateful, brothers, for your care for my City.”
    Joffri did not think himself a coward. Only wise.
    When Sarco said, mildly, “Your City, Lord Ducem, but also God’s,” Joffri bowed.
    He was so delighted to bid them farewell. But despite the carnations he had had scattered, their odor stayed with him all up the stairs. A sour stale smell of bodies and minds bound always tight in darkness. For a moment, he knew he feared the Council more than Jurneia and her thousand ships.
    * * *
    After reading a copy of theCouncil’s letter to the Ducem, which Brother Sarco had given him, Fra Danielus went down to the castra, to the practice court, to watch Cristiano exercise.
    In the summer heat, all the Bellatae were stripped to the waist. Wrestling, they flung each other over, laughed or complained, and ran back together. They were like battling stags. And seeing the Magister, they vaunted themselves, excelled—or made mistakes.
    Cristiano did not do this. He seemed to take no notice. He had tanned from the sun, and standing at rest, was like a statue of the Greeks or Romans, made in planed golden wood. But the hair was silver.
    Then he lightly raised up the heavy sword, swinging it in flashing, veering thrusts. He had disarmed his third opponent in the time that might elapse between two strokes of a bell.
    Before he walked to the Magister, Cristiano slung on the practice tunic. His was gray and full of holes. No pride? One could not pledge that. But he was young, and God Himself had made him strong.
    “Tell me,” said Danielus, as they moved through into the castra cloister, which was empty, “have you any curiosity concerning the little slave?”
    Cristiano looked at him. He said, “You mean the girl who can call fire.”
    “Yes, just that little slave.”
    “Should I be curious?”
    “You found her.”
    “She was there to be found.”
    “Do you still doubt she can do what she does?”
    “No, Magister. Not since you told me that she could.”
    “I see. Should I then commend you for your faith in me, or chide you for accepting such a story secondhand.”
    “Either,” said Cristiano. He leaned on apillar of the walk, as Danielus sat down in the shade. In the middle of the sunlit square of grass, a fountain played into a bronze cistern. Insects buzzed. There was the