For two weeks the mountains had been showing signs of spring: pines and oaks shed their mantles of snow; the little creeks lost their ice and ran chuckling down into the lake at the end of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit; a few early flowers struggled into the sunlight, leaving the snow in patches around them. The sounds of birds returned to the air, and the underbrush rustled with the passage of foxes, badgers, marten, deer, and wild boar; the first few bear emerged from hibernation and grumpily sought out streams for fishing.

Then, five days after the Equinox, winter returned in gelid fury. Snow rode horizontally on ferocious winds and the trees once again were swaddled in white. Occasional loud cracks came from the forest as branches broke under the weight of snow and wind. The many people at the monastery crouched indoors, crowded together, their tempers sharp and their states of mind alive with increasing fear. No one looked forward to the Paschal Mass that would be celebrated the following morning at dawn.

In the old wooden chapel, Sanctu-Germainios continued to tend those persons the monks in the infirmary would not touch; it fell to him to set broken limbs and remove frostbitten fingers and toes, to purge putrid lungs and poisoned guts, to sew up cuts and gouges, and to set misaligned joints. On the second day of the blizzard, Isalind was brought to him with a badly sprained ankle and a severe scrape along her shin.

"How did this happen?" Sanctu-Germainios asked her as he knelt beside her to touch her swollen leg. He motioned to Nicoris, who had been sorting lengths of linen, to come closer. "And bring the steady chair. She needs to sit down so she can raise her leg to keep the ankle from swelling any more than it has."

"I was carrying slops to the midden, and I slipped." Isalind scowled and ground her teeth, both in aggravation and against the pain. "My ankle twisted as I fell."

"I see that," he said, and glanced at the two monks who had brought her. "The skin is not broken, she has none of the signs of inward illness."

"We have no means to care for her in the infirmary," said one of the monks, his voice devoid of all emotion.

"Then it is fortunate that I do," said Sanctu-Germainios. "You may put her in that chair." He went in, pointing to a straight-backed, square-seated one that Nicoris had moved beside the raised bed he used for treating those seriously injured.

The monks did as he instructed, neither of them liking the work they were having to do. Both of them made an effort to touch Isalind as little as possible. As they put her down, they both made the sign of the fish. "That none of her ills pass to us," said the shorter of the two, then lowered his head and made for the door, his taller companion following him. Neither made the sign of the cross as they departed.

"It is because I'm a woman. The infirmary monks don't like treating women. They say it compromises their chastity." Her aggravation was obvious from her face and the harshness of her voice.

"They're becoming more stringent about their vows," said Nicoris, raising her voice so that she could be heard. "They aren't comfortable having so many residents who don't want to practice their rites and rituals. They told Bernardius not to talk Latin."

"It is also part of their discomfort with having bodies. They believe holiness is attained through neglect of their bodies in all manner of ways," said Sanctu-Germainios. "It is a foolish thing to do; if you ignore the flesh, it will lead to all manner of unnecessary ills, and in the end it will shorten life." He had seen it before, in many places, and he knew beyond doubt that clean bodies resisted disease and infection better than bodies that were not.

"They are fools not to have a better bath-house and proper latrines," said Isalind, not only to agree with him, but to try to keep her mind off the gnawing ache from her ankle. "I wouldn't have to carry slops if they had latrines. No one would. And we would stink less than we do, and have fewer lice and lice fever. Our clothes could be kept cleaner, as well, if there were a laundry here."

"The monks won't agree to a bath-house or a laundry. They say it glorifies the body to have enclosed latrines and baths, and that clean clothes promote vanity, all of which they believe imperil the soul, and all of them fear for their souls with the Huns about," said Sanctu-Germainios , recalling his fruitless discussion with Priam Corydon, and the awkwardness that had resulted from it. "The monks prefer their dirt and their vermin. It comes from their peculiar understanding of chastity and their disdain for their well-being."

"An enclosed latrine wouldn't lead to debauchery," said Isalind, then hissed breath through her clamped teeth as Sanctu-Germainios slightly repositioned her leg.

"But they fear it would," said Sanctu-Germainios. "And their fear makes it a certainty."

Isalind took a deep breath and let it out slowly, striving against her pain. "It would make their winters easier. With their flocks and herds, they have dung enough to tath their fields. Slops aren't required. A channel could carry the waste out of the valley and down the mountain. If any of them have the courage to build such a channel - with the Huns about, as you say." She scowled as she lifted her leg until it was straight. "I have truly hurt myself," she said.

"That you have," said Sanctu-Germainios, rising and reaching for a stool to put under her elevated foot.

"What will you have to do?" Isalind asked. She was pale; her ruddy hair made her look pasty.

"I will tell you when I have discerned the extent of your injuries. Your ankle is clearly sprained, but you may have broken a bone in your foot as well; I will not know if you have until the ankle is less distended. And I'll want to clean that abrasion."

"The slops spilled. You can probably tell. I reek of them." Isalind looked abashed at this confession.

"You'll have to give up your clothes, and not for the odor, for the animalcules that may cling to them," said Sanctu-Germainios. "You will need to keep the laceration clean for it to heal. Nicoris will bring you an abolla to warm you for now. Being cold when there has been an injury can be very dangerous."

She looked skeptically at Sanctu-Germainios. "My man won't like me undressed before you."

"Tell him that your clothes were unhealthy; I will go into my sleeping alcove when you change; I will not see you naked," said Sanctu-Germainios, watching while Nicoris went to the one of his traveling cases he had indicated and removed an abolla and a long- sleeved tunica made of sand-colored wool; both belonged to Rugierus, but Sanctu-Germainios knew he would not begrudge them to Isalind, for he had more clothing to choose from.

"This should be enough for her to be properly dressed and warm." Nicoris set the garments on the raised treatment bed.

"If you will heat some water so we can put her in it to wash," Sanctu-Germainios suggested. "Then we can add more hot water so her foot can be soaked in restorative salts."

"The salts you use on the horses and mules?" Nicoris asked.

"The same. Tendons are tendons, no matter what animal or human contains them." Sanctu-Germainios laid his hand on Isalind's arm. "You will recover so long as that scrape has no infection. But to avoid that, you must be clean."

She sighed. "Patras Anso won't like it."

"Nor will Priam Corydon," said Sanctu-Germainios, who had had his share of disputes with both the Patras and the Priam, "but treating injuries is not a religious exercise, no matter what they may believe." As he said this, he thought back to his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, the Egyptian god of healing and architecture, whose priests provided medical treatment for all Egyptians, no matter which of the gods they favored or what illness or injury brought them to the temple.

Nicoris rolled out a large wooden tub and set it near the stone hearth. "I'm going out to load the cauldron with snow," she announced, anticipating his need. "You can build up the logs for me, Dom, so the water can boil. I'll be back shortly." She hefted the large iron pot from its hook over the dying fire. As she opened the door, snowy wind shrieked into the old chapel, chilling it and making the lengths of linen flutter from their neat stacks into confusion.

Isalind glanced around her, taking stock of the chapel for the first time. "You are treating no one else but me?"

"I have at present nine other patients in the old dormitory. I carry them there once their hurts are dressed, where their companions and families may care for them." He smiled at her without any sign of concern. "You will be at your man's side by full dark."

She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose my clothes will be useless after this? Blood and shit won't wash out, will they?"

"Most likely not," he said. "If you need clothes, you may keep what I give you."

"My man wouldn't let me accept such a gift, neither would Patras Anso, but I thank you for your offer," said Isalind.

Sanctu-Germainios went to his red-lacquer chest and brought out a small jar. He then took a small pottery cup from the top shelf of the chest and poured a little of the contents into the cup. "I will mix this with a little wine and honey. I want you to drink it. It will lessen your pain and help the swelling in your ankle diminish."

She watched him as he prepared the mixture. "Is there anything in it besides what you say?"

"The medicament has ground willow-bark and pansy, which reduce pain and swelling, crushed juniper berries, celery seed, and ground pepper for swelling and stiffness, in a paste of sourberries, which helps to preserve it and provides a lessening of fever if any should arise. It is useful in treating scrapes and strains, and tightening of the joints. I have been told that it has an unpleasant taste. The honey will help that, and the wine will aid the medicament to work, for it eases the body and strengthens the blood." He used an alabaster spoon to stir the mixture, then gave the cup to Isalind.

She drank cautiously, pursed her lips after the first swallow. "You're right. Its taste is unpleasant."

"Well, drink as much of it as you can endure," he recommended, then turned to see Nicoris struggling with the cauldron brimming with snow, the wind pursuing her, howling. Going to help her, he closed the door and set the brace, then said, "You have done a fine job, Nicoris." He took the cauldron from her and carried it easily to the hearth.

"There's more snow coming down," she said, watching him speculatively. "This is a very bad storm. The passes will be closed again for at least a week." She pulled off her byrrus and hung it on a peg near the door to dry. "I'll get more once the tub is full, so we may adjust the temperature of the water."

Sanctu-Germainios went to the stacked logs at the end of the fireplace stones and selected three lengths of good girth. He brought these back to the weakening fire and carefully set them to burn, leaning them on the embers to promote a good draw of air. Then he placed the cauldron on its hook once more and swung it into the fireplace over the logs. "I should have done this before you returned."

"You have been treating Isalind," said Nicoris, still scrutinizing him; she knew how heavy the snow-filled cauldron was, and she was amazed that he could lift it so effortlessly. "I was approached by a monk while I loaded the cauldron. He says that the hermits have come down from their caves. They're in the monastery in the upper cells, and they have announced they intend to remain until the storm passes."

"That shows some small measure of sense," said Sanctu-Germainios .

"They're claiming that God has sent the storm to show us His might." Isalind stopped herself from saying something more reckless.

"How did you find out about it?" Nicoris asked.

"Everyone was talking about it in the dormitory," said Isalind. "The Watchmen were complaining that Monachos Anatolios has been exhorting them while they've been on duty, telling them that they are betraying God."

"They want the world to end, so God will reign on earth," said Nicoris, her face set.

"You do not want that to happen?" Sanctu-Germainios asked, a touch of irony in his tone.

"Do you? They say only the most dedicated Christians will be chosen to share the Kingdom of God, all the rest will burn forever in Hell," said Isalind. "Monachos Anatolios has stated that only virgins can hope to be among the few who will attend upon God's Glory when the apocalypse comes. Those who try to forestall the Second Coming by opposing the Will of God will be among the first cast into the Pit." She managed to drink the last sip from the cup, then set it on the floor beside her chair.

"He expects God to prefer men like himself, I imagine. Men of his kind usually do," said Sanctu-Germainios.

"Don't let any of the religious hear you say that," Nicoris warned him. "Antoninu Neves has had two of his men sent away from this place because they would not honor the religion of the monks."

Sanctu-Germainios looked surprised. "When did that happen?" And why, he added inwardly, did no one tell him about it?

"Yesterday morning, while his men were bringing in more wood for all the fires," said Isalind. "They were accused of chastising the monks for praying instead of working at a time when labor was more necessary."

"How unwise of them," said Isalind.

"I must suppose it did no good," said Sanctu-Germainios. "Since the soldiers were cast out, it's a double loss. There are two fewer men to cut and saw wood, and no monks are willing to take their place," said Nicoris. "Neves has said that such losses are damaging to all of us."

"And Monachos Anatolios says it is God's punishment for our lack of submission to His Will," said Isalind.

Sanctu-Germainios bit back the remark he wanted to make, and said instead, "As soon as the water is warm, I will wash your leg and then you can prepare for your bath. When I am done, I will leave so you may get into the tub."

"I'll remain with you when you come to bathe, in case you need any help," Nicoris said to Isalind. "You might have difficulty getting out of the tub."

"So I might," said Isalind, staring at her puffy ankle.

"Thank you for that," said Sanctu-Germainios, once again struck by her beneficent pragmatism and her unusual directness. If only, he thought, she would tell him the truth about herself, for after their second love-making, he knew beyond all doubt that she had not been veracious with him.

Isalind tried to flex her foot and let out a small mew of dismayed pain. "How long will it take before my ankle is well?"

"That will depend on how you treat it," said Sanctu-Germainios. "If you will follow my instructions, you may hope to be significantly improved in a month. You will feel better before then, but your ankle will not yet be strong." He saw her wince at his remark. "There are things you can do that do not require carrying heavy items. Devote yourself to making clothes and mending those that need it. That is as useful as carrying slops."

"My man won't like it," she said with foreboding.

"If you would like, I will explain your situation to him. But whatever he may think, you will only delay your recovery if you try to resume your duties too quickly."

Isalind looked troubled. "I have my tasks to do."

"Not while your ankle is injured." He regarded her steadily. "Neglect it now and it will never be fully strong again."

She shuddered. "The monks have told me I should pray." Sanctu-Germainios gave a single shake of his head. "Pray if you like, but do not stress your ankle."

Although Nicoris had said nothing, she was clearly listening to everything. She used a poking-stick on the logs to get them to burn more fiercely. "Pay attention to the Dom," she advised. "He has great skill."

"All of us from Apulum Inferior know that," Isalind said brusquely, going on with a bit more cordiality, "All of us have seen what he can do."

"Then do as he tells you," Nicoris said, bringing a stool to the side of the wooden tub.

Isalind sighed. "It isn't that simple."

Nicoris clicked her tongue impatiently. "Then don't fault him when your ankle twists on you again."

"I will speak to your man, and to Priam Corydon," Sanctu-Germainios offered again. "The monks may have no regard for their bodies, but few of us can be so inattentive."

"Let me think about this," said Isalind. "It is a difficult matter. Patras Anso will put his faith above your medicaments, and my man will follow his lead."

Sanctu-Germainios did not bother to ask why; he knew that among the Gepidae, women were not coddled - as their men put it - the way Romans coddled their women. It would require persuasion of a most practical kind to arrange for Isalind to get the care she needed. "I will do what I can to explain the risks."

"He's good at that," said Nicoris. "He's explained a lot to me. I understood him, too."

Isalind shook her head. "You may try, Dom."

"I will," he said, and turned to Nicoris. "We'll need a drying sheet for her. You may take one from my copper-banded chest."

Nicoris nodded. "Yes, Dom," she said, and went to get it.

"She's devoted to you, isn't she?" Isalind asked.

"It seems so," said Sanctu-Germainios, adding, "Her knowledge of herbs is extensive, and she aids me in my work. I am very grateful to her."

"Grateful?" Isalind looked startled at the word. "Why should you be grateful?"

"Why should I not? She is capable and well-informed," he countered, and would have said more had Nicoris not returned with a drying sheet over her arm.

"There you are," she said, addressing Isalind as she put the sheet on the raised bed, then went back to poke the fire again.

"The water will boil in good time," said Sanctu-Germainios, regarding Nicoris with perplexity: what was she hiding, he asked himself, and why? What would be so dreadful that she would not tell him?

Outside, through the bluster of the storm came the eerie wail of wolves. The three in the old chapel exchanged uneasy glances. "They're after the livestock," said Nicoris. "And they're near."

"But not inside the old walls," said Sanctu-Germainios.

"No. Not yet." Nicoris hunkered down beside the fire as if she were without protection from the blizzard or the wolves.

"What more will you do when I have bathed?" Isalind asked, needing to distract herself from the growing chorus of howls.

"Treat your scrape, soak your ankle, and bind it. Then I'll get you to the dormitory and talk to your man." He studied Nicoris. "I give the storm two more days; what do you think?"

"At this time of year, two is probably right; there isn't the northern bite to keep it blowing. A month ago it would have been four days at the least." She stood up and dusted off the front of her heavy, long-sleeved palla. "And it will melt quickly, flooding the streams and some of the villages down the mountain along with filling the large rivers. There'll be logs and branches floating in the current, and they may damage the four bridges crossing the Danuvius downstream."

"The bridges are in poor repair in any case," said Sanctu-Germainios . "Neither Roma nor Constantinople has seen fit to restore them." He walked down the length of the main part of the chapel, listening to the counterpoint of wolves and storm. No wonder so many thought these mountains were haunted, he thought. Even in his breathing days most of the inhabitants of the Carpathians had believed that powerful spirits awoke in the remote peaks and valleys during the winter. He remained near the main door for a little while, until Nicoris called to him.

"The water is about to boil."

"I'll come and pour the water into the tub," he responded, and started back toward the main fireplace.

"Dom, do I have to keep from using my ankle - really?" Isalind asked as she watched him heft the cauldron of simmering water and tip it so that it flowed into the wooden tub.

Nicoris took the cauldron. "I'll get snow, to balance the heat," she said, and went to the side-door to let herself out.

"There are too many of us in this place," said Isalind as the door thudded shut.

"I agree," he said to her. "But there is no place to go in such a storm."

"The exiled men are out in it, along with the Huns," Isalind observed. "If he fights again, my man will be one of them." There was worry in her voice, and although she kept her face averted, he could recognize her distress.

"Then it would be best for him to hold his temper." His tone was kindly and he made a point of moving around her chair so he could study her. "Spring will be here in a week or so, and then those who wish to travel may do so."

"And face the Huns alone?" She stared at him, her eyes glistening with tears. "I think, sometimes, that the Huns are just a story made up to frighten us. Other times I almost wish they would come, and end this hideous waiting."

"You have heard what those who have faced them have said of them." He went down on one knee. "It is all a gamble, Isalind. The Huns may pay no heed to this place, or they may attack. If people decide to leave, they may or may not be attacked by the Huns. No one can say what will happen, not with certainty. All we can do is prepare for the worst possibilities, and hope we have been too pessimistic." In his long life he had been in battle many, many times, and each time the battle had not gone as anyone had planned. He thought back to his time in Gaul with Caesar's Legions, and reminded himself that even that superb strategist Gaius Julius Caesar had often misanticipated the strength and disposition of his opponents. "But for our own survival, we must assume they will come and be prepared to fight them."

"Fight them and perhaps lose our lives, I suppose? My man says that the monks are trying to keep us here to fight for them."

"And that may well be part of their motives for allowing us to take refuge here," he said. "I would rather have stout walls and a supply of food and water than wagons in the open if the Huns arrive in force."

"Do you want to die?" She seemed repulsed by the very words. He gave a sad chuckle and got to his feet. "Oh, Isalind: there are so many worse things than death."

She regarded him in shock as the side-door banged open and Nicoris lugged in a second load of snow in the cauldron.

"There are some of Neves' men on patrol. They claim that the carcass of a deer is missing and they're planning to find it and bring the thief before Priam Corydon." Nicoris lugged the cauldron next to the tub. "I'm going to put two pails of this into the water, and you can test it then, to find out if it is not too hot for you."

"Thank you," said Isalind.

"Whatever you don't want to lower the temperature now, I'll put to heat so you won't have to sit in cold water, or soak your ankle in it." Nicoris waved to Sanctu-Germainios. "You may leave, Dom. I will manage things here."

Sanctu-Germainios offered her a Roman salute. "Call me when you want me to return."

"That we will," said Nicoris, picking up the pail to scoop out snow. "I'll support you to the tub to test the water in a short while," she went on, talking to Isalind.

Sanctu-Germainios moved away, toward his sleeping alcove, again missing Rugierus. He sat on the end of his hard, narrow bed set atop a chest of his native earth, recalling the many times he had seen enmity erupt among men and women forced to live in contained space under threat. He let his memories range from his living days to the long years of bloody vengeance that followed his execution, to the many decades in the Babylonian prison, to his centuries in Egypt where he regained his humanity again, to the peripatetic existence which he still pursued; all the while his recollections were accompanied by the yammer of the storm and the ululation of the wolves.

Text of a letter from Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, to Octavianus Honorius Regulus, recorder to the Imperial Court of the Roman Empire in the West at Ravenna, written in code with fixed ink on polished linen, carried by Imperial courier and delivered twelve days after it was written.

To the most august Octavianus Honorius Regulus, Ave! The Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, Gnaccus Tortulla, greets you with respect and esteem on this fourth day of April, in the official year of 439.

It is my duty to inform you that in spite of continuing rumors and new bands of refugees, there has been no direct attack on this side of the Danuvius farther west than Odessus. I am certain there may come a time when this is not the case, but at present I see no proof to justify the constant alarm that I hear everywhere. You may inform the Imperial Treasurer that this region will continue to provide revenue from taxes and other payments, such as from customs and assessments for defense. I have imposed a tax upon those refugees arriving here to cover the increased cost of provisions and more hired soldiers to man the defenses here.

From what I have been able to ascertain of his work, the newly appointed Praetor-General of Drobetae in old Dacia, Verus Flautens, has taken his task to heart. He has heard reports from merchants regarding the movements of the Huns, and transmitted them to me. He has sent his own men to the north to determine the amount of damage the Huns have done, and the present areas of their activities. He has compiled a list of towns that have been emptied and the current locations of many groups of refugees. He has also consulted the refugees coming to Drobetae to ferry over the Danuvius, and has made a record of their accounts, a copy of which he has provided for me, and which I will have a true copy enclosed with this. While I commend his thoroughness, it is my belief that he has placed too much trust in the descriptions of these unfortunates, for he has not yet learned that those who flee count three men as twenty, and twenty as an army.

My next communication will require an escort, for it will accompany the accounts of the last six months as well as the readiness reports of my Tribunes.

Gnaccus Tortulla

Praetor Custodis at Viminacium in Moesia