Free Come Twilight by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

leather.
    “If that is your wish,” said the sartrium. “Gerdis will show them the way.” He whistled through his teeth and shouted for a young man-at-arms. “Take them to the stable. Let them have a measure of hay for each horse and mule, and time at the water trough, as courtesy to travelers.” His scowl cut off any protest from Gerdis, who gestured at Leovigild to follow him. “See you do well by the Gardingio,” the sartrium called after them.
    “I will return when I have made an appropriate introduction,” said Sanct’ Germain to Rogerian, and went after the sartrium. “You are in charge of the horses and mules.”
    “That I will, my master,” said Rogerian as he dismounted and signaled the men-at-arms to do the same.
    “We are hungry,” said Egica. “And we are cold.”
    “That will be attended to as soon as I have presented myself to Gardingio Witteric,” Sanct’ Germain said over his shoulder as he continued through the disorder of the courtyard.
    The sartrium paused just inside the door of the central villa, his expression severe. “You are not expected.”
    “No. I have an introduction from Primor Ioanus that should reassure Gardingio Witteric; they are kinsmen, as I understand it.” Sanct’ Germain showed no sign of distress as he spoke but he could not keep from wondering what kind of welcome he might expect to receive in this place in so hard a season. “No doubt there are many who trespass on the Gardingio’s hospitality, but you need not fear I am one such. I do not bring my men here to sup and drink without obligation. As a stranger, I am beholden to his generosity as no relation would be. You may tell your master that I am prepared to offer recompense for his courtesy.”
    “Oh, if you can pay he will be glad to have you in his court,” said the sartrium. “And your men-at-arms seem worthy sorts; not laggard and not swagger.” He nodded once as if to indicate he was satisfied, then he continued toward a U-shaped inner court that had once been a proper Roman atrium but was now as much a fortress as the outer walls around the villa. Among the other changes wrought upon the villa was a second story, cobbled on in a rougher style than the original building, with narrow slits for windows and an array of chimneys that smoked like miniature volcanos.
    Sanct’ Germain kept up with the sartrium, remaining a respectful two paces behind him as they entered the villa. The light was halved, and the smoke from the fires burning in braziers and on the hearths of two enormous fireplaces did little to alleviate the gloom; the fireplaces had been added to the villa recently and were made of rough-hewn stone, not the marble the Romans had built with. The few windows were covered with thin-cut alabaster screens, providing a diffuse, milky illumination that did not penetrate far into the chamber. Here there were more slaves, many of them women, and not all were working at tasks; a group of children ranging from age three to about ten were in one corner near the vast, smoking fireplace in the main chamber, playing with paddles and balls where they were watched over by two elderly women with widow’s veils over their plaited hair. There were half a dozen slaves in the chamber, most of them preparing the long table for the prandium, which would be served before the next canonical Hour. In the corner opposite the children was a dais of two stairs, and on the dais stood an old Roman chair; a ruddy-haired, scar-faced man of early middle-age—perhaps thirty or thirty-five—was sitting in it, legs set wide, one hand holding a staff of office, the other thrust deep inside the enveloping fur robe of the young woman who stood beside him, smiling distantly.
    The sartrium saluted as he faced the man on the dais. “Hail, Gardingio Witteric. May God show you favor and advance your—”
    “Have mercy, Ruda,” said the Gardingio, cutting off the sartrium, and revealing a mouth full of discolored and broken