of no consequence.
And for Berbo’s story, how many cups of ale had he taken, despite the new taxes, before he climbed the wall? The warrior-priest turned his head once more.
At that second, the beggar girl raised her own.
At the movement, the rag slipped back from her hair a little. Not brown hair, but a dull and dirty red. The face a white triangle with pale yellow eyes. A
fox’s
face.
The fox which, in legend, was the devil’s familiar dog, even his disguise.
“And you, girl. What do you say?” It was a black priest again who addressed her.
And Luchita, again, interposed. “Gentle brothers, she doesn’t speak. I never heard her. No one has. Look at her—does she look burned? Does she look cunning or supernatural?”
Yes
. The thought jumped starkly forward in Cristiano’s brain. Cunning, supernatural, both. And—
holy
, holy in some incoherent, awful and total way, as a fallen angel might, perhaps, that once had been bright winged in Heaven before its fall.
Berbo shook himself. He said, “Allright. None would listen before. I’ve told it now. I’m done with it.” Both of the Eyes and Ears watched Berbo as he marched abruptly away. They would learn his house. He might well receive a call from them, or from others. To accuse, as to be accused, was not always simple.
The girl had lowered her head and her eyes.
One of the priests said, to Luchita, “Will you sponsor her, then? Swear that she’s innocent?”
Luchita opened her mouth. Cristiano was quicker.
“The inn-wife is my sister. I vouch for her as an honest woman. But she can’t pass judgment on such a thing. She’s fed the wretch to save her from starving, no more.”
“What then to do, Bellator?” The priests stared resentfully and arrogantly at him. “Should we take her to the Primo and question her?”
The crowd muttered. Ve Nera knew that some taken to the Primo on such business did not come out, or came out damaged. The Council of the Lamb was determined in its service to God: it was better to kill a man than risk his soul.
A woman cried, “She’s only a kit! What does Berbo know?
But a surly man remarked, “If she’s a witch, she needs seeing to.”
Cristiano too was well aware of the interrogations which sometimes were carried on in the under-rooms of the Basilica. They had been a cause of discussion in his own mind. It was a fact also, if he had not stood in the path, they might have been off with her already. He took a chance, rashly, like a boy. Half offending himself.
“I vouch for my sister, and she vouches for the girl. That’s enough. I myself will see to it.”
“But,” began the fatter of theEyes and Ears.
“You will leave it with me and save yourselves the trouble. You’ve enough work in the City as it is.”
2
That winter, a high tide had flooded the square before the Primo Suvio. Now artisans were commemorating, in black and gold mosaic, the large octopus found washed up by the Lion Door.
Fra Danielus, who had not partaken of the—reportedly tasty—corpse, looked down at the work from a gallery above.
On this sunny day, with its promise of heat, the Magister Major was conscious of much pleasure in the world. In the beauty of the Primo. Its enormous dome which, from the Fulvia lagoon, looked like nothing so much as a gigantic pearl. The courtyards with their busy yet sedate procedures, the cappella and castra (barracks) of the knights, their roofs of silver and gold, the pure fountain which plunged into a basin of white marble, supported by four lions done in gilded bronze. From the gallery of the Angel Tower, where Danielus stood, all this, besides the artisans, was visible.
Moving on, around the Tower’s huge side, it would be easy to see, too on such a cloudless day, the phantom forms of distant mountains. While the Laguna stretched like silvered glass to the sea wall and the lit curve of ocean, the faint drifts of insubstantial islands like aberrations of some fine mind, profligate only
And for Berbo’s story, how many cups of ale had he taken, despite the new taxes, before he climbed the wall? The warrior-priest turned his head once more.
At that second, the beggar girl raised her own.
At the movement, the rag slipped back from her hair a little. Not brown hair, but a dull and dirty red. The face a white triangle with pale yellow eyes. A
fox’s
face.
The fox which, in legend, was the devil’s familiar dog, even his disguise.
“And you, girl. What do you say?” It was a black priest again who addressed her.
And Luchita, again, interposed. “Gentle brothers, she doesn’t speak. I never heard her. No one has. Look at her—does she look burned? Does she look cunning or supernatural?”
Yes
. The thought jumped starkly forward in Cristiano’s brain. Cunning, supernatural, both. And—
holy
, holy in some incoherent, awful and total way, as a fallen angel might, perhaps, that once had been bright winged in Heaven before its fall.
Berbo shook himself. He said, “Allright. None would listen before. I’ve told it now. I’m done with it.” Both of the Eyes and Ears watched Berbo as he marched abruptly away. They would learn his house. He might well receive a call from them, or from others. To accuse, as to be accused, was not always simple.
The girl had lowered her head and her eyes.
One of the priests said, to Luchita, “Will you sponsor her, then? Swear that she’s innocent?”
Luchita opened her mouth. Cristiano was quicker.
“The inn-wife is my sister. I vouch for her as an honest woman. But she can’t pass judgment on such a thing. She’s fed the wretch to save her from starving, no more.”
“What then to do, Bellator?” The priests stared resentfully and arrogantly at him. “Should we take her to the Primo and question her?”
The crowd muttered. Ve Nera knew that some taken to the Primo on such business did not come out, or came out damaged. The Council of the Lamb was determined in its service to God: it was better to kill a man than risk his soul.
A woman cried, “She’s only a kit! What does Berbo know?
But a surly man remarked, “If she’s a witch, she needs seeing to.”
Cristiano too was well aware of the interrogations which sometimes were carried on in the under-rooms of the Basilica. They had been a cause of discussion in his own mind. It was a fact also, if he had not stood in the path, they might have been off with her already. He took a chance, rashly, like a boy. Half offending himself.
“I vouch for my sister, and she vouches for the girl. That’s enough. I myself will see to it.”
“But,” began the fatter of theEyes and Ears.
“You will leave it with me and save yourselves the trouble. You’ve enough work in the City as it is.”
2
That winter, a high tide had flooded the square before the Primo Suvio. Now artisans were commemorating, in black and gold mosaic, the large octopus found washed up by the Lion Door.
Fra Danielus, who had not partaken of the—reportedly tasty—corpse, looked down at the work from a gallery above.
On this sunny day, with its promise of heat, the Magister Major was conscious of much pleasure in the world. In the beauty of the Primo. Its enormous dome which, from the Fulvia lagoon, looked like nothing so much as a gigantic pearl. The courtyards with their busy yet sedate procedures, the cappella and castra (barracks) of the knights, their roofs of silver and gold, the pure fountain which plunged into a basin of white marble, supported by four lions done in gilded bronze. From the gallery of the Angel Tower, where Danielus stood, all this, besides the artisans, was visible.
Moving on, around the Tower’s huge side, it would be easy to see, too on such a cloudless day, the phantom forms of distant mountains. While the Laguna stretched like silvered glass to the sea wall and the lit curve of ocean, the faint drifts of insubstantial islands like aberrations of some fine mind, profligate only
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