will not be swept away entirely. The Gardingio has declared that all peasants must give one day of labor each week to this rebuilding. If he should fail in this duty, his lands will be seized and given to those willing to be worthy of it.
Submitted on this first day of Paschal Mourning,
Aspar
Scribe to Gardingio Witteric
4
Skulls of horses hung over the broken gates of the little village tucked away among the oaks and pines of the narrow mountain valley; the slanting rays of the westering sun imparted a glow to it that was belied by the shallow graves on the lower slope of the hill where spring had laid its first, tentative touch with pale new grass and a few white flowers. Marks painted hastily on the stone walls around the village indicated that the Great Pox had struck the place and that many had died.
“The rest have probably fled,” said Sanct’ Germain to Rogerian as they drew up at the gates; both of them rode a horse and led a mule. “That has been the pattern. When the Great Pox arrives, the people hide or die.” This village was on a secondary road, one not often used by travelers bound for the pass into the Tolosa region of Frankish lands; the main road was reported to be flooded out higher up the mountains, so Sanct’ Germain had decided to attempt the crossing by lesser routes; he had not anticipated finding abandoned towns and farmholds, yet this was the second such village he had seen in as many days.
“So it has,” said Rogerian. “And if the village is empty, we can shelter here for a day or so. The animals need rest.”
“As do we,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “You are right.” He slid out of the saddle and caught his horse’s rein as he approached the gate. “No locks, no bolts. It will not be hard to open.”
Rogerian also dismounted. “How many died, would you say? And how many fled before they died?”
“There are twenty-three new graves on the hill, on the other side of the town from the olive orchard. Judging from the number and condition of the houses, the village may have had as many as three hundred occupants: at least five families, perhaps six or seven.” He reached for the gate and took hold of the iron brace, lifting it and leaning into it; the gate moaned as it opened.
“There could still be people here,” Rogerian said.
“There might be,” Sanct’ Germain said with a nod. “We shall try to find them if they are here; there is only a faint smell of smoke in the air—no one has burned a fire for at least one full day.” He pointed to an old well just ahead of the gates. “See if the water is wholesome and give it to the horses and mules if it is.” He glanced at the skulls over the gate. “This is a very old village, if those are any indication.”
Rogerian paused in his attempt to drag the well-bucket up from the depths. “The people here in the mountains have kept to their old ways; no one has changed them.”
“For many centuries,” said Sanct’ Germain. He glanced at the stone buildings with their plank-shingled roofs. “The men here are foresters and hunters, by the look of it. The orchard isn’t large enough for more than oil and olives for the village.”
“That is the way in these mountains,” said Rogerian as he finally pulled the well-bucket onto the stone rim; it was large, its wooden sections bound by rusty iron, and water sloshed as he sat down. He cupped his hand and dipped it into the water to taste it. “Good enough. Not brackish and without bitterness.”
“Let the animals have it,” Sanct’ Germain said, somewhat preoccupied as he contemplated what he could see of the village. “No dogs,” he remarked. “If they fled, they did not go in a panic, or the dogs would be left: and hungry.”
Rogerian had let the larger mule drink first and was now holding the bucket for the second mule. “Just as well,” he said with emotion born of memory.
“No chickens or ducks, either, judging by the silence. Sheep and goats and
Submitted on this first day of Paschal Mourning,
Aspar
Scribe to Gardingio Witteric
4
Skulls of horses hung over the broken gates of the little village tucked away among the oaks and pines of the narrow mountain valley; the slanting rays of the westering sun imparted a glow to it that was belied by the shallow graves on the lower slope of the hill where spring had laid its first, tentative touch with pale new grass and a few white flowers. Marks painted hastily on the stone walls around the village indicated that the Great Pox had struck the place and that many had died.
“The rest have probably fled,” said Sanct’ Germain to Rogerian as they drew up at the gates; both of them rode a horse and led a mule. “That has been the pattern. When the Great Pox arrives, the people hide or die.” This village was on a secondary road, one not often used by travelers bound for the pass into the Tolosa region of Frankish lands; the main road was reported to be flooded out higher up the mountains, so Sanct’ Germain had decided to attempt the crossing by lesser routes; he had not anticipated finding abandoned towns and farmholds, yet this was the second such village he had seen in as many days.
“So it has,” said Rogerian. “And if the village is empty, we can shelter here for a day or so. The animals need rest.”
“As do we,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “You are right.” He slid out of the saddle and caught his horse’s rein as he approached the gate. “No locks, no bolts. It will not be hard to open.”
Rogerian also dismounted. “How many died, would you say? And how many fled before they died?”
“There are twenty-three new graves on the hill, on the other side of the town from the olive orchard. Judging from the number and condition of the houses, the village may have had as many as three hundred occupants: at least five families, perhaps six or seven.” He reached for the gate and took hold of the iron brace, lifting it and leaning into it; the gate moaned as it opened.
“There could still be people here,” Rogerian said.
“There might be,” Sanct’ Germain said with a nod. “We shall try to find them if they are here; there is only a faint smell of smoke in the air—no one has burned a fire for at least one full day.” He pointed to an old well just ahead of the gates. “See if the water is wholesome and give it to the horses and mules if it is.” He glanced at the skulls over the gate. “This is a very old village, if those are any indication.”
Rogerian paused in his attempt to drag the well-bucket up from the depths. “The people here in the mountains have kept to their old ways; no one has changed them.”
“For many centuries,” said Sanct’ Germain. He glanced at the stone buildings with their plank-shingled roofs. “The men here are foresters and hunters, by the look of it. The orchard isn’t large enough for more than oil and olives for the village.”
“That is the way in these mountains,” said Rogerian as he finally pulled the well-bucket onto the stone rim; it was large, its wooden sections bound by rusty iron, and water sloshed as he sat down. He cupped his hand and dipped it into the water to taste it. “Good enough. Not brackish and without bitterness.”
“Let the animals have it,” Sanct’ Germain said, somewhat preoccupied as he contemplated what he could see of the village. “No dogs,” he remarked. “If they fled, they did not go in a panic, or the dogs would be left: and hungry.”
Rogerian had let the larger mule drink first and was now holding the bucket for the second mule. “Just as well,” he said with emotion born of memory.
“No chickens or ducks, either, judging by the silence. Sheep and goats and
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