Night Blooming (49 page)

“This is a very fine place. Not at all like the Frankish villas.” She went toward the wall ahead of her, staring at the faded murals there. “What Saint does this depict?”

“Not a Saint,” said Rakoczy. “The painting is too old for that It shows the adventures of Gaius Julius Caesar. You see? There he is in Gaul, that part of Franksland where Attigny stands.”

She contemplated the figures Rakoczy indicated. “Was he a pious man, do you know?”

Rakoczy thought of the Latin definition of that word, meaning affectionate devotion, and said, “Yes, he was, for those he called his friends.”

“And was he martyred?” she asked, pointing to the last illustration, showing him falling under the daggers of Brutus and the others.

“Some might say so,” Rakoczy answered.

“What would you say?” She tried to read his face as he answered.

Considering his answer carefully, Rakoczy said, “He dedicated his life to Roma, and all that he believed it stood for. His enemies killed him for it. So, yes, he made himself a martyr, not to God, but to Roma.” He perused the mural, and said, “The portrait isn’t very good. It misses the wryness of his features. For an ambitious man, he had a rich appreciation of the absurdities of life—not that that stopped him from pursuing his objectives.”

“You speak as if you knew him,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

“Do I?” He turned away from the wall. “I’ll show you your apartments.”

She followed him obediently, climbing the stairs two steps behind him. “This gallery—does it go all the way around the … the…” She pointed down into the atrium.

“No,” he said. “It goes along two sides of the atrium, as you’ll see in a moment. Just keep to the left at the top of the stairs.”

“To the left,” she said. “I will.”

“Your apartments will overlook the atrium. Mine are at the corner and overlook the lake.” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “There,” He pointed along the gallery. “You see? There is a door at the start of the corridor. That is where you will stay. There is a bedchamber and a parlor, and a cubiculum for a servant. You may arrange it to your taste.” As he said this he felt a sudden pang, missing Rorthger. “If Ombrosius’ cousin is willing to remain here, then there will be a place for her in the cubiculum.”

Gynethe Mehaut had stopped and was leaning against the gallery railing. “Look. There’s a fountain in the atrium. It’s flowing.”

“Yes,” said Rakoczy. “This villa is Roman, and it has the Roman way with moving water: it is piped in from the lake. Most of it goes through the holocaust, to heat the caladarium and the water in the kitchens, but some is used for this fountain, and the tepidarium. That’s in the next building. You can see its roof just over there.” He pointed.

“Is it all for the tepidarium? How big is it?” Gynethe Mehaut was astonished. “It must be bigger than Great Karl’s swimming pool at Aachen.”

“It is,” Rakoczy admitted. “But there are many, much larger, ones in Roma—or there were.” He gave a little shake to his head and smiled at her. “You will see for yourself when we go there.”

She shook her head. “I won’t see them. I cannot go about the city.”

“But you can, you know.” Rakoczy resumed walking, passing through a narrow, brilliant band of light where the setting sun found a notch in the roofline. “Be careful,” he warned her.

She winced as she walked through the bar of luminous gold. “I wouldn’t like to be exposed to that for very long.”

“You’re safe enough here,” he said, wishing she, too, could line the soles of her footgear with her native earth to protect her from the depredations of light. “There are only three places along this gallery where you can be hit by direct sunlight, at any time of day, or season of the year.”

“What a fortunate thing,” she said, “that you came upon such a place as this.”

He wanted to tell her it had been built to his specifications, but that would have required him to admit to having lived far beyond the usual human limits, and he was worried about her reaction to such knowledge, so he only said, “Yes; it was.” He had visited a pilgrim woman in her dreams three nights ago and so was no longer famished, but he still missed the intimacy of acceptance that such dream-visits never afforded. Nearing the door to her apartments, he said, “If there is anything you need, you have only to tell me and I will have it done for you.”

She managed a sad smile. “Can you put my skin to rights, or my eyes? Can you keep my hands from bleeding?”

“No,” he told her. “But I can attend to your comfort, and provide you with food and drink to please you.”

“You are a gracious host,” she said. “And you have been kind to me as no one else has.”

“It isn’t kindness, Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, and stopped himself from going on. With a flourish, he opened the door for her. “There. You see, you have a chest for your clothes, and your bed should be made up for you.” He supposed that Ombrosius would see to that if he had not done so already.

Gynethe Mehaut looked about the sitting room with its two couches and three chairs, all provided with silken pillows. There was a writing table with an ink-cake and a box of quills waiting to be used, and a tree of oil-lamps waiting to be lit. “This is … splendid.”

“Hardly,” said Rakoczy, who had seen real splendor many times in his long, long life and realized that while this was more comfortable than what she was accustomed to, it was far from luxurious. “If it gives you a pleasant stay, then I am well-satisfied.” Again this was less than the truth, but it was no deception.

“I will be comfortable here,” she said, “more than comfortable.” She smoothed her hand over the lovely pine-green silk of the nearest cushion, her fingers lingering on the glistening fabric. “I wish I could…” She stopped.

“You wish you could what?” he prompted, coming half-a-dozen steps into the room.

“I wish I could wear such grand material. No one would pay any attention to my skin if I dressed in jewels of cloth.” She sounded wistful.

“I shall order a gonella and a stolla made for you of whichever color you would like. It will be my gift for you, for your stay in Roma.” His smile was meant to reassure her.

She moved away from him, her bandaged palms folded. “If you can assure me that no blame would come for such opulence, I will accept, although I should not.”

“You are my guest, Gynethe Mehaut,” said Rakoczy, sensing that she wanted time to herself. “It is my privilege to offer such things to you. The Pope doesn’t expect you to come before him as a lost soul, with nothing to recommend you but the calluses on your knees and the wrappings on your hands. He has a Court, and the Cardinal Archbishops are as grand as any Comes of Great Karl’s. You would do well to dress in silks and gems, so that you will not seem someone who can be overlooked or dismissed.”

“Harlots dress in silks and jewels,” she said brusquely.

“And Queens,” said Rakoczy.

Gynethe Mehaut was very still, then made a gesture of dismissal. “I am tired, Magnatus.”

“Then you must rest,” said Rakoczy. “If you need anything, pull the chain by the door and someone will come to you.”

“And where will you be?” she asked as if to keep him with her.

“I’ll go to the caladarium. It’s at the south end of the tepidarium, in a small stone building with two tall chimneys at the north end. When comestus is over, I should be finished. If you would like to bathe in warm water, I will tell the servants to keep a fire in the holocaust.”

“I … I may,” she said. “Where should I dine? I cannot sit down with the soldiers, not even here.”

“Have Ombrosius bring your food to your rooms,” Rakoczy suggested.

“I am no invalid,” she reminded him.

“No; but you may dine alone in any case. I have had guests who prefer to keep to themselves,” he said, faintly amused. “Those of my blood also take nourishment in private. Ombrosius is used to such requests.”

She turned away from him. “I would be glad of a hot bath.”

“Then you shall have it,” said Rakoczy. “Would you prefer to go before me?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “No.”

“Very well,” he said, reverencing her. “I’ll have a servant escort you to the caladarium when I have left it.”

She nodded. “Yes. Fine.”

Rakoczy stepped back to the door. “Summon Ombrosius. He’ll assist you.”

“Are you sure he will come, and not some other?” She held up her hand as if to keep him from leaving, but then motioned him away.

“Yes.” He swung the door closed, then continued down the corridor to his own apartments. Once inside his sitting room, he pulled off his gonelle, tossing it aside. He then shed his black linen camisa and unfastened the ties of his femoralia, pulled off his tooled-leather Persian boots and tugged off his tibialia, leaving them all in a heap. Wearing only his breechclout, he reached into one of the two chests in the room and drew out a drying sheet of dark-dyed cotton. He wrapped this around his shoulders and looked for a pair of sandals. The earth in them had not been changed in years, but he donned them as much out of habit as need and prepared to go to the rear stairs that led down to the caladarium and tepidarium. Pulling the ends of the drying sheet across the wide band of scar tissue that covered his torso from the base of his ribs to the top of his pubis, he opened the door and slipped out into the corridor. He glanced in the direction of Gynethe Mehaut’s apartments and was both relieved and saddened to see the door closed; he moved quickly toward the rear stairs and went out into the evening, where the intense odor of broiling fish wafted toward him, with a second aroma of baking bread.

Outside the caladarium there were two torches fixed in sconces, their flames making dazzling flags in the encroaching dusk. Rakoczy took one of the torches and went into the smaller outer room, where he used the torch to light a stand of oil-lamps before going into the central room where the heat enveloped him. The pool itself, fifteen hands deep, was twice as long as it was wide, and long enough for a man half again as tall as Rakoczy to stretch out full length, which would accommodate even Karl-lo-Magne easily. After he dropped the drying sheet, Rakoczy got into the water, the heat settling into him with such clarity that he felt it as if it were metal and not water at all. He was uncomfortable for a short while, but then grew accustomed to the heat and lay back, half-floating, letting the tension and the grime of the days crossing the mountains fade from his body. He let his thoughts wander, remembering the two years during which this villa had been built. Roma had been slightly past its zenith, but was still dynamic, safe and fairly prosperous. He had chosen this place for his villa after a journey to his homeland had detoured along Lake Como; he had been taken with the beauty and tranquility of the location and had paid the full price demanded for it, in gold. All the buildings sat on foundations filled with his native Carpathian earth, and not even the water in the tepidarium could cause him discomfort. The villa became his retreat: when politics in Roma became dangerous, Rakoczy often came to this villa to keep from being caught up in the chaos that was increasingly the style of the Senate in its dealings with the Emperor and the Legions.

“Have I done wrong?” Her voice was so tentative that at first Rakoczy supposed he had imagined it. “If I have, I will go.”

Rakoczy opened his eyes and stared into the steamy half-light. “Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, standing upright in the hot water.

“I only thought you wouldn’t mind if I came … you said I could use this caladarium. I wanted not to be alone here. So I have come.” She took a few more steps toward the pool. “If you don’t want me here, I will go.”

“No; I am pleased to have you here.” He pointed to his drying sheet “Put your stolla there, and your sandals.”

She hesitated. “Is it wrong? Should I not be here?”

“Bathing in hot water?” he asked, knowing she did not mean that. “No, it isn’t wrong. You may find it a bit too warm, but if it is, I will open a spigot from the tepidarium and cool it off.” He moved to the edge of the pool and indicated the place where there was a shelf in the pool. “You can step on that until you become accustomed to the heat.”

Taking uncertain steps, she came up to where he leaned on the side of the pool; she loosened her girdle and dropped it on the heavy tiles. “Oh. I will have to wear this wet when we are done.” Next she took the stolla off in an impulsive hurry, standing awkwardly once she was nude. “What about my hands?”

“You should leave your bandages in place, I think; the heat is likely to increase the bleeding and you’ll want to know if it becomes serious.” He wondered if he should hide his scars, but he had no notion how he could, and he was sure his efforts would only draw attention to them.

“I think you should turn your back while I get in,” she said, trying to conceal her breasts and her loins.

He did as she requested. “You needn’t worry, Gynethe Mehaut. I won’t importune you.”

“Only Fratre Nordhold at Sant’ Audoenus ever has. And even he only tried when he was drunk.” She sighed. “I don’t want to have to endure that again, but I would like someone to look upon me as something other than loathsome.” She put her linen-wrapped hands to her face. “I am too strange for any man to want me; I have known that for many years. That may save my virginity, but it is not because of my virtue.”

Rakoczy shook his head. “I don’t find you too strange—you are no stranger than I am. In some ways I am stranger than you are.” He remained standing with his back to her; he remembered more than seven hundred years ago, how he had spent an evening in his caladarium at Villa Ragoczy outside of Roma; it was much larger than this pool was, and decorated with mosaics. Tishtry had joined him there, and they had made love in the hot water. He made himself put such recollections behind him.

“You are kind to me, Magnatus, and I believe you are sincere, but I don’t—” Gynethe Mehaut sat down on the side of the pool and eased her legs into the water. “This is very hot.”

“It’s supposed to be.” He moved away from her so that she would have more room to herself. “Get in slowly until you get used to it.”

“It is … not unpleasant,” she said, the sloshing of the water telling him she had lowered herself still farther into the water.