Night Blooming (59 page)

“No; no,” said Rakoczy. “But you will find that there are brothels all over Roma, unlike it was during the time of the Caesars, when the prostitutes had their own district. It was called the Lupanar.” He did not add that in those long-ago days, the women in that profession were not despised, and the fortunes they made were their own. He turned toward the blank-fronted building across from the Temple of Hercules and dismounted before it. As he pulled the bell-chain, he tried to recall how this square had looked when he had first seen it; his thoughts were interrupted by the door being pulled open by a handsome Greek, who reverenced Rakoczy with a flourish and then offered him an old Roman salute.

“Sanct’ Germain,” he said, standing aside to admit them all. “Welcome to Olivia’s house.” Beyond the door was a large courtyard in excellent repair, a two-story Roman house, and a stable, all fronted in marble. The courtyard stones were a vast mosaic, hard to make out in the fading light, but extensive and expertly done, with a complex pattern of horses and verdure against a pale-ochre background. Torches were burning from a dozen wall sconces, whipping like brilliant silks in the evening breeze and giving a ragged brightness to the descending dark. “There are paddocks behind, if you need them. There is a caladarium through that arch, and a small tepidarium. The caladarium can be heated in a short while, and the tepidarium is cleaned and ready for use. You don’t need to do anything more. The grooms will take care of your horses and mules, brushing them down and stalling them for the night; your chests and satchels will be taken to the chambers assigned to you.” His accent was excellent, very Roman, if a bit old-fashioned, and his smile was easy and wide. “It is good to see you again, Sanct’ Germain, and it is an honor to have you a guest in this house.”

“Efficient and effusive as always, Niklos,” said Rakoczy with an approving nod. “You have anticipated almost every question.”

“To assume two more,” said Niklos with a wicked grin accompanying his slight bow of acknowledgment, “your suite is on the ground floor; I am sure you will find it comfortable. The woman you escort has her choice of apartments; I have rooms ready for her on the floor above you, if you will permit me to discharge my duty as major domo. You may wait for Bonna Dama Clemens if you like: my mistress is with her mariscalcus; she will join you directly.”

Rakoczy gestured his satisfaction. “I am left with nothing to ask, then, but how you are, and how life is here in Roma.” He went to the rear of the plausterum as he spoke and pulled back the cover. “Gynethe Mehaut, come down. We are arrived.”

Gynethe Mehaut answered the summons, stepping down carefully to the narrow platform and then to the stones of the courtyard; she looked around, her eyes widening as she took in all she saw. “This is a fine villa, surely. How lovely it all is.”

“Not quite a villa, but I thank you in any case,” said Niklos Aulirios. “Illustra, I welcome you in my mistress’ name.” His Frankish was tolerably good, but he returned to the Roman dialect at once. He clapped his hands. “Wine and water for our guest.”

As if materializing out of the evening air, four mansionarii came up, drink on one tray, a basin of water and a drying cloth on another; the remaining two without apparent purpose reverenced her without any impression of surprise.

Gynethe Mehaut turned to Niklos. “I … I am not used to being received so well.” She stared at the magnificence around her. “This is … very grand.”

“Hardly,” said Niklos. “But for now it will have to do.” He pointed to the mansionarius with the basin. “Cyrillus, help our guest rid herself of the grime of the road.”

Another barrage of chimes sounded, and chanted prayers began to drone in the dusk. The mansionarii paid little heed to this, continuing instead with the rites of welcome. Grooms came to take their animals away, and a man who was probably the buticularius brought out a brazier that burned wood for light and branches of rosemary for aroma.

“How near is that?” Rakoczy asked while Gynethe Mehaut puzzled over how best to use the basin of water without getting her hands wet.

“There is a church in the next street—very old, or so they claim. The building is old in any case, but it hasn’t always housed priests. These days they keep the Hours meticulously. And four blocks away there is a monastery,” Niklos answered. “And there are chapels everywhere; you must have noticed. Every thermopolium and tratorium has become a chapel, dispensing blessings instead of food. There are over ten in the blocks around us, and many more in the lanes beyond. During the day, the streets are thick with pilgrims, and the women in the Temple are kept busy.”

Rakoczy gave a single crack of laughter. “No doubt.” He noticed Gynethe Mehaut’s dilemma and went to her at once. “What is the matter, my confidant?”

“This,” she said in a burst of exasperation, holding up her bandaged hands and feeling suddenly helpless. “Should I wash or—”

Rakoczy took the drying cloth and dipped one end in the water, wrung it out, and handed it to her, ducking his head respectfully. “This should suffice for now. You may want to use the caladarium later, to ease you.”

Gynethe Mehaut took the cloth and wiped her face and neck; the tension in her face lessened, and she nodded. “Oh. Yes, please. I think so. Yes. That would gladden me very much.” She wanted to conceal her nervousness, but could not think of how to do it, so instead she babbled on. “Your welcome is generous, and grand enough for a Dux or the King’s sons. How can I show you my appreciation?”

“By taking advantage of what we offer: you’ll want comestus first, I should think,” said Niklos. “You’ve had a long journey, Bonna Dama.” This Roman title came easily to him, but it sounded unexpected to her.

“I suppose I must answer to that,” she said thoughtfully. “Is that what the Papal Court will call me?”

“I hope so,” said Rakoczy with strong feeling.

Niklos Aulirios reverenced her, this time not more extravagantly than good manner required. “I trust you will prevail.” He signaled to the mansionarii. “Well, Zelotius, are you going to pour water and wine, or not? And Crispernus, bring a torch and a mirror so that she may—”

“Oh, no, no mirror,” said Gynethe Mehaut, shaking her head. “It isn’t right. The Sorrae never allowed it, and I admit that I dislike seeing myself.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Niklos. “But as you wish.” He motioned one of the mansionarii away. “At least tell me you will drink. The wine is reputed to be very good—will you have some?”

“Yes, and gladly,” said Gynethe Mehaut, accepting the alabaster goblet she was offered; the wine within it was lit through the thin, pale stone, and glowed red as a jewel. “This is excellent,” she said, and took the silver cup half-filled with water and drank that, too.

“For comestus we have spitted hens and rabbits stewed with sweet onions and summer pears.” Niklos watched to see if this would interest her. “Nothing very elegant, but tasty in its way.”

“Niklos, stop apologizing to our guests,” said a voice from the archway leading to the stables. The woman was of middle height with a mass of fawn-brown hair done up in a disorderly knot. She wore a palla of bronze-colored linen girdled and bloused, and Persian boots. Her clothes were dusty but her hazel eyes shone. “Sanct’ Germain!” Without bothering to reverence him, she ran across the courtyard and flung herself into his arms. “How like you, to arrive at the last minute.”

“I apologize, Olivia,” said Rakoczy, kissing her forehead and embracing her heartily.

She beamed up at him. “I’d given up on seeing you today.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said lightly, then caught her hand. “I thank you for permitting us to stay with you. If I must stay within the walls, I can think of no place better than this house.”

She shook her head. “You’ve done as much—and more—for me.” She started toward Gynethe Mehaut, pausing just long enough to reverence her. “You are welcome here, Bonna Dama.”

“I’ve already said that,” Niklos remarked.

“Pay him no heed,” she recommended. “He’s always watching after me, for which I am very grateful, when I am not nettled by his solicitous manner. He has no concept of subordination, which is just as well.” She glanced back over her shoulder as if to be certain that she was still dragging Rakoczy after her. “You’re quite a remarkable woman, that’s apparent. I’d imagine most of the Church officials are terrified of you.”

“They think I may be the Anti-Christ,” said Gynethe Mehaut, shocked at how bitter she sounded. “Bishop Iso especially thinks so.”

“They think you’re
different,
” Olivia corrected her. “That is enough to make anyone—particularly any woman—the Anti-Christ. The Church is inclined to blame women for anything that troubles the men who run it. When the Caesars ruled, that wouldn’t have happened. The Vestal Virgins might not have held office, but they were the equal of the Senate and the Emperor. That power made a difference for all women in Roma. Now … Well, you don’t need to be reminded, do you?” She came up to Gynethe Mehaut and put an arm around her, apparently unaware of how unused Gynethe Mehaut was to such treatment. “These
men!
What can be done about them?” Seeing the shock in Gynethe Mehaut’s face, she went on, “Oh, not
these
men”—she waved toward Rakoczy and Niklos Aulirios—“but men in general, and prelates particularly. I’ve seen your Bishop Iso, incidentally, and what a self-important mass of smugness he is—worse than most of them, I’d venture.”

“They are the servants of God,” said Gynethe Mehaut, wondering what this eccentric woman would say next.

“Another man, and a bad-tempered one at that,” Olivia said, dismissing the whole issue. “It doesn’t matter. Come in, come in, and be comfortable. There is food for you, and a proper couch for your meal.”

“Don’t overwhelm her, Olivia,” Rakoczy recommended. “She’s had a long, difficult journey, and she has much ahead of her.”

“All the more reason to relax now, while she can,” said Olivia, adding inconsequently, “I liked the city better before.” She let go of Rakoczy and Gynethe Mehaut and took several long strides toward the central entrance to her house. “But enough of that. The river of time flows only one way; hardly original, but true.”

“Anything else would be too perplexing,” said Niklos, following after them. “One moment you would be facing Hannibal, then you would be listening to Marcus Aurelius, then you would be seeing Cleopatra enter Roma, then you would have to run not to be crushed by Alaric’s charge—”

Olivia giggled. “Don’t. I am losing all gravitas.”

“If you ever had any,” said Niklos.

Her response was somber. “Oh, I did. Ask Sanct’ Germain.” She looped her arm through his, saying to Gynethe Mehaut, “You must excuse me. I haven’t seen my old friend for years; it’s a bit heady having him here at last. I don’t quite believe it. Lend him to me while you eat, for kindness. I promise I won’t keep him away from you for very long.”

Gynethe Mehaut was unable to answer, afraid of offending this most unlikely widow. She went into the house and saw a rosewood iconostasis at the door to the nearest reception room; portraits hung on it, most in the clothing of past centuries, and there was an elaborate Greek crucifix in the center of the portrait, which Gynethe Mehaut supposed must be of Saints and Martyrs. “Are you a follower of the Greek Church?” she asked, feeling suddenly cold. “I thought you were attached to the Pope.”

“I am. In Roma, to be anything else is reckless. This screen is more than two centuries old, and it was a gift. I don’t follow the Greek Church, not here in Roma, in any case; perhaps I would if I were in Byzantium.” She had acquired the iconostasis in Constantinople; she had thought it lost when she left the city, for she had escaped with little more than her skin. At the time she was happy to be rid of it, since it reminded her of those unhappy years in Justinian’s Empire, but over the years she had come to miss it; Niklos had reclaimed it for her two decades ago, and now she felt it was a memento of a difficult period in her long life.

“Why do you keep it?” Gynethe Mehaut stared at it, horrified and transfixed at once.

“I cannot easily explain it,” said Olivia, and went into the atrium, which now contained a vast array of plants in tubs and pots of almost every description. “I warned you about this; I might as well put down soil and farm,” she said to Rakoczy, then turned to her pale-skinned guest. “Comestus should be ready. The dining hall is through that door. Do you want me to escort you?”

“Are you going to eat? Or are you like the Magnatus?” It was a daring question for Gynethe Mehaut, and she anticipated a reprimand.

“She shares my nature,” said Rakoczy steadily. “I hope you’re not offended.”

This was still bewildering to Gynethe Mehaut, and she hung back. “What are you going to do?” Her question was directed to Olivia.

“I’m going to show Sanct’ Germain my horses while you dine. Would you rather see my herd with us and eat later? It will take some time.” Olivia waited, so confident that Gynethe Mehaut wanted to flee. “Tomorrow I’ll have them parade for you, if you’d prefer.”

“I don’t know much about horses,” said Gynethe Mehaut, an irrational stab of jealousy going through her so vividly that she knew she would have to Confess it as soon as possible.

“What would you like instead?” Olivia asked. “You have only to ask me.”

That made it worse; Gynethe Mehaut felt upset at her own dismay. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I am more in your debt.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Olivia. “Put yourself in Niklos’ hands. Have some food and a little more wine, then take a long soak in the caladarium until you are ready to retire. Sanct’ Germain can knead the knots out of your muscles as if you were an athlete.”

Rakoczy came to her and took her hands in his; she pulled them away as he spoke to her. “You have nothing to fear: Olivia and I are of the same blood, and I haven’t seen her for many years.”

“It’s not that,” said Gynethe Mehaut, but could not say anything more.

“You and I will meet in the caladarium later,” he promised her. “If that is what you want.”

“I ought to pray instead. Perhaps tomorrow,” she said in a small voice, refusing to meet his gaze.