Roman Dusk (12 page)

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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain

BOOK: Roman Dusk
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“Clever,” murmured Sanct-Franciscus to the thief, his hold on the man unbroken. “But reckless.”
“Vesta save us from fire,” Lucillius muttered. “We could not get out of here if a spark should light the awning.”
The Armenian shuddered, and backed up as far as the crush of onlookers would allow, muttering an invocation to the fire-god of his people. “There was a fire in the grain emporium last week—the one behind this forum; four men were burned, and one of them died,” he said, trying to control his sudden burst of panic.
“Have you paid the Guard and the Watchmen your annual fee to keep your shop from damage from fire, water, and earthquake?” Lucillius asked, as much to quiet the man as to gain information. “Have you paid your portion for the Forum Guard?”
“I have,” said the Armenian, “but not all the shopkeepers in this gallery have done so, and so who knows if any of them would come? Or how much they would demand in payment before they would do their duty?” He looked around as if noticing the gathering around him for the first time. His eyes widened. “How can they get into this place, given the way it is? Too many people; too many.” He shook his staff at the nearest shoppers. “Go! Be about your business. The Forum Guard is coming, and they must have a clear path. Go!”
While Lucillius tried to soothe the Armenian, Sanct-Franciscus gave his attention to the thief. “What did you take from him? Do not lie if you want my help. I know you took something.”
“I told you: I took the sandalwood boxes. I still have them. I didn’t see any alabaster figures on display. If he had them at all, they were out of reach.” He shivered and retched. “Wait. I …” He was very pale now, and there was a shine of sweat on his face. “I … Oh, Dis release me.” With a moan, his knees gave way, and had not Sanct-Franciscus held him up, he would have collapsed.
Sanct-Franciscus recognized the signs of secondary pain, and knew it could be much more deadly than the broken bone that caused it. He steadied the thief, leaning him back against the wall, and motioned for those near them to move. “This man is having an attack of chills. He needs to lie down, or he may faint.”
“And good thing, too,” the Armenian shouted, still trying to push his way toward his shop.
Paying no attention to the sudden buzz of questions, Sanct-Franciscus was able to lower the man almost to the paving stones; aware that he himself could impart no warmth to the cold-gripped thief, he began to look about him in the hope that he would find someone wearing a light mantele, and that he could borrow or buy it to provide the thief a little heat, for in spite of the warmth of the day, the thief ’s teeth were chattering. He saw no one with the garment he sought, and his efforts at a further search were stopped as three Urban Guards pushed their way up the stairs, Vulpius leading them and explaining the situation as he went.
“Which is the thief?” demanded the leader of the Guards, a good-sized fellow almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus.
“This man, leaning against the wall,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “He needs something to help warm him.”
The leader of the Guard snapped his fingers and the youngest of the three tugged off his bronze-colored abolla and handed it to the leader. “Use this. Providing the thief isn’t bleeding too copiously.”
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking the abolla and wrapping it around the shivering thief. “This will help to warm you.”
The thief, who had gone a pasty shade and was breathing quickly and shallowly, muttered something incomprehensible, then blinked twice.
“Hardly seems worth stealing, if you end up in this condition,” said the Guards’ leader. “But if he has stolen, he must be detained.”
“That is my understanding,” said Vulpius. He pointed to the Armenian. “That man will make the complaint.”
Lucillius prodded the Armenian in the side to push him forward. “Tell the Guard what happened, and show them your staff.”
The Armenian glared, but approached the Guards with an obsequious smile. “That man came into my shop. He had an accomplice out here in the gallery—I’m certain of it—and this man took sandalwood boxes and alabaster figures, then ran out to meet his comrade. I followed him, of course, to try to get my goods back, but by the time I caught up with him, he had passed along the most valuable of my merchandise to his—”
“No!” the thief managed to protest. “Only boxes. No … accomplice.”
“He has claimed this from the first,” said Lucillius, coming up to the Guard. “That he worked alone and took only boxes. He says he has no one working with him.”
The leader looked directly at Sanct-Franciscus. “Is this true?”
“Yes, it is.” He paused to consider. “Not that he is necessarily telling the truth.”
“He is
lying!
” shouted the Armenian. “He gave the best to—”
“Not here,” said the leader of the Guard. “You will have your chance to tell the Prefect of the Fora tomorrow morning. This man needs a night in which to recover himself to answer questions, which he clearly will not do at the moment.” He looked about the gallery. “I will need three witnesses beyond these honestiora,” he added, pointing to Lucillius, Sanct-Franciscus, and Vulpius. “You will present yourselves tomorrow morning?”
Lucillius sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“I will come,” said Vulpius.
“If you will permit me to visit the thief this evening, to see for myself if he has been given proper medicaments and treatment, I will gladly come to the Prefect of the Fora tomorrow,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
The Guard leader shrugged. “If that suits your purpose, it will be arranged.”
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You will do better to carry him on a litter. His clavicle is broken, and he is hurt profoundly. Have a physician treat him as soon as possible or he may not be able to appear before the Justice tomorrow.”
“A litter, is it? Better than having to carry him on our shoulders,” said the leader. He signaled his men to improvise a litter with their abollae, then regarded Sanct-Franciscus. “You seem to have kept this well in hand. Very commendable. I am Fulvius Ennius Castrum; use my name at the prison and you will be admitted.”
“I am Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus; you may tell the jailer to expect me.”
Castrum nodded. “Very good. I will look forward to your appearance before the Justice tomorrow.” With that, he went to help his men raise the thief onto their litter.
“Tomorrow. I must wait until tomorrow,” the Armenian complained. “It is because I am foreign. You will see—tomorrow I will have to pay twice what the Romans pay to have my case heard.”
“Very likely,” said Lucillius. “That has become common practice.” He laughed cynically. “Everyone decries it, but who is to challenge it?”
“Not a foreigner,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Certainly not that foreigner.” He cocked his head toward the Armenian shopkeeper.
The Guards started down the stairs, Castrum going ahead of them, motioning the crowd to make way. As he reached the foot of the flight, he glanced back at Sanct-Franciscus and offered him a casual salute.
“Are you really going to check on that thief tonight?” asked Lucillius, making no apology for his incredulity.
“Yes,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “He is badly hurt, and his injuries could fester inwardly.”
“But why should you bother?” Lucillius pursued.
“Better to let him rot,” said the Armenian.
Vulpius answered before his foreign friend could speak. “Oh, Sanct-Franciscus is meticulous in such matters; he cannot turn away from those who have no one else to help them. I don’t pretend to understand it.”
“An odd thing for a man in your position to do, if you’ll pardon my mention of it,” said Lucillius.
Sanct-Franciscus shrugged. “We exiles know the world is perilous.”
Lucillius shook his head. “But why—” He stopped.
“I know what it is to be in the hands of those indifferent to suffering,” Sanct-Franciscus said with banked emotion before he resumed his walk toward the shop of Ebulius, the purveyor of paints and dyes, Vulpius and Lucillius following after him, chatting about the thief and the Armenian and complaining of the crowd around them.
Text of a letter from Comus Mauritanius, decuria of the Prefect of the Litigianus Prison, carried by messenger the day after it was written.
To the most worthy foreigner, Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of the Prefect of the Litigianus Prison, the honestiorus Herminius Mirandus Guion, in whose name I am bidden to write to you.
First this is to acknowledge the receipt of ten aurei in payment of the fine assessed on the thief, Natalis of Thessalonika; the man has been branded on the arm and will—because of the fine Sanct-Franciscus has paid—be released after six months of labor with no further charges to answer. He will not be sent to pull an oar on a bireme or to dig roads in Gaul, unless he should steal again, and he will not be sold into slavery to cover the cost of his maintenance while in prison. Once his injuries are healed, he will be assigned to janitorial duties here until his term is finished. He has been ordered to find honest employment or to leave Roma at once and to stay away for three years, on pain of imprisonment should he return before that time. On the annual receipt of five silver denarii, I will assure Sanct-Franciscus that he will be notified of any information received here concerning the thief Natalis within the year that the amount is paid.
Second, the Prefect wishes to discuss with you what medicaments you used to treat the thief Natalis, for the recovery the man made from the corruption of the broken bone in his shoulder was remarkable, and perhaps could be used to advantage with other prisoners whose injuries show symptoms of inner rot. He is willing to pay a reasonable fee for a supply of such medicaments, or would also consider purchasing the formula for making the substance. Of course, he knows that if there are unique skills associated with the production of the medicament, he cannot expect Sanct-Franciscus to reveal them to an uninitiated man like himself.
It is an uncommon thing to see a man of property do so much for a thief, and all the more remarkable because Sanct-Franciscus is a foreigner. It creates an example that many Romans would do well to emulate. If Sanct-Franciscus is willing to set a time when he can meet with the Prefect, then the Prefect would be glad of the opportunity to thank Sanct-Franciscus face to face and in person rather than through this missive and the decuria signed below,
Comus Mauritanius
Decuria, Litigianus Prison
 
on the 29
th
day of September in the 971
st
Year of the City
 
Small flames danced on the peaks of a collection of beautiful budshaped alabaster oil-lamps, lending the room a soft glow that created a air of gauzy mystery, precisely as Melidulci intended they should. To further enhance her withdrawing room, she had set out three brass perfume pans over broad-based oil-lamps, to lend the air delectable sweetness, bestowing on her a touch of their delicate insouciance and providing a setting that would be sure to please her visitor. Most of her injuries had healed, but she was acutely aware of the scars remaining as unhappy reminders of her attack; she had no wish to reveal any more of them than absolutely necessary, and to that end she had donned her most elegant, gap-sleeved long tunica in peach-colored silk, the gaps fixed with brooches made of amber-and-gold, the clinging garment secured at the waist by a long ribbon of gold mesh. The night was cool, a bite of autumn in the air, but she had ordered the holocaust lit that afternoon, and the floor was warm from its heat, and would continue to keep them comfortable well into the night.
“So you have decided not to return to the lupanar,” said Sanct-Franciscus from where he stood in the double-door facing the fountain in the center of the atrium; his black dalmatica, edged in silver eclipses, deepened the shadows in which he stood, as if he were a specter and not her honored guest.
“I believe it is best if I don’t,” she said, doing her best to smile at him without showing the red line running through her upper lip and toward her cheek, the most lingering reminder of the attack she had sustained; this was only the second time she had had a guest at her new house, and she felt strangely inept at performing her duties as hostess, for she had just a few slaves, chosen for their service not their appearance, to wait upon Sanct-Franciscus and her; no musicians strummed and plucked lyres and harps, no acrobats tumbled or contorted. Although she had chosen it, the simplicity of their evening unnerved her now that she was experiencing it.
“Because you do not trust the Guards of the Lupanar, and small wonder,” he said, as if he had no doubt about it.
“I think it would be best if I don’t return,” she said more emphatically but without addressing his remark, then added, “Or not for a while, in any case.”
“Have you learned who they were who attacked you?” He asked this as if he might be speaking of the turn of the seasons.
“No,” she said tightly. “I won’t go back until I know their names. Perhaps not even then.”
“If that is truly your wish, well and good; I hope you are not being frightened away,” he said, moving toward her unhurriedly.
“Why should I not be frightened?” she inquired, her question sharper than she had intended; she tried to lessen the stridency of her question. “Had I been afraid before, I might have escaped harm.”
Sanct-Franciscus did not speak at once, and when he did, his voice was deep and gentle. “You would do well to be rid of fear because fear infects everything it touches, leeching the joy from life. If you are staying away to try not to be frightened, you will not succeed: fear will shadow you.” He studied her face with earnest concern.
“And you think that is the case?” She attempted another smile, and managed somewhat better than before. “Why?”
“Because you have not received guests during the day, and you have offered no erotic entertainments in this new house—not as you have offered to your guests in the lupanar; you are very discreet, which is wise, but you are also striving to make yourself unnoticeable, except where you choose to be noticed,” he said, coming to the end of her couch, ignoring the other couch on the far side of the low table where food would be placed.
“Do you have any objections to my methods?” She was not angry, but she could not keep from fretting.
“No,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “It suits me well enough, visiting you after sundown for only the pleasure of your company, but it might not please many others, who may have different expectations of you, and who have long preferred you to all others.”
“That is a matter of convenience for me, since I have no women sharing this house with me; I may have those I like call upon me, which permits me to keep to a schedule that I can accommodate. There are many who will find the evenings less … hasty, and they are apt to do what they must to have more time and privacy … .” Hearing the note of defensiveness in her explanation, she made herself stop. “I choose my company more carefully now.”
“To your credit,” he said, again coming a step nearer. “You may keep a closer watch on your household as you live now.”
She took several heartbeats to gather her thoughts to answer. “No, it’s not that. Any woman knows that mystery adds to an encounter, and night is, by its nature, mysterious.”
“And more exclusive,” he suggested.
She pressed her lips together, so she would not say anything too impulsive. “I do not want to become one of those women who spend the entire day with eager men, and, by evening, has no inclination to amuse herself.”
“Ah.” He studied her for a long, silent moment, the kindness in his dark eyes unnerving her, so that she reached for a small handbell, and rang it, signaling her slaves to bring in the light repast she had ordered; three slaves appeared promptly, each carrying a tray that they set down on the table next to her couch.
Melidulci had ordered scallops wrapped in bacon and broiled, boiled eggs peeled, halved, and stuffed with ground walnuts, vinegar, and olive oil mixed with the yolks, grilled eggplant, and toasted buns filled with chopped venison in a sauce of peppers, garlic, and onions; a basket of newly-baked olive-breads accompanied the meal. With this was a ewer filled with red wine from Florentia. “I suppose it is useless to ask you if you want any of this excellent food?”
“I fear I lack the stomach for it,” he said in sardonic, honest dismay; he recognized all the dishes as having the reputation of increasing a man’s ardor.
She motioned to the food. “It is a good convivium—not so heavy that you will be weary after eating, but not so light that you will be hungry.”
“But Melidulci, you know I never dine,” said Sanct-Franciscus; he had realized more than five hundred years ago that food could be as exciting to the senses of the living as embraces or compliments, and he had learned to encourage dining as part of physical pleasances.
For a clumsy moment, she said nothing, then tried to smile. “I know it isn’t your habit to eat, but I thought … given this occasion …”
Sanct-Franciscus smiled. “You are stimulant enough for me, Melidulci. Nothing you could offer could tempt me more than you do.” His face softened. “If you are hungry, eat. You will not offend me.”
To her astonishment, she felt herself blush. “You’re most … gracious to say so,”
“Melidulci.” He spoke softly, but something in his tone compelled her attention. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am not a monster, nor am I one who bargains in flesh. You need not placate me, or appease me—there is no cause: believe this.”
“But surely … It is fitting that I thank you … After all you’ve done?” Her laughter was a bit too brittle to be genuine. “I should think I owe you at least a gesture of gratitude.”
“You have thanked me,” he said. “That is behind us.”
“But I … you are here for enjoyment, and I … am no longer … flawless.”
“Your scars do not distress me: I have more and worse of my own.” He sank down on the end of her dining couch and reached to touch her arm.
“You do not show them to me,” she said reproachfully. “Are you afraid they will disgust me?”
“No; they are very severe.” He put his spread hand to his waist, extending his fingers. “From my thumb to my little finger.”
She stared. “Scars of that sort could be deadly,” she said somberly.
“So they could,” he responded, adding
and so they were
to himself.
“Yet you say that flaws do not repel you?” she challenged, angling her head upward.
“No, they do not,” he said tranquilly. “Flaws are often at the heart of beauty. Think of Mirabella, with her mole at the corner of her eye, or Eusacia, whose birthmark lends her face a catlike appearance. Neither of them are hampered by their flaws. Why should you be?”
“Those are gifts of birth. I have scars from a beating.” She made a determined effort not to cry.
“That could make a difference to some squeamish men,” he allowed. “But not to me.”
She stared at him. “How can you look at me and not see me with my face swollen and broken? You must be repulsed.”
“Not repulsed: saddened,” he corrected her gently. “I am sorry that you have had to bear the burdens imposed upon you.”
“Imposed.” She looked away, trying to stop a sudden rush of tears; she very nearly succeeded, and that gave her a brief satisfaction. She used her thumb and finger to pinch the bridge of her nose and wipe away the shine of moisture on her eyelids.
“What else would you call it?” he asked, kindness suffusing his dark, compelling eyes.
“They would have been worse if not for you,” said Melidulci; to distract herself she picked up a bacon-wrapped scallop and bit into it, chewed for a short while, then went on in a different tone, taking refuge in what she said. “Before my Aunt Bonascientia—she was originally named Liatris—adopted me and brought me to the lupanar, I lived with my mother and father and two surviving brothers—another brother and a sister died young—to the north of Roma, near Pisae. I was called Emera then. My father and his brother had a good-sized holding beyond the town where they bred mules for the Legions and donkeys for farmers, and we did fairly well; they were respected in the region, and their mules were always wellconformed. I’d had a marriage arranged with the son of a horse-breeder, and everything seemed set. I would probably have done well by Aquila; he was a sensible youth, and we’d grown up together. But then Swine Fever came when I was twelve, and my brothers died, and then my uncle, and a year later, my father was kicked in the head by an injured mule, which left his wits addled.” She sighed and finished her scallop. “Why should I tell you this?”
“Because you will feel less alone if you do,” said Sanct-Franciscus, who welcomed this effort at closeness. “Your aunt brought you here to Roma after so much loss.” It was not quite a question. “To the lupanar, where she lived.”
“She did. She had been very successful in her work, and she had amassed a considerable amount of money—more than I have, and I have done quite well for myself.”
“Yes, you have,” said Sanct-Franciscus, encouraging her to go on.
Melidulci banished the frown forming between her brows and ordered her memories. “When she was informed about her brother’s condition, she came to see for herself, and at once set about to provide for my father and mother. She took care of everything; arranged for the mules and donkeys to be sold and the land put under stewardship of Aquila’s brother—the marriage had been forsworn by both families—and my mother provided for with rents from the land, so that she would not be without means in the world. When the land was dealt with, Aunt Bonascientia found slaves to take care of my father, and she paid for a Greek physician to treat him; my mother couldn’t bear to do it, nor could I. Had my aunt not taken me in, my life would have been far less pleasant, and far less profitable than it has been.” Wiping her hands on a square of linen set out next to a bowl of water for the purpose of cleaning greasy fingers, she continued, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this … I don’t … I never talk about my life before the lupanar. And when I’ve been asked, I haven’t told the truth.” She admitted this without embarrassment, but with a hint of regret. “Most men prefer a fable to the actuality.”
“But I do not want a fable, I want the whole of you. I thank you for revealing so much.”
“Thank me, for lamenting my misfortunes?” she asked, sounding chagrined. “What man wants to—”
“Misfortune came upon you when you were young, unaccountably, and has done so again,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
She stared at him, considering what he had said. “Yes,” she agreed slowly. “Yes. I suppose I hope that I will be as lucky this time as I was then, although Aunt Bonascientia has been dead more than a decade. The gods are not always kind, even to those who honor them.”
“It is hard when all your family has died,” he said, a haunted look in his eyes.
“It is,” she said, with the uncanny certainty that he had endured more devastating losses than she. “I understand I have two cousins somewhere, and three other relatives, but—”
“You must not despair, Melidulci. You have prevailed,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing the palm.
“I hope I have,” she said, a bit unsteadily as she selected a stuffed egg-half and began to eat.
He released her hand and poured wine into one of two beautiful, costly glass goblets. “Here. You will feel better if you have wine with your food.”
She took the goblet from him, holding it up to the display of oil-lamps so that she could see the brilliant red heart of the wine. “You are so kind to me.”
He said nothing, reflecting that if this little courtesy was kindness, she must have been ill-used many times in the past, or she had become inured to lack of consideration, which lent even the most minor service a significance beyond its deserving. He realized it also meant that the high regard for the women of the lupanar, once unquestioned and upheld throughout the Empire, was now corroding, along with the other traditional attitudes of Romans. This unrelenting sensuality and excitation had blunted the Romans’ perceptions to the point that only greater voluptuary indulgence could rouse them, and the lack of respect for the women of the lupanar was only one result of this dulled state. He sat, gazing at her, taking in every nuance of her demeanor, her manner, her expression. When she had drunk half the contents of the goblet, he took it from her and set it down on its tray, then leaned forward to gently, gently kiss her mouth. “You are all the savor I require.”

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