Roman Dusk (9 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
Lucius Virginius Rufius
By my own hand on the 26
th
day of June in the 218
th
Year of the Christ
th
day of June in the 218
th
Year of the Christ
Telemachus Batsho stormed into the room Sanct-Franciscus was using for his study; his face was red from more than the heat and he moved as if he were killing vermin on the floor. “What do you mean by summoning me? And before prandium? I am to dine with my sister’s husband at midday.”
Behind Batsho, Vitellius stood, his head bowed in mixed exasperation and submission. “He insisted that I not announce him, Dominus.”
Sanct-Franciscus paused in his putting scrolls into pigeon-hole shelves. “There is no trouble, Vitellius. I asked the decuria to call upon me; he is expected. And do not fear; this should take less than an hour—you will not miss your meal. If you will bring honied wine for my guest?” He nodded the old steward away. “You have a complaint against me, decuria?”
“That I do,” huffed Batsho, in no mood to be genial. “I am not accustomed to being sent for—like a dog.”
“I am sorry it seemed that way to you; it was not my intent.” Sanct-Franciscus indicated an upholstered bench from Fars. “Be at your ease.”
“How did you think I should react to your high-handed summons?” Batsho folded his arms and remained standing.
“I hoped you would appreciate the opportunity to review all the various records you say you need in order to make my residence here official,” said Sanct-Franciscus at his most cordial, but with an air of reserve to keep Batsho from assuming he was overly impressed with the decuria’s importance. “Given all the information you appear to need to accomplish this, I assumed you would want to attend to this where all is to hand. I feared I would disaccommodate you if I had to spend the day going back and forth between this house and your office, asking you to postpone your business with others; with you present, we may attend to everything with a minimal loss of time for us both.” His smile was bland and urbane, quelling any hint of disrespect. “Do, please, sit down.”
Batsho glared at him, his wrath giving way to puzzlement. “You may be correct,” he admitted at last. “But you should keep in mind that this is not the way things are done in Roma.”
“That is unfortunate, for everyone,” said Sanct-Franciscus with every appearance of sympathy, knowing that if this were truly the case, it was the result of recent changes, for things were different during his last stay in Roma, when Olivia had been still alive.
“You are a foreigner; you do not understand our Roman traditions,” said Batsho, his posture squaring to a more martial one.
“I fear not,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. He indicated a sheaf of fan-folded scrolls. “I believe these are where it would be most fruitful to begin.”
“What documents are those?” Batsho asked heavily, as if mistrusting them. Little as he wanted to admit it, the heat had given him a headache that would undoubtedly worsen as the day dragged on.
“Various deeds, transfers, tax records, and other sorts of information regarding this property and its owner.” Sanct-Franciscus held up an official letter. “This is my permit of occupancy. Next is the receipt of fees.”
“All very useful,” Batsho allowed. He held out his hands for the sheaf. “You may be right—this is more swiftly accomplished here.” He paused. “You know my percentage is granted for each document I examine.”
“So I have been told.” The wryness in Sanct-Franciscus’ smile was lost on Batsho. “All the more reason to attend to this here. I believe this room is cooler than the Basilica Julia is now on its upper floors.”
“It will be stifling by afternoon there, yes. I understand your purpose,” said Batsho as he began to read through the first document, taking great care to inspect the seals at the bottom of the text. “This appears to be in order.”
“So I should hope,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and looked up as Vitellius returned with a large cup of wine on a neat, round tray of hammered copper. “Put it on the ivory table,” he recommended.
“Yes, Dominus,” said Vitellius, taking great care not to spill any of the wine.
“It smells very good,” Batsho said, lifted the cup, and hesitated. “Where is yours?”
Sanct-Franciscus lowered his head. “Alas, good decuria, I do not drink wine.”
Batsho put his cup down at once. “Then I will not drink, either,” he declared, the tenuous air of good will he had displayed vanishing as if by sorcery.
“Ah.” Sanct-Franciscus gave a single nod of understanding. “No, good decuria; you have nothing to fear within these walls, from me or any of the household. I will force no drink or food upon you, but I assure you that you need have no fear to partake of either.” He almost held his breath. “I would like to think that you would grant me the privilege of showing you hospitality.”
“Hospitality has masked many acts of treachery,” said Batsho grumpily. “I shall need to see the records of ownership for this domicile.”
“I have them just here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking three rolled scrolls out of the pigeon-hole shelves. “There is a fourth, which I keep in my Deeds Chest; if you want it—? I can also produce Wills, showing the line of bequests—”
“That will not be necessary,” said Batsho, cutting him off. “If you have these, the Wills are redundant.”
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Not that I am aware of. Yet.” This last was portentous, and Batsho took delight in seeing Sanct-Franciscus duck his head as if he were little more than a slave.
“No one.” he announced, “is more eager than I to see justice done for you, honestiorus. That is the reason I must see so many of your records here.”
That, thought Sanct-Franciscus, and the additional commodae you are entitled to collect for the inspections you make; concealing his emotions, he said, “Of course.”
For a short while Batsho read in silence, his full concentration on the scrolls before him. As he finished each page, he marked it with his sign at the bottom as proof that he had seen it. Every sign would earn him an additional two percent of his final charges, bringing the commodae he would receive to a handsome total, but it would prevent a second or third inspection being required, and the commodae being paid again; during Batsho’s long scrutiny, Sanct-Franciscus returned to putting scrolls in their pigeon-holes and adding to his catalogue of what records had been put where.
“Dominus, I am needed elsewhere,” Vitellius dared to say at last.
“Oh yes. You needn’t linger on my account,” sad Sanct-Franciscus, mildly preoccupied; he, too, was aware of how much Batsho might earn for himself during this inspection, and thought back a century to a time when men of Batsho’s position were paid by the Roman Senate, not by those to whose records they attended. “I will summon you when I need you, Vitellius.”
Vitellius nodded and left.
“Do you allow all your household such liberty—to speak to you without your giving permission?” Batsho marveled, not entirely in admiration.
“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I would be a fool not to.”
“And why is that?” Batsho asked in a tone that suggested any response must be absurd.
“Because if there is trouble in the house, I want to know of it immediately. Perhaps there is a fire in the kitchen: I would put myself and everyone under this roof in danger if the household had to wait to inform me of it until I thought to ask why I smelled smoke. If a thief should be apprehended in the act of stealing, the household should not have to detain the man for an indefinite time while I was uninformed of his presence.” His manner was as open as the summer sky above them.
“Reasonable, if you are expecting trouble,” Batsho conceded, and returned to reading the documents, his wine still untouched.
“What sensible man does not expect some manner of trouble?” Sanct-Franciscus asked in the same bland tone.
Batsho shrugged and went back to his reading; a short while later he asked, “What more do you have on the size and capacity of the stable here?”
“I have three records,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “One for the original construction of the house, one for repairs done about a century ago, and one for the expansion of the exercise yard, thirty-five years ago.” He pulled each scroll from its pigeon-hole as he spoke. “Which would you like to see?” He waited for Batsho’s answer, anticipating his response.
With a sigh suggesting overwork, Batsho said, “I suppose I should see them all. You can then tell me how many horses you intend to keep here in the city.”
“Seven for now, and four ponies. Also three mules.” He paused. “All the rest of my livestock is at my villa outside the city walls, except for the cook’s flocks of fowl.”
“Birds are not livestock; there is no tax on them, for their numbers vary from day to day,” said Batsho rather stiffly. “I would not like for you to have to pay more than you are required.”
“I appreciate that,” said Sanct-Franciscus, a wicked glint in his dark eyes. “I am prepared to pay what I owe, of course.”
“No doubt you are,” said Batsho, and sighed. “Do you have your record of your horses and ponies and mules?”
“On this parchment,” said Sanct-Franciscus, handing the sheet to him.
Batsho barely glanced at it before putting his sign at the bottom of the page. “You have provided an inventory of household goods already. I suppose you have spices in the kitchen?”
“The cook has told me what he requires and I have provided most of it, to the limit of the markets I may use. My purchases are listed here.” He handed over another sheet of parchment, and wondered what more Batsho would think of to put his mark on in order to make a bit more money from doing his duty.
“You have excellent taste, it would appear, or your cook does, and you encourage him,” said Batsho as he scanned the record Sanct-Franciscus offered to him. “You are nothing if not generous with him.”
“So I would hope,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “My cook has a reputation to maintain.”
“This is a considerable amount of spices. So much pepper! And cinnamon.” He cocked his head. “How did you acquire so much, and so quickly?” The greedy twist to his features was back.
“I am a … a partner in a shipping company, as I must assume you know. Our ships trade in Egypt and Syria, among other Mare Internum ports. We bring Roman merchandise to and get cargo from Bithynia, Cappadocia, and Armenia as well as Chios, Byzantium, and Odessus; we have emporia in western ports as well—Narbo, Tarraco, and the Baleares Isolae, among other places, so I am able to purchase many things in quantity that others are unable to procure at all.” He leaned back against the writing-table, resting on his braced hands. “I have a colleague in Alexandria just now, attending to our trading there.”
“Yes. The Eclipse Trading Company,” said Batsho as if to take Sanct-Franciscus by surprise.
“Yes,” said Sanct-Franciscus, wholly unflustered.
“It has been a successful endeavor for you, according to the records at the Basilica Julia.”
“Most years it is. Last year we lost three ships—one to pirates, two to storms—and our earnings suffered as well as our seamen.” He continued to support himself on his hands.
“You ransomed three of your seamen, including your captain, from Cnossus on Creta.” He frowned, then clearing his throat he added, “You know that you must bear the cost of the ransom yourself; the state cannot recompense you for what you spent?”
“I am aware of that,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
Batsho tapped his fingers on the nearest sheet of parchment. “You know, there were those who said your captain was in league with the pirates, and only claimed to be a captive.”
“Such things are said of all island-dwellers,” Sanct-Franciscus remarked, refusing to be drawn into an acrimonious debate, as he guessed Batsho wanted him to be.
“Well, you got the fellow back, and three others.” He gave a sound between a snort and a chuckle. “It was your money to spend, I suppose.”
“That it was,” said Sanct-Franciscus in superb neutrality.
“I see you have two new ships under construction at Ostia,” Batsho went on. “You must intend to continue trading, even if it proves dangerous and costly.”
“I think it is a good venture for foreigners to undertake—we have useful connections that are often to our advantage.”
Batsho considered this while he read the next parchment. “I take your point,” he said, deliberately unclear whether he meant the information on the sheet or Sanct-Franciscus’ remarks. Signing again, he said, “This is now nineteen documents I have seen and officially noted. You will have to pay me thirty-four aurei, based on the value of your holdings described in your documents; I am entitled to receive that amount.”
“You shall have the money before you leave,” said Sanct-Franciscus, as if he were unaware of the inflated price. “And five aurei for your time and trouble.” This last was said as if he had offered mere denarii rather than aurei.
“Most generous,” said Batsho, making a note to look more closely at Sanct-Franciscus’ financial dealings, for he had been expecting a protest, not an additional commoda.
“Is there anything more you will need to see, good decuria?” Sanct-Franciscus asked politely.
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