Roman Dusk (10 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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“Not now; I may have some other inquiries to make, at another time, and if I do, I will inform you of it. I must go to my sister’s husband, as I mentioned when I arrived.” He put the scrolls back in their sheaf and extended this to Sanct-Franciscus, who moved away from the table to accept them. “You have been most reasonable, honestiorus. I thank you for that.”
“It is gracious of you to say so, decuria,” Sanct-Franciscus answered, his demeanor revealing little of his thoughts.
“If you will permit me to take my leave?” He did his best to display official dignity, knowing it was expected of Romans.
“I would not have thought you needed my permission, but if it pleases you, you have it. I will summon my old steward to escort you as soon as I count out your aurei.” He set the sheaf on the writing table and went to pull open a drawer underneath the pigeon-hole shelves, revealing a small wooden chest banded in iron. Using a key that hung on a thong around his neck, Sanct-Franciscus opened the lock, revealing a mass of gold coins. “Thirty-nine aurei is the sum, I recall?”
“That it is,” said Batsho, belatedly wondering how he would carry such an amount back to his office.
As if anticipating his problem, Sanct-Franciscus held up a leather pouch. “Shall I put the coins in this?”
“I would … that would be …” Batsho floundered, torn between wanting the convenience and the fear that Sanct-Franciscus would not give him the full amount they had agreed upon.
“You shall count them and sign for them, of course, so there is no question as to the amount paid for your service,” said Sanct-Franciscus, for the first time sounding a bit annoyed. “Is that satisfactory to you?”
“I am more than willing to have a record of our dealings,” Batsho said promptly, taking the pouch and turning away to count the aurei. Thirty-nine aurei: whole buildings could be bought for less! “Thirty-nine, as agreed,” he said, although he had counted forty. He slipped the closing straps of the pouch twice around his left wrist, hefting it. “This will do.” Then he slipped the thongs off his wrist and secured them to his belt; patting the pouch, he said, “Safer this way.”
Sanct-Franciscus offered a quilled stylus and an ink-cake, moist enough to use. “If you would, then?”
Batsho read the statement:
The decuria Telemachus Batsho has today received from the foreign merchant Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus the sum of thirty-nine aurei in full and complete payment for his official inspection of documents of residence, title, occupation, and taxation status. This document stands as witness to these transactions.
“My signature and sign?”
“And the date, if you would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, almost apologetically. “So there can be no confusion.”
“Naturally,” said Batsho, a bit huffily, for had he been able to leave off the date, he might have been able to claim a second commoda to rectify that lapse. He dipped the end of the quill into the edge of the softened ink, wrote his name and sign, and reluctantly added
19
th
day of July, 971
st
Year of the City
. “There. That should satisfy anyone, up to the Emperor himself.”
“I thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and nodded toward the door. “Would you like one of my slaves to escort you back to your office?”
Again, Batsho was torn: he saw the advantage of added protection, but that slave could possibly overcome him, steal the pouch, and return it to Sanct-Franciscus. With the receipt he had signed, Batsho would have no recourse to regain his money, so he said, “I believe I will attract less attention on my own, honestiorus.”
“As you wish,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and clapped his hands. This time it was Aedius who answered the summons. “My guest is leaving. If you would see him to the gate for me?”
“Of course, Dominus,” said Aedius, standing respectfully while Batsho gestured his farewell and started for the atrium. “There is someone in the rear vestibule who would like a little of your time,” he added as he prepared to escort Telemachus Batsho from the house.
Something in Aedius’ tone put Sanct-Franciscus on the alert. “Thank you. I will attend to it now.” He called after Batsho, “You see, decuria, there are advantages in giving the household leave to speak.”
Batsho, now out of the study, was able to ignore this last remark as he continued out into the atrium, his hand placed protectively over the jingling pouch he carried on a double-thong on his belt.
As soon as he was sure that Batsho was through the gate, Sanct-Franciscus left his place in the study and hastened to the rear vestibule, where he found Daniama the laundress standing guard at the door, her muscular arms folded. “I understand I have a guest,” he said to the sturdy slave.
“Yes, Dominus.” She ducked her head. “Aedius said I was to guard her.”
“No doubt a very sensible plan,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “But do you think, perhaps, I might be allowed to enter?” He waited for her to move aside, wondering as he did what—and whom—he would find inside.
“Your pardon, Master,” said the slave, and stepped away quickly.
Sanct-Franciscus put his hand on the latch, calling out, “I am coming in,” as he swung the door back. He found the room in shadow, the wooden blinds turned to keep out the summer sun. “Who is here?” he asked of the gloom, for although the darkness made little difference to the clarity of his sight, he knew most of the living were not so fortunate and were often troubled by his ability to see so well; he was aware his unknown guest was in the far corner, turned away from the door.
“Patronus,” exclaimed Melidulci, not moving from her place.
“My delight,” he exclaimed, starting toward her. “What is the matter?” For something had to be the matter: Melidulci was not behaving as Sanct-Franciscus had ever seen her act before. “What has happened?” As he reached her side, he saw her flinch. “What is wrong?”
Suddenly she burst into tears and pressed her head against his shoulder, keeping her face averted; she was trembling . “I … I could think of … of no one else to come to,” she whispered, her words muffled.
“But surely within the lupanar—” he began, and felt her cringe.
“I will leave,” she said suddenly, shoving him so she could step away from him. “I don’t want to impose.”
“No, no,” he told her gently, putting his arm around the small of her back with care, for he could tell by her posture that she was in pain. “That was clumsy of me. If you have trouble, the Guard of the Lupanar should protect you—that is what they are paid for.”
She broke away from his embrace, then reached out suddenly and turned the slats of the blinds, throwing the uncompromising noon light on her face: bruises and broken skin distorted her features so that she was almost unrecognizable. One eye was puffy, purple, and all but swollen shut, her lip was cracked and swollen, there were lumps on her jaw and a dribble of blood below her distended ear. Her upper arms were marred with the purple ghosts of finger dug into her flesh. “Who do you think did this?” she demanded, and her sobbing became loud and ragged. “Lupanar Guards!”
He stared at her, wanting to disbelieve, but unable to doubt her. “Why would Lupanar Guards do such a thing—and to you, of all women?”
“
I don’t know!
” she wailed. “I pay them their commoda, and extra.” A note of panic had entered her voice.
“Melidulci,” Sanct-Franciscus said, folding her close to him again.
“I’m not either,” she howled, twisting in his arms. “Not now!” Abruptly she collapsed, sagging into his encompassing hold. “Don’t look at me!”
“Why not?” he asked her, no distress in his voice; his dark, penetrating gaze did not waver.
“Because I’m hideous!”
“No, no, Melidulci, you are injured, you are not hideous. You cannot be hideous, not to me.” He supported her easily, as if she weighed no more than a child did.
“Why?” she challenged, adding angrily. “Because you love me?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I like you very much and I am deeply fond of you; I know you.”
This held her attention. “But you do not love me.”
“No,” he said, a world of kindness in his answer.
Now she was puzzled; she did her best to ignore her fear and hurts. “Why not? Almost all the men who come to me claim to love me.”
“And do you believe them?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “You do not want me to be one who claims to love you, do you.”
Her ragged laughter was not as cynical as she wanted it to be. “Of course not.”
“Do you believe my friendship is sincere?”
She stared at him, her eyes growing moist. “Yes,” she said after a brief silence. “I do.”
“Then accept it, and let me help you now.” He felt her tremble, and went on compassionately, “This was done to leave marks, and to frighten you.”
“Then they succeeded,” she muttered, forcing her legs to support her. “One of them struck me across the back with a length of wood. I was bludgeoned more than once with it, and they struck my feet; walking here was—” She broke off.
“The Guard of the Lupanar did this, you say.” Sanct-Franciscus kept her close to him, providing her the safety of his nearness.
“Or men dressed like them,” Melidulci allowed, bringing her crying under control. “I didn’t know their faces, and I thought I knew them all.”
“Did you not?” He considered this, using the edge of the wide, square sleeve of his dalmatica to start to wipe away the dried blood from her face. “This is insufficient,” he said as he examined the results. “I will order a bath, and while it is readied, I will soak your injuries with pads infused with anodyne tinctures. Once I see the whole of you, I will have a better notion of what you will need.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“You know I have some skill with medicaments; you have seen the efficacy of the preparations I provide,” he said without haste, his small hands moving over as much of her face and neck as he could see without adding to her distress. “I will endeavor to do my best to help your recovery; I am no Galen, but my methods have their uses.” He had acquired them over centuries, beginning in the Temple of Imhotep; he looked directly into her disfigured visage. “I cannot undo all the damage, but I can keep it to a minimum.”
“How!” She did not speak loudly; her anguish was all the more poignant because of it.
“There are unguents and poultices to ease the bruising and to help close the breaks in your skin with the least scarring possible,” he said. “I have bandages that will also help prevent scars, and some that will keep the medicaments where they need to be to treat the hurts you have. I have syrup of poppies to diminish your pain so you may sleep. Sleep heals much more than any physician can.”
She sighed. “I shouldn’t. You may be in danger if you shelter me. If those men followed me—”
“So I might be,” Sanct-Franciscus admitted, “but the woman who owns this house—a widow called Olivia—would never forgive me if I failed to care for you, nor would I excuse myself. You are dear to me, little as you may want to be, Melidulci, and those of my blood do not turn away from those we care for when they are in need.” He thought of Periasis, less than a century ago, and winced; he clapped his hands, calling out, “Daniama, have the caldarium heated—not too hot, but enough to promote sweat. Then ask Vitellius to bring me my leather case of medicaments.” Just then he missed Rugeri intensely, wishing he were here to tend to such things with only minor instruction.
From the corridor came “Yes, Master,” and the sound of sandaled feet going toward the rear of the house.
“Your slaves will talk,” Melidulci murmured, now sounding overwhelmed with fatigue.
“I will take care of that once I have tended to you,” he assured her, and stroked her hair, his hand light as a gauze veil. “Do not fret, Melidulci.”
She wiped her eyes with her palla. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop crying. I think I’ve finally finished, and then—”
“There is no error in tears. Melidulci,” he told her; his next words carried their own echo, “I only wish I had my own to shed.”
Text of a letter from Septimus Desiderius Vulpius, presently in Brundisium, to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma, carried by private messenger.
To the most excellent foreigner, the highly acclaimed Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus at the house of the Widow Clemens near the Temple of Hercules, the affectionate greeting of Septimus Desiderius Vulpius, now on the last leg of his journey back from Pergamum:
As you suggested, I took the time to bathe in the White Fountains of Pergamum, and must tell you that they are all you claimed they would be. The stones are like snow on a river, but all is warm and pleasant. The keepers of those fountains have achieved a fine facility, with their terraces framing the baths in the springs, and their many excellent attendants. The general setting for the baths in regard to the town is also quite handsome; I spent several afternoons there, recovering from the heat of the day, and meeting men from many parts of the eastern Empire who, like me, repaired there to pass the heat of the day taking their ease.

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