Roman Dusk (5 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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There have been no complaints filed to Sanct-Franciscus’ detriment, and for that reason alone it would seem that a speedy response in his favor is in order. If you have any doubts about his standing in the merchant community, I recommend you contact those with whom he has done business, for I suspect they will echo the good opinion he has gained among the honestiora.
It will please me and many of my fellow Senators to see this impasse at an end; I look forward to learning that all barriers to this move have been eradicated, and toward that resolution, I send you six aurei for your trouble; another six will follow when I have confirmation that this matter has been resolved to my satisfaction.
Marcus Laurentius Gaius Cneo
Senator of Roma
 
by the hand of the scribe Onfonius Portalio on this, the 13
th
day of May in the 971
st
Year of the City
 
Five large carts stood in the expansive courtyard of the house of Atta Olivia Clemens behind the Temple of Hercules; they were laden with crates, chests, caskets, cases, furniture, and other household goods, all flagged with tax chits and marked
paid
. The day was becoming too warm for strenuous work; even the teams of sturdy ponies pulling the carts were beginning to droop in their yokes in spite of the bucket of water provided for each of them.
Sanct-Franciscus swung down from his blue roan, calling out, “Dalio, come take my horse. Now, the rest of you: each of you carry one item into the house, then have something to eat. Then you may have your midday rest.” It was times like these that he wished Rugeri were with him instead of running the Alexandrian division of his shipping business; Rugeri always made such shifts of residence as this one less of an ordeal for everyone concerned.
Holmdi, who was in charge of loading and unloading the carts, went and stood near the largest of them. “The chests here will need two men apiece, at least.”
“They also need not be carried into the house at once; they can be stacked here in the courtyard and taken in later,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “It is better to get the household goods first, and the chests and crates and all the rest second. Remember, I want the carts to go back to Villa Ragoczy one more time so that they may be packed tonight and carried here early tomorrow morning. Aedius,” he went on to his steward, “make sure everything unloaded is inventoried. I have to present a catalogue of goods and possessions to the decuriae to compare with the officers of the Guard’s records.”
Aedius, who was a rangy man in his mid-thirties, ducked his head. “Yes, Dominus.” It was an appropriate compromise title, one most of the slaves were willing to use.
“Be scrupulous in your accounts,” Sanct-Franciscus emphasized. “The decuriae are painstaking in verifying details, and they delight in finding errors.”
“Even if they have to invent them, or supply their own new taxes on the spot,” said Aedius, no emotion coloring his observation.
“It is their responsibility to see the Empire is not left destitute,” Sanct-Franciscus pointed out, a slight hint of irony in his voice.
“And the Empire begins with themselves,” said Aedius, and looked around in sudden apprehension.
“Certainly,” said Sanct-Franciscus, only his mouth smiling. “They are willing to do all they can for Roma.”
“For four percent of value, I would, as well,” said Aedius with a hard, single nod. “They have made their position their fortune.”
Two slaves carrying chairs very nearly collided; they exchanged mild curses and continued on with their work.
“Not surprising,” said Sanct-Franciscus, “since the Senate no longer provides their pay. How else are they to live?”
“Do you think they should be paid by the Senate?” Aedius asked as he watched the slaves begin their unloading.
“I think that it was a false economy, making their pay dependent upon collecting percentages from those they are supposed to assist; it opens the floodgates for corruption,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and turned to the grooms. “You know where the stables are. See these ponies are watered, fed, and brushed before you nap. They deserve rest just as you do.”
Three of the grooms called out, “Yes, Dominus,” as they went to unyoke the tough little equines.
“Remember to list all tack and harness,” Sanct-Franciscus reminded Aedius. “They are part of my holdings.”
“I will,” the steward said, holding up his wax tablet and stylus. “I will be as careful as you wish.”
“Yes,” said Sanct-Franciscus genially. “You will.”
Aedius shrugged. “I could be lax on your behalf.”
“I am sure you could,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “And if such laxness were discovered, it would cost me double its assessment, at least. Hardly worth the risk entailed, would you think?” He cocked his head toward the house. “Go along and eat. We can attend to this later.”
“And the woman? What of her?” Aedius asked. “From the lupanar?”
“Arrangements have been made,” said Sanct-Franciscus obliquely. “It is my concern; do not trouble yourself about her.”
“If you say so,” Aedius responded, and went along for his midday meal.
Prandium was laid out in the atrium on long plank tables; there were fruits from the south, three kinds of bread, a fish stew filled with onions and green vegetables, and long slabs of pork-ribs cooked in peppers, garlic, and honey. A vat of pickled artichokes and peppers was placed precariously near the edge of the front plank. Two large barrels of Egyptian beer stood at either end of the table, and rough cups were provided. This was generous fare for slaves, and they all knew it as they fell to, nearly gorging themselves on this bounty. By the time the meal was finished, the table was a ruin of empty platters, smears of many kinds, and discarded bones.
“You fed all slaves well,” said Olivia’s old steward, Vitellius, the son of a condemned criminal and who was named for an Emperor. He had found himself in the odd position of having to share his position with Aedius, an arrangement about which neither man was entirely comfortable. The afternoon nap had ended and activities were starting up again in the rambling house. He had just come from the atrium and had started Olivia’s slaves clearing up the disorder left over from the prandium. “Do you make a habit of it?”
“I give occasional generous meals like this, and for the most part, yes, I see that all my household has good food in sufficient amount,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I will do the same for you of Domina Clemens’ household while I am here.”
“You wish to make a display of your wealth?” Vitellius asked.
“Wealth and display are not my goals here: I wish to have willing servants around me, and that means providing food and shelter for them. I have learned that a man who is half-starved is a poor servant, as is one who cannot sleep well, so you will find all my slaves have double-thick straw-filled pallets for their beds. Domina Clemens will not object to that, or any other provision I wish to make regarding her slaves; she has said so in her authorization to me. This way, the slaves know they are valued, by me and by Domina Clemens, and they will live up to that value—or most will—and that is the most that I or anyone can expect of others, slave or free.” Sanct-Franciscus studied Vitellius, conjecture arching his brows and lending a sardonic air to his demeanor. “I would have thought that was Domina Clemens’ way, as well, to supply her slaves with good food and housing.” His long association with Olivia had made him familiar with her standard of care for all her household; her absence should not have altered that.
Two slaves with a large chest held between them made their way past Sanct-Franciscus and Vitellius; one of them was breathing hard, the other less so, although he was sweating.
“She is a woman, and a Roman of the old school, one who honors all the slave laws of Augustus and Traianus; it does her much credit,” said Vitellius with quiet pride. “In the many years I have been with her, I have not known her to discipline anyone unnecessarily, or to deny any reasonable care.”
Sanct-Franciscus achieved a slight smile. “All to her credit.”
“And you seek to emulate her?” Vitellius asked.
“Something of the sort,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “My slaves will tell you how they have been treated. If it does not accord with your good opinion, you have only to tell me and I will strive to amend my ways.” His voice was light but there was a glow in his dark eyes that commanded Vitellius’ respect.
“A foreigner like you,” said Vitellius with more daring than he had intended to use with Sanct-Franciscus.
“Precisely,” was his answer.
“And the woman from the lupanar? What of her? Would Domina Clemens be willing to receive her if she were here?”
“I believe she would; she certainly would not demand that I deny myself the gratification of my … needs.” His voice dropped, not in embarrassment but as an acknowledgment of the privacy of his requirements. “You will treat her well, and not speak against her—not you or any member of the household.” A century ago, such a precaution would not have been necessary. “Do you understand.” Then he turned to Aedius, who stood half-a-dozen paces away, and said, “I want you to have one of this household assist you. Just at present I require Vitellius to put his full attention here, but you will need to discuss the division of your duties. I do not want any implication of keeping Domina Clemens’ household at a distance, for that could turn both sets of servants into camps of opposition. That would accomplish nothing worthwhile, and so I hope to prevent it from the beginning. Will you do your part?”
Aedius nodded. “I will.”
“Very good.” He glanced over at Vitellius, comparing this man to the Caesar whose reign had lasted only a handful of weeks, a century-and-a-half ago. This slave was circumspect in his dealings and used his position with care and concision. Vitellius Caesar had indulged himself recklessly and showed favor and caprice with equal inclination; this impulsivity proved to be his undoing: his fall had been the last of a series of short reigns, and had brought Titus Flavius Vespasianus and his two sons to the purple. Now, once again there was a cluster of unpopular Caesars, and Sanct-Franciscus wondered when this spate would end.
As soon as the carts were unloaded, they were driven out of the courtyard, bound for the Porta Viminalis and the road to Villa Ragoczy for the last loads. The one remaining cart became a focus of activity, its cargo of chests requiring careful handling as some contained glass and fine stoneware, one was filled with brass instruments for measuring and calculation, and others held jars and vials of medicaments and similar substances.
“What do you think, Foreign Honoratus? Or should it be Dominus, now you have this house in Roma? Or honestiorus?” asked Urbanus, Sanct-Franciscus’ twenty-six-year-old freedman clerk who had only recently entered his employ. “Will they be back before noon tomorrow?”
“I trust so, and I suppose it must be Dominus, or honestiorus,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “There is a festival to be held at the Temple of Hercules, and I hope the carts will not be caught in the celebration.”
“Is that likely?” Urbanus asked. “They hold such festivities in front of the temple, not behind it. We may have to listen to the celebration, but we need not participate. Let them revel and riot as they like, it means little to us if the gates are closed.” He wore three silver rings on his fingers—the highest display the law allowed him—and his silken pallium was belted in links of brass; in all, he had, as he had intended, the look of prosperity. His close-cropped brown hair shone with perfumed oil and the thin line of beard along his jaw was precisely trimmed. He was almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus, and took great satisfaction in being half-a-head taller than most men in Roma. “Why should the celebration be a problem?”
“The celebrants will have bigae, and slaves, and they will want them near to hand. The square just beyond the gate will be a tangle,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
Urbanus considered this, then said, “You’re probably right. Very well. I will hope that your slaves and carts will be here before midday, and all the goods they bring bestowed before sunset.”
“If that is to be achieved, the greater part of their unloading will be done before the festival is fully under way. The sacrifices are made at midday and the procession follows afterward, and then the feasting,” said Sanct-Franciscus, hoping it was still true, for enough time had gone by since he had seen this celebration in Roma that he realized changes may have occurred.
“Sacrifices. Goats, sheep, and perhaps a calf or two,” said Urbanus, rubbing his chin in thought. “I will be here in the morning, shortly after dawn, and you may command me as you wish.”
“I am grateful for your attention,” said Sanct-Franciscus, watching one of the grooms pull at the reins of the remaining empty cart. “The ponies need their rest.”
“They’re stubborn enough to be mules,” said Urbanus.
“You have a point,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he saw the ponies start to move, lured by a handful of apple-cores the groom had fetched. “Fortunately, they are bribable.”
“Not only ponies,” said Urbanus, clearing his throat and looking about as if expecting to be spied upon. “I have had an inquiry from one of the decuriae.”
“Oh?” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“An officious fellow calling himself Telemachus Batsho. Nothing much to look at, but full of his own importance.” Urbanus coughed discreetly. “He came to my insula in person, accompanied by an African slave, at the first hour after dawn. He said he’d met you with Septimus Desiderius Vulpius. He had a few questions for me regarding your business and property, and he hinted that there would be fewer questions, and fewer delays, if you would double his four percent fee for your transfer of residence.”
“Did he?” Sanct-Franciscus was not surprised. “What kind of questions is he asking?”
“Mostly how much money you have outside of Roma, beyond the villa and the vineyard and the horse-farm, and how many ships you have plying the seas,” said Urbanus. “I told him he should consult with your agents in Ostia about your shipping interests. Your agents there know more than I, and they have worked with you much longer than I have.”

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