“Do you suppose the taxes are the reason?” Philius asked. “Your uncle reduced his herd because of taxes.”
“I have no idea. I am not in Sanct-Franciscus’ confidence,” said Ignatia stiffly; her paenula was flapping open, so she took hold of it with one hand and resigned herself to having to struggle to stand.
At the gate Philius drew up, securing the reins around the brake-handle before he stepped down to approach the gate. “I will summon the warder,” he said.
“Very good,” Ignatia said automatically.
“You there!” came the shout from beyond the gate. “State your name and purpose here.”
“I am Philius, the slave of the Laelius household. I bring my mistress, Doma Ignatia, daughter of Domina Laelius, to speak with the foreigner Sanct-Franciscus.” His voice carried well against the wind.
“You are welcome,” the warder announced, and drew back the heavy wooden bolt that secured the gate. “Enter, and take your biga around to the west side of the main house. One of the household will meet you there to guide you in the villa.”
“Thank you,” said Ignatia; a moment later Philius climbed back into the biga and took the reins again, kissing to the horses as the gate swung open.
The grounds of the villa were well-tended and prosperous-looking; the orchards just beyond the garden were coming into bloom, and the scent of apple blossoms was strong in spite of the rain. The approach to the main house was cobbled with bricks, and had recently been raked free of debris. Only the roofs of the stables could be seen beyond the house, and they were in good repair. A groom in a hooded leather cloak was jogging toward the biga, calling out, “Draw in. I’ll take them.”
Philius did as he was told. “Very prompt,” he said approvingly as he stopped the horses and released the reins to the groom. “If you would have their hooves picked clean as well as giving them water?”
The groom nodded as he went to the pair’s heads. “Certainly.”
Ignatia got out of the biga, and without waiting for one of the household slaves to offer her the protection of a rain-shield, went up the steps to the larger section of the villa, which, unlike most Roman homes, boasted two atria and two distinct sections of the building. A footman met her as she crossed the threshold. “I am here to see Sanct-Franciscus. Where may I find him?”
The footman—a young man from eastern provinces by the look of him—ducked his head, saying, “If you will follow me?”
“Of course,” said Ignatia, knowing Philius would go to the stables with the biga and horses and would not accompany her.
They went down the side of the larger atrium, then through a corridor and along a peristyle on the exterior of the rear of the rambling house. At last they reached a double door located roughly at the meeting of the two sections of the house; the footman tapped on it, and waited.
Sanct-Franciscus was wearing a simple, black woolen dalmatica, deep-red femoralia, and heeled Scythian boots. He gestured welcome to Ignatia, saying, “I am surprised and happy to receive you, Ignatia Laelius. Please come into my study. Girav, if you would bring a jug of hot wine with honey? And some butter-cakes? Tell Aedius it is for my guest.” He stood aside so that Ignatia could enter the room; the chamber was sizeable with windows in three walls. Most of the room was behind a segmented screen that was decorated with intricate carvings of the loves of Jupiter, with Semele dominating the center panel. There were also shelves with bound parchment sheets stored on them and a stand of pigeonholes filled with rolled scrolls. Three painted panels from Egypt hung high on the walls, with illustrations and hieroglyphics covering them; Ignatia had seen Egyptian art before, but nothing like these panels, in which a jackal-headed figure stood with an ibis-headed one, and a wrapped mummy was rising from the ground between them, a small bird flying away from the mummy’s head toward a disk with many long, golden arms. She looked around at Sanct-Franciscus. “That is most unusual. Do you know what it says?” she asked, caught by the striking images.
“Yes,” he replied. “And I will tell you one day, but not now, when you have such urgent business with me.” He glanced at the footman. “My guest is hungry and thirsty.”
The footman hurried away after he closed the door.
“I offer my apologies for interrupting your work,” she said a bit hesitantly.
“You have no reason to apologize,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“No? I would have thought you were busy, but—Your villa is wonderfully warm,” said Ignatia as she let her paenula fall open.
“The holocaust has been cleaned of all ash, and the floor tiles have been taken up so that the channels could be scrubbed,” said Sanct-Franciscus, who was punctilious in such matters, although cold and heat had little effect upon him. “If you want to put your paenula aside, I have a lacerna you can wear until you are warmer.”
She looked at him as she threw back her hood, a touch of suspicion in her blue-green eyes. Guardedly she said, “I would like that.”
“The sleeves are a little long for you: turn them back if you like,” he said as he went behind the sectioned screen, to return at once with a splendid lacerna in dark-red silk. “Here, Ignatia Laelius. Let me take your paenula. I will hang it over the back of that chair”—he pointed to the one in front of the stand of pigeonholes—“until you are ready to depart.”
Feeling strangely daring, she turned so that he could remove the paenula and replace it with the soft, warm, enveloping lacerna. “This is very nice, Sanct-Franciscus.”
“You say that like a well-schooled child,” Sanct-Franciscus said, a trace of friendly amusement in his face.
“I was taught carefully,” said Ignatia, her cheeks turning rosy for no reason she could account for.
“And you are a credit to your teacher, and to your gens.” As she fumbled for something to say in return, he changed his tone. “Now that you have observed the niceties, perhaps you will tell me why you have come on such a wretched day as this?”
She was somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of his question. “It is a wretched day, to be sure, and I realize I am intruding, but I assure you it is important, or I would not have come.”
“So I assumed,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “This is not a capricious call.”
“No,” she said. “Alas, it is not.” She pulled at the sleeve of the lacerna. “I fear my mother is doing poorly, and has sent me to ask you to—”
“To provide her with such relief as I am able to,” he finished for her. “I will, of course.” He drew up a deeply upholstered hassock for her. “Sit. This is the most comfortable of any furniture in the room.”
She regarded him dubiously, but sank obediently down onto it, and discovered it was both soft and supporting. “It is quite … pleasant.”
“Good.” He offered her a one-sided smile. “Now, if you will tell me what it is your mother requires, other than a return to health, which I fear no physician can give her?” The kindness in his eyes took the sting from his words.
Dutifully, Ignatia began her report. “Her head aches. She is suffering from weakness, lassitude; she cannot stand alone, or so she says, and so has remained in her bed. Her appetite is failing, because she claims it is hurtful to eat. She has had difficulty swallowing.”
“Does she have a fever?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“Not that I can detect—she complained of being cold this morning, and her face appeared … slack.” Ignatia joined her hands together. “I worry that she will not be able to eat, and will finally starve.” She lowered her eyes and tried not to sneeze.
“You have reason for such concerns,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Can you tell me if she is in pain?”
“She says so.” She looked up, daring to meet his eyes with hers. “The tincture of willow-and-pansy you provided is nearly gone, but it seems to alleviate the worst of her hurt.”
“Then I shall bring more with me. Pain, at least, I can alleviate.” He went behind the beautiful segmented screen and came back with a small case in his
hands. His dark eyes were compassionate, and he spoke soothingly. “You need not fear that your mother is dying : that will not happen for some time unless she succumbs to a putrescence that is not presently troubling her. But she has a malady that has no cure, and it is deep in her bones.”
Ignatia sighed. “I can’t help but worry. She grows worse, you know, and nothing has arrested the degeneration.” As she said this, she felt she had betrayed her mother, and she turned away from Sanct-Franciscus. “If you say you can do nothing.”
“Unfortunately, no one can heal her.” He was spared the necessity of saying anything more to Ignatia as Girav rapped on the door. Opening it, Sanct-Franciscus took the tray from him, saying, “If you would, go to the stable and have Mora and Axion yoked to my new biga. And tell Raens to have my oiled-wool paenula ready—the black one with the dark-red border. Thank you.” He stepped back to allow the slave to close the door, then took the tray with its jug of hot, honied wine and plate piled with butter-cakes to Ignatia.
She looked up. “How good of you,” she said softly.
“Only courteous,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Now, while you recruit yourself, I will go prepare you another few vials of willow-and-pansy.” With that, he went around the screen again, leaving her to pour the wine into the cup provided, and to eat a few of the butter-cakes while he completed his preparations for treating her mother.
Text of a letter from Senator Marcus Laurentius Gaius Fulvius Cneo to Telemachus Batsho; delivered by personal courier.
To the decuria Telemachus Batsho, Marcus Laurentius Gaius Fulvius Cneo, Senator of Roma, sends his greetings and his recommendation that the petition of Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus to occupy the house of the widow Atta Olivia Clemens near the Temple of Hercules be granted acceptance without delay. Since the law now requires such foreigners as Sanct-Franciscus to live within the city walls, it is presumptive folly to prevent anyone from complying with the law. I expect this to be carried out at once, with your customary efficiency.
You have the Writ of Permission for Occupancy from the Widow Clemens, and you have the residence-transfer tax paid by Sanct-Franciscus himself, and so there is no pressing reason that his move should be delayed, and every reason for it to be expedited. Let me remind you that Sanct-Franciscus has no blood ties to any of the various barbarians raiding our borders, and no position in any other government that might compromise his dealings here. Even his dealings in Egypt are those of trade, not politics, and his alliances are strictly commercial. No one has accused him of acting against Roman interests, and since he is an exile, he has no reason to seek Roman support for his own aims.
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 13th day of May in the 971st Year of the City
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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 articho
kes 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.
Saint-Germain 20: Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 4