Sanct-Franciscus thought back almost two centuries to the time when women owned property in their own right, requiring no husband, father, brother, or son to control their money and lands. When the first change had come, Sanct-Franciscus had received a flurry of outraged letters from Atta Olivia Clemens, upbraiding the Senate for depriving the women of Roma of their autonomy, and predicting that this would not be the last erosion of women’s position in Roman law. “I would suppose your cousins would want to have access to their legacies however it may be accomplished.”
Vulpius laughed, the edgy echoes lingering in the room. “Husbands protect their wives and daughters. That is expected. Juliana and Caia deserve the care marriage will make possible.” He paced another dozen steps. “A pity my uncle chose to keep them with him for so long.”
“How old are they?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“Juliana is twenty-three and Caia is twenty; they’re pretty enough and not overly clever. Not too old, either, but far from as young as many men prefer their wives to be. They like to live in the country, so I do not have to house them with my family; that might be difficult, given the plans Dionesia has for our children.” Vulpius rocked back on his heels, the thongs of his sandals groaning with the strain. “Fortunately, my daughter is still too young for such arrangements, although Fulvius Eugenius Cnaens has spoken to me of the possible union of Linia to his son Gladius.”
“How old is Linia?” Sanct-Franciscus pictured the child in her tunica and palla, hair tangled, running through the Vulpius’ house.
“Nine; I have permitted her until eleven to decide for herself,” said Vulpius. “The contract cannot be settled for another two years, of course, but—” He broke off as the slave returned.
“Telemachus Batsho will be with you in a moment, and bids me tell you that he will not delay you very long. He is looking for the documents you will need to sign and seal.” The slave was apparently impressed with Batsho’s importance, for he lowered his head respectfully as he spoke Batsho’s name.
Almost without thought, Vulpius fingered the cylinder ring on his index finger. “I am ready.”
“Very good,” said the slave. “And your companion will serve as witness?”
“I will,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“You are a resident foreigner owning property in Roma?” The slave rattled off the question in a manner that suggested he had asked such things many times before.
“Not within the walls, but three thousand paces beyond them,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I, and those of my blood, have held the land since the days of Divus Julius. Many generations.”
“Hardly a god, was Gaius Julius,” muttered the slave; then, more loudly, “A goodly time. Two centuries, at least.”
“So I have reckoned,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“The new law will not allow you to reside at your estate if it is outside the walls of the city. By the end of summer, you must have a residence within the walls or your lands beyond them will be subject to partial confiscation,” said Batsho smugly as he came into the room. He made his gesture of respect in an off-handed way, with no attempt to hide his sizing up of the two men before him.
“A little more than a year ago the Roman state almost took my land because I was living in Egypt and ordered that I reside on my Roman lands for three years out of five in order to keep them,” Sanct-Franciscus told the decuria. “I have complied with that order, have I not?”
“This is a honing of that provision,” Batsho said in a manner that closed the subject.
Vulpius stepped closer to the slave. “Is there a problem? I was informed he is a satisfactory witness.”
“That he is, so long as there is record of his property and his family’s claim to it.” The slave moved back from Vulpius.
Telemachus Batsho had been one of the decuriae for nearly a decade and was growing comfortably rich on the commodae he received for doing his job. He was a very ordinary man, in a very ordinary sage-green pallium, with a soft belt of braided, multi-colored wool, and two leather wallets attached to it, one for food and money, one for the badge of his office. His hair was a bit longer than fashion, of a medium-brown color that almost matched his eyes, and he was clean-shaven. He nodded to Vulpius and Sanct-Franciscus, saying as he did, “I believe you have had notification of these signings? I recall that a notice was dispatched to you? Do you have it with you?”
“That I do,” said Vulpius, his chin angled upward. “It is regarding my uncle’s Will. I have my copy with me.”
“Oh, yes; I remember now. The official transference, without reservation, so long as the taxes are paid, and his daughters provided for,” said Telemachus Batsho as if he had a long line of petitioners waiting, all of them unknown to him, all desperate for his services, and all having his four percent commoda to pay for them. “I have the Will among my pigeonholes, if you will permit me to fetch it?” He turned as if to leave, then swung back to look at Sanct-Franciscus with sudden suspicion. “And you are? I need your full name to find the proper records, since it is obvious you are not a relative of Vulpius’.”
“Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus,” he answered promptly. “I have a villa beyond the city, on the northeast, some distance from the Praetorian Camp. My title to the land is of long standing, my taxes are paid, and so is my Foreigner’s Fee.”
The decuria studied him carefully, his hands resting on the low rail. “You fully own the villa, or have you some other arrangement for your tenancy?”
“I own it and the land around it,” said Sanct-Franciscus promptly. “It has been held by those of my blood for several generations, as I have said.”
“There are no monies owing on the land, either to the state or private parties?” Batsho asked.
“I own it outright, as did my predecessors.”
Batsho nodded. “I see,” he said flatly. “Very well. I shall ascertain your status and return with the Will and any other documents requiring signing and sealing. It is not a lengthy process, but it has to be done properly. Tuccu, go bring the sealing wax so we can attend to this.”
The slave ducked his head. “At once,” he said, and scurried off.
“If you will give me a moment, I will return with the Will and the Writ of Transfer, and your entitlement document.” Batsho ducked out of the room, a meaningless smile smeared on his lips.
“Officious,” said Vulpius quietly as soon as Batsho was gone.
“He has a high regard for his position,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. “A small man who enjoys using the power he has. He knows full well why we are here, but it pleases him to make us wait.” He had encountered the type before, and had grown wary of them.
“I’ll be glad when we’re done.” Vulpius fumbled with the buckle on his belt in order to keep his hands busy. “This is a most aggravating procedure.”
“But it is in accord with Roman law,” Sanct-Franciscus reminded him.
“I know, and I know it is necessary. Still, I don’t like it,” said Vulpius.
“It will not last long,” Sanct-Franciscus soothed. “Think of the festivities this evening, when you celebrate this moment.”
Vulpius opened his mouth, but said nothing as Telemachus Batsho returned, three large scrolls of papyrus tucked under his arm. “Here we are. If you would step around the rail, we will go to the second table. I think the light is best there.”
“I will do so,” said Vulpius promptly, relieved to have something to do at last. “What shall I sign with?”
“If you will use that ink-cake?” Batsho pointed to the lipped tray on which it was laid. “We have styluses for you to choose.” He indicated a container of tarnished brass writing implements. “And Tuccu will prepare the wax for your seal.” He nodded toward the slave. “Prepare a lamp, Tuccu, and have the wax ready. The honoratus is not to be kept waiting.”
“My father was honoratus,” Vulpius pointed out. “I am honestiorus.”
“Your pardon, Patronus,” said Batsho. “I had assumed th
e title was also yours for courtesy if not service.”
“How could it be?” Vulpius asked. “I have not governed anything beyond a provincial town.”
Sanct-Franciscus watched the two with a growing sense of unease ; now the lack of other decuriae in the office no longer disconcerted Sanct-Franciscus, for he realized that Batsho was pursuing his own purpose; if a witness were not required for the signatures and seals, Sanct-Franciscus was convinced that Batsho would find some reason to exclude him from this meeting, and the recognition of ulterior motives made him apprehensive.
“Be good enough to ready your seal,” said Batsho.
“If this is what you wish,” said Vulpius, wanting to get on with it. He removed his cylinder ring.
Batsho spread out one of the scrolls. “Read this—it is your acceptance of the conditions and terms of your uncle’s Will.”
“I have a copy of it,” Vulpius reminded him.
“Of course, of course,” said Batsho unctuously. “But it is required that you read the one on file here in my presence.”
Vulpius gave a single, jerky nod. “I understand.” He started to read.
“This is where you sign and seal. Foreigner, if you would—?” He motioned to Sanct-Franciscus. “Come and read this and then sign and seal below this noble man’s signature and seal.”
Sanct-Franciscus saw Batsho’s eyes narrow as he looked at him, and he had a moment’s disquiet as he rose and came around the end of the railing. “Shall I stand by Vulpius, or wait until he has finished, then take the scroll to another table to read and sign?”
“Choose another table, if you would,” said Batsho, as close to dismissing Sanct-Franciscus as he dared to venture.
Sanct-Franciscus selected the smaller of the two, and waited to be handed the scroll. The smell of hot wax caught his attention, and he watched as Vulpius rolled his seal through the dollop of wax on the bottom of the sheet.
“There,” said Vulpius, and handed the scroll to Batsho. “What next?”
Batsho passed the scroll to Sanct-Franciscus, and said, “Witness this, foreigner.”
“I will need wax,” Sanct-Franciscus reminded him.
“Tuccu will attend to you,” Batsho said, snapping his fingers in the direction of the elderly slave.
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Is there an ink-cake—”
Batsho took the one from Vulpius’ writing table and handed it to Sanct-Franciscus. “Use this and give it back. The patronus has need of it.”
“May I take a stylus?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“Go ahead,” said Batsho with a burdened sigh.
“Decuria,” said Vulpius in a cautionary tone, “my witness was born the son of a king. It is improper to treat him as one of the humiliora.” This admonition was delivered with a faint smile. “He is one of the honestiora, as well you know.”
“Son of a foreign king, who has had to seek refuge here,” said Batsho, settling the matter with a mendacious smile. “His records say he is an exile.”
“Do you suppose you could show me which scroll I am to sign next?” Vulpius offered Sanct-Franciscus a slight shrug behind Batsho’s back.
“Of course, Patronus.” His obsequiousness was so obvious that Vulpius had to choke back a laugh.
“This is the accounting of your uncle’s fortune, a compilation of his lands and other holdings, and the makeup of his households. Please review the addition before you sign, and put your seal at the total, to show you acknowledge the amounts as the basis of taxes.” Batsho had moved so that his shoulder was between Vulpius and Sanct-Franciscus.
“And your commoda,” said Vulpius. “Four percent—for every signature.”
“That is the custom,” said Batsho, working to suppress a smile.
“I am prepared, assuming your amounts coincide with my own records,” said Vulpius, another implied warning in his comment.
“And why should they not?” Batsho asked, then went silent as Vulpius held up his hand while he reviewed the various figures on the page. “Is all in order?”
“All but this,” said Vulpius, pointing to the number of slaves listed for the Bononia estate. “There are three more slaves than listed here—two are coopers and one is a vine-man. I have acquired them since this Will was filed with you.” His edginess was growing worse.
“Three more, and all with skills,” said Batsho, making a note on his records.
“The transaction took place ten days ago. I can tell you what I paid: nine aurei and four denarii for each of the coopers and eight for the vine-man.”
“A goodly sum, even for skilled workers,” said Batsho. “I have made a correction, you will sign next to it, as well as at the foot of the scroll, and when you have the transfer in hand, you will provide me with an authenticated copy within a week, or face penalties for such failure. I believe you would like to avoid the penalties.” He nodded once, as if concurring with himself.
“I agree,” said Vulpius. “Sanct-Franciscus will testify to it.” He signed where he was supposed to, and fixed his seal where Batsho pointed. “Another one for you, Sanct-Franciscus,” he said, holding out the sheet.
“Should I sign and seal at the bottom only?” Sanct-Franciscus asked Batsho.
“Of course. Unless you think the addition is incorrect.” He waited, an avaricious light shining at the back of his eyes.
“I am certain Vulpius calculated the sums accurately,” said Sanct-Franciscus, being deliberately more formal.
“Then sign under his final signature, and set your seal under his.” Batsho was already opening the third scroll. “This is your verification to the Senate of your family and its position, as well as your position within it, so that your status as your uncle’s heir cannot be later disputed. It sets out the validation of your claim and your heritage. Any misrepresentation is punishable as fraud.”
“Should I review it?” Vulpius asked.
“If you would. If you have anything to add, append it to the foot of the page; remember each alteration has its own commoda; the law provides for it.” Batsho rounded on Sanct-Franciscus. “Foreigner: is there any record of your family on file in this office?”
Sanct-Franciscus would not be goaded to a hasty reply. “If you mean in this immediate office, I cannot say, for I am not privy to the methods of you decuriae.”
“You mock me,” Batsho said darkly, watching Sanct-Franciscus with an expression of distaste.
“No; I proclaim my ignorance,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Do not make light of us,” Batsho said critically. “The courts depend upon our labors.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” said Sanct-Franciscus, aware from his manner that Batsho had taken him in dislike. “There are records of my blood’s titles and lands going back more than two centuries, and I assume they are somewhere in this building,” he said as he held out the second page with his signature and seal drying on it.
Batsho took the scroll and glared at it. “I will have to look into what you’ve said,” he vowed, his muted-brown eyes seething.
“Can’t we get on with this?” Vulpius complained.
Batsho turned back to Vulpius, all accommodating and exuding spurious good-will; when he handed the last scroll to Sanct-Franciscus, he glowered for an instant, then lost all expression as Sanct-Franciscus reached for the sealing-wax and lamp. “Yes, foreign exile, I will look into you.”
Text of a report from Rugeri in Alexandria to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus at Roma, written in Greek, and carried by the merchant ship Minerva; delivered twenty-four days after it was written.
My master,
You have no doubt heard that the Emperor’s campaign is not doing well. Everywhere the streets are full of rumors, that Roma will fall, that Caesar is doomed, that the times are evil. We have heard such things in the past, but in this instance, I am fairly certain that there is some basis in fact for all the tattling making the rounds. I should add that Hebseret, the present High Priest of Imhotep, conc
urs. and not for any reason of omens or alignment of stars, but because of the diminished Roman garrison farther up the Nile, whose Legionaries have been called into Mesopotamia. Hebseret has only just been elevated by his fellows, replacing Mateheb, who died a month after your departure, to his position, and is being especially careful to guard his remaining followers from any harm or discovery. Priests of Imhotep are not much valued by the Romans—you know their distrust of Egyptians—but the Romans are not the most pressing problem they face: there are groups of Christians in this region who are becoming most zealous, and they dislike the old Roman gods as well as the older Egyptian ones.
As you have requested, I have donated fifty aurei to the priesthood to enable them to continue their duties of treating the sick and injured. They have had to reduce their services due to lack of funds, and your gift will restore their temple once again. Hebseret has expressed his gratitude repeatedly, and I am charged with reporting such to you; he has made one journey downriver to Alexandria for the purpose of acquiring certain herbs in the market that are difficult to grow in their temple, nine thousand paces beyond Luxor.
Trade continues brisk, and I anticipate that the Fair Wind and the Polaris will soon arrive at Ostia with ample cargo as well as valuable information. They say all the signs are good for an abundant wheat harvest later in the year, so you may want to assign another ship to the Ostia-Alexandria-Ostia route come August, for we should be able to fill all holds with grain, and I will by then have the latest shipment of Syrian wine to send along. I have been informed that their harvest this year is ample, so in two years there should be many more amphorae of wine to import.
I have acquired a new slave to deal with the records at dock-side, for I am not satisfied with the accuracy of the customs agents, and rather than bribe four officials to be precise in their records, I will provide my own tally-maker. The slave is an eastern Greek from Antioch, well-versed in the skills required to do the work properly. His name is Perseus, he is twenty-three, or so he claims, and he is able to read Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and Syrian. He was formerly slave to a Byzantine merchant who lost four ships and their cargo to pirates and who, therefore, had to reduce his household. He seems able enough, and not so eager that I suspect his motives for coming to me. I have given him quarters in the second house, with two chambers for his use, and access to our shipping records.
Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 19) Page 2