Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 19)

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Vulpius laughed aloud as he took the bun-and-sausage. “That may be at the heart of it,” he agreed. “That, and the problems of commodae in such cases: who is to pay it, and how is the percentage to be fixed?”

  In another half hour, all the women were dead and the animals were being herded back into their various cages; one of the boars was dying, and a lion had been killed, but these were minor losses, and very few in the crowd paid much heed to them. The hydraulic organ was blaring out the popular song “Onward the Legions,” but almost no one was singing the lyrics.

  “Would you be very annoyed if I left? Our business with Propinus and Gratians is concluded—” Sanct-Franciscus asked Vulpius as they watched the arena being made ready for the next contest. “I find this sort of battle—shall we say?—dulls my senses.”

  “Dwarves and wolves—I understand your lack of enthusiasm; it must be pretty tepid fare for a man who has been in battle, as you have. Go if you like; I won’t be offended,” said Vulpius. “You defended your homeland,” he went on after a long draught of wine. “An admirable thing to do, even if you defended it against our Roman Legions.”

  “No; we had other enemies,” said Sanct-Franciscus, an enigmatic glint in his eyes.

  “Of course, of course.” Vulpius waved him away. “Go, then, and do what you will. I would not wish you to be bored on my account. I thank you for coming with me today. Your company has made the afternoon more interesting.”

  “Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, “for your invitation and your company.” He turned away and climbed up from the box, along the steep stairs to the covered corridor, where he threaded his way through vendors of food, drink, and other comestibles; slaves waiting for their masters; prostitutes of all descriptions and tastes; oddsmakers and bet-takers; Romans from every level of society, from Senators to the lowest humiliora; and criminals from assassins to pick-pockets. The echoes of their calls and clamor mixed with the greater roar of those in the stands, so that the concrete walls offered a storm of noise to all who moved through them. Sanct-Franciscus paid little attention to the activity around him; he could not shake the feeling that he had made a mistake in visiting the Flavian Circus, and not solely for the memories it evoked: the air of the place felt tainted; he walked faster.

  “My master?” Natalis ventured as Sanct-Franciscus emerged from the arched opening to the Flavian Circus.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” said Sanct-Franciscus, shading his eyes against the fierce sunlight.

  “I’ve kept myself amused,” said Natalis, continuing hurriedly, “Not that I have stolen anything. I’ve been watching others steal.”

  “That must have amused you.” Sanct-Franciscus raised his hand to summon a sedan chair.

  “Most of it did, yes,” Natalis admitted as a group of chairmen approached.

  “The Temple of Hercules—how much?” Sanct-Franciscus asked directly.

  “Fifteen denarii,” said the leader of the four bearers; he was a burly man of about thirty, with callused hands and a sun-toughened face.

  “I will give twenty if you can get me there in under half an hour,” he said. “My servant will walk with you.”

  The leader bristled. “We always take the shortest route. You needn’t assign one of your men to be certain we do.”

  “I have no doubt of it, but I think that an observer can be useful on a day like this one,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his manner cordial but compelling.

  “That may be,” the lead chairman admitted. “Very well. He may walk beside us.”

  “Thank you for being reasonable.”

  The leader spat for luck. “On such a day as this, misunderstandings are frequent. The heat addles thought.”

  “Well, bring your chair, then, and we’ll set off.” Sanct-Franciscus gave the leader of the bearers five denarii as his comrades brought their chair in answer to the leader’s summoning whistle. “This as incentive, and to assure you that you will be fully paid.”

  The leader hitched up his shoulder, taking the money. “The Temple of Hercules.”

  With the price and destination agreed upon, Sanct-Franciscus climbed into the sedan chair and leaned back on the slightly lumpy cushions provided. Before he pulled the curtain closed, he added, “Natalis, keep watch for those gangs of young zealots. I do not want to have to tangle with them.”

  “No, my master,” said Natalis, most of his answer drowned out by a loud bellow from the crowd at the Flavian Circus.

  Moving away from the huge arena, the chairmen bore Sanct-Franciscus toward the Forum Romanum, turning aside before reaching that impressive place, and instead, skirting the base of the Esquilinus Hill, passing two impressive fountains where small crowds of children and humiliora were gathered, seeking relief from the heat of the day. The bearers kept up a steady jog, not too choppy, making good time along the streets which were less crowded than usual for this time of day—most Romans were at the Flavian Circus for the Emperor’s Games.

  “There is a procession ahead,” said the lead chairman, slowing his men and addressing their passenger. “Would you prefer we wait for it to pass or find a way around it?”

  Sanct-Franciscus considered briefly, glancing out of the curtains but unable to see ahead. “What sort of procession is it?”

  Natalis answered before the bearers could. “It looks to be a funeral procession, my master, bound out of the walls.”

  “Then find a way around it,” Sanct-Franciscus recommended.

  “It may slow our arrival,” said the lead chairman.

  “I will consider that in your payment,” Sanct-Franciscus assured him. “We have no cause to disturb the dead.”

  “Very well,” said the leader of the bearers, and took the first side-street on his left, where a pair of skinny dogs confronted the chairmen, cringing and growling at once; the leader bent and picked up a broken bit of paving-stone and shied it at the dogs, watching as they ran off. “Cowards,” he said, moving forward again.

  Natalis described the matter to Sanct-Franciscus, keeping pace with the bearers as they found their way through a warren of alleys and tangled streets, only to emerge less than two blocks from the Temple of Hercules a short while later.

  “There is a passage here that leads to the temple,” said the leader.

  “Yes, there is,” said Sanct-Franciscus, drawing back the curtain for the last time.

  “It is less than half an hour since we took you up,” the leader said as the men set the chair down conveniently near a sundial. “You promised us a bonus.”

  “And you shall have it,” said Sanct-Franciscus, emerging from the sedan chair, coins already in hand. “You did well.”

  The leader counted the coins. “There are twenty-one here.”

  “For your extra care in going around the funeral procession,” Sanct-Franciscus explained.

  “Generous of you,” said the leader before signaling his men to pick up their chair and turn toward the nearest forum where they might find someone in need of their services.

  Natalis watched them go. “Hard work, carrying chairs,” he said.

  “On such a day as this,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “The bearers should be careful, sweating as much as they were.”

  “Better this heat than rain, or worse,” said Natalis. “I always worked better warm than cold.”

  Sanct-Franciscus started walking toward the narrow passage that led to the side of the Temple of Hercules and Olivia’s house. “The streets will be wild tonight, I think.”

  “And tomorrow night, and the night after that,” said Natalis.

  “The Emperor’s Games,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “True enough.”

  “It could turn dangerous, these Games,” said Natalis. “Always when the Emperor, no matter who he may be, has three days of Games, the people become unruly.”

  “Three days,” Sanct-Franciscus repeated as he strolled toward the gate. “Why three days, and not two?”

  “The people become exhausted and excitable.
They lose good sense.” He paused, then continued with a suggestion of pride, “When I was still a thief, I knew that the second day of Games was best for me: the people were not too keyed up, and their exhilaration had not turned to mania. By the third day, when they were exhausted but too stimulated to rest, anything would set them off. I was almost killed three years ago when I was accused of taking three loaves of bread.”

  “And had you taken them?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  “No; I had stolen a small purse with ae and denarii in it, but nothing so obvious, or cumbersome, as loaves of bread.” Natalis rubbed his shoulder in memory of the attack. “They threw stones, and one Urban Guard struck me with his cudgel.”

  Sanct-Franciscus pulled on the rope to summon one of the slaves. “How did you get away?”

  “I rolled under a biga, grabbed the axle-frame and let it drag me a good distance from the crowd. The driver didn’t know I was there, or didn’t care: he beat the crowd off with his whip. Nyssa had seen it happen, and she came to help me.” His voice dropped. “She cared for me until I healed.”

  “Ingenious,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “And dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as continuing to be stoned,” said Natalis.

  Tigilus opened the gate. “Welcome, Dominus,” he said, with a critical glance at Natalis.

  “Good afternoon to you, Tigilus,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “How do I find you and the house?”

  “You find me hot,” said Tigilus with unusual candor. “Since you ask.”

  “And the rest of the household?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired as he started across the courtyard.

  “The rest of the household is hot, too. And tempers are short, as they are everywhere.” He followed after Sanct-Franciscus and Natalis into the shade of the roof, and through the door into the vestibule.

  “Have you distributed the ice-water I ordered?” Sanct-Franciscus stopped at the edge of the atrium.

  “It wasn’t delivered, Dominus,” said Tigilus.

  Sanct-Franciscus turned back to him, surprised and annoyed. “What do you mean?” He had a continuing arrangement with a supplier of ice, a drayer who owned four large wagons with double cargo chests lined with hay and sawdust, and maintained an emporium in the catacombs.

  “I mean the drayers never brought the ice you ordered. Rugeri sent a message to the dispatcher, asking why. Severin has just returned with their answer.”

  “Very good,” Sanct-Franciscus said, and motioned to Natalis. “If the ice is not brought shortly, I may ask him to carry a second message to the dispatcher.”

  “Ice on such a day as this is most welcome,” Tigilus said emphatically. “It has been paid for already—the ice has, hasn’t it? They should deliver or give the money back.”

  “Yes; I know,” said Sanct-Franciscus, a frown forming between his fine brows. “Why would—”

  Rugeri appeared in the doorway to the muniment room. “I have been informed by the ice-men that a decuria, Telemachus Batsho, has required that anything coming to this house be presented to him for assessment before it is released.” Ordinarily he would not have spoken so directly in front of the household, but in .this instance, he was keenly aware that the household was eager for news.

  “Telemachus Batsho,” Sanct-Franciscus repeated. “What a determined fellow he is.”

  Rugeri came forward, his austere features set in condemning lines. “Would you like me to send for him? You have the right to demand an explanation for this arbitrary discrimination.”

  “And give him another reason to deny us ice?” Sanct-Franciscus shook his head. “No; I’ll prepare a purse for him, against any charges he may see fit to levy.” He looked back at Tigilus. “Will you carry the purse for me?”

  “You have only to give the order,” said Tigilus.

  “He had best go shortly,” said Natalis.

  “Yes; the major battles will be starting soon at the Flavian Circus, and everyone will want to be at the arena,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a fleeting look of distaste. “Come, Tigilus. Let me attend to this at once.” He started toward Rugeri, but looked back at Natalis. “If you want to use the tepidarium, you, and the rest of the household, may do so until the ice comes.”

  Natalis did his best not to appear over-eager. “That would be most … most pleasant.”

  A sudden loud shout from the distant Games shook the air, followed by a loud yowl from the hydraulic organ.

  “We had best hurry; the Games are growing wilder,” said Sanct-Franciscus to Tigilus. “Natalis, if you will supervise the bath—have Holmdi help you—and Rugeri, if you will prepare a message for the ice-merchant?” He was already striding toward the muniment room, wondering as he went what mischief Telemachus Batsho intended this time.

  Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Ravenna to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma, carried by personal courier.

  To the distinguished foreigner, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, also known as Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus—you see? I’ve remembered—the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens to my house in Roma, near the Temple of Hercules,

  I write in haste to inform you that I am about to leave Ravenna for Vesontio in Gallia Belgica. Recent troubles here make it imperative that I remove myself from this city and the accusations of some resolute followers of the Jewish Christ. I have been called a demon of the night and a sorceress, and similar appellations; they have taken to throwing stones at me when I go out of my house, and nothing the local Prefect can do will stop them. Rather than confront them and thus enrage them still further, I have decided to move rather than risk discovery of my true nature.

  I have a small property in Vesontio, with good vines and a small stable, where I can live in relative comfort until Roma or Ravenna are once again safe to occupy. I plan to remain here for five years or so, and then to consider what is best to do. At least I need not fear for my survival there, as I have realized I must do if I stay here.

  From all the reports I have heard of that young Syrian’s caprices, I must assume Roma has endured much at his hands, and not all of it bread and circuses. It is apparent to me that until there is a Caesar worthy of the name, I would be well-advised to remain some distance from Roma—the city has become much too volatile for me, and I believe that two vampires within Roman walls could only bring trouble to us both. So in the name of self-protection, I leave my native earth to you, so long as you ship me ten crates of it as soon as I am settled at Sapientia. It is on the west side of the town, on the Via Philomena.

  For the time being, I have money enough to live prosperously, and if the coins should continue to be debased, I will have wine and horses to trade, since, unlike you, I cannot make my own gold and jewels. Still, great wealth can be as much a burden as a delight; my lands will maintain me quite handsomely. Incidentally, I am learning to drive a biga, which should prove useful in the days ahead—not that I imagine myself fleeing over the country roads. One year I must learn to ride—providing in so doing I do not attract too much notice to myself.

  Last week I had a letter from the regional Prosecutor, inquiring about the incidents with the so-called Christians. The man is considered well-educated and intelligent, and so I was doubly appalled at his use of Latin! If his prose is any example, the coins are not the only Roman thing being debased. I was truly shocked. I know that the humiliora and others are not careful about language—and why should they be?—but the Prosecutor is an official, and his letter was a formal one. Magna Mater! The grammar was slip-shod, the syntax was careless, and all manner of foreign usage had crept into the text. No doubt this is a sign of my age, but I cannot help but feel that something important is lost when respect for language fails.

  I will not rant any longer, and I will thank you for your understanding of the frustrations I feel. Much as I long for your company, if only through the medium of this page of vellum, I have packing to supervise and then I must purchase heavy wagons and carpenta, with oxen to pull them, and arrange for some
one of good repute to occupy this house. Just writing it down is tiring, but it must be done. So I will finish this with my assurance of my

  Everlasting love,

  Olivia

  On the 9th day of August in the 972nd Year of the City

  5

  “She’s had a hard day—two days,” Ignatia said as she met Sanct-Franciscus in the vestibule. “She hasn’t been sleeping—the heat wears on her—and she is not …” She made a complicated gesture as Starus carefully secured the bolt on the door. “I wouldn’t have sent you word so late, but she …”

  “She has been vomiting, not much, but whenever she tries—” said Starus, holding a branch of oil-lamps so that they could more easily see one another. “Nothing she eats stays down, not even water.” He spoke softly enough, for most of the household was asleep.

  “I’ve tried poppy-water, just as you recommended, but not even that can soothe her, and she claims I want to poison her,” said Ignatia, and stifled a sudden yawn. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so—”

  Sanct-Franciscus took Ignatia’s hand. “How long have you been tending Domina Adicia?” His case of medicaments was buckled to his belt, and he used his free hand to move it around to the small of his back, out of the way.

  “Since before dawn yesterday,” Starus said before Ignatia could answer. “Doma Ignatia has taken a few brief naps, but she is worn out with all the demands being made on her.”

  “Starus,” Ignatia warned, staring down at her hand in his. “I have an obligation, and I will fulfill it.”

  “It is true, Doma,” he said firmly. “And your brother’s no help, going to his friends to have them pray to their Jewish god to help her. Again.” He raised his chin indignantly. “I will not go back on what I’ve said. You have been up almost two days, and that is too much for anyone. Octavian should be here, helping to care for his mother, not with the Christians.”