“All the more reason to allow us to hurry,” said Sanct-Franciscus, ignoring the last implication. “The case is urgent, as the Doma says.”
The leader of the trio motioned the other two aside. “Come. Let’s go see if Marutius is able to stand up yet.” He chuckled and reached out to slap the rump of the nearer horse. “I hope your treatment is successful, foreigner,” he called after the biga as it began to move.
When they reached the end of the street and turned toward the Laelius’house, Ignatia spoke up abruptly. “Why did you let them say such things? How dared they? They suggested—I cannot think of it! I was mortified. As if I would pander for my mother!”
“You have no reason to be troubled,” Sanct-Franciscus assured her. “Soldiers make a habit of such remarks; they are meaningless. By morning, they will be forgot.” Had Philius not been there, he might have laid a comforting hand on her arm, but with the slave as witness, he did not want to cause Ignatia any more discomfort than she already felt. “Make sure you have hold of the handrail—you know how sharp the turn is for your villa.”
They moved around onto the Via Decius Claudii and covered the last two blocks at a brisk walk. As the pair were pulled to a halt, Sanct-Franciscus took his case and stepped down from the rear of the biga, prepared to help Ignatia; a noise behind him attracted his attention: he swung around as the oil-lamps flared.
The door was opened by Starus, who looked tired and worried. “She has been weeping, Doma Ignatia,” he said.
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Ignatia earnestly as she got out of the biga behind Sanct-Franciscus, stepping down onto the pavement with care. “I take it she is still awake.”
“And fretful,” said Starus. “Tallia is with her. I sent Mirza to bed—she’s so worn out, she’s falling asleep where she stands.”
“A wise thing to do,” said Ignatia, going through the porticus into the house, taking care to cross the threshold on her right foot, for to fail in this custom would be seen as the most dreadful omen. She paused by the lares and left a coin on the narrow shelf, a token of her regard and need.
Following after her, his case of medicaments in hand, Sanct-Franciscus took a bead of amber from his wallet and placed it in a shallow dish next to the household gods. “For your mother’s improvement.”
Ignatia looked around at him. “The whole household thanks you.”
Although he doubted this, Sanct-Franciscus kept his opinion to himself. “That is unnecessary,” he said as he picked up his case and prepared to go on to Adicia’s room.
“But it is,” said Ignatia, walking slightly ahead of him. “I know you can find your way, but my mother would be shocked to have such a breach of manners.”
“I have noticed that she prefers to keep the traditions,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Because of her regard for her family.” Ignatia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She is worried about her brother Drusus, who is fighting with the Emperor in the East.”
“Word is that things are not going well,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his voice also lowered.
“The Senate is abuzz with rumors,” said Ignatia, a bit louder. “My mother hears the news from her visitors, and she is upset, and that makes her—”
“—more unwell,” Sanct-Franciscus finished for her. “Yes; this is not uncommon.”
“We have tried to advise those who call upon her to say nothing about the current scandals,” said Ignatia.
“I know you are conscientious,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his tone soothing.
It was as if she had not heard him. “—but she frets if she is not told the whole, and then she accuses her family and slaves of working against her—” She stopped, looking around as if hoping to discover they had not been overheard.
“Your mother’s illness makes her most trying,” said Sanct-Franciscus, moving toward Adicia’s room.
“Oh, most trying,” she exclaimed. “If only she had remained well!”
“Since that is not presently possible, I would like to suggest that you go to your own chamber, summon your own slave and be massaged so you will be able to sleep,” he said. “Starus will escort me, and you will not have to worry yourself into discomposure. You have already done more than most daughters would for their mothers.” He touched her shoulder, hardly more than a brush of his fingers; it held her attention. “It is unfortunate that your mother suffers, but there is no reason you must do so.”
Ignatia sighed. “She will wonder why I was so lax not to escort you.”
“And I will explain it to her,” he said gently. “You need rest. Doma Ignatia.”
She looked away from him. “You’re right, I suppose.”
“Go rest, Doma Ignatia,” said Sanct-Franciscus softly. “You mother will manage without you—my Word on it.”
She considered, then reached over to touch his hand. “You will have me wakened if anything goes ill with her?”
“Certainly,” he said.
Reluctantly she nodded. “Very well. I will try to sleep. I am tired.” She broke away from him and went quickly along the corridor as if she was afraid she might change her mind.
Sanct-Franciscus went along toward Domina Adicia’s room, aware that the household slaves who were up kept wary eyes upon him. By the time he reached Adicia’s chamber, he could hear the whispers in the dark. “Good evening, Domina,” he said as he stepped through the door. “I am sorry to hear you are unwell.”
Adicia smiled as she glanced at him, and although she was pale and thin, she held out her hand to him. “How good of you to come to me at this late hour. You appreciate my need.”
“Your daughter was kind enough to fetch me,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he came to her side. “She gives you most persevering care.”
“So she would have you believe,” Adicia said, pulling her hand back.
“You have no reason to doubt it,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he motioned to the exhausted slave dozing at the end of the bed. “Will you bring a basin of hot water from the kitchen?”
The slave ducked her head yawning, and hurried off.
“None of my household cares what becomes of me,” Adicia muttered.
“You know that is not the case,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he felt her pulse, finding it hard and ragged. “You must not blame them for failing to restore your health.”
“How can I not, when I continue to ail?” She reached out again and took his hand. “You don’t understand how difficult this is for me. I strive to have courage, to keep my dignity, but I am—” She stopped and drew his hand to her cheek. “You know I’m still a woman, and that I truly—”
Carefully he extricated his hand from her grasp. “I know you are ill, Domina Adicia, and that you may improve if you permit me to treat you.”
Adicia shook her head. “She’s working on you, isn’t she? She’s always looking to take advantage.”
Sanct-Franciscus paused in the opening of his case. “She?”
“My daughter,” said Adicia as if the word were venomous. “I know what she is, and how she connives to gain the sympathy of others, so I must suffer for the loss of affection she has caused.”
Taking a vial from his case, Sanct-Franciscus began to mix a potion for the wretched woman. “This is the burden of your illness speaking, Domina,” he said as he poured a little tincture of pansy into the infusion of crushed nettles he had already decanted, “Your daughter has embraced your well-being and has modeled her—”
“Not she!” Adicia burst out. “She’s subtle, I grant you.”
“She is not the reprehensible child you think,” he said, adding another ingredient to his compound. “Do not trouble yourself, Domina.”
“A fine state of affairs,” Adicia muttered, drawing herself under her covers. “That my own physician should not see anything so obvious. My brother is just as blind. But then, men are always fools about Ignatia.”
Sanct-Franciscus held out the vial. “If you will drink this, I believe you will have enough rel
ief to be able to sleep without pain.”
“So she can work her wiles on you?” Adicia asked, but took the vial and drank the contents. “I will not relinquish your fondness to her without making an effort to keep it.”
He took the empty vial. “Domina Adicia, I hope you will believe me when I tell you that whatever my feelings may be toward your daughter, they do not alter my emotions in regard to you.”
There was a scratch at the door, and then another slave entered, a steaming basin of water in her cloth-wrapped hand. “For my mistress.”
Adicia frowned. “Why do you need that?”
“So your slave may bathe you while you feel more comfortable. You are in need of a bath, are you not?” He indicated where the woman should set the basin down. “Keeping your body clean is important, Domina Adicia, especially when you spend so much time abed.”
Her sigh this time was eloquent of ill use. “If you insist, I suppose I must.” Then she flashed him a sensual smile. “You might bathe me to better purpose.”
Sanct-Franciscus said nothing as he stepped away from her and went toward the door, the frown between his fine brows deepening as he went.
Text of a letter from Lucius Virginius Rufius to Marius Octavian Laelius, carried by a Greek private courier and delivered clandestinely.
To my newfound brother in Christ, the Kiss of Peace and the blessings of the glorious Apostle Paul from those of us who follow the Paulist creed, with my fervent wish that you grow in faith and grace with every passing hour.
There is to be a meeting and a Mass at the house of Celestia Delphina Hilaria Pario, who lives off the Via Appia about two thousand paces from the walls of Roma. Tomorrow night at sunset is the time the celebration will begin. Four of us are planning to go together to this wonderful event, and returning together as well. So I have the happy task of asking you if you should care to join us. If you are able to come, bring a new loaf of bread with you, along with either a jug of wine or a basket of fresh-caught fish for the Mass and our fellowship. If you wish to travel with us, inform me if you will have your horse or will wish to ride in my biga, or the biga of my cousin, Gelasius Virginius Apollonius Metsari? If you will inform me by tonight what you intend to do, I would be most grateful.
A few of us are planning to walk about the city after Mass, to see what evils we may strive to undo. We have done this in the past occasionally, and have saved a man from being robbed, as well as prevented lewdness, and offered a mantele to a naked beggar. On one of our ventures, we spent an hour speaking to some Fora Guards bound for a tavern, exhorting them to leave their dissolute ways and join us as Christians.
Of course we will continue to pray for your mother, that God may send her a healing through your devotion. It is what we Christians must do, to demonstrate the power of our faith, and our trust in God. See that your own grace is not lost in pressing for her relief of suffering: all men must suffer, and women the more so, for the sins of Eve. Have patience, hope, and faith, and you will see your mother restored to you again, in radiant health and open heart, for the Glory of God.
Lucius Virginius Rufius
By my own hand on the 26th day of June in the 218th Year of the Christ
5
Telemachus Batsho stormed into the room Sanct-Franciscus was using for his study; his face was red from more than the heat and he moved as if he were killing vermin on the floor. “What do you mean by summoning me? And before prandium? I am to dine with my sister’s husband at midday.”
Behind Batsho, Vitellius stood, his head bowed in mixed exasperation and submission. “He insisted that I not announce him, Dominus.”
Sanct-Franciscus paused in his putting scrolls into pigeon-hole shelves. “There is no trouble, Vitellius. I asked the decuria to call upon me; he is expected. And do not fear; this should take less than an hour—you will not miss your meal. If you will bring honied wine for my guest?” He nodded the old steward away. “You have a complaint against me, decuria?”
“That I do,” huffed Batsho, in no mood to be genial. “I am not accustomed to being sent for—like a dog.”
“I am sorry it seemed that way to you; it was not my intent.” Sanct-Franciscus indicated an upholstered bench from Fars. “Be at your ease.”
“How did you think I should react to your high-handed summons?” Batsho folded his arms and remained standing.
“I hoped you would appreciate the opportunity to review all the various records you say you need in order to make my residence here official,” said Sanct-Franciscus at his most cordial, but with an air of reserve to keep Batsho from assuming he was overly impressed with the decuria’s importance. “Given all the information you appear to need to accomplish this, I assumed you would want to attend to this where all is to hand. I feared I would disaccommodate you if I had to spend the day going back and forth between this house and your office, asking you to postpone your business with others; with you present, we may attend to everything with a minimal loss of time for us both.” His smile was bland and urbane, quelling any hint of disrespect. “Do, please, sit down.”
Batsho glared at him, his wrath giving way to puzzlement. “You may be correct,” he admitted at last. “But you should keep in mind that this is not the way things are done in Roma.”
“That is unfortunate, for everyone,” said Sanct-Franciscus with every appearance of sympathy, knowing that if this were truly the case, it was the result of recent changes, for things were different during his last stay in Roma, when Olivia had been still alive.
“You are a foreigner; you do not understand our Roman traditions,” said Batsho, his posture squaring to a more martial one.
“I fear not,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. He indicated a sheaf of fan-folded scrolls. “I believe these are where it would be most fruitful to begin.”
“What documents are those?” Batsho asked heavily, as if mistrusting them. Little as he wanted to admit it, the heat had given him a headache that would undoubtedly worsen as the day dragged on.
“Various deeds, transfers, tax records, and other sorts of information regarding this property and its owner.” Sanct-Franciscus held up an official letter. “This is my permit of occupancy. Next is the receipt of fees.”
“All very useful,” Batsho allowed. He held out his hands for the sheaf. “You may be right—this is more swiftly accomplished here.” He paused. “You know my percentage is granted for each document I examine.”
“So I have been told.” The wryness in Sanct-Franciscus’ smile was lost on Batsho. “All the more reason to attend to this here. I believe this room is cooler than the Basilica Julia is now on its upper floors.”
“It will be stifling by afternoon there, yes. I understand your purpose,” said Batsho as he began to read through the first document, taking great care to inspect the seals at the bottom of the text. “This appears to be in order.”
“So I should hope,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and looked up as Vitellius returned with a large cup of wine on a neat, round tray of hammered copper. “Put it on the ivory table,” he recommended.
“Yes, Dominus,” said Vitellius, taking great care not to spill any of the wine.
“It smells very good,” Batsho said, lifted the cup, and hesitated. “Where is yours?”
Sanct-Franciscus lowered his head. “Alas, good decuria, I do not drink wine.”
Batsho put his cup down at once. “Then I will not drink, either,” he declared, the tenuous air of good will he had displayed vanishing as if by sorcery.
“Ah.” Sanct-Franciscus gave a single nod of understanding. “No, good decuria; you have nothing to fear within these walls, from me or any of the household. I will force no drink or food upon you, but I assure you that you need have no fear to partake of either.” He almost held his breath. “I would like to think that you would grant me the privilege of showing you hospitality.”
“Hospitality has masked many acts of treachery,” said Batsho grumpily. “I shall need to see the records of ownership for th
is domicile.”
“I have them just here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking three rolled scrolls out of the pigeon-hole shelves. “There is a fourth, which I keep in my Deeds Chest; if you want it—? I can also produce Wills, showing the line of bequests—”
“That will not be necessary,” said Batsho, cutting him off. “If you have these, the Wills are redundant.”
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Not that I am aware of. Yet.” This last was portentous, and Batsho took delight in seeing Sanct-Franciscus duck his head as if he were little more than a slave.
“No one.” he announced, “is more eager than I to see justice done for you, honestiorus. That is the reason I must see so many of your records here.”
That, thought Sanct-Franciscus, and the additional commodae you are entitled to collect for the inspections you make; concealing his emotions, he said, “Of course.”
For a short while Batsho read in silence, his full concentration on the scrolls before him. As he finished each page, he marked it with his sign at the bottom as proof that he had seen it. Every sign would earn him an additional two percent of his final charges, bringing the commodae he would receive to a handsome total, but it would prevent a second or third inspection being required, and the commodae being paid again; during Batsho’s long scrutiny, Sanct-Franciscus returned to putting scrolls in their pigeon-holes and adding to his catalogue of what records had been put where.
“Dominus, I am needed elsewhere,” Vitellius dared to say at last.
“Oh yes. You needn’t linger on my account,” sad Sanct-Franciscus, mildly preoccupied; he, too, was aware of how much Batsho might earn for himself during this inspection, and thought back a century to a time when men of Batsho’s position were paid by the Roman Senate, not by those to whose records they attended. “I will summon you when I need you, Vitellius.”
Vitellius nodded and left.
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