“Do you allow all your household such liberty—to speak to you without your giving permission?” Batsho marveled, not entirely in admiration.
“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I would be a fool not to.”
“And why is that?” Batsho asked in a tone that suggested any response must be absurd.
“Because if there is trouble in the house, I want to know of it immediately. Perhaps there is a fire in the kitchen: I would put myself and everyone under this roof in danger if the household had to wait to inform me of it until I thought to ask why I smelled smoke. If a thief should be apprehended in the act of stealing, the household should not have to detain the man for an indefinite time while I was uninformed of his presence.” His manner was as open as the summer sky above them.
“Reasonable, if you are expecting trouble,” Batsho conceded, and returned to reading the documents, his wine still untouched.
“What sensible man does not expect some manner of trouble?” Sanct-Franciscus asked in the same bland tone.
Batsho shrugged and went back to his reading; a short while later he asked, “What more do you have on the size and capacity of the stable here?”
“I have three records,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “One for the original construction of the house, one for repairs done about a century ago, and one for the expansion of the exercise yard, thirty-five years ago.” He pulled each scroll from its pigeon-hole as he spoke. “Which would you like to see?” He waited for Batsho’s answer, anticipating his response.
With a sigh suggesting overwork, Batsho said, “I suppose I should see them all. You can then tell me how many horses you intend to keep here in the city.”
“Seven for now, and four ponies. Also three mules.” He paused. “All the rest of my livestock is at my villa outside the city walls, except for the cook’s flocks of fowl.”
“Birds are not livestock; there is no tax on them, for their numbers vary from day to day,” said Batsho rather stiffly. “I would not like for you to have to pay more than you are required.”
“I appreciate that,” said Sanct-Franciscus, a wicked glint in his dark eyes. “I am prepared to pay what I owe, of course.”
“No doubt you are,” said Batsho, and sighed. “Do you have your record of your horses and ponies and mules?”
“On this parchment,” said Sanct-Franciscus, handing the sheet to him.
Batsho barely glanced at it before putting his sign at the bottom of the page. “You have provided an inventory of household goods already. I suppose you have spices in the kitchen?”
“The cook has told me what he requires and I have provided most of it, to the limit of the markets I may use. My purchases are listed here.” He handed over another sheet of parchment, and wondered what more Batsho would think of to put his mark on in order to make a bit more money from doing his duty.
“You have excellent taste, it would appear, or your cook does, and you encourage him,” said Batsho as he scanned the record Sanct-Franciscus offered to him. “You are nothing if not generous with him.”
“So I would hope,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “My cook has a reputation to maintain.”
“This is a considerable amount of spices. So much pepper! And cinnamon.” He cocked his head. “How did you acquire so much, and so quickly?” The greedy twist to his features was back.
“I am a … a partner in a shipping company, as I must assume you know. Our ships trade in Egypt and Syria, among other Mare Internum ports. We bring Roman merchandise to and get cargo from Bithynia, Cappadocia, and Armenia as well as Chios, Byzantium, and Odessus; we have emporia in western ports as well—Narbo, Tarraco, and the Baleares Isolae, among other places, so I am able to purchase many things in quantity that others are unable to procure at all.” He leaned back against the writing-table, resting on his braced hands. “I have a colleague in Alexandria just now, attending to our trading there.”
“Yes. The Eclipse Trading Company,” said Batsho as if to take Sanct-Franciscus by surprise.
“Yes,” said Sanct-Franciscus, wholly unflustered.
“It has been a successful endeavor for you, according to the records at the Basilica Julia.”
“Most years it is. Last year we lost three ships—one to pirates, two to storms—and our earnings suffered as well as our seamen.” He continued to support himself on his hands.
“You ransomed three of your seamen, including your captain, from Cnossus on Creta.” He frowned, then clearing his throat he added, “You know that you must bear the cost of the ransom yourself; the state cannot recompense you for what you spent?”
“I am aware of that,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
Batsho tapped his fingers on the nearest sheet of parchment. “You know, there were those who said your captain was in league with the pirates, and only claimed to be a captive.”
“Such things are said of all island-dwellers,” Sanct-Franciscus remarked, refusing to be drawn into an acrimonious debate, as he guessed Batsho wanted him to be.
“Well, you got the fellow back, and three others.” He gave a sound between a snort and a chuckle. “It was your money to spend, I suppose.”
“That it was,” said Sanct-Franciscus in superb neutrality.
“I see you have two new ships under construction at Ostia,” Batsho went on. “You must intend to continue trading, even if it proves dangerous and costly.”
“I think it is a good venture for foreigners to undertake—we have useful connections that are often to our advantage.”
Batsho considered this while he read the next parchment. “I take your point,” he said, deliberately unclear whether he meant the information on the sheet or Sanct-Franciscus’ remarks. Signing again, he said, “This is now nineteen documents I have seen and officially noted. You will have to pay me thirty-four aurei, based on the value of your holdings described in your documents; I am entitled to receive that amount.”
“You shall have the money before you leave,” said Sanct-Franciscus, as if he were unaware of the inflated price. “And five aurei for your time and trouble.” This last was said as if he had offered mere denarii rather than aurei.
“Most generous,” said Batsho, making a note to look more closely at Sanct-Franciscus’ financial dealings, for he had been expecting a protest, not an additional commoda.
“Is there anything more you will need to see, good decuria?” Sanct-Franciscus asked politely.
“Not now; I may have some other inquiries to make, at another time, and if I do, I will inform you of it. I must go to my sister’s husband, as I mentioned when I arrived.” He put the scrolls back in their sheaf and extended this to Sanct-Franciscus, who moved away from the table to accept them. “You have been most reasonable, honestiorus. I thank you for that.”
“It is gracious of you to say so, decuria,” Sanct-Franciscus answered, his demeanor revealing little of his thoughts.
“If you will permit me to take my leave?” He did his best to display official dignity, knowing it was expected of Romans.
“I would not have thought you needed my permission, but if it pleases you, you have it. I will summon my old steward to escort you as soon as I count out your aurei.” He set the sheaf on the writing table and went to pull open a drawer underneath the pigeon-hole shelves, revealing a small wooden chest banded in iron. Using a key that hung on a thong around his neck, Sanct-Franciscus opened the lock, revealing a mass of gold coins. “Thirty-nine aurei is the sum, I recall?”
“That it is,” said Batsho, belatedly wondering how he would carry such an amount back to his office.
As if anticipating his problem, Sanct-Franciscus held up a leather pouch. “Shall I put the coins in this?”
“I would … that would be …” Batsho floundered, torn between wanting the convenience and the fear that Sanct-Franciscus would not give him the full amount they had agreed upon.
“You shall count them and sign for them, of course, so there is no question as to the amount paid for your service,” said Sanct-Fra
nciscus, for the first time sounding a bit annoyed. “Is that satisfactory to you?”
“I am more than willing to have a record of our dealings,” Batsho said promptly, taking the pouch and turning away to count the aurei. Thirty-nine aurei: whole buildings could be bought for less! “Thirty-nine, as agreed,” he said, although he had counted forty. He slipped the closing straps of the pouch twice around his left wrist, hefting it. “This will do.” Then he slipped the thongs off his wrist and secured them to his belt; patting the pouch, he said, “Safer this way.”
Sanct-Franciscus offered a quilled stylus and an ink-cake, moist enough to use. “If you would, then?”
Batsho read the statement: The decuria Telemachus Batsho has today received from the foreign merchant Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus the sum of thirty-nine aurei in full and complete payment for his official inspection of documents of residence, title, occupation, and taxation status. This document stands as witness to these transactions. “My signature and sign?”
“And the date, if you would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, almost apologetically. “So there can be no confusion.”
“Naturally,” said Batsho, a bit huffily, for had he been able to leave off the date, he might have been able to claim a second commoda to rectify that lapse. He dipped the end of the quill into the edge of the softened ink, wrote his name and sign, and reluctantly added 19th day of July, 971st Year of the City. “There. That should satisfy anyone, up to the Emperor himself.”
“I thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and nodded toward the door. “Would you like one of my slaves to escort you back to your office?”
Again, Batsho was torn: he saw the advantage of added protection, but that slave could possibly overcome him, steal the pouch, and return it to Sanct-Franciscus. With the receipt he had signed, Batsho would have no recourse to regain his money, so he said, “I believe I will attract less attention on my own, honestiorus.”
“As you wish,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and clapped his hands. This time it was Aedius who answered the summons. “My guest is leaving. If you would see him to the gate for me?”
“Of course, Dominus,” said Aedius, standing respectfully while Batsho gestured his farewell and started for the atrium. “There is someone in the rear vestibule who would like a little of your time,” he added as he prepared to escort Telemachus Batsho from the house.
Something in Aedius’ tone put Sanct-Franciscus on the alert. “Thank you. I will attend to it now.” He called after Batsho, “You see, decuria, there are advantages in giving the household leave to speak.”
Batsho, now out of the study, was able to ignore this last remark as he continued out into the atrium, his hand placed protectively over the jingling pouch he carried on a double-thong on his belt.
As soon as he was sure that Batsho was through the gate, Sanct-Franciscus left his place in the study and hastened to the rear vestibule, where he found Daniama the laundress standing guard at the door, her muscular arms folded. “I understand I have a guest,” he said to the sturdy slave.
“Yes, Dominus.” She ducked her head. “Aedius said I was to guard her.”
“No doubt a very sensible plan,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “But do you think, perhaps, I might be allowed to enter?” He waited for her to move aside, wondering as he did what—and whom—he would find inside.
“Your pardon, Master,” said the slave, and stepped away quickly.
Sanct-Franciscus put his hand on the latch, calling out, “I am coming in,” as he swung the door back. He found the room in shadow, the wooden blinds turned to keep out the summer sun. “Who is here?” he asked of the gloom, for although the darkness made little difference to the clarity of his sight, he knew most of the living were not so fortunate and were often troubled by his ability to see so well; he was aware his unknown guest was in the far corner, turned away from the door.
“Patronus,” exclaimed Melidulci, not moving from her place.
“My delight,” he exclaimed, starting toward her. “What is the matter?” For something had to be the matter: Melidulci was not behaving as Sanct-Franciscus had ever seen her act before. “What has happened?” As he reached her side, he saw her flinch. “What is wrong?”
Suddenly she burst into tears and pressed her head against his shoulder, keeping her face averted; she was trembling . “I … I could think of … of no one else to come to,” she whispered, her words muffled.
“But surely within the lupanar—” he began, and felt her cringe.
“I will leave,” she said suddenly, shoving him so she could step away from him. “I don’t want to impose.”
“No, no,” he told her gently, putting his arm around the small of her back with care, for he could tell by her posture that she was in pain. “That was clumsy of me. If you have trouble, the Guard of the Lupanar should protect you—that is what they are paid for.”
She broke away from his embrace, then reached out suddenly and turned the slats of the blinds, throwing the uncompromising noon light on her face: bruises and broken skin distorted her features so that she was almost unrecognizable. One eye was puffy, purple, and all but swollen shut, her lip was cracked and swollen, there were lumps on her jaw and a dribble of blood below her distended ear. Her upper arms were marred with the purple ghosts of finger dug into her flesh. “Who do you think did this?” she demanded, and her sobbing became loud and ragged. “Lupanar Guards!”
He stared at her, wanting to disbelieve, but unable to doubt her. “Why would Lupanar Guards do such a thing—and to you, of all women?”
“I don’t know!” she wailed. “I pay them their commoda, and extra.” A note of panic had entered her voice.
“Melidulci,” Sanct-Franciscus said, folding her close to him again.
“I’m not either,” she howled, twisting in his arms. “Not now!” Abruptly she collapsed, sagging into his encompassing hold. “Don’t look at me!”
“Why not?” he asked her, no distress in his voice; his dark, penetrating gaze did not waver.
“Because I’m hideous!”
“No, no, Melidulci, you are injured, you are not hideous. You cannot be hideous, not to me.” He supported her easily, as if she weighed no more than a child did.
“Why?” she challenged, adding angrily. “Because you love me?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I like you very much and I am deeply fond of you; I know you.”
This held her attention. “But you do not love me.”
“No,” he said, a world of kindness in his answer.
Now she was puzzled; she did her best to ignore her fear and hurts. “Why not? Almost all the men who come to me claim to love me.”
“And do you believe them?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “You do not want me to be one who claims to love you, do you.”
Her ragged laughter was not as cynical as she wanted it to be. “Of course not.”
“Do you believe my friendship is sincere?”
She stared at him, her eyes growing moist. “Yes,” she said after a brief silence. “I do.”
“Then accept it, and let me help you now.” He felt her tremble, and went on compassionately, “This was done to leave marks, and to frighten you.”
“Then they succeeded,” she muttered, forcing her legs to support her. “One of them struck me across the back with a length of wood. I was bludgeoned more than once with it, and they struck my feet; walking here was—” She broke off.
“The Guard of the Lupanar did this, you say.” Sanct-Franciscus kept her close to him, providing her the safety of his nearness.
“Or men dressed like them,” Melidulci allowed, bringing her crying under control. “I didn’t know their faces, and I thought I knew them all.”
“Did you not?” He considered this, using the edge of the wide, square sleeve of his dalmatica to start to wipe away the dried blood from her face. “This is insufficient,” he said as he examined the results. “I will order a bath, and while it is readied, I will soak your injuries wi
th pads infused with anodyne tinctures. Once I see the whole of you, I will have a better notion of what you will need.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“You know I have some skill with medicaments; you have seen the efficacy of the preparations I provide,” he said without haste, his small hands moving over as much of her face and neck as he could see without adding to her distress. “I will endeavor to do my best to help your recovery; I am no Galen, but my methods have their uses.” He had acquired them over centuries, beginning in the Temple of Imhotep; he looked directly into her disfigured visage. “I cannot undo all the damage, but I can keep it to a minimum.”
“How!” She did not speak loudly; her anguish was all the more poignant because of it.
“There are unguents and poultices to ease the bruising and to help close the breaks in your skin with the least scarring possible,” he said. “I have bandages that will also help prevent scars, and some that will keep the medicaments where they need to be to treat the hurts you have. I have syrup of poppies to diminish your pain so you may sleep. Sleep heals much more than any physician can.”
She sighed. “I shouldn’t. You may be in danger if you shelter me. If those men followed me—”
“So I might be,” Sanct-Franciscus admitted, “but the woman who owns this house—a widow called Olivia—would never forgive me if I failed to care for you, nor would I excuse myself. You are dear to me, little as you may want to be, Melidulci, and those of my blood do not turn away from those we care for when they are in need.” He thought of Periasis, less than a century ago, and winced; he clapped his hands, calling out, “Daniama, have the caldarium heated—not too hot, but enough to promote sweat. Then ask Vitellius to bring me my leather case of medicaments.” Just then he missed Rugeri intensely, wishing he were here to tend to such things with only minor instruction.
From the corridor came “Yes, Master,” and the sound of sandaled feet going toward the rear of the house.
“Your slaves will talk,” Melidulci murmured, now sounding overwhelmed with fatigue.
“I will take care of that once I have tended to you,” he assured her, and stroked her hair, his hand light as a gauze veil. “Do not fret, Melidulci.”
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