“So they could,” he responded, adding and so they were to himself.
“Yet you say that flaws do not repel you?” she challenged, angling her head upward.
“No, they do not,” he said tranquilly. “Flaws are often at the heart of beauty. Think of Mirabella, with her mole at the corner of her eye, or Eusacia, whose birthmark lends her face a catlike appearance. Neither of them are hampered by their flaws. Why should you be?”
“Those are gifts of birth. I have scars from a beating.” She made a determined effort not to cry.
“That could make a difference to some squeamish men,” he allowed. “But not to me.”
She stared at him. “How can you look at me and not see me with my face swollen and broken? You must be repulsed.”
“Not repulsed: saddened,” he corrected her gently. “I am sorry that you have had to bear the burdens imposed upon you.”
“Imposed.” She looked away, trying to stop a sudden rush of tears; she very nearly succeeded, and that gave her a brief satisfaction. She used her thumb and finger to pinch the bridge of her nose and wipe away the shine of moisture on her eyelids.
“What else would you call it?” he asked, kindness suffusing his dark, compelling eyes.
“They would have been worse if not for you,” said Melidulci; to distract herself she picked up a bacon-wrapped scallop and bit into it, chewed for a short while, then went on in a different tone, taking refuge in what she said. “Before my Aunt Bonascientia—she was originally named Liatris—adopted me and brought me to the lupanar, I lived with my mother and father and two surviving brothers—another brother and a sister died young—to the north of Roma, near Pisae. I was called Emera then. My father and his brother had a good-sized holding beyond the town where they bred mules for the Legions and donkeys for farmers, and we did fairly well; they were respected in the region, and their mules were always wellconformed. I’d had a marriage arranged with the son of a horse-breeder, and everything seemed set. I would probably have done well by Aquila; he was a sensible youth, and we’d grown up together. But then Swine Fever came when I was twelve, and my brothers died, and then my uncle, and a year later, my father was kicked in the head by an injured mule, which left his wits addled.” She sighed and finished her scallop. “Why should I tell you this?”
“Because you will feel less alone if you do,” said Sanct-Franciscus, who welcomed this effort at closeness. “Your aunt brought you here to Roma after so much loss.” It was not quite a question. “To the lupanar, where she lived.”
“She did. She had been very successful in her work, and she had amassed a considerable amount of money—more than I have, and I have done quite well for myself.”
“Yes, you have,” said Sanct-Franciscus, encouraging her to go on.
Melidulci banished the frown forming between her brows and ordered her memories. “When she was informed about her brother’s condition, she came to see for herself, and at once set about to provide for my father and mother. She took care of everything; arranged for the mules and donkeys to be sold and the land put under stewardship of Aquila’s brother—the marriage had been forsworn by both families—and my mother provided for with rents from the land, so that she would not be without means in the world. When the land was dealt with, Aunt Bonascientia found slaves to take care of my father, and she paid for a Greek physician to treat him; my mother couldn’t bear to do it, nor could I. Had my aunt not taken me in, my life would have been far less pleasant, and far less profitable than it has been.” Wiping her hands on a square of linen set out next to a bowl of water for the purpose of cleaning greasy fingers, she continued, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this … I don’t … I never talk about my life before the lupanar. And when I’ve been asked, I haven’t told the truth.” She admitted this without embarrassment, but with a hint of regret. “Most men prefer a fable to the actuality.”
“But I do not want a fable, I want the whole of you. I thank you for revealing so much.”
“Thank me, for lamenting my misfortunes?” she asked, sounding chagrined. “What man wants to—”
“Misfortune came upon you when you were young, unaccountably, and has done so again,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
She stared at him, considering what he had said. “Yes,” she agreed slowly. “Yes. I suppose I hope that I will be as lucky this time as I was then, although Aunt Bonascientia has been dead more than a decade. The gods are not always kind, even to those who honor them.”
“It is hard when all your family has died,” he said, a haunted look in his eyes.
“It is,” she said, with the uncanny certainty that he had endured more devastating losses than she. “I understand I have two cousins somewhere, and three other relatives, but—”
“You must not despair, Melidulci. You have prevailed,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing the palm.
“I hope I have,” she said, a bit unsteadily as she selected a stuffed egg-half and began to eat.
He released her hand and poured wine into one of two beautiful, costly glass goblets. “Here. You will feel better if you have wine with your food.”
She took the goblet from him, holding it up to the display of oil-lamps so that she could see the brilliant red heart of the wine. “You are so kind to me.”
He said nothing, reflecting that if this little courtesy was kindness, she must have been ill-used many times in the past, or she had become inured to lack of consideration, which lent even the most minor service a significance beyond its deserving. He realized it also meant that the high regard for the women of the lupanar, once unquestioned and upheld throughout the Empire, was now corroding, along with the other traditional attitudes of Romans. This unrelenting sensuality and excitation had blunted the Romans’ perceptions to the point that only greater voluptuary indulgence could rouse them, and the lack of respect for the women of the lupanar was only one result of this dulled state. He sat, gazing at her, taking in every nuance of her demeanor, her manner, her expression. When she had drunk half the contents of the goblet, he took it from her and set it down on its tray, then leaned forward to gently, gently kiss her mouth. “You are all the savor I require.”
This time she made no effort to hide the color that rose in her cheeks. “Wine; it heats me,” she said by way of explanation, although both of them knew it was not the cause.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, and kissed her again, a longer and more arousing kiss, one that seemed to touch every bit of her flesh, quickening passion and speeding her pulse. As his lips touched hers once more, he enveloped her in his arms.
“Oh, I … ,” Melidulci exclaimed as they broke apart. Inwardly she chided herself for behaving like a green girl: she was an experienced, successful prostitute, one of the most celebrated in Roma, honored and praised from Egypt to Gaul, yet here she was, her senses tingling, breathless, almost vertiginous with desire, as if she were new to the ways of men, and learning the power of Amor for the first time. What was it about Sanct-Franciscus that awakened so much of her amorousness? She found it strange that this foreigner, who used her so unlike other men, should have the power to stir her to the depths of her desires.
“You are as beautiful as the evening star in a violet sky, Melidulci, and nothing can change that,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his fingers trailing up her arm. At each brooch, he stopped and carefully unfastened it, exposing more of her skin. By the time he reached the largest, at her shoulder, he could feel the frisson his touch evoked.
She was breathing more quickly, and her eyes were lustrous as the lamplight. As he pulled the tibia from the brooch at her shoulder, the silk slithered luxuriously down her body, exposing her breast and pulling the material more provocatively against her. “I … I—” she whispered as he began on her other arm, dropping the brooches onto the tray next to her half-empty goblet.
“This is for you, Melidulci,” he said softly, his lips brushing the arch of her clavicle, as light and tantalizing as the feathers she sometimes used on
her more adventurous clients.
“I …” She took a long, uneven breath as he unfastened the last brooch, and the silk scrooped down to her waist. For several heartbeats she remained immobile, unable to bring herself to do those things she was used to doing for her clients. Instead, she closed her eyes so she could experience his touch more fully, her senses heightened by his nearness, and his exhilarating, unhurried exploration of her body. Gradually, she sank back on the couch, her clothes falling away from her upper body; her increasing excitement imparted a paradoxical languor, heightening her delight in surrender to his ministrations. She felt Sanct-Franciscus untie her elegant belt, and almost at once her tunica was gone and she was lying naked before him. She started to sit up, to conceal her scars with her arms, but she was stopped as Sanct-Franciscus put his hand on her shoulder, using just enough strength to keep her from trying to hide.
“You have nothing to fear,” he said, one knee on the couch beside her as he bent forward to kiss her breasts.
“The scars—”
“You have nothing to fear,” he repeated, and kissed her mouth with slow, delicious, insouciant torment, banishing all her unease and replacing it with steadily increasing exaltation as she gave herself once again to the bounty of gratification.
As he expanded his exquisite tantalizations, Melidulci felt the first surge of pleasure engulf her, a quivering that promised a culmination that she had rarely experienced. She tried to find something to say to Sanct-Franciscus that would lend him support, but the words slipped away, borne on ethereal wings. The only sound she offered was a soft moan of utter lightsomeness as his hands and kisses made their way down her body to the cleft at the top of her thighs. In a still, quiet part of her mind, Melidulci chided herself for surrendering so completely to Sanct-Franciscus’ caresses; she had been pleasuring men for many years, and knew most of the arts that could be used to give satisfaction, yet here she was, like a girl newly taught, more willing than knowing, and filled with eagerness and novelty. It was not as if she knew nothing of the satisfaction Sanct-Franciscus’ skills could impart, either, for they had lain together four times to fulfillment, but—The sensible voice was stilled as she felt his hands slide between her legs. Now she was enthralled by the expansion of her perceptions, so that the lightest touch sent waves through her body that amazed her; the flick of his tongue in the soft folds of the portal of her body shuddered through the marrow of her bones, leaving her delectably amplectant, her arms wrapped around him. The more he did to rouse her, the greater the intensity of her gratification grew, and the more she yearned for the ineffable moment when she would be transfixed with culmination. Subtle and daring at once, his hands and mouth elicited every refinement of sensual frenzy, evoking elation she had never achieved, igniting her body in escalating rapture until she cried out in release; her flesh, shaken into transports, rode the ecstatic pulse of her passion to heights that had eluded her before, but now became the apogee of her existence, leaving her all but oblivious to Sanct-Franciscus, bent over her, his lips on her neck.
While she lay replete on her couch, gradually coming back to herself, she tried to think of something to do to express her immense satisfaction. Finally, as she was able to sit up, she looked up at him. “How am I to give you fulfillment?”
He dropped on one knee beside her couch to gather up her silken tunica. “You have done so already—better than you know.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with a suggestion of a smile. “You always tell me that you have what I have; that your pleasure is my pleasure. I trust you will not mind if I am willing to believe you?” She stretched, her body still sinuous in the aftermath of satisfaction.
“I tell you because it is true,” he said with such complete simplicity that she began to think that it was so.
“You could persuade me,” she allowed as she smoothed stray damp, pale tendrils of hair back from her face.
“What reason would I have to prevaricate?” he countered, his musical voice lightly teasing.
“If you say so, I suppose I must accept it,” she said, and licked her lips with the tip of her tongue; then she admitted, “I don’t know if you will mind, considering what has just passed between us, but I find I’m hungry … still.”
“Then eat,” said Sanct-Franciscus, amusement lighting his dark eyes. “You mustn’t exhaust yourself on my account.” He rose and went to the low table, prepared to serve her wine or food.
“Would that I could,” she said with a toss of her head.
“Exhaust yourself?” He gestured to the waiting dishes.
She shook her head. “No—do anything on your account. You disarm all obligation.” She selected an egg-half and began to eat.
“Why would you want to do anything on my account?” he asked, mildly startled by her remark.
It took her a short while to answer. “Because you have done so much for me.” She swallowed the last of the egg with a generous sip of wine.
He leaned toward her once more, his gaze compelling. “I do not expect you to keep a tally of obligation, Melidulci. I do not bargain my affections. What I offer—such as it is—I offer freely. It is not necessary for you to concern yourself with such balances, and it could come to distort our dealings together.”
“I hadn’t meant—” She shivered a bit, aware that this had unusual importance to him. “No, I suppose I did. For a woman in my profession … it is the kind of assumption we all make.”
He went on, “What we have is a gift, you and I; we can touch one another. Be thankful that it exists, not the number of times and conditions under which we enjoy it.”
She pressed her mouth closed, not trusting herself to speak. Finally she refilled her goblet and picked it up. “May Fortuna show you favor,” she said as she took a long sip.
“And you,” he responded, ducking his head in place of taking a drink.
“What are you thinking?” Melidulci asked after a brief silence; she had seen the suggestion of a frown on his brow.
“I was thinking that you may still be at risk here,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I would advise you to engage guards to protect you.”
“And where might I find such dependable guards?” She was dismayed to realize that she expected him to answer her.
Sanct-Franciscus cocked his head. “Would you like me to inquire for you? I would be happy to do it.”
This calm inquiry took her aback. She knew that it was something she had hoped he would help with, but the directness of his question disarmed her. “I … I don’t know.”
“Because you are unsure about wanting guards, or because you are unsure about permitting me to engage them for you?” His question was lightly asked, and the glint in his eye was affectionate, but she responded as if she had been rebuked.
“If I need guards, I will manage them for myself, Patronus,” she announced, and then, to her shock, began to weep.
Sanct-Franciscus came to her side, his manner thoughtful; he laid his small, beautiful hands on her shoulders. “From your own hiring, or from mine, you would be well-advised to employ guards, Melidulci. You cannot spend all your days in a rapture of fear. It will rob you of all you are.”
She stared at him. “I’m not afraid,” she insisted, although her voice shook. “I’m not.”
A century ago, she could have said it and been sensible, but now, with Roma so much changed from that time, he knew that her situation was precarious. “If you deny it, you give it strength, and add to its impact.”
“I must resist it,” she said doggedly, dabbing with her silken tunica at her eyes. “I will not give in.”
“You would do better to admit it, and to see it for what it is, and make preparation against it,” he said tenderly, bending to kiss her forehead. “A goat in the night becomes a troupe of bear if you do not shine a lamp on it.”
She made a terrible mull of laughing. “You always have such good advice,” she said as she set the last bit of egg aside, her appetite gone as quickly as it had come.
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“Not advice: concern,” he corrected her gently, sitting on the couch and folding her into his arms, her pale hair brushing against his cheek as she clung to him in the deepening night.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Ravenna to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma, carried by private courier to Roma.
To my most dear friend, currently calling himself Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, but who still is Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus to me, and who is abiding in my house near the Temple of Hercules in Roma, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens, accompanying the sworn copies of my claims to the house, as well as its history, my own records of payments for the last five years, beyond what you have there, and witnessed copies of my own registration of household.
It seems to me that you have encountered the new manner of bureaucracy which has come about in Roma since they made the earnings of the decuriae dependent on the services they render. If Roma were not corrupt before, it is so now—how could it be otherwise: this policy has made corruption almost necessary for the government to function. More fools they!
You will tell me—and beyond cavil correctly—that you have seen worse in other times and places. I do not doubt it is true, but I am most dismayed that it should happen to my city, to my home. I know that change comes to all things, but I had hoped that Roma could resist the rot a little longer. Ravenna is much the same, of course, with the addition of piracy and smuggling from the port, but it is smaller, and I have (thanks to you) more than sufficient funds to purchase my privacy and a guard for me while I live here. We still have to deal with judicial chicanery, debasement of coins, capricious taxes, and rogues in high places, but for the time being, I believe I am as safe as a woman alone may be in the Empire of Roma in this time. Ravenna may not be as splendid as Roma, but Roma has lost some of its splendor since I came to your life, more than a century-and-a-half ago.
And now, a fourteen-year-old youth from Syria is Caesar! Varius Avitus Bassianus, a self-proclaimed son of Caracalla, who is doubtless a tool of his mother, his grandmother, and who knows whomelse, is the leader of all the Empire. Grandnephew—by marriage—of Septimius Severus: a recommendation, oh, most surely. What other claims might he put forth? I would laugh if I were not a Roman. And what is this nonsense about calling himself after the Syrian sun god? Isn’t Apollo grand enough for him, that he must style himself Heliogabalus. Apollonius would be audacious enough, but at least it would be Roman.
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