Saint-Germain 20: Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Enough of these lowering reflections. I am in no position to change what has happened, and thinking will only cause me to grieve for Roma. So: I have retained a local fellow—Catalinus by aname—to serve as my steward. He is able to read and write and he knows numbers. He has no family in the region, and is in need of work; he is not uncomely, and he is taken with me, so I am fairly sure he will not cheat me too egregiously, or tell my secrets to the world. I trust he will be inclined to remain with me for some time, for I would not like to have to train a new steward again for a decade. As to the possibilities for more between us, I will tell you that I have hopes that he will not be too dismayed when he learns of my nature, and my inclinations. I grow weary of visiting men in their dreams. You told me that I would come to long for knowing embraces, and so it is.

  Speaking of stewards, Rogerian—or Rugeri, as he styles himself just now—has written to me from Alexandria, saying that two of your ships have been delayed and possibly lost. I will include that letter with this one, as he has asked me to do. He believes four of his letters have not reached you, and that may be a troublesome indication, for it means that his letters are being seized, not merely lost at sea, for the ship carrying one of the letters reaclied Ostia and returned to Alexandria unharmed. Also, another one of your ships has been taken by pirates, and Rogerian would like you to permit him to ransom the crew. I have assured him that you would expect him to do so, in case your letter to him fails to reach him.

  I must tell you that I feel a certain fellowship with Rogerian, for we came to you, each in our way, at almost the same time. In the last century and more he has shown himself to be reliable, honorable, sensible, and loyal. I do not think you could find a better bondsman anywhere, but I will admit that my opinion is not completely disinterested. I see what he does for you, and I feel a lamentable twinge of jealousy. Not that I would expect you to give up Rogerian, but I would like to have a bondsman of my own one day.

  This piracy that Rogerian mentions is a growing threat, and nothing is being done to contain it. On land, gangs of bandits haunt the roads unchallenged while the Legions are beaten back on all our borders. A fine thing for Roma! Magna Mater, but I could cry for vexation, if only I had tears to shed. That such lawlessness would be allowed in the Empire, and that the people should acquiesce in it! The Praetorians swagger and boast as if Roma were still intact, as if our laws were still upheld, as if the Senate had any power beyond self-congratulations. Only the Vestal Virgins have upheld their integrity, and with the rising popularity of Christians, even that is being undermined. I must be grateful, I suppose, that these conditions did not prevail when I was alive, for then I should never have been able to escape my husband, no matter what you may have done to help me. My death would have been the True Death, and no one would have called Cornelius Justus Silius to book for it.

  If you will permit me to repeat some of your advice to me: do not linger if the tide turns against you. Foreigners are not as welcome in Roma as they were in my breathing days, and the city is more volatile than when you were last there; as you have said yourself, there is depravity that comes from desperation everywhere—think of the zeal of the foreign religions, and the increasing numbers of soothsayers in the city—and once the people are sparked to ferocity they are more dangerous than tigers in the Flavian Circus. You encouraged me to be prepared to leave quickly, and covertly, which I have done; I also have plans to depart Ravenna, should it become necessary. I now remind you to make the same preparations, for you are as exposed as I was. Come here to me if you need a place to retreat, and I will keep you as safe as my name and gold can. It is the least I can do for you.

  This carries my undying love to you, as well as my affectionate castigations, and promises you that my fealty is true, come what may. This, then, by my own hand, and with the fullness of my devotion, on the first day of November in the 971st Year of the City,

  Olivia

  8

  “Ave Heliogabalus! Ave Heliogabalus!” the crowd roared obediently as the new emperor made his way through the foggy city, his procession being led by three gold-painted quadrigae drawn by ostriches. These elegant chariots contained half-naked young men, too drunk to be cold, who tossed handfuls of dried flowers to the people lining the streets. After the three quadrigae came a party of dancers and musicians, doing their best to perform in the daunting weather, but shivering in spite of their exertions. Behind these entertainers there was a large open carriage, gilded and jeweled, and drawn by six Iberian horses ridden by more handsome young men in skimpy Greek chlamyses; it was in this equipage that Heliogabalus rode, a golden laurel-wreath crowning him, his arms shining with bracelets, his body loosely swathed in all-but-invisible Coan linen; his genitals were painted golden-red, and he sat so that everyone could see. If he was cold, he gave no sign of it. Young as he was, there was already a cynical turn to his mouth and an air of decadence in his manner, as well as a willfulness in the set of his chin; he drank wine from a large golden goblet that was constantly refilled for him by the beautiful slave—a boy of nine or ten dressed as Bacchus—who attended upon him.

  Behind him came a troupe of tumblers and dancers—all male—doing their best to perform on the slippery street; bruises and scrapes gave testimony to their lack of success. Next a contingent of Praetorians marched, their long pallia decorated with light-tan sundisks in honor of the Emperor and his Syrian god; the Praetorians’ visages were expressionless. Then came a covered quadriga in which rode Julia Maesa, Heliogabalus’ formidable grandmother; she was sensibly swathed in heavy silken stolae and pallae, and she wore a vast array of golden jewelry; she nodded to the gathered Romans but neither waved nor smiled, preferring the stern demeanor of a conquering general to that of grateful parent. Next to her rode her daughter, Julia Soaemias, in brilliant silks and an ostentatious display of golden jewelry. A company of city Guards followed after the Emperor’s family, just as stiff and impassive as the Praetorians. Last came a line of condemned slaves, bound for the Flavian Circus and the next day’s Great Games. In spite of the chilly drizzle, Romans were out in force to see the handsome youth who had risen so high. A few in the crowd, unfamiliar with the new name, cried, “Ave, Caesar!” and let it go at that.

  “What do you make of him?” Vulpius asked Sanct-Franciscus as the procession moved past them. He had raised the hood of his pluvial. “Comporting himself like a Greek actor, and in this weather!”

  Sanct-Franciscus shrugged, recalling other figurehead leaders he had seen over the centuries. “A puppet, but an expensive one.”

  “They say he uses the slaves to feed his eels, which are his favorite food,” Vulpius said, rolling his eyes upward. “And that he sleeps on fresh rose-petals every night. Rose-petals! In winter! He slighted the Vestal Virgins two days ago! Truth! And all those young men!” Vulpius shook his head, disappointed in the new Emperor. “It’s the foreign influence—meaning no disrespect to you, Sanct-Franciscus. Romans have a taste for luxuries and male flesh, of course, but not so obsessively or exclusively. Or so flamboyantly.”

  “These things may mean difficulties for him, in time,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. “It would seem he is ill-advised.”

  “Ill-advised: a courteous phrase. There’s no sense of proportion about him, not a hint of dignity—” He stopped as a young man in Iberian clothing lurched into them, mumbled an apology. “Another one following the example of Heliogabalus,” Vulpius grumbled as the youth shouldered away from him.

  “Heliogabalus has certainly been indulged in his life, and expects the indulgence to continue and enlarge.” Sanct-Franciscus held out his hand to judge the increasing damp while he went on, “Others will want to have the same license he is granted—on that point I think you are right.”

  “Yes. I fear so,” said Vulpius, tugging at Sanct-Franciscus’ long, pleated, dark-red sagum. “Come. The crowd will soon be unruly, and you and I will want to be away from it.” He glanced over his shoulder and pointed to a scuffle that had broken out
among a group of on-lookers just behind the line of slaves. “See? There’ll be more of that shortly. The procession has a dozen more streets to traverse, and the people will probably become raucous as it goes along; the rain won’t quell their spirits. Don’t you think we should be away?”

  “I do,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Perhaps it is best.” He stepped back into the mouth of an alley-way leading toward the small, beautiful Temple of Isis, just at present with its columns wrapped in midnight-blue linen for the dark of the year.

  Vulpius hurried ahead of Sanct-Franciscus, his breath making a thicker mist before his face. “It will be raining heavily by nightfall, not just this mizzle. Tomorrow will be wet as well—all the signs are for it.”

  “So it seems,” said Sanct-Franciscus, curious why Vulpius was so eager to put distance between them and the procession; he was aware that possible riotous behavior was not the only reason: Saturnalia would begin in a few days, and the mood of Roma was aleatory already, and would only increase in capriciousness over the next several days. He followed Vulpius, his senses sharpened.

  “I am pleased that you will attend our convivium on the last night of Saturnalia,” Vulpius went on, his thoughts scampering.

  “With the understanding that I will not eat or drink, I have accepted,” Sanct-Franciscus said genially. “I thank you for your invitation: you are most gracious to a foreigner.”

  “Very well, no food or drink; if you must have it so, so be it, although I wonder at any custom that keeps a man from dining in the company of his friends. Still, you say it is the tradition of those of your blood, and you do well to honor it. You will send me word when you decide what sort of slaves you want to serve you that night. I can provide you up to three.” Vulpius reached a wider street, one that led to the Porta Viminalis, and he paused, still uneasy. “I am afraid that this new Caesar has come with his own army of spies.”

  “I would rather think his mother has,” Sanct-Franciscus observed wryly.

  “Yes; and even worse,” said Vulpius.

  “Why does that trouble you?” asked Sanct-Franciscus. “There have always been spies in Roma.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yet there are spies, and there are spies.” Vulpius went silent, then cleared his throat. “You must know that there are those who say that the Emperor’s mother is determined to destroy all resistance to her son’s rule before it can start.”

  “I have heard something of the sort,” said Sanct-Franciscus; Roma had been rife with rumors since the death of Macrinus the previous June, and now, with Heliogabalus installed in his palace, the rumors had reached the pitch and incoherence of thunder; everyone had a theory about the new regime, and everyone believed all other theories were wrong, so that each bruited his own ever more stridently.

  “She is a most determined woman,” said Vulpius, starting to amble in the direction of his house.

  “She must be, to have advanced so young a lad to the purple,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed, keeping pace with him.

  “They say she disapproves of the Vestal Virgins,” Vulpius added, lowering his voice as a group of young men came down the street, their abollae pulled up to help them keep dry or to conceal their faces. “They say she wants to put an end to the Vestal Virgins, banish them or disband them.”

  “That would not surprise me. How could she want any women to have power that supersedes her own?” Sanct-Franciscus nudged Vulpius, encouraging him to move faster. “The mist is almost rain now.”

  “So it is,” said Vulpius, glancing at the young men who had ducked into a curbside thermopolium calling for sausages and wine. “They will be rowdy by nightfall—they, and half the city, no matter how hard it rains.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?” Sanct-Franciscus asked mildly.

  “No. But I am growing wary of rag-tag mobs of youngsters, who are being tolerated everywhere. The Emperor encourages license of that kind, and many youths are willing to accept what Heliogabalus provides. I would rather be commanded to repel barbarians than pander to the whims of those lads. Not that the Christians, with their bands of youths preaching virtue, are preferable. Those youths have their own kind of disorderliness: they chastise those they think lack their virtues.” He stopped at the corner, pointing north. “Your way is that street; I am going this way,” by which he meant southeast. “I’ll see you in a few days, Sanct-Franciscus, when I shall thank you properly for all you have done for me and my gens this last year. If you think of any indulgence I might be able to extend to you—?”

  “It isn’t necessary,” said Sanct-Franciscus, holding up his hand to stop the objection that Vulpius was about to utter. “But I am honored that you would include me in your celebration.”

  Vulpius nodded slowly. “Very well. But at least permit me to be the one to help you put your right foot forward for the coming year.”

  Sanct-Franciscus smiled, knowing how important it was to Romans to cross the threshold of houses and begin the new year stepping onto the right foot. “You may do so, and with my wholehearted appreciation.”

  This brought a smile to Vulpius’ face. “You are a most admirable friend, Sanct-Franciscus. Roman or not, you have all the true virtues.”

  “What can I be but flattered,” Sanct-Franciscus asked, shading his eyes with his hand as the first real raindrops began to fall. He stood watching Vulpius trudge away, his shoulders hunched in his pluvial and his arms folded to help keep him warm, for a wind had kicked up, frisking maliciously down the streets and tugging at signs, clothing, and rubbish alike.

  When Vulpius turned the corner, Sanct-Franciscus set out, not toward the Temple of Hercules, but toward the Villa Laelius, where he was expected. His sagum was soaked through by the time Sanct-Franciscus presented himself to Starus in proper form, saying “Domina Laelius is—”

  “—expecting you. Just so,” said Starus, adding automatically, “Right foot,” as Sanct-Franciscus crossed the threshold; the floor was quite warm, indicating the holocaust was at full burn. “Doma Ignatia is at home. Octavian has left to join his Christian friends to harangue those watching the procession.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And there are guests.”

  “Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and handed him a denarius, quite a generous commoda, but not remarkable at year’s end.

  “Very handsome of you, Foreign Honestiorus,” said Starus, and escorted Sanct-Franciscus to the covered colonnade around the atrium. “You know the way to Domina Laelius’ chambers, I believe?”

  “I do,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and touched the wallet hanging from his belt beneath his sagum.

  “Shall I take that and hang it in the kitchen to dry?” Starus offered.

  Sanct-Franciscus unfastened the sagum and slipped it off, revealing ankle-length bracae and a knee-length, belted, long-sleeved Persian chandys in double-woven black wool ornamented at hem and sleeves with dark-red needlework; his peri were unusually thick-soled and made of tooled leather. “If you will.”

  “When you leave you have only to ask for it,” Starus declared stoutly.

  “Very good,” Sanct-Franciscus said, and was about to go to Adicia’s rooms when something more occurred to him. “Who is here—you said there were guests?”

  “Oh, Domina Laelius’ daughter Myrtale and her husband Forteus Quillius Antoninus Horaliens have come, with their two sons—Martius and Hilarius, nine and five. We have been in something of an uproar.”

  “They came for the procession and Saturnalia,” Sanct-Franciscus guessed. “No wonder Doma Ignatia said the need was urgent.”

  Starus nodded, but wisely held his tongue.

  Standing braziers and hanging oil-lamps lit the colonnade and the corridor beyond; Sanct-Franciscus smelled the incense burned in the braziers—a combination of sandalwood and amber—and guessed that Ignatia had ordered that as a tribute to her sister and her family.

  “Sanct-Franciscus.” His name was hardly more than a whisper, but it caught his attention, and he stopped where he was. “Over here.” Ignati
a was standing in the shadow of an alcove, dressed in palla and stola, with a ricinium over her head; all were in subdued shades of blue and gray, and unadorned, blending her in with the shadows. Her face was pale and there were smudges of fatigue around her eyes. “I need to speak with you before you see my mother.”

  “Doma Ignatia,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he went to her side. “I came as soon as I could reasonably do so.”

  “Minerva and Fortuna be thanked,” she said with relief and exasperation. “I fear my mother has had a difficult time of it these last three days—more than usual.”

  “Two grandsons can be demanding, can they not,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Starus told you?” She saw him nod. “Yes. Glad as she is for this visit, and proud as she may be of Myrtale and her family, the boys are rambunctious and noisy, which is trying for her.”

  “Hardly unexpected,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “It is good you are here now; things are calmer than they were earlier, but my mother is … is not doing well. Myrtale and Quillius have taken the children with them to the procession, and will probably not return until they have called on some of their friends. At least,” she added, “that was their plan.”

  “I suppose this is a welcome respite,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  She nodded. “I am sorry to say so, but my sister is an indulgent parent—she has no notion the toll her boys’ wildness takes on our mother.”