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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The arrival of the pleasure-slaves was greeted with cries of delight; Leontius had already told the slaves to which couches they should go, and they passed among the guests without confusion.

  Only Sanct-Franciscus remained without companionship; he watched the guests seize upon their pleasure-slaves much the same way they were guttling their food, thinking they were hungry as wolves, preferring excess to appreciation; the very touching he sought most was valued least here. He rose, so as not to be conspicuous, and went to the musicians. “Would you mind if I borrowed your lyre?”

  The musician looked up, mildly startled. “It … it is valuable, honestiorus.”

  “No doubt,” said Sanct-Franciscus reasonably. “I will not harm it; if it should be damaged tonight, I give you my Word I will replace it.”

  After a brief inner struggle, the musician surrendered his instrument. “Do you know how to play?”

  “Tolerably well,” Sanct-Franciscus answered as he tried the strings, and adjusted one of them to a truer pitch.

  “Well, you have an ear,” the musician conceded.

  Sanct-Franciscus ducked his head and began to play a lively paean to the sun that he had learned from the god who changed him, more than twenty-three hundred years ago. It was fairly unsophisticated, but the tempo was quick and the tune rapturous, just the accompaniment this occasion called for.

  Cecania studied Sanct-Franciscus from her couch as if trying to decide if she should make another attempt at captivating him; then, with the most minimal of shrugs, she extended her arm to the pleasure-slave who waited at her side; around her most of the other guests were beginning to engage their pleasure-slaves in titillation, except for Caio, who had a young man and a young woman already bent over him, making him ready for his gratification while he continued to dine. Vulpius and his wife had three pleasure-slaves between them—two men and a woman—trading them back and forth as they made the most of their own celebration. The household slaves continued to serve food and drink.

  The night wore on, the seven courses of the banquet were served with increasing display; the guests ate to repletion, visited the vomitorium, and ate more, all the while engaging their pleasure-slaves in an increasingly wild exhibition of desire and lubricity, concupiscence mixing with gormandizing. Through it all, Sanct-Franciscus played songs from every part of the earth he had visited. When exhaustion overtook the guests, and Vulpius ordered the entertainers to perform, the musician remarked to him, “You are among the best I have heard. My lyre is privileged to have you touch it.”

  “How gracious of you,” said Sanct-Franciscus before making his way through the tangle of guests and slaves, trays and platters and discarded garments, in order to return to his couch, the only one among the guests who was not luxuriating in the bounty of the last night of Saturnalia.

  Text of a letter as written by Rugeri in Alexandria to Sanct-Franciscus in Roma.

  My master,

  I have been told by Domina Clemens in a letter sent three months ago that you have not been receiving the letters I have been sending you, one every other month, for all of last year. This troubled me, for it seemed more than mishap or coincidence that so many letters should fail to reach you, and I determined to discover the reasons for these failures. I began by discussing the matter with your shipping-agent, and, having seen to my satisfaction that he was not to blame, I looked closer to this household. To my chagrin, I discovered that the letters had been taken by Perseus, the clerk I bought from the Byzantine merchant, and he was selling the information in the letters to various merchants and suppliers. I apologize most earnestly for my lapse in judgment, and I ask you to pardon my inability to protect our communications as I should have.

  Beyond this admission, I must also tell you that Perseus has not disclosed how many of my letters—or yours—he has taken, and so I am at a loss to know what you know of my present circumstances. Are you aware that I made a gift to Hebseret and the Priests of Imhotep in your name? Do you know that I have ransomed nine of your crew from the Aeolus, and that all but one of them have returned to your service? Have you received a copy of the agreement I have made with the weavers of the upper Nile for linen and cotton? I ask that you send me word of what you last heard from me, and I will see you have copies of all I have sent to you since.

  I will also pledge to put all the letters into the hands of your captains myself, entrusting them to no one but the captains. This one will go to Epimetheus Bion, of the Pleiades, who is set to depart as soon as the present weather clears. I will also send a copy to Domina Clemens, by the Zephyrus, which sails for Ravenna in three weeks, weather permitting.

  Perseus has been turned over to the Prefecture of Trade here, his case assigned to the chief decuria for assessment. I will inform you of any decision made in regard to his actions, and the punishment that is meted out to him. I believe it must be strict, if not severe, but I will not ask for him to be condemned to the arena unless you tell me that is your wish. Given your past treatment of slaves, I believe you would not want him to suffer anything so grievous as that.

  I have a few pieces of good news to pass on to you: I have secured four full barrels of pepper and will dispatch them with Captain Bion. No doubt you will be able to sell at a handsome profit. And I have met with a physician from the East, one who has come across the Arabian Sea, and who is eager to find a place to practice his art. I have introduced him to Hebseret, who has said that Chandolar’s skills will be useful to the Priests of Imhotep, and so have provided him money to purchase the herbs and other substances of his medicaments. When more is known of his abilities, I will send on to you the proportions and methods of preparation this Chandolar employs.

  For now, I will say no more, in case this should fall into unfriendly hands in spite of all my precautions. I ask you to be circumspect in your reply, again as a precaution. Captain Bion is expecting to carry a message back to me from you, and has given his word to keep the letter in a locked box for the duration of his voyage; his reliability is known to us both, but it is as well to be discreet.

  In all devotion, and trusting in your resolution and fairness, I commend myself to you,

  Rogerian of Gades

  Rugeri of Alexandria

  in my own hand on the 10th day of January in the 972nd Year of the City

  The letter as received by Sanct-Franciscus.

  To my master,

  I am pleased to tell you that I have secured three fullbarrels of pepper and will dispatch them to you as soon as I may; the ship carrying this letter should bring the barrels as well. I have hope that we will have more such cargos to deliver in the coming months. You should be able to make a handsome profit in the fora with these barrels.

  I have also dealt with the priests you have expressed interest in, and they are now moving up the Nile to a more distant temple where they can practice their rites unimpeded by the Romans and others who disapprove of Egyptian sorcery. There have been many complaints about them, and this seems to me to be one way to dispel the ill-will they have gained over the last few years. You, being in Roma, will not have seen the rising hostility the people have of these priests, who may not be worthy of your loyal support. I urge you to consider ending your association with them, so that your dealings are not tainted with their magic and malice—for whatever they may seem to be to you, others find them malefic, which cannot accrue to your benefit. I ask you to give this matter your full and immediate attention.

  I was told by the local prosecutor that your taxes here are likely to be higher in the near future, due to the debasement of the denarius, the burden of which has reached all the Empire. The merchants from across the Arabian Sea have asked for gold coins only, or if they are silver, they must come from Fars, or be from the reigns no later than Marcus Aurelius. I have assured those merchants that we will deal in gold, and so I ask you to dispatch as much as you can spare so that my pledge may not be construed as false.

  I will have to replace a few of the slaves in my
household and those who labor for this business. Some have proven to be disloyal, and those I have given—in your name, of course—to the Legions to serve the men in any capacity they should choose. I will inform you of the new slaves when I have purchased them. One will be for my own use, as a body-servant and to fulfill my desires, something you will not deny me I am sure.

  I have bought copper and tin in abundance, and struck a good bargain for the metals. I know if they are carried to you on different ships, you will not be accused of bringing materials for weapons into Roma, and you should be able to turn a handsome profit on the sale of the metals to the Praetorians, who always want new swords and shields and spears and daggers and cudgels. I will put guards on the ships carrying the metals, and I advise you to meet the ships at Ostia yourself, to make sure they are not set upon by thieves and robbers.

  Your loyal factor,

  Rugeri of Iberia

  at Alexandria in Aegytpus on the 11th day of January in Roma’s 972nd Year

  10

  Before the biga was entirely stopped, Ignatia had jumped out of the vehicle and was running toward the gate of Domina Clemens’ house, her face flushed, her eyes reddened from weeping. She pounded on the gates, shouting for someone to admit her, while Philius brought his pair to a halt and turned them around in the space in front of the Temple of Hercules, then came back to the gate where Ignatia was still demanding to be let in, announcing her name and her mission. A waning moon imparted its gelid light from the eastern sky, marking the first clear night in the last four.

  “Do you know how late it is?” a sleepy voice asked from behind the sturdy upright planks of the gate. “Call back at a sensible hour, and the master will see you, if it is convenient.”

  It took all of Ignatia’s determination to give a sensible answer. “It’s very late, I know, and I apologize. But this is urgent. Most urgent. I would not have come if it weren’t.” Toward the end of her words, she managed to steady her voice enough that her sobbing was no longer apparent.

  “It is unsafe to be abroad at this hour,” the voice admonished her. “Women of good character should not be abroad this late.”

  “That is no business of yours: you forget yourself,” Ignatia yelled, no longer adhering to her discipline of a moment ago, but giving her temper free rein. “Let me in! I must see Sanct-Franciscus!”

  “You could be set upon by ruffians or worse,” said the slave, “riding abroad at this time of night.”

  “My groom carries a whip and a cudgel. Not that it is any concern of yours. What does it matter to you? We are wasting time,” Ignatia said firmly, and tried to keep her tone steady. “Is Sanct-Franciscus about? I must speak with him. Now!” She bludgeoned the gate for emphasis.

  “Yes, he is here. He is in his study; we are not to disturb him,” said the under-steward, taking a deep breath. “You must wait until morning, I fear.”

  “Let me in!” Ignatia shouted. “My mother has fallen into a lethargy and has not awakened since early afternoon yesterday.”

  “Do you mean twelve hours since, or thirty-six?” the slave asked, curious in spite of the hour and the circumstances of this most unseemly demand.

  “Thirty-six. Thirty-six! I would not bother your master for less than that,” Ignatia said, her voice beginning to falter. “Let me speak with him. If he says there is no reason for concern, I will leave, I promise you. I am sorry to intrude—you may tell him that. Just let me talk with him for a little while. Please.”

  “I will tell him you are here, and why. If he is willing to see you, I will escort him to the gate.” Tigilus coughed for emphasis. “Wait here.”

  “Even though it is dangerous?” Ignatia asked with an edge in her voice.

  There was a pause, and then Tigilus said, “I will admit you, but you must remain in the courtyard. You may not come into the house unless the master permits it.”

  “Thank you for that,” Ignatia said, keeping the sarcasm out of her response. She motioned to Philius. “You heard him. We’re being admitted to the courtyard.”

  The sound of the bolt being drawn back seemed unusually loud in the night, and the moan of the hinges was like the sighing of giants. As soon as there was room enough, Philius put the biga through, Ignatia following behind. Tigilus pointed the way to the stable, saying, “There is a night-groom who will see to you and your pair. You had best stay with them until you are needed.” Then he indicated a small alcove along the inner peristyle. “Wait there,” he said to Ignatia; with a shrug of annoyance, he trudged off into the house, across the atrium and on to the study where Sanct-Franciscus was working at a beehive-shaped oven that had been installed at the far end of the room. The athanor was hot, the door closed and bolted shut so that the jewels being made within it would not be damaged by a sudden lessening of heat.

  “What is it, Tigilus?” Sanct-Franciscus asked as the under-steward tapped at the door.

  “Doma Laelius is here,” said Tigilus.

  “At this hour?” Sanct-Franciscus sounded more worried than surprised.

  “You’re right: it is too late. I will send her away,” Tigilus offered.

  “Did she say why she came?” Sanct-Franciscus began to bank the fires of his athanor, preparing to leave at the mention of Ignatia.

  “Her mother has been in lethargy for thirty-six hours, or so she claims,” said Tigilus.

  “How deep a lethargy? do you know?” Sanct-Franciscus opened a tall, red-lacquer chest, and began to select unguents and vials from its pigeon-hole shelves.

  “No,” said Tigilus, not wanting to admit he had not asked. “She came with a groom, in a biga.”

  “Very sensible, and more useful than a messenger,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he packed the items he had selected into a small, leather case. “Have one of the night-slaves come in here, to be sure my oven cools properly. There is a pail of water at the end of the trestle-table if he needs to stop a fire.”

  “Do you anticipate fire?” Tigilus could not keep from inquiring.

  “No, but it is well to be prepared,” Sanct-Franciscus answered. “Where is Doma Laelius?”

  “In the courtyard,” said Tigilus, sounding a bit uncertain.

  “You should have brought her into the house, and provided her with hot wine to drink,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he picked up his abolla and pulled it on, then made for the door, his leather case in hand. “She has a position in the world that must be recognized.”

  Tigilus stood aside as Sanct-Franciscus came out of his study and closed the door. “She is waiting.”

  “So I assumed,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I will go with her, of course.”

  “She’ll be relieved,” said Tigilus with a suggestion of sarcasm in his observation; he took as step back as Sanct-Franciscus turned toward him.

  “Why do you slight her? Have you taken her in dislike?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  “Slaves have no opinions on such things,” said Tigilus.

  “Of course you do,” Sanct-Franciscus countered. “You may tell me what they are.”

  Tigilus hesitated. “I don’t dislike her; it is only that she clings on you, so that troubles me. What manner of character has she, that she would have to do that?” He sniffed to underscore his disapproval.

  “Is it that she lacks resolve in your eyes or that she depends upon a foreigner instead of a Roman?” Sanct-Franciscus did not wait for an answer, but went on, “Do not speak slightingly of that young woman. She has had heavy burdens placed upon her that she cannot hope to discharge, but which she bears nonetheless. If nothing else, her devotion deserves our respect.” He continued on, his steps loud in the stillness while Tigilus fell behind, chagrined and perplexed.

  “Sanct-Franciscus,” Ignatia exclaimed as she saw him come out of the house. “You have decided to see me.”

  “I have decided to accompany you to your house,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and saw her pinch her nose to keep from crying again. “Tell me about your mother.”

  Ignatia wav
ed, signaling Philius to bring the biga out of the stable, and as she climbed into the open chariot, she made room for Sanct-Franciscus beside her. “My mother is in a very bad state, I fear. I hoped she would … that she would revive of her own inclination, but … It began a day-and-a-half ago.” Taking a deep breath, she launched into her account. “She had been fretful all morning, and I was at a loss to ease her discomforts. She ordered Starus to beat Benona because something Benona did displeased her—he didn’t, on my enjoining him not to, but now Benona has asked not to have to attend to her, and she is better in the sick-room than any of the rest. My mother refused the honied wine I had made for her, and she would not eat anything more than bread with baked marrow spread on it.” She took a second, uneven breath as the courtyard gate was opened and Philius snapped the pair to a trot. “Then she became calmer, and I thought she had improved; I ordered a prandium made for her, which she refused, but which was entirely dishes she usually likes. She said she wanted to be left alone, to rest. But she soon fell into a slumber that was more than sleep. I have tried to rouse her, but without success. She continued in her dazed condition, neither sinking deeper nor emerging from it. When she did not waken after our evening meal, I became more worried, so I watched her, which is when I discovered that her eyes were open a little, showing only whites, and that is when I decided to seek you out.”

  “Has she urinated or—” Sanct-Franciscus began.

  “Once. I ordered her sheets and blankets changed, but carefully, so she would not be disturbed. I thought she needed to sleep, you see. She had complained of not sleeping just a few days ago, and it seemed to me that she must require …” She made a complicated gesture, composed of distress, guilt, and a need to put it all aside. “That was yesterday, when she had been asleep for four or five hours. She has eaten so little that nothing else has left her body, and that worries me. She eats no more than a kitten, and she drinks two cups of water in a day at most.”