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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Almericus Philetus Euppo

  merchant and freedman of Ostia

  11

  For the last three days, Roma had been unseasonably warm for early March, the skies clear and limpid, the air soft, stirring the trees into buds and bringing the Romans out of their houses in great numbers, so that the fora and the streets were filled with people enjoying the burgeoning spring. Even the Emperor had joined in the occasion, escorted about the major avenues of the city by a throng of handsome young men in new tunicae with Heliogabalus’ sun on their chests as a sign of affiliation.

  Unmoved by the balmy weather, Telemachus Batsho hurried along the edge of the street leading to the Palatinus Hill, a leather case clasped under his arm, and a burning determination in his heart. “Thinks he’ll make a fool of me,” he muttered repeatedly as he went along, each step like an assault on the ground. “Using that foreigner to hide his profits. He won’t make a fool out of me.” Reaching the house of Septimus Desiderius Vulpius, he demanded admittance from the footman at the front door, and then asked to see Vulpius himself.

  “The master is away from home just now,” said the footman.

  “Where is he?” Batsho asked, his patience thoroughly frayed. “I must speak with him at once.”

  “You need not answer him,” said a voice from the end of the peristyle; Leontius came forward, his manner deferential but his old eyes suspicious. “What is your purpose here, humiliorus?”

  “I am the decuria Telemachus Batsho, and I have come to discuss a matter of importance with your master, having to do with questions raised about his records,” he said, making no effort to hide his indignation: humiliorus indeed!

  “I meant nothing to the decuria’s discredit,” said Leontius without any trace of servility. “As you have your tasks, I have mine.”

  “Hardly comparable,” sniffed Batsho, appalled at himself for arguing with a slave.

  “But equally necessary,” said Leontius.

  “I shall mention this to your master,” Batsho threatened, wanting this most unseemly exchange to end.

  “Good decuria, I regret that I must tell you my master is presently at his estates in the north, attending to spring planting in his orchards and vineyards, and to be present at his cousin Caia’s wedding. My master and his family will return in two weeks if all goes well. If you would like to be notified when he is once again in Roma, or would you prefer to dispatch a messenger to him from the basilica?” Leontius studied Batsho in a manner not quite courteous. “If your mission is not so pressing, I will be honored to inform my master of your visit immediately upon his return. He will then be able to prepare whatever accounts you want to review.”

  “No doubt. No doubt,” Batsho said, almost spitting the words.

  “If the matter is truly urgent, I am authorized to send a messenger to him—is it urgent?” asked Leontius in a tone that implied he knew it was not.

  “Not precisely urgent, no,” Batsho conceded. “But it is potentially complicated, and pressing, and may require his attention for some time once he is available to answer questions.”

  Leontius saw the change in Batsho’s demeanor, and modified his question. “How do you want me to explain your request to my master?”

  “I am not going to tell a slave such things,” said Batsho, trying to decide how much to impart to the steward; if this man was like most of the stewards in Roma, he knew the family’s business better than they, themselves, did.

  “As you wish, decuria,” said Leontius, preparing to close the door.

  “Be certain I shall come back once your master is at home,” Batsho said, hating the lack of determination he heard in his voice—more of a whine than a clarion.

  “I will inform him,” said Leontius, closing the door firmly.

  Batsho stood in front of the door for a short while, trying to think of what he ought to do next. He was not convinced that he should return to the Basilica Julia too quickly, for there were many—his slave Tuccu included—who might assume he had failed at his task; it stung him to think that he had. Surely there were others he could visit on official business. He paced to the end of the wall, stopped, then peered up into the sky as if seeking inspiration there. After a short while he snapped his fingers and set out to the east, away from the Forum Romanum and the Basilica Julia. There was still something he might be able to do, something that no one would question. He walked briskly toward the Temple of Hercules, gathering purpose as he went.

  Vitellius admitted him to the house of Domina Clemens. “My master is busy in his study. Shall I send for him?”

  This was more the reception Batsho expected, and he made himself stand as tall as possible. “Yes. He will want to talk in a withdrawing room, I believe.” His smile was self-serving.

  “I will have wine and bread fetched for you,” said Vitellius, indicating a door across the atrium from where they stood. “It should not be long in being brought to you, honored decuria.”

  “Very good,” said Batsho, and went briskly past the fountain to the beautiful wooden doors of the withdrawing room. He let himself in and took stock of the chamber, making note of the magnificent hanging fixture that held more than a dozen oil-lamps, and the two couches and three chairs, all upholstered in costly fabrics, reminding himself to check the records of the luxury taxes Sanct-Franciscus had paid. Two tables of glossy carved wood stood between the chairs and the couches. Certainly this foreigner was flourishing in Roma, he thought, as he dropped into one of the chairs and put his case in his lap; his heel tapped out his impatience. The shutters were open and revealed a small stand of peach trees just beginning to put out buds and leaves; Batsho only glanced at them before he again took stock of the contents of the room, mentally calculating the value of what he saw.

  A discreet tap on the door announced the arrival of his refreshments, and Batsho called out, “Enter,” as he shifted his position in the chair so he could reach the nearest table without effort.

  Mareno brought in a tray with an amphora of wine on it, a goblet of gilded wood, and a basket of sweet buns and savory rolls stuffed with spiced cheese. He put the tray down and offered to pour the wine.

  “I will attend to that,” said Batsho, waving his dismissal.

  With a slight bow, Mareno withdrew, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Batsho poured out a generous amount of wine and picked up one of the sweet buns, sniffing at it before he bit into it. He chewed steadily but paid little attention to the taste, thinking of what he would tell Sanct-Franciscus. So intent was he on preparing his opening salvo, he did not realize that Sanct-Franciscus had arrived until a discreet cough behind him startled him out of his contemplation. Spraying bits of masticated bun, he burst out, “What are you doing!”

  “Welcoming you to the house of Domina Clemens,” said Sanct-Franciscus urbanely. “I hope this means your refreshments are satisfactory?”

  “You keep a good kitchen,” said Batsho.

  “Is that subject to taxation? I was not aware of it,” said Sanct-Franciscus, coming up to Batsho.

  “No, no. Not that I know of,” said Batsho, forcing a chuckle. “Although, if such a tax did exist, you would have to pay handsomely, I expect.”

  “Then to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Batsho contemplated the half of the sweet bun in his fingers. “I have come about the business dealings you have with Septimus Desiderius Vulpius. There are some … some gaps in our records that must be eliminated.”

  “The records or the gaps?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired politely.

  Batsho stopped the sharp retort that formed in his thoughts; instead he cleared his throat portentously. “Honestiorus, you are a man of probity, and so I come to you. You have certain business dealings that are under examination, and for that reason if no other, I come to you in the hope of reconciling the discrepancies in our accounts.”

  “I have provided all the information requested in regard to all my business dealings,” said Sanct-Franciscus
. “You yourself recorded them, and received your commoda.”

  Batsho blinked in surprise. “But—”

  “I have your signature to that effect, or had you forgot?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, his cordiality unalloyed, but his dark eyes took on a flintiness that had not been in them a moment ago.

  Trying to recover himself, Batsho managed an elaborate shrug. “If you are disinclined to assist me, then I will have to refer the matter to the curia itself, for judgment.” Usually this intimation was enough to make any Roman willing to cooperate.

  But Sanct-Franciscus was not a Roman. He nodded to Batsho. “I am sure the curia would be interested in what you report. As they would be interested in your attempt to solicit a bribe for your silence and complicity.”

  “This is not—” Batsho began, only to be interrupted.

  “If I have misunderstood your purpose in coming here, pardon me for my maladroitness,” said Sanct-Franciscus with icy formality. “If you are seeking to discover whether or not I am willing to bribe an official of the Roman Senate, I offer my assurance that I am not. I will pay the taxes I am assessed, I will pay the commodae required of me, but I will not contravene Roman laws.”

  “Most commendable,” said Batsho as he reached for the amphora to refill his goblet. “You have received me hospitably, which is to your credit.”

  “And suits your position, decuria.”

  “Just so, just so,” said Batsho before he took a long draught of wine. Feeling somewhat better, he finished the sweet bun, then addressed Sanct-Franciscus again. “It is laudable that you strive to conduct your affairs correctly. Not everyone is as conscientious as you are, and for that reason, I must compare your records to some others filed in association with yours.”

  “Very punctilious of you,” Sanct-Franciscus said.

  “A man in my position must be meticulous,” said Batsho, trying not to preen.

  “No doubt.”

  Batsho cleared his throat. “You may want to review your records, to determine if what you have reported is in any way dissimilar to what Vulpius has reported.”

  “When Vulpius returns to the city, I will speak with him,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “If we discover any divergence in our accounts, we will inform you of them, as Roman law requires.”

  “I … thank you, for your … cooperation and hospitality,” said Batsho, although the words almost stuck in his throat.

  “There is no need for thanks; I am only doing my duty as a resident of Roma.” Sanct-Franciscus inclined his head. “If there is nothing else, I fear I must return to my work in the study. You may remain as long as you like; if this refreshment is insufficient, inform the steward and he will see that you have more of whatever pleases you.” He gave Batsho a gesture of respect, then turned and left him alone with the wine and the basket of breads.

  “Have you any instructions?’ asked Aedius, who met Sanct-Franciscus outside the withdrawing room.

  “Give him whatever he asks for; the more the better. Let me know when he is about to leave.” Sanct-Franciscus managed a half-smile. “I would appreciate it if no one mentioned the visitor in my study. I think it best if his presence were—”

  “Of course not,” said Aedius, indignation raising his voice a bit. “Speak to a decuria of the household? I think not.”

  “I should not have doubted you. If you would prepare another tray and have it brought to the study,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He turned away after handing Aedius a denarius for his service, and made for his study, where he found Natalis, his big, long-fingered hands moving restlessly as he paced. “I apologize for taking so long, particularly since you had not been here more than a few minutes when he arrived, and I have sent your refreshments to him. Had it been another, I would have asked him to wait until you and I had finished our business. But since the decuria required—”

  “Decuriae are the bane of us all,” said Natalis, trying to contain his temper. “I don’t like being in the same house as one, I can tell you.”

  “Who among us does,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “This one has a singleness of purpose where I am concerned.”

  Natalis came to an abrupt halt. “Are you suspect?”

  “No; I am rich,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “He would like to find a way to demand more commodae of me than the law allows, and so he pesters me and a few of my associates, hoping to force us into paying him additional sums. Unfortunately I have done so in the past, and that seems to have inspired him to regard me as a good target for his requirements: fortunately I have a record of what he has been paid, one that he has signed, and that limits his rapacity to some extent, for he would be dismissed from his post if it was revealed that he had taken bribes, or solicited additional commodae.”

  “They all take bribes,” said Natalis. “And most of them remain at their posts.”

  “Yes, but not so egregiously as this Batsho: he is an avaricious little man, who uses what small power he possesses to try to enrich himself.”

  “Sounds like that Persian merchant. Dis take him!” Natalis slapped his fist into his hand. “I wish I had never entered his shop.”

  “I can understand that,” said Sanct-Franciscus, continuing with delicacy, “Did you actually take anything?”

  “No!” Natalis burst out, then pressed his lips together, and, under Sanct-Franciscus’ penetrating gaze added, “He had nothing worth my efforts.”

  “Not even the alabaster figures?”

  “No. They were of inferior workmanship. I have some standards; I will not risk prison for something that will fetch a few denarii, which is all those figures would have done, if I had taken any.” He paused. “I still lie, occasionally.”

  “And the boy: does he work with you?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  “No, he really was asking for directions. Truly. It drew the shopkeeper’s attention, and that made him suspect the worst.” He cleared his throat. “I do sometimes work with someone, but she is not … she is over forty and no one pays her much attention, so she is most effective.”

  “And she is … ,” Sanct-Franciscus prompted.

  “We are cousins. She is a widow of limited means, and she welcomes the extra money our efforts can bring; at forty-three, she is in no position to learn new skills—and even if she did, who would hire her?”

  “Has she no other means?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  Natalis sighed abruptly. “Her husband left her with a house, but his nephew claimed the house for his family, and the decuriae upheld his claim, so now my cousin lives in two little rooms in one of the insulae down near the slaughterhouses.” He stared toward the window. “I ask you not to betray her. I might manage prison or quarry-work, but she is too old for such sentences, and I would hate to see her go to the arena.”

  “I will not, nor will I expose you.” Sanct-Franciscus indicated one of the chairs. “Sit down. You will have food and drink shortly.”

  Frowning a little, Natalis moved away from Sanct-Franciscus. “That isn’t necessary. I am hardly your guest.”

  “But of course you are,” Sanct-Franciscus contradicted him with a faint smile. “I asked that you visit me upon your release. The Prefect assured me you would.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t, not at once,” Natalis said, unaccountably embarrassed by this admission.

  Sanct-Franciscus dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “No matter; you are here now, your injury has healed and you look fit enough.”

  Natalis paled. “Fit enough for what?”

  Sanct-Franciscus shook his head. “Nothing that should trouble you. Nothing that would put you at odds with the law again.”

  “But—” Natalis began, stopping himself as a tap sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Holmdi entered the study, bearing a well-laden brass tray: a large jug of wine stood surrounded by a silver goblet, a basket of breads, a tub of soft cheese, another of fresh butter, a plate of cold sliced chicken garnished with asparagus, a dish of p
reserved fruits, and a bowl of pickled vegetables. This he put down on the large table in the center of the room. “I am sorry this took so long to bring, my master, but the decuria asked for more wine.” He stood still, anticipating a rebuke and possibly a blow to go with it.

  “Did he?” Sanct-Franciscus almost smiled. “His head will ache from so much.”

  “You said to serve him whatever he asked for,” Holmdi reminded him.

  “So I did,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. “And the household has done well in catering to him. If necessary, send for a sedan chair to carry him home.”

  Holmdi ducked his head and prepared to leave the study. “Is there anything more?”

  “Not just now, thank you, Holmdi,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and waited until the slave had left the room before turning his attention to Natalis once more. “Go ahead. Take what pleases you.”

  Natalis was hungry and the food smelled delicious. “I would like something to eat, and a glass of wine.”

  “Have as much as you want,” Sanct-Franciscus said.

  Ordinarily Natalis would have refused to have more than wine and bread, but he had gone two days on such fare and was famished for something more substantial. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I will not join you. I have … a condition that limits my diet severely, and as those of my blood dine in private. Do not let that make you reluctant. Your pleasure is all that matters here.” He watched Natalis take one of the breads, pull it open and begin to smear soft cheese in the cavity, then reach for chicken slices and pickles and stuff them into the bread.

  “This is most generous, honestioms.” He turned away, as if worried that his eating might upset his host.

  “Nothing more than I would offer any other guest in your situation,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Natalis, who had taken a large bite of his stuffed bread, stopped chewing. “What do you mean?”

  “You have spent months in prison, and you have no employment to sustain you,” said Sanct-Franciscus.