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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Must the end come so quickly?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, amused and saddened at once.

  “Yes, it must, or so prophecy has revealed: the Blessed Paul declared that God would return in the blink of an eye; day and night we must be ready. Day and night we must strive to be worthy of His Love. All those who seek Him may hope to be raised up to join Him in glory—the rest will be cast into outer darkness. Everyone must prepare. Everyone must come to the Christ, and the worship of the True God.” He touched the golden fish pectoral suspended on a leather thong around his neck. “The end will be upon us soon. No man may know the hour, but surely it will come.”

  Sanct-Franciscus sighed. “You are certainly sincere, but I would think you would serve your god better by helping tend to your mother than to spend the night attempting to shame a Roman temple into conversion with your prayers.”

  “That is not what we are doing,” said Octavian hotly.

  “No? Then what might it be?” He held up his hand to keep Octavian from answering. “I know something of your religion; do not think I am not aware of its precepts.” He recalled the accounts of the preacher who had so offended the High Priest of the Temple in Jerusalem, proclaiming that each man was a temple unto himself. “It began as a Jewish sect, then gradually gathered Jewish, Greek, and Asianan converts, then other followers, to become a separate belief with sects of its own. Your sect within the group is the most stringent and condemnatory of those who do not agree with your faith or your interpretation of your faith: there are other sects within the Christian faithful whose beliefs and practices are less intrusive, but equally as sincere.”

  “The others are misled and a disgrace for the Christ, Who died to redeem all mankind.” Octavian folded his arms.

  “The same is believed of Mithras, and many others.” Sanct-Franciscus shook his head once. “You will say that such gods are lies—only yours is true. And the others would say the same of your tenets.” He gave Octavian a long stare. “Go home, Octavian. Tend to your mother, help your sister. This will not spare the world anything, and it will bring you no nearer to salvation than any other man.”

  “So you say! You disbeliever! Blasphemer!”

  Sanct-Franciscus was about to turn away, but he stopped to give Octavian one last remark. “I believe to the extent that I know a man may rise from the dead, but I know also that rising does not make him a god.” He had been told much the same thing when he was young and alive—that he would become one with the gods of his people, but over his two millennia of vampiric life, he had realized that was not the case, that undead existence was not divinity no matter how long he continued in that state.

  Octavian took a deep breath. “You may be a physician, and a capable one for the flesh, but you have no understanding of the soul.” He swung around and was about to return to his companions when Sanct-Franciscus stopped him, saying, “Perhaps not as you and your faith understand it, but I hold intimacy to be the highest expression of life one person may share with another.”

  The apparent leader of the praying group intervened, calling Octavian to order before that impulsive youth could continue his disputes. “Leave him alone, Octavian. God will deal with him when the time comes.”

  “Yes, God will judge him,” Octavian said loudly enough to be certain that Sanct-Franciscus heard him. “He will know the Wrath of God at the end, when he learns what his fate is to be throughout eternity.”

  Sanct-Franciscus moved on toward the gate to Domina Clemens’ house, calling out, “I have returned. Please let me in.” The rays of the early sun touched him, promising a warm day.

  Aedius, still shrugging off the last vestiges of sleep, opened the gate to Sanct-Franciscus. “Fortune favor this day, Sanct-Franciscus,” he said as a matter of courtesy.

  “Thank you, Aedius,” said Sanct-Franciscus, stepping into the shade of the high wall around the courtyard. “Tell me, how long have those zealots been praying out there?”

  “They came shortly after sundown. They had oil-lamps, but they burned out hours ago.”

  “Oil-lamps,” Sanct-Franciscus repeated. “How provident of them.” He looked around. “Has anything happened since I left last evening?”

  “Someone has come,” said Aedius. “I have put him in the second guest-room.” He coughed discreetly. “I have told him that you will receive him upon your return.”

  “Is he a Roman or a foreigner?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, then added before Aedius could speak, “Never mind; I shall learn for myself.”

  “He comes from afar,” said Aedius.

  “On one of my ships, perhaps?” Sanct-Franciscus ventured.

  “Perhaps,” said Aedius. “I did not inquire.”

  “Excellent,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If this guest is awake, would you ask him to come to my study, and see he has something to break his fast.”

  “At once,” said Aedius, and added, “Holmdi will man the gate while I do this.”

  “As suits you best,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Who knows what that group of avid youths may decide to do? I have heard that they do more than exhort good Romans: the honestiorus Cyrillus Herminius Acestes had a band of them break into his house and destroy the altar and alcove of the lares, not six days ago. The Urban Guard were called out to contain them; the Watchmen were not sufficiently armed to do it.”

  “I would be very surprised if the group outside turned their attention to this house—they are too outraged with Hercules to demean themselves with a simple Roman abode.” Saying this, Sanct-Franciscus hastened away toward his private apartments, thinking as he went that he should order the bath prepared; perhaps after he received his guest. He frowned faintly, wondering who could have come unannounced to see him; a foreigner, Aedius had said, and that was more perplexing. He made his way up the stairs to the second floor, sensing the last lingering sweetness of his night with Melidulci fade away; suddenly the eight days until their next time together seemed much too long.

  In his outer chamber he stripped off his kalasiris and donned a black linen dalmatica, one that was long enough to reach his ankles. He found an ebony comb and ran it through his hair, then felt his chin and jaw to reassure himself that his beard was not too long; he had been without a reflection so long that he no longer missed referring to it, relying on touch instead of sight. Last he chose a heavy Egyptian-style silver pectoral with small disks with raised wings—his eclipse sigil—at the end of each segment of the collar, which he fastened around his neck. Satisfied, he left the room and made his way to the study, wondering afresh who might be waiting for him.

  The study was sunk in half-light, for the shutters had not yet been opened. Sanct-Franciscus slipped into the room, seeing a figure wrapped in a dark-blue byrrus seated so that the visitor faced away from the door. “I am sorry you have been kept waiting on my account.”

  “You had no reason to expect me, my master,” came the answer as Rugeri stood up and turned toward Sanct-Franciscus. A slight smile brightened his austere features.

  Sanct-Franciscus recovered quickly from his astonishment. “I am delighted to see you, as always, my friend, but what brings you here—and so covertly?”

  Rugeri took off his byrrus, revealing a tunica of dove-gray linen and high, laced calcea that reached almost to his knees. “I took the advice of Domina Clemens and came without notice to report to you. I borrowed one of the messengers’ bigae in Ostia yesterday, and reached Roma just before the gates were closed. The Urban Guard questioned me on my business for two or three hours before permitting me to come on to this house, so I did not arrive until long after you had departed for the night.”

  “I hope you were received cordially,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Luckily I brought the letter from Domina Clemens; no one here would deny hospitality to the deputy of the owner,” said Rugeri.

  “Olivia sent you?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, startled once more.

  “Yes. She said in her letter to me that she supposed that some of ou
r regular correspondence had been intercepted—I gather she has intimated as much to you, as well—and that to ensure you have accurate information, she advised me to come to Roma, unannounced, to speak with you. That way, she thought, we might be able to discover where the letters were being seized without alerting the culprits of our interest.” Rugeri shrugged, his faded-blue eyes revealing more than fatigue. “I concurred. Ecce. I am here.”

  “Why do you believe that our letters are being … shall we say, diverted? from their destinations?” He went to open the shutters and let in the new day; light suffused the room, revealing the murals in full richness and detail, depicting the Roman gods at their pleasures, the largest of which showed Vesta and Mercury engaged in a lively debate about the happiness of home versus the excitement of commerce and travel.

  “I believe it because I have asked you for decisions on certain matters that you have not addressed, and I have reason to suspect that the information you have received is incorrect.” Rugeri held out a sheaf of fan-folded scrolls. “These are my copies of what I have sent you.”

  Sanct-Franciscus took the sheaf, but did not untie it or open any of the letters. “I knew something was wrong. I had a letter from you at the end of January that seemed most unlike you.”

  “How is that?” Rugeri asked, looking troubled.

  “I will show it to you later; you will understand my apprehension,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “In the meantime, tell me what has happened? There must be something specific, or I doubt you would be here.”

  “There are a number of matters you and I ought to discuss, and not just about your business in Alexandria.” He did not wait for permission, but sat down again in the chair he had occupied when Sanct-Franciscus arrived.

  “You mean there are other things bothering you?” Sanct-Franciscus took the chair opposite Rugeri’s. “What has happened, that you are so troubled?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” said Rugeri, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “All the way here,” he said a bit later, “I tried to decide how to explain my concerns to you, and I determined that it would be a simple matter of reporting instances of—but then, once I arrived, I realized that this would not be as easily done as I supposed.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands laced together. “I am certain someone managing the customs taxes in Alexandria has taken to stealing portions of your cargos after the taxes on the whole have been paid, and profiting twice—from the overpaid taxes and the purloined cargo. I am certain he must have an accomplice, either in Ostia or here in Roma, someone with direct ties to you and your trading company.” He stopped, staring directly at Sanct-Franciscus.

  “I gather you have mentioned these possibilities to Olivia,” Sanct-Franciscus remarked. “It seems the sort of precaution you would take.”

  “I sent her a letter yesterday, and I used one of your private messengers at the shipping office.” Rugeri’s mouth pressed to a thin line. “It may be difficult to gain the kind of credibility we will have to have to persuade the Prefecture of Customs to investigate these crimes.”

  “True enough,” said Sanct-Franciscus, sighing once. “And I do not relish making the kinds of bribes that would be needed to compensate for lack of specific evidence: such a strategy can bring about unwanted results.”

  “You are thinking of the Persians,” said Rugeri with a single nod. “I would not like to have such an experience again.”

  “Nor I,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He put his hands together, studying the middle distance over the tops of his fingers. “Do you think,” he went on in the Persian tongue, “that someone in this household—not in the business, but this household—may be part of the trouble we have had?”

  “I fear it is possible,” said Rugeri. “Although I cannot guess who is behind it, or what he hopes to accomplish.”

  “It is most perplexing,” agreed Sanct-Franciscus, beginning to stride down the room again. “You were wise to come to me yourself. We must go cautiously, I think.”

  “I didn’t like leaving your business in Alexandria, but the Priests of Imhotep have sent their most accomplished man of numbers—Djuran is his name—to monitor all the accounts and records. Do you have anyone here you would trust with such a task?”

  Sanct-Franciscus shook his head slowly. “Urbanus manages such things for this household; I have not caught him doing anything suspicious, but if he is clever, I doubt I would.” He glanced toward the door. “I cannot promise we are not overheard.”

  “That is to be expected.” Rugeri coughed and went on in Latin, “I would prefer to remain here for a time.”

  “I would like that as well,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I need more eyes and ears than anyone could possess, at least until I know what is going on, and why.”

  “I will do what I can to make your situation less confusing, although it may take some time to sort out the problem.” He rose. “I will set about the work at once, my master. Do you want me to return to my duties as your body-servant?”

  “I would welcome that, but I will have to arrange for Tigilus to have a new assignment, something that does not cause him disgrace.” Sanct-Franciscus tapped his finger-tips together.

  “Does he require such attention?” Rugeri asked.

  “As much as any attentive servant does,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If I lessen his position in the eyes of the other household slaves, he will suffer for it, and hold me to blame for his misery. I need not remind you how conscious slaves are of such matters.”

  “He would lose his place in the household,” said Rugeri; as a bondsman, he had not been subjected to the stringent order among slaves, but he had seen it work over fifteen decades, and realized Sanct-Franciscus was right.

  “Unless he has something of equal importance to replace his post, yes.”

  “And that would distress him,” said Rugeri.

  “And that would distress me,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “To lack concern for those around me lessens my humanity, and I know what desperation lies down that road.” He had an appalling memory of his centuries of captivity in a Babylonian oubliette, surviving on terrified monthly sacrifices; he suppressed a shudder.

  Rugeri saw the flicker of anguish in Sanct-Franciscus’ dark eyes, and said, “Those times are long behind you.”

  “By all the forgotten gods, I hope so,” said Sanct-Franciscus quietly, but with such intensity of feeling that the air seemed to shake with it.

  “So,” Rugeri said after a brief silence, “a new assignment for Tigilus.”

  “I will decide what it is to be before prandium is served,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “And you wish me to work with Urbanus.”

  “If you would; let us say that we wish to integrate the foreign accounts with our Roman ones,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He started toward the door, then stopped and turned to look at Rugeri. “I thank you for coming, my friend. You have taken a burden off me.”

  Rugeri ducked his head. “Then I am pleased to be here, my master,” he said.

  Text of a letter from the Praetorian Centurion Fidelis Mais Paigni to Senator Valericus Hyacinthus Modestinus Vitens, carried by private messenger.

  To the illustrious Valericus Hyacinthus Modestinus Vitens, Senator and member of the Curia, Ave!

  On your order, we have investigated reports submitted by decuriae to the Curia for review of the foreigner, Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, resident in Roma at the house of the esteemed Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, near the Temple of Hercules, although he also owns and maintains a sizeable villa—Villa Ragoczy—some three thousand paces beyond the Roman walls, beyond the Praetorian Camp, where he raises horses and mules. Our investigation is not complete, but so far, I must inform you, that there is nothing we have found that suggests that he has attempted to avoid paying legal taxes on any of his property or on his present leased residence, or has worked against the Emperor or the Roman State. In fact, our results thus far have revealed quite the opposite: he has on all occasions, when there was a
ny question about amounts due, he has agreed to pay the higher assessment. This man, known to be an exile, has conducted himself with dignity and propriety, has maintained his businesses as required, paid all his taxes, occupies the Clemens house with all necessary legalities attended to, and has no complaints against him from any Roman merchant with whom he has done business.

  Further, we have been informed by the Prefect of the Litigianus Prison, Herminius Mirandus Guion, that this Sanct-Franciscus has on several occasions come to the prison to treat injured or ailing prisoners, for which service he has charged nothing. The first of those he treated, a thief named Natalis, this Sanct-Franciscus has given employment, and brought into this household as a servant—his private messenger, according to the records held by the decuria Telemachus Batsho of the Basilica Julia, who has said that he believes that any exile who is as observant of Roman law as Sanct-Franciscus is must have some hidden purpose in his excessive scrupulousness. While I do not entirely concur, I and my men will continue our inquiries until you and the Curia decide that you have sufficient information to reach a conclusion pertaining to this man.

  Ave, Caesar. Ave, the Vestal Virgins. Ave, the Senate and the People of Roma.

  Fidelis Mais Paigni

  Centurion, Praetorian Guard

  At the Praetorian Camp on the 12th day of April, the 972nd Year of the City

  PART II

  PAX IGNATIA LAELIUS

  Text of a letter from Pallius Savianus, Captain of the Evening Star, at Ostia, to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus at Roma, carried by Natalis.

  To the highly regarded foreign trader, Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of Pallius Savianus, Captain of the trading ship Evening Star, presently in Ostia, greetings.