“It may come to that,” said Lucillius. “Or they may require a bond from you while their assessment is ongoing.”
“In other words, the Curia and their decuriae will do their utmost to tie my hands and limit my access to them while they decide if I have been too honest or not honest enough,” said Sanct-Franciscus sardonically.
“Something of the sort, I fear,” said Lucillius, adding more wine to his partially empty cup; color was rising in his cheeks, and his face softened.
“And I am not to have direct contact with Desiderius Vulpius, or any of the others: Senator Italicus Romulus Primus Puero, or the illustriatus Cosimus Isidorus Crispus Horens, or Demetrius Numa Tarquinius Augustulus, or Ireaus Antonius Propinus, or Sovertius Gratians, or any other honoratus or illustriatus with whom I have had a business association, no matter how remote?” He nodded, certain of the answer. “If I am tainted, so they could be equally besmirched—is that the gist of it?”
“I understand why you are dismayed,” said Lucillius, wary of the sharpness of Sanct-Franciscus’ tone.
“I should hope so,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “You would be outraged if the Curia should impose such restrictions upon you.”
“Yes,” said Fabricius. “But we are Romans, after all.”
“And I am a foreigner in exile.” Sanct-Franciscus paced the length of the study, then stopped still. “Very well: so long as I am kept informed—regularly informed—of the progress of the investigation, I will abide by the restrictions placed upon me, at least for the period of a year. If the inquiry lasts longer, I will seek to find other avenues by which to resolve my predicament.” He could see that his indignation was having the desired impact on his visitors, and he decided to use that response to his advantage. “If you will swear to me that you will see to it that I am given accurate reports every month, you have my assurance that I will do my utmost to assist the Curia in its inquiries.”
Lucillius pressed his lips together, considering how to answer. “So you will not seek to block or oppose them? You’re willing to let the probe go forth?”
“I am not in a position to stop it,” Sanct-Franciscus admitted. “If it is to be brought to a swift conclusion, I will have to aid the Curia, not try to hinder its tasks.”
“A most … reasonable position,” said Fabricius, doing his best to conceal his surprise.
“Would a more belligerent one make this any easier?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired with an air of worn geniality.
“Probably not,” said Lucillius.
Sanct-Franciscus regarded his two visitors narrowly. “Will you swear?”
“Of course,” said Lucillius. “I have done enough business through you that I know you are forthright in your dealings. I will say as much to the Curia, and I will see that you are provided monthly reports from the decuriae assigned to your case.”
“Among the decuriae, I don’t suppose there is one called Telemachus Batsho, is there?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, a slight, saturnine smile tweaking the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t recognize the name,” said Fabricius, just a little too quickly.
“He may be one,” said Lucillius, with feigned indifference. “If you want to know, I will—” He drank the last of his wine in a single, large gulp.
“No; I was only curious,” said Sanct-Franciscus, convinced now that Batsho was the instigator of this punitive investigation. He indicated the tray of viands. “Enjoy yourselves as long as you like, honestiora; my slaves will bring you more wine and food if you want them.”
“But you … you should be with us,” said Fabricius, hastily drinking wine to help swallow his mouthful of pillow-bread. “Your hospitality is exemplary, but we have no wish to impose upon you.”
“You do not impose. I will return shortly; if I am not to call upon Vulpius, I must alert my stables and my staff.” He nodded once and strode out of the study, making his way to his private apartments without unseemly haste. Here he found Rugeri setting out a dark-red laena in anticipation of his leaving. “Do not bother,” he said in Greek.
Rugeri looked up, startled. “My master?” he said in the same tongue.
“I will not be calling upon Vulpius today.” He quickly summed up what his two unexpected guests had told him, adding only, “We must be very cautious now, my friend.”
“Cautious? Perhaps it would be better to visit Alexandria, or Gallia,” Rugeri suggested.
“That would only confirm the Curia’s worst misgivings. No. This must be handled carefully, and in full view of Roma, or I will lose my businesses and jeopardize Olivia in the process.” He paused. “My various associates will have to be warned, inconspicuously, if possible.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” asked Rugeri.
Sanct-Franciscus put the tips of his fingers together, saying, “I am going to write a note to my scribe at the villa; I will need Natalis to carry it for me.”
“Natalis?” Rugeri was somewhat alarmed. “Do you want to trust him with such a delicate mission?”
“He can leave the city—and return—without being seen, and just now, that will be important, I believe; I dare not carry it myself, or write the letters of warning, for my handwriting would reveal that the notification came from me, and that would mean trouble if the notes are revealed to the Curia, as I must assume will happen if the Curia is determined to do a thorough inquiry. So the warnings must be anonymous, and from outside the city. For the rest, I will have to rely on Natalis’ discretion.” Sanct-Franciscus went to the small writing table under the window. “While I prepare the note, will you find Natalis and bring him here?”
“Without the household being made aware of it?” Rugeri ventured, and saw Sanct-Franciscus nod. “I will.”
Sanct-Franciscus took an ink-cake from the drawer in the desk, and a rolled sheet of vellum from the pigeon-holes above the desktop, then drew up a stool and prepared to write. By the time Rugeri returned with Natalis, the note was finished and sealed, and the seal impressed with Sanct-Franciscus’ eclipse sigil.
“My master,” the two men said almost in unison.
“Thank you for being so prompt,” Sanct-Franciscus said, turning to them. “I have something for you to do, Natalis.” He indicated the folded note. “It is essential that this reach Villa Ragoczy before sunset. Do you think you can do it?”
Natalis considered. “If you mean delivered there without being seen, as your manservant has told me, then I hope I can. If I can get past the Praetorian Camp, then there should be no trouble.”
Sanct-Franciscus considered this. “You may remain there at the villa for the night, provided you can do so unseen. This is for my scribe, Deomadus—for him and no other. Make sure he reads it immediately. You may return before sunrise if it suits your purpose, so long as no one is aware of your coming and going.” He offered the folded-and-sealed vellum to Natalis. “There will be aurea waiting for you for your efforts upon your return.”
“Most generous,” mumbled Natalis as he took it.
“I shall expect you before the sun has been up for two hours.”
“I will be here,” said Natalis. “Or I will be in prison.”
Sanct-Franciscus gave a crack of laughter. “Then I will send out slaves to pay your fines, if you are.”
Rugeri glanced around the room. “Do you want him to leave from here; from this room?”
“Certainly,” said Sanct-Franciscus, indicating a closet on the far side of the chamber. “Use those stairs. They will bring you out behind the stable, away from the Temple of Hercules and facing the alley to the Via Castrum.” He saw the surprise on Natalis’ face. “You did not know about this staircase?”
“No.” Natalis seemed a bit ashamed of this lapse.
Sanct-Franciscus used a key to open the closet door. “Rugeri will be here to unlock the door if I am not,” he said, stepping aside for Natalis. “The lower door will be left open until the third hour after sunrise, and then I will lock it.”
“I understand,”
said Natalis, slipping the vellum into his wallet. “I will strive to do as you wish. The note is for your scribe, who is named Deomadus. I may remain at the villa so long as I am hidden, at least until the hour before dawn.”
“Precisely,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Now you must be about your errand, and I must return to my … guests.” As he closed the door behind Natalis, Rugeri folded his arms. “What is it? You do not trust him?”
“Do you?” Rugeri countered.
“We shall see,” said Sanct-Franciscus, making for the door and the gallery beyond.
“That we will,” said Rugeri as he picked up the laena and returned it to its peg on the wall.
Text of a letter from Melidulci at Misenum to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma; carried by private courier.
To my most worthy and esteemed Patron, the honestiorus Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of Melidulci from Misenum and the Villa Solea, on the north side of the town, a thousand paces from the Via Appia,
This is to tell you that I have found my home, and I should be content to remain here for the rest of my days. This estate is small—five hundred paces on a side—and producing grapes, fruits, olives, and greens, as well as grazing cattle and goats. I have five horses, a pair of mules, and a donkey, fourteen slaves, and three freemen to handle market-days for me. The setting is private, but not so remote that I might as well be in Germania Inferior. My house has ten rooms, a large kitchen-and-bake-house, a bath and a building-shed. There are two springs on the property, so water is not a problem, and the fields are drained by ditches that carry the water and offal to the sea. All in all, it is everything I could wish for, and I thank you for the loan of the money to buy it. As my fields bear fruit I will repay you on the terms you agreed to, for I cannot accept such an extravagant gift from you, not and hold my head up.
If ever you should want to visit me here, I would welcome you. I know you must have many invitations, and many must be more worthy than mine, but none, I assure you, is more sincere than this one, and for that reason alone, I hope you will one day permit me to offer you the same hospitality you extended to me in those hard days in Roma. We have had such pleasant moments together, we may still have one or two more, to enrich our memories.
Fortunately, I have found a scribe—a freedman, and therefore a citizen—a sensible fellow from Brundisium, who is called Lars, for the Etruscan from whom he claims descent. He has been educated in Greek as well as Latin, in keeping accounts and making records, so I will have nothing to fear from the decuriae when it is time to pay my taxes, or to deal with the officials of the region. This Lars is clean-faced and steady of gaze, of modest demeanor without being subservient, but he is somewhat short-sighted, which, in spite of spectacles, has inclined him to scholarly pursuits rather than a more active life. You may write to me in confidence, knowing that Lars will reveal nothing of my business to anyone.
I will never forget all you have done for me, and I will always think myself fortunate to have been afforded your good opinion when others were excoriating me for debauchery. You are most assuredly more entitled to the honor of Romans than most Romans are.
On this, the 13th day of October in the 972nd Year of the City, and with my heart-felt gratitude,
Melidulci
by the hand of Lars, freedman and citizen of Roma
7
At the eastern end of the garden of the Villa Laelius stood the tenyear-old spring house, where water from the extension of the aqueduct to the Baths of Caracalla had been channeled to a handful of private houses for scandalous amounts that helped to pay for the construction of the monumental baths a decade ago. There was a fountain with three large, graduated stone bowls in its center, topped by a statue of the garden god, and beneath it all, a drain that funneled the water to various parts of the house. Four doors gave easy access to the fountain, with benches around the colonnade, and three couches for private dining; the walls were decorated with murals of Vertumnus and Pomona, with small panels dedicated to other numina. At the time it was built, it had been the envy of all the neighbors, but now most of the other houses got their water from new extensions of the Virgo Aqueduct, and this spring house was no longer begrudged the Villa Laelius.
Sunset was fading into twilight on this last night of October when Sanct-Franciscus arrived on foot, unseen and unannounced, at the Villa Laelius; he made his way to the garden, as silent as a shadow and as graceful. His simple black Persian chandys and black bracae lent their darkness to the coming night, hiding him from all but the most determined and alert spies. After climbing the wall, he took time to make sure the grounds were empty, then went toward the spring house, his senses attuned to the night, to the odor of wood-smoke and broiling pork from the kitchen, and the sweet-sour aroma of rotting summer fruit. The whisper of fallen leaves blowing along the gravel path accompanied him; from beyond the walls came the steady clamor of the end of market-day.
Two of the doors of the spring house were open—the north and the west ones, facing away from the main house and the stables—and the flickering light of an oil-lamp shone within the single, vaulted chamber, touching the falling water as if to turn it to bits of gold, and illuminating Ignatia, seated on the farthest couch, her plum-colored mafortium raised as if to conceal her face. She held a small book cut on broad wood-shavings in her hands, but gave no sign of reading anything written on it. At the soft sound of his peri on the marble floor, she looked up in the direction of the oil-lamp.
“Ignatia,” he said as he stepped next to the fountain; the water running under the floor was a slight distraction, but his native earth in his soles prevented any serious discomfort.
She sighed at the sound of his voice, and turned toward him. “Sanct-Franciscus,” she said, as if to reassure herself he was real, and not a figment of her inflamed imagination. “I was afraid you … wouldn’t come.”
He felt her hesitation struggle with her desire; two centuries ago he would have used her ambivalence to persuade her to accept him; now, he remained where he was, allowing her to reach her decision on her own. “Would you prefer I had not.”
“No,” she said, apparently unaware of the forlorn note in her voice. She rose and took a faltering step toward him. “If you hadn’t come, I’d … I’d know.”
“Know what, Ignatia?” He closed the distance between them, but did not touch her yet.
“That my mother was right, and that you come here because of your devotion to her; you would have no interest in me.” She gave a startled blink to hear herself admit so much.
“I am her physician: I feel sympathy for her, and I have an obligation to treat her illness to the limit of my skills, but”—he took her hands in his—“were Domina Adicia not here, I would still want to be with you, to—”
Ignatia pulled one hand free and pressed her fingers to his lips. “You don’t have to say that.” She pulled her hand back, as if even such a minor touch as that was too personal for her.
“Why?” he asked as he took her hand again.
“Because it might not be so,” she confessed, staring down at the rim of the lowest and largest bowl of the fountain.
He lifted their joined hands. His enigmatic eyes were too intense for her to meet with her own. “Do you think I would lie to you?”
“Men lie to women,” she said.
“But do you think I lie to you, Ignatia?” There was no rancor in the question, no suggestion of umbrage or accusation.
She shook her head but would not look at him. “I’m scared,” she whispered.
“If you are afraid of me, send me away.” He felt her hands tighten in his. “If you are not afraid of me, nor think me mendacious, what do you fear?”
Finally she lifted her eyes to him; in the lamplight they were more green than blue. “I may want you too much.”
“What is too much?”
The question startled her. “More than dignity approves,” she said slowly, repeating the lessons of her childhood.
“I don’t know,” she said in an under-voice.
“Would you rather not find out?” he asked as he released her hands.
She grabbed for him, seizing his left hand in both of hers. “No!”
“What, then?”
Lifting his hand to her face inside the circle of her mafortium, she stared over his shoulder. “I want to know—so much.”
“But it vexes you to want so much,” he said softly, thinking back to the first time he had met Olivia, and the fear she had shown. When Ignatia nodded, he went on. “You have denied your longing for so many years that now you wonder if you have dammed a flood in your heart, and it may drown you if you release it.”
She uttered a little gasp. “You know! How can you know that?”
“It is in everything you do,” said Sanct-Franciscus simply, opening his hand against her cheek; she started to turn away again, but this time he held her face gently, but with such strength that she was startled by it. “You want to know what is within you, and you are frightened of what it might be.”
Astonished, she said, “Yes.”
“But the desire to know is greater than your fear,” he said, his voice low and compelling.
“Yes,” she said, a bit uncertainly. “I want to know.”
“As do I,” he told her just above a whisper.
For a long moment they stood together in the wavering lamp-light, then Ignatia shivered and leaned her head against his shoulder. “You must think me a foolish woman.”
“No, I think you an undiscovered woman,” he corrected her in a voice that touched her soul as surely as his hand caressed her face.
“Undiscovered,” she repeated. “Yes.”
He eased his arms around her, supporting her against him, lending her his strength while she battled within herself to overcome her fears. “What would you like to explore first?” he asked quietly as he felt the strain go out of her body.
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