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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Natalis hitched up his shoulder. “You have a message or some item you want taken somewhere without being noticed; I am ready to do as you order, rain or no rain,” he said, but his flickering eyes revealed his apprehension. His pallium was new, made of slate-blue wool, and decorated at the hem with a band of dust-colored heavy cotton; the bracae he wore beneath were made of tan cotton, and his peri were bronze-colored leather. On the street on such a day as this, his garments would render him invisible as much as his skills as a thief.

  “Not just now, I think,” said Sanct-Franciscus, coming away from the table. He looked over at Rugeri. “Will the hot wine be brought shortly?”

  “It will,” said Rugeri.

  Natalis cocked his head. “You want wine?”

  “No, Natalis; you do.” Sanct-Franciscus drew up a chair to the low table in the center of the room and indicated the chair opposite. “Do sit down. There is something we must talk about.”

  “That sounds ominous,” said Natalis with a shaky chuckle as he dropped into the chair.

  “Does it?” Sanct-Franciscus very nearly smiled at that. “Well, we shall see.”

  “I’m a bit puzzled why you want to see me, because you haven’t sent for me this way before,” Natalis said, ending on a note of uncertainty.

  “No, I have not,” Sanct-Franciscus concurred.

  “I … I am honored that you’ve called me here,” Natalis went on, trying to cover his growing edginess with talk. “I was thinking just this morning how what seemed to be my least fortunate day—the day I was caught in the Forum Agricolarum—became one of the most fortunate of my life. You have been most generous to me since you took me into your household: three new garments in seven months—truly beneficent of you, and I not a slave, but your servant.”

  “Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, maintaining his unnerving reserve.

  “Do you have another assignment for me?” Natalis glanced at Rugeri. “Your manservant wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I suppose you may think of this as an assignment,” said Sanct-Franciscus slowly.

  “Then I will ready my pluvial and be off as soon as you—”

  “Your assignment today need not expose you to the weather,” said Sanct-Franciscus tranquilly. “It is to tell me the truth. We did agree you would do that, did we not?”

  Natalis went silent, his eyes moving more frantically, as if searching for a means of escape. “Certainly. Of course. The truth about what?”

  “About whomever has employed you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his self-containment unimpaired.

  “I work for you,” said Natalis, the pitch of his voice rising.

  “I certainly pay you for doing that, and you have executed your missions for me satisfactorily,” Sanct-Franciscus said in the same steady voice. “But I have reason to believe that you are also accepting money from another employer, who has engaged you to report on me, someone who seeks to know more of me than I am required to tell.” He looked directly at Natalis. “Is that so?”

  Natalis bleated out something that might have been a laugh. “No. No. Of course no. Why would I do anything that might be against you?”

  “Those are questions I have asked myself,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You must understand that I am eager to know the answers.”

  “I do understand,” said Natalis, almost leaping out of his chair at the tap on the door.

  Rugeri turned and opened the door, and took the tray Aedius held, exchanged a few words with him, and closed the door. “The kitchen sends word that the evening meal will be delayed by an hour. The breads aren’t rising properly—it’s the rain.” He put the tray on the low table, pointing out its contents. “Hot wine in an earthenware jug, a cup, and fried cheese with bitter herbs on a plate.” With a nod, he went back to the door.

  “Excellent,” said Sanct-Franciscus, leaning forward to fill the cup with the steaming wine, deep-red in color and smelling of spices. “You will like this, I know,” he said to Natalis.

  “But—”

  Sanct-Franciscus held out the cup. “Drink it.” Natalis took a deep sip, then started to put it down. “All of it.”

  “All?” Natalis asked, hesitating.

  “All of it. The room is chilly, and the wine will warm you.” He sat expectantly. “If you fear you might become fuddled, have some of the cheese.”

  Natalis stared at the cup as if he expected it to burst into flame. “I … I don’t—”

  “Drink it,” Sanct-Franciscus said again, firmly but affably.

  “You don’t drink,” Natalis said. “It is not proper that a servant should drink and the master abstain.”

  “You and the rest of the household know that I never—” Sanct-Franciscus reminded him, only to be interrupted by Rugeri.

  “You will drink.”

  “All right!” Natalis hurriedly gulped down the wine, and then glared at Sanct-Franciscus. “I have drunk. How long before I die?” He set the cup on the tray, staring at it with dismay.

  “That is up to you and your gods; it has nothing to do with me.” Sanct-Franciscus laughed once and shook his head. “Oh, no, Natalis. You have not consumed poison. Had I wanted to be rid of you, I have other methods at my disposal not nearly so clumsy as poison.”

  Natalis looked shocked. “Then why insist I drink?”

  “So you will not behave liked a trapped rabbit,” said Sanct-Franciscus, suddenly brusque; then he softened his tone. “If you were any more jittery, you would shake your chair to flinders.”

  “Well, and so would you,” said Natalis, summoning up the courage to bluster. “To be brought up here like a shamed apprentice, and be accused of disloyalty, then made to drink—What would you think, in my position?”

  “I would think my errors in judgment had been discovered, and that would trouble me,” said Sanct-Franciscus, once again calm. “Which is what I want to know: what are your errors in judgment, Natalis? I will not yet call what you have done disloyalty, but if you withhold anything”—he paused to refill the cup—“then I may have to consider that you have an inclination to—”

  Natalis stared at the cup. “Not more wine?”

  “If you please,” said Sanct-Franciscus, handing the cup back to him.

  This time Natalis made no protest, but quickly drank the contents of the cup, set it back on the tray and reached for a cube of the fried cheese, wolfing it down, then licking his fingers as he said, “Whatever it is you want to find out, you don’t have to do it this way.”

  “There is truth in wine,” said Sanct-Franciscus, watching as Natalis took a second cube of cheese. “When I say you will tell me the truth, I want it to be as bare as possible.”

  “Bare?” Natalis appeared baffled.

  “Without modifications that might color its meaning,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Have another bite of cheese if you feel the wine too much.”

  Natalis took two cubes of cheese and stared at them, as if noticing the flakes of herbs for the first time. “What is in this?”

  “Bitter herbs, I believe, such as are served with eggplant and asparagus, and with poached eggs,” said Sanct-Franciscus with great unconcern. “The cheeses are fried in oil-with-garlic, from their aroma.”

  Almost defiantly, Natalis consumed them, then said, “I suppose you want me to drink more wine?”

  “If you would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, filling Natalis’ cup a third time.

  “Much more of this, and I won’t be able to give you much of an answer at all,” Natalis warned before he downed the contents of the cup; two bright spots were forming in his cheeks, as if he were suffering from a fever. He coughed once, and did his best to focus on Sanct-Franciscus’ face. “Now what?”

  “To whom do you report, and what do you tell him?” Sanct-Franciscus asked with civility.

  “It’s not that I wanted to,” said Natalis, his words slurring a little. “I told him I didn’t want to do it.”

  “So you were compelled,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Why and how, if yo
u would.”

  “He said he would find out if I said anything to you, and he would have me arrested by the Urban Guard.” Natalis squirmed in his chair.

  “That only means he has other spies in my household. He will learn nothing of this from me or from Rugeri,” Sanct-Franciscus assured him. “Tell me who it was who could so impose on you.”

  “An official, not one of high rank, spoke to me.” He closed his eyes as if trying to recapture the moment in his thoughts. “How could I refuse to talk with such a man?”

  “I would think you would have to oblige him, at least to hear him out,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Who was this official?”

  “I was approached by a decuria—Telemachus Batsho—who said he would have me condemned to a road gang for theft if I didn’t agree to report to him.” He stopped, aghast at what he heard himself say.

  “Ah,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “And I gather he ordered you to tell me nothing.”

  “Yes,” said Natalis, almost panting with relief at this confession.

  “When did this happen?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “When did he suborn your loyalty?”

  Natalis winced, then summoned up his determination. “I will tell you the whole of it. I might as well, now.” He drank the last of the wine in his cup, and continued on. “It was in July. I was returning from Ostia, with reports from your captains, and account-books. When I reached the Porta Ostiensis, the Watch detained me, they said because they had to verify the account-books; I don’t know why, but I couldn’t refuse the Watch, could I? If they want to look at anything being brought into the city, they have the right to do so.”

  “So they do. Protesting would have served only to arouse their suspicions,” Sanct-Franciscus confirmed. “Continue, Natalis.”

  He took a deep breath, watching Sanct-Franciscus as he spoke. “While I was waiting for them to release the records, in that small chamber next to the Guard-station—you know the one?” At Sanct-Franciscus’ nod, he went on. “I was sitting alone there, waiting, as I said, when this fellow Batsho approaches me, and tells me that I could be in great trouble, and so could you, if the accounts were found to be faulty.”

  “Why should that accrue to your discredit: you were acting as a messenger only,” said Sanct-Franciscus, thinking back to the two acolytes in Persia, and their efforts, with Srau’s help, in undermining of his business dealings, and then to the official in Athens—Hyres—who had found an excuse to levy double taxes on all his property as a result of slaves’ gossip.

  “But I am known as a thief.” This cry was compounded of frustration and distress.

  “You have no brand on your arm or your forehead, so his accusation would need proof, which those records would not provide him,” Sanct-Franciscus observed.

  “No, I am not branded, for which I offer wine in thanks to the Parcae every day. My fate would have been much changed had I ever been branded.” As if the idea itself overwhelmed him, he slumped back in his chair, one hand flopping on the arm, the other reaching ineffectively for the last of the cheese.

  Sanct-Franciscus picked up the plate and held it out to him. “How did he say he could do this?”

  Natalis rubbed his lips together, trying to decide how to answer. “He said—He claimed he had records of other thefts I had committed, and that he would bring these before the Prefect to determine what punishment should be meted out.” He took another cube of cheese, holding it between his fingers as if it were a die.

  “That would seem to be a bit … unreasonable,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Have you been taken before a Prefect in the past?” He put the plate back down and poured the last of the wine in the jug into Natalis’ cup.

  “Not for years. When I was caught once, six years ago, I convinced the Prefect that there had been a mistake—that my companion had taken the items in question, and since no one found any of the … objects in my wallet, it was assumed I hadn’t taken anything.”

  “But you had,” said Sanct-Franciscus, pouring another measure of wine into Natalis’ cup.

  “I had, and passed them to my cousin. Nyssa attracted no attention from the Guard.” He sobbed once, suddenly. “I miss her.”

  “Your cousin must have been a great help to you,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Until the last two years, when her hands became knotted with age, she was the finest help I could have asked for,” said Natalis with earnest pride and slurred words.

  “And you continued to provide for her, when she could no longer help you,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Commendable.”

  “Until you found work for her,” said Natalis, and swallowed hard. “And you arranged for an honorable burial for her.” His hands gathered and his face contorted in grief and self-loathing. “I know I should have come to you at once. You have been a most upright employer, and my dealing with the decuria is shabby, I know. I know.” He bit into the cheese as if to force himself to stop talking.

  Sanct-Franciscus held out the cup to him. “This will make it easier.”

  Natalis took the cup with both hands, and drank. He sighed as he put the cup back on the tray. “Empty.”

  “So I see,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Natalis stared at the far wall, his eyes glazed, his features slack. Finally he looked over at Sanct-Franciscus. “I suppose you’ll be rid of me now.”

  “No—unless you want to go,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “I don’t,” said Natalis, his manner at once more animated. “I want to stay here, in your service.”

  “Then you shall remain,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “But instead of doing the bidding of the decuria, you will do mine.”

  Natalis sat up. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Sanct-Franciscus patiently, “that whenever Batsho makes a request of you, you will inform me of it—privately, of course—and you will follow my instructions, not his.”

  “But if he finds out—” Natalis said in a new rush of fear.

  “He has other spies in this household: I know,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I think you will find I am able to deal with them so long as you are forthright with me.”

  Natalis was far from comfortable, but he tried to put on the appearance of satisfaction. “I think it will be satisfying to catch this bird in his own net.” He belched and tried to cover his mouth with his hand.

  “Yes; so do I,” said Sanct-Franciscus, getting to his feet again, and motioning to Rugeri to approach as he addressed Natalis. “You have told me what I want to know, and for that I am grateful. But I warn you now that if you continue to compromise my interests, you will be cast out into the street.” He saw Natalis blanch and went on more cordially. “You will want to rest a while now, I presume, so Rugeri will assist you back to your quarters. You will not be disturbed until you rise of your own accord.” He stepped back so Rugeri could assist Natalis out of the chair. “Once he has lain down, come back and you and I will consider how to proceed.”

  “Yes, my master,” said Rugeri as he tugged Natalis to his feet, supporting him with his shoulder.

  “Tell me what more you learn from him,” Sanct-Franciscus said as Rugeri maneuvered Natalis toward the door.

  “I doubt there will be much to learn the rest of this day, or evening,” said Rugeri as he reached for the latch on the door.

  “Probably not,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he watched Rugeri get Natalis out the door, then he crossed the room to close it behind them. Left by himself, he went to the brazier and added more wood to the wedges already burning in it; he noticed that the smoke was beginning to dull the painting on the ceiling, and decided he would put the chamber-slaves to cleaning it as soon as the rain ended. Returning to his trestle table, he set his case of medicaments on the end of the table, then took one of the fan-folded sheets of vellum from the pigeon-holes above the table and spread it open, studying its contents with careful attention. He was still going over household records when Rugeri tapped twice and stepped into the room.

  “He will sleep for many
hours,” said Rugeri as he entered the study, taking care to check the corridor before closing the door.

  “With what he consumed, I would suppose so,” said Sanct-Franciscus, turning from his work.

  “What was in the wine?” Rugeri inquired.

  “Spices; anything more would have lacked finesse. There were herbs in the cheese that promoted a loose tongue along with a sense of repose, and will let him sleep deeply.” He gave Rugeri a contemplative stare. “What do you make of this predicament, my friend?”

  Rugeri weighed his response. “Assuming he was truthful, I have to say that it appears Batsho has decided to make an example of you.”

  “An example of what, though?” Sanct-Franciscus asked of the folded sheets on the table before him.

  “A foreigner with money,” said Rugeri succinctly.

  “There are other foreigners with money in Roma,” Sanct-Franciscus reminded Rugeri. “Why choose me, when Solon Monandos has far more money than I, and displays it far more freely?”

  “Batsho may feel kinship with Greeks like Monandos,” Rugeri suggested.

  “Batsho is from Illyricum, hardly a region known for liking its neighbors, particularly the Greeks,” said Sanct-Franciscus, thinking back to the centuries of skirmishes along the edge of the Balkans, Greeks to the south of the mountains, Illyricani to the west.

  Rugeri shook his head. “You mistake my intention: you are from Dacia but not a Daci. That means you have few defenders in Roma, and may be abused with impunity.”

  Sanct-Franciscus laughed sardonically. “Rogerian, you have not lost your clarity of insight, nor your directness of speech.” He began to put the scrolls back in their pigeon-holes. “I think,” he went on in the tongue of Alexandria, “that we would be wise to step up our plans. I had thought I could remain here for another three or four years, but now I think a year-and-a-half is a more reasonable prognosis.”