Ignoring this outburst, Sanct-Franciscus said, “I am going to have Benona wash your feet and legs, and then I will have a look at them, so that I will know for myself how great your problem is, and what I should recommend for its relief.”
Benona stood up, her body rigid with shock at this most improper intention. “Is it necessary? May I not tell you what I have seen, and leave it at that?”
“If you want my medicaments to provide real relief, I must know for myself with what I am dealing.” He stepped back. “I will not impose upon your mistress, or you, but I must do this.” Already he was planning to provide a paste of juniper berries to be taken with boiled mint. “For her next meal, I hope she will have celery root cooked with asparagus and savory.”
“I dislike celery root,” said Adicia.
“Perhaps,” said Sanct-Franciscus, opening his case and taking out his supplies. “But for the sake of your feet, I want you to have it every day for six days.”
“Hideous,” said Adicia, batting at the air. “The holocaust … will have to be … cleaned—the smoke … is everywhere.”
From the rear of the house there came excited voices, some raised, others more quiet. After a brief flurry of shouts, the disruption ceased.
“Pay them no heed,” Sanct-Franciscus said calmly. “If your attention is needed, Starus will tell you.” He nodded to the steward. “Find out why there is a commotion. So your mistress will not fret.”
“You should not be left alone with Domina Laelius,” said Starus. “The Senate would disapprove.”
“I am not alone: Benona is here.” He touched Adicia’s forehead, remarking, “You are a bit over-warm, Domina.”
“I feel cold,” she countered, coughing at the end. “And my chest … is tight.” She frowned at Benona. “She … doesn’t do … anything.”
“All the more reason to get something warm into you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, continuing to prepare his medicaments.
Adicia stared at him. “All right. If I must.”
“Go to the window, away from the Domina’s bed,” said Starus. “Let Benona do as you have ordered. I will have water for washing brought here.” He went out into the corridor, keeping the door open so that he could observe Sanct-Franciscus; he clapped his hands: Rea answered his summons.
“I am tired of … the smell of smoke,” said Adicia. “It seems … to grow stronger every … hour.”
“Because the night is coming and the air is colder,” said Sanct-Franciscus, but he noticed that Adicia was right, and that troubled him.
Starus came back into the room, and closed the door again. “Rea tells me that Octavian came to the stable to get his horse, but would not see his mother. He ventured only as far as the kitchens. A few of the household were ordered to help him to gather his things.”
“That is certainly petty of him,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If he has his mother’s interests at heart, he would visit her, if only to learn for himself how she is doing.”
Starus shook his head and stifled a sneeze. “I should not speak against him, but he has become so arbitrary in his conduct, claiming that his religion requires him to avoid this house out of shame.”
“But he returns to claim a horse?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “How does his religion accommodate that?”
“Still keeping away from me,” Adicia sighed. “The selfless devotion of … piety is for … our gens, not our … religions.”
A clamor of outcries rose suddenly once again, and this time there was terror in the sound. Starus glanced around, as if trying to discern the cause for this disturbance.
“Octavian?” Adicia asked.
“Possibly,” said Starus. “If there is any more—”
“Now what does that boy—” Adicia burst out.
“Fire! Fire!” The scream was accompanied with energetic banging on the kitchen-gong, and was met with yells and a rush of feet.
“Fire?” Starus exclaimed, rushing to open the door; a billow of smoke met him, swirling into Adicia’s chamber before he could react.
Benona screamed, and Sanct-Franciscus set his medicaments down. “Take Domina Laelius out into the garden,” he said to Starus.
“The cooks will put it out,” Adicia declared. “It is just … too much wood … in the holocaust. No one … should leave. Stay here. All of you.”
The shouts increased, and more of the household could be heard to be running toward the front or garden doors.
“Get everyone outside,” Sanct-Franciscus countermanded. “It is not safe to stay here. Once the fire is out, everyone may return.”
“But what—?” Starus asked blankly, belatedly closing the door.
“Move! Open the door!” Sanct-Franciscus ordered.
Benona held up her hands. “Bona Dea!”
“I should have the Domina’s chair brought,” Starus muttered, glancing from Adicia to the corridor and back again.
“That is not important just now,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking Starus by the arm and shaking him. “Get everyone out. Now. I will take Domina Laelius out of the house. Hurry. Fire is voracious. Summon the Urban Guard at once!” With the streets so crowded, Sanct-Franciscus doubted that they would be able to mount an effective defense against the flames in time to save the house.
Starus nodded repeatedly, opened the door, and reached to drag Benona through it. The sounds of the fire were louder now, and the smoke was more intense. Shouts and the clap of running footsteps echoed along with the roar of the fire. Frightened, Starus bolted for the door, Benona rushing after him, howling in panic.
Someone bellowed “It’s cracking the floor!” and another shouted “Make for the street!”
A loud clatter of buckling masonry heralded the break in the floor, and at once shrieks rang through the fire. From the stables whinnies and brays added to the clamor.
“What is happening?” Adicia cried out, as if her danger was not yet apparent to her.
“I must get you out of here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, bending to pick her up; now that he was unobserved, he made no attempt to conceal his remarkable strength, and he carried Adicia as if she weighed no more than a puppy. “Put your arms around my neck, Domina.” He slapped out the first embers that touched her bedclothes.
“Why should I? I am not … a helpless … trull.” She glared at the smoke. “Starus will … answer for—”
“Starus did nothing to cause this,” Sanct-Franciscus said as he made for the door, taking care to tread warily, for the smoke was thick as mid-winter fog, and through it, he could see ripples of flames going up the walls outside Octavian’s room. “Best try the garden,” he said as he changed direction, going away from the atrium and the front of the house and toward the rear door; the stinging sensation in his feet grew hotter and more painful as he hurried toward the garden. He began to move without thought, only seeking to get away from the menace of the flames.
Adicia was clenching her hands to his neck, her breathing strained and interspersed with coughs as the smoke surged around them. The corridor was hot, the air acrid. “This … is …”
“Do not try to talk,” Sanct-Franciscus said, moving as quickly as he dared; he could hear the fire as well as feel its sizzling breath. A loud crash ahead of them stopped him; a chasm opened in the floor, revealing the burning pantry below. In the brilliance of the fire it looked as if the kitchen and the storeroom as well as the pantry were completely lost. Skittering on the edge of the break, Sanct-Franciscus felt the heat beginning to singe his clothing; his feet were blistering, and his skin ached.
.“We’ll … die!” Adicia wailed, and gave a series of hacking coughs, growing steadily weaker.
That was an imminent possibility, Sanct-Franciscus realized; the skin on his hands was blackened and fissured, and his face felt scoured. Once fire consumed his flesh, he would be beyond all regeneration : vampires could burn as truly as any living being. He did his best to calm himself, blinking against the smoke and seeking a way out; sparks and bright cinde
rs swarmed in the smoke like incendiary bees. On impulse, he bolted back into Domina Adicia’s chambers, the part of the house the fire had not yet entirely reached, and made for her dressing-room; there was a door and a narrow balcony beyond, half a story above the small side-garden. Knowing his clothes were starting to burn, he struggled to lift Adicia over the balcony railing, and did his utmost to lower her as far as he could, leaning over the railing until he was bent double. Finally, his dalmatica smoking and small knots of flame catching the fabric alight where sparks landed, Sanct-Franciscus released his hold on Adicia’s hands, watching her drop half her height into a myrtle bush. Almost at once, he righted himself and jumped after her, his hair smoking, his clothes spotted with fire, his flesh feeling peeled. He struck the ground, and rolled, hoping to extinguish the fire that was almost engulfing him, and at once let out a moan of agony as patches of skin pulled off, along with the ruins of his dalmatica and bracae; above him, flames were chewing at the balcony where he had just stood.
Roof-tiles began to fall, and this goaded Sanct-Franciscus to action. Striving against the hideous pain carousing through him, he managed to get to his feet and staggered toward Adicia, who was still lying in the myrtle bush, hair and eyebrows scorched, clothing half-burned away.
“Who ?” Her reddened eyes opened a little, but there was no shine of recognition in them.
“We must move,” he gasped, reaching to try to lift her.
She keened as bits of blackened skin fell on her. “Get … away!”
“But the roof—it is going to fall,” he warned her, making a second attempt while glancing up at the spreading flames.
“No!” She struck out with what little strength she had.
He made a last grab for her and tugged her out of the myrtle bush; an instant later a large number of roof-tiles smashed down on the bush. Half-carrying, half-dragging her, he fought free of the side of the house to the side-garden wall, his pain so intense that it muffled all other considerations, so that he was only vaguely aware of the tumult beyond the walls. As his strength began to surrender to his burns, Sanct-Franciscus bent protectively around Adicia’s supine form and felt himself slipping into oblivion.
From the nearest neighbor came shouts and frantic activity; household gongs were clanging from all around the Villa Laelius. The clatter of horses’ hooves in the street were barely audible amid the thunder of the fire and the confusion of those who had escaped the Laelius house.
“There’s someone in the side-garden!” Philius bellowed as he tugged the last of his panicky horses to the relative safety of the rear-neighbor’s stable-yard.
“Just burned beams,” said the steward of the Nevius house.
“No, not beams. I think Domina Laelius’ slave threw herself out the window,” said Philius. “She couldn’t get out any other way. Fetch a ladder. I’ll go look, if someone will take this lead?” He held out the rope, noticing for the first time that his hands were shaking badly.
The steward rapped out orders, and while most of the Laelius slaves joined the Nevius slaves in starting a bucket-line to fight the fire, Philius was provided a ladder, and a young Germanian boy to steady it. “We’ll try to throw a rope over, for you to climb out.”
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you? But I must try,” Philius said, and did not wait for a response; he was half-way up the ladder when a loud crash and an eruption of sparks redoubled his efforts, sending him over the wall as quickly as he could move; dropping into the side-garden was a terrifying fall into blackness, leaving him in sooty murk where he could barely see half an arm’s-length ahead of himself, and that distance made his eyes smart and his lungs scathe. He found Sanct-Franciscus by accident, treading on his arm and evoking a tortured groan. “There’s someone!” he yelled, and gasped as the contents of a water-bucket sloshed over them all.
“Alive?” the Nevius’ steward shouted back.
“Enough to hurt,” Philius answered as he pulled at Sanct-Franciscus’ raw shoulder. “Two of them!” he corrected, then began to cough uncontrollably, while on the other side of the wall, five slaves scrambled to get another pair of ladders to scale the wall before the back of the Laelius house fell in.
Text of a letter from Rugeri in Roma to Atta Olivia Clemens in Vesontio, Gallia Belgica, carried by private courier.
To the most worthy, most excellent Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, at her estate Sapientia on the Via Philomena in Vesontio in Gallia Belgica, the greetings of Rogerian of Gades at Villa Ragoczy, three thousand paces east-by-north of Roma.
Not that you do not know this place, for you most certainly do, but so that you will appreciate what I have to tell you, on this, the beginning of Saturnalia at the end of the 972nd Year of the City.
Two days ago my master, known presently as Sanct-Franciscus, was caught in a house-fire in Roma. In his efforts to save the Domina, his patient, he was severely burned. Do not despair; he is alive, but in great pain and much in need of recuperation away from the scrutiny of Roma, since any breathing man must perish from such burns as he has suffered. He will not perish, but it may be a year or two before he has truly recovered. For that reason, I will accompany him to Misenum, to the house of Melidulci, whose house in Roma also burned, some months ago. She has sent a messenger just today to extend her hospitality for as long as it may be needed. Since she is aware of my master’s true nature, she is prepared to do what she can to help his recuperation.
I am saddened to tell you that his patient, Domina Laelius, who had long suffered from failing health, died yesterday, never having regained consciousness once the smoke from the fire overcame her. Her brother has made arrangements for her to be entombed with her parents in their mausoleum on the Via Appia—a place you must remember with mixed emotions—and her daughter is arranging the rites for her interment.
The Urban Guard did what they could to save a portion of the Villa Laelius, but in the end they only preserved the bake-house and the stables. These are no doubt worth saving, but they leave the household without shelter in the harshest days of the year. I have opened your house to them, since my master has been given permission to leave the city for treatment, and I have supposed this is what you would want done for those unfortunates. There is a daughter, twenty-five, who cared for her mother and is in great distress; also a son, who refuses to enter your house for fear it will contaminate his religion, so close as it is to the Temple of Hercules.
My master’s friends and those of the Laelius gens are preparing a petition to the Curia for an investigation of the fire that destroyed the Laelius house, because although the holocaust was in its most concentrated use, the under-cook, who got himself and his staff out just before the upper floor fell in, insists that the fire first began near the pantry, next to the access to the holocaust, and that there was also another fire in the rooms at the back of the atrium. This may be nothing more than the invention of terror, but knowing that many fires have been set in Roma of late, the Curia may order just such an inquiry, as they have in the case of several similar fires of late. In the meantime, I have engaged a private guard for your house, and doubled your night watch.
I pledge to keep you informed of my master’s progress during his months of convalescence, and to have your staff inform you of the state of your Roman house. I also pledge to notify you of any decision the Curia reaches in regard to the Laelius fire, and the decisions of the Urban Guard, should they decide to investigate the fire. If there are other issues which you wish to be made cognizant of, you have only to let me know, and I will attend to them promptly.
With high regard and enduring respect,
Rogerian of Gades,
called Rugeri
By my own hand and under the seal of the Eclipse
10
Spring was in full and glorious riot along the Mare Tyrrhenum; from Neapolis to Ostia the hillsides glowed with blossoms and the glowing green frills of new leaves. The first of the season’s foals were romping in paddocks with their dams, with
lambs and calves in the pastures with ewes and cows, kids clambered through the stable-yard with goats, and shoats rooted in the new, heavily fenced sties with sows. Bees droned among the flowers, and the first wasps’ nest was under way beneath the eaves of the spring house. Peasants and slaves busied themselves with planting and spring pruning, while the seas once again were filled with ships and sails.
Melidulci strolled along the broad path that led to her small bath-house behind her villa, dressed in a light tunica of pale-blue Egyptian linen that matched the mid-morning reflected sky in the stream that ran beside the pathway; Rugeri followed a pace behind her. She stretched up her hands as if to embrace the merry breezes as they frolicked by. “The rains are over for a time, I think.”
“They’re usually gone by the Equinox,” said Rugeri, adjusting the soft cotton paenula he carried over his arm so none of it would drag on the ground.
“There will be thunderstorms in summer, of course,” she went on, “but they don’t last long, and they keep down the flies.” She picked a spray of blooms and set it on the base of a small statue of Copia. “She has shown me her abundance since I came here; I want to keep her favor.”
“Always useful,” said Rugeri.
“Does Sanct-Franciscus make offerings to any gods?” Melidulci asked, only mildly curious.
“Only his forgotten ones,” said Rugeri, descending the four broad steps to the portico of the bath-house, entering it after Melidulci; his voice echoed through the handsome stone building which was nearly as large as the villa itself.
“I would guess that he’s still in the frigidarium,” she said, glancing toward her tepidarium, which was large enough for a dozen adults to swim in, and lined with decorative mosaics depicting the War of the Centaurs. “Well. Time for my swim.”
“So I would expect,” said Rugeri, and stepped away to permit her to undress alone; he entered a short corridor that led back into the rise of the hill, where the small, stone-enclosed frigidarium could be kept cool through the heat of summer. “My master?” he called as he tapped on the door.
Saint-Germain 20: Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 32
