“Yes, Rugeri. Come in.” His voice was still weak but significantly improved from the fourth day of Saturnalia when they had arrived here in the end of a gale, Sanct-Franciscus looking then like boiled rawhide with bleeding sores. He had said then his healing would be long and difficult, and so it was proving to be; for the duration of winter he had kept to his room, but once the season turned, he began to venture out of his quarters; in the last ten days he had been taking cold baths in the early afternoon, declaring that they eased his soreness, which remained omnipresent. For the most part, he endured his pain stoically, but occasionally it made him brusque.
“I brought your paenula,” said Rugeri, holding up the garment. He still found it difficult to look at Sanct-Franciscus, for although his skin had at last begun to heal, it appeared raw and overly tight on his bones and sinews. His hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes had started to grow again and no longer looked like shriveled miniature cocoons, or fried larks’ tongues.
“Thank you, old friend,” said Sanct-Franciscus, sitting up in the darkened room carved into the rock. He moved toward the edge of the deep, cool basin in which he sat, and paused to squeeze a sponge over his head and face, the water running down his body as he moved to get out of the frigidarium. His demeanor was coolly cordial, reserved without being alienating; he remarked, over the splash of the chilly water, “I believe the afternoon is warm.”
“Warm enough, but not yet hot,” said Rugeri.
“And Melidulci?”
“Domina Melidulci is in the tepidarium just now, taking her afternoon swim,” said Rugeri as he held out a drying sheet that lay folded on the stone bench at the edge of the basin. “She is expecting to see you.”
“I will not bother her with my company until I am bound for the villa, and dressed,” said Sanct-Franciscus, looking down at the broad swath of white scar tissue that ran from the base of his ribs to the top of his pubis, the token of his first death from disemboweling. “I am hideous enough as it is.” He turned away as he stood up, reaching for the drying sheet.
“Is your skin getting better?” Rugeri asked as he watched Sanct-Franciscus close the drying sheet around him.
“Slowly, it is,” he said. “In another two months, I will look less like a peeled corpse. In two years, no trace of the burns will remain; no injury since the one that killed me has left an enduring mark upon me, but that does not mean there is never any damage, or that I am not marked by it; this is some of the worst I have had.” He looked over his shoulder at Rugeri, his expression inscrutable. “Those of us who have died and risen again take longer than breathing men to heal.”
“You have said so,” Rugeri reminded him.
“But did you believe me, until now?” Sanct-Franciscus countered.
“Not as I do since you were burned,” said Rugeri. “I recall how long you needed to recover from Srau’s attack.”
“And it is thus with all who come to my life,” said Sanct-Franciscus with underlying fatigue.
“Does that apply to me, as well? I am not a vampire, my master, only a ghoul.” He studied Sanct-Franciscus, not expecting a reply, and so was mildly surprised when Sanct-Franciscus answered him.
“You heal more rapidly than I, but more slowly than the truly living, just as you can eat meat so long as it is raw, while I must subsist on nourishment more … shall we say? ephemeral and intimate. Your nature is closer to that of the living than mine is, and your body reflects that.” He turned around, his drying sheet draped like a toga, and added, “How do you suppose I would look to the Curia just now? Would my appearance upset them, do you think?”
The questions surprised Rugeri, and he paused before he answered them. “If they could see you, they would marvel to find you among the living.”
“Although my skin is chafed, taut, and … incomplete?”
“Your aspect would be alarming to some, if they had the opportunity to peruse your appearance,” said Rugeri as diplomatically as possible. “Some might wonder at your condition, but others would not let such things trouble them, particularly those who have led troops in battle and have seen the scathing a man may sustain and yet live.”
Sanct-Franciscus considered this. “Doubtless, you are correct.”
Taking advantage of this concession, Rugeri added, “At least you are recognized as a physician; many would assume you have cures known only to you.”
“Just so,” said Sanct-Franciscus with an unsuccessful attempt at a wry smile; his skin stretched and twisted to a rictus. “Medical skills or not, most, I fear, would be troubled by my survival, and they would wonder at my laggardly recovery, and that might lead to more questions than I would prefer. I am reluctant to create doubts in their minds, for thanks to Telemachus Batsho, they are already mired in them.”
“As you say, my master.” Rugeri’s expression remained neutral as he attempted to discern what Sanct-Franciscus’ intentions were.
“What do you reckon they would do if they suspected the truth?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired, then motioned Rugeri to silence. “Do not bother. You and I know I cannot return to Roma as myself again, not for a good many years.”
“What do you mean?” Rugeri asked uneasily.
Sanct-Franciscus went on as if he had not heard Rugeri’s question. “But I have unfinished business in Roma, and I must attend to it myself before the Curia completes its investigation—private business. Which is why I have sent for Natalis.”
Rugeri stared at him. “Natalis?”
“Yes. He should arrive some time this afternoon,” said Sanct-Franciscus, then saw Rugeri’s appalled visage. “Do not fret, old friend: Natalis has been told to leave and return to Roma unofficially, and so he shall. No one will know he has left Olivia’s house.”
Rugeri considered all of this. “Why entrust such a mission to him?”
“Because he is determined to make up for his earlier disloyalty; he wants to prove himself worthy of trust again,” said Sanct-Franciscus, methodically toweling himself dry. “He continues to blame himself for being suborned as he was; I am willing to provide him an opportunity for expiation.” He held out his hand, flexing the fingers, watching the tight skin stretch. “Slowly better,” he whispered.
“And that is to the good,” said Rugeri, then added more sharply, “Why should you risk anything just now, when you are safely away from Roma, and protected? Wouldn’t it make more sense to postpone—”
Sanct-Franciscus cut him short. “Because I am certain that the fire that killed Domina Adicia was no accident, for I believe, from what I saw, that it flared in two places at almost the same instant, which would mean it was set, and that indicates that it was an act of deliberate malice; I cannot permit that to go unanswered,” he said with terrible calm. “Someone attacked an invalid in her bed, and was willing to kill all the household.”
“And you,” Rugeri reminded him.
“Yes, old friend: and me.” Sanct-Franciscus dropped his drying sheet and reached for his soft paenula, shrugging into its folds with more ease of motion than he had shown since the fire.
“How long do you think you will need before you are ready to deal with whomever set the fires—if, indeed, someone did?” Rugeri inquired, curious to discover why Sanct-Franciscus was so certain about the miscreant.
“I think by mid-summer I will be sufficiently recovered to be able to do what I have in mind. And I will need my arrangements in place in advance, or I will risk discovery.” He fastened the closures on the paenula and looked toward the door leading to the tepidarium. “You say Melidulci is bathing?”
“Swimming,” said Rugeri.
“I should have a word with her before I go back to the house,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping, barefoot, onto the broad, tiled rim of the pool. He waited, watching Melidulci swim the length twice, then called out, “My kind hostess, may I have a moment?”
Melidulci, her wet hair trailing around her like sirens’ seaweed, let her feet settle onto the floor of the pool, her arms risi
ng to float, extended, on the surface of the water. “Yes. What is it?” Before he could speak, she added, “You are looking a little better at last.”
“You reassure me,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I was beginning to think I would never be restored.”
“You said it would take time, and I have done what I could to provide it,” she reminded him. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“No; my servant Natalis should be here later today, and I assume he will be here for a day or two. I will provide for his food and care.”
She laughed. “If you like, I won’t refuse your gold. But, considering I could not have bought this place without your generosity, I imagine I can support your servant for a day or two.” She lolled back in avid water, floating lazily. “Will you come to my room tonight? I have missed you these last five evenings.”
“Would you like that?” Sanct-Franciscus gave her time to answer.
“I would, if it is no imposition on you.” She began, very slowly, to swim again. “I am always glad of your company, and of the joys you bring to me.”
“Even burned as I am?”
“I have seen almost as bad, including two with the White Disease,” she said indifferently. “You tell me that our lovemaking helps you to heal, and that pleases me, although the lovemaking pleases me more. The four times I have come to your room here were for sympathy in your plight, yet still were not unsatisfactory to me. Since you have come to my apartment, I have nothing—nothing—to regret in your company. Injured as you are, you still surpass most men in giving me insouciance and gratification—whatever your reason for seeking me out, I am delighted to accommodate you.” She rolled back in the water so her breasts rose above the surface of the pool. “If you and I were taken in great passion, no doubt I would be unable to disregard your hurts, but as our arrangement has always been more pragmatic, well …”
“Then I thank you, and I look forward to the time we spend together,” he said with some of his old elegance of manner.
Her smile was eager but without avidity; she caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked at him through her lashes in unmistakable invitation. “I, too, look forward to our time together.”
“And I thank you,” he said, turning away from her and going to the path leading to the house, mincing as the soles of his bare feet trod on the crushed pebbles.
“I should have brought your peri,” Rugeri said as he watched Sanct-Franciscus make his precarious way back to the shadow of the broad eaves of the villa.
“No, you should not,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You are doing precisely what I would like you to do.” As he reached the rear door, he stopped still, saying, “I have no wish to be coddled; it does me no good, and it spares me nothing worthwhile.”
“It spares you pain,” said Rugeri.
“A little, perhaps, but it lengthens the time I will feel it,” Sanct-Franciscus explained.
Rugeri nodded. “You will let me know if you change your mind, won’t you?”
“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and opened the door.
After a long moment of hesitation, Rugeri followed after, climbing to the second floor where Sanct-Franciscus had been allocated three rooms for his use on the north side of the house. As he went into the room, he found Sanct-Franciscus unfastening his paenula while contemplating the garments hanging from pegs on the far wall. “What do you want to wear?”
Sanct-Franciscus cocked his head. “I have not decided,” he told Rugeri. “I think perhaps the black-and-red chandys; it covers more of the burns, and it is soft to the touch.”
Rugeri reached for the handsome silken garb, adding black-linen bracae to it. “I think this will suit you, my master.”
“I think so, as well.” He sat down and reached for the bracae, pulling them on his left leg and then his right. “I will want to purchase a few more pair of these now that I can wear them without agony,” he said, glancing at Rugeri. “From whom did you buy them—do you recall?”
“The spinner from Fars,” said Rugeri. “Her stall is in Roma, near the Baths of Caracalla,”
“Where the foreign weavers and spinners congregate?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired as he secured the mani and the waist-ties. He stood up with only a little visible effort, reaching for his chandys as he did.
“Would you like me to help you don that?” Rugeri asked, perplexed by the polite distance Sanct-Franciscus had maintained since he had been carried to Olivia’s house in Roma in a chair, barely conscious enough to moan.
“If you will pull it down for me, I would appreciate it,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he gathered the chandys and tugged it over his head, thrusting his arms into the capacious sleeves. “I will want a pallium made in a shade of soft ochre, a very ordinary linen pallium, mid-calf length, no decoration on it, moderate sleeves from the pleats,” he went on as Rugeri took hold of the hem, loosening it so that the chandys would fall to his knees. “And short bracae in rust-colored cotton, such as a shop-keeper might wear,” he added.
“In other words, a disguise,” said Rugeri.
“A disguise,” Sanct-Franciscus confirmed. “I should probably have one of those wide-brimmed straw hats, too, such as the forum hawkers have.”
“To shade your face,” Rugeri said.
“From the sun and from prying eyes,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Sunlight is a discomfort, even when I stand on my native earth, and just now, my skin is sensitive.”
“And how soon will you want this?” Rugeri inquired.
“Two months or so,” said Sanct-Franciscus, smoothing the front of his chandys gingerly, for his hands still showed the damage of blistering.
The implied delay relieved Rugeri, who assured his master he would attend to it, then left him alone until shortly before sunset, when he once again went to Sanct-Franciscus’ quarters to inform him that Natalis had arrived. “He is in the small reception room.”
“I will come down,” said Sanct-Franciscus, setting aside the papyrus scroll he had been reading. “If you will light the lamps after you dine?” The slanting, afternoon shadows had cast one side of the chamber into soft purple obscurity.
“Of course,” said Rugeri, and held the door for Sanct-Franciscus. “Shall I remain with you while you speak with Natalis?”
“Not if it will bother you,” said Sanct-Franciscus mildly. He was half-way down the stairs when he stopped. “My intentions toward the arsonists are not kindly.”
“So I realize,” said Rugeri, then dared to continue, “But I fear that in your zeal for vengeance—”
“Justice,” Sanct-Franciscus corrected.
“Vengeance, justice, whatever it may be, that you will put yourself at great risk again, and might not be as fortunate as you were at the Villa Laelius.” Now that he had spoken his misgivings, he felt less apprehensive, as if his words had banished some of the danger. When Sanct-Franciscus said nothing and resumed his descent, Rugeri stayed close behind him. “If you want my help, it is yours.”
“I thank you, Rugeri, yet I will also do my utmost to keep you out of it.” His grim tone vanished as he said, “Besides, I will need you to make the arrangements to get us from Brundisium to Alexandria. I could not risk having you taken into custody in Roma.”
“If that is your wish, my master,” said Rugeri, trying to mask his disappointment as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Sanct-Franciscus stood still. “It is enough that I must do this, old friend. I will not, and cannot, add your life to the stakes in this game.” There was an implacable note in his tone that was uncompromising. “If I fail in my intent, I will comfort myself with the certainty that no one but I had to pay the price of that failure.” He moved off toward the small reception room to where Natalis was waiting.
Text of a record from Ulixes Lenus Varian, Prosecutor of the Urban Guard, delivered to the Curia in private session; sent by Natalis in Roma to Sanct-Franciscus at Melidulci’s house near Misenum by private courier.
Ave, Heliogabalus.
>
On this, the 14th day of May in the 973rd Year of the City, I, Ulixes Lenus Varian, Prosecutor of the Urban Guard for Roma, submit to the Curia the findings of our investigation of the fire at the Villa Laelius that claimed the lives of four people, including the Domina, Egidia Adicia Cortelle, Domina Laelius.
Upon the order of the Curia, we have taken testimony from surviving household members and we have examined the ruins of the house, and we offer our conclusions now, with such support as we have determined is appropriate for the completion of our commission, and we offer these as part of this summary.
From the groom-slave Philius, we have learned that the son of the household, Marius Octavian Laelius, who is currently residing with Erestus Arianus Crispenus, a known Christian and one who has been interviewed before during investigations of fires thought to be set by Christians, was at the Villa Laelius on the night it burned. He had come to claim his horses, and spent time by himself at the bake-house, next to the access to the holocaust, or so he told Philius he had done. The fire that consumed the house began shortly after he left. Philius was occupied getting their horses, mules, and donkeys out of their stable to notice where any of the rest of the household was until he was summoned to help find any who might have escaped into the garden, which he did with all celerity, and found Domina Laelius and her physician, the foreigner Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, by the side-garden wall, almost beneath Domina Laelius’ quarters.
Starus, the steward-slave of the household, was the one who did his best to get those in the house out of it. He personally escorted the daughter of the family, Pax Ignatia Laelius, to safety, and for which she is preparing to free him with a stipend for life, assuming her uncle, Albinus Drusus Cortelle, recently returned from Syria, will approve her doing so. Starus declares that the fire broke through the floor from the kitchen in several places, and he could not determine if it was because of one fire or more than one. He has suffered from a severe cough since the fire, and thus far, he has not made a good recovery, so his testimony must be by report rather than appearance.
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