“I would not like to ride out this storm at sea, even if I did not suffer on water.” Sanct-Franciscus reached into his wallet for a handful of coins. “So you may choose what you prefer for your evening meal.”
“I have a plucked pheasant waiting for me already. The cook has made a sauce for it—not liquamen, but something with ground nuts and sweet onions. I will wait until the cooks are busy at the spits, and then I will eat; they would not like to see me devour a raw bird, with or without sauce.” He was able to smile a little.
“No; very likely not.” Sanct-Franciscus tapped his fingers together. “I ought to write to Olivia, so she will know what has happened. Perhaps tonight, when the city is asleep, and I will entrust it to a private courier in the morning. I have done all I can to secure her possessions, including her house in Roma, but she will have to inform a decuria in Roma of her intentions for the house.”
“She will appreciate a word from you,” said Rugeri with a singular lack of inflection.
“Meaning she will berate me,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a ghost of a smile. “I expect no less of her.”
Rugeri took a long, thoughtful pause. “If you have everything ready you wish loaded onto the Pleiades, tell me, and your possessions will be carried on board this evening, so that if all goes well, we may leave promptly when the weather clears.”
“A good notion,” said Sanct-Franciscus without shifting his stare from the window, although what he saw was many days and many thousands of paces distant. “I hope Ursinus lived.”
“So that he can identify you to the Urban Guard?” Rugeri asked more crisply than he had intended.
“No; so that—” He stopped and went on more urbanely, “—so that none of my friends need suffer on my account.”
As much as Rugeri wondered what Sanct-Franciscus had been going to say, he held his tongue. Instead, he patted the thin mattress atop a sturdy leather chest. “Are you going to nap, my master?”
“Perhaps, a little later,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He came back from the window, his expression impenetrable. “I will be gone for a while—probably until sunset. If the rain becomes heavy before then, I will return, or I will wait until it is over. In either case, do not fret.”
Perplexed and concerned, Rugeri said, “While you’re out, I’ll get your chests and crates ready for Captain Bion.”
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking his pluvial off the back of the single chair in the room. “This, so I will be prepared.”
“Of course,” said Rugeri as he stepped back, allowing Sanct-Franciscus to pass.
As Sanct-Franciscus descended to the street level, he paid little attention to the noise coming from the tavern next to the inn, or to the men gathered outside at the docks, waiting for news of the pirates. He made his way back from the harbor into the tangle of streets. He walked aimlessly, ignoring vendors of trinkets and food, and small gaggles of artfully ragged children shouting for coins. Gradually the shops, brothels, insulae, and thermopolia gave way to wider streets and walled houses with impressive colonnades and iron-strapped doors. Overhead the sky darkened and the first, distant drubbing of thunder sounded; color vanished, and everything looked ochre and slate. Anticipating a downpour, Sanct-Franciscus pulled his pluvial over his head and kept on, almost enjoying the ache in his skin from his exercise.
“You. Foreigner,” said a voice from a side-door of a handsome villa.
Sanct-Franciscus stopped and looked toward the voice. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the city gate,” said Sanct-Franciscus, moving forward to see the speaker.
“The storm’s coming. You better find shelter.” The child was about eight, in a silk tunica and with red-leather calcea on his feet; by his appearance, he was a son of the Dominus.
“No doubt I should,” said Sanct-Franciscus gently. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“I’d let you in, but my mother won’t allow it.” The boy thrust out his lower lip in disapproval; there was a glint of real fear in his eyes.
“Your mother is a sensible woman,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“She is better than anyone. No matter what anyone says.” His lower lip now protruded pugnaciously.
“She must be,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“She says my grandfather’s enemies are trying to kill him, but he won’t listen,” the boy went on, speaking more to himself than to Sanct-Franciscus. “She says that he’s … he’s—” He stopped, searching for a word.
“What?”
“Denounced. That’s it. Denounced.” The child grinned at his accomplishment.
Sanct-Franciscus achieved a bemused smile. “Then should you be talking to me? I am a foreigner, after all.”
The boy’s voice dropped to just above a whisper as lightning scissored the clouds. “No. I’m not supposed to talk to—” The rest was drowned in a ponderous roll of thunder.
When the air offered only the whoop of the wind, Sanct-Franciscus said, “Your mother will want you indoors, my lad. And I, as you warned me, ought to find shelter.”
“I know,” he said, and closed the gate, leaving Sanct-Franciscus alone in the road and aware of his isolation for the first time. He stared up into the sky and felt the first drops of rain on his face; he looked about him, searching for a covered gate or a recessed doorway, but saw nothing that suggested a hiding place from the storm. Ahead were the city walls, and beyond the gate, a cluster of tombs.
With thunder for company, Sanct-Franciscus made for the gate, paid his six denarii, and hurried toward one of the largest of the vaults, knowing that most had a narrow porch where mourners could keep vigil for the dead; one of these would serve to shelter him through the storm. The second tomb he found had such an alcove, and he slipped into it, hitching up his shoulders and settling back on the narrow stone seat while lightning frisked and crackled above Brundisium. In this setting of monuments to the dead, he devoted himself to remembering his own, from his millennia-lost family, to the revenge he had exacted for their deaths, to the sacrifices offered him in the oubliette, to the many who came to the Temple of Imhotep, to Imeshmit, to Tishtry, Kosrozh, and Aumtehoutep, and Led Arashnur, to Srau, to the three young men in Roma. “You cannot hold them,” he said to the stones. “They will slip away, every one of them. Not even memory can keep them with you.” His face was wet, but he knew it was the rain, for he had lost his tears when he had lost his breathing life: the sobbing storm would have to do for him.
For more than an hour the wind reveled, the lightning lit up the clouds, and the rain came down as if all the sky were a waterfall; the stone which sheltered Sanct-Franciscus grew damp and cold, his pluvial became sodden, and night blotted out the last remnants of illumination, save that of the lightning, and fairly soon, that, too, was gone. Only when the thunder had grumbled away to the west and the wind dropped to stiff, damp breeze filled with spitting rain did Sanct-Franciscus leave the protection of the tomb for the city gate—still open because of the storm—and the streets, making his way back toward the inn despite the slight vertigo the water running along the cobbles caused him. Around him, men and women hastened to their homes, or taverns, or inns, driven by the lingering end of the storm.
Lamps were lit and flickering in the entry to the inn as Sanct-Franciscus once again stepped through the door, and found Epimetheus Bion waiting in the vestibule, a large cup of hot wine in one hand, a folded scroll in the other, his big, leathery face creased with worry. At the sight of Sanct-Franciscus, his expression brightened. “Jupiter and Neptune be thanked!” he exclaimed, his voice rough from years of shouting orders at sea. “I feared we had lost you to the storm.”
“No,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You have not lost me.”
“It is not only the storm that troubled me,” Bion asserted in his own defense.
“No?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired. “What, then?”
He set his cup down in the small alcove with a statue of Mercury, there to protect travelers and those
in commerce. “There is a company of Praetorians just arrived at the Basilica. We saw them as we were loading your chests aboard the Pleiades. Word has it that they are going to be taking traitors in charge tonight.” He coughed. “You, being a foreigner, might be detained.”
“Praetorians? Here?”
“There are rumors everywhere,” Bion began.
“That is no surprise,” Sanct-Franciscus remarked.
“No. No, it’s not,” Bion agreed. “They say that there are conspirators in Brundisium who are plotting against Heliogabalus. They are to be arrested and sent to the arena, or so it’s said.”
Sanct-Franciscus thought of the youngster he had spoken with earlier, and wondered if the child had been right in his fears. “The Praetorians are at the Basilica?”
“They say they are going to arrest those suspected tonight, so that they will not be warned.” Bion reached for his wine and drank hastily.
“Since no one knows the Praetorians are here, they can act covertly,” said Sanct-Franciscus ironically. “Is that what brought you here?”
Bion took a second long drink of his hot wine and waved the folded scroll under Sanct-Franciscus’ face. “Look at this. My scribe compiled it as we were loading. There are two chests left in your apartment upstairs, but I have them listed here, at the end of the inventory. Numbers thirty-one and thirty-two. You’ll see.” He flapped the scroll for emphasis.
“If you will give it to me, I will read it,” Sanct-Franciscus said, checking over his shoulder to determine how much attention the men crowded together into the tavern were giving them. “Perhaps it would be best to do this in my apartment, away from the curious?”
“I take your point,” said Bion, also looking toward the men. “Too many eyes, and too many ears.” He gulped down the last of his wine and set the cup next to Mercury again, knowing no one would touch it while it was there. “Your manservant is out, they tell me—gone to have his meal.”
“As is his custom at this hour,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he climbed the stairs ahead of Bion.
“An odd hour,” said Bion.
Sanct-Franciscus ignored his comment, asking instead, “What are the prospects for leaving tomorrow? Have you any useful information?”
“I am sure there will be squalls through the night, but if the morning is clear and the dawn isn’t red or violet, then I will walk the beach, to see the speed of the waves, and their height, and after I have considered all I can learn, I will make up my mind.” Reaching the landing, he stopped. “You own the ship, and you can order me out to sea, of course, but—”
“You are a captain and you know the sea—I am not a captain, and my knowledge of the sea is slight.” Sanct-Franciscus continued his climb. “I bow to your superior judgment and experience.”
“That is most reasonable of you, honestiorus.” He extended the scroll again. “This is your inventory. I must submit it to the Prefect of Trade for assessment before we leave.”
“Yes, you must.” Sanct-Franciscus opened the door to his apartment and went in, holding the door so that Bion could step inside.
“You must sign the inventory, or the Prefect may levy a higher assessment on your goods.”
“I am aware of the law,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he took the scroll and opened it. “If you will light the lamps?”
“Certainly,” said Bion, pulling flint-and-steel from his wallet and striking a spark at the wick of the largest of the oil-lamps. On his second attempt, flame sprouted and the shadows retreated. “You should read this. Or do you need a scribe?”
“I read well enough for this,” said Sanct-Franciscus, saying nothing about the many tongues he had learned in his more than two thousand years of life. He held the length of vellum up and perused it quickly. “I have a red-lacquer chest that contains my medicaments. It is listed here in ninth place. Neither the chest nor its contents are to be sold, and so they should be taxed as property, not merchandise.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” said Bion. “How do you plan to pay the Prefect?”
“In aurei,” said Sanct-Franciscus tranquilly; he had used some of his months of recovery to make a large amount of gold in his athanor, and had accumulated coins enough to carry them well beyond the Roman Empire, should that be necessary.
“He may be greedy,” Bion warned.
“Many officials are,” said Sanct-Franciscus with little emotion.
“Not just the ones in Roma,” Bion agreed. “Is the inventory accurate?”
Sanct-Franciscus held up his hand as he finished reading. “It appears to be. I can find nothing missing or added.” He looked around for his writing-box; it contained his ink pads, styluses, quills, and a vial of water. “Shall I sign at the bottom or the top?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
“The bottom. And don’t leave any room, or the Prefect may suspect that extra items have been added.”
“As you wish,” He located his writing-box and was about to prepare his ink when there was a rap at the door.
“May I enter?” Rugeri asked.
“Yes, old friend, you may.” Sanct-Franciscus went on with the preparation of ink, and offered a half-smile as he indicated Captain Bion. “I am endorsing the inventory so that Captain Bion can file it.”
“Another chore done,” said Rugeri, the suggestion of worry vanishing from his face. “I have heard the Praetorians are here.”
“And I; I have seen them, a company of them, entering the Basilica, in secrecy,” Bion said quickly. “Which is one of the reasons I have come: to warn Sanct-Franciscus that he may be in danger.”
Rugeri nodded. “A wise precaution.”
“In this time, everyone must be careful.” Bion watched while Sanct-Franciscus set down his name, the name of his company, and his destination, then waited for the ink to dry. When the scroll was refolded, he took it from Sanct-Franciscus, saying, “I will file this with the Prefect of Trade now, before I return to the Pleiades, so that if the morning is clear, there will be no delays from the Prefecture. You may pay your charges before you board. I will arrange it.”
“And thus I will avoid the Praetorians? A good plan,” said Sanct-Franciscus, starting to put away his writing materials. “I will not keep you now, Captain Bion. I will expect your decision on setting out an hour after dawn. May Somnus bring you sweet sleep.”
“And you,” said Bion, and was about to leave when he stopped. “Do you truly want to remain in your cabin throughout the voyage? Those are my instructions, but I want you to understand: it could be twenty days to Alexandria.”
“Yes. I want to stay in my cabin. Rugeri will attend to me,” said Sanct-Franciscus, adding diffidently. “I am prone to sea-sickness, and I fare better if left to my own devices, and my bondsman’s care.”
“Sea-sick!” Bion exclaimed. “You—a successful merchant, and you get sea-sick.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Very well. If you must stay in your cabin, no one will disturb you unless there is trouble. This is the best I can offer you—I trust you understand.”
“I will be grateful,” said Sanct-Franciscus, motioning to Rugeri to open the door for Bion, who ducked his head before he left.
As soon as the door was closed and Bion had tromped off down the stairs, Rugeri said, “I think it is a good time to be gone.”
“And I,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Captain Bion—do you trust him?” Rugeri asked.
“Enough to get aboard his ship,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Your ship,” Rugeri corrected him.
“Perhaps, in the eyes of the law, but not in his heart; there the Pleiades is his child and his mistress,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Which is why I will be as safe on the Pleiades as I may be on any vessel.”
Rugeri kept his thoughts to himself, saying only, “Will you go out again tonight? The storm is quieting.”
“Perhaps; after midnight.”
“Depending upon the weather?” Rugeri suggested as he struck flint-and-steel to light anothe
r lamp.
“And the Praetorians,” Sanct-Franciscus appended, his dark eyes becoming distant once again, fixed no longer on what lay behind him, but what might lie ahead. “I will go out: after I have written to Olivia.”
Text of a letter from Pax Ignatia Laelius at Roma to Sanct-Franciscus through the steward at Villa Ragoczy, and carried by private messenger to Alexandria in Egypt.
To my most valued friend of years past, the greetings of Domina Pax Ignatia Laelius from Villa Laelius in Roma, now rebuilt and once again my home, on this, the 5th day of May in the 975th Year of the City.
I cannot believe it is more than two years since I have seen you, but so it is, and I apologize for my dilatory attention. I should have written to you before now. I should have come to visit you during your recuperation at Villa Ragoczy, but the truth of it is that I was afraid that you would die, and after the death of my mother, I could not bear to contemplate another great loss. But I had one, in the death of my brother. You may not have been told, but he and three companions were set upon by unknown robbers who it seems, were caught breaking into the house where he was staying. The Urban Guard reported that they suspected a gang of three northerners operating in that part of the city, but they could not be apprehended. The Christians who are part of the group to which Octavian belonged have proclaimed him and his companions martyrs to their faith.
With all the demands of these losses, I have been occupied with attending to the changes that they have brought upon me. I am now the last of my family. I know you will understand how much a burden that can be. It is one thing to achieve old age and out-live most others, but I am twenty-seven; I may be past marriageable age but I am far from being a crone. To find myself with only my sister and her two boys left to carry on—and to lose the name upon my death—is very stark. Had I not had the wisdom and comfort of your friendship, I would find my world far more bleak than it is. You have shown me that it is possible to lose all and yet endure. As it turns out, I have not lost all, for I am now counted a wealthy woman.
My uncle has signed control of my inheritance over to my management except for the twelve hundred aurei that is my mother’s dowry, to be held in trust until I marry. If I do not marry, then I may bequeath the sum to an heir of my choosing, since I have no nieces who would have a claim on the dowry. My father’s aunt died last year, and left her fortune unencumbered to me, and that has doubled my wealth. The Curia has approved my mother’s brother’s disposal, and praised him for upholding our traditions, and my uncle, I think, is pleased to be rid of the responsibility of my maintenance. I have begun the task of setting up my household, and it is proving less daunting than I had feared. All the years I cared for my mother, I learned a great deal about how a household is run, and those lessons now stand me in good stead.
Saint-Germain 20: Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 36
