Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 19)

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The local decuriae have started to demand five percent instead of four for their services. Since the livelihoods of the decuriae was taken from the hands of the honestiora and put in the hands of the decuriae themselves, it is folly to assume that the decuriae will not do their utmost to ensure their position in the world. If it is happening here in Alexandria, it is likely to happen in Roma, and sooner rather than later, for I do not suppose the Senate is willing to resume the cost of keeping the decuriae at their various posts, and the courts cannot work without them.

  When you write to Domina Clemens—as I assume you must do shortly—if you will, include my good wishes to her. I think it is wise that she remain away from Roma, at least until the scramble for the purple is over, and she could return without the risk of being drawn into one faction or another. If you decide to occupy her house near the Temple of Hercules, send me word. I believe it would be a wise move, not only for you, since the house is in good repair and staffed, but it would benefit Olivia as well, for it could not then be taken from her on the excuse that she has no male relatives to manage it for her. I would suppose she would be pleased to have you there, but you know what is apt to be the best disposal of your time and money in that city just now, and so you will weigh my remarks against your own observations, for they have brought you across the centuries, and should continue to do so.

  Rugeri

  on the 29th day of March, in the 971st Year of the City of Roma, by my own hand

  2

  Egidia Adicia Cortelle, Domina Laelius, was having one of her bad days: she was weak and listless, had poor control of her limbs, and she choked when she tried to swallow, all of which contributed to her resentful mood. She kept to her bed, refusing to have slaves around her, wanting only the attentions of her daughter, Pax Ignatia Laelius, whom she upbraided for every perceived fault.

  “It’s this horrible rain,” Adicia carped. “If it weren’t raining, I would improve.”

  Ignatia brought another pillow and put it behind her mother’s shoulder. “That should make you more comfortable.”

  “It’s lumpy,” Adicia accused. “Isn’t there anything softer?”

  “You have four pillows to support you, Mother. Would you like me to fetch mine?”

  Adicia flapped one hand, attempting to adjust the offending pillow. “No. You needn’t do that.”

  “Mirza says the signs are for a clearing in a day or so,” said Ignatia as she smoothed the covers.

  “Slaves always think they know such things,” Adicia muttered.. “Rain in April. Who would expect such a storm in spring?”

  “There is usually a late storm every spring. This one is just a little more intense than most,” said Ignatia in as calm a voice as she could summon. “When the skies clear, you will be stronger.”

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Then you could go about on your own, and not have to spend all day with me.”

  “I would like to see sunshine, and I would like you to feel better, but not for my own delight.” She spoke flatly, hoping to avoid another argument.

  “Why do you deny that you long for amusement?” Adicia persisted.

  “I do not deny it,” said Ignatia, holding on to her temper.

  “If it weren’t for me, you would be married by now, and tending to your own household and family. And I would be married, too, to a man who would treat me well.”

  “No doubt, dear Mother,” said Ignatia, keeping her voice as neutral as she could, and putting a warm, damp cloth on Adicia’s forehead.

  “Don’t bother me with such useless things,” Adicia said as she took the cloth and flung it across the room. “Send for Sanct-Franciscus. He knows what to do. He cares for me, you know.”

  “If you are sure you want him,” said Ignatia. “The last time you sent for him, you savaged him mercilessly.”

  “Last time I was in greater pain than I am now,” said Adicia firmly. “I want him to bring me his medicaments.”

  Ignatia at twenty-four would have been attractive if she were not so harried; she had pretty blue-green eyes and a heart-shaped face framed by dark-blonde hair which she wore in a simple knot at her nape. In an unornamented palla of cherry and a stola of soft plum over it she could have been appealing, but only looked washed-out; she caught her lower lip in her teeth and thought before speaking. “Do you want me to go, or shall I send Octavian or Chemba?”

  “You had better go, not a slave, and certainly not your brother,” said Adicia at her most peevish. “Chemba may know every street in Roma, but he knows nothing about medicaments, and I have no notion of what Octavian would say to Sanct-Franciscus, if he would do as I require at all. Since he started meeting with the Christians, he has been unreliable. I’m surprised he’s in the house today, rain or no rain.”

  “He’s fourteen,” Ignatia said in her brother’s defense. “You can’t expect him to understand your situation.”

  “Why not? You did. As soon as I fell ill, you cared for me, and there was no nonsense about it,” said Adicia, this instance of rare praise taking her daughter by surprise.

  “There was no one else to do it but your slaves,” she said.

  “Which is as good as saying there was no one to help me, not who could be trusted.” Adicia fixed Ignatia with a hard stare. “At least you did not consent to be married to the first man who showed interest in you, as your sister did. Myrtale leaped at Quillius—it was embarrassing.”

  “She has been very happy with him. You’ve read her letters. She has so much to tell us about Naissus and Moesia: what interesting places she has seen!” Ignatia enthused, hoping to turn the conversation.

  “She flaunts her happiness, and never comes to Roma.” Adicia sighed. “If only your father had not been killed, or that I had died in his stead.” This was an habitual lament with her, and she began to weep. “It may have been considered an accident, but I know his enemies were in the crowd and used the riot to cover his murder. But no one listens to me—no one!”

  “Mother,” Ignatia warned, bending over to wipe her face. “You must not do this. You’ll make yourself worse.”

  “If it would end my suffering, why shouldn’t I?” Adicia exclaimed. “There is no justice in this world. None at all.”

  “Then resign yourself to it,” said Ignatia, renunciation in every aspect of her demeanor. “It is all that is left to do.”

  “You say that easily enough.” Adicia’s petulance made her face sag.

  “Easily enough,” Ignatia repeated. “Because I know whereof I speak.” She reached for the jug of water and filled a cup with it. “You need to drink this.”

  “No,” said Adicia with stubborn determination. “If I drink now, I will have to use the latrine before you return, and that would mean summoning Benona or another of the slaves to assist me. No. I will wait for you to come back.”

  It took all Ignatia’s patience not to offer a sharp rejoinder, but she managed to say only, “You must do as you think best,” before she left the room and went to get her long, oiled-wool paenula to protect her against the weather. As she started across the atrium, the rain struck her face and she dabbed at it with the sleeve of her stola. “Starus! Starus!” she called out as she reached the entrance to the house. “Ready the biga. I must go out of the city.”

  Starus, the steward of the house, had been a slave of the Laelius family all his life, and so he enjoyed a greater freedom than many of his fellows. “Going to get that foreign physician again, are you?”

  “Yes. I’ll want Philius to drive me. On a day like this, he must be in the stable, not out in the paddocks.” She knew Starus wondered why she preferred the head groom to the household driver, and so explained, “Philius is a better driver than Mordeus in bad weather; he pays more attention to the horses.” Ignatia smiled fleetingly at Starus. “Domina Laelius needs some relief from her suffering, and Sanct-Franciscus is the only one who can provide it, or so it seems.”

  Starus mumbled something about foreign concoctions as
he went off toward the small stable immediately behind the house, leaving Ignatia to pace and listen to the rain.

  “Going somewhere, dear sister?” The voice came out of the shadows, startling Ignatia. He pointedly ignored the display of lares; since he had become a Christian, he had little patience for household and ancestral gods.

  “Octavian!” She made his name a reprimand. “I thought you were out.”

  Octavian was a decade younger than Ignatia; he had just reached the gangly stage of growth, all arms and legs with knobby joints, hands and feet disproportionately large. As if in accord with the rest of him, his light-brown hair was an unruly thatch, and he had the first tentative wisps of a moustache on his upper lip. He wore a heavy dark-blue woolen dalmatica over striped femoralia which were supposed to show his legs to advantage but did not, and topped it all with a dull-red tunica; a small gold fish hung from a leather thong around his neck. “I’m leaving shortly,” he announced.

  “Do you know when you’ll be back?” Ignatia asked, certain it was useless.

  “Late. Before midnight, probably.” He cocked his head in the direction of Adicia’s room. “Is she any better?”

  “No. That’s why I’m going to ask Sanct-Franciscus to treat her.”

  “Do you trust him—a foreigner, and one who had only our uncle to recommend him?”

  “Our mother trusts him; that’s all that matters,” said Ignatia brusquely.

  Octavian let out a bark of laughter. “She likes that foreigner; it’s her flesh that she wants treated. She lies in bed, mourning our father, and wishes for someone to end her grief but cannot bring herself to find another husband, and summons the foreign physician instead.”

  Ignatia felt her cheeks burn. “You may think what you like, Octavian, but you will not show such disrespect inside this house.” She pointed to the plaque of low-relief carvings of the family’s illustrious ancestors and household gods.

  “Respect? For what?” said Octavian. “There is God, the God of Christ, and no other. Nothing else deserves respect.”

  “Do not say so. Not here, and not—”

  “Oh, stop.” Octavian stepped back. “It isn’t worth arguing about.”

  “Octavian … ,” Ignatia began, but heard the sound of his sandals as he left her alone again. She resumed pacing, glancing at the lares occasionally, as if seeking reassurance from them. By the time Starus returned, she was calmer, and was able to say to the slave, “Have one of the women sit with my mother while I’m gone. Just see she is properly covered and fetch anything she wants except food—she is unable to swallow without great effort.”

  “I will send Tallia to her,” Starus said. “She likes Tallia.”

  “Tallia will have to be gentle with her; remind her of that.” Tallia baked bread every day and scrubbed the entry, chores that made her stronger than many men.

  “I will,” said Starus, and added, “The biga will be here shortly. Philius had Niger and Neva ready to yoke to the biga as I left the stable.”

  “Good. Philius can be lazy when the weather is dreary.” Ignatia went to look out through the peephole in the shutters. “It hasn’t let up.”

  “No, Doma, it hasn’t.” He looked directly at Ignatia. “You look tired.”

  “I am,” she said. “Never mind. I’ll retire early with a jug of hot wine. Come dawn, I’ll be myself again.”

  “If Domina Laelius hasn’t improved, you won’t be able to do that,” Starus warned.

  “Sanct-Franciscus should do her good. He has in the past. She believes he will help her now.” Ignatia swung around as the rattle of approaching hooves and wheels reached her. “Philius is here.”

  “Keep as warm and dry as you can,” Starus recommended as he went to open the front door for her. “Do not slip in the mud. Right foot.”

  Ignatia crossed the threshold on her right foot and stood in the octostyle porticus waiting for Philius to come up from the stable gate, along the alley between the Laelius house and the one beyond. The location was a good one, on the north-facing slope of the Esquilinus Hill, but in the rain it seemed dreary and unsatisfactory. She huddled into her paenula, tugging the hood as far over her head as she could, shading her eyes and concealing most of her features. She bit back a yawn just as the biga with its black and white pair turned toward her.

  Philius drew rein right in front of her. He, too, was cloaked against the wet, but his Gaulish saie was of thicker, less tightly woven goat-hair cloth, and the hood was narrower than the one on her paenula. “Ready, Doma. You want to go out to Villa Ragoczy again, I’m told.”

  “Yes,” said Ignatia as she stepped up into the biga and took hold of the handrail at the top of the high side panel.

  “I’ll go along the Via Thermae and out through the Porta Nova, then north on the Via Cingula, if you don’t mind. The Porta Viminalis is always very crowded and the streets aren’t as muddy approaching the Porta Nova.”

  “You know what is the best route to go, and so long as we don’t lose much time that way … .” She shrugged and did her best not to shiver as Philius put the biga in motion. In spite of the rain the streets were busy, and Philius held the pair of horses to a strict walk as they threaded their way toward the Porta Nova on the east-northeastern side of the city. They passed three small fora, one devoted to selling flowers; it was filled with new blossoms and a variety of bulbs that were brilliant with color and greenery. “Perhaps, on our return, we should stop to get hyacinths for my mother.”

  “Tell me on the return, Doma, and if you still wish to.” He checked Niger as a donkey being led across the road balked and brayed; Neva had already stopped.

  “You do this so well,” Ignatia said.

  “I know the horses. Neva is careful and cautious—Niger is more impulsive. For the others, Pimpona is affable, especially now that she is in foal, Raechus is eager—too eager, Farfalia is abrupt, Merius is grumpy because he is getting old, Boranda is no-nonsense, Crispus is always seeking treats, especially when none are deserved, and Statlio is determined to please, a typical gelding, as obliging as a hound.” He paused, having mentioned all the household horses. “Iola, the jenny-mule? is devious and clever, as mules often are.”

  “Do you think we should acquire other horses? If Merius is not up to the work, should he be retired and another horse bought in his place? He could be sent to the estate at Nepete—what do you think?” Ignatia asked, tugging on the edge of her hood to keep it from flying back off her head in the freshening wind.

  Philius cleared his throat, keeping his attention on the road ahead. “I would retire Merius, if he were my horse, and replace him with a younger gelding. I would purchase a second mule. I’d also buy a riding horse for Octavian of less mettle than Raechus. No matter what he thinks, your brother does not handle high-couraged horses well. A less spirited animal would suit far better than Raechus, who would thrive at Nepete, standing at stud there; his blood-line is excellent, and his confirmation is superior.” Now that he had said this, Philius ducked his head. “Your pardon, Doma, but you asked.”

  “And I am glad to hear what you have to say,” said Ignatia, wondering how she would persuade her uncle, Nymphidius Tiberius Laelius, to hand over enough money to accomplish these things. “I will not punish you for saying what you believe to be best for the horses.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled the pair in as they reached the line at the Porta Nova.

  A Praetorian centurion in full brass lorica and helmet with a broad, dyed horsehair fan atop it, was stopping every person departing the city, asking names and destinations, and occasionally ordering his scribe to make notes.

  “I am Pax Ignatia Laelius, I live in the Via Decius Claudii on the Esquilinus Hill,” she said when it came her turn to speak. “This is my slave Philius. We are bound for Villa Ragoczy, beyond your camp.”

  “The foreigner’s estate; the one with the fine gate and fences. I know it,” said the centurion. “Why do you seek him?”

  “To summon him to treat
my mother, who is an invalid,” said Ignatia. “There is some urgency.”

  “Be sure you return through this gate, and if you delay very long, I must have the scribe make note of it,” said the centurion.

  “Of course,” said Ignatia, and nodded to Philius. “Drive on.”

  The road beyond the walls was also busy, but not as much as the city streets had been; bigae and chairs carried merchants to and from the broad field where their large carpenti were left for the day, and sellers of fruits, meats, and flesh held the sides of the road, crying their wares. Philius avoided the greatest crush, and turned on the Via Cingula, then whistled his pair up to a trot and held the gait for the next thousand paces. They soon reached the Via Prenestina, and headed northeast past the Praetorian Camp. The wind picked up and the rain fell harder.

  “The road to Villa Ragoczy is not far ahead. There is a stout wooden gate at the entrance,” said Ignatia.

  “I remember,” said Philius. “I will find the place.”

  “Excellent,” Ignatia approved shakily. She was so cold that her teeth had started to chatter and she was shivering, both of which mortified her: to show such weakness in front of a slave! She would not know what to say to her mother if Philius should speak of it among the rest of the household. Gathering her paenula more tightly around her, she pulled the hood even farther forward and did her best to keep her teeth clamped.

  “This is the turn, I am certain,” said Philius, slowing the pair to a walk and preparing to leave the well-paved road for a graveled one. “Best hang on with both hands, Doma.”