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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “As you wish,” said Sanct-Franciscus, noticing that fewer than half the couches were occupied.

  “I have told the slaves not to offer you food, and I will explain that your customs forbid you to dine with us; some of my guests may remark upon your abstinence, but I assume you are used to that, since it is your custom to dine in private,” Vulpius said cordially, nodding a greeting to Pius Verus Lucillius, who had just stretched out on his couch, across from Sanct-Franciscus, his white-and-wine-red toga virilis making graceful folds about him, his jewelstudded bracelets glowing in the rich light. “You are among friends here, Sanct-Franciscus, and you need not fear us.” He clapped Sanct-Franciscus on the shoulder for good measure.

  “Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and went to sit down, though unlike the Romans, he did not recline, but sat high up on the couch, his lower back supported by the rest that was intended for shoulders and elbows.

  “Delphinius Ambrosius Junian,” Vulpius called out to the highest-ranking Roman in the room. “Let you name the first delight of the evening.”

  Junian, an abdominous fellow with a high-colored complexion and the beginning of pendulous jowls, dressed in an extravagant toga of pale-lavender silk and wearing a great many golden bracelets, sat up on his couch. “Let all the women be brought in to dine! Bring forth the women!” It was the usual first delight, and it was greeted with enthusiastic shouts.

  Vulpius signaled his steward and handed him the alabaster goblet. “My wife has the other,” he said, and added more loudly, “No guest is to be denied the satisfaction of his wishes; for tonight, our guests live as gods, and their desires are paramount. Do as you are commanded.” He swung his arm in a gesture of anticipation and welcome, his yellow toga making him seem to glow.

  The steward ducked his head and went to collect the second goblet and to throw open the door at the back of the dining room, revealing the withdrawing room where the women guests and a few professional female entertainers were waiting. The musicians in the reception room struck up a fanfare of sorts to welcome them to the banquet, and with this to accompany them, the women entered the dining room, ready to begin the celebration. All were dressed in their newest finery, for it was good luck to celebrate the new year in fine, new clothes.

  Watching them, Sanct-Franciscus could see the first signs of exhaustion, a mark of the end of Saturnalia. Five days of unrelenting festivities were taking their toll. He watched the women go to their couches, most of them across from their husbands; two of the women who were engaged for the evening selected the unoccupied couches for themselves. As host, Vulpius occupied the center couch of the U nearest the reception room while his wife occupied the center couch of the U nearest the withdrawing room, all in strict accord with Roman custom. Once the guests were settled, a group of slaves entered the dining room, one for each guest, whose job it would be to assist the guests through the banquet as well as provide any additional amusements the guest might require. All of the slaves were dressed in knee-length, pleated tunicae of fine, white wool, garments that would serve them for all festive occasions in the year to come.

  “Proffer the first dishes; let the convivium commence,” Vulpius ordered. “And fill the goblets with wine.” He held up his own silver goblet; all his guests would take home their silver goblets as gifts.

  From his post at the dining room door, Leontius, the Vulpius’ steward, signaled the personal slaves to comply, while he, himself, prepared to summon the next course to the diners as soon as the first was completed.

  “How delightful all this is,” exclaimed Romulus Sabinus Savinus as his evening’s slave held out his goblet.

  “Doubly delightful for us, to end the year among such good friends,” said Dionesia, and poured out a small amount of wine from her goblet onto the floor as token offering to Saturn and Janus, both of whom were the gods honored in these festivities; most of the guests did the same, and a sudden aroma of wine filled the air as the warm floors turned the red liquid to thin trails of white steam.

  “The libation has been made,” Junian cried out before popping one of the stuffed buns into his mouth.

  “The glory of the Emperor,” called out Oliverus Stephanus Tacitus Caio, spilling a generous amount of wine in honor of Heliogabalus.

  The others echoed this, but with less enthusiasm, and Savinus coughed. “Is he keeping Saturnalia at all?”

  Caio laughed. “Better than most. He has had feasts and entertainments from the first night until now, each more extravagant than the last. They say he has had a fountain built that pours four kinds of wine, and a device that can turn four stuffed boars over a fire-pit at the same time. His slaves are handsome young men, dressed in tunicae of cloth-of-gold. Those fortunate enough to be invited to be his guests are given golden plates to take home.”

  “But he slights the Vestal Virgins,” said Dionesia, concerned at this impropriety. “His mother has refused to visit them, and Heliogabalus himself has only summoned them to him; he will not go to them.”

  “Very unseemly,” said Junian.

  “Well, he’s foreign; he doesn’t yet understand how we do things in Roma,” said Caio, then glanced in Sanct-Franciscus’ direction. “I mean no offense to you, of course.” He took an anchovy and thumbed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

  “Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “He needs time to learn our ways,” Caio went on, still chewing.

  “We’ve offered libations to his glory,” said Vulpius, raising his voice to be heard over the increasing buzz of conversation.

  “That we have,” said Junius, and held out his goblet to his slave to be refilled.

  “Heliogabalus has been made Caesar, and we, as Romans, must hail him Emperor.” This from Publicus Maximus Titanius Pereginus, who had attended an earlier celebration and whose face was already ruddy from wine; his toga was beginning to slip from his shoulder.

  Caio laughed, not quite pleasantly. “So loyal you are?”

  “As loyal as you,” said Peregrinus, a hint of belligerence in his tone.

  “Ave Caesar, then,” said Lucillius, as if to put an end to the wrangling.

  “He is just a youth,” Peregrinus said in defense of the Emperor. “Have patience. In time he will wean himself away from his mother’s influence, and we shall discover what manner—”

  “Let us forsake politics for tonight,” said Parthenia Orela Tallonus, Domina Caio, looking uncomfortable in her stola and palla of embroidered linen, for her pregnancy was advanced and moving had become awkward.

  “My wife has expressed a wish: that we banish talk of politics,” Caio said in a tone that suggested that this had been a bone of contention with them before.

  “And I endorse it,” said Dionesia. “You men can discuss the affairs of the Empire in the morning, when the new year dawns; tonight is only the eve of the nine hundred seventy-second Year of the City, and Saturn still reigns: Jove and Minerva will rule in the morning, and Janus, as well. Tonight we sample all the delights that flesh can know, without a care for what is to come. For tonight, we are to celebrate the time that is past, and the past is beyond our influence. Let us give no time to that which is beyond this moment’s grasp.”

  There were a few shouts of agreement, and Bonar Datus Fabricius crowed like a cock at sunrise.

  “Let each of you amuse yourself; take pleasure of the table and the slaves brought to you for your delectation,” said Vulpius.

  “As the Olympians do,” shouted Junian.

  “So it shall be for tonight,” Vulpius declared, and signaled the entertainers to rest while the musicians played. “You will be kept busy later, never fear,” he promised the entertainers.

  One of the musicians had a small lyre from Cappodocia, and looking at it, Sanct-Franciscus had a brief, intense recollection of Tishtry, standing on her hands on the front of her racing quadriga before flipping onto the back of her favorite horse, to ride, standing, around the end of the spina in the Circus Maximus; she had bought her
family’s freedom with her performing before she died the True Death on the sands. He looked away and caught Lillis Cecania Lenius, Domina Fabricius, staring at him. “Domina,” he acknowledged, ducking his head.

  “I have heard much about you,” said Cecania, offering him a lupine smile; she was almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus, and richly dressed in gold-shot silk; her russet hair was in an elaborate arrangement of ordered curls and golden ribbons. “So I am curious.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. “Perhaps later you will ease my curiosity?”

  “Why would that be? That you are curious?” Sant-Franciscus asked politely.

  “Because I have many questions about you.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth and smiled. “I hope you are all I have heard you are.”

  “You must not believe everything you hear of me, or of anyone,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his manner gracious but reserved; he read avidity in her eyes that had no hint of generosity.

  “This is no night for gravitas, old Roman virtue though it may be,” she admonished him provocatively. “Leave dignity behind on this last night of the year. Be willing to surrender to chance.”

  “As Romans do?” he suggested.

  “Yes. As we do. You are our guest, you must share our—” She let her hand slide negligently down to her golden-chain belt.

  “A most tempting invitation, and were I of your blood, I would be unable to resist you, lovely as you are. But, alas, I am no longer a prince of my people, and illustriata are too exalted for me,” Sanct-Franciscus said, aware that this woman might find his appetites not to her liking; certainly the other guests would be appalled.

  “Modest? Afraid of my husband’s claim on me?” she teased, giving her husband an indulgent look. “I do not deprive him of his amusements, nor does he keep me from mine.”

  “Not so much modest as careful, as a foreigner is expected to be,” said Sanct-Franciscus as the musicians brought out two branches of brass tintinabula and four small mallets with which to strike them; the melody they played was Greek, and soon their singer joined in, spinning out the bittersweet lyrics with little attention to their meaning.

  “Not that ‘Young Wife’s Lament’ again,” said Cecania. “Everyone’s heard it.”

  “Still, it is engaging,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Cecania gave a moue of disgust. “If such sentiments please you.”

  “They would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, “if they were presented more appropriately. The singer does not understand the meaning of the syllables she is singing.” He resisted the urge to join the musicians: perhaps later, he thought.

  “So you have taste in music, do you?” Cecania inquired, making a world of possibilities fill the simple question.

  “I have found it to my liking,” said Sanct-Franciscus, thinking that for the first five hundred years after his death, he had no interest in the art; only after he had arrived in Egypt had he developed a fondness for songs and the sound of instruments. “Over time.”

  “Over time,” Cecania repeated. “Then music is part of the story of your life. That must be a fascinating tale.” Again she licked her lips slowly with the tip of her tongue.

  “Hardly that,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and watched Cecania mull over his response. It was all so predictable, he thought, their appetites and the satiation without fulfillment. How they devoured everything, and how little nourishment they gained!

  She lolled back against the cushions on the rise of her couch, one arm extended as if in negligent summons. “I told Vulpius that I want a young man who might be mistaken for a gladiator—without the scars, of course, and not too brutal. What did you ask for?”

  Before Sanct-Franciscus could frame his answer, Fabricius stood up and held up his goblet. “This is to wash away the old year, and to welcome the new,” he announced, and drank deeply, two little rivulets of wine brimming down his chin and onto his clothing.

  Vulpius signaled to Leontius. “The second course,” he commanded. “See to it.”

  The steward nodded, ducked his head, and stepped back from the door in order to pass on the orders to the waiting slaves. “Do not intrude; do your work invisibly. Step lively, remove what is left, then serve what you have brought. Do not spill anything,” he warned the six. “Bring what is uneaten out and take it with you to the kitchen.”

  Each tray being carried held a wide, shallow crockery bowl containing fresh mussels and seafood forcemeat in a thick, gingered sauce; this delicious offering was accompanied by stacks of buttered griddle-bread. The slaves set these down on the tables, saluted Vulpius and his wife, picked up the platters from the first course, then left the dining room promptly and in good order.

  “Well done,” Leontius approved once the slaves were in the corridor again. “Next, fingerbowls and napkins, then comes the squab in apricots and spiced broccoli with leeks in pepper-oil.”

  “After that, the shoats stuffed with chopped figs, apples, and onions,” said the senior slave, a Gaul called Cepin.

  “You’ll need help serving them. Alert three kitchen slaves to be ready to assist you.” Leontius clapped his hands to send them on their way, but called after them, “You will have your convivium when this is finished.”

  “Oh yes,” said Cepin in happy anticipation. “Cook is making the chickens ready for spitting once the stuffed yearling calves are served, so we will not have to wait long after the masters have finished to begin our meal. We’ll have the chickens and fish-and-celery stew and rabbits in gravy and anything the masters haven’t eaten, as well as many breads for us, as is the custom. And we’ll have the entertainers and musicians to dine with us at the end of the night—those not busy elsewhere.” He grinned, showing uneven teeth, three of which were missing.

  “And griddle-breads,” added another slave. “Cook has a tub of batter.”

  “Then to your work,” Leontius said, and went back into the dining room, ducking his head again to his master.

  Vulpius had risen from his couch and was approaching the musicians in the reception room. “Come in with us; bring your instruments. You may play while we dine; the others may rest in anticipation of a busy time ahead.”

  The musicians hastened to obey; they held their instruments carefully, and stayed near Vulpius as they moved through the couches.

  “I like the look of that flute-player,” Lucillius said to Sanct-Franciscus, smiling expectantly. “Flute-players have agile lips and fingers.”

  “I suppose they must,” said Sanct-Franciscus, who played the flute tolerably well himself and knew its demands. “Light, quick fingers are often needed.”

  “Rather like that thief you spared,” Lucillius said, and laughed. “Vulpius told me you tended to his injuries at the prison.”

  “I did.” Sanct-Franciscus waited while Lucillius had his goblet refilled.

  “Why did you bother?” Lucillius asked.

  “No one else was likely to do it,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “I don’t imagine he thanked you,” Lucillius said as one of the serving slaves came to remove the platter from the first course, and his body-slave refilled his goblet.

  “Actually, he did,” said Sanct-Franciscus, not adding that he had offered Natalis a position in his household upon his release from prison; he nodded toward Lucillius’ wife. “This may not interest you, Domina.”

  “It doesn’t,” she said, sounding both half-drunk and bored; Docilla Adonica Tiberius, Domina Lucillius, scowled at her husband, then smiled at Sanct-Franciscus. “You could be interesting, however.”

  Sanet-Franciscus gestured an apology. “I ask your pardon, Domina, but it is not the custom of my people to—”

  “Not another man of restraint!” she exclaimed, pursing her lips in disgust. “Are you one of those strict Christians? Not the ones who share everything, but the others, who are forever pestering decent Romans and making a display of their religion to the denigration of all the rest? They have been beating up patrons of the lupanar and the Guard there ha
sn’t been able to stop them. I didn’t think Vulpius would be so foolish as to invite anyone of that stripe to Saturnalia.”

  “No, I am not a Christian,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I am an exile.”

  Adonica considered this, sighed, and signaled the slave for more wine. “I’ll have to wait for a bit, then.”

  “Never mind my wife—she’s becoming fatigued,” said Lucillius.

  “After such a Saturnalia as this has been, I am surprised you are all still awake,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a slight smile.

  Lucillius chose to laugh at this observation. “Truly. We Romans are a hearty breed, and it takes more than a few nights of feasting and drinking to flatten us. Not even war has exhausted us.” He accepted a linen square from the slave carrying the basin of lemon-water before dunking his hands into the warm liquid. While he dried his fingers, he added, “Foreigners often see our enjoyments as weakness, not what they are: the strength of the people; we have fortitude, and that requires great jollity. For as we must be powerful and resolute in purpose, so we must be able to make the most of our entertainments, in all forms, so that we do not become despotic. Just as we fight with a will, so we feast and drink with a will.”

  Overhearing this, Caio yelled out, “True! True!”

  “Even our women are mighty,” said Lucillius, glancing at his wife, who glowered at him in return.

  “That they may be,” said Fabricius, joining in. “But they are also the true flowers of Roma. Nothing so fair as they can be found outside our walls.” Although the praise was genuine, his expression was salacious and earned him a sharp stare from his wife, which he pointedly ignored.

  The slaves carried in the third course and set the broad platters down, then the plates of griddle-bread. With the musicians striking up a little march, they left the diners alone once more.

  “Mussels,” said Peregrinus eagerly, using a griddle-bread to scoop up the food. “You had them from—?”