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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Understandable in the midst of such a fire,” said Sanct-Franciscus, noticing that the man with the mules was finally moving through the gate.

  “Yes. I know.” She bit her lower lip. “It doesn’t change anything in regard to Nyssa, does it?”

  “Probably not,” he allowed, setting his pair in motion again.

  They reached the gate, answered the usual questions put to them by the Praetorians, and were about to pass on when the centurion addressed Sanct-Franciscus. “How long will you be gone from the city?”

  “I should return tomorrow,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I have matters to attend to at my villa.”

  “So you said,” the centurion conceded. “If you are not back within two days, I must report you as missing.”

  This was a new stricture, and Sanct-Franciscus reacted with surprise. “Why such limits, Praetorian?”

  “The Emperor has decided that foreigners must not be allowed to come and go as casually as they have done before. He fears spies.” The centurion pursed his lips, revealing his disapproval of the new regulation. “More work for us, of course, and policies that the people dislike, but the Emperor demands it.”

  “Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus, handing over the gate-toll before signaling his pair to move out.

  “That seems a bit unreasonable, asking foreigners to conduct their affairs so restrictively,” Melidulci said as the biga picked up speed.

  Sanct-Franciscus passed an ox-drawn carpentum laden with fruit and melons bound for the Praetorian Camp, and then said, “It is another show of authority.”

  “Do you think so?” She held onto the rail as the biga swung past the Praetorian Camp.

  “What else can it be?”

  “An excuse for more taxes,” said Melidulci, laughing sarcastically.

  “That is part of the intent, without doubt,” said Sanct-Franciscus, narrowing his eyes as he studied the road ahead. “It also provides closer accounts on the whereabouts of foreigners.”

  “You are too mistrustful. Heliogabalus is not so subtle as that.”

  “His grandmother is,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Melidulci shook her head and laid one hand on his arm. “You make it much too complicated. The Emperor has to pay for his extravagances somehow. And the company he keeps is expensive.”

  “His companions expect his indulgence,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “More fool he for keeping them,” she said, leaning with the biga at the turn onto the drive that led to his villa. “Expensive boys are a luxury.”

  “Heliogabalus is an expensive boy himself,” Sanct-Franciscus observed.

  “My point exactly,” she said. “Roma cannot afford him.”

  “Then you do expect trouble,” said Sanct-Franciscus, pulling his pair to a walk in order to give his slaves the opportunity to open the main gate.

  “Is there good reason not to?” She looked at him in disbelief.

  “Expected or not, trouble tends to arrive,” said Sanct-Franciscus, passing through into the courtyard where three grooms came running to take the biga in hand. He handed his reins to the nearest of the three. “See they are walked before you water them, then give them hay, a handful of grain, a handful of raisins, and a ladle of oil. Turn them out in their paddock when they’ve eaten.” He stepped down from the chariot and held out his hand to assist Melidulci to alight.

  “Yes, Dominus,” said the groom holding the reins.

  “I know I should thank you, and I do, but it is not sufficient for all you have done,” she said, walking across the courtyard at his side. Her composure had returned and she spoke with the confident ease of a woman long used to dealing with men.

  “Must I remind you that I need no thanks?” he countered lightly.

  She kept on, determined to say what she had rehearsed mentally during their journey from her burned house to his villa. “And you mustn’t think I don’t appreciate all you’re doing for me—”

  “But?” he suggested kindly, crossing his threshold on his right foot, for luck; his vestibule was cool, and his native earth under the flooring gave him respite from the sun.

  “But can’t it be enough that we enjoy one another? I know you are convinced I can achieve more than I do. You are an accomplished lover, even given your … incapacity, and no doubt you have found that depth you seek in other women. I revel in what you offer me. Why must you always attempt to find that greater closeness you …” She looked about the atrium, noticing the tubs of flowers that had been moved into place in the sunlight. “I am what I am, and that may mean I lack the capacity to accomplish what you desire? Why can’t you be content to bask in pleasure, like those blossoms?”

  “I am not uncontent,” he said, the hint of a self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yet I know there is more to have.”

  “And it disappoints you that I won’t seek it with you?” she asked.

  “Not disappoints—saddens, perhaps.” He kept in the shadow of the roof as he made his way toward the second atrium.

  She stopped, tugging at the short sleeve of his black-linen dalmatica, and turning him to face her. “But you will come to my chamber tonight, won’t you?”

  His smile was filled with profound loneliness and the promise of the passion she yearned for almost as much as she sought to avoid it. “Of course I will: believe this.”

  Text of a letter from loantius Imestius Renae at Narona in Illyricum to Rugeri of Gades in Roma, carried by commercial messenger.

  To the prudent and honorable Rugeri of Gades in Roma, Ioantius Imestius Renae at Narona sends his greetings along with his annual report of the commercial activities of the Eclipse Trading Company’s business in this city.

  As you are no doubt aware, the continuing debasement of the denarius is still eroding Roman trade throughout the eastern half of the Empire. I, myself, have followed the instruction to conduct all the Eclipse business in aurei rather than denarii, and for that reason alone I am able to report that things are not as bleak for us as they are for many other merchants not so forehanded as honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus is. When the policy was given a year ago, I thought it was overcautious and unnecessarily stringent, but no longer: I now see that the denarii are becoming as useless as ae.

  I have to report that the heavy cotton canvas ordered from Tarsus has not yet been delivered, and I have received no information as to the reason for it, although I have made repeated inquiries. Neither the weather nor the engagements of the Legions can account for it. All I have received is the assurance that the order will be filled in good time, and nothing more to explain what has transpired. I am also still awaiting news from Pergamum, where a shipment of sacking has yet to arrive; with the harvest coming, sacking will be needed, and soon.

  Some say that there is unrest to the east, and many goods are being confiscated by the Legions as part of their efforts to protect the Empire. While this may be true, it is also possible that pilferage and outright theft are being tolerated now as they have not been before. The loss of value of coins has caused many to fall back on direct exchange rather than the use of money. I have seen it with farmers in the fora here, and so it seems possible that there is an inclination among the people to demand value as much as substance in all dealings. In this regard, I must mention that the aurei I have on hand will not last through the year, and if this is the standard I must maintain, I will require more gold before the winter storms begin.

  I know Sanct-Franciscus dislikes the slave trade, but I ask you to implore him to consider such an undertaking for a year or two, at least until the monetary problems have ended. I have consulted a sibyl, who has predicted that wealth can be had through trading in slaves from the east, for it serves the Legions to have captives sold away from their homelands, and the value of a man or woman can be almost as certain as gold. For the sake of his trading company, Sanct-Franciscus would do well to put aside his dislike long enough to shore up his fortunes and earn the gratitude of the Legions at the same time. Other merchants
are taking advantage of this state of affairs, and it would be wise if Sanct-Franciscus did, as well.

  A sworn copy of my records and accounts is appended to this report, all of which I submit to you with thanks on this, the 16th day of July, in the 972nd Year of the City. May Fortuna and Neptune desert me if I speak false.

  Ioantius Imestius Renae

  manager of Eclipse Trading Company

  at Narona, in Illyricum

  4

  On the arena sands, a hundred condemned women were tied to leaning posts and were being attacked and violated by bulls, stallions, lions, leopards, and wild boars, all in a state of frenzied arousal and goaded on by their bestiarii, who used whips and long spears to keep the animals on the women. Shrieks, screams, roars, bellows, and shuddering groans rang through the Flavian Circus, to be echoed by the frantic crowd; one of the women being assaulted by a leopard had lost her arm to the beast and the gouting spray from her shoulder was slowing, the woman hanging limply from the cat’s jaws while the bestiarius hung back, afraid to approach the aroused leopard. In the afternoon heat, the sands shimmered and the crowd sweltered, and the odor of sweat and excitement mixed with that of blood and entrails and animals; those fortunate enough to be in the shade from the vast awning were spared the worst from the brassy sky, but all of Roma was stultified by the rising temperatures.

  Vendors hawking sausages in buns, skewers of broiled chicken, wine-with-rosewater, honied fruit juice over chopped ice, spiced ground pork in pocket-bread, Egyptian beer, cold water, and candied flowers made their way through the stands, doing their best to be heard over the constant noise.

  “I don’t suppose you want anything?” Septimus Desiderius Vulpius had to lean over and almost shout at his guest while he motioned to a vendor of meats, wines, fruits, and nuts to approach; in the next box, a well-dressed young man was eagerly fondling his companion, a breathless girl just out of puberty, whose features were fervid and whose eyes glazed by the spectacle before them. The vendor reached over the pair, paying little attention to their raptures.

  “No, thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, uncomfortably aware of the slaughter as the waste and degradation it was. A quick recollection of Kosrozd, Tishtry, and Aumtehoutep came back to him. He stopped watching the cruelty on the sands and was now staring at the Imperial Box where Heliogabalus sat with six handsome young men, all of them in tunicae of yellow silk; the Emperor had painted his face, and some of the darkening around his eyes had begun to smear, leaving him with tracks down his cheeks that turned his features dissolute instead of beautiful. A wreath of roses hung around his neck and a smaller one circled his brow.

  “I’m glad you finally decided to be my guest for the Games, Sanct-Franciscus.” Vulpius tossed a collection of coins to the vendor and was handed a bun with a large sausage through it; he gave the vendor his cup and had it returned filled with red wine, which he sipped cautiously. “Too young, but it’ll do,” he said, shrugged, and drank.

  Sanct-Franciscus stopped himself from saying anything about the butchery on the sands, knowing his observations would not be welcome. “Have you had this box long?”

  “I had it from my father,” said Vulpius with ill-concealed pride.

  “This is a fine place to sit,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “You mean because you can only see the Doors of Life, not of Death?” Vulpius asked, his words muffled by the sausage-and-bun.

  “That, and the shadows are deepest here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, for whom the weight of the summer sun was becoming a burden in spite of the native earth in the soles of his peri.

  “Oh, very true, but it also has fewer breezes,” said Vulpius, leaning back against the long, bolster pillow he had brought to make his box more comfortable than the usual seat cushions provided. He licked his fingers. “Peppery. Just what I like: pepper and garlic.”

  “And cooked in chicken-broth, by the smell of it.” Sanct-Franciscus saw Vulpius nod in agreement.

  The couple in the next box shifted their cushions about so that they could recline on the marble seats; the girl was laughing excitedly, her face flushed, her lips swollen.

  There was a flurry of excitement on the sands as a wild boar suddenly abandoned the woman he was straddling and charged a bull, squealing in porcine outrage, his head thrashing as he attempted to gore the flank of the bull. The bestiarii tending the two animals fled; the bull swung around, pawing and lowering his head even as his rear hooves trampled the woman beneath him.

  “They’ll have to answer for their cowardice,” said Vulpius, using his elbow to indicate which of the bestiarii would be subject to the wrath of the crowd.

  “How is it cowardice not to stand in front of a maddened animal?” Sanct-Franciscus asked at his most reasonable.

  “It is what they are supposed to do,” said Vulpius before taking another bite. “As you see, the crowd is displeased.” Hooting echoed throughout the Flavian Circus, and in his box, Heliogabalus signaled for a Praetorian, miming a bow and arrow, which the soldier went to get for the Emperor. “I hope he knows how to shoot.”

  Sanct-Franciscus kept his thoughts to himself, although he found the waste of life—human and animal—appalling. He looked up toward the awning, and the beams that supported it. “They say the sails will be replaced next year.”

  “They need it,” said Vulpius. “You can see fraying and holes in the canvas.” He leaned forward as a second wild boar opened the abdomen of the woman he was on top of, his tusks shining red. Suddenly he rounded on the nearest lion, and the two big males fell into battle while the audience howled approval; a dozen arena slaves were dragging the nine dead women by their heels out through the Doors of Death. “I don’t know how they’ll afford it, not with the Games the Emperor is sponsoring.”

  “Two more days beyond this one,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “And more to come in September.” Vulpius grinned, bits of sausage showing between his teeth.

  “Truly,” said Sanct-Franciscus, feeling slightly ill at the prospect, for the September Games were to include an aquatic venation, such as the one that had nearly resulted in his True Death, a century-and-a-half ago.

  “At least that pretty puppet is Roman enough to give us Romans our Games.” Vulpius finished off his sausage-and-bun and reached for his wine. “If not for that, he would be shoved from office.”

  “Shoved,” said Sanct-Franciscus, mulling over the word. “An interesting image; you may be right.”

  “I know how we Romans are, and that pretty lad would do well to remember: we will tolerate many things, but not an Emperor who lacks will and vision, no matter who his mother and grandmother may be,” said Vulpius pointedly, leaning back again, his attention fixed on one of the condemned. “That black-haired woman is not going to last much longer.”

  “No,” said Sanct-Franciscus thoughtfully. “She is not.” He might have added that he thought she was more fortunate than many of the others, but held his tongue, knowing that such sentiments were repugnant to Romans.

  In the adjoining box, the young man was panting, his hands down the front of the girl’s tie-sleeved tunica.

  “There’s a battle between dwarves and wolves next,” said Vulpius, sounding a little bored. “They’re saving the main battles for the end of the day … the air will be a bit cooler, and the crowd should be ready to wrawl for their favorites. It makes for a fine ending and the fighters will not be hampered by exhaustion from the heat. A man in armor can broil in the sun.”

  “Whom do you favor?” Sanct-Franciscus asked more out of politeness than interest.

  “Mnaxder,” he said promptly. “A retriarius, very deft. He belongs to Egidius Regulus Corvinus—a most fortunate master, and one of the Greens, as well. His charioteers have done well this summer.”

  “How many wins does Mnaxder have?”

  “Thirty-nine. If he is victorious today, it will be forty, and his master has promised him his freedom. The Emperor has vowed to have a statue made in his honor.”
Vulpius held up his cup in anticipatory salutation to the retriarius. “I have thirty-nine aurei bet on his success, one for each previous win.”

  “A considerable sum,” said Sanct-Franciscus, keeping his voice neutral; between horse races and combats, fortunes had been won and lost at the arena for more than four centuries.

  “But as safe as if I had bought seed with it, for just as the weather, or fire, could ruin my crop, so a gladiator, or a secutor, could ruin Mnaxder and lose me my bet.” His laughter was reckless, almost giddy. “I’ll have another cup of wine,” he bawled out, holding up his empty cup in the direction of another vendor. “Red. No honey, and no ice to water it down.”

  “Surely farming is less chancy than gambling,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and then, seeing the expression in Vulpius’ eyes, went on, “I have learned to be circumspect in such matters.”

  “Exiles haven’t the same possibilities as we Romans do, at least not when it comes to money,” Vulpius agreed, sulking a bit as he spoke. “The decuriae are always keeping track of all you buy. I can understand why you might be reluctant to act in these matters, not having the advantage of our citizenship.” He paid the vendor and took his cup, now brimming with red wine.

  “True enough,” Sanct-Franciscus responded courteously.

  Another two women were dragged away from the center of the arena, their bodies leaving bloody wakes in the sand; a number of slaves rushed out with buckets of more sand to pour over the blood while bestiarii continued to urge their animals on the remaining women; the crowd hooted derision at the flagging excitement. A few of the men in the Imperial Box threw bits of food in the direction of the women, laughing at the hopeless struggles they made.

  ‘They say the Senate is trying some way to tax bets. So far, they haven’t found a fair method for monitoring gambling reliably enough to enforce such a tax.” Vulpius handed a second coin to the vendor who had refilled his cup. “Another sausage, this time with butter and cheese.”

  “It may be that too many Senators bet,” Sanct-Franciscus suggested. “Or own charioteers and fighters.”