“He thinks their prayers will help our mother,” said Ignatia, repeating what she had been saying for months.
Before the discussion became a cycle of recriminations, Sanct-Franciscus intervened. “What else is wrong with her? She cannot hold anything in her stomach, but is there anything more?”
“She complains of headache,” said Ignatia, removing her hand from his.
“Hardly surprising if she is hungry and thirsty,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “When did this begin?”
“More than two days ago,” said Ignatia with a kind of numb fatigue that said more than lengthly explanations would.
“Why did you wait to send for me?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“She … she said … not to, not while she … could not receive you … properly or …” Ignatias voice trailed off.
“The weather was especially hot that day, you may recall, and still, close, damp,” said Starus. “Domina Laelius had not slept well, and complained that the heat was wearing her out, leeching her strength. She called for lemon-water, but—” he shook his head slowly, then went on, “She was flushed and edgy all that day, saying that her muscles were exhausted. She claimed she feared the mal aria—the bad air which is everywhere at this time of year—and insisted that incense be burned in her chamber, which made her cough.”
“Did you remove the incense?” asked Sanct-Franciscus.
“No; she would not allow it. When I tried to … she accused me of wanting to see her die,” said Ignatia, sighing. “At least most of it burned and she isn’t coughing any more.”
“Do you think she will want to see me, at this hour?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “If she has not wanted my help for two days?”
“She would want to see you at any hour,” said Ignatia with a fatalistic gesture. “She has been in a swither.”
Sanct-Francisus regarded Ignatia steadily. “Then it might be best if you take me to her—if you would.”
“She is likely to be in a testy state of mind still,” said Ignatia quietly. “She upbraided three slaves this evening. She would have beaten them if she had the strength.”
“Beaten them, you say?” Sanct-Franciscus pressed his lips together thoughtfully, then, “Would it be useful if I spoke to her about that? Beaten slaves do not give good care; does she realize that.”
“Probably not,” said Ignatia, seconding Sanct-Franciscus’ own inclination. “She hasn’t paid attention to any of the household.”
“Very well; I will say nothing,” he said, and fell in beside her, leaving Starus to keep watch for Octavian.
“I am worried, no matter what she may think,” said Ignatia as they crossed the atrium. “She has been demanding before, of course, but this time, she is also frightened. I see it in her eyes.”
“She has been frightened before,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Yes, but not in this way.” She walked a bit more slowly, her eyes fixed on a distant place only she could see. “Before, she was angry; now the fear is stronger, and she is filled with emotions I haven’t seen in her—panic, and a kind of dread.”
“So you think she is worse?”
“I think she thinks she is worse,” said Ignatia. “That frightens me, although I know I shouldn’t be pulled into her … her …” Here she floundered, trying not to be condemning of Adicia.
“Her distress,” Sanct-Franciscus suggested.
Ignatia nodded as they reached the door to Adicia’s bedroom. “I won’t go in with you; I upset her too much. I’d just as soon not cause her any more annoyance. But I would like to speak with you when you are through, if you don’t mind.”
“Where will I find you?” He watched her closely as she answered. “I want to speak with you, as well.”
“I will be in the garden. I try to spend time in the open air every evening, and this will be my first chance since sunrise.” She touched his hand. “You are good to her—better than she has any right to expect.”
“That is kind of you, Ignatia,” said Sanct-Franciscus before he turned to go into Adicia’s room.
An angular, middle-aged woman slumped by the window, half-asleep, her slave’s collar shining dully in the light of a single oil-lamp; she sat up as she heard Sanct-Franciscus’ soft approach. “I am not asleep,” she declared.
“No, not she; she has snored only to keep me awake,” Adicia complained from her heap of pillows. A light coverlet was drawn up to her shoulders, and she had one hand clenched on its whip-sewn hem. “I thought you’d come earlier. You should have been here before sunset. I was miserable then.” This rebuke was petulant, a condemnation extending beyond this occasion.
The slave sank back in her chair as if seeking invisibility.
“I did not receive word until a little more than an hour ago that you were ailing, Domina,” he said tranquilly, refusing to be pulled into her anger which he was aware masked her fright. “I came as soon as I was called. You must pardon me for taking so long to get here.”
“An hour?” She stared up at him.
“I had to gather my medicaments and have my horses yoked to the biga.” He made this ordinary delay seem inexcusable to placate her complaint.
“At least the streets are empty tonight,” Adicia remarked, fussing with the selvage of the coverlet.
“Something to be thankful for,” Sanct-Franciscus said at his most soothing.
“That trollop of a daughter of mine must have thrown herself upon you again, arriving at your gate as if she were an abandoned woman,” Adicia said, releasing the coverlet and fretting with the knot of her hair; she managed to pull a few tendrils free and twist them around her fingers.
“She sent your under-steward to summon me,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “She preferred not to leave you.” He came to the side of her bed. “They tell me the heat has been bothering you.”
“It’s been bothering everyone,” Adicia said in disgust.
“That may be, but it is you I have come to treat, and it is you who must have my full attention.” He reached for flint-and-steel to strike a spark for the nearest oil-lamps, and as their pale, wavering light sprang to life, he saw that his initial impression was right: Domina Adicia was suffering from heat exhaustion, and possibly dehydration as well for her forehead was dry. “They tell me you cannot keep food or water down: is this true?”
“Not easily,” she hedged.
“Not at all, from what I was told.” He took her hand to feel the pulse in her wrist. “And that is not a favorable sign,” he went on, noticing her heartbeat was shallow and rapid.
“They want me to die. I’ve become too great a burden. That’s the whole of it,” Adicia said bitterly. “They are tired of me.”
“They don’t want you dead, Domina,” Sanct-Franciscus reassured her. “They want you better.”
“Hah!” She pulled her arm away from him. “Not even you believe that. You see how I am served.”
“Yes, I see how carefully you are tended, and I must tell you that you are in error, thinking that anyone wishes you ill. If I thought you were in danger, I would speak to the decuriae.”
“My daughter has fooled you, as she fools so many,” Adicia muttered.
Sanct-Franciscus remained patient and steady, thinking back to his long years serving in the Temple of Imhotep. “It is a source of unhappiness for us all that we can give you so little relief from your suffering, but no one wants your death.”
“But they do,” Adicia said, pouting.
“Domina Adicia, you will chafe yourself into a fever.” He put his hand on her forehead to emphasize his concern.
“I am in a fever,” she quetched. “I am consumed with fire. My bones are hot as embers.”
“I will prepare a draught for you that will ease your discomforts,” said Sanct-Franciscus, doing his best to put Adicia in a better frame of mind. “Then you must rest; sleep gives more cures than a score of physicians.”
Her short laughter was harsh. “You are probably the only physician in Roma who would say so.”
He made no attempt to argue with her, but signaled to the slave, saying to her, “If you will fetch a pitcher of almond-milk, I will prepare my draught.” The woman pushed herself to her feet, and Sanct-Franciscus noticed that the slave suffered from aching joints. “And bring a cup of water—I have some pansy-and-willow that will lessen your pain.”
“I don’t ask you to treat my slaves,” Adicia said brusquely as the woman hurried out of the room.
“No, but I thought you would be pleased with having a woman serve you who isn’t preoccupied with her own afflictions.” Sanct-Franciscus let her consider this, then added, “It is to your benefit to have your slaves in good frame.”
“So you say; so you say,” she muttered, displeased for no reason she could describe.
He opened his case and began to set out vials and jars. “You will need a composer so that you will not vomit, and an anodyne to relieve your hurts, and something to lessen your fever. I will also include a soporific, so you may sleep.” He touched his supplies as he explained, and watched her response to his recommendations.
“I need to keep my stomach settled, or all the rest will be for naught.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line. “If only I knew what consumes me!” she burst out.
“Whatever it is, you have borne it a long time,” he said gently.
Adicia glared at him. “As have others in my gens,” she admitted with an emotion compounded of distress and pride. “My aunt died of this weakness and pain, and one of my brothers, as well, many years since.”
“Such has been the case with many Romans,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a suggestion of concern.
“True, very true,” she said, looking away from him as the slave returned with a pitcher and a pair of cups on a tray, one of which contained water, the other of which was empty. “It has become our encumbrance for our greatness,” she said so that Sanct-Franciscus would take little notice of the slave.
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking the tray and setting it on the bedside table next to his open case. He removed a small, deep spoon from his case and began to measure out the ingredients he had described to her into the almond-milk in the pitcher. “Do not try to drink this all at once, but take a little, wait a bit, then take a little more. You will fare better that way.”
“And if I vomit—what then?” Adicia seemed almost to relish that possibility. “I may well be sick all night.”
“Then your slave will hold your basin and I will try another combination of medicaments,” he said.
She made a kind of scoffing sound, but held out her hand for the cup Sanct-Franciscus proffered, half-filled with almond-milk and the powders and tinctures he had mixed into it. “I had better feel improvement, or I will bar you from this house. You mustn’t fail me now.” There was a note of terror in her command.
He was adding pansy-and-willow to the cup of water, and so said nothing to her in response to her threat; he gave the cup to the slave and then helped steady Adicia’s shoulders so that she could have a few little sips of the almond-milk without spilling any on the coverlet. When she shoved the cup back into his hand, he set it on the tray again, and began to put his jars and vials back in his case. Watching her for a short while, he ventured to hand the cup to her again, and held her in the bend of his arm to ease her swallowing. “Lie back now; let the medicine work.”
She did as she was told, frowning as she settled into the pile of pillows. “You won’t leave yet.”
“No,” he assured her. “If you have no trouble with what I have given you, I will take a turn in your garden, then return to check on you. If you are asleep, I will let you rest; if you are awake, I will prepare more of the draught for you.”
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “Just see you do not go.”
“I will not,” he said, turning toward the slave. “If you have relief from the drink, I will provide you with more.”
She blinked twice at being addressed, then said, “Grateful. I am grateful.”
Sanct-Franciscus indicated Domina Adicia. “Your mistress will need your close attention for the next hour or two. Stay beside her and watch for any changes in her. If she asks for water, let her have a little of the drink I have prepared, but not much. If she has not cast up any of the almond-milk, then give her water after dawn.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I will ask the cook to send up another pitcher for her—of water with a little salt and honey in it. That will slake her thirst once she is able to drink safely, and give her strength.”
The slave stared at him, nodding repeatedly.
He moved away from the bedside, motioning to the woman to follow him. “If she starts to sweat, keep her warm until the fever is out of her. She is not so heated that she needs to be chilled, and a chill could delay her recovery.”
Again the woman nodded.
“And I’ll make more anodyne solution for you, that you may take later,” he told her, then said to Adicia, “Domina, I am going to give you a little time to rest. I’ll return to see how you are doing a bit later.”
“Don’t leave the house,” Adicia said sharply.
“I will not go farther than your garden,” said Sanct-Franciscus, making for the door, aware that both women were watching him closely.
Starus was waiting not far away; he studied the foreigner with a mixture of hope and dubiety. “Welh?”
“I think she will improve in time, but right now she is losing strength, and that is a dangerous development,” said Sanct-Franciscus, keeping his voice low. “I have provided her a drink to help her husband what strength she has and to lower the fever that burns in her.”
“She isn’t doing well, is she?” Starus dared to ask. “You think the danger is—?”
“I think it is real,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “She could decline still further, and that would not be favorable. But she is not beyond recovery.” He passed the steward and went along the corridor to the door leading into the garden at the rear of the house, where the scent of ripe fruit overpowered the odors from the stable and the city beyond the walls. He stood for a long moment, thinking back to the garden at Olivia’s father’s house, where he had sought refuge after the deaths of Kosrozd, Tishtry, and Aumtehoutep, and the succor she had provided then; he savored the memory, then reminded himself that Olivia was one of his blood now. With a slight shrug, he went toward the fountain at the intersection of three well-tended walkways, his night-seeing eyes having no trouble locating Ignatia among the pear trees. As he went toward her, she swung around to face him.
“Will she die?” The question was so blunt it surprised them both.
Sanct-Franciscus answered calmly, “Yes, as all living things will. But not just yet.”
She sighed. “I don’t want her to die.” She took hold of the branch of the tree under which she stood, half-swinging from it as if to hold herself away from the house. “She is not easy to care for, but she is my mother, and if she dies now, everyone will say it’s my fault.”
He stared at her, aware of her anguish and confusion. “You must know that is untrue,” he said, trying to comfort her.
“No,” she countered. “No, I wouldn’t know it. It might be that I—”
“You have done nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, taking another step closer to her. “You have done all anyone can, and more than most would.”
“My mother doesn’t think so,” said Ignatia, her voice forlorn.
“That is her illness, not her heart, speaking,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Myrtale says the same.”
“If Myrtale wishes to assume Domina Ignatia’s care herself, then she has grounds for criticism: if she is not willing to do that, then she is also in no position to fault you.” He offered his hand to her, and reluctantly, she released her hold on the branch and put her palm on his. “You must not take these things to heart, Doma Ignatia.”
A faint stirring of wind made the leaves shiver above them; the sodden heat seemed to lessen
with the promise of a breeze.
“I hope the weather will break,” she said, staring up through the leaves at the stars. “If this still heat would end, everything would be better.”
“There would be fewer mosquitos,” he said, knowing how these voracious pests set upon Roma every summer.
“Everyone has welts on their arms,” she said, a strange note in her voice.
“Such bites are nuisances, and may incline many to take fevers,” he said, puzzled by her slight distraction. “What did you wish to see me about, Doma Ignatia?”
“I … I want reassurance … or comfort,” she said distantly.
“You may have both,” he said, “to the limit I can provide them.”
“And that is a welcome thing,” she agreed with a quick, unsteady laugh; his nearness was taking a toll on her, and she wondered how much longer she could endure his presence without making a fool of herself. She started to speak to him, to ask what he recommended for her mother’s care, but to her astonishment, embraced him instead, straining to hold him to her, trying clumsily to kiss him.
Startled by her abrupt action, Sanct-Franciscus remained still as he sensed the need in her; then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and steadied her kisses to one that was long, exploring, arousing, answering her ardor with an intensity that surprised him: here was what he had sought for so long—passion that was more than the gratification of an evening’s fancy. He felt the promise of intimacy in her urgent desire, and responded to it with fervor, taking her head in his hands so that he could help her to savor the inscience of their flesh.
“Sanct-Franciscus … I don’t …” As her grip on him lessened, she gave herself over to his lips, the depths of her captivation seeming to increase with every touch, every place their bodies aligned. For an instant, she wished their clothes were on fire, so that nothing could impede their contact, that they could lie amid the last flowers of summer, naked and rapturous, but that faded at the sudden sound of chariot-wheels beyond the walls of the garden. She shoved his shoulder, forcing him back from her. “It must be … Octavian,” she said, sounding breathless and disoriented. “He mustn’t … not together … He would disapprove …” She struggled to neaten her clothes, aware now that she was in disarray, that her hair was mussed, and that some part of him must linger on her, a tell-tale stamp of their lubricity. Doing as much as she could to calm herself, Ignatia took three unsteady steps away from Sanct-Franciscus. “I … I should go in.”
Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 19) Page 26
