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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Something pleasant.” She averted her face.

  “Would you like me to massage your hands?” he offered.

  She was startled enough to look at him. “What? Massage my hands? Why?”

  “Because it is something pleasant,” he answered calmly. “And, if it satisfies you, it will lead to other things.”

  Ignatia had been told all her life how hasty men were in sexual matters, so she was doubly surprised by his proffering. “You are going to postpone your pleasure for—”

  “I postpone nothing. I have no pleasure but what you have,” he said. “What fulfills you is my fulfillment as well.”

  Amazed, she stared at him, attempting to read his face, searching for any trace of dissimulation. “But you will have your spasm, and your release.”

  “Only if you do,” he said as he untied her mafortium and removed it, revealing her hair, shining like turned brass in the lamp-light. “I am not like other men: my culmination comes from you. If you have no gratification, I have none. What you experience, I experience, no more and no less.” He worked the tibia holding the brooch that closed the neck of her paenula; beneath it he saw her stola in soft, sea-blue cotton and her palla of blue-gray linen. “Will you be warm enough without your paenula?’

  “If I am cold, we can use it as a cover,” she said, shocked at her own audacity.

  “Then I will spread it on the longest couch,” he said, and swung the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it onto the couch.

  “We can hide under it,” she said, a little of her temerity fading.

  “What do we have to hide from?” He took a step toward the couch, sinking down onto the end of it, and holding out his hands to her. “We are alone here.”

  “There are spies in the household,” she said.

  “But why should they follow you into the garden? What might you do here that would concern him—or anyone? It is not as if you are parading in the lupanar, is it?” he asked sensibly. “Are there not other interests to occupy them, such as your brother’s activities?”

  Ignatia shook her head. “My brother is out, going with his friends to ‘light the fires of faith’ he says. He won’t be back until later unless the Watch sends him home.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “His devotion to his religion has led him to do all manner of roguery. I think he and his friends use their righteousness as an excuse for mischief.” She glanced toward the open doors, as if worried he might overhear her.

  “Do you think he would watch you if he were here?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  “He might. He is constantly troubled about sin in the house. And he might set the slaves to watching for him while he’s gone.”

  “You think you might be observed here, in your own garden, inside your own walls, at your brother’s instigation?” He could feel her tension increase again as he inquired.

  “I think it’s possible,” she said slowly, as if testing the words before speaking them.

  “But why?” he asked, aware of her increasing dismay. “Why would he do it, and why would it be tolerated?”

  “Because I have nothing to myself,” she burst out sharply, then stared at him, aghast. “I’ve never said that before.”

  “The pity of it is that you would have to say it at all,” he told her with a world of compassion in his eyes. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I would it were otherwise—that you had your own assurance.”

  “How can I?” she asked, completely shaken by her own candor. “Where can I find it: can you tell me?”

  He turned her head so he could look directly into her eyes. “You have it within you, and you can claim it for yourself.”

  “How?” The word hung like a barrier between them. “I want so much, and I know it will be taken from me.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “If you give me what I seek, I will lose you, too.”

  “Only if that is what you want,” he said, the kindness in his expression making the breath catch in her throat.

  “Why do you want me?” she asked suddenly as his nearness became more immediate to her.

  “Because you are Ignatia: that is the only reason.”

  Emotions that had been pent up within her for years threatened to overcome her. She pushed him back. “That is—that is more than I—” She broke off, but in the next breath she clung to him, her arms around his neck, quivering.

  “Would you prefer to postpone this?” he asked gently as she grew still.

  She considered this briefly. “If I say no now, I might never have courage enough to ask you again. I want you to stay. Here. With me.”

  “Then I will,” he said, taking her hand once more, and bringing the palm to his lips.

  It was as if she had been burned by a sweet flame; the sensation of his kiss rioted up her arm. Before she could stop herself, she flung herself down on the couch, her paenula spread beneath her. Reaching up to loosen her hair, she summoned the courage to say, “Whatever you want of me, I give it to you freely.”

  “It must be what you want,” said Sanct-Franciscus, kneeling beside the couch and leaning forward to kiss the arch of her brow.

  “That is, as you said, undiscovered,” she said with an attempt at flirtatiousness. “A search may be needed.”

  “Then tell me what you would like to try, and I will do what I can to provide it,” he said, and kissed the tail of her eye, then moved down her cheek. His lips were lingering and light, enticing in their unpressured perusal of her face. By the time his mouth reached hers, her breath was quickening, and as they broke apart, she caught her fingers in the dark waves of his hair.

  “I like … that,” she said, pulling him down to her kiss. Slowly, deliberately, joyously, she began to remove her clothes, letting them fall in a heap beside the couch. When she was down to her undergarments, she gave him a challenging look. “You do these,” she said, reveling in her excitement and wanting to prolong it.

  “What would you want me to do?”

  “Something wonderful,” she said.

  He did his best not to smile. “What would be wonderful?”

  This time she considered her answer. “Liberation,” she said finally.

  “So be it.” On his knees, Sanct-Franciscus swung her around so that her back was to him and he could reach the end of the fascae that supported her breasts; he loosened the end and slid his hands around to take the place of the bias-cut linen, letting the weight of her breasts shape his hands to their contours, his fingers moving gently to summon the unfamiliar sensations she sought; as her passion awakened fully, her flesh grew damp in spite of the cool evening air. Rising slowly, he sat behind her on the couch, straddling it, letting her head fall back against his neck. “What more?”

  “Keep doing … keep doing,” she urged, her eyes half-closed.

  He caught her nipples between his fingers, rubbing gently until they stiffened and she sighed. Then he extended his caresses down her body, along the curve of her waist and hip, then to her mani, and to the laces that held it in place. These were easily untied, but Sanct-Franciscus took his time about undoing the loop-knots, his fingers evoking sensations that left her lightheaded. “Shall I do more?” he whispered to the splendid tangles of her hair.

  “Yes,” she answered, her face flushed.

  “As you wish,” he said, bending to kiss where her shoulder and neck joined even as he pulled her mani free of her hips, and slipped his hand between her legs.

  “O, Vertumnus, Pomona, my thanks,” she murmured as the magic of his touch began to radiate along her veins to the limits of her flesh. Her body seemed unfamiliar now, as if it had transformed through the rapture that was filling her, displacing worry and pride and loneliness. Her breath quickened and suddenly, as Sanct-Franciscus’ hands continued to stroke and search into her, to the very core of her body, a jolt went through her, so unexpected that she gasped. Then another, stronger impulse coursed from the center of her pleasure, and another; she shook with the force of he
r ecstasy, jubilant in the torrent of transports that flooded through her while she pressed back against him, aware of nothing but the intensity of her exaltation and his nearness. As her exaltation faded, she sank back against him, her breathing slowing and deepening, her skin still so sensitive that she was surprised it was not lambent. “Did you—”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “—feel that?”

  His laughter was soft and low, like a purr. “As you did.” He lifted her without effort, shifted his balance, and turned her to face him, her thighs atop his own, their faces hardly more than a finger-joint apart.

  “How could you? You didn’t penetrate me with anything but your fingers,” she said, wonder in her countenance.

  “My satisfaction comes from your own,” he reminded her, touching the soft tendrils of hair that clung to her shining face; he could hardly see the two small spots of blood on her throat.

  “But men … don’t they … ?” She stopped. “I’m not complaining,” she said hurriedly.

  “I did not suppose you were,” he said with a slight smile.

  She put her arms around him and pulled herself close to him. “I wish I could brand you onto my skin, so I could never forget this.”

  He shook his head. “No, Ignatia—I would never want you harmed, particularly not on my account.”

  “But that brand wouldn’t hurt me,” she said, leaning back so that her breasts rose like offerings to him.

  He held her with one arm, drawing her up to him, giving her long, light, slow strokes down her back. “Still.”

  “All right, nothing so … drastic as … a brand,” she said, kissing his face with random enthusiasm.

  “I thank you for that,” he said, an uncomfortable memory of Hesentaton, burned and blind, fretted at him; he gave his full attention to Ignatia and the vision of Hesentaton faded.

  She pulled back from him for a brief moment, tossing her head and laughing. “You asked me what I wanted, and you gave it to me, even though I didn’t know what it was. I have never had so fine a gift.”

  “It was one you gave yourself,” he said.

  “No,” she countered, meeting his gaze squarely. “Without you, I would not have reached so sweet a touching.” She blinked, and wiped the tears that slid down her cheeks, tears she had not known were there. Slowly and deliberately she kissed him.

  He answered her kiss, feeling her ardor flare again, and awakened to her desire, he began once again to rouse her with tantalizing caresses, followed by the teasing progress of his lips from her mouth to her neck to her shoulder to her breasts, unhurried, luxurious, and sublime.

  She lay back, her shoulders on his knees, saying, “My bones are melting, and the air is shaking,” as she surrendered to his ministrations, welcoming the gathering of passion she felt deep within her, hoping she would have another culmination as intense as the first had been.

  “Sin!” came the angry shout from the southern door of the spring house.

  Confusion and fear slammed through Ignatia. She grabbed Sanct-Franciscus’ hands, but only to thrust them away as she turned on his lap to see her brother blocking the open door, his arms on the frame as if to close them in, despite the second open door. “Octavian,” she said, reaching for the pile of her clothes and struggling to get off Sanct-Franciscus’ legs.

  “You have betrayed our honor!” Octavian declared, relishing his indignation.

  “Oh, no,” Ignatia muttered, appearing to sink into herself as she attempted to cover herself with her tangled garments.

  “Do not be more of a fool than you are,” Sanct-Franciscus said to the young man, unimpressed with his righteous posturing.

  “This is appalling,” said Octavian. “Sin and debauchery in this house!”

  Sanct-Franciscus helped Ignatia to stand without rising himself. “Neither sin nor debauchery.” He gestured to his own clothes.

  “You disgrace us!” Octavian took an angry step forward, bringing his arms into a fighting position. “You bring your corruption within our—”

  “I assure you, I do not,” said Sanct-Franciscus calmly; he held out his hand to Ignatia, to help her sort out her stola and palla from her undergarments.

  “I will denounce you!” Octavian proclaimed.

  “That will harm your sister more than me,” Sanct-Franciscus pointed out. “Or is that your intention?”

  “Both of you, be quiet,” said Ignatia as she bent over to secure her fascae.

  “It is my duty to protect her,” said Octavian, his chin rising, and paying no attention to his sister’s request.

  “On that we are agreed,” said Sanct-Franciscus, rising and assisting Ignatia to dress.

  “You have disgraced her,” Octavian insisted, scowling when Ignatia began, very softly, to cry.

  “I have done nothing that would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, feeling weary.

  “My mother will not think so,” said Octavian, craftiness and something meaner showing in the line of his mouth.

  “Don’t tell her! Octavian—please!” Ignatia exclaimed as she pulled her stola over her head.

  “I must,” said Octavian with unctuous satisfaction.

  “No, you must not,” said Sanct-Franciscus firmly. “For her sake as much as your sister’s. Your mother has no strength, and a shock could be bad for her.”

  “You recall this now, do you?” Octavian challenged. “And you, a physician!”

  “Octavian, stop it!” Ignatia said, recovering her composure as she dressed. “I asked Sanct-Franciscus to come here. He obliged me.”

  “To ravish you,” said Octavian with an expression that bordered on smugness.

  “If that was his intention,” said Ignatia, stung, “he did it beyond my best hopes.” She started toward the door. “How did you know we were here?”

  “I told Benona to watch you, and to send me word if anything untoward should occur,” said Octavian with a triumphant smile.

  “And what right did you have to do that?” Ignatia asked, then turned to Sanct-Franciscus. “You have done nothing to deserve this … this castigation from my brother, and I apologize for his bad conduct.” She started toward the door. “I will see that my mother is not distressed by any rumors or other accounts.”

  Sanct-Franciscus managed a wry smile. “I thank you most sincerely, Doma Ignatia.”

  “Doma Ignatia?” Octavian mocked. “And you rutting like pigs.”

  Ignatia stopped on her march out of the spring house. “Rut? We most certainly did not rut. Sanct-Franciscus did nothing to compromise my virginity, if that is what you fear. He gave me pleasure because I asked him.” She pointed directly at her brother. “Do not dare to accuse him of anything but what you might see at any convivium throughout Roma.”

  “Or worse; convivia are cesspools of sin,” Octavian muttered, his momentum lost. “They are ignominy for all Romans.”

  “By your lights, perhaps,” said Ignatia. “They are approved by the Emperor and the Vestal Virgins, and that is sufficient for me.” With that, she snatched up her paenula and mafortium, dragged the paenula around her, and left the spring house by the north door, swinging it closed behind her.

  Octavian, nonplussed, stared at Sanct-Franciscus. “You will not boast of this. My sister’s reputation—”

  “I have too much regard for Doma Ignatia to compromise her,” said Sanct-Franciscus, adding with obvious meaning, “If her name is smirched, it will not be by me.”

  “For now, and only for my mother’s sake, I will say nothing,” Octavian grumbled. “But if I think there is any repetition of this shameful—”

  “For your mother’s sake,” Sanct-Franciscus interrupted, “I thank you.”

  “Thanks from one who has trespassed means little.” Octavian clicked his tongue and folded his arms. “I will be watching you.”

  Sanct-Franciscus gave a single chuckle. “You will not, I fear, be alone.”

  Text of a letter from Fulvius Ennius Castrum of the Forum Guard to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franc
iscus, carried by private messenger.

  To the foreign honestiorus R. G. Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of the Forum Guard Captain Fulvius Ennius Castrum, in the hope that the honestiorus remembers me from our meeting upon the occasion of the arrest of the injured thief, Natalis of Thessalonika,

  You have been most laudable in employing the said Natalis, for it has made it unnecessary for him to return to thievery. However, he has not wholly abandoned his ways, for I have recently discovered that the said Natalis has been accepting money from the decuria Telemachus Batsho for regular reports on your activities. Since it is a worthy thing for slaves to report wrong-doings on the part of their masters, and for freedmen and freemen, as citizens, to denounce crimes, I would not condemn this Natalis, but I fear it may be that your probity is being abused by his actions and reports and that inclines me to alert you to what is going on.

  I hope that I am not doing a disservice to the Empire in providing you this alert, but I am convinced that you deserve to know what is being done by one who owes you his freedom and his livelihood. By Mars and Jupiter, I ask you to not betray my role in this, for that could be seen as reason to demote me. Only my strong conviction that you are the one being exploited in this matter has compelled me to inform you of what is happening.

  Ave, Heliogabalus.

  Fulvius Ennius Castrum

  Captain, Guard of the Forum Agricolarum

  by the hand of Eudoxus the scribe on the 11th day of November, in the 972nd Year of the City

  8

  Rugeri closed the study door quietly, but remained squarely in front of it as Natalis approached Sanct-Franciscus, who was standing beside the trestle table, sorting jars and vials in his leather medicament-case, his long-sleeved dalmatica augmented by a lacerna, as most of the household wore on sere days like this one. “My master,” he said to catch Sanct-Franciscus’ attention. “Natalis is here.”