“Burns—I told you, Virginius. Look at his face. He should be dead,” said Octavian harshly, and rounded on Sanct-Franciscus as if resenting his presence. “I suppose you came to find out if I know anything about the fire. Well, I don’t.”
“Not according to Gelasius Virginius Apollonius Metsari, who has sworn that you set it, along with several others, with the help of your companions; you have been exercising your religion by destroying lives and property,” said Sanct-Franciscus in a cool, neutral tone. “According to what I have overheard tonight, Metsari was telling the truth.” He looked away from Octavian and met the eyes of the other three in turn. “Or were you lying to one another?”
“That! That was nothing,” Octavian said, blustering. “You must have misunderstood what we were saying.”
“I did not misunderstand,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “The fires were yours: you have said it.”
The shortest man brought his chin up. “Property and lives are nothing in the face of the return of the Redeemer, which is fast coming upon us. Who shall know the Last Day?”
The gangly fellow folded his arms. “It is unfortunate that some must endure agony for the salvation of all, but Christ did that for us, and those who emulate Him will be with Him in Heaven.”
Octavian gestured to include the others. “What have we to fear from you? We’re Romans. You’re an exile.” He spat contemptuously. “We know about you, Sanct-Franciscus.”
“Do you.” Sanct-Franciscus directed his penetrating gaze to Octavian. “And what is it you think you know?”
Before Octavian could answer, the gangly one stepped in between Octavian and Sanct-Franciscus. “I am Erestus Arianus Crispenus, and I am the host in this house, in the absence of the owner. If you have a complaint against my guests, you should address me. By what right do you violate the rules of hospitality?”
“Yes. By what right?” Octavian seconded.
Sanct-Franciscus studied Crispenus, trying to find sympathy for this misguided youngster; he folded his arms as he contemplated, saying, “I have no enmity toward you, Crispenus, as a living man, but for what you have done you will die with the others. You will all die.”
“Because of the fires?” Crispenus asked, frowning a little.
Sanct-Franciscus nodded. “Metsari has said that his cousins all supported the burning of the Villa Laelius.”
“If that is so, then he will be cast into outer darkness,” Octavian said confidently.
“I am of their gens and their religion; I will not abandon them,” said Crispenus with a toss of his head, and in the next instant abruptly struck out at Sanct-Franciscus with a closed fist.
A cry of alarm and encouragement greeted this onslaught.
“As you wish,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he dodged the blow, seizing Crispenus’ arm and tugging it enough to pull him off his feet. As Crispenus went sprawling, Sanct-Franciscus ducked another punch directed at his shoulder: one of the other two relatives had attacked.
“Hold him, Rufius!” shouted the other, gesturing to the last of the three. “I’ll have him begging soon enough.”
Prosperus Rufius Ursinus did his best to capture Sanct-Franciscus and pin his arms to his sides, but he failed, for just as he grasped the foreigner around the chest, he was flung off with such force that he slammed back into the altar, stunning himself on the marble top and knocking over the carved fish; a smudge of blood appeared in his hair, and he moaned as he slumped against the granite slab, trying to hold onto the side of it.
Seeing his chance, Lucius Virginius Rufius gathered himself and ran at Sanct-Franciscus, head lowered to butt into his middle; Sanct-Franciscus caught Rufius’ head under the chin in his locked hands and threw him back, twisting Rufius’ neck as he did. There was a dull, grating snap and Lucius Virginius Rufius collapsed, his mouth now slack; he twitched, shuddered, and lay still, not more than a pace from where Octavian stood, immobile with shock.
Had he not still been recovering from his burns, Sanct-Franciscus could have ended the fight in another moment, but his skin and sinews were still taut with incomplete healing and he required a little time to steady himself against the ache his activity created, and his hesitation allowed Octavian and Crispenus a moment for recovery.
Crispenus had struggled to his feet and was now preparing for a more determined assault on Sanct-Franciscus: he took up a small footstool and raised it over his head, preparing to strike Sanct-Franciscus’ shoulders and back with it, but before he could, Sanct-Franciscus swung around on one leg and used the other to slam the back of Crispenus’ knees. Crispenus went down heavily, swearing by Discordia and Phobus as he landed with a cry of agony as his left knee-cap broke, and at once his leg was smeared with blood.
Octavian looked about the room for a weapon, and settled on an iron crucifix nearly as tall as he was, made of two, long, thin bars, set up in an alcove next to the shuttered window. With a steady effort, he tugged it off the wall, grasped the smaller end of the upright for a hilt, and prepared to do battle. He swung the crucifix in front of him, satisfied with the ponderous sound it made as it sliced through the air, reminiscent of a northern long-handled axe. Jaw set, he advanced on Sanct-Franciscus. “You should have died in that fire, foreigner.”
“Along with your mother? Was that your intention?” Sanct-Franciscus asked pointedly as he took swift stock of the room: Crispenus was lying on his side, whimpering steadily, his left leg pulled up and clasped tight to his chest, blood running out between his clenched fingers; Rufius was dead; Ursinus was stunned, unable to stand upright without support, so he leaned on the altar with his elbows, his head cradled in his hands.
“My mother was used up. She was ready to die.” Octavian took a step forward, his weapon moving restlessly in his hands. “If not for you, she would have died at least a year ago, and spared herself and us a world of suffering. If anyone caused that fire, you did! You!” He swung the crucifix ahead of him, trying to force Sanct-Franciscus to fall back.
“She was helpless,” said Sanct-Franciscus, eluding the crucifix.
“Then she should be grateful it is over,” Octavian vaunted.
“What devotion,” Sanct-Franciscus marveled, stepping around Rufius’ body and moving toward the center of the room, where he could act more freely.
“Better than yours. I haven’t seduced any honestiora.” He jabbed with the end of the crucifix. “And I haven’t ruined any woman.”
“Except your mother,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
With a particularly vicious swing of the crucifix, Octavian rushed at Sanct-Franciscus. “You ruined my sister!” he shouted, and almost lost his footing from the power of his furious sweep.
“Only in your eyes,” said Sanct-Franciscus, turning outside the reach of the end of the crucifix.
“I will never forgive you! Deceiver!” Octavian howled as he lunged at Sanct-Franciscus, missed his footing and stumbled into the altar, and striking Ursinus a glancing blow to the side of his head with the end of the cross-beam of the crucifix; this time Ursinus fell heavily, unconscious. “You did that!”
His patience used up, Sanct-Franciscus reached for the crucifix and in a sudden eruption of strength, tore it from Octavian’s hands; in a single, fluid motion, he rounded on him, pinning him back against the altar. As he pressed the crucifix into Octavian’s chest, he whispered, “I would drain you, but I want nothing of yours—nothing.” He shoved hard against Octavian, and heard him shriek as the metal cross-arm sank deep into his arm-pit, blood welling and pumping around it: death would come rapidly.
There was panic in Octavian’s eyes as he struggled against Sanct-Franciscus’ implacable fury. “Let me go!” It was becoming difficult to breathe; he tried to kick, but there was no power in his leg, and he squealed in frustration and rage. He could not imagine the hot, wet swath down his side that spread on the floor, that smelled of hot metal, was his own blood.
“You are right,” Sanct-Franciscus said, remote as the north wind, “this is your last
day.”
Octavian was feeling light-headed now, and there were cramps in his legs and hands, but he could not feel the pain, or summon up the will to resist Sanct-Franciscus, or the light-edged darkness that wavered at the edges of his vision; this troubled him in a distant way. He started to form a curse, but the words eluded him, and he realized he was cold. That frightened him. It was July, the night was warm. The weight upon him lifted, and he sighed.
Staring into Octavian’s untenanted eyes, Sanct-Franciscus was at once satisfied and distressed: he had exacted vengeance on behalf of the dead, but the vindication he had felt in the past eluded him. Slowly he straightened up, setting the iron crucifix aside and wiping the blood from his hands. He would have to leave soon or risk discovery. Natalis would be waiting at the Porta Pinciana, he reminded himself; he had to join him there shortly. He would meet him and be gone from Roma. He realized that it was not yet midnight, still he had an acute urge to leave this house, as if he expected the sun to rise within the hour, or Urban Guards to suddenly appear at the door. But he could not leave the room in such a shambles. Very carefully, he laid the three dead bodies at the foot of the altar; Prosperus Rufius Ursinus he carried to the door and propped him against the wall. “Someone will find you before dawn.”
Ursinus groaned; his body was clammy to the touch and his breathing was shallow.
“If you live, you will limp,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep caring for the dying coming back to him in a rush as he surveyed the destruction around him. “And neither of us will ever forget this night.”
Text of a letter from Septimus Desiderius Vulpius in Roma to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in care of his scribe at Villa Ragoczy, carried by private messenger.
To my most excellent foreign friend, Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of your most remorseful Roman ally on this, the 7th day of August in the 973rd Year of the City.
I most heartily apologize for my delay in writing to you, but I offer as an excuse my wish to see the conclusion of the solicitation of bribery investigation against that most officious decuria, Telemachus Batsho. I trust you will pardon my laxity in communication when I tell you that he has been found guilty on twelve counts against him for extortionate practices, and another five counts of abuse of office. I am proud to say that I was asked to give evidence before the Curia, and I would like to think that I helped bring him to justice. His sentence was handed down yesterday: he is to be sent to Vindobona in Pannonia Superior to be a factor for the Legion there. Let him take but one denarius from the soldiers’ pay and he will be flayed alive. The Curia has ordered him to be branded and his tongue cut out, which should limit any mischief he might attempt: under the circumstances a light sentence, but a prudent one.
Now that Batsho is a thing of the past, I want you to know that he had threatened me with double assessments on my property if I did not reveal all I knew of your business dealings. If that caused you embarrassment or abusive taxation, I ask you to pardon me, for I was worried for my family and my gens. With Batsho making demands, I was almost unable to conclude my daughter’s marriage contract with the father of Titus Gladius Cnaens, but as it is, Livia Linia will be married in three years, and on terms that will not entirely ruin me. Fortunately, the Senate has suspended for two years all commodae for those who were taken advantage of by Batsho.
When you asked that I take your servant, Natalis of Thessalonika, into my service, I admit I was dubious. The man, after all, was a thief. But you said I would discover him to be useful and willing, which he is. To my surprise, he has shown me loyalty and reliability, at least at present. Should he continue in the same manner, I, too, will provide monies for him when his working days are done. The pension you have bestowed upon him is invested in three businesses: a chariot-maker’s, a trattorium, and a vineyard. All three enterprises are thriving and I believe Natalis may look forward to a very comfortable old age. I have even offered to help find him a wife.
I was sorry to hear of your decision to leave Roma, although I can comprehend it, with all you have endured here—severe burns, rapacious officials, and the disadvantage of being a foreigner. Your shipping business can be useful in this time, I am certain, and your company makes it possible for our contact to continue, although we are great distances apart. I will do my utmost to report to you regularly while you are gone: it is the least I can do, considering what you have endured on my account.
The weather has been hot and close, so my wife and I will take our family to the seashore at Pyrgi, where I hope to purchase a villa. Now that I am not giving a quarter of my income to Batsho, I believe I can afford the villa. I anticipate that we will be gone a month, or until the heat breaks, so if you wish to send word to me, have your messenger come to Pyrgi and inquire of the Prosecutor where we are staying. I will leave instructions for him to guide you to us.
May Fortune and Neptune favor you in your journeys, may Mercury guide you in commerce, and may Genius grant you victories over all life’s calamities. Until we meet again, may you never regret the friendship of
Septimus Desiderius Vulpius
by my own hand
12
Earlier that day the report had reached Brundisium that a pair of pirate ships were prowling the coast south of Hydruntum; merchant-ships remained in port while a well-armed bireme set out to hunt them down; the port city was filled with apprehension, for pirates damaged more than business—their depredations claimed lives. Along the docks, sailors and oarsmen alike waited and exchanged gossip, and watched the increasingly choppy waves stamp against the docks, having nothing more they could do on this sultry day at the beginning of September.
From his room in the merchants’ inn near the waterfront, Sanct-Franciscus gazed out the window and remarked to Rugeri, “We will have another thunderstorm this afternoon. It may favor the pirates if the bireme does not find them.”
“The storm looks likely,” said Rugeri. “The horizon is black with clouds.”
“And the wind is rising steadily,” Sanct-Franciscus added indifferently as he turned away from the window to look directly at Rugeri. “The air is already buzzing.” He rubbed his wrists where his skin remained taut and oddly thin; his face was no longer hideous to see, but it had a curiously unfinished look, with most of the lines so faint they might have been sketched in charcoal on parchment. He was dressed in a black linen chandys, its long, tapering sleeves ornamented with black embroidery of phoenixes; the garment was new, delivered by the needlewoman five days ago, just as Sanct-Franciscus was preparing to leave Villa Ragoczy in a covered carpentum, filled with chests containing his native earth. “We will be here tonight, and probably a portion of tomorrow as well.”
“Captain Bion will hold the Pleiades ready as long as you require.” Rugeri knew Sanct-Franciscus well enough to see the profound exhaustion beneath his unperturbed demeanor. “You have time to rest, to prepare for a voyage.”
“Travel over water,” said Sanct-Franciscus with distaste.
“We will be in Alexandria in no more than twenty days, so Captain Bion vows,” said Rugeri, offering what encouragement he could.
“Make sure two chests of my native earth are in my cabin, or I will go into the hold.”
Rugeri paused awkwardly, then plunged ahead. “If you find someone to visit in sleep tonight, you may spend most of our journey with your native earth, where you can restore yourself. You need not bear the full discomfort of crossing running water.”
“And tides are surely running water,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Tides cross seas and oceans in their running.”
“As much as any river or drain.” He waited for Sanct-Franciscus to speak, and when he said nothing, Rugeri added, “It breaks your contact with the earth, or so you say.”
“Captain Bion once made the voyage from Alexandria to Ostia in ten days—did he tell you?” Sanct-Franciscus remarked.
“Several times,” said Rugeri, rather drily. “But he also told
me it was not at this time of year.”
“Thunderstorms,” said Sanct-Franciscus distantly. “Rain in the streets. More running water.”
“Unpleasant for you, I know,” said Rugeri. “I have your pluvial ready, if you have need of it.”
“Thank you, old friend: I will tell you if I do,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He looked back toward the window again. “Do you think Hebseret has received my letter yet?”
“It is more than a month since it was sent,” Rugeri reminded him. “I think it likely that he has.”
Sanct-Franciscus nodded. “Truly.”
“They will tend to you, my master. The Priests of Imhotep will consider it an honor to have the care of you. You will finally heal.”
“I would do that in any case, eventually.” Sanct-Franciscus laid his hand on his abdomen, over the scars there. He sighed. “But you are right—in their hands I will do so more quickly, and it will be less questionable when the scars from the fire finally vanish.”
“You are certain they will vanish?” Rugeri could not keep from asking.
“Do not doubt me, old friend,” Sanct-Franciscus recommended with a softening of his tone. “Worse than this has happened, and no trace remains.”
“No trace but your memories,” Rugeri corrected sadly.
“My memories,” Sanct-Franciscus repeated. “Indeed.”
A sudden shout from the street below announced the arrival of three small fishing boats laden with their catch; activity erupted along the quay as handcarts pushed by slaves, freemen, and vendors converged on the lowest dock where the small boats tied up; some of the vendors were already shouting what they were willing to pay for the fish as they attempted to beat the competition to the boats.
“I hope the rest of the fleet is in,” said Rugeri. “It won’t be safe to make for the harbor in another hour.”
“I would not like to ride out this storm at sea, even if I did not suffer on water.” Sanct-Franciscus reached into his wallet for a handful of coins. “So you may choose what you prefer for your evening meal.”
Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 19) Page 35
