“They think I may be the Anti-Christ,” said Gynethe Mehaut, shocked at how bitter she sounded. “Bishop Iso especially thinks so.”
“They think you’re different,” Olivia corrected her. “That is enough to make anyone—particularly any woman—the Anti-Christ. The Church is inclined to blame women for anything that troubles the men who run it. When the Caesars ruled, that wouldn’t have happened. The Vestal Virgins might not have held office, but they were the equal of the Senate and the Emperor. That power made a difference for all women in Roma. Now … Well, you don’t need to be reminded, do you?” She came up to Gynethe Mehaut and put an arm around her, apparently unaware of how unused Gynethe Mehaut was to such treatment. “These men! What can be done about them?” Seeing the shock in Gynethe Mehaut’s face, she went on, “Oh, not these men”—she waved toward Rakoczy and Niklos Aulirios—“but men in general, and prelates particularly. I’ve seen your Bishop Iso, incidentally, and what a self-important mass of smugness he is—worse than most of them, I’d venture.”
“They are the servants of God,” said Gynethe Mehaut, wondering what this eccentric woman would say next.
“Another man, and a bad-tempered one at that,” Olivia said, dismissing the whole issue. “It doesn’t matter. Come in, come in, and be comfortable. There is food for you, and a proper couch for your meal.”
“Don’t overwhelm her, Olivia,” Rakoczy recommended. “She’s had a long, difficult journey, and she has much ahead of her.”
“All the more reason to relax now, while she can,” said Olivia, adding inconsequently, “I liked the city better before.” She let go of Rakoczy and Gynethe Mehaut and took several long strides toward the central entrance to her house. “But enough of that. The river of time flows only one way; hardly original, but true.”
“Anything else would be too perplexing,” said Niklos, following after them. “One moment you would be facing Hannibal, then you would be listening to Marcus Aurelius, then you would be seeing Cleopatra enter Roma, then you would have to run not to be crushed by Alaric’s charge—”
Olivia giggled. “Don’t. I am losing all gravitas.”
“If you ever had any,” said Niklos.
Her response was somber. “Oh, I did. Ask Sanct’ Germain.” She looped her arm through his, saying to Gynethe Mehaut, “You must excuse me. I haven’t seen my old friend for years; it’s a bit heady having him here at last. I don’t quite believe it. Lend him to me while you eat, for kindness. I promise I won’t keep him away from you for very long.”
Gynethe Mehaut was unable to answer, afraid of offending this most unlikely widow. She went into the house and saw a rosewood iconostasis at the door to the nearest reception room; portraits hung on it, most in the clothing of past centuries, and there was an elaborate Greek crucifix in the center of the portrait, which Gynethe Mehaut supposed must be of Saints and Martyrs. “Are you a follower of the Greek Church?” she asked, feeling suddenly cold. “I thought you were attached to the Pope.”
“I am. In Roma, to be anything else is reckless. This screen is more than two centuries old, and it was a gift. I don’t follow the Greek Church, not here in Roma, in any case; perhaps I would if I were in Byzantium.” She had acquired the iconostasis in Constantinople; she had thought it lost when she left the city, for she had escaped with little more than her skin. At the time she was happy to be rid of it, since it reminded her of those unhappy years in Justinian’s Empire, but over the years she had come to miss it; Niklos had reclaimed it for her two decades ago, and now she felt it was a memento of a difficult period in her long life.
“Why do you keep it?” Gynethe Mehaut stared at it, horrified and transfixed at once.
“I cannot easily explain it,” said Olivia, and went into the atrium, which now contained a vast array of plants in tubs and pots of almost every description. “I warned you about this; I might as well put down soil and farm,” she said to Rakoczy, then turned to her pale-skinned guest. “Comestus should be ready. The dining hall is through that door. Do you want me to escort you?”
“Are you going to eat? Or are you like the Magnatus?” It was a daring question for Gynethe Mehaut, and she anticipated a reprimand.
“She shares my nature,” said Rakoczy steadily. “I hope you’re not offended.”
This was still bewildering to Gynethe Mehaut, and she hung back. “What are you going to do?” Her question was directed to Olivia.
“I’m going to show Sanct’ Germain my horses while you dine. Would you rather see my herd with us and eat later? It will take some time.” Olivia waited, so confident that Gynethe Mehaut wanted to flee. “Tomorrow I’ll have them parade for you, if you’d prefer.”
“I don’t know much about horses,” said Gynethe Mehaut, an irrational stab of jealousy going through her so vividly that she knew she would have to Confess it as soon as possible.
“What would you like instead?” Olivia asked. “You have only to ask me.”
That made it worse; Gynethe Mehaut felt upset at her own dismay. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I am more in your debt.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Olivia. “Put yourself in Niklos’ hands. Have some food and a little more wine, then take a long soak in the caladarium until you are ready to retire. Sanct’ Germain can knead the knots out of your muscles as if you were an athlete.”
Rakoczy came to her and took her hands in his; she pulled them away as he spoke to her. “You have nothing to fear: Olivia and I are of the same blood, and I haven’t seen her for many years.”
“It’s not that,” said Gynethe Mehaut, but could not say anything more.
“You and I will meet in the caladarium later,” he promised her. “If that is what you want.”
“I ought to pray instead. Perhaps tomorrow,” she said in a small voice, refusing to meet his gaze.
“As you wish,” said Rakoczy. “If you change your mind, I will be delighted.”
Gynethe Mehaut broke away from him, and trying her best not to weep, she almost ran toward the dining hall, wanting time to herself. She hoped there were no other guests in the house, for she doubted she could endure meeting anyone else. The dining hall proved to be a beautiful chamber with fresco murals and a single couch set out for her, a carved rosewood table set before it. A chalice of wine waited for her, and a ewer of water with a filled cup beside it.
“You’ll be served directly, Bonna Dama,” said Niklos Aulirios, coming from the far end of the dining hall. As he reached her, he spoke more softly. “Don’t let it bother you; there is nothing to worry you. They see each other so rarely that they become a little giddy when they do.” He reverenced her and put a silken pillow on the couch. “Please. Recline. I’ll have figs stuffed with soft cheese brought to you, and other tidbits to tempt your appetite.”
To her consternation, Gynethe Mehaut burst into tears. She kept trying to speak but could not stop crying. Finally she sank onto the couch and dropped her head into her hands, using her bandages to wipe away her tears. “I … this is … how can you…”
Niklos put his hand on her shoulder; Gynethe Mehaut went rigid at this unanticipated familiarity. “Listen to me, Bonna Dama. You have no reason to think ill of them. They don’t mean to offend you, or to cause you pain. You have no reason to fret. Yes, they are very close—exiles of the same blood often are. They have endured long separation, and will again. You can understand loneliness: then think how they are—they’re each alone in the world, and their bond is often all they have.”
Gynethe Mehaut tried to smile and failed dreadfully. “I should … understand.”
“In time, you may,” said Niklos. He stepped back and summoned the mansionarii. “This Bonna Dama is the guest of our mistress. See that she is given all that she wants. Attend to her as you would to one of the Papal Court.”
This was more than Gynethe Mehaut could bear. She started to rise, wanting to get away, but was stopped by the appearance of a scullion bearing a platter on which artichoke hearts
chopped with walnuts in olive oil in a Moorish bowl lay next to a dish of grated lettuce and a plate of figs stuffed with cheese. Very slowly she sat down again, licking her lips without being aware of it.
“You’ll be glad of a meal,” said Niklos, and offered the chalice of wine to her. “You’re worn out from traveling, as who would not be?”
Gynethe Mehaut took a long sip of wine. “I am a bit fatigued,” she said. “And I am hungry.”
“Then let us feed you.” He took the platter and set it down on the rosewood table. “I think you will like the artichokes. They are a bit past their best, but they are still quite good.” He offered her a moistened linen cloth. “For your hands,” he said without thinking, managed an abashed smile, and added, “Well, perhaps your fingers. You will find it useful.”
She took it and wiped her mouth. “The wine is very good.” It was beyond question the best she had ever had, superior even to the wine she had drunk in the courtyard, but she was reluctant to be too lavish in her praise. “I’ll enjoy it.”
“Splendid,” said Niklos. “When you have had as much of that as you like, summon a scullion or a mansionarius, and ask for your next dish, or let me do it for you, as you prefer.”
“Is there bread?” She was surprised not to have seen any.
“Yes, but it hasn’t finished baking.” Niklos ducked his head. “The household had prandium at mid-afternoon and our comestus will not be ready until after Compline. This is for your reception; you may decide how you will savor it.”
Now Gynethe Mehaut was more distressed than before. “I didn’t think … Should I wait?”
“Not at all. You’re a guest in this house and you may command anything within our power to provide.” He pressed his lips together. “My mistress is a Roman of the old school, and you will find that she—”
“You said she is an exile,” Gynethe Mehaut exclaimed, suddenly suspicious.
“Yes, she is, although this is where she was born and where her family is buried—and her husband. But for her, to be a widow is to be an exile, even here in Roma.” Niklos poured more wine into her chalice. “Drink. It invigorates the palate.”
“But Rakoczy isn’t Roman, is he?” Gynethe Mehaut persisted as she drank another generous sip. “He told me he came from mountains in the east.”
“No, he isn’t Roman, but that changes nothing,” said Niklos smoothly. “Please.” He pointed to her chalice.
Not wishing to appear ungrateful, Gynethe Mehaut drank down almost half the chalice of wine; it really was delicious. She began to feel restored. “Thank you.”
Niklos waved the compliment away. “My mistress has an estate a short distance outside the city walls; it has been producing wines since—long before I became her major domo.” He took a turn around the beautiful room. “I should leave you to eat in peace.”
“No. No, stay,” said Gynethe Mehaut, realizing she was glad of new company, especially such a good-looking man as Niklos Aulirios was; he was also willing to overlook her white skin and red eyes and treat her as if she were as other women, and one worthy of regard. Another sin to Confess, she thought: Envy first and now Vanity, and very possibly Gluttony as well. She drank more wine to cover her disconcertion.
“That’s most courteous of you, Bonna Dama.” Niklos summoned the scullions again. “Bring bread and oil as soon as you may.”
Gynethe Mehaut was devouring the lettuce, noticing it had a tangy vinegar on it. She lay back, reminding herself that this was a Roman house, a very grand Roman house, and that those who lived here were not like the Franks. She had another sip of wine and decided to eat more in order to remain sober; the figs and cheese were an unfamiliar flavor, but she was taken with it. After she had chewed well enough to be able to speak, she remarked to Niklos, “I thought Roma would be different—grander.”
“It has been,” said Niklos.
“So the Magnatus told me,” she said. “I didn’t understand what he meant until we came through the gates.”
Niklos shook his head. “A pity you must see it this way. But it can’t be what it was.”
She shook her head vigorously. “But it can,” she told Niklos with a burst of passion. “Great Karl will make it better than it was. You’ll see: Roma will be restored to her place in the world. The King has said so. The Pope has agreed.”
“Not even those two men can repair four centuries of war and neglect,” Niklos said matter-of-factly. “But if the city is improved, it will benefit us all.”
A scullion brought a small pitcher of olive oil and a basket of bread still warm from the oven; the aroma was as exhilarating as the wine. He set these down on the rosewood table and withdrew; Gynethe Mehaut tore off a piece of bread, and said, “This is almost as white as I am.” She had not seen such pale bread before, not eaten any as fine. It was all she could do to swallow.
“The fields produce good wheat, and the millers know to grind well,” Niklos said. “I have seen Frankish bread in Neustria; it is darker and coarser than this Roman bread.”
“Yes,” said Gynethe Mehaut, drinking more of the wine as she ate another gobbet of bread. “At Sant’ Audoenus, we had bread that was as brown as ale, with soaked grains baked in the dough. It was supposed to be restorative, or so we were told.”
“Did you eat anything more substantial, or was that your food?” Niklos was curious and made no excuse for it.
“On the Lord’s Day, we had bread and fish, as the monks said was right Other days we had cheese and fowl when it was available. The Potente occasionally brought us deer or boar, but that was infrequent.” She finished the wine and drank water instead; Niklos refilled her chalice. “Our wine wasn’t like this, though some was brought up from the south, and was better than what we grew in our region.”
“The north makes better beer than wine; most agree this is so.” Niklos glanced up as another scullion arrived carrying a spit on which two hens smoked, smelling of herbs as well as fowl. “Both of these are suitable; choose which one you would like, and the portion that would please you.”
“So much!” Gynethe Mehaut marveled. “For not a Feast day.”
“My mistress keeps—”
“The Roman traditions; yes, you’ve said so,” Gynethe Mehaut finished for him. “But to have fowl and rabbit and all the rest. It is extravagant, perhaps too extravagant.”
“It is fitting,” said Niklos, and refilled the chalice.
“I am getting drunk,” Gynethe Mehaut announced, but took the chalice.
“Where is the harm in that?” Niklos asked. “You are in the house of a friend and we have no lack of bottles in the cellar. You have no reason to fear ill-will, and you are in need of repose. If you drink wine, it will come more fully and more quickly.”
“This is … unseemly for me,” she said, and put her hand to her mouth.
Niklos smiled a little. “Let the scullion know which hen you want.”
“I will,” said Gynethe Mehaut; she studied the two hens: both were plump and smelled of bacon-fat and garlic. “The one on the left is a bit browner. I believe that will be better.”
“Philetus, serve the one the Bonna Dama wishes.” Niklos watched while the scullion did what he was told, cutting the meat from the bone with a shiny, narrow knife that he wielded expertly.
This fascinated Gynethe Mehaut; she leaned forward, bracing herself on the couch with the silk-covered cushion Niklos had given her. “I haven’t seen anyone carve so well. We take the birds off the spit and pull them apart at the joints.”
“Many do; the Romans of old expected more art in their food than we do today.”
“Wonderful,” said Gynethe Mehaut, drinking a little more wine. “How was he taught?”
“Carefully,” said Niklos, and smiled to show he intended this to be amusing. “The cooks here teach the most promising of the scullions how to carve along with all the other kitchen skills.”
Gynethe Mehaut heard him out, listening intently. “You apprentice scullions?”
“Yes,” said Niklos. “Our cooks are expected to do this. If they refuse, they leave the famiglia.”
“It’s not done that way in Franksland,” said Gynethe Mehaut; she had some difficulty speaking clearly, and that bothered her. She put the chalice down, gingerly picked up a wedge of hot thigh, and began to eat the sliced chicken.
Niklos dismissed the scullion and said quietly, “If you drink more water you won’t have a headache in the morning.”
Obediently Gynethe Mehaut reached for the water and drank eagerly, then picked up another slice of chicken. “This is very good,” she said, no longer surprised.
“It had better be,” said Niklos, more amused than autocratic. He summoned another scullion. “Prepare a bowl of the rabbit stew and bring another round of bread.”
“What else will you bring me?” She almost dropped the slice of chicken she was eating. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that I want to know if there is any more food planned for this meal. I don’t expect any more. Indeed, I don’t expect this much—”
Niklos cut her short with a raised hand. “If you want berries in honey, you have only to ask for it.”
Gynethe Mehaut shook her head. “No. I have indulged more than I—” She stopped herself for a moment. “It is the wine and the food and all the—”
“You’re worn out and in need of rest,” said Niklos. “Finish your meal and I will escort you to your apartments.”
“There was a dead horse lying just inside the gates,” she said suddenly.
This remark did not distress Niklos; he gave a single nod. “There has been much worse,” he admitted. “But I’m sorry you had to see that on your first day here.”
Feeling confused, Gynethe Mehaut ate hurriedly. She was grateful for a chance to gather her thoughts, but discovered that she could not hold them long enough to deal with them. “You’re right,” she said unsteadily. “I am tired.”
Night Blooming Page 47
