Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain

Roman Dusk (33 page)

BOOK: Roman Dusk

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“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 her 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-Franciscus, 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 11
^thday of November, in the 972
^ndYear of the City

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.”

A slow, dreary rain was falling on Roma, so the alabaster window-panes were in place and the brazier in the corner was burning a stack of fragrant wood to add to the warmth from the floor. Five oil-lamps were lit, although it was only mid-afternoon, and their light shone on the table where Sanct-Franciscus was working. “Thank you, Rugeri,” he said as he carefully closed the lid on a chalcedony jar filled with an ointment of foxglove, then gave Natalis his full attention. “Have you any notion why I asked you to come here?” he began, his demeanor carefully neutral.

Natalis hitched up his shoulder. “You have a message or some item you want taken somewhere without being noticed; I am ready to do as you order, rain or no rain,” he said, but his flickering eyes revealed his apprehension. His pallium was new, made of slate-blue wool, and decorated at the hem with a band of dust-colored heavy cotton; the bracae he wore beneath were made of tan cotton, and his peri were bronze-colored leather. On the street on such a day as this, his garments would render him invisible as much as his skills as a thief.

“Not just now, I think,” said Sanct-Franciscus, coming away from the table. He looked over at Rugeri. “Will the hot wine be brought shortly?”

“It will,” said Rugeri.

Natalis cocked his head. “You want wine?”

“No, Natalis; you do.” Sanct-Franciscus drew up a chair to the low table in the center of the room and indicated the chair opposite. “Do sit down. There is something we must talk about.”

“That sounds ominous,” said Natalis with a shaky chuckle as he dropped into the chair.

“Does it?” Sanct-Franciscus very nearly smiled at that. “Well, we shall see.”

“I’m a bit puzzled why you want to see me, because you haven’t sent for me this way before,” Natalis said, ending on a note of uncertainty.

“No, I have not,” Sanct-Franciscus concurred.

“I … I am honored that you’ve called me here,” Natalis went on, trying to cover his growing edginess with talk. “I was thinking just this morning how what seemed to be my least fortunate day—the day I was caught in the Forum Agricolarum—became one of the most fortunate of my life. You have been most generous to me since you took me into your household: three new garments in seven months—truly beneficent of you, and I not a slave, but your servant.”

“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, maintaining his unnerving reserve.

“Do you have another assignment for me?” Natalis glanced at Rugeri. “Your manservant wouldn’t tell me.”

“I suppose you may think of this as an assignment,” said Sanct-Franciscus slowly.

“Then I will ready my pluvial and be off as soon as you—”

“Your assignment today need not expose you to the weather,” said Sanct-Franciscus tranquilly. “It is to tell me the truth. We did agree you would do that, did we not?”

Natalis went silent, his eyes moving more frantically, as if searching for a means of escape. “Certainly. Of course. The truth about what?”

“About whomever has employed you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his self-containment unimpaired.

“I work for you,” said Natalis, the pitch of his voice rising.

“I certainly pay you for doing that, and you have executed your missions for me satisfactorily,” Sanct-Franciscus said in the same steady voice. “But I have reason to believe that you are also accepting money from another employer, who has engaged you to report on me, someone who seeks to know more of me than I am required to tell.” He looked directly at Natalis. “Is that so?”

Natalis bleated out something that might have been a laugh. “No. No. Of course no. Why would I do anything that might be against you?”

“Those are questions I have asked myself,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You must understand that I am eager to know the answers.”

“I do understand,” said Natalis, almost leaping out of his chair at the tap on the door.

Rugeri turned and opened the door, and took the tray Aedius held, exchanged a few words with him, and closed the door. “The kitchen sends word that the evening meal will be delayed by an hour. The breads aren’t rising properly—it’s the rain.” He put the tray on the low table, pointing out its contents. “Hot wine in an earthenware jug, a cup, and fried cheese with bitter herbs on a plate.” With a nod, he went back to the door.

“Excellent,” said Sanct-Franciscus, leaning forward to fill the cup with the steaming wine, deep-red in color and smelling of spices. “You will like this, I know,” he said to Natalis.

“But—”

Sanct-Franciscus held out the cup. “Drink it.” Natalis took a deep sip, then started to put it down. “All of it.”

“All?” Natalis asked, hesitating.

“All of it. The room is chilly, and the wine will warm you.” He sat expectantly. “If you fear you might become fuddled, have some of the cheese.”

Natalis stared at the cup as if he expected it to burst into flame. “I … I don’t—”

“Drink it,” Sanct-Franciscus said again, firmly but affably.

“You don’t drink,” Natalis said. “It is not proper that a servant should drink and the master abstain.”

“You and the rest of the household know that I never—” Sanct-Franciscus reminded him, only to be interrupted by Rugeri.

“You will drink.”

“All right!” Natalis hurriedly gulped down the wine, and then glared at Sanct-Franciscus. “I have drunk. How long before I die?” He set the cup on the tray, staring at it with dismay.

“That is up to you and your gods; it has nothing to do with me.” Sanct-Franciscus laughed once and shook his head. “Oh, no, Natalis. You have not consumed poison. Had I wanted to be rid of you, I have other methods at my disposal not nearly so clumsy as poison.”

Natalis looked shocked. “Then why insist I drink?”

“So you will not behave liked a trapped rabbit,” said Sanct-Franciscus, suddenly brusque; then he softened his tone. “If you were any more jittery, you would shake your chair to flinders.”

“Well, and so would you,” said Natalis, summoning up the courage to bluster. “To be brought up here like a shamed apprentice, and be accused of disloyalty, then made to drink—What would you think, in my position?”

“I would think my errors in judgment had been discovered, and that would trouble me,” said Sanct-Franciscus, once again calm. “Which is what I want to know: what are your errors in judgment, Natalis? I will not yet call what you have done disloyalty, but if you withhold anything”—he paused to refill the cup—“then I may have to consider that you have an inclination to—”

Natalis stared at the cup. “Not more wine?”

“If you please,” said Sanct-Franciscus, handing the cup back to him.

This time Natalis made no protest, but quickly drank the contents of the cup, set it back on the tray and reached for a cube of the fried cheese, wolfing it down, then licking his fingers as he said, “Whatever it is you want to find out, you don’t have to do it this way.”

“There is truth in wine,” said Sanct-Franciscus, watching as Natalis took a second cube of cheese. “When I say you will tell me the truth, I want it to be as bare as possible.”

“Bare?” Natalis appeared baffled.

“Without modifications that might color its meaning,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Have another bite of cheese if you feel the wine too much.”

Natalis took two cubes of cheese and stared at them, as if noticing the flakes of herbs for the first time. “What is in this?”

“Bitter herbs, I believe, such as are served with eggplant and asparagus, and with poached eggs,” said Sanct-Franciscus with great unconcern. “The cheeses are fried in oil-with-garlic, from their aroma.”

Almost defiantly, Natalis consumed them, then said, “I suppose you want me to drink more wine?”

“If you would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, filling Natalis’ cup a third time.

“Much more of this, and I won’t be able to give you much of an answer at all,” Natalis warned before he downed the contents of the cup; two bright spots were forming in his cheeks, as if he were suffering from a fever. He coughed once, and did his best to focus on Sanct-Franciscus’ face. “Now what?”

“To whom do you report, and what do you tell him?” Sanct-Franciscus asked with civility.

“It’s not that I wanted to,” said Natalis, his words slurring a little. “I told him I didn’t want to do it.”

“So you were compelled,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Why and how, if you would.”

“He said he would find out if I said anything to you, and he would have me arrested by the Urban Guard.” Natalis squirmed in his chair.

“That only means he has other spies in my household. He will learn nothing of this from me or from Rugeri,” Sanct-Franciscus assured him. “Tell me who it was who could so impose on you.”

“An official, not one of high rank, spoke to me.” He closed his eyes as if trying to recapture the moment in his thoughts. “How could I refuse to talk with such a man?”

“I would think you would have to oblige him, at least to hear him out,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Who was this official?”

“I was approached by a decuria—Telemachus Batsho—who said he would have me condemned to a road gang for theft if I didn’t agree to report to him.” He stopped, aghast at what he heard himself say.

“Ah,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “And I gather he ordered you to tell me nothing.”

“Yes,” said Natalis, almost panting with relief at this confession.

“When did this happen?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “When did he suborn your loyalty?”

Natalis winced, then summoned up his determination. “I will tell you the whole of it. I might as well, now.” He drank the last of the wine in his cup, and continued on. “It was in July. I was returning from Ostia, with reports from your captains, and account-books. When I reached the Porta Ostiensis, the Watch detained me, they said because they had to verify the account-books; I don’t know why, but I couldn’t refuse the Watch, could I? If they want to look at anything being brought into the city, they have the right to do so.”

“So they do. Protesting would have served only to arouse their suspicions,” Sanct-Franciscus confirmed. “Continue, Natalis.”

He took a deep breath, watching Sanct-Franciscus as he spoke. “While I was waiting for them to release the records, in that small chamber next to the Guard-station—you know the one?” At Sanct-Franciscus’ nod, he went on. “I was sitting alone there, waiting, as I said, when this fellow Batsho approaches me, and tells me that I could be in great trouble, and so could you, if the accounts were found to be faulty.”

“Why should that accrue to your discredit: you were acting as a messenger only,” said Sanct-Franciscus, thinking back to the two acolytes in Persia, and their efforts, with Srau’s help, in undermining of his business dealings, and then to the official in Athens—Hyres—who had found an excuse to levy double taxes on all his property as a result of slaves’ gossip.

“But I am known as a thief.” This cry was compounded of frustration and distress.

“You have no brand on your arm or your forehead, so his accusation would need proof, which those records would not provide him,” Sanct-Franciscus observed.

“No, I am not branded, for which I offer wine in thanks to the Parcae every day. My fate would have been much changed had I ever been branded.” As if the idea itself overwhelmed him, he slumped back in his chair, one hand flopping on the arm, the other reaching ineffectively for the last of the cheese.

Sanct-Franciscus picked up the plate and held it out to him. “How did he say he could do this?”

Natalis rubbed his lips together, trying to decide how to answer. “He said—He claimed he had records of other thefts I had committed, and that he would bring these before the Prefect to determine what punishment should be meted out.” He took another cube of cheese, holding it between his fingers as if it were a die.

“That would seem to be a bit … unreasonable,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Have you been taken before a Prefect in the past?” He put the plate back down and poured the last of the wine in the jug into Natalis’ cup.

“Not for years. When I was caught once, six years ago, I convinced the Prefect that there had been a mistake—that my companion had taken the items in question, and since no one found any of the … objects in my wallet, it was assumed I hadn’t taken anything.”

“But you had,” said Sanct-Franciscus, pouring another measure of wine into Natalis’ cup.

“I had, and passed them to my cousin. Nyssa attracted no attention from the Guard.” He sobbed once, suddenly. “I miss her.”

“Your cousin must have been a great help to you,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

BOOK: Roman Dusk

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