Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
Roman Dusk (36 page)
“But he returns to claim a horse?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “How does his religion accommodate that?”
“Still keeping away from me,” Adicia sighed. “The selfless devotion of … piety is for … our gens, not our … religions.”
A clamor of outcries rose suddenly once again, and this time there was terror in the sound. Starus glanced around, as if trying to discern the cause for this disturbance.
“Octavian?” Adicia asked.
“Possibly,” said Starus. “If there is any more—”
“Now what does that boy—” Adicia burst out.
“Fire!
Fire!
” The scream was accompanied with energetic banging on the kitchen-gong, and was met with yells and a rush of feet.
Fire!
” The scream was accompanied with energetic banging on the kitchen-gong, and was met with yells and a rush of feet.
“Fire?” Starus exclaimed, rushing to open the door; a billow of smoke met him, swirling into Adicia’s chamber before he could react.
Benona screamed, and Sanct-Franciscus set his medicaments down. “Take Domina Laelius out into the garden,” he said to Starus.
“The cooks will put it out,” Adicia declared. “It is just … too much wood … in the holocaust. No one … should leave. Stay here. All of you.”
The shouts increased, and more of the household could be heard to be running toward the front or garden doors.
“Get everyone outside,” Sanct-Franciscus countermanded. “It is not safe to stay here. Once the fire is out, everyone may return.”
“But what—?” Starus asked blankly, belatedly closing the door.
“Move! Open the door!” Sanct-Franciscus ordered.
Benona held up her hands. “Bona Dea!”
“I should have the Domina’s chair brought,” Starus muttered, glancing from Adicia to the corridor and back again.
“That is not important just now,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking Starus by the arm and shaking him. “Get everyone out. Now. I will take Domina Laelius out of the house. Hurry. Fire is voracious. Summon the Urban Guard at once!” With the streets so crowded, Sanct-Franciscus doubted that they would be able to mount an effective defense against the flames in time to save the house.
Starus nodded repeatedly, opened the door, and reached to drag Benona through it. The sounds of the fire were louder now, and the smoke was more intense. Shouts and the clap of running footsteps echoed along with the roar of the fire. Frightened, Starus bolted for the door, Benona rushing after him, howling in panic.
Someone bellowed “It’s cracking the floor!” and another shouted “Make for the street!”
A loud clatter of buckling masonry heralded the break in the floor, and at once shrieks rang through the fire. From the stables whinnies and brays added to the clamor.
“What is happening?” Adicia cried out, as if her danger was not yet apparent to her.
“I must get you out of here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, bending to pick her up; now that he was unobserved, he made no attempt to conceal his remarkable strength, and he carried Adicia as if she weighed no more than a puppy. “Put your arms around my neck, Domina.” He slapped out the first embers that touched her bedclothes.
“Why should I? I am not … a helpless … trull.” She glared at the smoke. “Starus will … answer for—”
“Starus did nothing to cause this,” Sanct-Franciscus said as he made for the door, taking care to tread warily, for the smoke was thick as mid-winter fog, and through it, he could see ripples of flames going up the walls outside Octavian’s room. “Best try the garden,” he said as he changed direction, going away from the atrium and the front of the house and toward the rear door; the stinging sensation in his feet grew hotter and more painful as he hurried toward the garden. He began to move without thought, only seeking to get away from the menace of the flames.
Adicia was clenching her hands to his neck, her breathing strained and interspersed with coughs as the smoke surged around them. The corridor was hot, the air acrid. “This … is …”
“Do not try to talk,” Sanct-Franciscus said, moving as quickly as he dared; he could hear the fire as well as feel its sizzling breath. A loud crash ahead of them stopped him; a chasm opened in the floor, revealing the burning pantry below. In the brilliance of the fire it looked as if the kitchen and the storeroom as well as the pantry were completely lost. Skittering on the edge of the break, Sanct-Franciscus felt the heat beginning to singe his clothing; his feet were blistering, and his skin ached.
.“We’ll … die!” Adicia wailed, and gave a series of hacking coughs, growing steadily weaker.
That was an imminent possibility, Sanct-Franciscus realized; the skin on his hands was blackened and fissured, and his face felt scoured. Once fire consumed his flesh, he would be beyond all regeneration : vampires could burn as truly as any living being. He did his best to calm himself, blinking against the smoke and seeking a way out; sparks and bright cinders swarmed in the smoke like incendiary bees. On impulse, he bolted back into Domina Adicia’s chambers, the part of the house the fire had not yet entirely reached, and made for her dressing-room; there was a door and a narrow balcony beyond, half a story above the small side-garden. Knowing his clothes were starting to burn, he struggled to lift Adicia over the balcony railing, and did his utmost to lower her as far as he could, leaning over the railing until he was bent double. Finally, his dalmatica smoking and small knots of flame catching the fabric alight where sparks landed, Sanct-Franciscus released his hold on Adicia’s hands, watching her drop half her height into a myrtle bush. Almost at once, he righted himself and jumped after her, his hair smoking, his clothes spotted with fire, his flesh feeling peeled. He struck the ground, and rolled, hoping to extinguish the fire that was almost engulfing him, and at once let out a moan of agony as patches of skin pulled off, along with the ruins of his dalmatica and bracae; above him, flames were chewing at the balcony where he had just stood.
Roof-tiles began to fall, and this goaded Sanct-Franciscus to action. Striving against the hideous pain carousing through him, he managed to get to his feet and staggered toward Adicia, who was still lying in the myrtle bush, hair and eyebrows scorched, clothing half-burned away.
“Who ?” Her reddened eyes opened a little, but there was no shine of recognition in them.
“We must move,” he gasped, reaching to try to lift her.
She keened as bits of blackened skin fell on her. “Get … away!”
“But the roof—it is going to fall,” he warned her, making a second attempt while glancing up at the spreading flames.
“No!” She struck out with what little strength she had.
He made a last grab for her and tugged her out of the myrtle bush; an instant later a large number of roof-tiles smashed down on the bush. Half-carrying, half-dragging her, he fought free of the side of the house to the side-garden wall, his pain so intense that it muffled all other considerations, so that he was only vaguely aware of the tumult beyond the walls. As his strength began to surrender to his burns, Sanct-Franciscus bent protectively around Adicia’s supine form and felt himself slipping into oblivion.
From the nearest neighbor came shouts and frantic activity; household gongs were clanging from all around the Villa Laelius. The clatter of horses’ hooves in the street were barely audible amid the thunder of the fire and the confusion of those who had escaped the Laelius house.
“There’s someone in the side-garden!” Philius bellowed as he tugged the last of his panicky horses to the relative safety of the rear-neighbor’s stable-yard.
“Just burned beams,” said the steward of the Nevius house.
“No, not beams. I think Domina Laelius’ slave threw herself out the window,” said Philius. “She couldn’t get out any other way. Fetch a ladder. I’ll go look, if someone will take this lead?” He held out the rope, noticing for the first time that his hands were shaking badly.
The steward rapped out orders, and while most of the Laelius slaves joined the Nevius slaves in starting a bucket-line to fight the fire, Philius was provided a ladder, and a young Germanian boy to steady it. “We’ll try to throw a rope over, for you to climb out.”
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you? But I must try,” Philius said, and did not wait for a response; he was half-way up the ladder when a loud crash and an eruption of sparks redoubled his efforts, sending him over the wall as quickly as he could move; dropping into the side-garden was a terrifying fall into blackness, leaving him in sooty murk where he could barely see half an arm’s-length ahead of himself, and that distance made his eyes smart and his lungs scathe. He found Sanct-Franciscus by accident, treading on his arm and evoking a tortured groan. “There’s someone!” he yelled, and gasped as the contents of a water-bucket sloshed over them all.
“Alive?” the Nevius’ steward shouted back.
“Enough to hurt,” Philius answered as he pulled at Sanct-Franciscus’ raw shoulder. “Two of them!” he corrected, then began to cough uncontrollably, while on the other side of the wall, five slaves scrambled to get another pair of ladders to scale the wall before the back of the Laelius house fell in.
Text of a letter from Rugeri in Roma to Atta Olivia Clemens in Vesontio, Gallia Belgica, carried by private courier.
To the most worthy, most excellent Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, at her estate Sapientia on the Via Philomena in Vesontio in Gallia Belgica, the greetings of Rogerian of Gades at Villa Ragoczy, three thousand paces east-by-north of Roma.
Not that you do not know this place, for you most certainly do, but so that you will appreciate what I have to tell you, on this, the beginning of Saturnalia at the end of the 972
nd
Year of the City.
nd
Year of the City.
Two days ago my master, known presently as Sanct-Franciscus, was caught in a house-fire in Roma. In his efforts to save the Domina, his patient, he was severely burned. Do not despair; he is alive, but in great pain and much in need of recuperation away from the scrutiny of Roma, since any breathing man must perish from such burns as he has suffered. He will not perish, but it may be a year or two before he has truly recovered. For that reason, I will accompany him to Misenum, to the house of Melidulci, whose house in Roma also burned, some months ago. She has sent a messenger just today to extend her hospitality for as long as it may be needed. Since she is aware of my master’s true nature, she is prepared to do what she can to help his recuperation.
I am saddened to tell you that his patient, Domina Laelius, who had long suffered from failing health, died yesterday, never having regained consciousness once the smoke from the fire overcame her. Her brother has made arrangements for her to be entombed with her parents in their mausoleum on the Via Appia—a place you must remember with mixed emotions—and her daughter is arranging the rites for her interment.
The Urban Guard did what they could to save a portion of the Villa Laelius, but in the end they only preserved the bake-house and the stables. These are no doubt worth saving, but they leave the household without shelter in the harshest days of the year. I have opened your house to them, since my master has been given permission to leave the city for treatment, and I have supposed this is what you would want done for those unfortunates. There is a daughter, twenty-five, who cared for her mother and is in great distress; also a son, who refuses to enter your house for fear it will contaminate his religion, so close as it is to the Temple of Hercules.
My master’s friends and those of the Laelius gens are preparing a petition to the Curia for an investigation of the fire that destroyed the Laelius house, because although the holocaust was in its most concentrated use, the under-cook, who got himself and his staff out just before the upper floor fell in, insists that the fire first began near the pantry, next to the access to the holocaust, and that there was also another fire in the rooms at the back of the atrium. This may be nothing more than the invention of terror, but knowing that many fires have been set in Roma of late, the Curia may order just such an inquiry, as they have in the case of several similar fires of late. In the meantime, I have engaged a private guard for your house, and doubled your night watch.
I pledge to keep you informed of my master’s progress during his months of convalescence, and to have your staff inform you of the state of your Roman house. I also pledge to notify you of any decision the Curia reaches in regard to the Laelius fire, and the decisions of the Urban Guard, should they decide to investigate the fire. If there are other issues which you wish to be made cognizant of, you have only to let me know, and I will attend to them promptly.
With high regard and enduring respect,Rogerian of Gades,called Rugeri
By my own hand and under the seal of the Eclipse
Spring was in full and glorious riot along the Mare Tyrrhenum; from Neapolis to Ostia the hillsides glowed with blossoms and the glowing green frills of new leaves. The first of the season’s foals were romping in paddocks with their dams, with lambs and calves in the pastures with ewes and cows, kids clambered through the stable-yard with goats, and shoats rooted in the new, heavily fenced sties with sows. Bees droned among the flowers, and the first wasps’ nest was under way beneath the eaves of the spring house. Peasants and slaves busied themselves with planting and spring pruning, while the seas once again were filled with ships and sails.
Melidulci strolled along the broad path that led to her small bath-house behind her villa, dressed in a light tunica of pale-blue Egyptian linen that matched the mid-morning reflected sky in the stream that ran beside the pathway; Rugeri followed a pace behind her. She stretched up her hands as if to embrace the merry breezes as they frolicked by. “The rains are over for a time, I think.”
“They’re usually gone by the Equinox,” said Rugeri, adjusting the soft cotton paenula he carried over his arm so none of it would drag on the ground.
“There will be thunderstorms in summer, of course,” she went on, “but they don’t last long, and they keep down the flies.” She picked a spray of blooms and set it on the base of a small statue of Copia. “She has shown me her abundance since I came here; I want to keep her favor.”
“Always useful,” said Rugeri.
“Does Sanct-Franciscus make offerings to any gods?” Melidulci asked, only mildly curious.
“Only his forgotten ones,” said Rugeri, descending the four broad steps to the portico of the bath-house, entering it after Melidulci; his voice echoed through the handsome stone building which was nearly as large as the villa itself.
“I would guess that he’s still in the frigidarium,” she said, glancing toward her tepidarium, which was large enough for a dozen adults to swim in, and lined with decorative mosaics depicting the War of the Centaurs. “Well. Time for my swim.”
“So I would expect,” said Rugeri, and stepped away to permit her to undress alone; he entered a short corridor that led back into the rise of the hill, where the small, stone-enclosed frigidarium could be kept cool through the heat of summer. “My master?” he called as he tapped on the door.
“Yes, Rugeri. Come in.” His voice was still weak but significantly improved from the fourth day of Saturnalia when they had arrived here in the end of a gale, Sanct-Franciscus looking then like boiled rawhide with bleeding sores. He had said then his healing would be long and difficult, and so it was proving to be; for the duration of winter he had kept to his room, but once the season turned, he began to venture out of his quarters; in the last ten days he had been taking cold baths in the early afternoon, declaring that they eased his soreness, which remained omnipresent. For the most part, he endured his pain stoically, but occasionally it made him brusque.
“I brought your paenula,” said Rugeri, holding up the garment. He still found it difficult to look at Sanct-Franciscus, for although his skin had at last begun to heal, it appeared raw and overly tight on his bones and sinews. His hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes had started to grow again and no longer looked like shriveled miniature cocoons, or fried larks’ tongues.
“Thank you, old friend,” said Sanct-Franciscus, sitting up in the darkened room carved into the rock. He moved toward the edge of the deep, cool basin in which he sat, and paused to squeeze a sponge over his head and face, the water running down his body as he moved to get out of the frigidarium. His demeanor was coolly cordial, reserved without being alienating; he remarked, over the splash of the chilly water, “I believe the afternoon is warm.”
“Warm enough, but not yet hot,” said Rugeri.
“And Melidulci?”
“Domina Melidulci is in the tepidarium just now, taking her afternoon swim,” said Rugeri as he held out a drying sheet that lay folded on the stone bench at the edge of the basin. “She is expecting to see you.”
“I will not bother her with my company until I am bound for the villa, and dressed,” said Sanct-Franciscus, looking down at the broad swath of white scar tissue that ran from the base of his ribs to the top of his pubis, the token of his first death from disemboweling. “I am hideous enough as it is.” He turned away as he stood up, reaching for the drying sheet.
“Is your skin getting better?” Rugeri asked as he watched Sanct-Franciscus close the drying sheet around him.
“Slowly, it is,” he said. “In another two months, I will look less like a peeled corpse. In two years, no trace of the burns will remain; no injury since the one that killed me has left an enduring mark upon me, but that does not mean there is never any damage, or that I am not marked by it; this is some of the worst I have had.” He looked over his shoulder at Rugeri, his expression inscrutable. “Those of us who have died and risen again take longer than breathing men to heal.”
“You have said so,” Rugeri reminded him.
“But did you believe me, until now?” Sanct-Franciscus countered.
“Not as I do since you were burned,” said Rugeri. “I recall how long you needed to recover from Srau’s attack.”
“And it is thus with all who come to my life,” said Sanct-Franciscus with underlying fatigue.
“Does that apply to me, as well? I am not a vampire, my master, only a ghoul.” He studied Sanct-Franciscus, not expecting a reply, and so was mildly surprised when Sanct-Franciscus answered him.
“You heal more rapidly than I, but more slowly than the truly living, just as you can eat meat so long as it is raw, while I must subsist on nourishment more … shall we say? ephemeral and intimate. Your nature is closer to that of the living than mine is, and your body reflects that.” He turned around, his drying sheet draped like a toga, and added, “How do you suppose I would look to the Curia just now? Would my appearance upset them, do you think?”
The questions surprised Rugeri, and he paused before he answered them. “If they could see you, they would marvel to find you among the living.”
“Although my skin is chafed, taut, and … incomplete?”
“Your aspect would be alarming to some, if they had the opportunity to peruse your appearance,” said Rugeri as diplomatically as possible. “Some might wonder at your condition, but others would not let such things trouble them, particularly those who have led troops in battle and have seen the scathing a man may sustain and yet live.”
Sanct-Franciscus considered this. “Doubtless, you are correct.”
Taking advantage of this concession, Rugeri added, “At least you are recognized as a physician; many would assume you have cures known only to you.”
“Just so,” said Sanct-Franciscus with an unsuccessful attempt at a wry smile; his skin stretched and twisted to a rictus. “Medical skills or not, most, I fear, would be troubled by my survival, and they would wonder at my laggardly recovery, and that might lead to more questions than I would prefer. I am reluctant to create doubts in their minds, for thanks to Telemachus Batsho, they are already mired in them.”
“As you say, my master.” Rugeri’s expression remained neutral as he attempted to discern what Sanct-Franciscus’ intentions were.
“What do you reckon they would do if they suspected the truth?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired, then motioned Rugeri to silence. “Do not bother. You and I know I cannot return to Roma as myself again, not for a good many years.”
“What do you mean?” Rugeri asked uneasily.
Sanct-Franciscus went on as if he had not heard Rugeri’s question. “But I have unfinished business in Roma, and I must attend to it myself before the Curia completes its investigation—private business. Which is why I have sent for Natalis.”
Rugeri stared at him. “Natalis?”
“Yes. He should arrive some time this afternoon,” said Sanct-Franciscus, then saw Rugeri’s appalled visage. “Do not fret, old friend: Natalis has been told to leave and return to Roma unofficially, and so he shall. No one will know he has left Olivia’s house.”
Rugeri considered all of this. “Why entrust such a mission to him?”
“Because he is determined to make up for his earlier disloyalty; he wants to prove himself worthy of trust again,” said Sanct-Franciscus, methodically toweling himself dry. “He continues to blame himself for being suborned as he was; I am willing to provide him an opportunity for expiation.” He held out his hand, flexing the fingers, watching the tight skin stretch. “Slowly better,” he whispered.
“And that is to the good,” said Rugeri, then added more sharply, “Why should you risk anything just now, when you are safely away from Roma, and protected? Wouldn’t it make more sense to postpone—”
Sanct-Franciscus cut him short. “Because I am certain that the fire that killed Domina Adicia was no accident, for I believe, from what I saw, that it flared in two places at almost the same instant, which would mean it was set, and that indicates that it was an act of deliberate malice; I cannot permit that to go unanswered,” he said with terrible calm. “Someone attacked an invalid in her bed, and was willing to kill all the household.”
“And you,” Rugeri reminded him.
“Yes, old friend: and me.” Sanct-Franciscus dropped his drying sheet and reached for his soft paenula, shrugging into its folds with more ease of motion than he had shown since the fire.
“How long do you think you will need before you are ready to deal with whomever set the fires—if, indeed, someone did?” Rugeri inquired, curious to discover why Sanct-Franciscus was so certain about the miscreant.
“I think by mid-summer I will be sufficiently recovered to be able to do what I have in mind. And I will need my arrangements in place in advance, or I will risk discovery.” He fastened the closures on the paenula and looked toward the door leading to the tepidarium. “You say Melidulci is bathing?”
“Swimming,” said Rugeri.
“I should have a word with her before I go back to the house,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping, barefoot, onto the broad, tiled rim of the pool. He waited, watching Melidulci swim the length twice, then called out, “My kind hostess, may I have a moment?”
Melidulci, her wet hair trailing around her like sirens’ seaweed, let her feet settle onto the floor of the pool, her arms rising to float, extended, on the surface of the water. “Yes. What is it?” Before he could speak, she added, “You are looking a little better at last.”
“You reassure me,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I was beginning to think I would never be restored.”
“You said it would take time, and I have done what I could to provide it,” she reminded him. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“No; my servant Natalis should be here later today, and I assume he will be here for a day or two. I will provide for his food and care.”
She laughed. “If you like, I won’t refuse your gold. But, considering I could not have bought this place without your generosity, I imagine I can support your servant for a day or two.” She lolled back in avid water, floating lazily. “Will you come to my room tonight? I have missed you these last five evenings.”
“Would you like that?” Sanct-Franciscus gave her time to answer.
“I would, if it is no imposition on you.” She began, very slowly, to swim again. “I am always glad of your company, and of the joys you bring to me.”
“Even burned as I am?”
“I have seen almost as bad, including two with the White Disease,” she said indifferently. “You tell me that our lovemaking helps you to heal, and that pleases me, although the lovemaking pleases me more. The four times I have come to your room here were for sympathy in your plight, yet still were not unsatisfactory to me. Since you have come to my apartment, I have nothing—nothing—to regret in your company. Injured as you are, you still surpass most men in giving me insouciance and gratification—whatever your reason for seeking me out, I am delighted to accommodate you.” She rolled back in the water so her breasts rose above the surface of the pool. “If you and I were taken in great passion, no doubt I would be unable to disregard your hurts, but as our arrangement has always been more pragmatic, well …”
“Then I thank you, and I look forward to the time we spend together,” he said with some of his old elegance of manner.
Her smile was eager but without avidity; she caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked at him through her lashes in unmistakable invitation. “I, too, look forward to our time together.”
“And I thank you,” he said, turning away from her and going to the path leading to the house, mincing as the soles of his bare feet trod on the crushed pebbles.
“I should have brought your peri,” Rugeri said as he watched Sanct-Franciscus make his precarious way back to the shadow of the broad eaves of the villa.
“No, you should not,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You are doing precisely what I would like you to do.” As he reached the rear door, he stopped still, saying, “I have no wish to be coddled; it does me no good, and it spares me nothing worthwhile.”
“It spares you pain,” said Rugeri.
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