Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

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

Roman Dusk (37 page)

BOOK: Roman Dusk

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“A little, perhaps, but it lengthens the time I will feel it,” Sanct-Franciscus explained.

Rugeri nodded. “You will let me know if you change your mind, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and opened the door.

After a long moment of hesitation, Rugeri followed after, climbing to the second floor where Sanct-Franciscus had been allocated three rooms for his use on the north side of the house. As he went into the room, he found Sanct-Franciscus unfastening his paenula while contemplating the garments hanging from pegs on the far wall. “What do you want to wear?”

Sanct-Franciscus cocked his head. “I have not decided,” he told Rugeri. “I think perhaps the black-and-red chandys; it covers more of the burns, and it is soft to the touch.”

Rugeri reached for the handsome silken garb, adding black-linen bracae to it. “I think this will suit you, my master.”

“I think so, as well.” He sat down and reached for the bracae, pulling them on his left leg and then his right. “I will want to purchase a few more pair of these now that I can wear them without agony,” he said, glancing at Rugeri. “From whom did you buy them—do you recall?”

“The spinner from Fars,” said Rugeri. “Her stall is in Roma, near the Baths of Caracalla,”

“Where the foreign weavers and spinners congregate?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired as he secured the mani and the waist-ties. He stood up with only a little visible effort, reaching for his chandys as he did.

“Would you like me to help you don that?” Rugeri asked, perplexed by the polite distance Sanct-Franciscus had maintained since he had been carried to Olivia’s house in Roma in a chair, barely conscious enough to moan.

“If you will pull it down for me, I would appreciate it,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he gathered the chandys and tugged it over his head, thrusting his arms into the capacious sleeves. “I will want a pallium made in a shade of soft ochre, a very ordinary linen pallium, mid-calf length, no decoration on it, moderate sleeves from the pleats,” he went on as Rugeri took hold of the hem, loosening it so that the chandys would fall to his knees. “And short bracae in rust-colored cotton, such as a shop-keeper might wear,” he added.

“In other words, a disguise,” said Rugeri.

“A disguise,” Sanct-Franciscus confirmed. “I should probably have one of those wide-brimmed straw hats, too, such as the forum hawkers have.”

“To shade your face,” Rugeri said.

“From the sun and from prying eyes,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Sunlight is a discomfort, even when I stand on my native earth, and just now, my skin is sensitive.”

“And how soon will you want this?” Rugeri inquired.

“Two months or so,” said Sanct-Franciscus, smoothing the front of his chandys gingerly, for his hands still showed the damage of blistering.

The implied delay relieved Rugeri, who assured his master he would attend to it, then left him alone until shortly before sunset, when he once again went to Sanct-Franciscus’ quarters to inform him that Natalis had arrived. “He is in the small reception room.”

“I will come down,” said Sanct-Franciscus, setting aside the papyrus scroll he had been reading. “If you will light the lamps after you dine?” The slanting, afternoon shadows had cast one side of the chamber into soft purple obscurity.

“Of course,” said Rugeri, and held the door for Sanct-Franciscus. “Shall I remain with you while you speak with Natalis?”

“Not if it will bother you,” said Sanct-Franciscus mildly. He was half-way down the stairs when he stopped. “My intentions toward the arsonists are not kindly.”

“So I realize,” said Rugeri, then dared to continue, “But I fear that in your zeal for vengeance—”

“Justice,” Sanct-Franciscus corrected.

“Vengeance, justice, whatever it may be, that you will put yourself at great risk again, and might not be as fortunate as you were at the Villa Laelius.” Now that he had spoken his misgivings, he felt less apprehensive, as if his words had banished some of the danger. When Sanct-Franciscus said nothing and resumed his descent, Rugeri stayed close behind him. “If you want my help, it is yours.”

“I thank you, Rugeri, yet I will also do my utmost to keep you out of it.” His grim tone vanished as he said, “Besides, I will need you to make the arrangements to get us from Brundisium to Alexandria. I could not risk having you taken into custody in Roma.”

“If that is your wish, my master,” said Rugeri, trying to mask his disappointment as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sanct-Franciscus stood still. “It is enough that I must do this, old friend. I will not, and cannot, add your life to the stakes in this game.” There was an implacable note in his tone that was uncompromising. “If I fail in my intent, I will comfort myself with the certainty that no one but I had to pay the price of that failure.” He moved off toward the small reception room to where Natalis was waiting.

Text of a record from Ulixes Lenus Varian, Prosecutor of the Urban Guard, delivered to the Curia in private session; sent by Natalis in Roma to Sanct-Franciscus at Melidulci’s house near Misenum by private courier.

Ave, Heliogabalus
.

On this, the 14
^thday of May in the 973
^rdYear of the City, I, Ulixes Lenus Varian, Prosecutor of the Urban Guard for Roma, submit to the Curia the findings of our investigation of the fire at the Villa Laelius that claimed the lives of four people, including the Domina, Egidia Adicia Cortelle, Domina Laelius.

Upon the order of the Curia, we have taken testimony from surviving household members and we have examined the ruins of the house, and we offer our conclusions now, with such support as we have determined is appropriate for the completion of our commission, and we offer these as part of this summary.

From the groom-slave Philius, we have learned that the son of the household, Marius Octavian Laelius, who is currently residing with Erestus Arianus Crispenus, a known Christian and one who has been interviewed before during investigations of fires thought to be set by Christians, was at the Villa Laelius on the night it burned. He had come to claim his horses, and spent time by himself at the bake-house, next to the access to the holocaust, or so he told Philius he had done. The fire that consumed the house began shortly after he left. Philius was occupied getting their horses, mules, and donkeys out of their stable to notice where any of the rest of the household was until he was summoned to help find any who might have escaped into the garden, which he did with all celerity, and found Domina Laelius and her physician, the foreigner Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, by the side-garden wall, almost beneath Domina Laelius’ quarters.

Starus, the steward-slave of the household, was the one who did his best to get those in the house out of it. He personally escorted the daughter of the family, Pax Ignatia Laelius, to safety, and for which she is preparing to free him with a stipend for life, assuming her uncle, Albinus Drusus Cortelle, recently returned from Syria, will approve her doing so. Starus declares that the fire broke through the floor from the kitchen in several places, and he could not determine if it was because of one fire or more than one. He has suffered from a severe cough since the fire, and thus far, he has not made a good recovery, so his testimony must be by report rather than appearance.

Pax Ignatia Laelius has said that she believes that the fire broke out in two places at almost the same time, and that it spread with terrible quickness. She has said that she does not know who would do such a thing, but she is aware that there have been many fires set in Roma through mishap and miscalculation as well as malice, and so it may be with this one. She has supervised the clearing of the burned house, and the obsequies for her mother, who is now in the Cortelle tomb on the Via Appia.

Idicoris, the under-cook, swears that the fire burst the kitchen walls and had to be more than the holocaust breaking from the constant heat. It is his belief that the fire was a deliberate one, and that it was set on the main floor as well as the lower-levels to burn rapidly and with the intention of causing the house to be destroyed, for in following the heating channels under the floors, once the upper tiles failed, the fire would have to consume the building totally and quickly. He received burns on his hands and arms in his effort to save the house, and for this, he has been paid a generous commoda and the promise of a stipend when his working days are done.

Waloi, the regular cook, was not so fortunate; he was in his room when the fire broke out, and in spite of his efforts to escape, he died in the fire itself. It is curious that the entrance to the slaves’ quarters should have been burning so fiercely at the beginning, for that would support Idicoris’ belief that the fire began in more than one place, the slaves’ quarters being on the opposite of the house from the holocaust access.

The son, Marius Octavian Laelius, avers that he was away from the house by the time the fire broke out, and that, while he mourns his mother as a martyr, had she been Christian, he is certain that the house deserved burning, much as it was imbued with sin and corruption. He continues to wear ribbons for his mother, and to offer prayers for her among the Christians. However, we discovered that according to a man two streets away, Marius Octavian Laelius watched the fire from the rise behind the neighbor’s house. This neighbor, one honoratus Regulus Vitus Sextus Vincens, claims to have observed Laelius for some time after the flames erupted from the Villa Laelius.

As has been reported elsewhere, Domina Laelius succumbed to smoke and burns, and was interred with her ancestors. Of Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus we have no final report, for although he most certainly carried Domina Laelius from her house, he was claimed that very night by his own household and taken out of the city for recuperation. I have heard three accounts of his burns, and I must tell you here that I have never known anyone so badly blistered and blackened as he to live long—nor would anyone want life for him, for his sake. Still, I have left word at the house he occupies behind the Temple of Hercules, which he has from a Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, currently abiding in Gallia Belgica, that should any word be brought from him, I am to be notified of it at once, and any information he may have to offer in regard to the fire be entered as part of the official inquiry.

I cannot be wholly certain that the fire at the Villa Laelius was deliberately set, but I believe there is reason enough to continue the investigation, in the event that other information may come to light that would provide the necessary intelligence to resolve our remaining questions beyond the requirements of law. I recommend that Albinus Drusus Cortelle be entered as the provisional owner of the burned house, and that all matters of taxation and disposal be his, for the benefit of Domina Laelius’ two unmarried children: her daughter, Pax Ignatia Laelius, twenty-five, and Marius Octavian Laelius, sixteen. They will eventually receive the full value of their mother’s estate, but only after the cause of the fire that killed her is established. On arrangements with Atta Olivia Clemens, they presently occupy her house near the Temple of Hercules that Sanct-Franciscus had hired from the widow.

Submitted under the pain of whipping if any portion is a deliberate falsehood or unsubstantiated conclusion,

Ulixes Lenus Varian
Prosecutor of the Urban Guard of Roma

Although the procession earlier that day was officially meant to honor the Emperor whose month it was—Divus Julius—it had been another grand occasion for Heliogabalus to provide spectacular entertainments and dazzling processions for the people of Roma: all day triumphal chariots accompanied by escorts of musicians and dancers had rolled through the city bearing the Emperor and his mother as well as the Senate and a number of officials from client nations around all seven hills and through every large forum, scattering coins and flowers to the people. As a result, at the end of this display the streets were still full, lit by torches at every corner, as the sun faded behind a low band of scarlet clouds in the west, and the warm, sodden night wrapped itself around the city.

Sanct-Franciscus waited with Natalis in the shadow of the Circus Maximus, where they were surrounded by a crowd of Romans following a carpentum holding three huge barrels of wine the contents of which were being ladled out into the waiting cups of those near enough to gain the attention of the serving slaves. “How many of these are there in the city tonight, I wonder?” he asked as the crowd surged after the carpentum, cups held up as if they were votive offerings.

Natalis shrugged. “Carpenta with wine barrels? A dozen or more, I’d guess, judging from the state of the populace.” He found Sanct-Franciscus’ polite reserve unnerving, but knew better than to mention it, for he was more troubled by what lay beneath than by the outward imperturbable self-possession. “They’ll be drunk until sunrise.”

“Are all the carpenta as busy as this one?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, and continued, “It is to our advantage to have it so.”

“No one will remember us, or at least not too clearly,” said Natalis, ducking into an alley that led northward.

“And those we seek?” Sanct-Franciscus’ voice was like steel.

“If they are not out on the streets, haranguing the people, they are in their private temple, praying.” Natalis paused. “I have not seen any of them about since midday.”

“You are satisfied that the boy is responsible?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired.

“I am, and the Curia will be, now that one of his comrades has spoken to the Prefect of the Urban Guard. The youth who revealed their activities has accepted his punishment in the arena as fitting, which is all the more convincing that he is truthful. It takes a great deal for one of those Christians to turn on anyone in their religion. But the young man has said that he doesn’t want true Christians to be suspected of the irreligious acts of a few of their number. He swore to it on his hope of Paradise, which means a great deal to Christians. The Curia has accepted his account as true, as much because it agrees with what the Urban Guard has decided must have occurred, as because they found Metsari convincing.” Natalis fidgeted with the ends of his woven belt.

Sanct-Franciscus nodded, his dark eyes like black flint. “If the Curia has accepted the account, then I will, as well. I will proceed.”

“Have a care,” Natalis warned him as they prepared to skirt around another band of men, drunk enough to be reckless and spoiling for a fight.

They passed the crowd of men, their heads lowered like humiliora; when they reached the next street, they saw a number of Watchmen patrolling, and they hesitated, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. When the Watchmen moved on, so did Sanct-Franciscus and Natalis, going north through Roma toward the Vicus Longus.

“You will not want to go on the main streets,” Natalis warned him a bit later on. “Too many patrols are out tonight, and I would prefer not to be stopped.”

“You choose the way,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

Natalis did as he was told, attempting to match his demeanor to that of Sanct-Franciscus. As they continued onward, the two men exchanged desultory remarks on the growing disorder they saw around them. In one narrow passage they almost tripped over two men and a woman indulging in a complicated coupling; the three paid them no heed as they passed on.

“It saddens me,” said Sanct-Franciscus as they reached the next broad avenue, “to see something so precious turned into nothing more than—” He stopped. “How much farther?”

“Another four streets,” said Natalis; he forced himself to ask something that had been bothering him since they had sneaked into the city. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and permit me to stand guard for you?”

“No. I must do this alone. It would go hard for you if you were detained as my accomplice; very likely you would be sent to the arena.” His own recollection of facing crocodiles in a flooded arena a century-and-a-half ago very nearly shattered his calm, but he regained his terrifying composure by hard-won self-discipline. “If you will wait for me at Porta Pinciana, under the aqueduct, I will consider myself well-served.” He turned his attention to the small stand of yew trees at the front of the dark-columned Temple of Mania, where burnt offerings lay on the open altar. “How appropriate, that we should come to the Goddess of the Dead for this task.”

The chilly irony of Sanct-Franciscus’ remark cut Natalis to the quick; he made one last attempt. “Master, what if the Urban Guard and the Curia are deceived, and they have blamed the wrong man? Shouldn’t you wait a while longer, in case the Curia issues a new finding?”

“Tonight I shall find it out, and strive to make amends for my error, if I have made one, but I will not wait,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

It was all Natalis could do not to growl in frustration. “If you are caught—”

“—Rugeri will know what to do,” Sanct-Franciscus said, cutting him short.

They went on in silence until Natalis halted and pointed to a culde-sac surrounded by a dozen small, private houses. “The fourth on the right, the one with the blue wall. The one with the flower-baskets hanging by the front door.”

“You know he is here?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

“He was yesterday and the slaves said none of the four of them planned to travel. As I’ve old you, they haven’t gone out since midday.”

“And the owner of the house: what of him?”

“The owner of the house is a Christian who is presently in Judea; he has allowed these four young Christians to live in his house in his absence, or so the slaves have told me. Three of them are of the same gens, and one is their comrade. I had it from the cook and the steward, both, that this is the case.” Natalis almost held his breath, waiting for what Sanct-Franciscus’ response would be.

“Good enough,” said Sanct-Franciscus, so icily distant that Natalis despaired. “Is there an alley entrance?”

“Yes; on the north side of the house. There is a common stable at the rear of the six houses on the right side, and each house has an alley on the north leading to the small bath-houses. You can enter next to the holocaust—there is a low door for loading wood that can be opened with a little patience. Once inside, there is a connecting door to the kitchen corridor.” He wanted to talk, to do anything to delay what he feared would follow. “Tradesmen use the alley, and vendors of fruits and vegetables, and often members of other households, so you will not be remarked upon.” Realizing he was babbling, Natalis made himself stop talking.

“And slaves? How many?”

“Four in the household; only the groom is here just now, mucking out stalls, and then he will have to bed the stall in straw, so he will be busy for some time. The cook and the steward and the man-of-all-work have the evening to themselves and I arranged for them to be entertained at the trattorium four blocks away. They should be there until well into the night, feasting and making the most of their time away from their labors.” Natalis managed to halt his torrent of words.

Sanct-Franciscus did not smile. “Thank you. I am grateful for all you have done for me, and I have arranged a pension for you, and employment if you want it, so you need not return to thievery once I am gone.” He paid no heed to Natalis’ sharp intake of breath. “If I am not at the Porta Pinciana by the hour before dawn, do not wait for me; find your way out of the city and return to Villa Ragoczy.”

“At least take my knife,” Natalis pleaded, reaching to pull the weapon from its sheath.

“Better that I carry nothing,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

“If that is your wish,” Natalis heard himself say.

“It is.” He tapped Natalis on the shoulder, then moved away toward the alley Natalis had indicated, his clothing rendering him almost invisible: he did not look back.

Natalis stood, undecided, for a short while, then turned to continue north in the shadow of the Virgo Aqueduct.

Sanct-Franciscus went along toward the rear of the house, pausing only to look for the door Natalis had mentioned. He found it under a partial eave, and was glad of the extra protection this afforded him. Bending down, he took a bronze pin out of his wallet and slipped it into the lock, patiently turning it until the wards released. Easing the door open, he hunched over and went into the loading room for the holocaust, relieved that it was cool. He made his way past the stacked lengths of wood to the inner door. He opened this with care, his night-seeing eyes checking out the corridor before he emerged from concealment. Most of the house was dark with only an occasional oil-lamp shining to diminish the darkness; making his way toward the atrium, Sanct-Franciscus was aware of emptiness, and for a moment he wondered if the young Christians had gone out for a night of advancing their faith. Then he heard a voice raised in argument coming from the front of the house, and he went toward it, his senses keen, his purpose set.

“—still too soon to—” one voice insisted.

“We must continue to press forward, take advantage of the impact we have made,” another declared. “We have an opportunity to turn this to a—”

The third speaker was Octavian. “Why bother with preaching? I say we burn another house. That is something Romans pay attention to—fires.”

“You like fires too much, Octavian,” said the first voice.

“Because they’re effective,” Octavian responded sharply.

“But the Urban Guard is starting to detain Christians on suspicion—” the second voice objected.

“Peterines,” scoffed a fourth. “Let them become martyrs—it suits them.”

“Peterines and those who betray us,” Octavian interjected darkly. “Your cousin has a lot to answer for.”

“He didn’t realize what he was doing,” protested the second speaker, and almost at the same time the fourth said, “You can’t blame our cousin.”

“No, Octavian, you cannot,” said the fourth.

“Oh, yes I can,” Octavian shouted. “He betrayed me as surely as Judas betrayed Christ. They, too, were cousins, we’re told.”

The first speaker raised his voice. “Enough! This is no way to defend our faith.”

An uneasy quiet ensued, then Octavian said, “I ask your forgiveness. But your cousin had better ask for mine before they send him to the arena.”

“How do you mean?” the fourth voice challenged. “You were the one who set the fires, and Virginius Apollonius was—”

“I wasn’t alone, setting our fires,” Octavian interruped.

“—distressed by that. What did you expect him to do?” the fourth voice went on.

“I didn’t expect him to go to the Prefect of the Urban Guard.” Indignation raised Octavian’s voice again. “He should have taken the matter to our pope, if he was so deeply troubled by what we’ve done.”

“Stop it!” the first ordered.

“You speak against me because they’re all your relatives and I’m not,” Octavian accused. “This should be about faith, not family.”

The second voice was deliberately calm. “We are all Brothers in Christ.”

Another brief silence fell, into which Sanct-Franciscus stepped, opening the door quickly, and walking into the room without courtesy, halting only when the eyes of all four were fixed on him. The lamplight flickered in the slow draught from the door, touching the faces of the four with uneven shadows, and casting Sanct-Franciscus’ stretched features into stark half-light.

“Who—?” demanded a gangly young man of about eighteen with thick, tawny hair and big-knuckled hands; he was in a blue-linen pallium with an embroidered pattern of fish at the knee-length hem.

“You dare to intrude!” one of the other two cried out.

“I see you have made this your temple,” said Sanct-Franciscus coldly, indicating the altar with a large carving of a fish on it, and a haloed crucifix painted on the wall behind the altar; he took a step forward and closed the door. “An apt place for the glory of your god, and for your sepulchre.” He regarded the four young men steadily, as if seeking to determine their degree of responsibility in the fire that burned the Laelius house.

Octavian was staring at Sanct-Franciscus, recognition dawning on him. “You! But you were dead.”

“That was certainly your intention,” said Sanct-Franciscus quietly.

“Then how do you come to be here?” Octavian jeered.

“Your Christ is not the only man ever to rise from his grave,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

“Blasphemy!” exclaimed the gangly one.

BOOK: Roman Dusk

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