Roman Dusk (16 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
As we have done from time to time with the disgraceful women of the lupanar, we may now seek to demonstrate our faith to those Romans who are without any hope of Grace. This extends also to those calling themselves Christians but comporting themselves in a most unseemly fashion—those who hold their wives in common, and those who maintain that the mother of Jesus is of equal majesty as those who maintain that the mother of Jesus is of equal majesty as her Son. Their errors are the more egregious because they have been shown the truth and have perverted it for their own base purposes, following the tenets of teachers professing to be apostles but now fully discredited as false prophets. Gelasius Virginius Apollonius Metsari, my cousin, will be with us, of course, as well as Prosperus Rufius Ursinus and Erastus Arianus Crispenus, so you will be in good company.
Send me word by the slave who carries this whether or not you will join with us, and I will be thankful to God if you decide to come along.
In Christ and in fraternity,Lucius Virginius Rufius
In spite of the blustery storm that rollicked over Roma, the celebration of Saturnalia was almost unimpeded; from the gaudy extravagance of the Emperor’s palace to the festive streets of the lupanar the city was alive with banquets and entertainment; even a few determined Romans were in the streets, stopping at all the major temples of the city to leave offerings for the gods and goddesses, and incense for the Vestal Virgins to burn for Roma and Romans. Gaiety offset the rattling rain, and through all but the meanest streets songs echoed merrily and cries of good wishes rang in counterpoint to the wind. Even the Watchmen and the Urban Guard took part in the festivities, enjoying drink and food at the houses of the patrician nobles on the Palatinus and Capitolinus hills instead of patrolling the rainy streets.
The house of Septimus Desiderius Vulpius was no exception to this joyousness: oil-lamps, torches, and incense-scented braziers lent their lights and perfumes to the main dining room, and to the reception room beyond where jugglers and dancers were performing unusual feats for the evening’s guests to the accompaniment of a group of musicians playing popular tunes and occasional anthems to Saturn. Slaves in special holiday tunicae made their way through the attendees, bearing trays of rare, succulent appetizers and amphorae of even rarer wines. The holocaust kept the air channels under the floors so warm that where rain spattered in at the door, little wraiths of steam rose from the evaporating water, promising an evening of welcome heat for the guests.
In the alcove next to the front door, before the altar to the lares, Vulpius himself offered the traditional oranges and lemons to all, and his wife, Filomena Dionesia Crassens, Domina Vulpius, held out the plate of small loaves of bread studded with nuts, as was expected for Saturnalia in such a fine house as this one; both of them wore wreaths of gold on their heads, and their clothing was bright yellow, to mark the turn of the year from dark to light again. With slaves to escort them, all the guests were led into the house—men to the dining room, women to the withdrawing room. Only when the brass bell sounded for the convivium to begin did Vulpius and his wife forsake their positions near the vestibule and enter the dining room, preceded by six slaves holding up the first platters of the evening’s food: small buns stuffed with spiced meats and preserved fruits, and plates of anchovies preserved in olive oil and garlic.
“Each of you knows your place,” said Vulpius, grinning at his friends, and indicating the waiting couches, arranged in two U-formations of nine couches apiece, the opening of the U’s facing each other; two long, broad tables were set in the middle of both U’s, and a tall, brass-topped table occupied the opening between the two U’s, on which stood great vessels of wine. “But for you,” he added to Sanct-Franciscus, who stood to one side, very grand in a short silken dalmatica of dark red, embroidered in black and silver, over black Persian bracae that were gathered with bands of silver ribbon at the ankles. He had added his personal sigil—a winged eclipse—as a pendant on a silver hammered-link collar, and wore a large ruby set in silver on the first finger of his left hand. Upon his arrival, Sanct-Franciscus had presented Vulpius with a pair of alabaster goblets, one of which Vulpius now held up as he pointed. “Most elegant; many thanks, and good fortune in the year ahead. If you will take the couch there? nearest the door to the reception room?”
“As you wish,” said Sanct-Franciscus, noticing that fewer than half the couches were occupied.
“I have told the slaves not to offer you food, and I will explain that your customs forbid you to dine with us; some of my guests may remark upon your abstinence, but I assume you are used to that, since it is your custom to dine in private,” Vulpius said cordially, nodding a greeting to Pius Verus Lucillius, who had just stretched out on his couch, across from Sanct-Franciscus, his white-and-wine-red toga virilis making graceful folds about him, his jewelstudded bracelets glowing in the rich light. “You are among friends here, Sanct-Franciscus, and you need not fear us.” He clapped Sanct-Franciscus on the shoulder for good measure.
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and went to sit down, though unlike the Romans, he did not recline, but sat high up on the couch, his lower back supported by the rest that was intended for shoulders and elbows.
“Delphinius Ambrosius Junian,” Vulpius called out to the highest-ranking Roman in the room. “Let you name the first delight of the evening.”
Junian, an abdominous fellow with a high-colored complexion and the beginning of pendulous jowls, dressed in an extravagant toga of pale-lavender silk and wearing a great many golden bracelets, sat up on his couch. “Let all the women be brought in to dine! Bring forth the women!” It was the usual first delight, and it was greeted with enthusiastic shouts.
Vulpius signaled his steward and handed him the alabaster goblet. “My wife has the other,” he said, and added more loudly, “No guest is to be denied the satisfaction of his wishes; for tonight, our guests live as gods, and their desires are paramount. Do as you are commanded.” He swung his arm in a gesture of anticipation and welcome, his yellow toga making him seem to glow.
The steward ducked his head and went to collect the second goblet and to throw open the door at the back of the dining room, revealing the withdrawing room where the women guests and a few professional female entertainers were waiting. The musicians in the reception room struck up a fanfare of sorts to welcome them to the banquet, and with this to accompany them, the women entered the dining room, ready to begin the celebration. All were dressed in their newest finery, for it was good luck to celebrate the new year in fine, new clothes.
Watching them, Sanct-Franciscus could see the first signs of exhaustion, a mark of the end of Saturnalia. Five days of unrelenting festivities were taking their toll. He watched the women go to their couches, most of them across from their husbands; two of the women who were engaged for the evening selected the unoccupied couches for themselves. As host, Vulpius occupied the center couch of the U nearest the reception room while his wife occupied the center couch of the U nearest the withdrawing room, all in strict accord with Roman custom. Once the guests were settled, a group of slaves entered the dining room, one for each guest, whose job it would be to assist the guests through the banquet as well as provide any additional amusements the guest might require. All of the slaves were dressed in knee-length, pleated tunicae of fine, white wool, garments that would serve them for all festive occasions in the year to come.
“Proffer the first dishes; let the convivium commence,” Vulpius ordered. “And fill the goblets with wine.” He held up his own silver goblet; all his guests would take home their silver goblets as gifts.
From his post at the dining room door, Leontius, the Vulpius’ steward, signaled the personal slaves to comply, while he, himself, prepared to summon the next course to the diners as soon as the first was completed.
“How delightful all this is,” exclaimed Romulus Sabinus Savinus as his evening’s slave held out his goblet.
“Doubly delightful for us, to end the year among such good friends,” said Dionesia, and poured out a small amount of wine from her goblet onto the floor as token offering to Saturn and Janus, both of whom were the gods honored in these festivities; most of the guests did the same, and a sudden aroma of wine filled the air as the warm floors turned the red liquid to thin trails of white steam.
“The libation has been made,” Junian cried out before popping one of the stuffed buns into his mouth.
“The glory of the Emperor,” called out Oliverus Stephanus Tacitus Caio, spilling a generous amount of wine in honor of Heliogabalus.
The others echoed this, but with less enthusiasm, and Savinus coughed. “Is he keeping Saturnalia at all?”
Caio laughed. “Better than most. He has had feasts and entertainments from the first night until now, each more extravagant than the last. They say he has had a fountain built that pours four kinds of wine, and a device that can turn four stuffed boars over a fire-pit at the same time. His slaves are handsome young men, dressed in tunicae of cloth-of-gold. Those fortunate enough to be invited to be his guests are given golden plates to take home.”
“But he slights the Vestal Virgins,” said Dionesia, concerned at this impropriety. “His mother has refused to visit them, and Heliogabalus himself has only summoned them to him; he will not go to them.”
“Very unseemly,” said Junian.
“Well, he’s foreign; he doesn’t yet understand how we do things in Roma,” said Caio, then glanced in Sanct-Franciscus’ direction. “I mean no offense to you, of course.” He took an anchovy and thumbed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.
“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“He needs time to learn our ways,” Caio went on, still chewing.
“We’ve offered libations to his glory,” said Vulpius, raising his voice to be heard over the increasing buzz of conversation.
“That we have,” said Junius, and held out his goblet to his slave to be refilled.
“Heliogabalus has been made Caesar, and we, as Romans, must hail him Emperor.” This from Publicus Maximus Titanius Pereginus, who had attended an earlier celebration and whose face was already ruddy from wine; his toga was beginning to slip from his shoulder.
Caio laughed, not quite pleasantly. “So loyal you are?”
“As loyal as you,” said Peregrinus, a hint of belligerence in his tone.
“Ave Caesar, then,” said Lucillius, as if to put an end to the wrangling.
“He is just a youth,” Peregrinus said in defense of the Emperor. “Have patience. In time he will wean himself away from his mother’s influence, and we shall discover what manner—”
“Let us forsake politics for tonight,” said Parthenia Orela Tallonus, Domina Caio, looking uncomfortable in her stola and palla of embroidered linen, for her pregnancy was advanced and moving had become awkward.
“My wife has expressed a wish: that we banish talk of politics,” Caio said in a tone that suggested that this had been a bone of contention with them before.
“And I endorse it,” said Dionesia. “You men can discuss the affairs of the Empire in the morning, when the new year dawns; tonight is only the eve of the nine hundred seventy-second Year of the City, and Saturn still reigns: Jove and Minerva will rule in the morning, and Janus, as well. Tonight we sample all the delights that flesh can know, without a care for what is to come. For tonight, we are to celebrate the time that is past, and the past is beyond our influence. Let us give no time to that which is beyond this moment’s grasp.”
There were a few shouts of agreement, and Bonar Datus Fabricius crowed like a cock at sunrise.
“Let each of you amuse yourself; take pleasure of the table and the slaves brought to you for your delectation,” said Vulpius.
“As the Olympians do,” shouted Junian.
“So it shall be for tonight,” Vulpius declared, and signaled the entertainers to rest while the musicians played. “You will be kept busy later, never fear,” he promised the entertainers.
One of the musicians had a small lyre from Cappodocia, and looking at it, Sanct-Franciscus had a brief, intense recollection of Tishtry, standing on her hands on the front of her racing quadriga before flipping onto the back of her favorite horse, to ride, standing, around the end of the spina in the Circus Maximus; she had bought her family’s freedom with her performing before she died the True Death on the sands. He looked away and caught Lillis Cecania Lenius, Domina Fabricius, staring at him. “Domina,” he acknowledged, ducking his head.
“I have heard much about you,” said Cecania, offering him a lupine smile; she was almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus, and richly dressed in gold-shot silk; her russet hair was in an elaborate arrangement of ordered curls and golden ribbons. “So I am curious.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. “Perhaps later you will ease my curiosity?”
“Why would that be? That you are curious?” Sant-Franciscus asked politely.
“Because I have many questions about you.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth and smiled. “I hope you are all I have heard you are.”
“You must not believe everything you hear of me, or of anyone,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his manner gracious but reserved; he read avidity in her eyes that had no hint of generosity.
“This is no night for gravitas, old Roman virtue though it may be,” she admonished him provocatively. “Leave dignity behind on this last night of the year. Be willing to surrender to chance.”
“As Romans do?” he suggested.
“Yes. As we do. You are our guest, you must share our—” She let her hand slide negligently down to her golden-chain belt.
“A most tempting invitation, and were I of your blood, I would be unable to resist you, lovely as you are. But, alas, I am no longer a prince of my people, and illustriata are too exalted for me,” Sanct-Franciscus said, aware that this woman might find his appetites not to her liking; certainly the other guests would be appalled.
“Modest? Afraid of my husband’s claim on me?” she teased, giving her husband an indulgent look. “I do not deprive him of his amusements, nor does he keep me from mine.”
Other books
The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer by Jennifer Lynch
Junie B. Jones Smells Something Fishy by Barbara Park
Flowing with the Go by Elena Stowell
Golden Age by Jane Smiley
Return to the Little Kingdom by Michael Moritz
Without a Grave by Marcia Talley
Owning Wednesday by Annabel Joseph
Descent Into Madness by Catherine Woods-Field
Old Ghosts: Gypsy Riders MC by Palomino, Honey
Camelot Burning by Kathryn Rose
