“No!” Natalis burst out, then pressed his lips together, and, under Sanct-Franciscus’ penetrating gaze added, “He had nothing worth my efforts.”
“Not even the alabaster figures?”
“No. They were of inferior workmanship. I have some standards; I will not risk prison for something that will fetch a few denarii, which is all those figures would have done, if I had taken any.” He paused. “I still lie, occasionally.”
“And the boy: does he work with you?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“No, he really was asking for directions. Truly. It drew the shopkeeper’s attention, and that made him suspect the worst.” He cleared his throat. “I do sometimes work with someone, but she is not … she is over forty and no one pays her much attention, so she is most effective.”
“And she is … ,” Sanct-Franciscus prompted.
“We are cousins. She is a widow of limited means, and she welcomes the extra money our efforts can bring; at forty-three, she is in no position to learn new skills—and even if she did, who would hire her?”
“Has she no other means?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
Natalis sighed abruptly. “Her husband left her with a house, but his nephew claimed the house for his family, and the decuriae upheld his claim, so now my cousin lives in two little rooms in one of the insulae down near the slaughterhouses.” He stared toward the window. “I ask you not to betray her. I might manage prison or quarry-work, but she is too old for such sentences, and I would hate to see her go to the arena.”
“I will not, nor will I expose you.” Sanct-Franciscus indicated one of the chairs. “Sit down. You will have food and drink shortly.”
Frowning a little, Natalis moved away from Sanct-Franciscus. “That isn’t necessary. I am hardly your guest.”
“But of course you are,” Sanct-Franciscus contradicted him with a faint smile. “I asked that you visit me upon your release. The Prefect assured me you would.”
“I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t, not at once,” Natalis said, unaccountably embarrassed by this admission.
Sanct-Franciscus dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “No matter; you are here now, your injury has healed and you look fit enough.”
Natalis paled. “Fit enough for what?”
Sanct-Franciscus shook his head. “Nothing that should trouble you. Nothing that would put you at odds with the law again.”
“But—” Natalis began, stopping himself as a tap sounded on the door.
“Come in,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
Holmdi entered the study, bearing a well-laden brass tray: a large jug of wine stood surrounded by a silver goblet, a basket of breads, a tub of soft cheese, another of fresh butter, a plate of cold sliced chicken garnished with asparagus, a dish of preserved fruits, and a bowl of pickled vegetables. This he put down on the large table in the center of the room. “I am sorry this took so long to bring, my master, but the decuria asked for more wine.” He stood still, anticipating a rebuke and possibly a blow to go with it.
“Did he?” Sanct-Franciscus almost smiled. “His head will ache from so much.”
“You said to serve him whatever he asked for,” Holmdi reminded him.
“So I did,” Sanct-Franciscus agreed. “And the household has done well in catering to him. If necessary, send for a sedan chair to carry him home.”
Holmdi ducked his head and prepared to leave the study. “Is there anything more?”
“Not just now, thank you, Holmdi,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and waited until the slave had left the room before turning his attention to Natalis once more. “Go ahead. Take what pleases you.”
Natalis was hungry and the food smelled delicious. “I would like something to eat, and a glass of wine.”
“Have as much as you want,” Sanct-Franciscus said.
Ordinarily Natalis would have refused to have more than wine and bread, but he had gone two days on such fare and was famished for something more substantial. “If you don’t mind.”
“I will not join you. I have … a condition that limits my diet severely, and as those of my blood dine in private. Do not let that make you reluctant. Your pleasure is all that matters here.” He watched Natalis take one of the breads, pull it open and begin to smear soft cheese in the cavity, then reach for chicken slices and pickles and stuff them into the bread.
“This is most generous, honestioms.” He turned away, as if worried that his eating might upset his host.
“Nothing more than I would offer any other guest in your situation,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
Natalis, who had taken a large bite of his stuffed bread, stopped chewing. “What do you mean?”
“You have spent months in prison, and you have no employment to sustain you,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“I have not yet found … fitting work,” said Natalis warily.
“Does nothing suit your abilities?”
“My abilities are somewhat limited,” Natalis admitted.
“You mean that your skills are as a thief?” Sanct-Franciscus suggested with unruffled calm; as Natalis nodded, he went on, “You are not necessarily so constrained: that is only the application you have chosen for your talents. I would rather suppose you might do other things.”
“Such as?” Natalis asked, interested in spite of himself. He resumed chewing.
“Work for me. I need someone to carry messages and to guard this house. A man of your talents. should excel at both duties: you can make your way without drawing attention to yourself, and you can determine what parts of this house are vulnerable to thieves.” His smile was ironic. “You do know how to do both those things, do you not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Natalis. “I can do them.”
“You fear such work would lack excitement?” Sanct-Franciscus proposed. “I may soon have to dispatch a messenger to Alexandria. And many of my dealings are conducted under the rose. Do not fear that you would only fetch and carry.”
After a long, thoughtful moment, Natalis said, “If I come to work for you, what then?”
“Then you will receive a place to live here, fifteen silver denarii a month for your labors, in addition to payment for every service you perform for me. I will pay you ten silver denarii today for agreeing to enter my service.” Sanct-Franciscus knew the amount was generous, even in the debased coins of this time, and he expected Natalis to accept it. “My only requirement beyond your service is that while you are in my employ, you will rob no one, steal nothing. And I would prefer that you do not lie to me.”
Natalis squirmed a bit. “I will make an effort to comply.”
“You will do more than that, or I will not engage you. Think, Natalis: a regular wage and valuable work to do. That should suffice even you.” The glint of humor in his dark eyes took the sting out of his remarks.
“And my cousin?” Natalis inquired, pouring wine before taking another bite. “Is there anything you can offer her?”
“I think I might be able to arrange something,” said Sanct-Franciscus, thinking of Melidulci, who was finding it difficult to find a woman-companion to lend her the appearance of propriety at her house away from the lupanar. “I will try to find employment for her in some capacity that will not demean her. Will that suffice?”
“I can’t ask more than that,” said Natalis.
“Then you will accept my offer?” Sanct-Franciscus said.
Natalis considered his response. “I will do so for a year. If at the end of the year either you or I am dissatisfied, then the arrangement will end. Is that satisfactory?”
The sound of unmelodic singing interrupted them, and both Sanct-Franciscus and Natalis looked around, then realized that Telemachus Batsho was drunk and amusing himself.
“It seems reasonable,” said Sanct-Franciscus, recovering himself and holding out his hand to slap palms with Natalis.
For a long moment, Natalis hesitated. “Why are you employing me: you might buy a slave to do your bidding, and spend much less in the space of a year.”
“True enough,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “But I have found over time that a free man is likely to prove the more loyal servant than a slave.” He did not elaborate on this, but his thoughts went back to slightly less than a century before, when Srau, in Fars, had very nearly brought about Sanct-Franciscus’ True Death, all in the name of seeking manumission. “I have slaves enough about me.”
“Then,” said Natalis, clapping his hand to Sanct-Franciscus’, “I am your servant for the terms we have agreed upon, for a year.”
Batsho’s song grew louder.
“I accept your conditions,” said Sanct-Franciscus, shaking his head. “What a wretched serenade to mark our business.”
“He isn’t very good at singing,” said Natalis, pouring out a little wine onto the floor before drinking. “For good fortune and the favor of the gods.”
“All of them,” Sanct-Franciscus concurred. “Including the forgotten ones.”
Text of a letter from Vettrinis the Gaul, at Vetera Castra in Germania Inferior, to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma, carried by merchant’s courier and delivered two months after it was dispatched due to weather and being intercepted and read before it reached Roma.
To my most highly esteemed commercial partner, the greetings from Vettrinis the Gaul, with distressing news from Vetera Castra in Germania Inferior:
During the winter just past, the Cherusci came over the river and raided throughout the immediate region, seizing goods, marauding for livestock, killing, and taking slaves. The end result of this is that the shepherds with whom we have so often done business have, through no fault of theirs, no wool to sell, and so our projected earnings will be reduced by at least a third.
I am attempting to find other shepherds and farmers with fleece to sell, but many others are doing the same, and that has meant that the price for wool has risen steeply. I am at something of a loss to know what I should do, for the prices will certainly remain high in this region, and others may raise their prices, as well, to take advantage of the immediate shortages. I may return to Belgica and hope that the situation is better there, or I may go north, hoping that the wild men in the marshes have wool available. The marshes have not been raided, at least not yet, but they are. nearer to danger than Gallia Belgica is, and that gives me pause. When I have decided, I will send you word of it.
The winter has been hard, which probably accounts for the raids, and spring is slow in coming. I foresee a difficult year for everyone in Germania Inferior, and probably not much better in Germania Superior. In addition, due to avalanches, and a bad flood in February, there are breaks in the road leading into Italia, and this, in turn, has slowed commerce still more. It may take this letter longer to reach you than the usual three weeks, and for that I apologize.
On your recommendation, I am, trading in aurei, not denarii, and, as you predicted, I have found, the few merchants and factors with whom I am dealing more willing to engage in trade for gold, since the aurei are not as debased as the denarii have been. Who would have thought that the Roman denarius could lose so much of its value, and so quickly?
There are tales being told of the young Emperor—that he is willful and extravagant beyond imagination, that he keeps favorites openly and has little interest in government, leaving such matters to his mother and grandmother while he amuses himself in outlandish feasts and festivities. He is young, and that may account for some of his thoughtlessness, but they say that he has failed to resupply many of the Legions posted on borders such as ours. If this is true, it is a sad thing for Roma and the Empire, and I fear we may expect more raids such as those of last winter. Who knows, if they are unpaid for much longer, the Legions may become the raiders, and then who will be safe?
I wish to assure you that I will do my utmost to secure enough wool to bring us both a profit this season, but that may not be possible. I ask you to hold yourself in patience while this region recovers from, the troubles it has sustained. This, on the 9
th
day of March in the 972
nd
Year of the City, by my own hand,
merchant of Gallia Belgica
With a sigh of profound satisfaction, Melidulci rolled onto her side and smiled at Sanct-Franciscus. “I wish I knew how you do that,” she said contentedly, languidly, her sumptuous body still quivering in apolaustic abandon. Her bedchamber was faintly illuminated by three perfumed oil-lamps that filled the room with the scent of sandalwood and made her naked flesh shine as if dusted with powdered pearls; her hair was a glorious, disorderly nimbus on her pillow, looking dark as bronze in the dusk before sunrise. Luxuriating in the aftermath of passion, she closed her eyes as slowly as a cat, and opened them so that she would not be deprived of the vision of her partner. Beyond the windows, the first flush of dawn limned the hills in pale, luminous pinkish-gold. Birds heralded the morning, and occasionally a cock crowed. “No one has ever given me so much joy. No one has known how.”
“But you have allowed me to touch you, to know you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his voice deep and gentle as his endearment.
She put her fingers to his lips to keep him from speaking. “You need not tell me that it is the same for you, because it is not: you could not know what you know without experience; I know that—you could not have learned what you know without loving many other women—and I have no complaints.”
He smiled fleetingly. “You are a most understanding woman, Melidulci,” he said kindly.
“I am a most
gratified
woman,” she corrected him with an alluring smile, pulling the disordered sheet up to her chest as if to signal the end of their lovemaking. “I would thank you for all you do, but you dislike it, so I will say only that I am most fortunate that you have turned your attentions to me.”
“I, too, am fortunate,” he said, and kissed the corner of her mouth. His black kalasiris whispered its silken compliments to the linen of her lower sheet as he moved. “You have accepted me and my … limitations without question.”
“I would have to be a fool to question such largesse as you provide.” She laughed softly. “Your so-called limitations do not trouble me, particularly since you explained your nature.”
“I would repay you most cruelly if you did not know what my continued love can impart.” He looked toward the open window. “Sunrise is coming. You can see the shine of it on the eastern horizon.”
“Shortly the sun will be up, and you will need to be away.” There was a kind of regret in her acknowledgment.
“I should leave,” he told her. “The native earth in the soles of my peri will protect me, once I put them on, but I would like to keep as much of our night together flourishing in me as long as possible.” He stroked her hair. “To do that, I must go.”
“How long must I wait before you lie with me again?” She stretched, the lack of self-consciousness making this provocative in a way it would not have been had she done it deliberately. “Now that we have shared a bed as often as we have, there is no reason not to continue to do so, is there? I have passed into the shadow of your nature months ago, and nothing you can do will change it. I am prepared to do all that is necessary when I die to remain dead, so you need not hesitate on that account. I have no wish to live as you do, isolated amid the world of men, no remnant of my living life left to comfort me, none of my gens to remind me of my bonds. Say what you will about the Blood Bond, it isn’t the same. No, thank you: I will seek my delights in life and have no regrets that death will end them.”
Sanct-Franciscus touched her shoulder, his fingers moving lightly. “I would like to spend time with you again in eight days. I have other obligations that demand my attention, and you deserve time to yourself.”
“I’d rather have time with you,” said Melidulci.
“You may want such a thing now, but I fear in time you would grow jaded.” He was not quite serious, but there was a note of concern in his musical voice.
She lolled back on the pillows, baffled and teasing at once. “With the splendid things you do, with your generosity, with your—Very well. In time, yes, everyone grows jaded. In my work, I’ve seen it often. The sweetest rapture can pall, the most delectable dishes become dull to the palette: it is what makes death acceptable. Our wants and our fears are all worn out.” She pulled the sheet over her shoulder. “How have you contrived not to become wearied by life?”
He shook his head a little. “Ah, but I am not alive: I am undead.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Melidulci, stifling a yawn. “Pardon me.”
“You are sleepy, and no wonder,” said Sanct-Franciscus, sliding back from her. “You need rest. I’ll leave you to it.”
She reached for his hand. “I don’t mind being tired if you’re the cause.”
“But you and I will have so much more to share if both of us are rested.” He rolled onto his back, swung his legs over the bed and sat up. “You know what your response does for both of us.”
“You mean that your pleasure increases with mine, that you can have nothing I do not experience; I understand,” she said, sounding disappointed. “You’ve told me that before, and I will believe you, although you are the only man I have ever known who thought that.”
“I think it because it is true,” said Sanct-Franciscus, rising, then bending down to kiss her mouth. “I have what you have, and only what you have. Your passion is a precious gift.” His lips brushed hers.
As they broke apart, she closed her eyes in resignation and somnolence. “You’re probably right,” she said. “I will have to hold this past night in my memory until—”
“Eight days,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he found his peri and bent to put them on his feet; his feet, like his hands, were small and well-shaped. “I will send you word if there are any changes.”
“I will hope that means you will come sooner rather than later,” she murmured; she was already half-asleep, her breath slowing and deepening.
“You tempt me, Melidulci,” he said softly.
“Good,” she responded just above a whisper.
He left the room quietly pausing at the alcove of lares and household gods to leave a small topaz on the altar, then he nudged the dozing footman awake. “Make certain that all the locks are secure,” Sanct-Franciscus reminded the man. “Some beasts prowl by day as well as night.”
The man blinked and nodded as he pulled back the bolt to allow Sanct-Franciscus to leave. “Fortune and favor for you today, honestiorus.”
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus., flipping a denarius to the footman as he went out into the morning twilight, walking as quickly as he dared, unwilling to draw untoward attention to himself. Sunrise would come shortly; already he could hear the sounds of carts and wagons lumbering in to the fora: the law required them to unload the vehicles, then drive them outside the city walls to large paddocks for the day, which made the predawn morning on a market-day a busy time in the city. Sanct-Franciscus walked more swiftly through the tangle, never allowing himself to be distracted from his purpose in spite of the confusion of traffic bound for the city gates.
A small contingent of Watchmen patrolling the streets stopped him less than five streets from Melidulci’s house. “Where are you coming from and where are you bound?” asked the leader of the six men; they were armed with spears and daggers and short flagella.
“I am coming from the house of a friend and bound for the Temple of Hercules,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Without bodyguards?” The Watchman looked askance at him.
“At this hour, with you Watchmen about, I thought it would be safer to walk by myself than to attract attention to myself with an escort of four retired gladiators.” This was true enough. “Many thieves target men with bodyguards.”
The Watchmen chuckled, and one with a strong Aquitanian accent said, “Too bad more honestiora don’t think of that.”
“The same with their dwellings,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “They build on the Palatinus and the Capitolinus hills, with walled estates and many guards, then wonder why robbers know they have valuable possessions.”
The leader of the Watchmen actually laughed. “Right you are.”
Sanct-Franciscus could see the first, brilliant shaving of the sun emerging from behind the hills; he nodded to the Watchmen. “May I walk on?”
“Of course,” said the leader, smiling cordially. “Fortune and the gods bring you your desires.”
“Thank you; may Mars and Janus hold you safe.” As he said this, he held out three denarii. “For all of you.” While the Watchmen made approving sounds, Sanct-Franciscus strode briskly away. He was more than half-way back to Domina Clemens’ house when the sun lifted above the eastern horizon, poking long, brilliant fingers among the hills and houses of Roma. As he neared the Temple of Hercules, he saw a cluster of young men and women standing before it, hands raised, all praying loudly to the Christ. Among them he noticed Marius Octavian Laelius, a skimpy beard on his chin, his clothing ornamented with designs of fish. His whole body quaked with emotion, fervor in every lineament of his being. Stopping to watch them, Sanct-Franciscus was somewhat surprised when Octavian broke off his prayers and approached him.
“Why are you watching me?” he demanded.
“I was not specifically watching you,” said Sanct-Franciscus calmly. “I was observing your group.”
“If you aren’t watching me, what are you doing here?” His chin, with its sparse beginnings of a beard, came up.
“I live here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, nodding toward the gates of Domina Clemens’ house.
Octavian started to laugh and then thought better of it. “You do not—” The compelling look that Sanct-Franciscus directed at him silenced the challenge Octavian was about to deliver. “You should not live so near that temple; it is a vile, damned place,” he muttered.
“Are you afraid it will influence me: I thought your Christ is more powerful than any pagan god or demi-god, and protects the righteous,” Sanct-Franciscus said, irked by the presumptuous attitude of the young man.
“So long as they worship Him, He does. The rest, though virtuous, are damned.”
“So your faith is an appeal for clemency?” Sanct-Franciscus suggested.
Octavian bristled. “We must proclaim the one True God and His Son, and our Savior.”
“No doubt,” Sanct-Franciscus said, suddenly feeling very old.
“The Last Days are coming; all the signs foretell it. The world must make ready to be Judged, and as long as there are pagan temples for the adoration of pagan gods, the Last Judgment will be one of wrath, not mercy. Paul the Apostle warned us that Christ will return very soon, so conversion must happen shortly for those who would be saved.” He stood defiantly in front of Sanct-Franciscus, the shadow of the temple covering his face as the sun rose behind the hill on which it stood. “If we cannot bring redemption to all, then ours is forfeit.”
“Must the end come so quickly?” Sanct-Franciscus asked, amused and saddened at once.
“Yes, it must, or so prophecy has revealed: the Blessed Paul declared that God would return in the blink of an eye; day and night we must be ready. Day and night we must strive to be worthy of His Love. All those who seek Him may hope to be raised up to join Him in glory—the rest will be cast into outer darkness. Everyone must prepare. Everyone must come to the Christ, and the worship of the True God.” He touched the golden fish pectoral suspended on a leather thong around his neck. “The end will be upon us soon. No man may know the hour, but surely it will come.”
Sanct-Franciscus sighed. “You are certainly sincere, but I would think you would serve your god better by helping tend to your mother than to spend the night attempting to shame a Roman temple into conversion with your prayers.”
“That is not what we are doing,” said Octavian hotly.
“No? Then what might it be?” He held up his hand to keep Octavian from answering. “I know something of your religion; do not think I am not aware of its precepts.” He recalled the accounts of the preacher who had so offended the High Priest of the Temple in Jerusalem, proclaiming that each man was a temple unto himself. “It began as a Jewish sect, then gradually gathered Jewish, Greek, and Asianan converts, then other followers, to become a separate belief with sects of its own. Your sect within the group is the most stringent and condemnatory of those who do not agree with your faith or your interpretation of your faith: there are other sects within the Christian faithful whose beliefs and practices are less intrusive, but equally as sincere.”
“The others are misled and a disgrace for the Christ, Who died to redeem all mankind.” Octavian folded his arms.
“The same is believed of Mithras, and many others.” Sanct-Franciscus shook his head once. “You will say that such gods are lies—only yours is true. And the others would say the same of your tenets.” He gave Octavian a long stare. “Go home, Octavian. Tend to your mother, help your sister. This will not spare the world anything, and it will bring you no nearer to salvation than any other man.”
“So you say! You disbeliever!
Blasphemer!
”
Sanct-Franciscus was about to turn away, but he stopped to give Octavian one last remark. “I believe to the extent that I know a man may rise from the dead, but I know also that rising does not make him a god.” He had been told much the same thing when he was young and alive—that he would become one with the gods of his people, but over his two millennia of vampiric life, he had realized that was not the case, that undead existence was not divinity no matter how long he continued in that state.