She made a kind of scoffing sound, but held out her hand for the cup Sanct-Franciscus proffered, half-filled with almond-milk and the powders and tinctures he had mixed into it. “I had better feel improvement, or I will bar you from this house. You mustn’t fail me now.” There was a note of terror in her command.
He was adding pansy-and-willow to the cup of water, and so said nothing to her in response to her threat; he gave the cup to the slave and then helped steady Adicia’s shoulders so that she could have a few little sips of the almond-milk without spilling any on the coverlet. When she shoved the cup back into his hand, he set it on the tray again, and began to put his jars and vials back in his case. Watching her for a short while, he ventured to hand the cup to her again, and held her in the bend of his arm to ease her swallowing. “Lie back now; let the medicine work.”
She did as she was told, frowning as she settled into the pile of pillows. “You won’t leave yet.”
“No,” he assured her. “If you have no trouble with what I have given you, I will take a turn in your garden, then return to check on you. If you are asleep, I will let you rest; if you are awake, I will prepare more of the draught for you.”
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “Just see you do not go.”
“I will not,” he said, turning toward the slave. “If you have relief from the drink, I will provide you with more.”
She blinked twice at being addressed, then said, “Grateful. I am grateful.”
Sanct-Franciscus indicated Domina Adicia. “Your mistress will need your close attention for the next hour or two. Stay beside her and watch for any changes in her. If she asks for water, let her have a little of the drink I have prepared, but not much. If she has not cast up any of the almond-milk, then give her water after dawn.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I will ask the cook to send up another pitcher for her—of water with a little salt and honey in it. That will slake her thirst once she is able to drink safely, and give her strength.”
The slave stared at him, nodding repeatedly.
He moved away from the bedside, motioning to the woman to follow him. “If she starts to sweat, keep her warm until the fever is out of her. She is not so heated that she needs to be chilled, and a chill could delay her recovery.”
Again the woman nodded.
“And I’ll make more anodyne solution for you, that you may take later,” he told her, then said to Adicia, “Domina, I am going to give you a little time to rest. I’ll return to see how you are doing a bit later.”
“Don’t leave the house,” Adicia said sharply.
“I will not go farther than your garden,” said Sanct-Franciscus, making for the door, aware that both women were watching him closely.
Starus was waiting not far away; he studied the foreigner with a mixture of hope and dubiety. “Welh?”
“I think she will improve in time, but right now she is losing strength, and that is a dangerous development,” said Sanct-Franciscus, keeping his voice low. “I have provided her a drink to help her husband what strength she has and to lower the fever that burns in her.”
“She isn’t doing well, is she?” Starus dared to ask. “You think the danger is—?”
“I think it is real,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “She could decline still further, and that would not be favorable. But she is not beyond recovery.” He passed the steward and went along the corridor to the door leading into the garden at the rear of the house, where the scent of ripe fruit overpowered the odors from the stable and the city beyond the walls. He stood for a long moment, thinking back to the garden at Olivia’s father’s house, where he had sought refuge after the deaths of Kosrozd, Tishtry, and Aumtehoutep, and the succor she had provided then; he savored the memory, then reminded himself that Olivia was one of his blood now. With a slight shrug, he went toward the fountain at the intersection of three well-tended walkways, his night-seeing eyes having no trouble locating Ignatia among the pear trees. As he went toward her, she swung around to face him.
“Will she die?” The question was so blunt it surprised them both.
Sanct-Franciscus answered calmly, “Yes, as all living things will. But not just yet.”
She sighed. “I don’t want her to die.” She took hold of the branch of the tree under which she stood, half-swinging from it as if to hold herself away from the house. “She is not easy to care for, but she is my mother, and if she dies now, everyone will say it’s my fault.”
He stared at her, aware of her anguish and confusion. “You must know that is untrue,” he said, trying to comfort her.
“No,” she countered. “No, I wouldn’t know it. It might be that I—”
“You have done nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, taking another step closer to her. “You have done all anyone can, and more than most would.”
“My mother doesn’t think so,” said Ignatia, her voice forlorn.
“That is her illness, not her heart, speaking,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Myrtale says the same.”
“If Myrtale wishes to assume Domina Ignatia’s care herself, then she has grounds for criticism: if she is not willing to do that, then she is also in no position to fault you.” He offered his hand to her, and reluctantly, she released her hold on the branch and put her palm on his. “You must not take these things to heart, Doma Ignatia.”
A faint stirring of wind made the leaves shiver above them; the sodden heat seemed to lessen with the promise of a breeze.
“I hope the weather will break,” she said, staring up through the leaves at the stars. “If this still heat would end, everything would be better.”
“There would be fewer mosquitos,” he said, knowing how these voracious pests set upon Roma every summer.
“Everyone has welts on their arms,” she said, a strange note in her voice.
“Such bites are nuisances, and may incline many to take fevers,” he said, puzzled by her slight distraction. “What did you wish to see me about, Doma Ignatia?”
“I … I want reassurance … or comfort,” she said distantly.
“You may have both,” he said, “to the limit I can provide them.”
“And that is a welcome thing,” she agreed with a quick, unsteady laugh; his nearness was taking a toll on her, and she wondered how much longer she could endure his presence without making a fool of herself. She started to speak to him, to ask what he recommended for her mother’s care, but to her astonishment, embraced him instead, straining to hold him to her, trying clumsily to kiss him.
Startled by her abrupt action, Sanct-Franciscus remained still as he sensed the need in her; then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and steadied her kisses to one that was long, exploring, arousing, answering her ardor with an intensity that surprised him: here was what he had sought for so long—passion that was more than the gratification of an evening’s fancy. He felt the promise of intimacy in her urgent desire, and responded to it with fervor, taking her head in his hands so that he could help her to savor the inscience of their flesh.
“Sanct-Franciscus … I don’t …” As her grip on him lessened, she gave herself over to his lips, the depths of her captivation seeming to increase with every touch, every place their bodies aligned. For an instant, she wished their clothes were on fire, so that nothing could impede their contact, that they could lie amid the last flowers of summer, naked and rapturous, but that faded at the sudden sound of chariot-wheels beyond the walls of the garden. She shoved his shoulder, forcing him back from her. “It must be … Octavian,” she said, sounding breathless and disoriented. “He mustn’t … not together … He would disapprove …” She struggled to neaten her clothes, aware now that she was in disarray, that her hair was mussed, and that some part of him must linger on her, a tell-tale stamp of their lubricity. Doing as much as she could to calm herself, Ignatia took three unsteady steps away from Sanct-Franciscus. “I … I should go in.”
“Ignatia—” he began.
She stopped and held out her hand to touch him one more time, her eyes meeting his in the dark. “This isn’t over, Sanct-Franciscus,” she vowed before she continued on toward the fountain and the path leading back to the house.
Text of a letter from Telemachus Batsho to Septimus Desiderius Vulpius.
On this, the 4
th
day of September in the 972
nd
Year of the City, the decuria Telemachus Batsho charges the honestiorus Septimus Desiderius Vulpius to give full and immediate answers to the following questions, with the admonishment that failure to answer in every particular may well result in action being taken against the honestiorus. These questions are in regard to the foreign honestiorus Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, to wit:
1.
Has the honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus ever sought to entrust gold or jewels to the honestiorus Vulpius for any reason? If he has done so, what was his stated purpose?
2.
Is the honestiorus Vulpius aware of any irregularities in the honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus’ household? If he is, what are those irregularities?
3.
The foreign honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus is known to practice healings and other medicinal skills, apparently with considerable success: is the honestiorus Vulpius aware of any cases in which those skills proved lacking, or for which he demanded excessive payment?
4.
Does the honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus have any ties of loyalty to governments presently opposed to Roma or any part of the Empire? If he does, to what extent does he support our enemies?
This inquiry is the first of what may be many into the activities of this Sanct-Franciscus. You are advised to say nothing of this to the foreign honestiorus; should you bring this to his attention, a similar inquiry may be instigated against you and all your gens.
Ave Heliogabalus!
Bonar Datus Fabricius stood in the doorway of Sanct-Franciscus’ study, Aedius immediately behind him. He cleared his throat and tugged on the sleeve of his forest-green pallium of Armenian wool, his manner suggesting he had no liking for his errand here. “I thank you for permitting me to visit you this way, honestiorus. I am sorry, but I am going to intrude on your hospitality still further: Verus Lucillius will join us shortly.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to find Lucillius blowing into the house on the gusty September wind.
“Dear me,” Sanct-Franciscus said serenely; he was seated at his writing table, a sheet of vellum lying before him, a stylus and ink-cake to his right; he presented a fine appearance: his black dalmatica was embroidered in silver and dark red down the center of the garment in an array of interlocking winged disks, and he wore but a single piece of jewelry—a silver ring of the same eclipse design as distinguished his garment, with a black sapphire at its center. He smiled as he rose. “I am honored by your presence, as I will be by Lucillius’,” he said as good manners required. “But—you will pardon me—I am also somewhat nonplussed.”
“I understand why you might wonder at my coming, seeing that we have only met once, and that was at Saturnalia. I know this makes my presence now seem importunate.” He took a step into the room, his face somber. “I would have sent a messenger, but I feared he might take too long to reach you.”
“Therefore I must suppose your errand has some urgency to it?”
“Alas,” Fabricius confirmed.
“Then tell me what has brought you here, if you can do so without Lucillius. I have an engagement to visit Desiderius Vulpius in an hour, and cannot spare too much time just at present.” Sanct-Franciscus’ manner was genial but not apologetic. “I trust this will not inconvenience you or Lucillius?”
“That is one of the matters that concerns us—your appointment with our friend.” He ducked his head and tried not to appear as awkward as he felt. “It would be better for him and for you if you didn’t keep it.”
“Ah,” said Sanct-Franciscus, the first awareness of Fabricius’ intention making him more attentive. “Perhaps you had best choose a seat, illustriatus, and I will send my steward to get refreshments for you, while you explain as much of this as you are able,” said Sanct-Franciscus, then, without waiting for a response from Fabricius, turned to Aedius. “Bring breads and wine, and with them whatever savory is proper for the hour. Another guest will arrive shortly, and sustenance should be provided for him as well as for this illustriatus.”
Fabricius hesitated, waiting until Aedius was gone. “I cannot promise that you will wish me to remain once I tell you the reason for my visit. I know that what I must impart will not be greeted with delight.”
There was a slight, enigmatic smile in Sanct-Franciscus’ eyes, and his tone had an ironic edge. “You fear I would kill the messenger?”
“Something of the sort, yes,” said Fabricius, edging toward an elegant couch. “But if you would not mind?”
Sanct-Franciscus made a gesture between a salute and an invitation. “When you are comfortable, tell me what is your purpose in coming here, if you would.”
“It concerns Desiderius Vulpius,” said Fabricius.
“So I surmised,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his affability unruffled.
“There are events taking place that may prove difficult for you, and for your friends,” said Fabricius, and stopped as if afraid to go on.
“How do you mean? What is the difficulty these events pose?” Sanct-Franciscus shifted in his chair so that he almost faced Fabricius directly.
“There are questions being asked about you, at a very high level,” said Fabricius. “A very high level,” he repeated for emphasis.
“Why should I not be flattered by such attention,” he asked as if he had no sense of the possibilities this notoriety could mean.
“Questions of this sort don’t praise or benefit you,” said Fabricius testily.
“What are they?” Sanct-Franciscus kept his voice level and his gaze trained on Fabricius.
“I am not truly at liberty to tell you, not as you should be told, and must wait a bit longer to discuss all that—When Lucillius arrives, we will be able to present you with our observations,” Fabricius acknowledged; his expression was changing from stern to regretful.
“If you can say nothing to the point, how am I to learn what is suspected?”
“The decuriae will handle the matter once your role in the matter in question is established,” said Fabricius. “In the meantime, your friends will be under the same cloud that hangs over you.”
“About which you cannot tell me,” Sanct-Franciscus said.
“No; none of us are permitted to tell you what the nature of the investigation is. We must report only what we know. If we speculate, we can be cited for it.”
Sanct-Franciscus was silent while he considered his predicament, then asked, “How am I to diminish the danger to my friends if I am uninformed of the government’s suspicions? I could easily, and inadvertently, implicate my Roman friends and associates in my danger if I have—”
“Three of your friends have been admonished to have no contact with you, which is why I am here, and Lucillius is coming.” A spot of color appeared in his face, as if his admission were embarrassing.
“You are deputies, in effect,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You make it possible for Vulpius not to expose himself by visiting me. By coming in his stead, you are sparing him any greater trouble.”
“That is what we hope to achieve,” Fabricius admitted. “This is not how I would deal with such matters, but it is what Vulpius has asked, and I have many ties to him, as well as the tie of friendship. I could not refuse him this favor.” He coughed once, as if to show his disapproval.
“Then you are a worthy friend, to do such kindness for Desiderius Vulpius,” said Sanct-Franciscus, only a suggestion of wry amusement in his compliment. “I am grateful to you for your undertaking.”
Fabricius blinked in surprise at this remark. “You are most gracious; this news must be unpleasant for you.”
“Yes, it is, but I am not astonished by it,” Sanct-Franciscus said, recollecting the many times in the past that his presence had become suddenly unwelcome, and the quick shift in loyalties that had accompanied his falls from positions of influence. “Exiles all know what it is to be at peril.”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose you would,” Fabricius said, and looked up as Aedius brought in a tray and the news that Pius Verus Lucillius had arrived.
“Bring him here,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking note of all that was on the tray. “A fine selection: the chopped apples in honey are a good touch.”
“I’ll tell the kitchen staff,” said Aedius as he left the two men alone again.
“Would you like to pour the wine? There is red and white: you may choose whichever you prefer,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Thank you,” said Fabricius, his voice dropping and his demeanor becoming more relaxed; he reached for the white wine and poured a generous amount into his cup. “What will you have?”
“Alas, I do not drink wine,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “It is a condition of my blood.”
“How unfortunate,” said Fabricius, more from good form than actual concern; all foreigners had idiosyncrasies, and Sanct-Franciscus, cultured though he was, was no exception to that rule. “I trust you have other means to satisfy your thirst?” Fabricius did not wait for an answer, and expected none; he put two rolled-and skewered strips of lamb stuffed with herbs and garlic on the small plate provided for such use, and then took a pillow-bread from the basket, licking his fingers before he reached for the tub of mixed butter and olive oil. “This is a most satisfactory repast. You observe our ways better than most Romans.”
“You are good to say so,” Sanct-Franciscus told him as he rose to greet Lucillius.
“I see you have that thief working for you,” Lucillius remarked as he entered the study; he was a bit windblown, the deep, shoulder-pleats of his calf-length, rust-colored pallium hanging in disarray. Tugging at his belt, he attempted to restore order to his appearance.
“Yes; he is a very useful messenger,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his calm unchanged. “You are welcome to this house.”
“A bad business, this,” said Lucillius, his demeanor serious, his voice roughened by worry. “Enough to want me to return to the provinces again, away from the schemes and workings of Roma.”
“I would be pleased to send for a mirror, if you like,” Sanct-Franciscus offered as Lucillius continued to wrestle with his pallium.
“I think this will do for now,” said Lucillius, glancing at the tray. “Lamb and crab. Very nice.” He sat down on the Phoenician chair next to the table and poured himself a cup of red wine. “Excellent color. Where do you get it?”
“From the north; from a vineyard southwest of Florentia.” Sanct-Franciscus knew that Lucillius was not being rude, but was trying to avoid the moment when he would have to address the reason for his visit. “The Widow Clemens owns that vineyard, as she owns this house.”
“One of the provident women,” Lucillius approved, picking up three morsels of crab and then taking some of the butter-and-oil with the small scoop provided. “And pillow-bread.” With this to sustain him, he finally looked directly at Sanct-Franciscus. “I suppose Fabricius has told you the reason for our calling?”
“He said that there are inquiries being made into my affairs that may reflect badly on my friends and associates here in Roma,” Sanct-Franciscus said, adding to Fabricius, “That about sums it up, or have I missed some item of importance?” He saw Fabricius nod while he ate.
“I think you have grasped the essence,” said Fabricius through his chewing.
“You’re an astute fellow, Sanct-Franciscus,” Lucillius approved. “And it pains me to see you in such a predicament, but I fear that just at present, it can’t be helped.”
“Because I am a foreigner and cannot challenge the Senate’s authority,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Such is the state of affairs,” said Lucillius. “And I can only hope that there will be a speedy resolution to this situation, for all our sakes, but I am afraid your contract with Propinus and Gratians has been declared void. With the decuriae investigating, it could be weeks, or months, until the matter is wholly put to rest.” He took a generous sip of wine. “I think it is all overblown fussiness, but in these times, we cannot afford to have enemies in our midst.”
“Certainly not,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“And while this may appear unfair to you, as a foreigner, you must understand that we Romans are in the toils of intrigue on many fronts.” He drank again. “There are barbarians beyond our borders who are jealous of our Empire, and would seek to destroy it. So the decuriae have been charged with the task of revealing those working against us while living among us.”
“Do you think that Sanct-Franciscus should file a petition to have the inquiry quashed?” Fabricius asked as he reached for more lamb.
“No. I fear that would only compromise him further.” said Lucillius, his attention on their host. “You have done business with many Romans, haven’t you?”
“I have, but most of them are associates only, hardly companions,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“But a petition would force an answer from the Curia,” said Fabricius.
Lucillius glowered. “If anything, attempting to press the Curia would make the problems worse, for it could be assumed that he was seeking to conceal his dealings, which would put everyone at a disadvantage, including his most distant affiliates. The Curia will not be adjured in that manner. Now is the time when, as a foreigner, he must be forthcoming and candid, making no effort to engage others in his predicament, for honestiorus or not, he is a foreigner, and that will count against him.” He cleared his throat. “So far, none of Sanct-Franciscus’ business records have been confiscated, but they could be, and then everyone would have more trouble to deal with.”
“You mean, there would be further inquiries among those who share in his business?” Fabricius was so transparent in the rehearsed nature of his questions that Sanct-Franciscus almost laughed aloud.
“That would be the least of it,” said Lucillius, still watching Sanct-Franciscus. “If any part of his business practices are questionable, the impact on his associates could be devastating.”
“So I understand,” said Sanct-Franciscus, stopping Lucillius before he could launch into more of his disguised exhortations. “And I may reassure you that there is no reason for anyone with whom I have business dealings to fear that I have not observed the proprieties and the law in all I have done.”
Lucillius shook his head. “There was the matter of a slave in Alexandria—”
“If you mean Perseus, you know he was stealing from me, and from those in business with me. It is all in the records of the Prosecutor of Customs.” He regarded Lucillius for a moment, then went on, “If someone is hoping to hold me to blame for my own losses, I will own myself astonished.”
Fabricius refilled his cup and said before taking refuge in drinking, “It is being said that the thefts were a clever ruse, to make it appear that you had been put at a disadvantage when you had not.”