In another two days, Saturnalia would begin, and Roma, for all the cold winds that frisked along its streets and fora, was vibrant with the coming celebration. With the weather clear and cold, many Romans took to the streets to make the most of the few market-days, anticipating the forthcoming festivities. On order of the Emperor, yellow ribbons flew from upper windows and galleries, invitations for the sun to return. A faint pall of wood-smoke hung over the city from the thousands of holocausts stoked to capacity in order to warm Roman houses. The dark of the year had come, and a few Romans still hung burning oil-lamps in their windows all day and all night long, as had been done in Roma five centuries ago, a custom borrowed from the Etruscans, and an observance that flooded Sanct-Franciscus’ memories with the festivals at the Winter Solstice among his own, long-vanished people; in his breathing days, the end of the year and the anniversary of his own birth were heralded together in the stone fortress at the crest of the Carpathian Mountains, many centuries before the survivors had made their way west.
“So long ago,” Sanct-Franciscus said aloud in his native tongue as he drove his biga carefully through the tumultuous streets, avoiding places where large numbers of people had congregated, and dark lanes where there could be trouble from some of the wandering gangs of robbers, now operating without fear of consequences, for all the Urban Guard had been ordered to protect the homes of the wealthy, and the Watch had been reduced in numbers due to another round of devaluation of coins. He reached the Villa Laelius in good time, given the route he had taken, handed the biga over to Philius, and approached the door. Using the bell to summon someone to admit him, he once again checked his case of medicaments, then pulled his Persian wool lacerna around himself as the wind picked up again.
“Enter, enter,” said Starus as he flung the door open. “Enter and welcome. Right foot,” he added automatically.
Crossing the threshold as ordered, Sanct-Franciscus took a moment to speak with Starus as soon as the steward had bolted the door. “How is Domina Adicia?” He removed his lacerna, revealing his black-wool dalmatica and bracae beneath.
“She fares poorly, I fear,” said Starus.
“In what way?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired, trying not to press the old man, but wanting to know what he would be dealing with in a short while.
“Her breathing is noisy,” he said slowly, “and her color is pasty, more than usual. Her legs have become swollen and her feet are mottled reddish.”
“How swollen?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“I couldn’t say—I haven’t seen them; this is what Benona tells me,” Starus said, shocked by the suggestion that he would see so noble a woman’s unshod feet. “She is lethargic—which she has been before, but not so listless as she is now—and there is a strange odor about her, meaty and sweet.”
“I see,” Sanet-Franciscus said, doing his best to conceal the gravity this information caused; he regarded Starus directly. “I left two vials and a powder for her. How much has been used as her restorative?”
“Not much,” Starus said, eyes downcast. “She will not allow Doma Ignatia near her, nor any unproven slave, so only Benona is welcome in her chamber, and Benona is worn out with caring for her. Benona does the best she can, but she cannot read the instructions you left for Doma Ignatia, and she is left with what she remembers, which she fears may not be correct.” He flung up his hands. “Octavian, who could at least read your orders for Benona, is off with his fellow-Christians; he says he cannot stay in a house contaminated by sin, and that prayers will help his mother more than nostrums. He says only the fire of faith will cleanse the house, and that for the honor of his gens, he must not enter here again until the sin is gone. He claims the house stinks of shame, and wants nothing but his property out of it, as if sin were like smoke-fumes and would cling to everything. He will not listen to anyone about his mother.”
“Interesting,” said Sanct-Franciscus, “but not particularly useful. The Senate did Domina Adicia no service when they confined Doma Ignatia to this house yet forbade her to approach her mother.”
“That may be, but Domina Laelius asked for such a ruling, and we must respect it,” said Starus in a dispirited way. “Her brother is going to send a personal slave to Domina Laelius, but for now, only Benona is—” He stopped as he saw a door open at the far end of the corridor.
Ignatia stepped out of her chambers, her manner both diffident and defiant. “I must have a word with you, Sanct-Franciscus,”she called out.
“That wouldn’t be wise, Doma,” Starus said before Sanct-Franciscus could speak. “The Senate has ordered that you receive no one—”
“I will be glad to leave my door open, or talk in the atrium, whichever suits you best,” she said, paying no heed to Starus but putting all her attention on Sanct-Franciscus. “I must speak with you. It is important. I’ll wait in the atrium.” With that, she went toward the atrium, her paenula gathered around her; she left the door to her chambers half-open.
Starus looked down at the floor, grumbling, “As soon as Saturnalia is over, Doma Ignatia is to go to her uncle’s estate, away from Roma, in Asisium. It is the only thing Domina Laelius is willing to accept for her.” He stopped. “I ought not to let you speak to Doma Ignatia, but—”
“I will join her in the atrium when I am finished tending to Domina Adicia,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You may observe our conversation, if you think it prudent.” The household spies would be sure to keep watch in any case, he assumed.
Relieved, Starus nodded. “The Senate believes it is necessary to protect Domina Laelius, and she agrees. As her steward and her slave, I must acquiesce in her desires. Come with me, honestiorus Sanct-Franciscus,” he said formally, escorting him along the familiar route to Adicia’s rooms. “I am sorry, but I must remain with you while you deal with Domina Laelius.”
“In order to assure the Senate that nothing surreptitious has occurred : I know,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I thank you for your concern.”
Starus looked away. “I wish I could do something … more.”
They reached the door to Domina Adicia’s room, where they paused. “What would that be?”
“I don’t know,” Starus admitted. “But it would be more just than what we have now.”
Sanct-Franciscus regarded Starus for a short while. “I will need hot honied water and a clean cloth. Will you have someone bring it to Domina Adicia’s quarters?”
“Yes, of course,” said Starus. “If you will wait while I attend to that, I will be able to do as I have been commanded.” He touched his collar as a reminder of his duties. “I have the household to maintain properly.”
“Of course,” said Sanct-Franciscus, glancing toward the opposite door, just now standing ajar. “That is Octavian’s room, is it not?”
“It is. Beyond it, facing the other corridor, across from Doma Ignatia’s, is Domina Adicia’s brother’s quarters, for when he visits here, just opposite Doma Ignatia’s …” His voice trailed off as he turned and made his way toward the back of the house. “I apologize for the odor; the holocaust is filled to capacity, and the whole house smells of burning.”
“As does most of Roma. No doubt Octavian approves.” Sanct-Franciscus lingered at Domina Adicia’s door, thinking over what he had been told, and liking none of the thoughts racing in his head. There was no question that Adicia was failing, that her veins were weakening, that her body was beginning its final surrender to the illness that had plagued her for so long. He wondered how much he should tell her, or her family, and decided to make no decision until he had examined her for himself. He was so sunk in contemplation that he did not hear Starus return, and was surprised when the old slave tapped his arm.
“The honied water will be brought as soon as it’s warmed,” said Starus, handing him a folded cotton cloth. “This should serve your purpose.”
“Very good,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I will do what I may to treat your mistress.” With that he opened the door and entered Domina Adicia’s chamber, where he was at once struck by the scent Starus had mentioned, strong enough to be noticed over the pervasive smell of charring wood, and knew that time was growing short for her; another month or two, and her body would finally fail.
“Sanct-Franciscus,” said Adicia, reaching up from the bed; her hands were thin and crabbed as talons and her voice rasped as she attempted to raise it above a whisper. “It is … good of you … to come.”
“Domina Adicia,” said Sanct-Franciscus, his tone respectful. “I am sorry to see you are not thriving.”
“As if I could … at this stage … of my life.” She did her best to smile at him, but her countenance had a dazed look about it, and it was apparent that she was having difficulty seeing him clearly.
He took her hand in his, noting that her pulse was rapid and her breathing, for all her effort, shallow. “I will give you a soporific, so that you may rest more comfortably, and something to lessen the swelling in your feet.”
From her seat next to the window, Benona stared at Sanct-Franciscus, astonished that he should speak so immodestly. She sat more upright on her stool and glared at him. “Mind what you say,” she muttered.
“I say what I must as a physician,” Sanct-Franciscus told Benona without turning to face her. “I am going to make a preparation for you, Domina, and I want you to drink as much of it as you can as soon as the honied hot water I have asked for is delivered. Do not make yourself uncomfortable, but be unstinting in consuming it.”
“More potions,” grumbled Adicia. “At least I don’t have … to endure my … daughter fussing over me.”
“Your daughter’s fussing, as you call it,” Sanct-Franciscus said evenly, “has done you a great deal of good.”
“She has you … ensorcelled. All men need … is a young woman … to tell them any lie. You believe … what she … what she …” Coughing stopped her from saying anything more.
“You are too severe, Domina Adicia,” he said, knowing it was useless.
“My daughter is … a disgrace to her … gens!” Adicia was panting with effort.
Ignoring this outburst, Sanct-Franciscus said, “I am going to have Benona wash your feet and legs, and then I will have a look at them, so that I will know for myself how great your problem is, and what I should recommend for its relief.”
Benona stood up, her body rigid with shock at this most improper intention. “Is it necessary? May I not tell you what I have seen, and leave it at that?”
“If you want my medicaments to provide real relief, I must know for myself with what I am dealing.” He stepped back. “I will not impose upon your mistress, or you, but I must do this.” Already he was planning to provide a paste of juniper berries to be taken with boiled mint. “For her next meal, I hope she will have celery root cooked with asparagus and savory.”
“I dislike celery root,” said Adicia.
“Perhaps,” said Sanct-Franciscus, opening his case and taking out his supplies. “But for the sake of your feet, I want you to have it every day for six days.”
“Hideous,” said Adicia, batting at the air. “The holocaust … will have to be … cleaned—the smoke … is everywhere.”
From the rear of the house there came excited voices, some raised, others more quiet. After a brief flurry of shouts, the disruption ceased.
“Pay them no heed,” Sanct-Franciscus said calmly. “If your attention is needed, Starus will tell you.” He nodded to the steward. “Find out why there is a commotion. So your mistress will not fret.”
“You should not be left alone with Domina Laelius,” said Starus. “The Senate would disapprove.”
“I am not alone: Benona is here.” He touched Adicia’s forehead, remarking, “You are a bit over-warm, Domina.”
“I feel cold,” she countered, coughing at the end. “And my chest … is tight.” She frowned at Benona. “She … doesn’t do … anything.”
“All the more reason to get something warm into you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, continuing to prepare his medicaments.
Adicia stared at him. “All right. If I must.”
“Go to the window, away from the Domina’s bed,” said Starus. “Let Benona do as you have ordered. I will have water for washing brought here.” He went out into the corridor, keeping the door open so that he could observe Sanct-Franciscus; he clapped his hands: Rea answered his summons.
“I am tired of … the smell of smoke,” said Adicia. “It seems … to grow stronger every … hour.”
“Because the night is coming and the air is colder,” said Sanct-Franciscus, but he noticed that Adicia was right, and that troubled him.
Starus came back into the room, and closed the door again. “Rea tells me that Octavian came to the stable to get his horse, but would not see his mother. He ventured only as far as the kitchens. A few of the household were ordered to help him to gather his things.”
“That is certainly petty of him,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If he has his mother’s interests at heart, he would visit her, if only to learn for himself how she is doing.”
Starus shook his head and stifled a sneeze. “I should not speak against him, but he has become so arbitrary in his conduct, claiming that his religion requires him to avoid this house out of shame.”