Earlier that day the report had reached Brundisium that a pair of pirate ships were prowling the coast south of Hydruntum; merchant-ships remained in port while a well-armed bireme set out to hunt them down; the port city was filled with apprehension, for pirates damaged more than business—their depredations claimed lives. Along the docks, sailors and oarsmen alike waited and exchanged gossip, and watched the increasingly choppy waves stamp against the docks, having nothing more they could do on this sultry day at the beginning of September.
From his room in the merchants’ inn near the waterfront, Sanct-Franciscus gazed out the window and remarked to Rugeri, “We will have another thunderstorm this afternoon. It may favor the pirates if the bireme does not find them.”
“The storm looks likely,” said Rugeri. “The horizon is black with clouds.”
“And the wind is rising steadily,” Sanct-Franciscus added indifferently as he turned away from the window to look directly at Rugeri. “The air is already buzzing.” He rubbed his wrists where his skin remained taut and oddly thin; his face was no longer hideous to see, but it had a curiously unfinished look, with most of the lines so faint they might have been sketched in charcoal on parchment. He was dressed in a black linen chandys, its long, tapering sleeves ornamented with black embroidery of phoenixes; the garment was new, delivered by the needlewoman five days ago, just as Sanct-Franciscus was preparing to leave Villa Ragoczy in a covered carpentum, filled with chests containing his native earth. “We will be here tonight, and probably a portion of tomorrow as well.”
“Captain Bion will hold the
Pleiades
ready as long as you require.” Rugeri knew Sanct-Franciscus well enough to see the profound exhaustion beneath his unperturbed demeanor. “You have time to rest, to prepare for a voyage.”
“Travel over water,” said Sanct-Franciscus with distaste.
“We will be in Alexandria in no more than twenty days, so Captain Bion vows,” said Rugeri, offering what encouragement he could.
“Make sure two chests of my native earth are in my cabin, or I will go into the hold.”
Rugeri paused awkwardly, then plunged ahead. “If you find someone to visit in sleep tonight, you may spend most of our journey with your native earth, where you can restore yourself. You need not bear the full discomfort of crossing running water.”
“And tides are surely running water,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Tides cross seas and oceans in their running.”
“As much as any river or drain.” He waited for Sanct-Franciscus to speak, and when he said nothing, Rugeri added, “It breaks your contact with the earth, or so you say.”
“Captain Bion once made the voyage from Alexandria to Ostia in ten days—did he tell you?” Sanct-Franciscus remarked.
“Several times,” said Rugeri, rather drily. “But he also told me it was not at this time of year.”
“Thunderstorms,” said Sanct-Franciscus distantly. “Rain in the streets. More running water.”
“Unpleasant for you, I know,” said Rugeri. “I have your pluvial ready, if you have need of it.”
“Thank you, old friend: I will tell you if I do,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He looked back toward the window again. “Do you think Hebseret has received my letter yet?”
“It is more than a month since it was sent,” Rugeri reminded him. “I think it likely that he has.”
Sanct-Franciscus nodded. “Truly.”
“They will tend to you, my master. The Priests of Imhotep will consider it an honor to have the care of you. You will finally heal.”
“I would do that in any case, eventually.” Sanct-Franciscus laid his hand on his abdomen, over the scars there. He sighed. “But you are right—in their hands I will do so more quickly, and it will be less questionable when the scars from the fire finally vanish.”
“You are certain they will vanish?” Rugeri could not keep from asking.
“Do not doubt me, old friend,” Sanct-Franciscus recommended with a softening of his tone. “Worse than this has happened, and no trace remains.”
“No trace but your memories,” Rugeri corrected sadly.
“My memories,” Sanct-Franciscus repeated. “Indeed.”
A sudden shout from the street below announced the arrival of three small fishing boats laden with their catch; activity erupted along the quay as handcarts pushed by slaves, freemen, and vendors converged on the lowest dock where the small boats tied up; some of the vendors were already shouting what they were willing to pay for the fish as they attempted to beat the competition to the boats.
“I hope the rest of the fleet is in,” said Rugeri. “It won’t be safe to make for the harbor in another hour.”
“I would not like to ride out this storm at sea, even if I did not suffer on water.” Sanct-Franciscus reached into his wallet for a handful of coins. “So you may choose what you prefer for your evening meal.”
“I have a plucked pheasant waiting for me already. The cook has made a sauce for it—not liquamen, but something with ground nuts and sweet onions. I will wait until the cooks are busy at the spits, and then I will eat; they would not like to see me devour a raw bird, with or without sauce.” He was able to smile a little.
“No; very likely not.” Sanct-Franciscus tapped his fingers together. “I ought to write to Olivia, so she will know what has happened. Perhaps tonight, when the city is asleep, and I will entrust it to a private courier in the morning. I have done all I can to secure her possessions, including her house in Roma, but she will have to inform a decuria in Roma of her intentions for the house.”
“She will appreciate a word from you,” said Rugeri with a singular lack of inflection.
“Meaning she will berate me,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a ghost of a smile. “I expect no less of her.”
Rugeri took a long, thoughtful pause. “If you have everything ready you wish loaded onto the
Pleiades
, tell me, and your possessions will be carried on board this evening, so that if all goes well, we may leave promptly when the weather clears.”
“A good notion,” said Sanct-Franciscus without shifting his stare from the window, although what he saw was many days and many thousands of paces distant. “I hope Ursinus lived.”
“So that he can identify you to the Urban Guard?” Rugeri asked more crisply than he had intended.
“No; so that—” He stopped and went on more urbanely, “—so that none of my friends need suffer on my account.”
As much as Rugeri wondered what Sanct-Franciscus had been going to say, he held his tongue. Instead, he patted the thin mattress atop a sturdy leather chest. “Are you going to nap, my master?”
“Perhaps, a little later,” said Sanct-Franciscus. He came back from the window, his expression impenetrable. “I will be gone for a while—probably until sunset. If the rain becomes heavy before then, I will return, or I will wait until it is over. In either case, do not fret.”
Perplexed and concerned, Rugeri said, “While you’re out, I’ll get your chests and crates ready for Captain Bion.”
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking his pluvial off the back of the single chair in the room. “This, so I will be prepared.”
“Of course,” said Rugeri as he stepped back, allowing Sanct-Franciscus to pass.
As Sanct-Franciscus descended to the street level, he paid little attention to the noise coming from the tavern next to the inn, or to the men gathered outside at the docks, waiting for news of the pirates. He made his way back from the harbor into the tangle of streets. He walked aimlessly, ignoring vendors of trinkets and food, and small gaggles of artfully ragged children shouting for coins. Gradually the shops, brothels, insulae, and thermopolia gave way to wider streets and walled houses with impressive colonnades and iron-strapped doors. Overhead the sky darkened and the first, distant drubbing of thunder sounded; color vanished, and everything looked ochre and slate. Anticipating a downpour, Sanct-Franciscus pulled his pluvial over his head and kept on, almost enjoying the ache in his skin from his exercise.
“You. Foreigner,” said a voice from a side-door of a handsome villa.
Sanct-Franciscus stopped and looked toward the voice. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the city gate,” said Sanct-Franciscus, moving forward to see the speaker.
“The storm’s coming. You better find shelter.” The child was about eight, in a silk tunica and with red-leather calcea on his feet; by his appearance, he was a son of the Dominus.
“No doubt I should,” said Sanct-Franciscus gently. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“I’d let you in, but my mother won’t allow it.” The boy thrust out his lower lip in disapproval; there was a glint of real fear in his eyes.
“Your mother is a sensible woman,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“She is better than anyone. No matter what anyone says.” His lower lip now protruded pugnaciously.
“She must be,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“She says my grandfather’s enemies are trying to kill him, but he won’t listen,” the boy went on, speaking more to himself than to Sanct-Franciscus. “She says that he’s … he’s—” He stopped, searching for a word.
“What?”
“Denounced. That’s it. Denounced.” The child grinned at his accomplishment.
Sanct-Franciscus achieved a bemused smile. “Then should you be talking to me? I am a foreigner, after all.”
The boy’s voice dropped to just above a whisper as lightning scissored the clouds. “No. I’m not supposed to talk to—” The rest was drowned in a ponderous roll of thunder.
When the air offered only the whoop of the wind, Sanct-Franciscus said, “Your mother will want you indoors, my lad. And I, as you warned me, ought to find shelter.”
“I know,” he said, and closed the gate, leaving Sanct-Franciscus alone in the road and aware of his isolation for the first time. He stared up into the sky and felt the first drops of rain on his face; he looked about him, searching for a covered gate or a recessed doorway, but saw nothing that suggested a hiding place from the storm. Ahead were the city walls, and beyond the gate, a cluster of tombs.
With thunder for company, Sanct-Franciscus made for the gate, paid his six denarii, and hurried toward one of the largest of the vaults, knowing that most had a narrow porch where mourners could keep vigil for the dead; one of these would serve to shelter him through the storm. The second tomb he found had such an alcove, and he slipped into it, hitching up his shoulders and settling back on the narrow stone seat while lightning frisked and crackled above Brundisium. In this setting of monuments to the dead, he devoted himself to remembering his own, from his millennia-lost family, to the revenge he had exacted for their deaths, to the sacrifices offered him in the oubliette, to the many who came to the Temple of Imhotep, to Imeshmit, to Tishtry, Kosrozh, and Aumtehoutep, and Led Arashnur, to Srau, to the three young men in Roma. “You cannot hold them,” he said to the stones. “They will slip away, every one of them. Not even memory can keep them with you.” His face was wet, but he knew it was the rain, for he had lost his tears when he had lost his breathing life: the sobbing storm would have to do for him.
For more than an hour the wind reveled, the lightning lit up the clouds, and the rain came down as if all the sky were a waterfall; the stone which sheltered Sanct-Franciscus grew damp and cold, his pluvial became sodden, and night blotted out the last remnants of illumination, save that of the lightning, and fairly soon, that, too, was gone. Only when the thunder had grumbled away to the west and the wind dropped to stiff, damp breeze filled with spitting rain did Sanct-Franciscus leave the protection of the tomb for the city gate—still open because of the storm—and the streets, making his way back toward the inn despite the slight vertigo the water running along the cobbles caused him. Around him, men and women hastened to their homes, or taverns, or inns, driven by the lingering end of the storm.
Lamps were lit and flickering in the entry to the inn as Sanct-Franciscus once again stepped through the door, and found Epimetheus Bion waiting in the vestibule, a large cup of hot wine in one hand, a folded scroll in the other, his big, leathery face creased with worry. At the sight of Sanct-Franciscus, his expression brightened. “Jupiter and Neptune be thanked!” he exclaimed, his voice rough from years of shouting orders at sea. “I feared we had lost you to the storm.”
“No,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “You have not lost me.”
“It is not only the storm that troubled me,” Bion asserted in his own defense.
“No?” Sanct-Franciscus inquired. “What, then?”
He set his cup down in the small alcove with a statue of Mercury, there to protect travelers and those in commerce. “There is a company of Praetorians just arrived at the Basilica. We saw them as we were loading your chests aboard the
Pleiades
. Word has it that they are going to be taking traitors in charge tonight.” He coughed. “You, being a foreigner, might be detained.”
“Praetorians? Here?”