From time to time during the day, she saw Bastian standing in the doorway of his tent, eyeing her. Or out in the digs, eyeing her. Or holding maps and gesturing to workmen, and eyeing her. Or shouting orders others leaped to obey. He was obviously a man accustomed to obedience in his work. Yet he wasn't above rolling up his sleeves and joining in at the hard labor, and when a large piece of fresco was located, he was there in the fray, muscles straining as he helped to uncover it.
At the end of the day, he found her again. “You'll return tomorrow?”
Tiredly, she nodded. “Ilari won't get rid of me that easily.”
He nodded. “Breakfast is at five thirty. If you want to eat, be here.” He glanced around. “Where will you sleep?”
“That's my business.” Exhausted, she ambled off in the direction of the most recognizable feature in the Forum: the Arch of Septimius Severus. She had a particular fondness for Emperor Septimius's wife, Julia Domna, for she'd seen to it that Vesta's temple was rebuilt after the fire in 191
A.D.
Silvia curled up in the shelter the arch provided, shivering, and when Sal joined her, she snuggled into his warmth. On her side, she stared at the lights in the large white tent where Bastian still toiled somewhere inside. Now and then she could see his shadow in the lamplight. Didn't he ever tire?
She ran a hand over Sal's fur. “It's good that he's so industrious, don't you agree, Sal? Maybe he'll manage to get a firestone or two out of the ground within the month.” She turned on her back. “One can only hope. Because when next Moonful comes, I'll have to shed myself of your owner's body so that I can return to ElseWorld.”
Sal whined and licked her face, as if he understood and was saddened by the knowledge. “I know, I know. You may be sure I have no desire to go back to Pontifex, but I must. And I can't return to Rico once I leave him. Still, I promised him I'd find you a good home before I go. And I will.” She yawned and turned over, gazing toward the tent again. “In fact, I think I already have.”
With the comforting rumble of Sal's furred belly as a pillow, she was almost instantly asleep. Sometime during the night, a blanket found its way over her and was tucked around her by powerful, masculine hands.
She snuggled into it, grateful. Half-asleep, she murmured,
“Buona notte, papa.”
Bastian stood there, looking down upon the boy and wondering at the mystery of him. And then he turned toward home.
S
cena
A
ntica
III
May 15, 374
A.D.
Rome, Italy
Vestalis Maxima clapped her hands. “Remember, girls. Decorum. All of Rome waits for a glimpse of you at your work on this glorious festival day.” Vestalis served the girls in the capacity of mother, and was constantly attending to their manners.
Silvia adjusted her
infula,
letting the ends of the headdress fall to drape around her shoulders. Her hair was growing out again, but only an inch or so thus far, and it currently curled tight to her head instead of flowing wild and free in its former, customary manner. Michaela's silky, blue-black locks had already shaped themselves into a cropped style that lent her an attractive pixie look. But Occia's thick, unfortunate hair stuck out from her head in odd dirtcolored tufts that would not be tamed. Under their headdresses, all twelve of the shorthaired girls still looked like boys.
It was a curious, privileged kind of life they'd all lived for the past three months since coming to serve Vesta. They were set apart from all of Rome and held in high esteem. Each day, they were schooled by revered scholars, who in the normal course of things only instructed highborn males. Unlike all other women in Rome, they would one day be allowed to own property. They were allotted the best seats at races and gladiator bouts in the Coliseum. And as part of their duties, they reigned at numerous public ceremonies, as they would today.
This morning, having led a procession of worshipful crowds here to the bank of the Tiber, they had then awaited Pontifex. Once he finally arrived to great adulation, he bade them throw their collection of straw figurines called
Argei
into the river. Over the past few weeks, Roman citizens had placed these simple dolls in the temples to absorb any evil that might be lurking about. The tainted dolls had since been collected and today were to be ritually sacrificed in an effort to purify the city. Silvia pitched a half dozen of them into the Tiber, laughing and leaning out in childish delight to watch them splash. More of the VestalsâAemilia, Floronia, and Michaelaâfollowed suit, making a game of it.
“Who is that man staring at you?” Occia asked, elbowing her.
Glancing up, Silvia was overjoyed to see her father. She'd had no contact with either of her parents since coming to the temple, and the sight of him sent her running in his direction. She quickly found herself pulled up short by Pontifex's hand. “Father!” she called, struggling to reach him. He stood only a few yards away, his eyes riveted to her.
“Tell her how things are, brother,” Pontifex commanded from behind her.
Her father's eyes flicked from her to Pontifex and back again. Then he said softly and with crushing finality, “I am your father no longer, Silvia.”
His words struck her like poisonous arrows and she drew back as if from a physical blow. What was so awful about her that her own flesh and blood could not love her? she wanted to cry out. Yet she did not plead with him. Instead, she closed her heart off, and silently vowed never to trust in love again.
Turning, she went to rejoin the others, unaware that two sets of lustful masculine eyes burned over her back.
6
B
astian entered his tent at daybreak the next morning only to find his chair occupied, a small boy-sized coat hanging on his coat rack, and the notes of a crudely made reed flute infusing the air.
“Up, brat,” he said.
The music ceased midnote as his newest, youngest employee swung around, scattering the vellum sheets he'd been perusing. One fluttered to the floor and the boy bent to retrieve it before his dog could.
“What are you doing with those?” Bastian demanded.
Rico glanced down at the collection of erotic illustrations on the desktop. His brow lifted, and he absently wove the flute between his fingers one after the other, then back again, with the skill of one who'd done the maneuver often. He shot Bastian a baiting look. “Better question might be what are
you
doing with 'em?”
“They're priceless lithographs.” Tossing his coat on the stand to cover the boy's, Bastian waved him up from the chair.
Rico guffawed. “Pull the other one.” He tried to sidle past, but Bastian stepped in his way, holding out the flat of his hand, palm up. “I'll take that.”
“Wasn't going to thieve.” The Imp let go of the thick vellum sheet just above Bastian's hand and it drifted to lie on his palm.
Bastian glanced at it and found himself abruptly struck dumb. The lithograph had changed drastically since the last time he had viewed it. Or rather, his perception of it had. Before, he'd seen it only in blacks and whites. Now, however, it was brilliantly tinted with dazzling color.
Simply because this boy had held it.
Hungrily, Bastian's eyes roved the sheets of paper scattered across his desktop seeing that all appeared pigmented to him now. Leaning over the desk, he shifted them, trying to memorize colors that seemed like rare, precious jewels to a man who'd never seen them before. It was readily apparent which sheets were the ones Rico had touched more recently, for their color was the most vivid and lush. But all were quickly fading.
He studied the illustration in his hand. It was most luminous and depicted three lovers in a ménage à troisâthe eternal triangle. Two of the figures were standing and one prone. The latter was female, a receptive courtesan lying on her back upon a mattress. One of her shapely ankles rested high on the shoulder of a male lover, who stood facing her between her thighs. His cock was clearly in the process of embedding itself inside her, even as the other man who stood at his back was in the process of penetrating him. All was meticulously and tastefully rendered, almost in the style of a medical or botanical drawing.
“What's wrong?” Rico demanded, his brows drawing together.
“Nothing,” Bastian replied automatically. Hiding the fact that he was color-blind had required a lifetime of subterfuge on his part. But it had been necessary. An archaeologist who was unable to discern the subtleties of color was not one who could have risen to lead the prestigious Forum excavations as he had.
Only his father had known. Bastian had never told another living soul, not even his brothers. Realizing early on that this handicap would prove detrimental to the future of his eldest son's otherwise bright career, his father had schooled him to silence on the matter. He'd taught him to generally determine each color based on its value. And on his own, Bastian had learned other ways to compensate. He'd become highly skilled at tricking others into revealing the color of an object if he wished to know it.
Often, he hired artists to write detailed color descriptions of artifacts he'd found, on the pretext that he was too busy for the task of this recording himself. Over the course of his career, he'd managed to turn his lack to his advantage. Ironically, he'd become renowned for his meticulous care in the description of pigments.
A sense of grief touched him as he watched the residual color slowly fade from the drawing he heldâthe crimson leaching from the drape behind the woman and from the pillow at her side; the rosy flesh of the three lovers turning gray. It was like watching something die.
With a hard flick of his wrist, Bastian tossed the sheet of paper onto the desk. “They're from a series illustrated by Edouard-Henri Avril. Two years ago, I made an academic study of them and presented it before the Esteemed Society of ElseWorld Antiquarians.”
Rico smirked. “Umm-hmm. I'll wager that most admirers of Avril's work weren't of the academic sort.”
Bastian's lips curved. “The passage of time does tend to change one's perception of things. Utilitarian objects become artifacts. Something once considered pornographic becomes art.”
“This isn't art.”
“What is it, then?”
“Fucking,” said Rico. Then he darted another of those strangely embarrassed glances toward him, as if startled at the words he himself had uttered. Recovering quickly, he went on, “And if you have to ask someone less than half your age about it, you're going to need more than chocolates to woo your ladylove. You'll need a lesson in what goes where and how often.”
Smothering a chuckle, Bastian ordered, “Stack those up and put them back where you found them.” As Rico complied, Bastian pondered him. Normally, he got straight to work himself every morning; but last night, he'd mulled the matter of this boy until the wee hours. In all of his years of study, he had never come across a single reference to a creature that could lend color to an adjacent object. Yet, he was certain that this Imp had been the conduit for the transference of color yesterday and again today in the case of the lithographs. Until he could investigate further, he wanted to keep him where he could see him.
“What're you looking at?” Rico challenged, noting his stare.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.” The boy reached across him for one of the drawings and Bastian grabbed his wrist. Immediately, the area around themâhis desk, the illustrations, the coatsâflashed with color again. “How old?” he demanded.
“Twelve,” Rico admitted quickly, twisting away. “Old enough to be looking at the likes of these illustrations, if that's what you're wondering,” he said, nodding to the stack in his hands. “In ElseWorld, twelve's plenty old enough for the rites of purification.”
“What do you know of that?” Bastian mused, watching the color ebb around him.
“It's February, isn't it? The month of purification in ElseWorld, just as it used to be here in ancient Rome.” The boy deposited the drawings on the shelf, somewhat less neatly than they'd been when he'd found them. Then, instead of going outside to work in the dig, he wandered the perimeter of the room, offering his dog a pat along the way. “If I were in ElseWorld right now, I'd get myself over to the Temple of Venus. And I'd take my turn at the basket of names and choose me a bit of papyrus painted with some female's moniker on it. Whoever I selected would become my lover for a whole year.” He paused and sighed, a blissful expression on his face.
“Lucky her.”
“Damned right.”
Bastian smiled and shook his head, unable to help but find the boy amusing.
“Careful, your face might crack like one of them statues you dig up out there,” Rico commented, seeing his amusement.
“Why aren't you out at the tell?”
Rico cocked his head. “What's a tell?
“You mean there's something you don't know? It's the Hebrew word for an archaeological dig or mound.” It was rare that Bastian had difficulty concentrating on work, but the urge to continue sparring with the boy was strong. He forced himself to appear busy at his desk. “I'm sure I'm paying you for something besides loitering here.”
Rico jerked his thumb toward the general area where he'd toiled yesterday. “My talent is wasted out there.” He came to the opposite side of the desk and leaned in confidingly. “I got penmanship, did you know?” He picked up Bastian's pen, intent on proving it. Curling his tongue at one side of his mouth, he wrote his name.
As Bastian looked down on the boy's bent head, something shifted inside him. He well remembered his own avid interest in assisting his father in these digs in any way he could. Recalled his father teaching him to help keep the records. Recalled how eager a sponge he'd once been. Just like this boy.
Turning the paper he'd written on, Rico shoved it toward him across the desk. Bastian wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this beautiful cursive. “See?” Rico said smugly. “I don't lie.”
“No, you only thieve.”
Rico shrugged. “All the more reason to keep me close if that's what you believe. Just so I don't make off with anything.”
“I suppose if I ask you where the hells you learned to write like this, you'll say you don't know.”
The boy's expression altered to an interesting mixture of adult craftiness and youthful innocence. “Right you are. I was just born knowing some things. All mysterious-like. I can draw, too, and never been taught.” He tapped the stack of excavation cards on Bastian's desk. “When you find something in the Forum dirt, I could draw it and do the words for you. Save you some time. And some strain on your aging eyes.”
Bastian's aforementioned eyes narrowed. The boy's talents were so exactly what he needed and he'd arrived in a suspicious fashion. It was too convenient. “Documentation of a find
in situ
is exacting work. Training is required.”
“Give me something to draw and I'll prove myself,” Rico boasted.
Since it suited his purposes to keep the boy under observation, he might as well make use of any gifts he possessed at the same time. Bastian stood, retrieved his coat, and made for the tent's opening. “Very well. Come. And bring some of those cards and a pen. We'll see if we can put your mind to more profitable use.”
Once they emerged from the tent, Bastian glanced down at the fine coat Rico wore but could not afford. “Where did that come from?”
“Found it just this morning. All unexpected-like.”
“I'll bet.”
As they crossed the Forum grounds toward the Vestal dig, the foreman shot an evil look in the boy's direction. Rico only smiled and waved. “Your Signor Ilari looks a little disappointed to see me again.”
“Can you blame him?”
“I did my work.”
“Yes, I heard how you did it. Grumbling all the way.”
“His methods are archaic.”
“You have quite the vocabulary when it suits you,” Bastian observed.
“I'm a quick study. And you have to admit he's an
idiota.
Where are we going?”
Suddenly realizing that she'd left Bastian several yards back, Silvia retraced her steps to find him poking a trowel into the earth.
Within minutes, he came up with a substantial piece of fresco, which he handed to her.
Surprised, she looked from it to him. “How did you know where toâ?”
“Sketch that on your card,” he ordered, cutting her off. “You have three minutes.”
Dropping to sit cross-legged on the ground, she drew a careful, rudimentary sketch of the painting, then handed it up to him and stood awaiting his verdict.
He studied it a moment, then took the fragment from her and handed it to Ilari, who'd come to observe. The man nodded in grudging admiration.
“Told you I could sketch,” she said to Bastian.
“Next to the drawing, we write its scale,” was all he said in reply. “To indicate that the fragment itself is approximately three times the size of your drawing, we write 3:1. If the opposite were trueâ”
“I'd have needed a bigger card.”
“And you'd have written 1:3,” Bastian continued. “Now, here in the top left corner, we indicate the depth at which an artifact is found, and the approximate date of the item itself. So having found this fragment near the surface, we write Level One, and I estimate its age at 350
A.D.
” He scribbled the information in a neat hand.
Silvia observed this silently, shifting from one foot to the other with a desire to correct him. She could have told him enough to fill this card and ten more. The fresco had come from a wall of the Atrium House. It had been painted by an artist who smelled of garlic and had owned twelve white cats. He'd been an unimportant figure in history, but one she'd met in the flesh when she was a girl. And Bastian had gotten the date wrong. It had been done in 381
A.D.
Still, he seemed satisfied with her talent, and by the end of that day, she'd completed dozens of cards for him. Some of the artifacts had hardly seemed to warrant recording, but he was extremely meticulous in his work, which led to occasional good-natured bickering between them.
When she dropped off the cards and corresponding bits of pottery in his tent at day's end, a small smile flitted over her lips. The stack of erotic illustrations she'd placed haphazardly on the shelf that morning had been straightened, so that every corner aligned perfectly. “The man is certainly fastidious,” she murmured to herself. One of the cards she held fell to the floor and she bent to pick it up.