Roman Dusk (Saint-Germain #19)

Roman Dusk (Saint-Germain #19) Page 25

Although the procession earlier that day was officially meant to honor the Emperor whose month it was-Divus Julius-it had been another grand occasion for Heliogabalus to provide spectacular entertainments and dazzling processions for the people of Roma: all day triumphal chariots accompanied by escorts of musicians and dancers had rolled through the city bearing the Emperor and his mother as well as the Senate and a number of officials from client nations around all seven hills and through every large forum, scattering coins and flowers to the people. As a result, at the end of this display the streets were still full, lit by torches at every corner, as the sun faded behind a low band of scarlet clouds in the west, and the warm, sodden night wrapped itself around the city.

Sanct-Franciscus waited with Natalis in the shadow of the Circus Maximus, where they were surrounded by a crowd of Romans following a carpentum holding three huge barrels of wine the contents of which were being ladled out into the waiting cups of those near enough to gain the attention of the serving slaves. "How many of these are there in the city tonight, I wonder?" he asked as the crowd surged after the carpentum, cups held up as if they were votive offerings.

Natalis shrugged. "Carpenta with wine barrels? A dozen or more, I'd guess, judging from the state of the populace." He found Sanct-Franciscus' polite reserve unnerving, but knew better than to mention it, for he was more troubled by what lay beneath than by the outward imperturbable self-possession. "They'll be drunk until sunrise."

"Are all the carpenta as busy as this one?" Sanct-Franciscus asked, and continued, "It is to our advantage to have it so."

"No one will remember us, or at least not too clearly," said Natalis, ducking into an alley that led northward.

"And those we seek?" Sanct-Franciscus' voice was like steel.

"If they are not out on the streets, haranguing the people, they are in their private temple, praying." Natalis paused. "I have not seen any of them about since midday."

"You are satisfied that the boy is responsible?" Sanct-Franciscus inquired.

"I am, and the Curia will be, now that one of his comrades has spoken to the Prefect of the Urban Guard. The youth who revealed their activities has accepted his punishment in the arena as fitting, which is all the more convincing that he is truthful. It takes a great deal for one of those Christians to turn on anyone in their religion. But the young man has said that he doesn't want true Christians to be suspected of the irreligious acts of a few of their number. He swore to it on his hope of Paradise, which means a great deal to Christians. The Curia has accepted his account as true, as much because it agrees with what the Urban Guard has decided must have occurred, as because they found Metsari convincing." Natalis fidgeted with the ends of his woven belt.

Sanct-Franciscus nodded, his dark eyes like black flint. "If the Curia has accepted the account, then I will, as well. I will proceed."

"Have a care," Natalis warned him as they prepared to skirt around another band of men, drunk enough to be reckless and spoiling for a fight.

They passed the crowd of men, their heads lowered like humiliora; when they reached the next street, they saw a number of Watchmen patrolling, and they hesitated, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. When the Watchmen moved on, so did Sanct-Franciscus and Natalis, going north through Roma toward the Vicus Longus.

"You will not want to go on the main streets," Natalis warned him a bit later on. "Too many patrols are out tonight, and I would prefer not to be stopped."

"You choose the way," said Sanct-Franciscus.

Natalis did as he was told, attempting to match his demeanor to that of Sanct-Franciscus. As they continued onward, the two men exchanged desultory remarks on the growing disorder they saw around them. In one narrow passage they almost tripped over two men and a woman indulging in a complicated coupling; the three paid them no heed as they passed on.

"It saddens me," said Sanct-Franciscus as they reached the next broad avenue, "to see something so precious turned into nothing more than-" He stopped. "How much farther?"

"Another four streets," said Natalis; he forced himself to ask something that had been bothering him since they had sneaked into the city. "Are you sure you won't change your mind and permit me to stand guard for you?"

"No. I must do this alone. It would go hard for you if you were detained as my accomplice; very likely you would be sent to the arena." His own recollection of facing crocodiles in a flooded arena a century-and-a-half ago very nearly shattered his calm, but he regained his terrifying composure by hard-won self-discipline. "If you will wait for me at Porta Pinciana, under the aqueduct, I will consider myself well-served." He turned his attention to the small stand of yew trees at the front of the dark-columned Temple of Mania, where burnt offerings lay on the open altar. "How appropriate, that we should come to the Goddess of the Dead for this task."

The chilly irony of Sanct-Franciscus' remark cut Natalis to the quick; he made one last attempt. "Master, what if the Urban Guard and the Curia are deceived, and they have blamed the wrong man? Shouldn't you wait a while longer, in case the Curia issues a new finding?"

"Tonight I shall find it out, and strive to make amends for my error, if I have made one, but I will not wait," said Sanct-Franciscus.

It was all Natalis could do not to growl in frustration. "If you are caught-"

"-Rugeri will know what to do," Sanct-Franciscus said, cutting him short.

They went on in silence until Natalis halted and pointed to a culde-sac surrounded by a dozen small, private houses. "The fourth on the right, the one with the blue wall. The one with the flower-baskets hanging by the front door."

"You know he is here?" Sanct-Franciscus asked.

"He was yesterday and the slaves said none of the four of them planned to travel. As I've old you, they haven't gone out since midday."

"And the owner of the house: what of him?"

"The owner of the house is a Christian who is presently in Judea; he has allowed these four young Christians to live in his house in his absence, or so the slaves have told me. Three of them are of the same gens, and one is their comrade. I had it from the cook and the steward, both, that this is the case." Natalis almost held his breath, waiting for what Sanct-Franciscus' response would be.

"Good enough," said Sanct-Franciscus, so icily distant that Natalis despaired. "Is there an alley entrance?"

"Yes; on the north side of the house. There is a common stable at the rear of the six houses on the right side, and each house has an alley on the north leading to the small bath-houses. You can enter next to the holocaust-there is a low door for loading wood that can be opened with a little patience. Once inside, there is a connecting door to the kitchen corridor." He wanted to talk, to do anything to delay what he feared would follow. "Tradesmen use the alley, and vendors of fruits and vegetables, and often members of other households, so you will not be remarked upon." Realizing he was babbling, Natalis made himself stop talking.

"And slaves? How many?"

"Four in the household; only the groom is here just now, mucking out stalls, and then he will have to bed the stall in straw, so he will be busy for some time. The cook and the steward and the man-of-all-work have the evening to themselves and I arranged for them to be entertained at the trattorium four blocks away. They should be there until well into the night, feasting and making the most of their time away from their labors." Natalis managed to halt his torrent of words.

Sanct-Franciscus did not smile. "Thank you. I am grateful for all you have done for me, and I have arranged a pension for you, and employment if you want it, so you need not return to thievery once I am gone." He paid no heed to Natalis' sharp intake of breath. "If I am not at the Porta Pinciana by the hour before dawn, do not wait for me; find your way out of the city and return to Villa Ragoczy."

"At least take my knife," Natalis pleaded, reaching to pull the weapon from its sheath.

"Better that I carry nothing," said Sanct-Franciscus.

"If that is your wish," Natalis heard himself say.

"It is." He tapped Natalis on the shoulder, then moved away toward the alley Natalis had indicated, his clothing rendering him almost invisible: he did not look back.

Natalis stood, undecided, for a short while, then turned to continue north in the shadow of the Virgo Aqueduct.

Sanct-Franciscus went along toward the rear of the house, pausing only to look for the door Natalis had mentioned. He found it under a partial eave, and was glad of the extra protection this afforded him. Bending down, he took a bronze pin out of his wallet and slipped it into the lock, patiently turning it until the wards released. Easing the door open, he hunched over and went into the loading room for the holocaust, relieved that it was cool. He made his way past the stacked lengths of wood to the inner door. He opened this with care, his night-seeing eyes checking out the corridor before he emerged from concealment. Most of the house was dark with only an occasional oil-lamp shining to diminish the darkness; making his way toward the atrium, Sanct-Franciscus was aware of emptiness, and for a moment he wondered if the young Christians had gone out for a night of advancing their faith. Then he heard a voice raised in argument coming from the front of the house, and he went toward it, his senses keen, his purpose set.

"-still too soon to-" one voice insisted.

"We must continue to press forward, take advantage of the impact we have made," another declared. "We have an opportunity to turn this to a-"

The third speaker was Octavian. "Why bother with preaching? I say we burn another house. That is something Romans pay attention to-fires."

"You like fires too much, Octavian," said the first voice.

"Because they're effective," Octavian responded sharply.

"But the Urban Guard is starting to detain Christians on suspicion-" the second voice objected.

"Peterines," scoffed a fourth. "Let them become martyrs-it suits them."

"Peterines and those who betray us," Octavian interjected darkly. "Your cousin has a lot to answer for."

"He didn't realize what he was doing," protested the second speaker, and almost at the same time the fourth said, "You can't blame our cousin."

"No, Octavian, you cannot," said the fourth.

"Oh, yes I can," Octavian shouted. "He betrayed me as surely as Judas betrayed Christ. They, too, were cousins, we're told."

The first speaker raised his voice. "Enough! This is no way to defend our faith."

An uneasy quiet ensued, then Octavian said, "I ask your forgiveness. But your cousin had better ask for mine before they send him to the arena."

"How do you mean?" the fourth voice challenged. "You were the one who set the fires, and Virginius Apollonius was-"

"I wasn't alone, setting our fires," Octavian interruped.

"-distressed by that. What did you expect him to do?" the fourth voice went on.

"I didn't expect him to go to the Prefect of the Urban Guard." Indignation raised Octavian's voice again. "He should have taken the matter to our pope, if he was so deeply troubled by what we've done."

"Stop it!" the first ordered.

"You speak against me because they're all your relatives and I'm not," Octavian accused. "This should be about faith, not family."

The second voice was deliberately calm. "We are all Brothers in Christ."

Another brief silence fell, into which Sanct-Franciscus stepped, opening the door quickly, and walking into the room without courtesy, halting only when the eyes of all four were fixed on him. The lamplight flickered in the slow draught from the door, touching the faces of the four with uneven shadows, and casting Sanct-Franciscus' stretched features into stark half-light.

"Who-?" demanded a gangly young man of about eighteen with thick, tawny hair and big-knuckled hands; he was in a blue-linen pallium with an embroidered pattern of fish at the knee-length hem.

"You dare to intrude!" one of the other two cried out.

"I see you have made this your temple," said Sanct-Franciscus coldly, indicating the altar with a large carving of a fish on it, and a haloed crucifix painted on the wall behind the altar; he took a step forward and closed the door. "An apt place for the glory of your god, and for your sepulchre." He regarded the four young men steadily, as if seeking to determine their degree of responsibility in the fire that burned the Laelius house.

Octavian was staring at Sanct-Franciscus, recognition dawning on him. "You! But you were dead."

"That was certainly your intention," said Sanct-Franciscus quietly.

"Then how do you come to be here?" Octavian jeered.

"Your Christ is not the only man ever to rise from his grave," said Sanct-Franciscus.

"Blasphemy!" exclaimed the gangly one.

"You died!" Octavian shouted.

"Not this time," Sanct-Franciscus said lightly, acidly.

"Octavian, who is this man?" the shortest of the four demanded; although he was the youngest of his relatives by three years, he was the uncle of one and cousin to the other of Octavian's companions, and exercised his seniority now. "What's he doing here? We ought to know."

"He's Sanct-Franciscus, my mother's physician. They say he got her out of the house before she died; he was badly burned doing it." There was as much bravado as concern in this. "A foreigner, in any case, and not a Christian. I have no idea what he's doing here, nor do I care."

"What's wrong with his skin?" asked the handsomest of the three, fair-haired, hazel-eyed, with a fine, straight nose, and a sensuous mouth.

"Burns-I told you, Virginius. Look at his face. He should be dead," said Octavian harshly, and rounded on Sanct-Franciscus as if resenting his presence. "I suppose you came to find out if I know anything about the fire. Well, I don't."

"Not according to Gelasius Virginius Apollonius Metsari, who has sworn that you set it, along with several others, with the help of your companions; you have been exercising your religion by destroying lives and property," said Sanct-Franciscus in a cool, neutral tone. "According to what I have overheard tonight, Metsari was telling the truth." He looked away from Octavian and met the eyes of the other three in turn. "Or were you lying to one another?"

"That! That was nothing," Octavian said, blustering. "You must have misunderstood what we were saying."

"I did not misunderstand," said Sanct-Franciscus. "The fires were yours: you have said it."

The shortest man brought his chin up. "Property and lives are nothing in the face of the return of the Redeemer, which is fast coming upon us. Who shall know the Last Day?"

The gangly fellow folded his arms. "It is unfortunate that some must endure agony for the salvation of all, but Christ did that for us, and those who emulate Him will be with Him in Heaven."

Octavian gestured to include the others. "What have we to fear from you? We're Romans. You're an exile." He spat contemptuously. "We know about you, Sanct-Franciscus."

"Do you." Sanct-Franciscus directed his penetrating gaze to Octavian. "And what is it you think you know?"

Before Octavian could answer, the gangly one stepped in between Octavian and Sanct-Franciscus. "I am Erestus Arianus Crispenus, and I am the host in this house, in the absence of the owner. If you have a complaint against my guests, you should address me. By what right do you violate the rules of hospitality?"

"Yes. By what right?" Octavian seconded.

Sanct-Franciscus studied Crispenus, trying to find sympathy for this misguided youngster; he folded his arms as he contemplated, saying, "I have no enmity toward you, Crispenus, as a living man, but for what you have done you will die with the others. You will all die."

"Because of the fires?" Crispenus asked, frowning a little.

Sanct-Franciscus nodded. "Metsari has said that his cousins all supported the burning of the Villa Laelius."

"If that is so, then he will be cast into outer darkness," Octavian said confidently.

"I am of their gens and their religion; I will not abandon them," said Crispenus with a toss of his head, and in the next instant abruptly struck out at Sanct-Franciscus with a closed fist.

A cry of alarm and encouragement greeted this onslaught.

"As you wish," said Sanct-Franciscus as he dodged the blow, seizing Crispenus' arm and tugging it enough to pull him off his feet. As Crispenus went sprawling, Sanct-Franciscus ducked another punch directed at his shoulder: one of the other two relatives had attacked.

"Hold him, Rufius!" shouted the other, gesturing to the last of the three. "I'll have him begging soon enough."

Prosperus Rufius Ursinus did his best to capture Sanct-Franciscus and pin his arms to his sides, but he failed, for just as he grasped the foreigner around the chest, he was flung off with such force that he slammed back into the altar, stunning himself on the marble top and knocking over the carved fish; a smudge of blood appeared in his hair, and he moaned as he slumped against the granite slab, trying to hold onto the side of it.

Seeing his chance, Lucius Virginius Rufius gathered himself and ran at Sanct-Franciscus, head lowered to butt into his middle; Sanct-Franciscus caught Rufius' head under the chin in his locked hands and threw him back, twisting Rufius' neck as he did. There was a dull, grating snap and Lucius Virginius Rufius collapsed, his mouth now slack; he twitched, shuddered, and lay still, not more than a pace from where Octavian stood, immobile with shock.

Had he not still been recovering from his burns, Sanct-Franciscus could have ended the fight in another moment, but his skin and sinews were still taut with incomplete healing and he required a little time to steady himself against the ache his activity created, and his hesitation allowed Octavian and Crispenus a moment for recovery.

Crispenus had struggled to his feet and was now preparing for a more determined assault on Sanct-Franciscus: he took up a small footstool and raised it over his head, preparing to strike Sanct-Franciscus' shoulders and back with it, but before he could, Sanct-Franciscus swung around on one leg and used the other to slam the back of Crispenus' knees. Crispenus went down heavily, swearing by Discordia and Phobus as he landed with a cry of agony as his left knee-cap broke, and at once his leg was smeared with blood.

Octavian looked about the room for a weapon, and settled on an iron crucifix nearly as tall as he was, made of two, long, thin bars, set up in an alcove next to the shuttered window. With a steady effort, he tugged it off the wall, grasped the smaller end of the upright for a hilt, and prepared to do battle. He swung the crucifix in front of him, satisfied with the ponderous sound it made as it sliced through the air, reminiscent of a northern long-handled axe. Jaw set, he advanced on Sanct-Franciscus. "You should have died in that fire, foreigner."

"Along with your mother? Was that your intention?" Sanct-Franciscus asked pointedly as he took swift stock of the room: Crispenus was lying on his side, whimpering steadily, his left leg pulled up and clasped tight to his chest, blood running out between his clenched fingers; Rufius was dead; Ursinus was stunned, unable to stand upright without support, so he leaned on the altar with his elbows, his head cradled in his hands.

"My mother was used up. She was ready to die." Octavian took a step forward, his weapon moving restlessly in his hands. "If not for you, she would have died at least a year ago, and spared herself and us a world of suffering. If anyone caused that fire, you did! You!" He swung the crucifix ahead of him, trying to force Sanct-Franciscus to fall back.

"She was helpless," said Sanct-Franciscus, eluding the crucifix.

"Then she should be grateful it is over," Octavian vaunted.

"What devotion," Sanct-Franciscus marveled, stepping around Rufius' body and moving toward the center of the room, where he could act more freely.

"Better than yours. I haven't seduced any honestiora." He jabbed with the end of the crucifix. "And I haven't ruined any woman."

"Except your mother," said Sanct-Franciscus.

With a particularly vicious swing of the crucifix, Octavian rushed at Sanct-Franciscus. "You ruined my sister!" he shouted, and almost lost his footing from the power of his furious sweep.

"Only in your eyes," said Sanct-Franciscus, turning outside the reach of the end of the crucifix.

"I will never forgive you! Deceiver!" Octavian howled as he lunged at Sanct-Franciscus, missed his footing and stumbled into the altar, and striking Ursinus a glancing blow to the side of his head with the end of the cross-beam of the crucifix; this time Ursinus fell heavily, unconscious. "You did that!"

His patience used up, Sanct-Franciscus reached for the crucifix and in a sudden eruption of strength, tore it from Octavian's hands; in a single, fluid motion, he rounded on him, pinning him back against the altar. As he pressed the crucifix into Octavian's chest, he whispered, "I would drain you, but I want nothing of yours-nothing." He shoved hard against Octavian, and heard him shriek as the metal cross-arm sank deep into his arm-pit, blood welling and pumping around it: death would come rapidly.

There was panic in Octavian's eyes as he struggled against Sanct-Franciscus' implacable fury. "Let me go!" It was becoming difficult to breathe; he tried to kick, but there was no power in his leg, and he squealed in frustration and rage. He could not imagine the hot, wet swath down his side that spread on the floor, that smelled of hot metal, was his own blood.

"You are right," Sanct-Franciscus said, remote as the north wind, "this is your last day."

Octavian was feeling light-headed now, and there were cramps in his legs and hands, but he could not feel the pain, or summon up the will to resist Sanct-Franciscus, or the light-edged darkness that wavered at the edges of his vision; this troubled him in a distant way. He started to form a curse, but the words eluded him, and he realized he was cold. That frightened him. It was July, the night was warm. The weight upon him lifted, and he sighed.

Staring into Octavian's untenanted eyes, Sanct-Franciscus was at once satisfied and distressed: he had exacted vengeance on behalf of the dead, but the vindication he had felt in the past eluded him. Slowly he straightened up, setting the iron crucifix aside and wiping the blood from his hands. He would have to leave soon or risk discovery. Natalis would be waiting at the Porta Pinciana, he reminded himself; he had to join him there shortly. He would meet him and be gone from Roma. He realized that it was not yet midnight, still he had an acute urge to leave this house, as if he expected the sun to rise within the hour, or Urban Guards to suddenly appear at the door. But he could not leave the room in such a shambles. Very carefully, he laid the three dead bodies at the foot of the altar; Prosperus Rufius Ursinus he carried to the door and propped him against the wall. "Someone will find you before dawn."

Ursinus groaned; his body was clammy to the touch and his breathing was shallow.

"If you live, you will limp," said Sanct-Franciscus, his centuries at the Temple of Imhotep caring for the dying coming back to him in a rush as he surveyed the destruction around him. "And neither of us will ever forget this night."

Text of a letter from Septimus Desiderius Vulpius in Roma to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in care of his scribe at Villa Ragoczy, carried by private messenger.

To my most excellent foreign friend, Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus, the greetings of your most remorseful Roman ally on this, the 7th day of August in the 973rd Year of the City.

I most heartily apologize for my delay in writing to you, but I offer as an excuse my wish to see the conclusion of the solicitation of bribery investigation against that most officious decuria, Telemachus Batsho. I trust you will pardon my laxity in communication when I tell you that he has been found guilty on twelve counts against him for extortionate practices, and another five counts of abuse of office. I am proud to say that I was asked to give evidence before the Curia, and I would like to think that I helped bring him to justice. His sentence was handed down yesterday: he is to be sent to Vindobona in Pannonia Superior to be a factor for the Legion there. Let him take but one denarius from the soldiers' pay and he will be flayed alive. The Curia has ordered him to be branded and his tongue cut out, which should limit any mischief he might attempt: under the circumstances a light sentence, but a prudent one.

Now that Batsho is a thing of the past, I want you to know that he had threatened me with double assessments on my property if I did not reveal all I knew of your business dealings. If that caused you embarrassment or abusive taxation, I ask you to pardon me, for I was worried for my family and my gens. With Batsho making demands, I was almost unable to conclude my daughter's marriage contract with the father of Titus Gladius Cnaens, but as it is, Livia Linia will be married in three years, and on terms that will not entirely ruin me. Fortunately, the Senate has suspended for two years all commodae for those who were taken advantage of by Batsho.

When you asked that I take your servant, Natalis of Thessalonika, into my service, I admit I was dubious. The man, after all, was a thief. But you said I would discover him to be useful and willing, which he is. To my surprise, he has shown me loyalty and reliability, at least at present. Should he continue in the same manner, I, too, will provide monies for him when his working days are done. The pension you have bestowed upon him is invested in three businesses: a chariot-maker's, a trattorium, and a vineyard. All three enterprises are thriving and I believe Natalis may look forward to a very comfortable old age. I have even offered to help find him a wife.

I was sorry to hear of your decision to leave Roma, although I can comprehend it, with all you have endured here-severe burns, rapacious officials, and the disadvantage of being a foreigner. Your shipping business can be useful in this time, I am certain, and your company makes it possible for our contact to continue, although we are great distances apart. I will do my utmost to report to you regularly while you are gone: it is the least I can do, considering what you have endured on my account.

The weather has been hot and close, so my wife and I will take our family to the seashore at Pyrgi, where I hope to purchase a villa. Now that I am not giving a quarter of my income to Batsho, I believe I can afford the villa. I anticipate that we will be gone a month, or until the heat breaks, so if you wish to send word to me, have your messenger come to Pyrgi and inquire of the Prosecutor where we are staying. I will leave instructions for him to guide you to us.

May Fortune and Neptune favor you in your journeys, may Mercury guide you in commerce, and may Genius grant you victories over all life's calamities. Until we meet again, may you never regret the friendship of

Septimus Desiderius Vulpius

by my own hand