Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
Roman Dusk (15 page)
“I suppose this is a welcome respite,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
She nodded. “I am sorry to say so, but my sister is an indulgent parent—she has no notion the toll her boys’ wildness takes on our mother.”
“How could she? Your mother is thrilled to have her grandsons here, is she not? Has she admitted that they tire her?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “I reckon your mother has not told your sister of her response.”
“No, she hasn’t,” said Ignatia, frowning.
“Nor have you,” Sanct-Franciscus added.
“It isn’t my place, as I have been reminded.”
“Do you intend to speak to her?” Sanct-Franciscus could feel her hand tighten. “Or have you attempted to bring such things to your sister’s attention already?” If she had, he knew she had not been successful.
Ignatia sighed. “No: I haven’t. It would be useless to do so.”
“So your sister may think that the vitality of the children is doing Domina Laelius some good, as any proud mother is apt to do.” Sanct-Franciscus took her hand, noticing it was cool and her pulse was rapid. “You are in a predicament: if you speak to your sister about your mother’s distress, your mother will be angry, and if you do not speak, she will feel ill-served.”
“Very likely,” said Ignatia dully.
“You would do well to leave the house for a while—attend the procession if you like: it will last another hour and more; or visit friends—” He broke off as he saw her flinch.
“I have few friends,” said Ignatia. “Those I have have other engagements just now, what with the procession and the preparation for Saturnalia.”
“Then have Philius drive you out for an hour or so. You must have a covered biga or a city carriage he can make ready.” He turned her face upward, his enigmatic gaze holding her eyes. “For your own sake, Ignatia, give yourself an abatement in your duties. You have taken too much upon yourself.”
“You say this as my physician?” Ignatia achieved a half-smile.
“As your friend,” he countered. “I am your mother’s physician.”
She pulled her hand from his. “If it weren’t raining, I would take your advice,” she said.
“Then go to the Forum Emporiarum, and see what the merchants are selling for Saturnalia. The walkways there are covered.” He, himself, had his clerks offering bales of cloth and platters of brass at bargain prices at the Eclipse warehouse.
“If I have time, I’ll go tomorrow,” said Ignatia. “If Myrtale and her family are out, and I go out as well, my mother will fret.”
Although he knew this was probably correct, Sanct-Franciscus made one last attempt. “I will be here at least an hour, and at the end of my visit, your mother should have some time to sleep before your nephews return. You could have that time for venturing out. Have Philius bring the covered biga around for you.”
“I should not,” she said dutifully.
“Ignatia, you should,” Sanct-Franciscus countered.
She thought about it a long moment. “I’m going to the kitchen to get a cup of hot wine. I’ll make up my mind while I’m there.” She took a step away from him. “You’re sure she’ll be asleep?”
“Asleep or dozing,” he promised her.
Ignatia considered this. “My sister should return in two hours. I ought to be here when the family returns.”
“You can be,” Sanct-Franciscus said. “Tell Philius; he is a steady fellow.”
“Yes. Yes he is,” said Ignatia, and hastened off toward the kitchen, leaving Sanct-Franciscus to make his way to Domina Adicia’s rooms.
Three slaves were attending on Adicia, who was sitting up in bed, swathed in a mafortium of Cappadocian goat-wool, her covers heaped around her, and her hands wrapped in fasceae. She looked up as another household slave came in bearing a ewer of hot water with curls of orange-peel floating in it, and did not at first notice Sanct-Franciscus standing in the corridor just beyond her door. “You fool!” she snapped at the slave, her words slurring a little. “It should be lemon, not orange.”
“Cook is using the lemons for his stuffed fowl for the convivium,” said the slave. “I could not demand he give me any of them.”
“Excuses!” Then she noticed her visitor and she modified her tone to one less severe. “Still, cook is a very temperamental fellow. I will send word to him to procure more lemons for me.”
“Do you want—” the slave asked, gesturing to the ewer.
“No. Take it away,” said Adicia.
“Leave it here,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he came into the room. “You know that the orange-peel will do you good, Domina Adicia. There is no reason to deny yourself the benefits of oranges because they are inferior to lemons.”
Adicia made a snort of ill-usage. “I am forgotten in my own house. How can I permit the cook to deprive me?” She contemplated Sanct-Franciscus for a long moment. “You are rigged out strangely, but your garb becomes you. Is it that of your native land?”
“Not precisely,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “The chandys is Persian, and the rest is Roman. The clothing of my people is difficult to procure.” They had all but vanished from the earth two thousand years ago; their language and customs had followed the few survivors westward from the Carpathian Mountains into the north of the Italian peninsula, but were now so scattered and so changed that neither their descendants nor their tongue was that of his people.
She smacked the nearest pillow. “The cook! What am I to do about him? I ought to have him beaten: he shows insolence in his disrespect.”
“I am sure that was not his intent,” Sanct-Franciscus soothed. “He must be doing his utmost to feed your daughter and her family in a manner you would approve. Have one of your slaves go to the Forum Agricolarum to buy lemons; the farmers are there in spite of the weather, and they will have lemons to sell. They’re going to be costly, but you will have lemon-water before your evening meal. Be patient a while longer, and your forbearance will be rewarded.” His demeanor was calm and genial, but he could see that Adicia was determined to work herself up into a state. “You would not want to have to stay away from your family because your nerves were worn, would you?” He paused an instant, then went on, “I know you want to make the most of your daughter’s visit, which you will not be able to do if you’re too exhausted.”
Adicia reached out to touch his hand. “You do understand, don’t you? You know how much I have endured. My brother made light of it, didn’t he?”
“You have had much to deal with,” Sanct-Franciscus said, keeping his voice level and neutral; he laid his hand on her forehead. “You are heated, Domina.”
“I have said so all morning,” Adicia complained, giving a look of justification to the slaves in her room.
“I believe you have agitated your humors. You house is quite warm, and you have swaddled yourself in blankets.” He felt her indignation in the sudden tightening of her wasted body. “If you were to allow yourself to release some of the heat you have bottled up within you, I think you might feel better.”
“Do you?” she disputed in a tone of injury.
Sanct-Franciscus softened his tone. “It is an easy thing to awaken to the cool of the morning, before the holocaust has been stoked and lit, and to wrap yourself in blankets against the chill—you are prudent to do so, Domina Adicia, for beginning the day with cold in the bones is both painful and damaging. But through the morning, your house has warmed as the holocaust has been burning; the warming is gradual, and not readily detected, so that by now, you have become accustomed to defending against cold when there is little to—”
“How can you say that, when you, of all men, know that any chill is agony to me?” She glowered toward him. “First oranges instead of lemons, now this.”
Sanct-Franciscus was unflustered. “I know you are troubled by the discomfort you anticipate, but I believe you may find yourself much more easy than you are now, for you will not be overheated.”
“Have you come unprepared? is that it?” Adicia demanded. “Are you trying to coddle me instead of treating me?”
“No, Domina—nothing of the sort,” he assured her. “But I want the anodyne I supply to have the best chance of providing you relief, and I fear that will not be possible if you are choleric.”
Adicia struggled with herself, then looked up at him, offering him a coquettish smile. “You must always charm me from my unhappiness, Sanct-Franciscus. You are a magician. Whatever my brother pays you, it isn’t enough.”
He studied her face. “You are too kind,” he said slowly; he did not mention he accepted no payment for his services.
She shifted the heaviest blanket off her, and motioned to one of the slaves to fold it. “I will try what you suggest.”
“If you begin to feel cold, drink warm honey-water. It will heat you from the inside out, which is much the better way.” He opened the wallet hanging on his belt and took out a vial containing an infusion of pansy, willow, and silkflower. “I want you to drink this with your orange-water. I think it will relieve your discomfort and allow you to rest.” He handed her another, smaller vial. “Then drink this. I fear the taste is not very pleasant, but it will ease you.” The contents was a syrup of valerian and poppies, not a strong solution, but enough to ensure Adicia’s sleep for several hours.
“I
am
tired,” said Adicia, as if announcing an accomplishment. “It is good of you to do this for me. You do concern yourself on my behalf, do you not?” She smiled again, dangerously near simpering.
am
tired,” said Adicia, as if announcing an accomplishment. “It is good of you to do this for me. You do concern yourself on my behalf, do you not?” She smiled again, dangerously near simpering.
The rain increased from a whisper to a purr, and the wind rose enough to tap the branch of a nearby tree against the roof.
“I am your physician. It is part of my responsibility to you to be concerned on your behalf.” He kept all emotion out of his voice, including his own apprehension as he poured the tincture into the cup set out for her and added orange-water from the ewer. “This first,” he said as he handed her the cup.
“Very good,” she said, taking the cup and giving him a long, meaningful stare as she began to drink.
“All of it; I want you to have the most benefit possible.” He tried to look confident, knowing she expected that of him.
She finished the orange-water and held out the empty cup. “There—you see? I follow your orders to the letter.”
He took the cup and handed her the second, smaller vial. “Now this. Drink it quickly; it does not have a pleasant taste.”
“That is true of so many medicines,” Adicia said. “All right.” She made a face as she swallowed the contents of the vial. “Most unsavory.”
“As I told you.” He took the vials and put them back in his wallet.
“What then?” she asked.
“Now lie back; not with all your covers, only with a few.” He watched as she complied. “I will instruct your slaves as to how they are to attend you while you rest.”
“Excellent,” she said, starting to close her eyes.
Sanct-Franciscus saw the slaves exchange uneasy glances; he motioned them to move to the far side of the room, where he went to tell them, “She should be drowsy shortly. Keep her head and shoulders on pillows, and bring a basin of warm camphor-water so that she may breathe freely while she sleeps. She may be a bit groggy when she wakens—if she is, prepare a mixture of apple-juice and honey with a stick of cinnamon in it, and see she drinks it slowly. Do not give her any wine until she is fully awake.” He saw their doubt in their eyes. “It is for her benefit that you do this. If she dislikes it, tell her you are doing as I instructed you. I will take the brunt of her displeasure.”
“She will not whip you,” said the tallest of the slaves, and was hushed by her companions.
“No; and she should not whip you, either,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
The slaves said nothing, but the strongest woman folded her arms and stared down at the floor.
“Be prudent,” Sanct-Franciscus suggested. “She is truly unwell, and getting slowly worse; that frightens her, which turns her temper sour.”
“It certainly does,” said the oldest of the three.
Sanct-Franciscus nodded in sympathy. “Then blame me. It is fitting that you do so.”
“Because you are her physician,” the strongest one said.
“Because she likes you,” said the tallest at the same time.
The oldest shook her head. “No. It is because you feel for us,” she said in growing astonishment.
Sanct-Franciscus was silent, but something burned in his dark eyes that revealed more to the three women than he realized: a penetration that commanded their esteem; he patted his wallet. “I will return tomorrow, before prandium.” He did not wait to see the women acknowledge this, but turned and left Domina Adicia’s chambers.
Text of a letter from Lucius Virginius Rufius to Marius Octavian Laelius.
To my sweet brother in our faith, at the season of the birth of our Savior, my greetings and prayers for your deepening devotion in the year to come, numbered the two hundred nineteenth since the birth of the Christ;
In this time when the pagans of Roma hold their salacious festival of Saturnalia, I ask you to join with us, to go about the city to exhort the people to repent their many, many sins and seek redemption in Jesus the Christ. A number of us have decided to spend the last two nights of the festival trying to keep men from indulging their fleshly desires, and to that end, we will carry short whips and staves with which we may drive our lessons home. Better we should face their condemnation in this world than the disapproval of our Savior in the next.
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