Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
Roman Dusk (29 page)
“She’s had a hard day—two days,” Ignatia said as she met Sanct-Franciscus in the vestibule. “She hasn’t been sleeping—the heat wears on her—and she is not …” She made a complicated gesture as Starus carefully secured the bolt on the door. “I wouldn’t have sent you word so late, but she …”
“She has been vomiting, not much, but whenever she tries—” said Starus, holding a branch of oil-lamps so that they could more easily see one another. “Nothing she eats stays down, not even water.” He spoke softly enough, for most of the household was asleep.
“I’ve tried poppy-water, just as you recommended, but not even that can soothe her, and she claims I want to poison her,” said Ignatia, and stifled a sudden yawn. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so—”
Sanct-Franciscus took Ignatia’s hand. “How long have you been tending Domina Adicia?” His case of medicaments was buckled to his belt, and he used his free hand to move it around to the small of his back, out of the way.
“Since before dawn yesterday,” Starus said before Ignatia could answer. “Doma Ignatia has taken a few brief naps, but she is worn out with all the demands being made on her.”
“Starus,” Ignatia warned, staring down at her hand in his. “I have an obligation, and I will fulfill it.”
“It is true, Doma,” he said firmly. “And your brother’s no help, going to his friends to have them pray to their Jewish god to help her. Again.” He raised his chin indignantly. “I will not go back on what I’ve said. You have been up almost two days, and that is too much for anyone. Octavian should be here, helping to care for his mother, not with the Christians.”
“He thinks their prayers will help our mother,” said Ignatia, repeating what she had been saying for months.
Before the discussion became a cycle of recriminations, Sanct-Franciscus intervened. “What else is wrong with her? She cannot hold anything in her stomach, but is there anything more?”
“She complains of headache,” said Ignatia, removing her hand from his.
“Hardly surprising if she is hungry and thirsty,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “When did this begin?”
“More than two days ago,” said Ignatia with a kind of numb fatigue that said more than lengthly explanations would.
“Why did you wait to send for me?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“She … she said … not to, not while she … could not receive you … properly or …” Ignatia
s voice trailed off.
s voice trailed off.“The weather was especially hot that day, you may recall, and still, close, damp,” said Starus. “Domina Laelius had not slept well, and complained that the heat was wearing her out, leeching her strength. She called for lemon-water, but—” he shook his head slowly, then went on, “She was flushed and edgy all that day, saying that her muscles were exhausted. She claimed she feared the mal aria—the bad air which is everywhere at this time of year—and insisted that incense be burned in her chamber, which made her cough.”
“Did you remove the incense?” asked Sanct-Franciscus.
“No; she would not allow it. When I tried to … she accused me of wanting to see her die,” said Ignatia, sighing. “At least most of it burned and she isn’t coughing any more.”
“Do you think she will want to see me, at this hour?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “If she has not wanted my help for two days?”
“She would want to see you at any hour,” said Ignatia with a fatalistic gesture. “She has been in a swither.”
Sanct-Francisus regarded Ignatia steadily. “Then it might be best if you take me to her—if you would.”
“She is likely to be in a testy state of mind still,” said Ignatia quietly. “She upbraided three slaves this evening. She would have beaten them if she had the strength.”
“Beaten them, you say?” Sanct-Franciscus pressed his lips together thoughtfully, then, “Would it be useful if I spoke to her about that? Beaten slaves do not give good care; does she realize that.”
“Probably not,” said Ignatia, seconding Sanct-Franciscus’ own inclination. “She hasn’t paid attention to any of the household.”
“Very well; I will say nothing,” he said, and fell in beside her, leaving Starus to keep watch for Octavian.
“I
am
worried, no matter what she may think,” said Ignatia as they crossed the atrium. “She has been demanding before, of course, but this time, she is also frightened. I see it in her eyes.”
am
worried, no matter what she may think,” said Ignatia as they crossed the atrium. “She has been demanding before, of course, but this time, she is also frightened. I see it in her eyes.”
“She has been frightened before,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
“Yes, but not in this way.” She walked a bit more slowly, her eyes fixed on a distant place only she could see. “Before, she was angry; now the fear is stronger, and she is filled with emotions I haven’t seen in her—panic, and a kind of dread.”
“So you think she is worse?”
“I think
she
thinks she is worse,” said Ignatia. “That frightens me, although I know I shouldn’t be pulled into her … her …” Here she floundered, trying not to be condemning of Adicia.
she
thinks she is worse,” said Ignatia. “That frightens me, although I know I shouldn’t be pulled into her … her …” Here she floundered, trying not to be condemning of Adicia.
“Her distress,” Sanct-Franciscus suggested.
Ignatia nodded as they reached the door to Adicia’s bedroom. “I won’t go in with you; I upset her too much. I’d just as soon not cause her any more annoyance. But I would like to speak with you when you are through, if you don’t mind.”
“Where will I find you?” He watched her closely as she answered. “I want to speak with you, as well.”
“I will be in the garden. I try to spend time in the open air every evening, and this will be my first chance since sunrise.” She touched his hand. “You are good to her—better than she has any right to expect.”
“That is kind of you, Ignatia,” said Sanct-Franciscus before he turned to go into Adicia’s room.
An angular, middle-aged woman slumped by the window, half-asleep, her slave’s collar shining dully in the light of a single oil-lamp; she sat up as she heard Sanct-Franciscus’ soft approach. “I am not asleep,” she declared.
“No, not she; she has snored only to keep me awake,” Adicia complained from her heap of pillows. A light coverlet was drawn up to her shoulders, and she had one hand clenched on its whip-sewn hem. “I thought you’d come earlier. You should have been here before sunset. I was miserable then.” This rebuke was petulant, a condemnation extending beyond this occasion.
The slave sank back in her chair as if seeking invisibility.
“I did not receive word until a little more than an hour ago that you were ailing, Domina,” he said tranquilly, refusing to be pulled into her anger which he was aware masked her fright. “I came as soon as I was called. You must pardon me for taking so long to get here.”
“An hour?” She stared up at him.
“I had to gather my medicaments and have my horses yoked to the biga.” He made this ordinary delay seem inexcusable to placate her complaint.
“At least the streets are empty tonight,” Adicia remarked, fussing with the selvage of the coverlet.
“Something to be thankful for,” Sanct-Franciscus said at his most soothing.
“That trollop of a daughter of mine must have thrown herself upon you again, arriving at your gate as if she were an abandoned woman,” Adicia said, releasing the coverlet and fretting with the knot of her hair; she managed to pull a few tendrils free and twist them around her fingers.
“She sent your under-steward to summon me,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “She preferred not to leave you.” He came to the side of her bed. “They tell me the heat has been bothering you.”
“It’s been bothering everyone,” Adicia said in disgust.
“That may be, but it is you I have come to treat, and it is you who must have my full attention.” He reached for flint-and-steel to strike a spark for the nearest oil-lamps, and as their pale, wavering light sprang to life, he saw that his initial impression was right: Domina Adicia was suffering from heat exhaustion, and possibly dehydration as well for her forehead was dry. “They tell me you cannot keep food or water down: is this true?”
“Not easily,” she hedged.
“Not at all, from what I was told.” He took her hand to feel the pulse in her wrist. “And that is not a favorable sign,” he went on, noticing her heartbeat was shallow and rapid.
“They want me to die. I’ve become too great a burden. That’s the whole of it,” Adicia said bitterly. “They are tired of me.”
“They don’t want you dead, Domina,” Sanct-Franciscus reassured her. “They want you better.”
“Hah!” She pulled her arm away from him. “Not even you believe that. You see how I am served.”
“Yes, I see how carefully you are tended, and I must tell you that you are in error, thinking that anyone wishes you ill. If I thought you were in danger, I would speak to the decuriae.”
“My daughter has fooled you, as she fools so many,” Adicia muttered.
Sanct-Franciscus remained patient and steady, thinking back to his long years serving in the Temple of Imhotep. “It is a source of unhappiness for us all that we can give you so little relief from your suffering, but no one wants your death.”
“But they do,” Adicia said, pouting.
“Domina Adicia, you will chafe yourself into a fever.” He put his hand on her forehead to emphasize his concern.
“I
am
in a fever,” she quetched. “I am consumed with fire. My bones are hot as embers.”
am
in a fever,” she quetched. “I am consumed with fire. My bones are hot as embers.”
“I will prepare a draught for you that will ease your discomforts,” said Sanct-Franciscus, doing his best to put Adicia in a better frame of mind. “Then you must rest; sleep gives more cures than a score of physicians.”
Her short laughter was harsh. “You are probably the only physician in Roma who would say so.”
He made no attempt to argue with her, but signaled to the slave, saying to her, “If you will fetch a pitcher of almond-milk, I will prepare my draught.” The woman pushed herself to her feet, and Sanct-Franciscus noticed that the slave suffered from aching joints. “And bring a cup of water—I have some pansy-and-willow that will lessen your pain.”
“I don’t ask you to treat my slaves,” Adicia said brusquely as the woman hurried out of the room.
“No, but I thought you would be pleased with having a woman serve you who isn’t preoccupied with her own afflictions.” Sanct-Franciscus let her consider this, then added, “It is to your benefit to have your slaves in good frame.”
“So you say; so you say,” she muttered, displeased for no reason she could describe.
He opened his case and began to set out vials and jars. “You will need a composer so that you will not vomit, and an anodyne to relieve your hurts, and something to lessen your fever. I will also include a soporific, so you may sleep.” He touched his supplies as he explained, and watched her response to his recommendations.
“I need to keep my stomach settled, or all the rest will be for naught.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line. “If only I knew what consumes me!” she burst out.
“Whatever it is, you have borne it a long time,” he said gently.
Adicia glared at him. “As have others in my gens,” she admitted with an emotion compounded of distress and pride. “My aunt died of this weakness and pain, and one of my brothers, as well, many years since.”
“Such has been the case with many Romans,” said Sanct-Franciscus with a suggestion of concern.
“True, very true,” she said, looking away from him as the slave returned with a pitcher and a pair of cups on a tray, one of which contained water, the other of which was empty. “It has become our encumbrance for our greatness,” she said so that Sanct-Franciscus would take little notice of the slave.
“Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus, taking the tray and setting it on the bedside table next to his open case. He removed a small, deep spoon from his case and began to measure out the ingredients he had described to her into the almond-milk in the pitcher. “Do not try to drink this all at once, but take a little, wait a bit, then take a little more. You will fare better that way.”
“And if I vomit—what then?” Adicia seemed almost to relish that possibility. “I may well be sick all night.”
“Then your slave will hold your basin and I will try another combination of medicaments,” he said.
Other books
Ghostly Touch by Smith, Jennifer
In Bed with a Highlander by Maya Banks
Refugees by Catherine Stine
Coming Home by Leslie Kelly
When Paris Went Dark by Ronald C. Rosbottom
Joy and Tiers by Mary Crawford
Frost by Robin W Bailey
Forbidden Fruit by Melanie Thompson
Coping by J Bennett
The Rancher by Kelli Ann Morgan