Saint-Germain 20: Roman Dusk: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Read online

  Two slaves with a large chest held between them made their way past Sanct-Franciscus and Vitellius; one of them was breathing hard, the other less so, although he was sweating.

  “She is a woman, and a Roman of the old school, one who honors all the slave laws of Augustus and Traianus; it does her much credit,” said Vitellius with quiet pride. “In the many years I have been with her, I have not known her to discipline anyone unnecessarily, or to deny any reasonable care.”

  Sanct-Franciscus achieved a slight smile. “All to her credit.”

  “And you seek to emulate her?” Vitellius asked.

  “Something of the sort,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “My slaves will tell you how they have been treated. If it does not accord with your good opinion, you have only to tell me and I will strive to amend my ways.” His voice was light but there was a glow in his dark eyes that commanded Vitellius’ respect.

  “A foreigner like you,” said Vitellius with more daring than he had intended to use with Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Precisely,” was his answer.

  “And the woman from the lupanar? What of her? Would Domina Clemens be willing to receive her if she were here?”

  “I believe she would; she certainly would not demand that I deny myself the gratification of my … needs.” His voice dropped, not in embarrassment but as an acknowledgment of the privacy of his requirements. “You will treat her well, and not speak against her—not you or any member of the household.” A century ago, such a precaution would not have been necessary. “Do you understand.” Then he turned to Aedius, who stood half-a-dozen paces away, and said, “I want you to have one of this household assist you. Just at present I require Vitellius to put his full attention here, but you will need to discuss the division of your duties. I do not want any implication of keeping Domina Clemens’ household at a distance, for that could turn both sets of servants into camps of opposition. That would accomplish nothing worthwhile, and so I hope to prevent it from the beginning. Will you do your part?”

  Aedius nodded. “I will.”

  “Very good.” He glanced over at Vitellius, comparing this man to the Caesar whose reign had lasted only a handful of weeks, a century-and-a-half ago. This slave was circumspect in his dealings and used his position with care and concision. Vitellius Caesar had indulged himself recklessly and showed favor and caprice with equal inclination; this impulsivity proved to be his undoing: his fall had been the last of a series of short reigns, and had brought Titus Flavius Vespasianus and his two sons to the purple. Now, once again there was a cluster of unpopular Caesars, and Sanct-Franciscus wondered when this spate would end.

  As soon as the carts were unloaded, they were driven out of the courtyard, bound for the Porta Viminalis and the road to Villa Ragoczy for the last loads. The one remaining cart became a focus of activity, its cargo of chests requiring careful handling as some contained glass and fine stoneware, one was filled with brass instruments for measuring and calculation, and others held jars and vials of medicaments and similar substances.

  “What do you think, Foreign Honoratus? Or should it be Dominus, now you have this house in Roma? Or honestiorus?” asked Urbanus, Sanct-Franciscus’ twenty-six-year-old freedman clerk who had only recently entered his employ. “Will they be back before noon tomorrow?”

  “I trust so, and I suppose it must be Dominus, or honestiorus,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “There is a festival to be held at the Temple of Hercules, and I hope the carts will not be caught in the celebration.”

  “Is that likely?” Urbanus asked. “They hold such festivities in front of the temple, not behind it. We may have to listen to the celebration, but we need not participate. Let them revel and riot as they like, it means little to us if the gates are closed.” He wore three silver rings on his fingers—the highest display the law allowed him—and his silken pallium was belted in links of brass; in all, he had, as he had intended, the look of prosperity. His close-cropped brown hair shone with perfumed oil and the thin line of beard along his jaw was precisely trimmed. He was almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus, and took great satisfaction in being half-a-head taller than most men in Roma. “Why should the celebration be a problem?”

  “The celebrants will have bigae, and slaves, and they will want them near to hand. The square just beyond the gate will be a tangle,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  Urbanus considered this, then said, “You’re probably right. Very well. I will hope that your slaves and carts will be here before midday, and all the goods they bring bestowed before sunset.”

  “If that is to be achieved, the greater part of their unloading will be done before the festival is fully under way. The sacrifices are made at midday and the procession follows afterward, and then the feasting,” said Sanct-Franciscus, hoping it was still true, for enough time had gone by since he had seen this celebration in Roma that he realized changes may have occurred.

  “Sacrifices. Goats, sheep, and perhaps a calf or two,” said Urbanus, rubbing his chin in thought. “I will be here in the morning, shortly after dawn, and you may command me as you wish.”

  “I am grateful for your attention,” said Sanct-Franciscus, watching one of the grooms pull at the reins of the remaining empty cart. “The ponies need their rest.”

  “They’re stubborn enough to be mules,” said Urbanus.

  “You have a point,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he saw the ponies start to move, lured by a handful of apple-cores the groom had fetched. “Fortunately, they are bribable.”

  “Not only ponies,” said Urbanus, clearing his throat and looking about as if expecting to be spied upon. “I have had an inquiry from one of the decuriae.”

  “Oh?” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “An officious fellow calling himself Telemachus Batsho. Nothing much to look at, but full of his own importance.” Urbanus coughed discreetly. “He came to my insula in person, accompanied by an African slave, at the first hour after dawn. He said he’d met you with Septimus Desiderius Vulpius. He had a few questions for me regarding your business and property, and he hinted that there would be fewer questions, and fewer delays, if you would double his four percent fee for your transfer of residence.”

  “Did he?” Sanct-Franciscus was not surprised. “What kind of questions is he asking?”

  “Mostly how much money you have outside of Roma, beyond the villa and the vineyard and the horse-farm, and how many ships you have plying the seas,” said Urbanus. “I told him he should consult with your agents in Ostia about your shipping interests. Your agents there know more than I, and they have worked with you much longer than I have.”

  “An excellent response,” Sanct-Franciscus approved.

  “He wouldn’t have agreed with you. I doubt he wants to divide his commission with any of the decuriae in Ostia, and that should serve to limit his searches to Roma,” said Urbanus. “I suggested he wait until you are settled here and then audit your records for the Senate.”

  “And what did he say to that?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. He rounded suddenly on three slaves tugging at a chest in the cart. “Be careful with that. The contents are breakable.”

  “Sorry, Dominus,” said the largest of the three. “It’s pretty well wedged in.”

  Sanct-Franciscus sighed. “Then fetch a lever,” he said. “The contents of that chest would be hard to replace.”

  One of the slaves paled, and all three touched their collars to show their compliance with his order.

  Knowing the three were now nervous, Sanct-Franciscus said, “Have one of your fellows help you.”

  “Yes, Dominus,” said the largest again, and motioned to the youngest to go find help.

  Sanct-Franciscus turned back to Urbanus. “Pardon me.”

  “You are Dominus here, and by right you command,” said Urbanus. “We are here to serve at your pleasure.” He regarded Sanct-Franciscus a moment. “Was I wrong to make such a suggestion to that decuria? He was most insistent and curious. I thought he was looking for some excuse
to confiscate your property, so I thought I should—”

  “You did the right thing, Urbanus,” said Sanct-Franciscus, wondering why Telemachus Batsho was so interested in him.

  “You have some powerful friends who could require this Batsho to desist,” Urbanus said speculatively.

  “It would only increase his curiosity,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “Why give him cause to investigate all my dealings.” He did not add that Urbanus was privy to less than a quarter of his ventures, and that he hoped to keep it that way.

  “Very well,” said Urbanus, stepping back as the four slaves lugged the large chest away. “Shall I inform you of his requests?”

  “If you would,” said Sanct-Franciscus, shading his eyes from the rays of the westering sun as the first of six crates of his native earth was borne away to the apartments he would occupy.

  “And should I apprise Batsho when I send word to you?” Urbanus asked.

  “I think for now a regular report will suffice: one to him and one to me. You are a man of good sense, Urbanus; I rely upon you to know how much to reveal; I prefer you not lie, for that might come back to weigh on me.” He held up his hand. “I will soon come to your office and review all the figures Aedius has supplied, and I will give you an official authorization in regard to which intelligence you may release without first obtaining my specific permission.”

  Urbanus offered Sanct-Franciscus a civilian salute, then started for the gate. “I will expect inventories from you in four days’ time, if you think that will suffice? Better to do this quickly than to delay—that appears questionable.”

  “If I need more time, I will let you know, and the reason for it, so there will be no opportunity for uncertainty; I thank you for your attention on my behalf,” said Sanct-Franciscus, and waited until the clerk had left before he followed the third crate of his native earth up the stairs in the atrium to his quarters on the north side of the house, where the shuttered windows admitted the least sun of any apartments in the house.

  Tigilus, the understeward, stood in the largest of the three rooms set aside for Sanct-Franciscus’ personal use. He held a wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other, and he was staring at the three crates of earth stacked against the far wall. He was no more than medium height, but so blocky that he appeared short. “Where do you want those stored?”

  Sanct-Franciscus pointed to the large closet between the bedroom and this chamber. “That would seem a good place.”

  “As you wish. And for your body-slave, whom do you wish to serve you?” Tigilus asked.

  It was all Sanct-Franciscus could do not to say Rugeri, but he stopped himself in time, and regarded Tigilus. “Would you be amenable to being in charge of my rooms? I may use my body-slave from my villa just at present, but he does not know the conduct of this house, nor its assigned uses: for that, you are much more prepared, and it would suit me to have your service, if it is suitable to you.”

  Tigilus blinked, and did his best to decide what would be the most advantageous decision. He studied Sanct-Franciscus, and finally asked, “You could order me to serve you—why do you permit me to decide? Or will you insist that I choose to do as you wish me to?”

  “I permit you to decide so that you will know that I am willing to have it so, but not if such service is contrary to your—” Sanct-Franciscus broke off at the sound of a leather case striking the floor of the bedroom, followed by a wail of distress.

  Tigilus turned and prepared to barrel into the bedroom to chastise the slave who had committed such an error. “That should earn more than a reprimand.”

  “At another time,” said Sanct-Franciscus mildly. “But by the sound of it, all that was dropped was clothing, and the worst that may come of this is the need to have a few garments washed.” He stretched out his hand, firmly blocking his way. “Let me attend to this, if you would.”

  “If you insist, Dominus.” Tigilus was not pleased to have his authority limited, but he also was not going to press his luck with this foreigner, not given Domina Clemens’ high opinion of him.

  “For now, I do. Once the household has been put in order, I will not interfere with your duties, nor will I make unreasonable demands upon you. If you will wait here for me?” Sanct-Franciscus went through the dressing room to the bedroom where he saw two slaves—a young man and a girl of no more than fourteen—trying to shove three black-linen kalasirises back into the leather clothes-case they had dropped. “I hope one of you will tell me what happened.”

  Both began to speak at once, and both fell silent.

  “One of you tell me how you came to drop the case. I am not intending to punish either of you; I simply want to know why the accident”—he emphasized the word—“happened, so we may avoid another such.”

  The male slave had a ridge of scars along his upper arm; he looked at Sanct-Franciscus, his expression concealing his thoughts. “I was backing up and caught my heel on the edge of that table.” He pointed to the handsome, low table that stood not far from the bed.

  “Well, better a dropped clothes-chest than a broken leg,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If you will be good enough to have all the clothes unpacked immediately and hung on their pegs, I would appreciate it.”

  The two slaves exchanged disbelieving glances, and the girl almost sighed aloud. “At once,” she said, and opened the top of the case fully, taking the fine garments out. “I have never seen such fabrics, not in all the years I have served in fine houses. I know I should not mention it, but I am astonished by the wonderful things you have,” she said, almost caressing the heavy damask silk of his four trabeae. “And the colors. Not the black, but that deep-red and the black edged in silver—” She held up the garment. “This is wonderful. What is it?”

  “An Egyptian kalasiris in silk. I have three of them, for hot weather.”

  “You wear pleated silk in summer?” the girl marveled.

  “Yes,” he answered, and offered no other comment.

  “I will hang it with care, to keep the pleats sharp,” she said.

  “Thank you,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “I am delighted you approve.”

  The girl’s face froze and her cheeks went pale. “I didn’t mean …”

  “It isn’t important; I am not offended that you are pleased with my clothing,” said Sanct-Franciscus suddenly. “I only ask that you take good care of my things given into your care.”

  The two slaves nodded, and the man said, “If you will have our work reviewed before we are done, we may correct any mistakes we have made.”

  “Tigilus will do that,” said Sanct-Franciscus.

  “Very good, Dominus,” said the slaves in near-unison, but with slight hesitation that revealed their uneasiness with Tigilus.

  “Continue with your tasks,” Sanct-Franciscus said as he left the two.

  Tigilus was waiting on the other side of the dressing room shaking his head. “You will never have their respect if you do not hold them to their duty more stringently. Most Romans would beat the female for her insolence, or subdue her in other ways.” He licked his lips suggestively. “She and the male were beyond their place in speaking to you as they did. They have an obligation to respect your position, even if you are a foreigner. They will take advantage of your good-will.”

  “Why is that?” Sanct-Franciscus asked quietly.

  Although he offered no answer, Tigilus gave a put-upon sigh. “It isn’t like the old days, you know, when slaves could buy their freedom and the freedom of their families. Now there must be decuriae to decide if the purchase is possible, and to have their percentage of the transaction. The only freedom purchase they cannot share in is that of gladiators.”

  “And why is this?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.

  “Because there had been too many abuses—slaves buying their freedom for a single denarius and having nothing asked but that they allow their former masters to be their silent partners in business, which spared the former owners the burdens of taxes.” Tigilus folded his arms. �
�The decuriae now monitor all such transactions.”

  “Including their commoda of four percent,” said Sanet-Franciscus, with a suggestion of irony in his tone.

  “They seek to turn their work to every advantage,” said Tigilus with heavy, deliberate irony. Giving up trying to chasten his master for the moment, he asked, “What do you want me to do next?”

  “See my bed is put in place in the outer portion of the bedroom in the position marked on the floor; the large chest topped with a mattress to go in the rear portion of the room, behind the screen, and my personal goods bestowed in chests that are being brought up. Also, if you would, be sure the two in the next room have attended properly to my clothing.” Sanct-Franciscus glanced toward the door.

  “May I correct their failures?” Tigilus asked, a shade too eagerly.

  “If you mean may you beat them, you may not. If you think they have done things poorly or incorrectly, send for me and I will deal with them,” said Sanct-Franciscus; he began to wonder if he had erred in offering Tigilus the care of his apartments.

  “Of course, Dominus,” said Tigilus, ducking his head and taking two steps back.

  “Very good,” said Sanct-Franciscus automatically. “I will be downstairs for a while; you may find me in the larder.”

  “Of course, Dominus,” said Tigilus, bringing up his stylus and starting to write in the wax of his tablet.

  “I will leave you to it, then.” Stepping out onto the gallery, Sanct-Franciscus had the uneasy impression that something more than the door had closed between him and Tigilus.

  Text of a letter from Brunius Tercitus Manus, secretary to Senator Juvens Gaius Horatius, to Lyllis Pulcheria, both in Roma; carried by private messenger to her house in the lupanar.

  To the most highly praised and accomplished courtesan, Lyllis Pulcheria, the greetings of Brunius Tercitus Manus, on behalf of Juvens Gaius Horatius, Senator, with a few requests regarding the entertainment you have contracted to provide two nights hence: