Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Rome, #Saint-Germain
Roman Dusk (32 page)
I will never forget all you have done for me, and I will always think myself fortunate to have been afforded your good opinion when others were excoriating me for debauchery. You are most assuredly more entitled to the honor of Romans than most Romans are.
On this, the 13
th
day of October in the 972
nd
Year of the City, and with my heart-felt gratitude,
th
day of October in the 972
nd
Year of the City, and with my heart-felt gratitude,
Melidulci
by the hand of Lars, freedman and citizen of Roma
At the eastern end of the garden of the Villa Laelius stood the tenyear-old spring house, where water from the extension of the aqueduct to the Baths of Caracalla had been channeled to a handful of private houses for scandalous amounts that helped to pay for the construction of the monumental baths a decade ago. There was a fountain with three large, graduated stone bowls in its center, topped by a statue of the garden god, and beneath it all, a drain that funneled the water to various parts of the house. Four doors gave easy access to the fountain, with benches around the colonnade, and three couches for private dining; the walls were decorated with murals of Vertumnus and Pomona, with small panels dedicated to other numina. At the time it was built, it had been the envy of all the neighbors, but now most of the other houses got their water from new extensions of the Virgo Aqueduct, and this spring house was no longer begrudged the Villa Laelius.
Sunset was fading into twilight on this last night of October when Sanct-Franciscus arrived on foot, unseen and unannounced, at the Villa Laelius; he made his way to the garden, as silent as a shadow and as graceful. His simple black Persian chandys and black bracae lent their darkness to the coming night, hiding him from all but the most determined and alert spies. After climbing the wall, he took time to make sure the grounds were empty, then went toward the spring house, his senses attuned to the night, to the odor of wood-smoke and broiling pork from the kitchen, and the sweet-sour aroma of rotting summer fruit. The whisper of fallen leaves blowing along the gravel path accompanied him; from beyond the walls came the steady clamor of the end of market-day.
Two of the doors of the spring house were open—the north and the west ones, facing away from the main house and the stables—and the flickering light of an oil-lamp shone within the single, vaulted chamber, touching the falling water as if to turn it to bits of gold, and illuminating Ignatia, seated on the farthest couch, her plum-colored mafortium raised as if to conceal her face. She held a small book cut on broad wood-shavings in her hands, but gave no sign of reading anything written on it. At the soft sound of his peri on the marble floor, she looked up in the direction of the oil-lamp.
“Ignatia,” he said as he stepped next to the fountain; the water running under the floor was a slight distraction, but his native earth in his soles prevented any serious discomfort.
She sighed at the sound of his voice, and turned toward him. “Sanct-Franciscus,” she said, as if to reassure herself he was real, and not a figment of her inflamed imagination. “I was afraid you … wouldn’t come.”
He felt her hesitation struggle with her desire; two centuries ago he would have used her ambivalence to persuade her to accept him; now, he remained where he was, allowing her to reach her decision on her own. “Would you prefer I had not.”
“No,” she said, apparently unaware of the forlorn note in her voice. She rose and took a faltering step toward him. “If you hadn’t come, I’d … I’d know.”
“Know what, Ignatia?” He closed the distance between them, but did not touch her yet.
“That my mother was right, and that you come here because of your devotion to her; you would have no interest in me.” She gave a startled blink to hear herself admit so much.
“I am her physician: I feel sympathy for her, and I have an obligation to treat her illness to the limit of my skills, but”—he took her hands in his—“were Domina Adicia not here, I would still want to be with you, to—”
Ignatia pulled one hand free and pressed her fingers to his lips. “You don’t have to say that.” She pulled her hand back, as if even such a minor touch as that was too personal for her.
“Why?” he asked as he took her hand again.
“Because it might not be so,” she confessed, staring down at the rim of the lowest and largest bowl of the fountain.
He lifted their joined hands. His enigmatic eyes were too intense for her to meet with her own. “Do you think I would lie to you?”
“Men lie to women,” she said.
“But do you think I lie to you, Ignatia?” There was no rancor in the question, no suggestion of umbrage or accusation.
She shook her head but would not look at him. “I’m scared,” she whispered.
“If you are afraid of me, send me away.” He felt her hands tighten in his. “If you are not afraid of me, nor think me mendacious, what do you fear?”
Finally she lifted her eyes to him; in the lamplight they were more green than blue. “I may want you too much.”
“What is too much?”
The question startled her. “More than dignity approves,” she said slowly, repeating the lessons of her childhood.
“And if you do, what then?” He waited for her answer.
“I don’t know,” she said in an under-voice.
“Would you rather not find out?” he asked as he released her hands.
She grabbed for him, seizing his left hand in both of hers. “No!”
“What, then?”
Lifting his hand to her face inside the circle of her mafortium, she stared over his shoulder. “I want to know—so much.”
“But it vexes you to want so much,” he said softly, thinking back to the first time he had met Olivia, and the fear she had shown. When Ignatia nodded, he went on. “You have denied your longing for so many years that now you wonder if you have dammed a flood in your heart, and it may drown you if you release it.”
She uttered a little gasp. “You know! How can you know that?”
“It is in everything you do,” said Sanct-Franciscus simply, opening his hand against her cheek; she started to turn away again, but this time he held her face gently, but with such strength that she was startled by it. “You want to know what is within you, and you are frightened of what it might be.”
Astonished, she said, “Yes.”
“But the desire to know is greater than your fear,” he said, his voice low and compelling.
“Yes,” she said, a bit uncertainly. “I want to know.”
“As do I,” he told her just above a whisper.
For a long moment they stood together in the wavering lamp-light, then Ignatia shivered and leaned her head against his shoulder. “You must think me a foolish woman.”
“No, I think you an undiscovered woman,” he corrected her in a voice that touched her soul as surely as his hand caressed her face.
“Undiscovered,” she repeated. “Yes.”
He eased his arms around her, supporting her against him, lending her his strength while she battled within herself to overcome her fears. “What would you like to explore first?” he asked quietly as he felt the strain go out of her body.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Something pleasant.” She averted her face.
“Would you like me to massage your hands?” he offered.
She was startled enough to look at him. “What? Massage my hands? Why?”
“Because it is something pleasant,” he answered calmly. “And, if it satisfies you, it will lead to other things.”
Ignatia had been told all her life how hasty men were in sexual matters, so she was doubly surprised by his proffering. “You are going to postpone your pleasure for—”
“I postpone nothing. I have no pleasure but what you have,” he said. “What fulfills you is my fulfillment as well.”
Amazed, she stared at him, attempting to read his face, searching for any trace of dissimulation. “But you will have your spasm, and your release.”
“Only if you do,” he said as he untied her mafortium and removed it, revealing her hair, shining like turned brass in the lamp-light. “I am not like other men: my culmination comes from you. If you have no gratification, I have none. What you experience, I experience, no more and no less.” He worked the tibia holding the brooch that closed the neck of her paenula; beneath it he saw her stola in soft, sea-blue cotton and her palla of blue-gray linen. “Will you be warm enough without your paenula?’
“If I am cold, we can use it as a cover,” she said, shocked at her own audacity.
“Then I will spread it on the longest couch,” he said, and swung the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it onto the couch.
“We can hide under it,” she said, a little of her temerity fading.
“What do we have to hide from?” He took a step toward the couch, sinking down onto the end of it, and holding out his hands to her. “We are alone here.”
“There are spies in the household,” she said.
“But why should they follow you into the garden? What might you do here that would concern him—or anyone? It is not as if you are parading in the lupanar, is it?” he asked sensibly. “Are there not other interests to occupy them, such as your brother’s activities?”
Ignatia shook her head. “My brother is out, going with his friends to ‘light the fires of faith’ he says. He won’t be back until later unless the Watch sends him home.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “His devotion to his religion has led him to do all manner of roguery. I think he and his friends use their righteousness as an excuse for mischief.” She glanced toward the open doors, as if worried he might overhear her.
“Do you think he would watch you if he were here?” Sanct-Franciscus asked.
“He might. He is constantly troubled about sin in the house. And he might set the slaves to watching for him while he’s gone.”
“You think you might be observed here, in your own garden, inside your own walls, at your brother’s instigation?” He could feel her tension increase again as he inquired.
“I think it’s possible,” she said slowly, as if testing the words before speaking them.
“But why?” he asked, aware of her increasing dismay. “Why would he do it, and why would it be tolerated?”
“Because I have nothing to myself,” she burst out sharply, then stared at him, aghast. “I’ve never said that before.”
“The pity of it is that you would have to say it at all,” he told her with a world of compassion in his eyes. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I would it were otherwise—that you had your own assurance.”
“How can I?” she asked, completely shaken by her own candor. “Where can I find it: can you tell me?”
He turned her head so he could look directly into her eyes. “You have it within you, and you can claim it for yourself.”
“How?” The word hung like a barrier between them. “I want so much, and I know it will be taken from me.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “If you give me what I seek, I will lose you, too.”
“Only if that is what you want,” he said, the kindness in his expression making the breath catch in her throat.
“Why do you want me?” she asked suddenly as his nearness became more immediate to her.
“Because you are Ignatia: that is the only reason.”
Emotions that had been pent up within her for years threatened to overcome her. She pushed him back. “That is—that is more than I—” She broke off, but in the next breath she clung to him, her arms around his neck, quivering.
“Would you prefer to postpone this?” he asked gently as she grew still.
She considered this briefly. “If I say no now, I might never have courage enough to ask you again. I want you to stay. Here. With me.”
“Then I will,” he said, taking her hand once more, and bringing the palm to his lips.
It was as if she had been burned by a sweet flame; the sensation of his kiss rioted up her arm. Before she could stop herself, she flung herself down on the couch, her paenula spread beneath her. Reaching up to loosen her hair, she summoned the courage to say, “Whatever you want of me, I give it to you freely.”
“It must be what
you
want,” said Sanct-Franciscus, kneeling beside the couch and leaning forward to kiss the arch of her brow.
you
want,” said Sanct-Franciscus, kneeling beside the couch and leaning forward to kiss the arch of her brow.
“That is, as you said, undiscovered,” she said with an attempt at flirtatiousness. “A search may be needed.”
“Then tell me what you would like to try, and I will do what I can to provide it,” he said, and kissed the tail of her eye, then moved down her cheek. His lips were lingering and light, enticing in their unpressured perusal of her face. By the time his mouth reached hers, her breath was quickening, and as they broke apart, she caught her fingers in the dark waves of his hair.
“I like … that,” she said, pulling him down to her kiss. Slowly, deliberately, joyously, she began to remove her clothes, letting them fall in a heap beside the couch. When she was down to her undergarments, she gave him a challenging look. “You do these,” she said, reveling in her excitement and wanting to prolong it.
“What would you want me to do?”
“Something wonderful,” she said.
He did his best not to smile. “What would be wonderful?”
This time she considered her answer. “Liberation,” she said finally.
“So be it.” On his knees, Sanct-Franciscus swung her around so that her back was to him and he could reach the end of the fascae that supported her breasts; he loosened the end and slid his hands around to take the place of the bias-cut linen, letting the weight of her breasts shape his hands to their contours, his fingers moving gently to summon the unfamiliar sensations she sought; as her passion awakened fully, her flesh grew damp in spite of the cool evening air. Rising slowly, he sat behind her on the couch, straddling it, letting her head fall back against his neck. “What more?”
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