AUMTEHOUTEP'S EXPRESSION was impassive as he entered the private wing of Villa Ragoczy. "My master?"
Saint-Germain looked up from the scroll he had been reading. In the slanted golden afternoon light it was just barely possible to read the spidery, faded scrawl in what appeared to be Greek. He handled the scroll with extreme care, as age had made it brittle and already bits of the papyrus had broken off the sides of the ancient document. "What is it?" He could read the distress in his old slave's eyes. "What's wrong?"
"There are three officers of the Praetorian Guard and a member of the Senate here, my master. They insist-'insist' is their word-that you see them at once." He looked toward the far wall rather blankly. "I have told them that you're occupied, but they won't accept that."
"Won't they?" Saint-Germain set the scroll aside, placing a little statue of a dancing dwarf on the scroll to hold it. "Then, of course, I must obey. Tell them that I will be with them very shortly, and apologize for the delay. Show them into the main reception room and see that they have wine. Give them the good white wine, since it's so warm today and they undoubtedly have become thirsty on their journey out here." As he rose he put one small hand on Aumtehoutep's arm. "Don't worry, old friend. After more than a year of continuous upheaval in Rome, it's surprising that they're just getting around to me. This is not the first time such things have happened, as you recall."
The Egyptian nodded once. "I doubt that the matter is simple. I hope that it's nothing more than the usual distrust of foreigners. We've had our share of it. But three Praetorians and a Senator?"
"You forget, I'm very wealthy. Rome would not like to lose my taxes and the cheap mules I sell the legions." There was more resignation than cynicism in his voice. "Go, Aumtehoutep. Give them my message and see to the wine."
"As you wish," was the old slave's answer, though his eyes were unhappy.
As soon as the door was closed, Saint-Germain moved quickly, slipping three small boxes into various parts of his desk so that they came to have the look of decorations instead of concealed drawers. It would not do, he thought, for the Praetorian Guard or the Senate to learn what was hidden in those boxes. He straightened up and smoothed the short dalmatica of black cotton he wore over his usual tight Persian trousers. Reaching for the pectoral he had removed while he worked, he wished, as he so often had for almost two thousand years, that he could see himself in mirrors. When he had adjusted the heavy silver collar of the pectoral, he left his library and went through the garden toward the public wing of Villa Ragoczy.
Two of the Praetorian officers rose from the couches as Saint-Germain entered his blue-and-silver reception room. The third officer was busy refilling his wine cup and the Senator gave the foreigner a haughty stare, as if to inform him that a Roman noble was exempt from being courteous.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," Saint-Germain said with a pleasant, insincere smile. "My slave, I see, has extended you some of my poor hospitality. I hope you will do me the honor of taking your evening meal at my table."
"We won't be staying that long," one of the standing Praetorians said with a nervous glance at his fellows.
"From the grim sound of your words, officer, I assume that you have a specific request to make of me?" Saint-Germain directed the full compelling force of his dark eyes toward the officer. "I regret, good Praetorian, that I don't know your name."
"Marcellus Octavius Publian, tribune," he said stiffly. "The others are Crispus Terentius Galen, tribune, Phillipus Dudo, procurator junior. The Senator," Marcellus Octavius Publian said with a badly concealed sneer, "is Regius Eugenius Este Bonaro. From a very distinguished house."
The Senator, who was no more than twenty-five and wearing a toga praetexta to which he had a dubious claim, gave the older soldier a quick frown, but did not pursue the matter. Instead, he turned his attention to Saint-Germain. "You. Foreigner."
Saint-Germain could sense the embarrassment felt by the soldiers, and decided to take advantage of it. "What will you give me the pleasure of doing for you?"
Phillipus Dudo, the procurator junior, cleared his throat in an apparent effort to direct attention away from the young, arrogant patrician. "We have received a report, Franciscus, that makes some alarming...allegations about you...."
Once again the Senator spoke. "It is said that you are here to spy upon Rome, that you are in the pay of various princes in countries with which the state is at war. In proof of this, it is said that you have in your household a Persian prince who is working with you to bring about-"
All four men stared at Saint-Germain, who had started to laugh. "Forgive me," he said when he had mastered himself. "I don't mean to insult you, but the credulity that can be given to such ridiculous rumors..." He had to stop again because his laughter almost overcame him. "If that is what has brought you to Villa Ragoczy, I don't know whether to be complimented or baffled."
His visitors waited uneasily, and Phillipus found nerve enough to ask, "Does this mean that there is no truth to the accusation?"
"You mean that one of my slaves was once a Persian prince? Of course it's true. I've never made a secret of it." He had never exploited the information, either, but it would not do to say so now.
"Then you admit-" the outraged young Senator began.
"I tell you that I have a slave who was once a Persian prince," Saint-Germain repeated, more seriously. "My slave is a charioteer. You've probably seen him in races. Most of the time he races for the Reds' faction, but occasionally the Whites use him, as well. Both racing corporations have offered to buy him, but I have not wanted to sell him."
"Why is that?" demanded the procurator junior.
"Because he wins," Saint-Germain said patiently. It was the obvious reason. "He has made me a great deal of money over the years and there is no good reason why I should give that to someone else. When he retires from racing, he will train more of my charioteers and I will continue to have winners." No Roman would find that at all suspicious.
"But a Persian prince?" the young Senator said with heavy sarcasm. "You keep him only for racing?"
"Considering that in the last two years he has earned me in the neighborhood of twenty million sesterces, I would be a greater fool than I am not to keep him." He gave a wry chuckle. "I don't imagine my motives are any different than yours would be in my place."
Crispus Terentius Galen, who had not spoken, found his voice at last. "It's convenient to have it so, and it's a simple matter for us to verify your claims."
"Do so," Saint-Germain said promptly. "By all means. You may examine my records as well as those of the Circus Maximus and the Circus of Caligula and Nero."
Phillipus nodded. "I don't think you'd lie about that. Yet for a foreigner like yourself to have such a slave..."
"I don't come from Persia, good Praetorian, I come from Dacia. I have little interest in what happens between royal Persian cousins. If you mean to suggest that my slave is something more than a slave, then why haven't I freed him, or sent him to Persia to curry favor with the king?" He asked this quite reasonably, looking from one officer to the other, ignoring the petulant young Senator.
"Your explanation is not entirely sufficient," Senator Bonaro snapped, stung by Saint-Germain's treatment. "You stand accused of conspiracy-"
"Accused?" Saint-Germain's fine brows raised in polite disbelief. "Who accuses me?"
The Praetorians had the grace to be embarrassed. Publian stared up at the ceiling, saying, "The accusation against you is anonymous. That makes it very awkward, because you are a foreigner, and therefore not entitled to the same court proceedings as a citizen. We're willing to extend you every courtesy we can, of course, but since we can't examine the informant and have no real knowledge of his information or his motives, we must rely on you to show the charge to be false. We're not going to hold you for trial, not on such flimsy...material, but there are questions that must be answered."
"I see." Saint-Germain looked away, eyes narrowing for an instant. "Very well, good Romans, I will tell you what I know of my Persian slave. He was bought by me at auction eight years ago. They said he had ability with horses and chariots, and I was seeking to expand my stables and teams. I bought him, rather cheaply because it was plain from his manner that he was defiant and unruly. This made me curious, because his manner was not that of one born to the collar. I own several ships, as I am sure you know, and I asked my captains to find out what they could of this charioteer. In time one of my captains found the answer. I learned from him that Kosrozd was the son of a man who had been executed for treason against the throne, and that his entire family had been sold into slavery. If I wanted to ingratiate myself with the courts of Persia, I would choose a different way than this. My slave, if he could return home, would be regarded as a fugitive and a traitor. His family is scattered, and none of them survive in positions of power. That is easily confirmed, good Senator," he said quickly, anticipating the young man's objections. "You may do it just as I did six years ago."
The Praetorians nodded at each other, clearly relieved, and Crispus Terentius Galen spoke for them. "It's only a formality, naturally, but because the situation is awkward, we'll have to do that. There will be no restrictions on you, however, so long as you make no attempt to leave the empire or send...things...abroad until this matter has been resolved. If you feel that this imposes on you too much..."
"I have no wish and no reason to leave Rome at this time," Saint-Germain assured him quickly, thinking that he had been very cleverly maneuvered into a difficult position. Should he object now, there would be more stringent restraints put on him, he was certain. "I will be happy to put any of my accounts and records you may wish to see at your disposal, so that we may be finished with this regrettable misunderstanding as quickly as possible. You have only to tell my slave Aumtehoutep what you require and he will provide it."
Phillipus coughed diffidently. "We are going to have to make one more request of you. We've been instructed to place a guard here while we're completing our investigation. It's not what we would like to do," he added hurriedly after he licked his lips. "It is part of the instructions that have been given by the Emperor's son, and we are obliged to do as he orders."
This was definitely not usual procedure. "But why? Surely all this concern for one slave, though he was once a prince and belongs to a foreigner, is unmerited?" He wanted to challenge them, reminding them that this was against the letter of Roman law, but he held back. He would learn nothing more, once he opposed them; he needed information badly.
"Ordinarily," Marcellus Octavius Publian mumbled, "it would be, but there are special circumstances here." He was not happy saying so, and he looked to the others for support. It was very quiet in the blue-and-silver reception room.
The inward apprehension that had niggled in Saint-Germain's mind became more intense, demanding. He had assumed from the first that this investigation was the work of the Persian spy Led Arashnur, but there might be more to it. He was aware that quite a few noble Romans coveted his wealth and his property. An investigation like this could provide them with the opportunity they desired. He allowed his geniality to be tinged with irritation. "I am willing to oblige you, of course, but it might be easier for all of us if you were a little more direct with me, good Praetorians. And you as well, Senator." He folded his arms and fixed a smile on his closed lips.
Phillipus stared at the wine cup in his hand as if he had just discovered it there. "As you know, one of your own captains was held on a matter of smuggling..." He looked at the Senator, who scowled but said nothing.
"Yes," Saint-Germain prompted. "Kyrillos the Greek. He captained the Gull of Byzantium, a small merchant ship. I thought the matter was settled when I released Kyrillos from service, as I was asked to do." Perhaps, his racing thoughts suggested, someone had bribed Kyrillos-the captain doubtless felt little loyalty to an employer he had seen twice, and who had relieved him of command. It was even possible that Kyrillos had needed no bribe to act against his former employer, and had filed an accusation in revenge.
"Technically, it was," the procurator junior said, tugging at the strap that held his red caracalla. He wished now he had left the heavy cloak at the door, for now it seemed too warm and too tight at the neck.
"But that, it would appear, is not enough," Saint-Germain said rather bitterly. "How am I to satisfy you, gentlemen? Tell me. I have a slave who was once a prince and you accuse me of trying to gain favor with him for some distant and unlikely day when he might return to his native land in victory. I dismiss a captain for smuggling, and now it seems that has made me more suspect than ever. What am I supposed to have done, that you deal with me this way?"
This time the uncomfortable silence was longer than before. Senator Regius Eugenius Este Bonaro occupied the time by filling his wine cup again. The sound of the liquid pouring was very loud.
"If you are not authorized to tell me," Saint-Germain said quietly, "I will not press you for an explanation."
Phillipus muttered, "Under the circumstances..."
"What circumstances?" Saint-Germain demanded, pausing for an answer that none of the four volunteered. "That is also a mystery, is it? Or is there some other reason you are not at liberty to discuss the matter with me?" He made no attempt to disguise his sarcasm now.
The young Senator, flushed with wine as much as choler, choked on an oath, then burst out, "You're defying us."
At that, Saint-Germain managed to laugh. "If I were defying you, you would never have got through the door, Senator. I have borne with considerable patience this farrago of evasions and half-truths you've offered me. I'll do so until I find out what it is that you really want to know. But I will not tolerate being party to your deception. Let us be honest with each other this once: your true object in coming here has little to do with my Persian slave or my former captain. You have a different purpose that for some reason you are unwilling to reveal. For the moment I accept that, but I warn you right now, you, Senator, and you, good Praetorians, that I am not deceived." He gave them all an ironic little bow. "Is there anything else?"
Phillipus looked at the far wall. "Franciscus, it was not our decision to investigate you. We are obeying the orders of our superiors."
"And have no will or judgment of your own," Saint-Germain said with his most friendly smile.
The Praetorians stiffened, and Marcellus Octavius Publian put one hand to the hilt of his sword. "You will not make things easier for yourself if you speak so, Franciscus."
"Nor will I make them easier for you," Saint-Germain said quietly. "If you had told me at the first what it is you truly want, I would have done my utmost to cooperate with you, but as it stands..."-he lifted his hands helplessly-"you have chosen my course for me, gentlemen, and I must follow it as best I can. When you decide to be frank with me, we may talk again. Not until." Suddenly there was a subtle change in him, as if he had grown taller or his soft voice was louder. The four Romans moved back slightly, each in his own way, for it seemed that Saint-Germain had become closer, more menacing, to each of them, though none could say how. "As long as you insist upon this deception, whatever it is, I will neither assist nor hinder you. If you want my aid and my interest, you must be prepared to be honest with me. Believe that." He turned on his booted heel and strode quickly out the door, calling as he went, "Aumtehoutep! Get my shipping records for these men!" Without stopping to see that it was done, he went across the garden and into his private wing.
The reception room was silent for some little time; then Phillipus sighed. "I warned you that this was not the way to approach him. Our informant was mistaken about dealing with this Franciscus. He may," he added darkly, "have been mistaken about other things."
"Nonsense," snapped the young Senator. "There is no reason to think that the allegations are in error."
"There is also no reason to think that they are true," Crispus Terentius Galen observed dryly. "I'm afraid that I must agree with Octavius. I think we've blundered, and blundered badly. It was stupid of us to force the issue so soon."
The other two soldiers nodded glumly. The Senator poured himself more wine.
They had not spoken to each other again when Aumtehoutep arrived some little time later with a box under his arm. He paused to look at the men. "My master has asked that I bring these to you," he said in his most neutral voice which only his close associates would recognize as being his most condemning.
"Good." Phillipus sighed, and came across the room to take the box.
"The records go back ten years. If you need those before, you will have to send me word." He held out the box to the procurator junior. "We will need to have them back if we're to keep them accurate."
"Of course," Phillipus agreed. "I doubt we will need them for more than a month." He took the box with a strange sense of relief. He had not relished the thought of forcing Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus to do anything.
As soon as Aumtehoutep was gone from the room, the other three men crowded around Phillipus.
"Come," said Octavius. "Open it. Let's see what we've got." He almost knocked the box from Phillipus' hand in his eagerness to look inside.
There were eight neat stacks of fan-folded scrolls in the box, and each had a seal on it, showing the eclipse, a disk with wings spread above it with the Year of the City incised into each seal. The progression was neat and orderly.
"Here, let me have this one," Senator Bonaro said as he lifted one of the scrolls from the box.
Terentius took one of the fan-folded scrolls into his hands as well, then hesitated, looking at the other two Praetorians from under his lowered brows. "I don't know. We should have made him an ally."
Phillipus shrugged. "You know what Senator Silius told us when Domitianus asked his opinion on the man."
"I know. But all the same, what damage would have been done if he had been told that the unknown informant told us Franciscus is having illegal dealings with Egypt? I don't care if the Emperor is still in Egypt, there's no reason to think that Franciscus plots against him. What reason would he have? He said he would help us if we were candid with him." He worked to loosen the seal on the folded scroll.
"According to Senator Silius, all that is a ploy," Terentius repeated automatically.
"Why does he know any better than the rest of us, except that Domitianus dines with him?" Octavius remarked as he spread out the scroll before him. He stared at the page, and then started to laugh. "We'll have to confide in him, I think," he said when he could speak again, and held out his scroll for the others.
They took the proffered scroll, Senator Bonaro letting the one he held drop to the floor. As they passed the scroll from one to another, the reactions ranged from outrage to delight.
For the scroll was written in an ancient tongue that was old when Rome was founded.
TEXT OF A LETTER TO ATTA OLIVIA CLEMENS, DOMITA SILIUS, FROM HER MOTHER, DECIA ROMOLA NOLUS, DOMITA CLEMENS. INTERCEPTED AND DESTROYED BY CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS.
To my unfortunate daughter Olivia, greetings:
I had hoped that there would be word from you this month, but no letter has come, and I fear that you have not forgiven me. It would be easier for me now if I knew you do not hate me, though I realize that your hatred is completely justified. It was wrong of me, very wrong, to have agreed with your father in persuading you to marry Cornelius Justus Silius. It was not the same with your older sisters, for our fortunes were better when they married and it seemed that their husbands could only profit from alliance with us. When we lost so much, I was frightened. Surely you can understand that, my child. Senator Silius' offer was a gift of the gods, one which we would be fools to refuse, for it would establish us once again in the proper place of society. At one moment it seemed we would have to sell all the slaves and go live like peasants on our land in Dalmatia, and the next moment, there was the chance to save all, and present you with a splendid husband. Your reservations sounded so callow, so trivial, that I shut my ears and my heart to you, acts which I have come to regret most bitterly.
What you told me about Silius has disturbed me greatly. At first I did not want to believe that you were being treated so, and your father attributed your tales to disappointment. I admit that I thought you were exaggerating about the way he used you. Since I have lived on this barren patch of ground that Justus calls an estate, I have learned otherwise from the slaves that are sent here. To work here is a punishment, and for me it is a prison. One of the women arrived here two years ago and confirmed all that you had told me and much more. Olivia, if Mother Isis were to give me one gift now, it would be a way for me to undo the harm I have done you. But you must understand; it seemed so simple, so easy when Silius offered for you. I would never have insisted on the match if I had been aware of what he would do to you.
I have written to your sister, but she has not been able or willing to reply. Her husband, I am told, does not want her communicating with her family. It is easy to see why: he has a career to think of, and it has already been damaged by our folly and your husband's malice. Now I must turn to you, though I realize it is dangerous for you to act on my behalf, and there is no reason for you to do so. I have thrown away my right to your respect. Yet I hope that you have more kindness than I.
The weakness I wrote you of before has grown worse. My side aches much of the time, and it feels, on occasion, that there is a vast knot in my bowels. Nothing but syrup of poppies alleviates my suffering, and there is very little syrup of poppies to be had here. If you are willing to see that I am sent more, I would be grateful. The local physician is generally incompetent, but is willing to admit it in this case. He estimates that my death will come by winter. I think that it will be sooner. I hope it will be sooner.
At least you will be free when I am dead. I know now that Justus used your family as hostages, holding up their safety to keep you compliant. He saw to the death of your father and brothers, and left you with me. I will be glad, knowing that you may divorce Justus and reveal him in open court for what he is. Your sister will survive the scandal; do not be deterred by anxiety on her behalf.
Though you may not be able to forgive me, please accept from me this last and genuine token of my love for you: there is in our house in Rome a statue of Minerva, and within it is your father's record of what Justus had done to him. He wrote it the night he was condemned and hid it away so that the family might, at some later time, regain its honor and integrity. Go there. The statue of Minerva is in the niche opposite my room. It is yours, the only legacy I can leave you now.
If you despise me, do not scorn this record of your father's. It is the only document that will expose your husband. You told me the last time we spoke in Rome that you had one friend. Seek him out, if there is affection between you still. Then you need never again suffer at the hands of the man you married.
My daughter, my daughter, answer this letter, I beg of you. To die in pain without the comfort of your forgiveness is more anguish than I can bear. Let me know at least that you have found your father's papers and that you will use them in court against Justus. Without this assurance, I am in despair. Surely the Senate will act against Justus to condemn him when the full scope of his perfidy is known, and in that you will have some revenge. It may be little enough, but those with nothing must make banquets of such scraps, as I have learned.
It is a pity I did not learn to love you sooner.
Your mother,
Romola
on the twelfth day of June,
the 822nd Year of the City