Roman Dusk

On the arena sands, a hundred condemned women were tied to leaning posts and were being attacked and violated by bulls, stallions, lions, leopards, and wild boars, all in a state of frenzied arousal and goaded on by their bestiarii, who used whips and long spears to keep the animals on the women. Shrieks, screams, roars, bellows, and shuddering groans rang through the Flavian Circus, to be echoed by the frantic crowd; one of the women being assaulted by a leopard had lost her arm to the beast and the gouting spray from her shoulder was slowing, the woman hanging limply from the cat's jaws while the bestiarius hung back, afraid to approach the aroused leopard. In the afternoon heat, the sands shimmered and the crowd sweltered, and the odor of sweat and excitement mixed with that of blood and entrails and animals; those fortunate enough to be in the shade from the vast awning were spared the worst from the brassy sky, but all of Roma was stultified by the rising temperatures.

Vendors hawking sausages in buns, skewers of broiled chicken, wine-with-rosewater, honied fruit juice over chopped ice, spiced ground pork in pocket-bread, Egyptian beer, cold water, and candied flowers made their way through the stands, doing their best to be heard over the constant noise.

"I don't suppose you want anything?" Septimus Desiderius Vulpius had to lean over and almost shout at his guest while he motioned to a vendor of meats, wines, fruits, and nuts to approach; in the next box, a well-dressed young man was eagerly fondling his companion, a breathless girl just out of puberty, whose features were fervid and whose eyes glazed by the spectacle before them. The vendor reached over the pair, paying little attention to their raptures.

"No, thank you," said Sanct-Franciscus, uncomfortably aware of the slaughter as the waste and degradation it was. A quick recollection of Kosrozd, Tishtry, and Aumtehoutep came back to him. He stopped watching the cruelty on the sands and was now staring at the Imperial Box where Heliogabalus sat with six handsome young men, all of them in tunicae of yellow silk; the Emperor had painted his face, and some of the darkening around his eyes had begun to smear, leaving him with tracks down his cheeks that turned his features dissolute instead of beautiful. A wreath of roses hung around his neck and a smaller one circled his brow.

"I'm glad you finally decided to be my guest for the Games, Sanct-Franciscus." Vulpius tossed a collection of coins to the vendor and was handed a bun with a large sausage through it; he gave the vendor his cup and had it returned filled with red wine, which he sipped cautiously. "Too young, but it'll do," he said, shrugged, and drank.

Sanct-Franciscus stopped himself from saying anything about the butchery on the sands, knowing his observations would not be welcome. "Have you had this box long?"

"I had it from my father," said Vulpius with ill-concealed pride.

"This is a fine place to sit," said Sanct-Franciscus.

"You mean because you can only see the Doors of Life, not of Death?" Vulpius asked, his words muffled by the sausage-and-bun.

"That, and the shadows are deepest here," said Sanct-Franciscus, for whom the weight of the summer sun was becoming a burden in spite of the native earth in the soles of his peri.

"Oh, very true, but it also has fewer breezes," said Vulpius, leaning back against the long, bolster pillow he had brought to make his box more comfortable than the usual seat cushions provided. He licked his fingers. "Peppery. Just what I like: pepper and garlic."

"And cooked in chicken-broth, by the smell of it." Sanct-Franciscus saw Vulpius nod in agreement.

The couple in the next box shifted their cushions about so that they could recline on the marble seats; the girl was laughing excitedly, her face flushed, her lips swollen.

There was a flurry of excitement on the sands as a wild boar suddenly abandoned the woman he was straddling and charged a bull, squealing in porcine outrage, his head thrashing as he attempted to gore the flank of the bull. The bestiarii tending the two animals fled; the bull swung around, pawing and lowering his head even as his rear hooves trampled the woman beneath him.

"They'll have to answer for their cowardice," said Vulpius, using his elbow to indicate which of the bestiarii would be subject to the wrath of the crowd.

"How is it cowardice not to stand in front of a maddened animal?" Sanct-Franciscus asked at his most reasonable.

"It is what they are supposed to do," said Vulpius before taking another bite. "As you see, the crowd is displeased." Hooting echoed throughout the Flavian Circus, and in his box, Heliogabalus signaled for a Praetorian, miming a bow and arrow, which the soldier went to get for the Emperor. "I hope he knows how to shoot."

Sanct-Franciscus kept his thoughts to himself, although he found the waste of life-human and animal-appalling. He looked up toward the awning, and the beams that supported it. "They say the sails will be replaced next year."

"They need it," said Vulpius. "You can see fraying and holes in the canvas." He leaned forward as a second wild boar opened the abdomen of the woman he was on top of, his tusks shining red. Suddenly he rounded on the nearest lion, and the two big males fell into battle while the audience howled approval; a dozen arena slaves were dragging the nine dead women by their heels out through the Doors of Death. "I don't know how they'll afford it, not with the Games the Emperor is sponsoring."

"Two more days beyond this one," said Sanct-Franciscus.

"And more to come in September." Vulpius grinned, bits of sausage showing between his teeth.

"Truly," said Sanct-Franciscus, feeling slightly ill at the prospect, for the September Games were to include an aquatic venation, such as the one that had nearly resulted in his True Death, a century-and-a-half ago.

"At least that pretty puppet is Roman enough to give us Romans our Games." Vulpius finished off his sausage-and-bun and reached for his wine. "If not for that, he would be shoved from office."

"Shoved," said Sanct-Franciscus, mulling over the word. "An interesting image; you may be right."

"I know how we Romans are, and that pretty lad would do well to remember: we will tolerate many things, but not an Emperor who lacks will and vision, no matter who his mother and grandmother may be," said Vulpius pointedly, leaning back again, his attention fixed on one of the condemned. "That black-haired woman is not going to last much longer."

"No," said Sanct-Franciscus thoughtfully. "She is not." He might have added that he thought she was more fortunate than many of the others, but held his tongue, knowing that such sentiments were repugnant to Romans.

In the adjoining box, the young man was panting, his hands down the front of the girl's tie-sleeved tunica.

"There's a battle between dwarves and wolves next," said Vulpius, sounding a little bored. "They're saving the main battles for the end of the day ... the air will be a bit cooler, and the crowd should be ready to wrawl for their favorites. It makes for a fine ending and the fighters will not be hampered by exhaustion from the heat. A man in armor can broil in the sun."

"Whom do you favor?" Sanct-Franciscus asked more out of politeness than interest.

"Mnaxder," he said promptly. "A retriarius, very deft. He belongs to Egidius Regulus Corvinus-a most fortunate master, and one of the Greens, as well. His charioteers have done well this summer."

"How many wins does Mnaxder have?"

"Thirty-nine. If he is victorious today, it will be forty, and his master has promised him his freedom. The Emperor has vowed to have a statue made in his honor." Vulpius held up his cup in anticipatory salutation to the retriarius. "I have thirty-nine aurei bet on his success, one for each previous win."

"A considerable sum," said Sanct-Franciscus, keeping his voice neutral; between horse races and combats, fortunes had been won and lost at the arena for more than four centuries.

"But as safe as if I had bought seed with it, for just as the weather, or fire, could ruin my crop, so a gladiator, or a secutor, could ruin Mnaxder and lose me my bet." His laughter was reckless, almost giddy. "I'll have another cup of wine," he bawled out, holding up his empty cup in the direction of another vendor. "Red. No honey, and no ice to water it down."

"Surely farming is less chancy than gambling," said Sanct-Franciscus, and then, seeing the expression in Vulpius' eyes, went on, "I have learned to be circumspect in such matters."

"Exiles haven't the same possibilities as we Romans do, at least not when it comes to money," Vulpius agreed, sulking a bit as he spoke. "The decuriae are always keeping track of all you buy. I can understand why you might be reluctant to act in these matters, not having the advantage of our citizenship." He paid the vendor and took his cup, now brimming with red wine.

"True enough," Sanct-Franciscus responded courteously.

Another two women were dragged away from the center of the arena, their bodies leaving bloody wakes in the sand; a number of slaves rushed out with buckets of more sand to pour over the blood while bestiarii continued to urge their animals on the remaining women; the crowd hooted derision at the flagging excitement. A few of the men in the Imperial Box threw bits of food in the direction of the women, laughing at the hopeless struggles they made.

'They say the Senate is trying some way to tax bets. So far, they haven't found a fair method for monitoring gambling reliably enough to enforce such a tax." Vulpius handed a second coin to the vendor who had refilled his cup. "Another sausage, this time with butter and cheese."

"It may be that too many Senators bet," Sanct-Franciscus suggested. "Or own charioteers and fighters."

Vulpius laughed aloud as he took the bun-and-sausage. "That may be at the heart of it," he agreed. "That, and the problems of commodae in such cases: who is to pay it, and how is the percentage to be fixed?"

In another half hour, all the women were dead and the animals were being herded back into their various cages; one of the boars was dying, and a lion had been killed, but these were minor losses, and very few in the crowd paid much heed to them. The hydraulic organ was blaring out the popular song "Onward the Legions," but almost no one was singing the lyrics.

"Would you be very annoyed if I left? Our business with Propinus and Gratians is concluded-" Sanct-Franciscus asked Vulpius as they watched the arena being made ready for the next contest. "I find this sort of battle-shall we say?-dulls my senses."

"Dwarves and wolves-I understand your lack of enthusiasm; it must be pretty tepid fare for a man who has been in battle, as you have. Go if you like; I won't be offended," said Vulpius. "You defended your homeland," he went on after a long draught of wine. "An admirable thing to do, even if you defended it against our Roman Legions."

"No; we had other enemies," said Sanct-Franciscus, an enigmatic glint in his eyes.

"Of course, of course." Vulpius waved him away. "Go, then, and do what you will. I would not wish you to be bored on my account. I thank you for coming with me today. Your company has made the afternoon more interesting."

"Thank you," said Sanct-Franciscus, "for your invitation and your company." He turned away and climbed up from the box, along the steep stairs to the covered corridor, where he threaded his way through vendors of food, drink, and other comestibles; slaves waiting for their masters; prostitutes of all descriptions and tastes; oddsmakers and bet-takers; Romans from every level of society, from Senators to the lowest humiliora; and criminals from assassins to pick-pockets. The echoes of their calls and clamor mixed with the greater roar of those in the stands, so that the concrete walls offered a storm of noise to all who moved through them. Sanct-Franciscus paid little attention to the activity around him; he could not shake the feeling that he had made a mistake in visiting the Flavian Circus, and not solely for the memories it evoked: the air of the place felt tainted; he walked faster.

"My master?" Natalis ventured as Sanct-Franciscus emerged from the arched opening to the Flavian Circus.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting," said Sanct-Franciscus, shading his eyes against the fierce sunlight.

"I've kept myself amused," said Natalis, continuing hurriedly, "Not that I have stolen anything. I've been watching others steal."

"That must have amused you." Sanct-Franciscus raised his hand to summon a sedan chair.

"Most of it did, yes," Natalis admitted as a group of chairmen approached.

"The Temple of Hercules-how much?" Sanct-Franciscus asked directly.

"Fifteen denarii," said the leader of the four bearers; he was a burly man of about thirty, with callused hands and a sun-toughened face.

"I will give twenty if you can get me there in under half an hour," he said. "My servant will walk with you."

The leader bristled. "We always take the shortest route. You needn't assign one of your men to be certain we do."

"I have no doubt of it, but I think that an observer can be useful on a day like this one," said Sanct-Franciscus, his manner cordial but compelling.

"That may be," the lead chairman admitted. "Very well. He may walk beside us."

"Thank you for being reasonable."

The leader spat for luck. "On such a day as this, misunderstandings are frequent. The heat addles thought."

"Well, bring your chair, then, and we'll set off." Sanct-Franciscus gave the leader of the bearers five denarii as his comrades brought their chair in answer to the leader's summoning whistle. "This as incentive, and to assure you that you will be fully paid."

The leader hitched up his shoulder, taking the money. "The Temple of Hercules."

With the price and destination agreed upon, Sanct-Franciscus climbed into the sedan chair and leaned back on the slightly lumpy cushions provided. Before he pulled the curtain closed, he added, "Natalis, keep watch for those gangs of young zealots. I do not want to have to tangle with them."

"No, my master," said Natalis, most of his answer drowned out by a loud bellow from the crowd at the Flavian Circus.

Moving away from the huge arena, the chairmen bore Sanct-Franciscus toward the Forum Romanum, turning aside before reaching that impressive place, and instead, skirting the base of the Esquilinus Hill, passing two impressive fountains where small crowds of children and humiliora were gathered, seeking relief from the heat of the day. The bearers kept up a steady jog, not too choppy, making good time along the streets which were less crowded than usual for this time of day-most Romans were at the Flavian Circus for the Emperor's Games.

"There is a procession ahead," said the lead chairman, slowing his men and addressing their passenger. "Would you prefer we wait for it to pass or find a way around it?"

Sanct-Franciscus considered briefly, glancing out of the curtains but unable to see ahead. "What sort of procession is it?"

Natalis answered before the bearers could. "It looks to be a funeral procession, my master, bound out of the walls."

"Then find a way around it," Sanct-Franciscus recommended.

"It may slow our arrival," said the lead chairman.

"I will consider that in your payment," Sanct-Franciscus assured him. "We have no cause to disturb the dead."

"Very well," said the leader of the bearers, and took the first side-street on his left, where a pair of skinny dogs confronted the chairmen, cringing and growling at once; the leader bent and picked up a broken bit of paving-stone and shied it at the dogs, watching as they ran off. "Cowards," he said, moving forward again.

Natalis described the matter to Sanct-Franciscus, keeping pace with the bearers as they found their way through a warren of alleys and tangled streets, only to emerge less than two blocks from the Temple of Hercules a short while later.

"There is a passage here that leads to the temple," said the leader.

"Yes, there is," said Sanct-Franciscus, drawing back the curtain for the last time.

"It is less than half an hour since we took you up," the leader said as the men set the chair down conveniently near a sundial. "You promised us a bonus."

"And you shall have it," said Sanct-Franciscus, emerging from the sedan chair, coins already in hand. "You did well."

The leader counted the coins. "There are twenty-one here."

"For your extra care in going around the funeral procession," Sanct-Franciscus explained.

"Generous of you," said the leader before signaling his men to pick up their chair and turn toward the nearest forum where they might find someone in need of their services.

Natalis watched them go. "Hard work, carrying chairs," he said.

"On such a day as this," Sanct-Franciscus said. "The bearers should be careful, sweating as much as they were."

"Better this heat than rain, or worse," said Natalis. "I always worked better warm than cold."

Sanct-Franciscus started walking toward the narrow passage that led to the side of the Temple of Hercules and Olivia's house. "The streets will be wild tonight, I think."

"And tomorrow night, and the night after that," said Natalis.

"The Emperor's Games," said Sanct-Franciscus. "True enough."

"It could turn dangerous, these Games," said Natalis. "Always when the Emperor, no matter who he may be, has three days of Games, the people become unruly."

"Three days," Sanct-Franciscus repeated as he strolled toward the gate. "Why three days, and not two?"

"The people become exhausted and excitable. They lose good sense." He paused, then continued with a suggestion of pride, "When I was still a thief, I knew that the second day of Games was best for me: the people were not too keyed up, and their exhilaration had not turned to mania. By the third day, when they were exhausted but too stimulated to rest, anything would set them off. I was almost killed three years ago when I was accused of taking three loaves of bread."

"And had you taken them?" Sanct-Franciscus asked.

"No; I had stolen a small purse with ae and denarii in it, but nothing so obvious, or cumbersome, as loaves of bread." Natalis rubbed his shoulder in memory of the attack. "They threw stones, and one Urban Guard struck me with his cudgel."

Sanct-Franciscus pulled on the rope to summon one of the slaves. "How did you get away?"

"I rolled under a biga, grabbed the axle-frame and let it drag me a good distance from the crowd. The driver didn't know I was there, or didn't care: he beat the crowd off with his whip. Nyssa had seen it happen, and she came to help me." His voice dropped. "She cared for me until I healed."

"Ingenious," Sanct-Franciscus said. "And dangerous."

"Not as dangerous as continuing to be stoned," said Natalis.

Tigilus opened the gate. "Welcome, Dominus," he said, with a critical glance at Natalis.

"Good afternoon to you, Tigilus," said Sanct-Franciscus. "How do I find you and the house?"

"You find me hot," said Tigilus with unusual candor. "Since you ask."

"And the rest of the household?" Sanct-Franciscus inquired as he started across the courtyard.

"The rest of the household is hot, too. And tempers are short, as they are everywhere." He followed after Sanct-Franciscus and Natalis into the shade of the roof, and through the door into the vestibule.

"Have you distributed the ice-water I ordered?" Sanct-Franciscus stopped at the edge of the atrium.

"It wasn't delivered, Dominus," said Tigilus.

Sanct-Franciscus turned back to him, surprised and annoyed. "What do you mean?" He had a continuing arrangement with a supplier of ice, a drayer who owned four large wagons with double cargo chests lined with hay and sawdust, and maintained an emporium in the catacombs.

"I mean the drayers never brought the ice you ordered. Rugeri sent a message to the dispatcher, asking why. Severin has just returned with their answer."

"Very good," Sanct-Franciscus said, and motioned to Natalis. "If the ice is not brought shortly, I may ask him to carry a second message to the dispatcher."

"Ice on such a day as this is most welcome," Tigilus said emphatically. "It has been paid for already-the ice has, hasn't it? They should deliver or give the money back."

"Yes; I know," said Sanct-Franciscus, a frown forming between his fine brows. "Why would-"

Rugeri appeared in the doorway to the muniment room. "I have been informed by the ice-men that a decuria, Telemachus Batsho, has required that anything coming to this house be presented to him for assessment before it is released." Ordinarily he would not have spoken so directly in front of the household, but in .this instance, he was keenly aware that the household was eager for news.

"Telemachus Batsho," Sanct-Franciscus repeated. "What a determined fellow he is."

Rugeri came forward, his austere features set in condemning lines. "Would you like me to send for him? You have the right to demand an explanation for this arbitrary discrimination."

"And give him another reason to deny us ice?" Sanct-Franciscus shook his head. "No; I'll prepare a purse for him, against any charges he may see fit to levy." He looked back at Tigilus. "Will you carry the purse for me?"

"You have only to give the order," said Tigilus.

"He had best go shortly," said Natalis.

"Yes; the major battles will be starting soon at the Flavian Circus, and everyone will want to be at the arena," said Sanct-Franciscus with a fleeting look of distaste. "Come, Tigilus. Let me attend to this at once." He started toward Rugeri, but looked back at Natalis. "If you want to use the tepidarium, you, and the rest of the household, may do so until the ice comes."

Natalis did his best not to appear over-eager. "That would be most ... most pleasant."

A sudden loud shout from the distant Games shook the air, followed by a loud yowl from the hydraulic organ.

"We had best hurry; the Games are growing wilder," said Sanct-Franciscus to Tigilus. "Natalis, if you will supervise the bath-have Holmdi help you-and Rugeri, if you will prepare a message for the ice-merchant?" He was already striding toward the muniment room, wondering as he went what mischief Telemachus Batsho intended this time.

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Ravenna to Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus in Roma, carried by personal courier.

To the distinguished foreigner, Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus, also known as Ragoczy Germainus Sanct-Franciscus-you see? I've remembered-the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens to my house in Roma, near the Temple of Hercules,

I write in haste to inform you that I am about to leave Ravenna for Vesontio in Gallia Belgica. Recent troubles here make it imperative that I remove myself from this city and the accusations of some resolute followers of the Jewish Christ. I have been called a demon of the night and a sorceress, and similar appellations; they have taken to throwing stones at me when I go out of my house, and nothing the local Prefect can do will stop them. Rather than confront them and thus enrage them still further, I have decided to move rather than risk discovery of my true nature.

I have a small property in Vesontio, with good vines and a small stable, where I can live in relative comfort until Roma or Ravenna are once again safe to occupy. I plan to remain here for five years or so, and then to consider what is best to do. At least I need not fear for my survival there, as I have realized I must do if I stay here.

From all the reports I have heard of that young Syrian's caprices, I must assume Roma has endured much at his hands, and not all of it bread and circuses. It is apparent to me that until there is a Caesar worthy of the name, I would be well-advised to remain some distance from Roma-the city has become much too volatile for me, and I believe that two vampires within Roman walls could only bring trouble to us both. So in the name of self-protection, I leave my native earth to you, so long as you ship me ten crates of it as soon as I am settled at Sapientia. It is on the west side of the town, on the Via Philomena.

For the time being, I have money enough to live prosperously, and if the coins should continue to be debased, I will have wine and horses to trade, since, unlike you, I cannot make my own gold and jewels. Still, great wealth can be as much a burden as a delight; my lands will maintain me quite handsomely. Incidentally, I am learning to drive a biga, which should prove useful in the days ahead-not that I imagine myself fleeing over the country roads. One year I must learn to ride-providing in so doing I do not attract too much notice to myself.

Last week I had a letter from the regional Prosecutor, inquiring about the incidents with the so-called Christians. The man is considered well-educated and intelligent, and so I was doubly appalled at his use of Latin! If his prose is any example, the coins are not the only Roman thing being debased. I was truly shocked. I know that the humiliora and others are not careful about language-and why should they be?-but the Prosecutor is an official, and his letter was a formal one. Magna Mater! The grammar was slip-shod, the syntax was careless, and all manner of foreign usage had crept into the text. No doubt this is a sign of my age, but I cannot help but feel that something important is lost when respect for language fails.

I will not rant any longer, and I will thank you for your understanding of the frustrations I feel. Much as I long for your company, if only through the medium of this page of vellum, I have packing to supervise and then I must purchase heavy wagons and carpenta, with oxen to pull them, and arrange for someone of good repute to occupy this house. Just writing it down is tiring, but it must be done. So I will finish this with my assurance of my

Everlasting love,

Olivia

On the 9th day of August in the 972nd Year of the City