AN OLD hunchbacked fruit vendor had been crying his apples and grapes outside Olivia's garden for most of the morning before she said to one of the slaves who guarded her, "I'm going to go buy whatever he's selling. I don't want to have to listen to that bagpipe voice any longer."
"Have him beaten with whips," the guard suggested laconically. "That way he won't come back."
"No," she said quickly. "If I pay what he asks, and then remark that there is more traffic two streets farther down, I think we'll be left alone." She looked at the slave who guarded her. "I am not going to run off. You may watch me, if you like." Her disdain was genuine, and might have shamed him, but the slave knew his master, and said, "I will watch you from the door, Domita, and will do what I must."
"Mother Isis!" she exclaimed, giving him a quelling stare. "Do watch me, then." She had lifted her stola, which had been flung casually around her neck, and pulled a portion of the fabric over her head, as befitted a woman of her years and station. There were five gold denari in her desk drawer, and a few coppers in the kitchen for the cook, and that was all the money she was allowed. Allowed! That still rankled with her, for she knew that there were three estates that were hers and her sister's, though she had never seen them and did not know what they earned. She took one gold denarius from the desk. It would be enough to buy the hunchback's fruit ten times over, but she was willing to pay that to be rid of the monotonous call of "Apples, grapes, fresh this morning, apples, grapes, fresh this morning, apples, grapes..." Clutching the coin, she stepped out of the house onto the narrow street.
The hunchback was seated on a box, with another box filled with fruit beside him. He was middle-aged, with a saturnine cast to his features. As Olivia approached, he fell silent, holding up grapes. "The very finest," he announced, then dropped his voice to a whisper, "from Villa Ragoczy."
Olivia had to restrain the urge to jump, or shout, or demand of this strange man what had become of Saint-Germain. Instead, she took the grapes, saying, "Fresh this morning?"
"Very fresh, Domita. You cannot find better." He bent to his box to pull out more fruit, saying in a low voice, "The Praetorians came ten days ago and arrested him. There was no explanation. He is not in the Mamertinus Prison. He is not in the slaves' prison. I've looked."
"Let me see the apples, instead," Olivia said loudly enough for the slave standing in the doorway to hear. "Who are you?"
"Rogerian. I suppose I am his houseman now." He brought three apples out of the box and held them up so she could see them. "Very fresh. Unblemished. No worms."
Olivia took the apples. "Why was he arrested?"
"I don't know," Rogerian confessed softly. "He was not informed. They were supposed to take him before the Emperor five days ago, but I have heard nothing of it."
"Is he condemned?" she asked, frightened, then raised her voice. "They are fine quality, hunchback." She looked at him closely. "Are you really hunchbacked?"
"No," he admitted quietly. "I can bring more tomorrow, Domita, if these are what you like."
"Excellent, but I will want to inspect what you bring. There are times when vendors will show fine goods to the mistress and shoddy goods to the cook. Here is money for all that you have; tomorrow I will give you half the amount." She took the box he handed to her as he rose. "Thank you."
"Tomorrow, Domita," Rogerian said respectfully. "The wares will be good."
"I hope so." With the box held against her hip with one arm, she went back into the house. She paid no notice to the slave standing in the door, but went directly to the kitchen, holding out the contents of the box to her cook. "Well, here is some very good, unblemished fresh fruit. Do you think you can use it?"
The cook eyed the box suspiciously. "It might be going bad. Lots of vendors do that."
"I have inspected the fruit myself. It's satisfactory. I think I would like to have chicken cooked with grapes today. If you are willing to do it, of course." There was an extra glitter in Olivia's eyes that would not brook opposition.
"Chicken with grapes. Of course, Domita," said the cook as she took the box and set it to the side of the enormous open hearth.
Through midday, Olivia sat in the atrium, pretending to read from one of the rare stitched books her father had prized. Some of the paragraphs she read four and five times without comprehending a word of them. Where was Saint-Germain? Had he been condemned? She did not know whom she could ask, or how she could act without Justus learning of it. She looked down at the account of the war with Lars Porsena by Titus Livius. What did she care about the Etruscans? she asked herself as she got up from the chair. She had needlework to finish, and had considered doing something to put the garden in order, but those things could not hold her attention for very long: her thoughts returned to Saint-Germain as she paced through the corridors of her father's house.
She had just risen from her midday meal-which she had praised heavily for the chicken with grapes, though to her it had tasted like straw-when one of her guards announced that her husband had come to speak with her.
"Indeed I have, Olivia," Justus said, strolling in behind the slave and looking around at the shabbiness of the house. "It's a shame to see these old houses in disrepair, however..." He shrugged.
"Perhaps," said Olivia as she lifted her chin, "if I had the money from my family's estates, the house would not be neglected."
Justus laughed. "Still ready to take up cudgels, are you, Olivia? It would have been better for you if you had lost a little of that pride of yours."
"Better for whom, Justus?"
The question went unanswered. Justus walked across the little dining room, his hands locked behind his back. When he was at the window, he turned to face her. "Your lover is going to die," he said quite clamly.
For an instant Olivia felt as if she had been felled by an ax. She swayed on her feet, then straightened. "My lover?" she asked in a cool voice.
"The man who has been lying in your bed since you chose to live here," Justus said, an edge in his voice.
"I did not choose to live here, Justus; you sent me here so that you would be free to pursue your political ambitions." She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows, as if holding herself erect this way. It pleased her that Justus did not know how long her affair with Saint-Germain had lasted. That, at least, was one victory.
"You agreed, Domita." He watched her from under strong brows.
"What else could I do?" Suddenly she sank into one of the five couches. "Justus, what do you want now? Why are you here?"
He opened his hands in innocence. "May not a man visit his wife when it suits him? Must there be a reason beyond that?"
"Isn't there?" she countered, tired of his game.
"Well," he conceded, "if you had a lover there would be. I wanted you to know that Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus-you may remember him: he's the one who wore black when he came to you, though among so many...Be that as it may, this Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus has been detained on very serious charges, very serious. Domitianus himself told me about it. Since this man is not your lover, you say, then there is no need for me to go into it." He had picked up a small cup of blue glass. "What a very common thing," he said, and dropped it so that it broke at his feet.
"Justus! Tell me what you have to say and leave me!" Her breath was shaky when she drew it and she wanted desperately to weep, though she knew she must not.
"Say what I have come to say," he repeated thoughtfully. "Then leave you. I suppose that's what you're hoping for. All right, Olivia. I'll tell you why I am here." He put one hand on his hip. "I'm going to be married. To Flavia Lesbia Fabulens Marco. There's nothing official yet, but the Emperor has said he'd approve the match. He's encouraging it. There is, naturally, a problem."
"I'm the problem," Olivia said flatly. "I agree to divorce you. You may say what you want of me. I will divorce you and not ask a single pea in settlement." She knew she spoke too eagerly, that it could not be this simple, that Justus would use this as another way to torment her.
"But I have been divorced before, and to do it twice, even with such a flagrantly unfaithful wife as you..." He grinned at her gasp. "Oh, yes, I have a sad record of your infidelities. Such low tastes you have-gladiators and other ruffians. The Senate would be shocked to hear how you have behaved."
Olivia's voice dropped very low. "Justus, say what you like. Tell any lies that please you, but let me go. I know that my mother has no interest in me, but let me go to the estate near Brixellum. I don't care if it's the meanest you own..."
"My poor, misled Olivia," Justus said sweetly, "it is my sad duty to tell you that you can't go to your mother. She's dead, Olivia."
There was horror in Olivia's face now. "Dead? Dead? But that's not possible..."
"She died some time ago, I fear, a year ago, perhaps two. I'm afraid I don't remember." He flicked his fingers at the back of the chair, as if rubbing away dust.
"One year ago? Perhaps two?" Olivia got to her feet, white with rage. "I have let myself be abused, manipulated and bullied because you told me you would have my mother killed if I disobeyed you. I have consented to be treated like a bondswoman rather than a wife because I wanted to spare my mother any more hurt from you, Justus." She had come closer to him. For the first time she felt no fear of him whatever. He could not hurt her again, even if he killed her. "You have made me worse than a slave." She threw herself at him, her hands tearing, her teeth bared. Fury strengthened her, made her glad to hear the sound of ripping cloth as Justus toppled to the floor.
Then there were hands pulling her off her husband, dragging her to the other side of the room, holding her roughly while Justus got slowly to his feet.
"Keep hold of her," Justus said to his slaves. "Did you see what she did? Not content with poisoning me, she's now flying at my throat."
"Poisoning you?" Olivia asked. "What insanity is this?"
"No insanity, Domita," Justus said as he approached her. "I have evidence from a physician that proves you have tried to poison me. I have had three attacks, each after spending the evening here with you. The physician is willing to testify for me, as are others. I have a report on your adulteries. It's quite a simple matter." He grabbed her jaw in his hand. "There will have to be a trial, of course."
"I will deny it! I will answer every lie with the truth, and I will bring evidence as to how you have used me." Her head was twisted by his hand. She spat in his face.
His open-handed blow jarred her out of her guard's hold and she almost fell.
"You're an insolent child!" Justus hissed as he wiped his face. "For that, it will be worse for you. I will bring men into court who will say all that they did with you and to you. I will shame you, Olivia, so that no one in Rome will dare to look at you. That I promise."
Olivia thought that she had never seen him so angry, and as she watched him, some of her fear returned. "I wish I had killed you," she said in a voice as tight as her fists. "I wish I had given you poison. I wish I had stabbed you. I wish I had smashed your brains out."
Justus gave the guard who held her a cynical smile. "You heard what she said, didn't you?"
"I heard," said the slave.
"Though you can't give testimony, you can make a report." He gave an offhanded frown toward Olivia. "Women like this one are dangerous."
"Shall I report to Monostades?" the slave asked.
"Monostades? No. I will send another. Monostades is...away for a time." With a negligent finger he toyed with the fibula on Olivia's shoulder. "If I had the time, Domita, I would have this clothing off you and I would use you on the floor like the murderous slut you are." He began to tear the fine cloth of her palla. "You don't deserve better. I should make a present of you to one of the legions. You could serve a cohort, couldn't you? What's six hundred men to you?" The rip extended beyond her waist. "Skin like this would be a treat to the legionnaires, wouldn't you say? You might not keep it long, but for a time, it would please them." The cloth was torn almost as far as her knees. "There's a gladiatorial school that keeps women for their fighters. It's a hard life. Should I send you to Capua?"
Olivia twisted in the slave's expert hold, but could not break free of him. "You have no authority over me. You have no rights at all. If you send me to Capua, I will denounce you. If you try to give me to a legion, I will have you flogged!" She knew he was lying to her. It was too much of a gamble. He had to keep her under control.
The palla was torn in half now, and the cloth fell away, revealing her body. The slave's hands tightened.
"Actually," Justus continued as he looked her over critically, "I won't need to do any of that. You'll be condemned for attempting to murder me, and it will simply be a matter of choosing the most appropriate death. How would immurement suit you?" He saw Olivia shudder. "Walled up. In a tomb, perhaps, to save later expense. They frown on impaling women these days, but they might make an exception for you." He turned to the slave. "You'll have to watch her very closely now. She's very clever, and you saw for yourself that she will not stop at violence." He moved away from her. "It will be soon, Olivia. There are a few questions that must be settled before everything is ready, but when that happens, you will know."
"Justus," Olivia said, and her voice was surprisingly calm, "why? Why can't you simply divorce me? People get divorces all the time."
"It would not be enough," he said shortly.
"But why? The Emperor won't mind if there are two former wives of yours in the world, if you will keep your bargains with your fourth wife." She was intent now, for this was something she wanted very much to understand, since he thought it was important enough to require her death.
He had wandered back toward the window, but at that question he rounded on her, his face darkening. "Three times-three times my family has been that close to wearing the purple." He held up his hand, finger and thumb almost touching. "Each time it was snatched away from us by stupidity and malice. We are an old house, a noble house. We have the right. I have the right. My cousin could not get the power. My father tried and failed, but I tell you now, Olivia, that I will not fail. I need so little now to have it happen."
"So little?" she asked in a low, chiding tone. "My death is that to you?"
Justus stepped back, saying nothing. He kicked at the bits of broken glass, then said to the slave, "You will be certain that she is watched at every moment. She must be in plain sight at all times. Otherwise..."-his glance twitched toward her, then back-"she might find a way to escape, and that must not happen. If she is gone, every one of you in this house will be given thirty lashes with the plumbatae."
The slave turned a shade lighter. Such punishment was a death sentence.
"See that the others know," Justus said quietly, then looked one last time at Olivia. "If you had given me children, this might not have been necessary."
She smiled at him, her eyes fever-bright. "No, Justus, it was you who did not give me children. And you will fail with your fourth wife, as you failed with the others." She stood very straight as she saw that dart strike home.
Justus regarded her with open hatred. "You will pay for that, dear wife. I promise you, you will pay." Then he was gone from the room and Olivia felt the strength that had grown within her begin to fail. She coughed once to keep from sobbing. "You will release me," she said to the slave, and waited until he had obeyed.
"I can't leave you alone, Domita," he said almost apologetically. "The plumbatae..."
"Yes," she said with a dryness not unlike Saint-Germain's. "I want to go into the garden for a while," she told him with a control that startled her. "I must...be out-of-doors...You may watch from the doors or the windows. I don't care." She had broken away from him, and then, quite to her astonishment, she was running down the corridor toward the back garden, her ruined palla flapping about her, her face contorted with tears. As she ran, there was one ember of hope: tomorrow morning Rogerian would come again, and through him, somehow, there would be Saint-Germain.
TEXT OF AN INTERIM REPORT FROM TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS, PREFECT OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TO HIS YOUNGER BROTHER, TITUS FLAVIUS DOMITIANUS.
To Titus Flavius Domitianus, brotherly greetings:
Domi, I've reviewed the material you sent on Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus, and it would be fairly conclusive stuff if there were any way to prove one word of it. The trouble is that these suppositions and rumors are nothing more than that, and not even the most credulous Senator will believe half of the things that are said about him. It may be true that he owns more ships than we know, but as long as they operate within the law and trade honestly, it is no concern of ours. It may be true that he practices sorcery in his private wing of his villa, and if it is true, it is a dangerous thing, but there is no confirmation that he has such skills, or if he has them, that he uses them for evil purposes. It may be that he is unnaturally strong, but it is more likely that he is an experienced and accomplished fighter who does not often lose. It may even be that he drinks blood when lying with a woman. I have heard of stranger things happening in bed. But so long as none of his partners complain, what does it matter if he gives his companion a nip or two? Haven't you ever used your teeth in love play?
Your note suggests that you think I don't want to act against Saint-Germain. You're right. I like the man, and I don't think any good will come of killing him. You're pushing things that needn't be pushed. If Saint-Germain has done anything truly criminal (which I must say I doubt) then the Senate can bring full and formal proceedings against him. This rushed condemnation is not what I think of as being admirable in Rome. Neither you nor I rule Rome yet, Domi, and it is well that we both remember that fact. If, when you are Caesar, you want to murder half the city, that will be your affair. What is done by imperial edict is now our father's affair, and if either of us is to wear the purple, it will be because Rome likes him, not because we are any more promising than half the young patricians in the streets.
If you honestly believe that Romans will not pay attention to the treatment of a foreigner like Franciscus, you're deluding yourself, brother. Saint-Germain, as you yourself have pointed out, has a great many powerful friends, and is himself a very rich man. No Emperor can afford to despise wealth, Domi. You must recall our days in Egypt, when we had very little. It was quite a change from the fun of Claudius' palace. You're too young to remember that, but you know what it is to be poor. Think of the goodwill that a man of Saint-Germain's wealth can generate for Rome. Is it worth killing him out of spite when he could enrich the country?
If you still feel that you must have this man dead, I will side with you, because there have been fights enough in this family. But it is sad that you had to insist on this man. You told me that Cornelius Justus Silius was the one who alerted you to the duplicity of this foreigner. While I hold Senator Silius in as high esteem as anyone, I think that he might be mistaken about Saint-Germain. There are those we cannot agree with, and this might be such a case. Think about that before you accept his statements as incontrovertible facts.
May I have your response by tomorrow? I want to spend a few days at the beach, and I'd like to leave in two days. You might want to join us. It will be a very lively group, good music, wine, dancing, privacy when you want it, with whom you want it. We'd be happy to have you along.
By my hand, the eighth day of September, the 824th Year of the City.
Titus
Prefect, Praetorian Guard