Roman Dusk by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

see him to the gate for me?”
    “Of course, Dominus,” said Aedius, standing respectfully while Batsho gestured his farewell and started for the atrium. “There is someone in the rear vestibule who would like a little of your time,” he added as he prepared to escort Telemachus Batsho from the house.
    Something in Aedius’ tone put Sanct-Franciscus on the alert. “Thank you. I will attend to it now.” He called after Batsho, “You see, decuria, there are advantages in giving the household leave to speak.”
    Batsho, now out of the study, was able to ignore this last remark as he continued out into the atrium, his hand placed protectively over the jingling pouch he carried on a double-thong on his belt.
    As soon as he was sure that Batsho was through the gate, Sanct-Franciscus left his place in the study and hastened to the rear vestibule, where he found Daniama the laundress standing guard at the door, her muscular arms folded. “I understand I have a guest,” he said to the sturdy slave.
    “Yes, Dominus.” She ducked her head. “Aedius said I was to guard her.”
    “No doubt a very sensible plan,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “But do you think, perhaps, I might be allowed to enter?” He waited for her to move aside, wondering as he did what—and whom—he would find inside.
    “Your pardon, Master,” said the slave, and stepped away quickly.
    Sanct-Franciscus put his hand on the latch, calling out, “I am coming in,” as he swung the door back. He found the room in shadow, the wooden blinds turned to keep out the summer sun. “Who is here?” he asked of the gloom, for although the darkness made little difference to the clarity of his sight, he knew most of the living were not so fortunate and were often troubled by his ability to see so well; he was aware his unknown guest was in the far corner, turned away from the door.
    “Patronus,” exclaimed Melidulci, not moving from her place.
    “My delight,” he exclaimed, starting toward her. “What is the matter?” For something had to be the matter: Melidulci was not behaving as Sanct-Franciscus had ever seen her act before. “What has happened?” As he reached her side, he saw her flinch. “What is wrong?”
    Suddenly she burst into tears and pressed her head against his shoulder, keeping her face averted; she was trembling . “I … I could think of … of no one else to come to,” she whispered, her words muffled.
    “But surely within the lupanar—” he began, and felt her cringe.
    “I will leave,” she said suddenly, shoving him so she could step away from him. “I don’t want to impose.”
    “No, no,” he told her gently, putting his arm around the small of her back with care, for he could tell by her posture that she was in pain. “That was clumsy of me. If you have trouble, the Guard of the Lupanar should protect you—that is what they are paid for.”
    She broke away from his embrace, then reached out suddenly and turned the slats of the blinds, throwing the uncompromising noon light on her face: bruises and broken skin distorted her features so that she was almost unrecognizable. One eye was puffy, purple, and all but swollen shut, her lip was cracked and swollen, there were lumps on her jaw and a dribble of blood below her distended ear. Her upper arms were marred with the purple ghosts of finger dug into her flesh. “Who do you think did this?” she demanded, and her sobbing became loud and ragged. “Lupanar Guards!”
    He stared at her, wanting to disbelieve, but unable to doubt her. “Why would Lupanar Guards do such a thing—and to you, of all women?”
    “ I don’t know! ” she wailed. “I pay them their commoda, and extra.” A note of panic had entered her voice.
    “Melidulci,” Sanct-Franciscus said, folding her close to him again.
    “I’m not either,” she howled, twisting in his arms. “Not now!” Abruptly she collapsed, sagging into his encompassing hold. “Don’t look at me!”
    “Why not?” he