Roman Dusk by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

asked her, no distress in his voice; his dark, penetrating gaze did not waver.
    “Because I’m hideous!”
    “No, no, Melidulci, you are injured, you are not hideous. You cannot be hideous, not to me.” He supported her easily, as if she weighed no more than a child did.
    “Why?” she challenged, adding angrily. “Because you love me?”
    “No,” he said calmly. “I like you very much and I am deeply fond of you; I know you.”
    This held her attention. “But you do not love me.”
    “No,” he said, a world of kindness in his answer.
    Now she was puzzled; she did her best to ignore her fear and hurts. “Why not? Almost all the men who come to me claim to love me.”
    “And do you believe them?” Sanct-Franciscus asked. “You do not want me to be one who claims to love you, do you.”
    Her ragged laughter was not as cynical as she wanted it to be. “Of course not.”
    “Do you believe my friendship is sincere?”
    She stared at him, her eyes growing moist. “Yes,” she said after a brief silence. “I do.”
    “Then accept it, and let me help you now.” He felt her tremble, and went on compassionately, “This was done to leave marks, and to frighten you.”
    “Then they succeeded,” she muttered, forcing her legs to support her. “One of them struck me across the back with a length of wood. I was bludgeoned more than once with it, and they struck my feet; walking here was—” She broke off.
    “The Guard of the Lupanar did this, you say.” Sanct-Franciscus kept her close to him, providing her the safety of his nearness.
    “Or men dressed like them,” Melidulci allowed, bringing her crying under control. “I didn’t know their faces, and I thought I knew them all.”
    “Did you not?” He considered this, using the edge of the wide, square sleeve of his dalmatica to start to wipe away the dried blood from her face. “This is insufficient,” he said as he examined the results. “I will order a bath, and while it is readied, I will soak your injuries with pads infused with anodyne tinctures. Once I see the whole of you, I will have a better notion of what you will need.”
    She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
    “You know I have some skill with medicaments; you have seen the efficacy of the preparations I provide,” he said without haste, his small hands moving over as much of her face and neck as he could see without adding to her distress. “I will endeavor to do my best to help your recovery; I am no Galen, but my methods have their uses.” He had acquired them over centuries, beginning in the Temple of Imhotep; he looked directly into her disfigured visage. “I cannot undo all the damage, but I can keep it to a minimum.”
    “How!” She did not speak loudly; her anguish was all the more poignant because of it.
    “There are unguents and poultices to ease the bruising and to help close the breaks in your skin with the least scarring possible,” he said. “I have bandages that will also help prevent scars, and some that will keep the medicaments where they need to be to treat the hurts you have. I have syrup of poppies to diminish your pain so you may sleep. Sleep heals much more than any physician can.”
    She sighed. “I shouldn’t. You may be in danger if you shelter me. If those men followed me—”
    “So I might be,” Sanct-Franciscus admitted, “but the woman who owns this house—a widow called Olivia—would never forgive me if I failed to care for you, nor would I excuse myself. You are dear to me, little as you may want to be, Melidulci, and those of my blood do not turn away from those we care for when they are in need.” He thought of Periasis, less than a century ago, and winced; he clapped his hands, calling out, “Daniama, have the caldarium heated—not too hot, but enough to promote sweat. Then ask Vitellius to bring me my leather case of medicaments.” Just then he missed Rugeri intensely, wishing he were here to tend to such things with only minor