Roman Dusk by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

reign had lasted only a handful of weeks, a century-and-a-half ago. This slave was circumspect in his dealings and used his position with care and concision. Vitellius Caesar had indulged himself recklessly and showed favor and caprice with equal inclination; this impulsivity proved to be his undoing: his fall had been the last of a series of short reigns, and had brought Titus Flavius Vespasianus and his two sons to the purple. Now, once again there was a cluster of unpopular Caesars, and Sanct-Franciscus wondered when this spate would end.
    As soon as the carts were unloaded, they were driven out of the courtyard, bound for the Porta Viminalis and the road to Villa Ragoczy for the last loads. The one remaining cart became a focus of activity, its cargo of chests requiring careful handling as some contained glass and fine stoneware, one was filled with brass instruments for measuring and calculation, and others held jars and vials of medicaments and similar substances.
    “What do you think, Foreign Honoratus? Or should it be Dominus, now you have this house in Roma? Or honestiorus?” asked Urbanus, Sanct-Franciscus’ twenty-six-year-old freedman clerk who had only recently entered his employ. “Will they be back before noon tomorrow?”
    “I trust so, and I suppose it must be Dominus, or honestiorus,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “There is a festival to be held at the Temple of Hercules, and I hope the carts will not be caught in the celebration.”
    “Is that likely?” Urbanus asked. “They hold such festivities in front of the temple, not behind it. We may have to listen to the celebration, but we need not participate. Let them revel and riot as they like, it means little to us if the gates are closed.” He wore three silver rings on his fingers—the highest display the law allowed him—and his silken pallium was belted in links of brass; in all, he had, as he had intended, the look of prosperity. His close-cropped brown hair shone with perfumed oil and the thin line of beard along his jaw was precisely trimmed. He was almost as tall as Sanct-Franciscus, and took great satisfaction in being half-a-head taller than most men in Roma. “Why should the celebration be a problem?”
    “The celebrants will have bigae, and slaves, and they will want them near to hand. The square just beyond the gate will be a tangle,” said Sanct-Franciscus.
    Urbanus considered this, then said, “You’re probably right. Very well. I will hope that your slaves and carts will be here before midday, and all the goods they bring bestowed before sunset.”
    “If that is to be achieved, the greater part of their unloading will be done before the festival is fully under way. The sacrifices are made at midday and the procession follows afterward, and then the feasting,” said Sanct-Franciscus, hoping it was still true, for enough time had gone by since he had seen this celebration in Roma that he realized changes may have occurred.
    “Sacrifices. Goats, sheep, and perhaps a calf or two,” said Urbanus, rubbing his chin in thought. “I will be here in the morning, shortly after dawn, and you may command me as you wish.”
    “I am grateful for your attention,” said Sanct-Franciscus, watching one of the grooms pull at the reins of the remaining empty cart. “The ponies need their rest.”
    “They’re stubborn enough to be mules,” said Urbanus.
    “You have a point,” said Sanct-Franciscus as he saw the ponies start to move, lured by a handful of apple-cores the groom had fetched. “Fortunately, they are bribable.”
    “Not only ponies,” said Urbanus, clearing his throat and looking about as if expecting to be spied upon. “I have had an inquiry from one of the decuriae.”
    “Oh?” said Sanct-Franciscus.
    “An officious fellow calling himself Telemachus Batsho. Nothing much to look at, but full of his own importance.” Urbanus coughed discreetly. “He came to my insula in person, accompanied by an African slave, at the