Roman Dusk by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

followed the third crate of his native earth up the stairs in the atrium to his quarters on the north side of the house, where the shuttered windows admitted the least sun of any apartments in the house.
    Tigilus, the understeward, stood in the largest of the three rooms set aside for Sanct-Franciscus’ personal use. He held a wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other, and he was staring at the three crates of earth stacked against the far wall. He was no more than medium height, but so blocky that he appeared short. “Where do you want those stored?”
    Sanct-Franciscus pointed to the large closet between the bedroom and this chamber. “That would seem a good place.”
    “As you wish. And for your body-slave, whom do you wish to serve you?” Tigilus asked.
    It was all Sanct-Franciscus could do not to say Rugeri, but he stopped himself in time, and regarded Tigilus. “Would you be amenable to being in charge of my rooms? I may use my body-slave from my villa just at present, but he does not know the conduct of this house, nor its assigned uses: for that, you are much more prepared, and it would suit me to have your service, if it is suitable to you.”
    Tigilus blinked, and did his best to decide what would be the most advantageous decision. He studied Sanct-Franciscus, and finally asked, “You could order me to serve you—why do you permit me to decide? Or will you insist that I choose to do as you wish me to?”
    “I permit you to decide so that you will know that I am willing to have it so, but not if such service is contrary to your—” Sanct-Franciscus broke off at the sound of a leather case striking the floor of the bedroom, followed by a wail of distress.
    Tigilus turned and prepared to barrel into the bedroom to chastise the slave who had committed such an error. “That should earn more than a reprimand.”
    “At another time,” said Sanct-Franciscus mildly. “But by the sound of it, all that was dropped was clothing, and the worst that may come of this is the need to have a few garments washed.” He stretched out his hand, firmly blocking his way. “Let me attend to this, if you would.”
    “If you insist, Dominus.” Tigilus was not pleased to have his authority limited, but he also was not going to press his luck with this foreigner, not given Domina Clemens’ high opinion of him.
    “For now, I do. Once the household has been put in order, I will not interfere with your duties, nor will I make unreasonable demands upon you. If you will wait here for me?” Sanct-Franciscus went through the dressing room to the bedroom where he saw two slaves—a young man and a girl of no more than fourteen—trying to shove three black-linen kalasirises back into the leather clothes-case they had dropped. “I hope one of you will tell me what happened.”
    Both began to speak at once, and both fell silent.
    “One of you tell me how you came to drop the case. I am not intending to punish either of you; I simply want to know why the accident”—he emphasized the word—“happened, so we may avoid another such.”
    The male slave had a ridge of scars along his upper arm; he looked at Sanct-Franciscus, his expression concealing his thoughts. “I was backing up and caught my heel on the edge of that table.” He pointed to the handsome, low table that stood not far from the bed.
    “Well, better a dropped clothes-chest than a broken leg,” said Sanct-Franciscus. “If you will be good enough to have all the clothes unpacked immediately and hung on their pegs, I would appreciate it.”
    The two slaves exchanged disbelieving glances, and the girl almost sighed aloud. “At once,” she said, and opened the top of the case fully, taking the fine garments out. “I have never seen such fabrics, not in all the years I have served in fine houses. I know I should not mention it, but I am astonished by the wonderful things you have,” she said, almost caressing the heavy damask silk of his four trabeae.