Blood Games (10 page)

When at last he entered the box of tribune Donatus Egnatius Balbo, all but a few of the animals lay in heaps on the sand. The venatori had not fared much better—there were only seven of them still capable of facing the two huge white bears and one wild ox that remained.

"Saint-Germain,” the tribune said as he waved his guest to one of the marble seats. “You should have got here sooner. There was real sport for a while. The wolves got three men between them and tore them to pieces.” As he spoke, he kept his eyes on the white bears that stood on their hind legs, long claws curved to rip open the vitals of any venator foolish enough to get too close.

"I was detained with my charioteer,” Saint-Germain said shortly as he dropped onto the hard stone.

The Circus Maximus was heating up, and the smell of slaughter mixed with the effluvium of the crowd. It was worse than any battlefield Saint-Germain had known, for battlefields had not been sheltered with the enormous awning that flapped gently overhead.

Only one white bear was left, the ox and the second bear having fallen to the venatori. Already the Gates of Death had opened and teams of slaves with ropes and hooks were coming to drag away bodies of animals and men impartially.

With a terrible coughing bellow, the last white bear collapsed, transfixed by two javelins.

"Excellently done!” Egnatius cried out, though Saint-Germain could hardly hear his words through the howl of the crowd.

As the last of the animals were dragged away, sand wagons circled the spina, spreading a thick layer of new white sand over the blood. The slaves spreading the sand worked carefully, for if the scent of blood lingered at any one location too strongly, the racing horses would balk, refusing to run where death was too apparent.

"There's going to be an aquatic venation later on, after the midday meal. Crocodiles and hippopotami; Egyptians and Numidians will hunt them from rafts. That's always worth watching, particularly when one of the venatori falls into the water.” Egnatius’ face was flushed, partly from the terrible heat of the Circus and partly from pleasure.

"Indeed,” Saint-Germain murmured, and wondered how he might excuse himself without seeming impolite.

Egnatius’ young wife was pouting, and complained to her husband, “They say that Telcordes won't fight today. He isn't recovered from the wound in his shoulder."

The tribune laughed as he patted his wife's thigh, and said to Saint-Germain, “Celia adores gladiators, and that brute from Cyprus has caught her fancy. I don't understand it, myself, how a well-bred lady decides that she would swoon for the dubious pleasure of taking a professional killer to her bed."

Celia stared moodily at the long, thin wall of the spina. “I heard from my body slave that Mocantor says that Olivia, Domita Silius, has bedded Telcordes."

Her husband scoffed at this. “If half of what slaves said were true, the rest of Rome would never have time to get out of the sheets."

Below them the sand was almost ready for the first race. The tribune's box was on the return side of the spina, away from the starting line, so the beginning of the race would not be visible. They watched as the four chariots came from the Gates of Life to the edge of the spina to line up.

"The Whites have a good team, there,” Egnatius said. “What do you think, Saint-Germain? You breed horses."

"Showy,” Saint-Germain said after a cursory glance. “They're handsome enough, but they won't last the course."

His predictions proved accurate. By the time the erectores had removed five dolphins and four eggs from the high columns at the end of the spina, indicating that four and a half laps had been run, the Whites’ team was lagging, although the charioteer lashed them with the light whip that was more for directing the team than spurring them on. The Blues’ team was in the lead with the Greens’ immediately behind. Hoping for an advantage, the Reds’ chariot swung close in around the spina, and the left wheel caught on the nearest meta, those tall marble cones that acted as bumpers at either end of the spina.

The crowd shouted as the Reds’ chariot was dragged forward and sideways by the force of the impact, and for a moment it seemed the charioteer would be thrown from his vehicle into the wheels of the Whites’ chariot.

At the last possible instant, the charioteer rocked his chariot free of the meta and continued on the course. The sound of applause was colored by moans of disappointment from the upper stands.

Nero, who had been watching the race intently, was openly delighted when the Green team made the winner's solitary circle of the spina, to the noisy acclaim of the crowd. At the end of this last, glorious lap, the charioteer pulled up before the imperial box.

"Hyacinthos,” the Emperor called out, and waited while the mob became quieter. “Hyacinthos, this is your fiftieth win for the Greens.” The reaction to Nero's words was mixed. Some cheered and called the charioteer's name, others booed. Nero held up his hand for silence. “In acknowledgment of that, today you are a free man, and a citizen of Rome!"

An eruption of noise followed this proclamation, and the sound did not lessen until the overjoyed Hyacinthos had left the arena through the Gates of Life.

"Nero knows what the people love,” Egnatius observed. “By tonight, they'll be singing songs about this in the taverns, and every whore in the lupanar will swear that she slept with Hyacinthos on the night he was freed."

"I thought Crispus owned Hyacinthos,” Celia said, puzzled.

Egnatius dismissed the question. “He'll be compensated. If they didn't arrange this in advance."

Once again the procuratori dormi were smoothing the sand, eliminating the deep grooves left by the chariots’ wheels.

The trumpets gave the call of the gladiators as the Gates of Life opened, and eighty armed men marched to the podium to salute the Emperor and the editor of the Games.

"You don't have any gladiators, do you, Saint-Germain?” Egnatius asked as the fights began.

"Gladiators are very expensive. It takes years to train them, and they need more attention than bestiarii. And a bad afternoon can bankrupt you.” He turned so that he would not be watching the two men below who fought with the traditional wide-bladed swords with only their smallest shield to protect them. By decree of the editor, they were provided Corinthian helmets, which were considerably less protection than their usual headgear. “Also,” Saint-Germain added, “I am a foreigner. Roman officials are suspicious of foreigners with too many highly trained fighters in their possession."

"How cynical,” Egnatius said distantly as he leaned forward for a better view of the arena.

"Look!” Celia said as she pinched her husband's arm. “That one! That's Plaudes, the one who killed Murens last month."

Before the gladiatorial combats were through that morning, Plaudes, like Murens before him, had left the arena through the Gates of Death.

When the sand was once again clean and smooth, the second group of charioteers came through the Gates of Life. Kosrozd had drawn the starting position one place over from the spina, with the Blues in the favored position. He had already tied the ends of the reins around his waist and was feeling for the best hold for each horse's mouth.

"Keep behind, Persian,” said the charioteer in the Greens’ colors to his right.

"Only if my horses aren't swift enough,” he snapped.

There was a last flurry of activity at the starting gate and then the race was on. Kosrozd held his position the first two times around the spina, pacing his horses for a last, demanding sprint. They were to race seven full laps, and he did not want to tire his team too quickly.

Saint-Germain watched closely as Kosrozd's chariot passed beneath his box. The Persian was doing very well, his nerves were steady, and he drove as if in battle.

Over the next two laps Kosrozd began creeping ahead of the inside chariot, not enough to take the lead on the inner track, but sufficient to strengthen his position and to press the Blues’ driver.

"Your charioteer is very good,” Egnatius said as Kosrozd finally began to pull ahead of the Blues on the inner track. “I give him one more lap before he's got the lead on the spina."

"Perhaps,” Saint-Germain allowed as another dolphin came off the high crossbar on the lap counter.

The chariots were on the far side of the spina, out of Saint-Germain's sight when a sudden distressed, greedy cry went up from the spectators, and whole tiers of people leaned forward, shouting. Those on the same side as Saint-Germain craned their necks, trying in vain to see what had happened.

They did not have long to wait. The chariots rounded the metae at the end of the spina, and now there were only three of them. The Blues’ chariot was no longer in the race, and Kosrozd was trying to hold his chariot on course in spite of a wheel that was nearly off its axle. He was almost around the turn when the wheel broke free and the chariot lurched heavily onto its side.

A terrible hush fell over the stands, and for the time it would take to count five there was as much silence as there ever was in the Circus Maximus, and the muffled thunder of hooves on sand could be heard to the top row of the stands. Then the incredible welter of thousands of voices broke out again as Kosrozd, still tied to the reins of his horses, was dragged behind them over the white sand.

At first sight of Kosrozd, Saint-Germain had moved forward, intent. His face had gone white as he watched Kosrozd twist, trying to grab the knife in his high sandals that would cut him free.

For a little time it looked as though he might succeed, for he had pulled himself around so that he could grab the reins in one hand. Then the end of the spina loomed and the horses, long used to the course, cut in close to the three tall metae. There was too much noise from the crowd for Kosrozd's shriek of agony to be heard, but Saint-Germain saw the terrible impact before the horses dragged him on.

Saint-Germain was out of his seat on the instant, and with a terse word to Egnatius, left the box, running down the stairs to the stable area, pushing his way past bestiarii and various fighters in his rush.

Two moratori were already moving through the Gates of Life to grab Kosrozd's maddened team as Saint-Germain dashed into the area by the stables. A surgeon was waiting, and he looked up laconically as Saint-Germain approached.

"You're the owner?” he asked as he dropped his well-used tools into a pot of water hung over a brazier.

"Of the charioteer for the Reds, yes.” As he spoke, his foreign accent was stronger, which was the only indication of the degree of his worry.

The surgeon nodded. “The Blues’ charioteer will go out through the Gates of Death.” He was a man of grizzled middle age, the veteran of many military campaigns, and now resigned to his degrading work of tending to those wounded in the arena.

The moratori had caught the horses at last, and were dragging the team by main force toward the Gates of Life.

"Those lads,” the surgeon said, indicating the moratori, “they've got a rough job. Catching a team of racing horses isn't my idea of soft work."

Saint-Germain was not listening. He hastened to the open doors where the moratori stood calming the team. Ignoring the horses and the shocked exclamations of the moratori, Saint-Germain went to Kosrozd's side.

The Persian charioteer was, mercifully, no longer conscious. His left shoulder was broken and a white shard of bone pushed through the mangled skin. Bruises and abrasions marked the rest of his body, and a deep gash in his leg was steadily pumping blood.

Angry with worry, Saint-Germain took the knife from Kosrozd's ruined sandal and cut the reins at last. He motioned away the medico who came to drag Kosrozd to the surgeon, and instead took Kosrozd in his arms as easily as he might have lifted a child. Holding the charioteer with care, he took him across the stableyard to where the surgeon waited.

"You've a deal of strength, to carry him that way,” the surgeon remarked as Saint-Germain lowered Kosrozd onto the low pallet by the stable wall.

Saint-Germain had no response to make to that. “He's badly hurt."

"I can see that,” was the testy rejoinder. “I'll have to get the saw if I'm going to take that arm off."

"
No!
” Saint-Germain grabbed the surgeon by the shoulder. “I forbid it!"

The surgeon gave a patient sigh. “Look, foreigner, it's not that I want to do it. But take a look for yourself. There are three bones broken around the shoulder. If I leave the arm on, he won't be able to use it, and the wound will fester and kill him. This way, he's got a chance to live. That's all you can hope for."

"I said no.” He did not relax his grip on the surgeon's shoulder.

"There isn't any choice.” The surgeon wasn't annoyed, but he disliked the attitude of the foreigner. “If you think you can do better..."

Saint-Germain released the surgeon, who cleared his throat in preparation of ordering him to leave, but he was startled to see the foreigner kneel once again and lift the charioteer as he had before. “Stand aside, Surgeon."

A new voice interrupted them. “Franciscus, if you take that slave from here, no one will be responsible for what happens to him.” It was the Master of the Bestiarii, Necredes, who stood to one side, an unpleasant expression on his hard features.

"That is quite acceptable to me.” Plainly, Saint-Germain did not want to be kept waiting any longer than necessary. “I will sign a document to that effect as soon as I have Kosrozd in a sedan chair bound for my villa."

"How do I know that you will not change your mind? You must give me that document first.” He was close to smiling, and waved the surgeon away.

"You have my word on it,” Saint-Germain said, and started away toward the arches that led to the street.

Necredes hurried after him. “I won't be cheated by you as I was once. You'll say that I harmed your slave, or that no one cared for him."

Saint-Germain's dark eyes took on a steely glitter. “
I gave you my word
. Stand aside!"

What might have occurred next was never known, for one of the bestiarii came running up. “Necredes, the big crocodile has gotten loose from his cage. We've got to have help with him!"