Blood Games (11 page)

"Where?” Necredes demanded.

"Second level down. The door of the cage opened. We can't drive him back.” The words were lost to Saint-Germain as he hurried through the arches toward the street.

There were a number of chairmen standing about waiting for the Games to reach their midday break. Saint-Germain chose four men who lounged beside a palanquin with several luxurious cushions and curtains to close it. “You, chairmen!” he shouted.

The largest individual turned. “Me?"

"Your palanquin. Get it ready.” He had come up beside it and was carefully setting Kosrozd down in it.

"Hey! He's bleeding. You can't ruin our cushions."

"I'll pay for them.” When he was certain that Kosrozd was well-supported, he reached and bound the smallest of the cushions tightly against the deep cut in his leg. The bleeding had lessened, but not enough to reassure Saint-Germain.

"Get him out of there!” ordered the chairman.

Saint-Germain straightened up. “I'm hiring you. You can't refuse legitimate hire."

The chairman gave him one caustic glance. “How do I know that?"

Saint-Germain had endured more interference than he was willing to tolerate. “You know because I wear jewels in my rings, good citizens, and because that man's slave collar bears my name. The cost of your services outside the walls of Rome—"

"Outside the walls? Are you insane?” the chairman demanded.

"—is two sesterci per thousand paces. If you will carry this man to my villa, which is three thousand paces beyond the Praetorian camp, my body slave will give you three times that. All you must say is that it is because of the eclipse.” Saint-Germain reached into the bag that hung from his belt and extracted four gold coins. “This is your first payment. You must hurry."

The chairman grumbled even as he motioned to the other three to take up their positions. “Right, boys,” he said like the old soldier he so obviously was.

When the palanquin had disappeared down the dusty street, Saint-Germain stepped back through the arches of the stableyard, then turned toward the long hallway that would lead him back to the stairs to Egnatius’ box. He had just come in from the sunlight when a voice spoke to him in the darkness.

"Saint-Germain Franciscus.” The voice was low, distinctly feminine, with the hint of a tremor.

He stopped, his eyes still dazzled by the brightness outside. “Yes?"

"I want to talk to you.” She moved closer, keeping to the shadows. “I want to know you better."

"Better?” Saint-Germain waited as his vision at last adjusted. He recognized the woman with a start as Olivia, Justus Silius’ wife. He recalled the strange, frightened way she had looked at him in Petronius’ garden.

"I want...I want you to...come to me. At night. Soon.” Her face was flushed, her eyes still wide and frightened.

Saint-Germain's thoughts were still on Kosrozd and the hideous injuries the Persian had sustained, and so he found it quite difficult to deal with Olivia. Ordinarily he had a deft and flattering reply for such offers, but now he stepped back. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Domita. It isn't wise for one so...foreign as I am to accept such invitations as yours.” He set his jaw. “Let me pass, Domita."

"No. No.” She stepped in front of him. “You mustn't deny me. You can't.” There was a curious desperation in her pleas, and her hands lifted toward him as if seeking help. The lascivious charm most women displayed in these moments was entirely lacking in Olivia's manner. Saint-Germain frowned at this strange supplication. He remembered the gossip he had heard among the gladiators and other arena combatants about this woman, about her constant seeking for new and violent lovers, and suddenly the gossip seemed at odds with the fearful eyes of the woman before him.

"When, Domita?” he heard himself ask in a harsh voice.

She sighed, actually sighed. “In three days. Two hours after sunset. Come to the door by the garden. A slave will admit you.” Her mouth turned down at the corners, almost in distaste. “I will be in my bedchamber to receive you.” She turned abruptly, making a gesture as if to push something away from her.

There were bellows and squeals and shouts from the arena as the aquatic venation at last began, but Saint-Germain hardly heard the sounds. He stared after Olivia, his mind in new turmoil. Far down the passage, she passed through two pools of light, and it seemed to Saint-Germain that she was fleeing from the dark and violent world below the stands. If that were so, why had she sought him and the others out? He could not fathom what had made him weaken toward her, but the more he considered it, the less he desired to find out. She was a dangerous woman to know. She was the wife of a powerful Senator, and Saint-Germain a foreigner. Then he realized one other thing about her: she was terrified; and against his will, that understanding woke the sympathy within him.

TEXT OF A LETTER NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS, WITH TIGELLINUS, THE COMMANDER OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TO THE GENERAL CNAEUS DOMITIUS CORBULO.

To the honorable general, Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo, greetings:

Since the hand of the Emperor and fortune have elevated me to share jointly with Ofonius Tigellinus the command of the Praetorians, I believe that with this honor go certain responsibilities, which I must exercise if I am to discharge the duties of my office with merit.

The Emperor, as I am certain you are aware, has suffered much this year. It is not only the conspiracy of Gaius Calpurnius Piso that has wounded him deeply, but some of those involved in the conspiracy were those he most loved. Seneca and Lucan accepted their fates and killed themselves for their role in that plot. It is some comfort to reflect that although they betrayed the Emperor, still they recalled that they were Romans, and died with dignity.

More recently, the tragic death of Poppaea, when she was so near to giving Nero a child, has been a severe blow to the Emperor, and he deeply grieves for her, blaming himself for her untimely death.

You have expressed yourself willing, even anxious to return to your legions, and we have made note of these wishes. Until now we have striven to be circumspect in your case because of your son-in-law's part in the late conspiracy. However, much has changed in the last few months, and we feel it might be advisable, even beneficial, to have you once again defending the honor of Rome in the field, where you desire to be.

At this time, the Emperor would find a victory noteworthy. You have often shown yourself to be the most capable of generals, well-loved by your men and devoted to the cause of the Emperor, the Senate and the people of Rome. For that reason, we are requesting that you reserve some time for us to speak, so that we may reach a more thorough understanding of the wishes of the Emperor and the Senate. It is senseless to let so capable a general as yourself fritter away his time in Rome when the empire is so much in need of your skills.

Conquest and triumph are certainly the highest reward to which any commander can aspire, but in addition, there is official recognition and honor to be given those who best serve the Emperor. Let me assure you that should you be willing to lead your men into battle once more, Nero would be much inclined to advance you and your family here at home, removing forever the stigma of disloyalty that now touches your house.

Let me have your reply by the messenger that brings this, and we will meet at your earliest convenience. I am confident that you will be eager to undertake the venture we will propose to you.

In anticipation of your interest, I salute you, Corbulo.

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IN THE NORTH atrium of Villa Rogoczy lights burned although it was well past midnight. This untypical feature of the villa held not only its owner's personal quarters, but rooms where none but the somber Egyptian Aumtehoutep was allowed to enter. The slaves who lived in the apartmented barracks between the villa and the stables spent many hours in exciting and wildly inaccurate speculation on what those private rooms might contain.

Saint-Germain stood in one of those chambers now, bending over the pallid form of Kosrozd. His face was grave as he inspected the inflamed wounds that gaped on the Persian's body. “Are you certain that all the splinters of bone were removed?” he asked in a low voice.

"All that I could find,” Aumtehoutep said stiffly.

"I'm not accusing you, Aumtehoutep. Considering the damage done here, I'm surprised you were able to do so much.” He had not looked up from Kosrozd. “His breathing is shallow, his pulse is fast and weak. And though the bleeding is stopped...” His gesture was one of helplessness.

"There is a limit to what art and skill can accomplish,” the Egyptian agreed. “You know that better than I."

"If I had Sennistis and all the priests of Imhotep here, I doubt we could save him. Not after two days like this.” There was a remote anguish in his dark eyes. “How old is he, do you suppose?"

"Seventeen, eighteen, certainly no more than twenty.” Aumtehoutep went to an inlaid chest in the corner. “Do you want your tools?"

"So young,” Saint-Germain mused. “I can't remember being seventeen, or eighteen, or twenty. Or ten times those ages.” He put one small hand on Kosrozd's forehead. “The fever is worse."

"How much longer, do you think?” Aumtehoutep held the chest open. “We have cordials for the pain."

"If he regains consciousness, I suppose we must use them.” At last he stood up and rubbed his eyes. “A pity."

"Yes.” Aumtehoutep's voice was colorless and he did not meet his master's eyes.

"You think I should save him?” Saint-Germain asked, a cold smile on his lips. “Aumtehoutep?"

There was uneasy silence between them; then the Egyptian answered, as he stared at the chest. “I think it would be well to set his bones. If you do choose to...heal him, he would be able to race."

"Ah, yes. And precisely how do we explain his recovery?” He shook his head with annoyance. “Why won't you look at me?"

Aumtehoutep did not answer the second question. “There would be scars, and that's expected, but men have lived through worse than this and returned to the arena."

"Not as charioteers,” Saint-Germain snapped.

"Perhaps not. But you said that the surgeon never inspected his wounds. They don't know how badly he was hurt, and occasionally superficial hurts look worse than mortal ones.” He closed the lid of the chest and turned to face Saint-Germain at last. “He isn't ready to die."

"Neither am I,” Saint-Germain responded, but his face was troubled. “Do you think he could accept...changing?"

Aumtehoutep took an impulsive step toward Saint-Germain. “Set his bones. Wake him. Deliver him. He'll acquiesce to the conditions of his change, because you gave it to him. You granted as much to that Assyrian captain..."

The anguish in Saint-Germain's eyes contradicted the smooth sarcasm of his smile. “That was centuries ago. This isn't the same."

"Perhaps this isn't as necessary as that was, but with his adoration"—Saint-Germain winced as Aumtehoutep said the word— “can't you reconsider?"

Saint-Germain studied his somber companion. “You don't usually ask this of me. Why now, old friend?"

"You've been alone for too long.” He said it slowly, and the etched lines of his face seemed to deepen in the light from the oil lamps.

"Alone?” Saint-Germain tried to laugh, and failed. “Very well. I'm alone. What alternative is there?"

Aumtehoutep answered with difficulty. “There is the affection of others."

"Affection?” Saint-Germain echoed. “Do you imagine, my kind good friend, that I could reveal my true nature and be treated with anything other than repugnance and detestation?” His voice held more suffering than anger. “That unfortunate young man"—he indicated Kosrozd's still form—"offered himself to me, in ignorance, oh, sincerely, I don't doubt that, but without any comprehension of what I am. Do you think his...adoration would survive learning the truth?"

"When there was plague in Luxor, you took me from the Temple of Thoth, and the plague spared me. Why do you refuse now to spare Kosrozd?” He put his hand on Saint-Germain's shoulder. “You have been a good master to me for more years than I can count, you have treated me with...humanity..."

"Aumtehoutep..."

"Why do you hold yourself aloof?” He was careful not to raise his voice, but the intensity of his feeling made his words seem loud.

"Because,” Saint-Germain said slowly and distinctly, “I am afraid. Those good lusty Romans tolerate my foreignness because they don't understand the full extent of it. And while they may wallow in blood for sport in the Great Games, they would not regard my...tastes with the same approbation."

"But you have admitted many times that for you to be truly nourished, there must be emotion as well.” He crossed his arms, determined to have an answer from Saint-Germain.

"Of course, but any strong emotion will do. Terror is as strong, though not as durable as love. Gratified desire is as potent as intimacy, and more easily available. Tishtry serves me very well for that, and she has no complaints of me.” Under his gentle self-mockery there was abiding pain, but he spoke lightly enough. “Tomorrow night I'm supposed to visit a Roman noblewoman. In her case, I think it must be terror I evoke. She didn't approach me with any apparent fervor."

The compassion Aumtehoutep felt for his master pulled at his body with physical force. “And is it enough?"

Saint-Germain closed his eyes, and answered very softly. “I think I would be willing to give half my years for someone who would know me for what I am—for all I am—and would accept it all without reservation. In almost two thousand years, I haven't found that. I admit,” he said in a different tone, “for some of that time I wasn't searching for such a person.” He stopped and studied Aumtehoutep's face. “Do we have Persian earth here?"

It was not in Aumtehoutep's nature to smile, but there was a creasing about his eyes. “There is some in your laboratory. You wanted to process certain elements out of it."