Blood Games (13 page)

Knowing how cautious you are apt to be, I will await your response as long as is necessary. You may want to ask others of their opinion of this man, or you may wish to find another solution to the problem. I would urge you not to banish him, for who can tell what schemes he may undertake away from the careful observation of Rome? In the provinces, he might find like-minded men who would lend their support and fortunes to just such another plot as Piso spearheaded.

When you have given the matter your thoughtful consideration, send for me, and we will make those arrangements which seem most appropriate to you. It might be wise to leave the Senate out of this conference, for this man has too many friends there who would warn him of your intent, and give him time to gain power and protection elsewhere.

I assure you, O Emperor, that at all times, your interests are foremost in my mind, and that nothing shall keep me from defending you from any threat whatever. It is always an honor to serve you in all things.

With obedient respect,

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SAINT-GERMAIN approached the house of Cornelius Justus Silius reluctantly. The angry and anxious note he had had two weeks ago from Olivia, berating him for not keeping their assignation, had named this night as a time she must see him. He had almost decided to send his regrets once more, but something in the reprimand disturbed him, and in the end he had donned his most impressive robe of black Persian silk, had two horses harnessed to his best chariot, and had driven into the city, to this impressive house on the Aventine Hill.

The door by the garden was, as had been promised, half-open, and a slave waited for him, a rail-thin, rat-faced man of late middle age, who bowed obsequiously. “The Domita expects you. One of the grooms will see to your chariot. If you will keep silent and follow me...?"

Saint-Germain disliked the slave, and was not anxious to entrust his horses to any groom of Justus Silius, but he held his peace. If he caused a scene now, he knew he could expect public embarrassment later. “Very well. Go quietly."

The slave bowed again, and lifted a lamp to light their way through the darkened hall.

The Domita's room was on the northwest side of the house, in what was obviously a fairly recent addition. The door was of carved and painted pearwood, the floors of green marble. The slave knocked once, then opened the door for Saint-Germain.

Olivia sat up from where she had reclined on the pillows of her bed, one hand to her breast, her eyes bright with what Saint-Germain was startled to realize were tears. “You did come."

"I don't recall that you left me much choice,” he said coolly.

She drew back from those quelling dark eyes, and to cover this retreat, she busied herself with pulling back the hangings around her bed and securing them to the tall bedposts that were carved-and-gilt satyrs. “No, of course I didn't,” she said in a failing tone.

He gave the room one swift, comprehensive glance. The murals were elegantly done, showing every refinement of seduction. Here Mars and Venus coupled beside his discarded armor, there Helen was carried off by a jubilant Paris, and on the far wall, Jupiter in all his glory ravished Semele.

Olivia was speaking again. “Since you wouldn't come before, I had to insist...It was necessary.” She glanced swiftly to the hidden door where Justus waited. “It was necessary,” she repeated, then tried once again to overcome his forbidding reserve. “Attractive men, you know, are not too common.” This was meant to be flirtatious, but was more like a cry for help.

"If you wish to command, there are slaves who must obey you,” Saint-Germain said quietly, dangerously. “I do not like to be threatened, Domita."

She reached for one of the pillows to stop her hands from shaking. He would be worse than she feared. His menace was almost stronger than that of her husband. That black-clad, sinister foreigner on the far side of the room appalled her now that he was actually in the room. “Come nearer,” she suggested timorously.

"Is that what you want?” He could sense her fear of him, and was perturbed by her determination to take him to her bed.

"You wouldn't refuse me again?” she asked with a certain amount of wistfulness in the words.

What was it about that woman? Saint-Germain asked himself as he stood with arms folded while she lay back and beckoned to him. He could see tension in her body, and she would not look at him directly. He had known more women than lived in Rome, many of them lovely and seductive, but they never had the effect on him that this awkward, inept young woman did. “Precisely what do you want of me, Domita Silius?"

"Isn't that apparent?” she pleaded. She had to make him respond. Justus had told her that if she did not succeed with Saint-Germain this time, he would bring not only the Tingitanian in from the stable, but the huge Boetian bodyguard he employed, and let them both take their pleasure of her. She wished her hands did not tremble so much as she lifted her silken robe to show her body.

"Gladiators and foreigners,” Saint-Germain said as contemptuously as he could. “Are we safer because we won't approach your husband?” His robe whispered on the marble as he moved nearer, and his black Scythian boots were sharply loud at each step. “Why do you want me?” he challenged her as he walked. “Why? Aren't there gladiators enough in the arena for you?"

She flinched at the question. “I...I'm not interested in them just now.” It was impossible to meet his intense, enigmatic eyes. How much she wanted to dismiss him. Her hands were icy, her heart battered at her ribs, her head began to ache insistently. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wishing she had the courage to send Saint-Germain away and face whatever indignity Justus would mete out to her.

"I do not like being used, Domita,” Saint-Germain said in a soft voice that cut like a blade. He knew she was afraid of him, and that was good. If he could frighten her badly enough, she would not demand he see her again. She might not object when he denied her his body.

"Used?” she laughed unhappily. “You?"

This time when he moved, he moved swiftly, covering her naked body with his own clothed one. He forced his mouth on hers, felt her tighten against him. He sank one hand in her hair and pulled her head back so he could kiss her again. His other hand he forced between them and ripped the open robe away from her. She lay beneath him, curiously passive. There was none of the crazed ardor he had been expecting, neither for pleasure or pain. Puzzled, he pushed himself onto his elbow and looked at her. Was she waiting for him to rape her? he asked himself. To cover his confusion, he reached to pinch out the lamps that hung around the bed.

Her hand on his arm stopped him. “No."

"You have no choice, Domita.” His fingers closed on one wick, and then another.

She had never felt so helpless. No other man had insisted on darkness, and if Justus could not see what transpired, he would be furious. So softly that there was almost no sound to her voice, she whispered, “My husband..."

"Is coming?” He also whispered, dreading her husband's arrival. Justus Silius was known to be a cruel man, and he was gaining power. It would please him to make Saint-Germain's life in Rome difficult.

She shook her head, her face pinched and flushed.

Saint-Germain's hand hovered near another lamp. “What, then?” As he saw her expression clearly, he understood. Her fear, her humiliation no longer puzzled him. “Watches?"

Her hand went to his mouth to stop the word, though it was almost too quiet for her to hear. She nodded rapidly and turned her face away from him, wishing that the night would close over her like the sea. This was much worse than her earlier embarrassment. Sternly she tried to master herself as she had so many times before, but even as she fought herself, she felt tears on her face.

"Olivia?” He touched her cheek with one small, gentle hand. He hated now to think of what she had endured. He knew gladiators, whose pleasures were as brutal as their profession. For this woman to be subject to her husband's desires and the lust of men who killed each other for the amusement of Rome—it was obscene. How had she found the courage to resist for so long? “Olivia."

At that she turned to him, and saw the compelling tenderness in his dark eyes. She had long since despaired of finding such solace and compassion, and her terror, her sense of degradation and shame, almost shattered her. She pushed at him, squirmed under his weight as he held her, choked back sobs. The fright she had had for him before was only for his strangeness and the violence she felt lay coiled within him. Now she was nearly crushed by his understanding. Beatings, abuse, she knew she could survive as she had in the past. But if she once experienced concern for herself, and pity, it would be devastating to have to return to what she had known at the hands of others.

He held her until she knew it was useless to fight. Then he bent his head close to her ear. “Let him watch,” he murmured. This time his kiss was leisurely and thorough. His lips lingered on hers as he drew her close to him.

"No. I can't,” she breathed. “Don't."

"Yes.” He kissed her eyelids, which were wet, the line of her brow, her ear. “Yes, Olivia.” He was gently persistent, never forcing his way. He let her lie in the circle of his arms, protected, unmoving. He traced the line of her vertebrae. Her skin was soft and fragrant under his fingers. He could sense her weariness, and beneath that, her long-denied yearning. “Rest, Olivia."

She made a last, halfhearted struggle to break away from him, but sighed and was still. She did not want to resist. She wanted to lie here forever. If she had to resign herself to her husband's demands, she would take what little succor she could find. The silk of Saint-Germain's robe was pleasant to her skin, his small hands touched her surely, holding her, exploring her. His caress was like his kisses, lingering and kind. Her arms went around him before she realized she wanted to hold him, and she turned her head to meet his mouth with hers.

Knowledge and acceptance flickered between them, as if each had opened the soul to the other. Neither had anticipated the moment, and both were shaken. It had been centuries since Saint-Germain had experienced such intense intimacy. It was not Olivia's pleasure that gave him his satisfaction, that called to him so persuasively, but Olivia herself. This alarmed him, for it made him more vulnerable than he had ever been. He stopped stroking the line of her hip to look at her.

Now her eyes met his without trouble. “What?” she asked as she touched his mouth with one finger. She liked his face, she decided. She liked the large, dark, arresting eyes, the wide forehead and fine brows, the high, sculptured cheekbones and the classic nose that was not quite straight, the ironic mouth, the well-defined jaw. It was a good face, she decided, a friend's face.

He waited while she studied him, feeling his reserve giving way to her. From the depth of his being he wanted to confide in her, and because he could not bear the thought of her repugnance, he kept silent about that, only saying, “Let me love you."

Olivia could not speak to answer. She guided his small hands to her body, suddenly weak with desire. As he touched her with ever-increasing ardor, she felt her body waken to him, made pliant by his caresses.

It was a joy to see her discover passion at last, Saint-Germain reflected as Olivia began to breathe more deeply. His satisfaction as she achieved her consummation was almost as complete as her own. She lay back, her face flushed, her mouth open, every line of her body replete with gratification. She would not deny him his own need.

Something of this seemed to communicate itself to her. “But you? You haven't..."

"No. I am not like that.” He stroked her thigh, feeling her quiver. “But I don't want to give you pain."

She looked at him, her expression serene. “You cannot do worse than has been done to me already.” What did her husband think of this?” she wondered, mildly shocked that she had so completely forgotten he was watching.

Her words stung him. “It's not my intention to be someone else you endure.” His newly roused sensitivity was quite delicate, not entirely welcome.

Olivia blinked, surprised by his reaction. “I didn't mean...” Some of her delight faded, blighted by the tone of his voice.

He determined to recapture their intimacy. “I know. Olivia, listen a moment. I don't want to hurt you, but what I want may...upset you. I would rather not indulge myself if it would give you a disgust of me.” It would always be possible to call Tishtry to his bed, but the thought seemed strangely empty.

Her face softened, and she held out her arms to him. “Whatever it is you want, I am willing."

This time he inflamed her more quickly, and at the height of her fulfillment, he bent his head to her throat.

He left her more than an hour later. She had followed him to the door of her chamber, her hand in his. “I won't forget you,” she had whispered.

"I won't give you the chance to do that.” His dark eyes smiled down at her.

She shook her head in sudden despair. “My husband won't allow it.” As it was, she was already anticipating his anger, and his vengeance. The very thought of the Tingitanian stablehand revolted her.

"What is it, Olivia?” He had seen the disgust in her face, and his concern made him anxious for her.

"Nothing. My husband...” What could she tell this foreign man now? She leaned her head against his chest.

"Your husband has no right to use you as he does.” It had been a useless thing to say. He had begun to hate Cornelius Justus Silius.

Olivia had nodded. “He doesn't like...pleasure. He isn't stimulated by it.” How she had wanted to weep, but she was too proud for tears. “He will try to keep you away."

"He won't succeed. I promise you that, Olivia.” He had kissed her then, one last time, his arms enfolding her, holding her close to him.