Blood Games (15 page)

"Yes.” It had been shortly after he came to Rome, when Petronius had brought him a copy of a book of verses he had just written. They were not like his other work, which was facile and cynical. These verses were deeply personal, as compelling as some of the poems of Catullus and the Greek Sappho. Saint-Germain had been moved, both by the poems and by the gesture of confidence. In one of his private rooms he had made the cup for Petronius. “I read the poems occasionally. They're quite remarkable."

"So I tell myself,” he said sardonically. He had put the cup on his desk, where it caught the lamplight. “Nero covets this, you know. He almost commanded me to give it to him."

Saint-Germain nodded. “Did you tell him who made it?"

"No. He would have insisted you make them for him, as well, and that would have made this one seem...cheapened. I trust you understand.” He stared down at the cup. “It's exquisite. It's wholly unique, and I have wanted to keep it that way."

"I'm highly complimented.” He said it honestly, and knew that Petronius understood.

"Then I trust you'll forgive the use I make of it?” From a little box on the desk he took a small glass bottle that was heavily stoppered and filled with a thick, dark fluid. He opened the bottle carefully and poured out the contents into the chalcedony cup. To this he added wine from an old Greek amphora that he took from his red-and-gilt chest. As he swirled the mixture in the cup, he said rather slowly, “There was a time, you know, when Nero would have refused to give this order. He wouldn't have been capable of it. Not for love of me"—here he gave one mirthless bark of laughter—"but for dislike of killing. It wasn't that long ago."

"You were expecting banishment, then,” Saint-Germain said to fill the silence that followed.

"It seemed likely.” Satisfied with the contents of the cup, he set it down on his desk. “He's banished people before, quite irresponsibly. Banishment is so convenient. Killing, this official killing, is new.” He ran one hand through his soft brown hair. “He had his mother killed, of course, but that was different. You didn't know Agrippina. I think I might have strangled her myself."

"Why aren't you being banished?” It was a question that had been bothering Saint-Germain since he had learned of the soldiers’ arrival that afternoon. “Falling from favor is hardly crime enough to die for."

"That isn't the accusation, oh, no,” Petronius said bitterly. “Tigellinus isn't so careless. His spies have claimed to have discovered the amazing extent of my involvement with the Pisoan conspiracy, and my intent to be part of another one. Certainly I'm far too dangerous a man to be kept alive. The proof they've concocted is, I understand, most convincing. With such evidence, I stand utterly condemned. That was one of the reasons I had you break my seal. They might use it for...anything. I can't allow that. No one should have to suffer because of me. Though many will."

Saint-Germain said nothing. He looked around the pleasant room with its tasteful furniture and appointments, and the unfinished pages that lay on the desk, an old metal figure of a dancing grotesque weighting them down. “The little statue..."

"This?” Petronius held up the small figure.

"Yes. It's Etruscan, isn't it?” He liked it, that strange squat little figure that bent as if twirling, an archaic smirk on its outsized lips.

"I believe so. When the Stormwind Legion was camped on the Padus for a month several years ago, one of the centurions found this and I bought it from him the year after. A very elegant bit of art, don't you think?"

"Certainly.” He took the dancer from Petronius and held it in his hand. It most surely was Etruscan, from five or six hundred years before, not long after the Etruscans had settled in Italy.

"If you like it so much,” Petronius said, cutting into Saint-Germain's contemplation of the statue, “take it with you. There is little enough I can do to thank you."

Saint-Germain held his hand so that the dancer seemed to spin on his palm.

"You love art; you collect it. Keep that to remember me.” He gestured in a way that included the whole villa. “Nero's apt to seize all this. It's his right, and he's wanted it for years, and he can claim it now without impediment."

There was a knock at the door, and both Petronius and Saint-Germain were startled.

"It's Myrtale and our children,” Petronius said, as if to reassure himself. “Enter!"

Myrtale was subtly and magnificently dressed, her stola of costly luminous green fabric from Hind. Her institia indicated her rank and honors, and over this, a palla of almost invisible linen from Cos was fastened with a fibula of intricately worked gold. Her steady eyes were tranquil as they rested on her husband.

The children were another matter. The older, a girl of about nine, was doing her best to emulate her mother, but she was pale and graceless, looking about her in quick, darting glances. She had been dressed in her finest clothes, which made her even more apprehensive. When Petronius held his hand out to her, she clung to it with both of hers. Her younger brother stood by the door, his small arms folded belligerently over his chest. His silk tunica was askew and its belt almost undone. There were tears in his eyes. When his father gestured to him, he turned away, sobbing.

Without relinquishing his daughter's hands, Petronius crossed the room. “Marcellus,” he said as he turned the six-year-old toward him. “It won't last long. It will be over, and you won't have to be frightened. The soldiers won't take you, or Fausta, or your mother or me. We're going to trick them.” He stopped; a moment later he had cleared his throat and was able to speak again. “I have something for you to drink. It will make you very sleepy, so you'll have to go to your room and lie down for...a while.” He felt Fausta's hands tighten on his and he pulled her closer to him. “Six isn't very old to be grown up, Marcellus, but I want you to do the best you can."

Marcellus turned, crying in earnest, and buried his face against his father's waist. Fausta was determined to do better than her brother, but tears slid down her face, and her lower lip trembled.

At that, Saint-Germain wished fervently he could leave. This was too private for an interloper to see. He turned away as Petronius embraced his family, and put his attention on the little Etruscan statue.

It was Myrtale who broke away first, her face still serene, though her eyes were wet. When she spoke, her voice was slightly thickened, but there was no fear in her. “Where is the drink, my husband? It's useless to delay any longer."

Petronius felt as if a hot fist had closed deep inside him. Numbly he turned toward the desk. “I have it here,” he said in a voice that could not possibly have been his own. He took up the chalcedony cup. “A little for each of you."

Myrtale took the cup. “Is it unpleasant?"

"The taste?” Petronius asked, pretending not to understand her. “A little bitter, I'm told, but not undrinkable."

"Petronius,” she said solemnly. “Answer my question."

His jaw felt suddenly tight. “I am told that it is not painful. I specified that. You've had pain enough from me without...” He watched as she raised the cup to her lips and drank. There were so many things he had wanted to say to her, and would never have the chance to, now. “Myrtale, we are not the same. You've never been as restless as I am. But I have always valued you, and I regret that my folly has brought you to...this.” It was not what he wanted to tell her, but she seemed to understand. She gave him the cup and leaned against him, kissing his cheek.

"It's not important, my husband. Soon or late, death comes for us all. I rejoice that you did not abandon us to the whims of the Emperor."

"Did you think I would ever do that?” Petronius demanded, his face hardening. Her condemnation now filled him with grief.

"No, I did not think that.” She looked down at their children. “Come, Fausta, Marcellus, taste the wine your father has prepared for you."

The boy took the cup first and drank quickly. “It's sour,” he said as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"That isn't important,” Myrtale said gently. “It is good wine.” She put her hand on her son's shoulder. “I will take you to your room shortly, and if you like, we will talk awhile, until you are sleepy."

Fausta had taken the cup and looked down into it. “There's not much left, Father."

Petronius touched her fair hair that was just starting to darken. “Don't worry. I'll take care of myself later. You drink that now.” He was very calm now, and looking at his family, he felt a distance opening between them that would never again be bridged by their closeness. “I have loved you all,” he said as he touched each of them in turn, taking the chalcedony cup from Fausta at last. He dropped on one knee and embraced his son and daughter. By the time his veins were empty, they would be still and cold. There was no going back. He wanted to ask them to understand one day, and realized that was foolish. There would be no more days for understanding. He rose slowly and kissed his wife. Their lips met without passion, their bodies touched without need. Now they were comrades, and Petronius realized that was what they had always been.

"I will leave you, my husband. You have a great deal to do, still, and our remaining can serve no purpose.” She gave him a brief courageous smile, then held out her hands to their children. “Come, Fausta, Marcellus. We will walk in the garden and I will tell you a story until it's time to lie down.” She went out of the door without looking at her husband again.

When the door closed behind them, Petronius put his hand to his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he mastered himself and picked up the cup. “Saint-Germain,” he said as he looked at the cup. “Forgive me for this.” In the next instant he had raised his arm and hurled the cup to the floor where it fragmented.

Saint-Germain remained seated, unmoving, while Petronius made one last inspection of his red-and-gilt chest. His heart ached for this man, but he could say nothing. Petronius wanted his reserve, not his affection and friendship, and though Saint-Germain had been content to stay aloof for centuries, it was now one of the most difficult tasks he had ever set himself.

"My wife and children will die tonight,” Petronius said quite conversationally as he went to the door again. Already the event was unreal, as if it were something that had happened long ago, to someone else. “That will spare them much.” He clapped his hands, and when his houseman appeared, said, “Send Xenophon to me."

Sanct’ German had risen from the couch. “Do you still need me? If you want me to sing tonight, I must tune the harp.” This was true enough, but it was something he could do quickly. When he had changed, so long ago, he had ceased, among other things, to be able to weep. For him, all pain, all anguish, was inward, and there was no release in tears.

"Not quite yet, Saint-Germain. There is one more thing, and then I'll release you.” He managed a sardonic smile. “There was a time not so long ago when Senators and generals came to me to ask favors. You would think that one of them might remember that and intercede, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps they, too, are suspect,” Saint-Germain suggested without conviction.

"I'm not a fool, Saint-Germain, and neither are you. I am like a leper whom no one dares to touch for fear of infection. It is unfair of me to demand so much of you, but it must be done.” He sank onto his chair again. “In another month, the garden will be in full flower. I'm sorry to have to miss it."

"Yes.” Saint-Germain picked up the dancing figure. “I will keep this, Petronius. I will keep it in an honored place."

Petronius was no longer interested. “As you like."

There was a discreet tap at the door. “It is Xenophon, master,” said the old voice in a strong Greek accent.

Petronius did not turn. “Enter, Xenophon."

The old slave carried a small wooden box, a basin and long strips of linen. He walked to Petronius’ side and stood quite still. “I will do as you wish, my master."

There was a moment's hesitation; then Petronius turned in his chair and held out his arms. “Do it, then, and be quick. Make the bindings tight. I want to enjoy myself."

Saint-Germain watched as the old Greek physician set the box and basin on the desk and lay the bandages beside them.

"It's an honored tradition,” Petronius said as Xenophon selected a long, thin knife. “Women are fond of doing this in the bath, so that the blood isn't so noticeable.” He winced and his jaw tightened as Xenophon's knife slipped under the tendons of his left wrist. When the knife was withdrawn, blood spurted out. Petronius waited impassively as the wide linen bandages were wrapped over the wound. The pain moved up his arm, aching, giving him a curious weakness, which he accepted for the moment. He could resist it later. “I'm told two of my ancestors died this way. And for similar reasons.” Again the little knife moved, this time in his right wrist, and the blood rushed and spattered on the floor, still hot. Petronius shivered as Xenophon wrapped the wrist. “How long, do you think?"

"If you keep the bandages on, most of the night, perhaps. If you loosen the knots, it will be faster. Remove the bandages and it will be fairly fast.” The Greek's face revealed little, but his eyes were large and mournful. He dropped the knife into the basin. “One of the slaves will clean the floor."

"Don't bother,” Petronius said as he got unsteadily to his feet. He felt active now that the first pain was past, strangely elevated and clear-minded. With one hand he steadied himself; then he extended his arm to Saint-Germain. “I needn't keep you any longer. You've been kind, and for that I am grateful. I won't have the opportunity later to thank you for all you've done.” As Saint-Germain held out his hand to clasp Petronius’ arm above the bandages, Petronius gave him a swift embrace. “My approbation isn't worth much anymore, but you have it, nonetheless."

Saint-Germain still held one of his host's arms. “It means a great deal to me. I won't mock that gift.” He could feel Petronius slip away from him on the first tug of that dark tide that would claim him before morning. There was nothing left to say now but the meaningless phrases that he could not bring himself to utter.