Blood Games (21 page)

In his study, Justus sat back to read. He had chosen a book of tales of the Greek gods, and as he read, he imagined the gladiator as Hercules, and Olivia as Iole, and the time passed quickly.

A LETTER FROM C. OFONIUS TIGELLINUS, WITH NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS, CO-COMMANDER OF THE PAETORIAN GUARD, TO THE ROMAN GARRISON AT ATHENS.

Greetings to the soldiers and citizens of Rome who are stationed in Athens, from Ofonius Tigellinus and the Praetorian Guard:

The Emperor Nero has decided to honor Greece with a visit at a time when he may compete in the great Olympian Games, as a show of his affection and respect for that great and antique nation. It will be your rare privilege to guard your Emperor while he is in attendance there, and to see that all things progress without undue complications.

It is rare that the Emperor of all Rome should be moved to give such a great tribute to a client nation, but Nero has been known for his remarkable statesmanship, as is demonstrated with his great reception of the king of Armenia and the peace terms recently concluded with Parthia. This latest gesture of imperial magnanimity clearly indicates his commitment to stability and prosperity throughout the empire.

In such a climate of international trust and goodwill, your work should be most pleasant. You need only escort Nero to the Games, be with him while he is there, and then return to your various posts when he has departed. Though the legions are known to love war, this is a time when peace will give you more opportunity for advancement than the bloodiest conflict, for Nero has expressed his desire to acknowledge all meritorious service done for him while in Greece. You may be assured that your accomplishments on his behalf will shine as brightly at the Olympic Games as they would shine in the glow of victory.

You may have qualms about this Emperor, who puts more worth on culture than on military strength, and I can assure you that there are sensible men in Rome who share your concerns and who are close to Nero, advising him on these and other delicate matters. Your opinions will be heard if you wish to address me or any of my associates. Truly Nero is a man of many accomplishments and is sincerely dedicated to the good of the empire, but it is true his experience is limited and there are those with more understanding of the nature of battle and the conflict of nations, who are eager to protect and expand the limits of our empire.

Let none of you doubt that these Games serve the cause of Rome. I have heard soldiers here muttering against what they consider to be a senseless indulgence and display, but we must admit that Nero has proven more shrewd than expected in the past. Those misguided men who sought to overthrow him quickly discovered they had underestimated his understanding and the devotion of the men near to him. While I, with you, could wish for a more militant posture from Nero in certain matters, I will not condemn his efforts and his gestures of rare diplomatic grace toward our client nations.

This is sent so that you will have time to prepare for the arrival of Nero and those of his court who will accompany him. It is August now, and his departure is planned for early September. You have time to make ready to do honor to your Emperor. Use the time well and you will find ample rewards for your efforts.

By my own hand on this, the nineteenth day of August, in the 818th Year of the City.

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TISHTRY PULLED in her chariot beside the long-legged blue roan her master rode. There was dust everywhere in the orchards; and the practice track that wound through them, around the lake and behind the vineyards was clouded from the passage of chariots during the morning.

"How are they?” Saint-Germain inquired, though his practiced eye told him that the bay mare on the right was flagging. “I think you've got the yoke too tight."

"Yes.” Tishtry sighed. “I have been working them for over a week now, and they still aren't ready. Canvo there"—she nodded toward the horse on the right, the only one not yoked with the other three—"he holds his own on the inner turns, of course, but I can't get him to get speed enough when he's on the outside. It's habit. In the Circus Maximus, he always turns on the inside, so he's used to holding the pivot. I wish there were a way to explain it to him."

As if in disapproval of this, Canvo tugged at his rein and sidled away from the other three yoked horses. Tishtry reached for the reins tied around her waist and pulled him back. “You see how it is?” she said to Saint-Germain. “He's been like that for more than a month, ever since I took that toss in Nero's Circus in May. I think he was confused, an empty arena without a spina to guide him down the center."

"Would you rather not participate there again? I can refuse you to anyone who requests.” He leaned forward in the padded, stirrupless Roman saddle. “Is all well with you, Tishtry?"

"Well?” she repeated, her strong, angular, sun-bronzed face revealing little. “I suppose so. My horses are learning, I am getting money of my own, I have learned a great deal.” As she spoke she steadied her horses.

"Is that all?” He had felt himself withdraw from her before now, but had not been certain she was aware of how much he had changed. Looking down at her with the hot, diamond-bright sun hiding nothing, he realized he had not understood how sensitive she had become to him.

"It's enough.” She could feel his concern, as intense as the heat. “I have liked sharing my master's bed, but you want more now. Wrongly or not, I don't have what you need. This"—she touched the reins that were tied around her waist—"is my life. The other, well, it is pleasant enough, but not what you've demanded of me. I can't do it, my master. When you took me to your bed the first time and were willing to be honest with me, I told you my feelings. They haven't changed. If you want to send me away from you, it's your right.” She shaded her eyes with one hand in the hope that she could read his expression, but the sun was behind him and her eyes were dazzled.

"I've always appreciated your frankness,” he said, feeling a sensation that bothered him. He was pleased not to have to make a choice between Tishtry and Olivia, since such choices were foreign to him. Yet he was sorry that in the four years he had shared the night with Tishtry, none of those delightful, sensual contests had moved her sufficiently to feel a bond with him. He wondered now how she would feel when she woke from death into his life, and he worried for her.

"Will you send me away?” There was a little apprehension in her question. She liked Rome, reveled in her fame and was well-treated by her master.

"No. Should you wish another master, you must tell me.” He straightened in the saddle. “If I send for you tonight, will you come?” He had not seen Olivia for many days, and then they had had only a few moments to talk. Though his hunger for her was growing strong, he could not risk entering her house again so soon, while her husband still feared Persian spies.

"You are my master,” she said with a slight hitch to her shoulders.

"Would it displease you?"

She looked away from him, toward the orchard and the hill beyond. “You've never displeased me, my master, not as you mean. I think sometimes that I disappoint you, but you've never said so. If I do disappoint you, it is not what I want to do. We're so different, you and I, that I think we often misunderstand each other.” To change the subject, she looked at Saint-Germain's feet. “You wear Scythian charioteer's boots all the time, even when you ride. I wear proper sandals. You see."

Saint-Germain knew that their differences were otherwise. “Footgear isn't the problem,” he said sardonically. “I accept your terms, Tishtry. I won't impose too much on you. I thank you for being willing to share my bed, and for your honesty."

"And if I weren't willing?” she asked, watching him, thinking how like a shadow he was, standing between her and the sun. “You could order me."

"Yes, I could order you,” he said wearily. “It's a master's right. I wish you would believe that I would never order you.” He thought briefly, painfully, on those years he had been a slave, and though they were long ago, he recalled them clearly.

"You haven't yet,” she allowed. “My master, my horses are restless, and we have a long way to go to complete the course."

Saint-Germain pulled his blue roan back to give her chariot room to pass; then as the dust rose around her, he turned his horse and made his way down the slope toward his villa.

It had changed since he built it. Where there had been one large U-shaped stable, there were now three, and a heavily fenced animal compound beyond. The barracks and cottages for his slaves extended along the edge of his vineyards to the eastern limit of his land. The villa itself, with its double atrium, was completely finished, and the extensive garden between the atria was full of flourishing rare plants and large roof-high cages containing many strange, gorgeously plumed birds. Three intricate fountains cascaded in this garden, cooling the air and adding a delicate music to the hot afternoon. Two artificial streams flowed from those fountains through the stableyard, passed the slaves’ barracks and cottages and into a small, artificial lake in the animals’ compound where, at the moment, a pair of tigers were lolling to be rid of the heat.

Drawing up at his colonnaded portico, Saint-Germain slid out of his saddle and called for a slave to lead his horse around to the stables. “I will come later to feed him,” he added as the boy took the reins from his hand. “Be sure to put the saddle on its rack immediately. It could be ruined otherwise.” Padded saddles were still something of a novelty in Rome, and many of the older stablehands treated them with contempt. To avoid that, Saint-Germain had two Parthian slaves to care for his tack, but he had learned to be sure that orders were given for proper care.

The slave nodded, bowed slightly, and led the horse away.

Saint-Germain went swiftly through the garden and entered the larger wing of the house through one of a series of huge windows that opened onto his main dining room. There were nine couches there, the proper number, and the little tables before them were lacquered with fantastic designs. A long table on a dais at the end of the room was reserved for women, since at formal dinners women did not recline. Saint-Germain's eyes flicked over the room, looking for signs of poor preparation, but he could find none. His guests would be pleased, which was what he wanted.

As he left the dining room, Aumtehoutep approached him. “I've been looking for you, my master."

"And you have found me. What is it?” He crossed the mosaicinlaid atrium to his main reception chamber, Aumtehoutep falling into step beside him.

"There were two Praetorians here today, conducting what they called a routine inspection.” The Egyptian's expressionless face was unreadable to anyone but Saint-Germain.

"Why does that worry you?” he asked as he opened the gold-fitted doors of palest northern pine.

The reception room was the most splendid apartment in the larger wing of Villa Ragoczy. Its style was distinctly not Roman. Tall narrow windows let in light, so that the very air seemed to glisten. There were no murals on the high walls; they were painted a fine, pale blue, and the false columns that rose to the ceiling at regular intervals were silver. Instead of mosaics, there was a carpet on the floor, of colors to match the walls. This extravagance was unusual enough, and had taken Persian weavers a year to make, but more outstanding were the rosewood chairs with pale blue silk cushions, which had come the entire length of the Silk Road, from that fabulous land that was so rich the very skins of its people were golden.

"It worries me,” Aumtehoutep said carefully, “because it means someone wants you watched."

"Why do you say that?” He looked around the room carefully. “Do we have any white flowers? Have them arranged in the three silver-and-lapis bowls, and bring in the rosewood tables for them."

"Of course,” Aumtehoutep said, and scribbled a note on his tablet with his stylus. “I think there are some white blooms, still. I'll put one of the household slaves to work on it shortly. You said that you wanted your black cotton Egyptian robe tonight, the long kalasiris and the black shenti..."

"Yes. The silver girdle, I think, and my ruby-and-silver collar. No headdress, no earrings."

"Bracelets?” Aumtehoutep asked hopefully.

"Oh, I think not. I'll seem foreign enough without that. And,” he added with a slight smile, “since I'm on my own ground, as it were, I think I will go barefoot.” He tugged at his short-sleeved black tunica. “It will be good to wear something a little lighter than this.” At last he relented. “Very well, Aumtehoutep. About the Praetorians."

"They were polite, but I would not like to have denied them too much. They wanted to see the private wing, of course, but I told them I had no authority to admit anyone there. They accepted that, and by Thoth's Feather, it is so. All the barracks and stables and compounds were inspected.” He closed his fingers tightly around his stylus. “If you owned gladiators, it would have been bad for you today, I think."

"Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed. “That's one of the reasons I don't own any. Did the charioteers and bestiarii disappoint them?"

"One of them, indeed. With all the plots that have been afoot, and the conspiracies, it would be easier for them if they could find proof of a foreign plan to overthrow the whole empire. That would be more easily dealt with than a plot against Caesar.” His brown, impassive eyes rested on Saint-Germain's face. “There are those in Rome who wish you ill, my master. They will not rest until they have made you guilty and condemned."

Saint-Germain shrugged. “It's not the first time, Aumtehoutep. Is it?” He clenched his hands together. “You're right. I should make a few provisions against that day. Babylon taught me that, if nothing else.” He turned quickly on his booted heel. “Come to my library. We'll take care of this now."