Blood Games (22 page)

Aumtehoutep moved after him, holding his tablet ready and his stylus poised. If anyone else in Saint-Germain's household had seen the tablet, except for Saint-Germain himself, he would have been bewildered by what was written there, for Aumtehoutep wrote in the language of his youth, the elegant modified hieroglyphic script of Egypt's Eighteenth Dynasty.

"Have the oysters arrived?” Saint-Germain asked as they went through the garden.

"A barrel of them. They are in the cold room, packed in ice and wood shavings.” He knitted his brows. “The plovers’ eggs haven't been sent yet."

"Send one of the slaves to Scimindar in the Old Market. He'll have them. What about wine?"

"The best from your own estates in Gallia. The red is twenty years old. I had the master cook test one of them. He said it's excellent."

"Good. Serve it unwatered. Are the musicians ready, and the cupbearers?"

Beside them, a peacock in full display made a raucous sound as it minced toward a Chinese pheasant.

"They'll be ready in two hours. Are you still planning to give the cupbearers to the men they serve as gifts?” Aumtehoutep nodded to the tall lean African who guarded the garden entrance to the north wing of Villa Ragoczy.

"Certainly. They expect that kind of gesture of me.” He turned to close the door. The room they had entered was good-sized, of simple design and pleasing proportions. It would have been impossible to assign a style to it, for it was unique to its owner. The high walls were paneled in cedar that had been rubbed with wax until it glowed. The few articles of furniture were of the same wood, of simple and elegant lines. On the far wall there was a tall chest, and Saint-Germain went to it, opening it and drawing out two thin parchment sheets and a small jar of ink.

"What are you doing, my master?” Aumtehoutep asked, as Saint-Germain drew up a chair to his writing table.

"I'm taking precautions, as it seems I must.” He had taken a fine brush and was writing quickly in a small, neat hand. “You will find my slave deeds in my Assyrian chest in the library, should you need to present them. There are copies in Rome, but they may not be secure if I have too-powerful enemies.” He was silent as he wrote, filling all of one of the parchment sheets and half of the second. Finally he looked up. “There. I hope that this is enough."

"Enough?” Aumtehoutep did his best to keep the fear from his flat voice.

Saint-Germain looked down at the parchment. “This provides that should I be exiled, executed, imprisoned, arrested on capital charges, or disappear for more than sixty days without word to anyone, then every slave I own will be freed, without condition, and granted a plot of land on one of my estates. That won't help the household slaves much, or the bestiarii, but they will have something of value beyond their freedom. At least they need not starve.” He rose and placed a small amethyst carving on the parchment. “I will have two or three of my guests witness this tonight, and that should be sufficient. Corbulo will do it, I know. If two others sign as well, it will be enough for any court."

"Will it come to that?” Aumtehoutep asked, studying Saint-Germain's quiet face.

"I hope not. But it could.” He turned away from the writing table. “You, Kosrozd and Tishtry are provided for elsewhere, but this covers you as well, in case the state moves against me and my grants are invalidated. They are blood of my blood now. And you...how many years have you been with me, old friend?” He did not expect an answer, and got none. “In time, it will be so with Olivia.” For a moment his eyes were troubled. “She's in great danger, more than she knows. If her husband ever learned of her affection for me, he would use her much more brutally than he does now.” Without being aware of it, he had lapsed into his native tongue. “He's looking for an excuse now."

"She isn't safe to know,” Aumtehoutep said carefully.

Saint-Germain raised his brows. “Yet it was you who told me that I was becoming too remote, too untouchable. You see, I have taken your advice. Now you warn me of the very thing you urged. How can I deal with all your strictures?” He was teasing, an ironic note in his voice.

Aumtehoutep responded seriously. “I don't question your need for her. You are changed since you've known her, and it is good to have it so. She has awakened something in you—I have no words for it, my master. You are like one recovering from a long illness, who rediscovers the world, and life. Yet this caring has become a grave risk for you, for her, perhaps for all of us."

"Yes,” Saint-Germain said, cutting him short. “Though it may be that the risk is necessary. What good is this awakening, as you call it, if it demands nothing of me in return?” He himself had no answer for the question he posed. He had thought of it several times as he walked alone in the night, unrested and filled with desire. At such times he had refused to read, or study, for he wanted nothing to interfere with his reflections. Aumtehoutep was correct in saying that he was changed, and the change was increasing, like ripples in a pond. Olivia drew him with the force of a tide. Twice since their last night together he had ventured into Rome to Cornelius Justus Silius’ house on the Aventine Hill, but had not been able to gain entrance. He had seen Olivia a few times, but at a distance, and when he had tried to approach her, a tiny gesture on her part had kept him away.

"My master?” said Aumtehoutep.

Saint-Germain forced his mind away from Olivia. “Yes, you're right.” He started toward the door, saying, “We're having ducks cooked in honey, aren't we? Is the cook planning to serve those before or after the dates and chopped mushrooms?"

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS TO SERVIUS SULPICIUS GALBA IN TOLETUM, DELIVERED EVENTUALLY IN TARRACO.

To the revered and distinguished S. Sulpicius Galba, greetings:

In this unfortunate empire, filled with suspicions and hatred, there are few who command the respect that is given you, and fewer still who begrudge it to you. I say this, who have seen my wife's family suffer the full weight and fury of the law for their folly in allying themselves with hopeless causes and inadequate leaders. Certainly you have heard that Maximus Tarquinus Clemens has been convicted of conspiracy to overthrow the Emperor. His sons, Pontius Virginius, Fortunatus Drusillus, Cassius Saultus and Martinus Licius, are all condemned with him, and my attempts to assist them have been to no avail. They have claimed that only two were involved in any plotting and that the others are blameless, and one must admire their heroism, if not their sense. They insist that their cause was betrayed, and it is with grief that I hear them speak so. Who would have thought that so valiant men would rely on that ancient excuse for their lamentable failures?

Word has reached me that your legions want to hail you as Emperor and displace Nero. With the Emperor prepared at last to embark to Greece, some say that this would be a fine opportunity to march on Rome, providing Nero does not delay again. Surely a man as wise as you, one who has grown nobly old in the service of Rome, must realize that such an act would be disastrous to his hopes, for Rome is readied for just such an attempt. Think on your many years of service to the empire, and bide your time. Should Nero prove intolerable, then the Senate must listen to wisdom, and where better to seek it than from one with your experience. Do not let the zeal of your men lead you into unwise decisions. There is time yet to hope for reform, and more than that, many still have hopes for Nero, who, for all his extravagance, has been an Emperor of peace with an astute grasp on many of our needs. Those needs may well be the key to his rule.

Be patient, and watch to see the changes in the Emperor, so that you may not be led into unwise alliances or precipitate endeavors. Reflect that greater houses than yours have fallen on fewer suspicions than are now directed toward you. The ruin of my wife's family has taught me a great deal. Profit by my experience.

Should your plans change, I hope you will let me know of them so that proper steps may be taken. I am ever eager to advance the cause of the Roman Empire, as are you.

From my own hand, on the twenty-fourth day of October in the 818th Year of the City,

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FROM HIS vantage point near the Gates of Life, Saint-Germain watched the Circus Maximus fill with more than seventy-five thousand Romans. As much of the populace of the city as might cram themselves into the public stands had turned out for Nero's last Games before he left for Greece.

The great tarred ships’ beams were in place so that the arena could be flooded for an aquatic entertainment. Slaves were already stationed at the sluices, ready to let in the torrent that would flood the floor of the amphitheater to a depth almost twice the height of a man.

"They didn't used to do this,” remarked the old, freed gladiator who stood beside Saint-Germain. “The spina was lower, too, and the metae were standing on it, to keep chariots from running onto it when they turned too tightly. Now they have to have the metae on the ground and the spina is almost as tall as they are. They've raised the stands, of course. Well, they had to after that leopard climbed into that old Senator's box and mauled him and his slave.” He rubbed at his neck. “Hot day."

"Yes,” Saint-Germain said.

"That bestiaria of yours going to be here today? I saw her last time she was in the arena. It's a pity she doesn't know how to fight. A woman like that, with a sword and those horses...” He ducked his head in respect. “Fine woman, your Armenian."

"Thank you,” Saint-Germain responded. “I will tell her you said so."

The old gladiator snorted. “Why, she wouldn't know Tsoudes from a savage. It's good of you to offer."

A shout went up from the various managers of the Games, and the slaves waiting at the sluices bent to turn the stiff brass handles. There was a throaty rumble under the susurrus of the crowd as the water began to rush into the arena.

"Where's the court?” Tsoudes muttered. “You can't tell me a showman like Nero'd let the Games begin without him.” The old gladiator folded his thick arms across his massive scarred chest. “Sometimes I think the only thing they care about now is the spectacle. Not so long ago, it took skill to fight in the arena. We had pride, all the fighters, because we were the best-trained warriors in the empire, and that includes the legions. Now"—he tossed his head scornfully—"it's blood they're after and blood they get. Last month, those Greek hoplites were in the arena. I tell you, they are soldiers, those men. It was a joy to watch them. But the crowd hated them. There wasn't enough blood on the sands for them. The hoplites fight too efficiently and too well."

"Did you fight when the spina was lower?” Saint-Germain asked, eager to turn the conversation.

"By Mithras’ Bull!” A low, rumbling laugh shook him. “That was done before my grandfather was made a slave; Divus Julius or Divus Augustus did it."

"Nero has talked about adding more stands. There were two people killed in the rush to get seats this morning, and so long as part of the stands are being rebuilt, they might as well be made higher.” Saint-Germain looked up into the packed stands and toward the multicolored awning of fine-spun wool.

Tsoudes followed his glance. “I was here the day that Caligula had the awning removed and the exits blocked. He wanted to punish the people for laughing at one of his displays. It was very effective, really. The sun and the heat were terrible. A handful of them died of the sun."

Through the thick tar-coated logs came the scent of roses. The water filling the arena had been perfumed. Saint-Germain recalled Petronius and his aversion to roses, and was saddened.

"Yes,” Tsoudes went on, delighted to have so distinguished an audience for his ramblings, “it was dangerous being a gladiator for old Gaius Caligula. Never knew where you stood with him. I remember watching him in the parades, very tall and gangly, forever looking about. And Claudius...well, I never liked Claudius. There were unpleasant rumors about him, and there was something in his eye. See this scar?” He pointed to a jagged white line that ran from his collarbone to the top of his hip. “That happened under Claudius’ podium. I killed my opponent, straight and fair, but it wasn't enough for Claudius. He ordered one of the others to kill me. Screamed at him, telling someone I had not fought with to kill me. If it hadn't been for the crowd, I'd have gone out through the Gates of Death that day."

Saint-Germain, who had seen Claudius once, in Britannia, held his peace, though he agreed with Tsoudes.

"Two of the fighters I trained will appear today,” Tsoudes went on. “I had less than a year with each of them. They're nowhere near ready for a combat, but that's the way of things now.” He hooked his thumbs into the wide leather belt pulled tight across his hips. “There isn't the pride there used to be. No one cares for skill and training. It used to be there was honor in the arena, but now, it's disgusting the way—"

His words were lost in the sudden blare of trumpets and the drone of the hydraulic organ on the spina. From the awning lines high above the crowd, beautiful young boys with gilt wings tied to their shoulders were lowered to hang like cherubs over the heads of the people. They had been given roses and gold to toss to the crowd, and various gifts from the Emperor, among them deeds for land, large estates, a brace of wild boars, fine jewels, a fully manned bireme, a charioteer, half a dozen ostriches, bolts of silken cloth, an invitation to dine with the Emperor on his pleasure barge, a man-eating tiger, an Egyptian mummy, and other equally whimsical expressions of the Emperor's favor, all of which would be signed over to the new owners at the end of the Games.

Just as the crowd had grasped at the last of this largess, the boys were once again drawn up to the awning and the trumpets pealed out their fanfare announcing the arrival of the Emperor. There were rustlings and murmurs as the people looked toward the podium. It, and many of the nobility's boxes, stood empty. The noise of the crowd grew louder and the trumpets were almost overwhelmed by the din.