Blood Games (23 page)

Then, at the far end of the Circus Maximus, three huge doors that rose above the logs at waterline lifted, and six fine barges, each drawn by fifty beautiful youths trained to swim in precise coordination together, surged onto the perfumed water.

In the foremost of these barges was Nero himself, resplendent in silver-and-blue cloth, with a fanciful wreath of seashells in his dark blond hair. Around him were part of his court, and most of the nobility followed on the other barges. The last barge was ornamented with flowers and gauze to resemble a seashell borne on the waves, and in it rode the Vestal Virgins, stiff with disapproval.

This amazing procession circled the spina twice as the crowd voiced its approval. At last the barges drew up before the various boxes of their passengers, and from the marble stands, gold-painted steps were lowered by slaves dressed as fauns, and the nobles climbed out of the barges into their boxes to the wild acclaim of the people crowded together in the stands.

As Nero took his seat in the imperial box, the fanfare came to a glorious climax and the nearly hysterical Aves began. Nero stood with arms raised, his usually discontented expression changed to one of genuine delight. Then he gave a sign and turned to take his seat.

The youths, still swimming with fine precision, were tugging their barges toward the far side of the arena where two doors waited, open.

A cry went up from more than seventy-five thousand voices, and the swimmers broke their rhythm, wondering what had occasioned the sound that rang around them, as vast as the sound of ocean waves. The leader trod water long enough to shout a few terse orders, and once again the barges moved forward through the water.

But now there were other shapes in the water with them, long, dark lizardlike shapes that moved with deadly swiftness toward the barges. These were the great crocodiles from the Nile, some of them three and four times as long as the height of a tall man. Every motion of the reptiles was filled with purpose as they sped forward.

The swimmers knew now that something was terribly wrong, and they faltered in their smooth strokes, looking around, looking above for archers, or for more boats that might be filled with armed men. Finally one of the swimmers looked down into the water, and shrieked out his terror.

The confusion among the swimmers was brief. The first of the crocodiles struck, jaws gaping, and closed on the lead swimmer, dragging him underwater before he could scream.

In the stands, the expectant silence that had fallen a few moments before now erupted in excited yells. From the highest tiers to the finest senatorial boxes, the spectators leaned forward with avidity as the water began to churn with thrashing bodies and hungry crocodiles. One of the swimmers was caught between two of the huge beasts: one crocodile seized the swimmer's shoulder, the other took both legs in his hideous jaws, and then each crocodile turned over in opposite directions, twisting the young man apart with appalling ease.

Saint-Germain turned away from his stand by the Gates of Life, sickened.

"Ah, you foreigners,” Tsoudes said with a sympathetic wag of his head. “You're not like Romans. The sight of blood strengthens a man.” He peered toward the arena again, where only two swimmers were in sight, and one of them was fighting hopelessly with the crocodile who had his arm in his teeth. “I don't like this sort of thing myself,” he added inconsistently. “There's no point to it."

"What is next, after this?” Saint-Germain asked, looking toward the cages that were being drawn up near them.

"A venation for the crocodiles from rafts, naturally, and then a series of combats between blinded soldiers. That always pleases the crowd.” He nodded as if remembering an engagement. “I should look their gear over. Sometimes, to be amusing, they're given defective weapons.” Tsoudes got down from his position with uncharacteristic haste. “I believe your Armenian races after that. She's doing that alone, isn't she?"

"Yes. The Emperor has requested a repetition of the performance she gave for the visit of the king of Armenia.” He was concerned, for Tishtry had one new horse in her team, and she was not convinced that he was ready to work in the arena, with all the noise and the huge press of bodies in the stands.

"A great honor for her,” Tsoudes said, and lumbered away.

There was a last great scream from the stands, and then Saint-Germain watched as new rafts maneuvered out of the narrow gates, floating over the water, smelling now of blood and ordure instead of roses. On the rafts rode tall Nubian slaves, each with two long, deep-pointed spears held at the ready.

Another flurry of activity near him caught Saint-Germain's attention, and he gratefully left the watch station by the Gates of Life.

He had just stepped into the twilight world of caverns and passages under the stands when a voice behind him stopped him.

"Franciscus!” Necredes spat out the name like a curse.

Saint-Germain stopped, but did not turn. “What do you want, Necredes?"

"I want to warn you, foreigner, that I haven't forgotten the shame you brought upon me. The time will come when you'll wish you had never made me your enemy.” The Master of the Bestiarii strode up to Saint-Germain. “I saw you watching the crocodiles. You don't like them, do you?"

"I don't like slaughter, Necredes. I don't like waste of life.” His face was set as he forced himself to respond coldly to the man who confronted him.

Necredes glared into Saint-Germain's dark eyes. “One day I will have my vengeance, Franciscus. I'm willing to wait for it."

"I trust you won't mind being disappointed?” Saint-Germain asked quietly. “I have to see to my slave who performs today."

"Yes!” Necredes declared. “The disobedient woman, who is the favorite of Nero now. Make your conquest of him complete, and send her to his bed. They say he's come to like barbarians.” With a smug glow in his eyes, he waited for Saint-Germain to challenge him.

"I don't fight with slaves and freedmen,” Saint-Germain said. “You are not worth my notice or my contempt. If you take any action against me or my slaves, now or in the future, I will see you in the arena, the way those swimmers were.” He shouldered past Necredes and started down the nearest passageway.

"If I don't see you there first!” Necredes shouted after him.

By the time he found Tishtry, Saint-Germain had decided to say nothing to her about his encounter with Necredes. He had told her before to avoid the Master of the Bestiarii, and now, with this difficult performance facing her, he had no wish to add to her worries.

"I still don't know about Shinzu,” she said as she patted her new horse in the hitch. “I wish Immit hadn't gone lame. Well, I'll do all my somersaults on the straight parts and keep to the standing bits on the turns. He can hold through that, I'm certain.” She was gaudily decked out, with many copper bracelets on her arms and her most startlingly woven Armenian fringed tunic belted twice around her.

"Don't take any chances, Tishtry. And don't try that handstand if you have any question whatever about the new horse.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I'll take responsibility for that. I'll tell the Emperor that you are acting under my orders, and I'll have a good reason for it.” His degree of concern for her surprised him—it went beyond their shared satisfaction to an abiding affection. He knew that his growing ardor for Olivia had brought an unexpected fondness for Tishtry in its wake, and this disturbed him.

"I don't want to disappoint the Emperor,” she said rather sharply. “He wants to see everything I performed for Tiridates, and I will do all of it.” She flicked the short switch that was attached by a thong to her wrist. “I've gone over all the equipment twice, so I know that won't fail."

"Are the leathers new?” Saint-Germain asked as he glanced quickly at the wide girths and collars that attached to the abbreviated racing yoke.

"Fairly. I've been aging these a few months so they won't chafe.” She put her hand on her lightweight racing chariot. “I'm going to need another chariot in a while. This one is getting old."

"How long have you had it?” Saint-Germain felt his concern flicker again as he looked at the wood-and-wicker vehicle.

"Not quite two years. Long enough.” She grinned up at him. “May I have scrollwork on the next one?"

Saint-Germain laughed. “If it doesn't alter the balance or weight, of course. Tell me what you want and I'll put the chariot-makers to work on it tomorrow."

"Oh, good.” Her eyes danced. “And paintings on the sides? I'd like pictures of horses racing through the clouds."

"Whatever you want,” he promised her as he ran one finger along her jaw. “Do well, Tishtry. Keep safe."

It was her turn to laugh. “You're kind to me, my master.” She gave him a roguish look, then climbed into the chariot and secured the reins around her waist. “I've got to take the team out and warm them up.” So that it would not sound as if she were dismissing him, she added, “I like that new tunica. It isn't Persian, is it?"

"I had it from a merchant from Hind. It has the virtue of being cool."

"If you want to be cool, why do you always wear black?” She expected no answer to this inquiry and got none. A flick of the wrist and her horses moved off smartly and Tishtry turned her whole attention to them.

When he had seen her enter the practice track beside the Circus Maximus, Saint-Germain sought the stairs that led to the stands and the marble-seated boxes of the nobility. He passed a squad of black dwarfs armed with throwing knives and spears, and beyond them, in narrow, foul-smelling cells, Jewish prisoners waited to be sent into the arena with wild beasts. One of the tunnels that ran under the arena to the spina opened onto the main passage a little farther on, and there a few custodial slaves gathered, two of them dressed in tunicae of cloth-of-gold with gilded laurel leaves in their hair. These, later in the day, would present various gifts and tributes to the victors in the Games, but now were attempting to get something to eat before they began the long, hot watch on the spina. Fifty paces farther on, a bestiarius struggled to bridle his unruly mount—a white rhinoceros.

At last Saint-Germain came to the stairs that led upward, and squinting upward into the subdued light, he entered the world of the spectators. The sound was constant, like swarms of bees but much louder, and occasionally punctuated with cries and oaths. In the marble boxes of the patricians, slaves were serving fruits and cooked meats to the high-ranking Romans while hawkers of various foodstuffs made their way through the stands above, calling their goods and prices. On the sands, in the full glare of sunlight, Gallic cavalry were slaughtering a small, determined squad of Daci bowmen.

Saint-Germain had rented a marble box of his own, and Aumtehoutep waited there for him, a somber figure in a white shenti and linen headdress. Saint-Germain raised his hand as he approached, and saw Aumtehoutep nod his acknowledgment when a very beautiful young slave with a collar of jewel-studded gold and dressed in a Greek chiton of sheerest Coan linen approached him.

"Nero Caesar would be happy to have a word with you,” the slave said, making what was clearly a command seem like a polite request.

"Now?” Saint-Germain asked, apprehension pricking along his spine.

"Certainly. He has sent me to escort you.” The beautiful young man beamed at him.

"Then, by all means, lead the way.” Almost everyone in the Circus Maximus knew where the imperial box was, but plainly, Nero wanted to be sure that Saint-Germain came quickly. “Will you send one of your companions to tell my slave why I am called away?” This was not an unreasonable request coming, as it did, at midday, when many had a light meal. Saint-Germain was willing to have Nero's slave assume that such was the case with him.

"It will be done as soon as you greet the Emperor. I will go myself.” With the same engaging smile, the young slave stepped into the mural-lined corridor that ran behind all the patrician boxes.

They walked briskly past slaves with food and wine who eyed the fare set out for their masters. Some of the nobility loitered here as well, searching with famished, jaded glances for that special beauty or ugliness that promised novelty. Finally they entered a heavily guarded corridor that ended in five steep steps. The slave stood aside and inclined his head to Saint-Germain.

Nero was licking the last of a fruit sauce from his fingers as Saint-Germain entered the imperial box. His pale, intelligent eyes were cold with fright in that instant before he recognized the newcomer; then he smiled and waved Saint-Germain to the chair on his right. “Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus,” he said with delight, as if his arrival were wholly unexpected. “The man with the very impressive name. Sacred freedom, isn't it?” He smiled at Saint-Germain and made an expansive gesture to the others in the imperial box.

"Actually, the meaning is closer to ‘one with the god's liberation,’ “ Saint-Germain answered smoothly as he looked at the others.

"Let me see,” Nero said. “You know Justus Silius, I believe, and Adamenedes, who is to be one of the judges of the Olympic Games. My wife you've met. Aeneas Savinian is a poet, newly come from Treviri. His companion is Placidus Reggianus. You know Sabinus of the Praetorians, and Viridius Fondi, his tribune. We're all waiting to see your wonderful Armenian charioteer demonstrate her skill. Tiridates was quite thrilled with her performance."

Saint-Germain nodded to each as they were introduced, taking care to conceal his disturbance. Why did Nero want him here? What did he want of Tishtry, or himself? In the past, Nero had forced his guests to make him lavish gifts during the Games in tribute to the Emperor's genius. Saint-Germain was certain he could not sign Tishtry away, so he waited while a place was made for him under the wide green awning.

"Did you see the Games last month?” Nero asked, interrupting himself to indicate the food that was spread on low tables. “Have what you want. The goose is particularly good, and so are the larks’ tongues."

"Thank you, but among my kind, dining in public is considered very rude conduct.” He was glad to be seated out of the sun, for even with his earth-lined boots, sitting in direct sunlight, which the imperial box was, would be severely uncomfortable in very little time.