Blood Games (24 page)

Nero's crowing laughter was dutifully echoed by the others in the box. “How quaint foreigners are,” he said as he wiped his kohl-lined eyes with the hem of his robe, leaving a black smudge on his cheek.

"About the Games,” Saint-Germain prompted him as he took his couch and propped himself on his elbow.

"Ah, yes, there was the most exquisite joke. Everyone enjoyed it.” He chuckled at the thought. “There was a criminal sentenced to the arena, for fraud. He had debased coins, being a goldsmith. Well, it was found out, and he was condemned. The poor fool was ready to die of fright. They put him out on the sands alone, and the slaves dragged out one of those huge cages they use for tigers, all very solid and closed, and then they hurried off with just the catch line running to the side so that the cage door could be opened.” Nero reached for a large goblet of silver inlaid with pearls and drank from it greedily. “The goldsmith was certain he was going to be torn apart, and he very nearly fainted. Finally, the editor of the Games gave the signal and the catch line was pulled. Everyone leaned forward for the terrible minute, because they, too, thought a tiger would leap out and rend the criminal in pieces. But after a moment, a chicken came from the cage. The criminal collapsed, and the entire crowd laughed, and the editor reminded the criminal and the crowd that one fraud deserved another."

The guffaws that greeted this were more than polite, and Saint-Germain joined them. “Very clever,” he said.

"Appropriate,” Nero concurred. “But that's not why you're here. I want to honor your slave, and it would be most fitting to honor you at the same time."

"Honor me?” Saint-Germain asked, wishing he knew what Nero had planned. “I have done nothing deserving of honor."

"That is for me to determine,” Nero said, and waited while his company nodded.

Justus cleared his throat, and without once looking at Saint-Germain, addressed Nero. “It is not wise to invest too much attention in foreigners while deserving Romans go without imperial favor,” he said with a portentous frown. “Since there are those who disapprove of your plan to go to Greece shortly, they will feel even more abused that you should take time to distinguish Franciscus."

For once Saint-Germain found himself in agreement with Justus. “That's true. And it is not my intent to take credit from Romans, who have been willing to have me as a guest for so long."

Nero waved both these objections away. “Nonsense. You're being too self-effacing. You've supplied me with animals for these Games and those of Tiridates’ visit. You've shown me how to play on the tall Egyptian harp. You've sent your slaves into the arena at my request. Show me a Roman who has done so much.” This was obviously a challenge, but no one chose to respond to it.

"This is home for a Roman, and as such, it is a place where he can feel, and rightly, that he has certain rank and privileges not granted to those of us who are guests.” As he spoke, Saint-Germain was still troubled.

"All sons,” Nero said, turning suddenly petulant, “should be a credit to their houses. They should be eager to bring praises to it and to show civic virtue.” He stared moodily into his cup. “My mother was a terrible woman, a terrible woman, but she was right about one thing—those who wear the purple are surrounded by traitors and liars, and Caesar is a fool to trust any of them."

A tension thrummed through the imperial box, and though no one spoke, the guests stiffened and looked away.

It was Saint-Germain who broke the silence. “Am I suspect, Caesar?"

"You?” Nero shook his head. “No, not you.” He held his cup out for more wine, and while the slave filled it, he said, “No, what I want from you, Saint-Germain, is your advice about a new project I have in mind. These others, well, it was friends who killed Divus Julius. I must remember that."

On the spina, trumpets brayed and the victorious gladiator was cheered by the crowd while he lifted bloody arms in response to the ovation.

"Your slave is next,” Nero reminded Saint-Germain unnecessarily.

"She is ready, I'm sure,” Saint-Germain answered.

"Saint-Germain,” Nero said abruptly with a slight wistful smile, “do you think she would be willing to teach me to do that? I'd love to be able to stand on my hands, balanced on the backs of two racing horses."

"It's very dangerous,” Saint-Germain responded quickly, knowing that Nero's enthusiasm for racing had led him to rash acts before. He was anxious to avoid any difficulties with the capricious Emperor. “Tishtry herself said that it took her most of her youth to learn how. Her family has done such feats for three generations, and the training begins as soon as the children can walk.” He tried to sound calm as he added, “Such stunts aren't part of a leader's skill, Caesar. Great leaders should know how to drive chariots in war, not use them for tricks to amuse a mob."

"You're right, of course,” Nero said when he had considered the matter. “But what a splendid trick it is.” He looked at the other men in the imperial box. “What of the rest of you? Would you like to see me do that, and fail? It would be easier for you, wouldn't it, if I'd kill myself driving a chariot. Then you could take command of the government without your plots and intrigues. And in no time, you'd be at each other's throats, each one wishing Nero were still with you, so you could be agreed in hatred, if nothing else.” He met the eyes of each of his guests in turn, then looked into the bright arena.

The Gates of Life were flung open and Tishtry galloped her team onto the sands and down the length of the spina. Cheers met her and became louder than thunder.

In his imperial box, Nero leaned far forward and watched the Armenian slave with yearning eyes.

TEXT OF AN OFFICAL DISPATCH FROM GREECE TO THE SENATE AND PEOPLE OF ROME.

To the august Senators and knights, and the people of Rome, from the Greek garrison of Athens, hail!

By order of the Emperor, Nero Caesar, the treacherous general Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo has taken his life upon his arrival in Greece for the Olympic Games. The general, once the hero of wars on the eastern borders of the empire, redeemed his honor by his prompt obedience to the Emperor's orders, and died a good death upon his own sword.

His last word was Axios, which in the Olympic Games is the shout that greets the victor, signifying approval of a victory justly won. In this Corbulo expressed his recognition of the Emperor's right to his life. Those malcontented and misinformed Romans who say otherwise harm the memory of this valiant and sadly deceived warrior who did so much for the empire.

May this commend the Greek garrison to you and to all Romans.

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AS OLIVIA STEPPED from the enclosed two-wheeled chariot, no slaves rushed to meet her. The house seemed old and neglected, with dry leaves drifting at the door and rickety shutters over the windows. Yet this was the house she had been born in, an old and honorable building on the Palatine Hill, built in the days of the Republic by her three-times-great granduncle, and had been one of the grandest houses in Rome when Augustus Caesar ruled. Now the gentle spring sunlight was cruel to the building, for it showed the neglect and poverty that ate at the house like a disease.

Olivia hesitated on the threshold, distressed by what she saw. This was the first time since the death of her father and the condemnation of her brothers that Justus had allowed her to visit her mother. A bell chain hung beside the door, and Olivia pulled it to summon the doorkeeper, thinking that when she was a child, there had been no need for such a bell because a footman slave had waited at the door at all times. She heard the unmelodious clang echo in the house. She turned to the slave that drove her chariot. “You're blocking the street, Joab. Take the chariot around to the stables and I'll come there when my mother and I are through with our talk."

Joab twitched the reins to obey, but was not pleased with the order. But Olivia was right. The street, as was typical of most Roman streets, was narrow and there were those with carts and sedan chairs who could not pass him.

Once Joab was gone, Olivia pulled the bell chain again, suddenly very concerned. She was almost prepared to try the door herself when she heard a step, and then the scrape as the bolt was pulled back.

"Oh! It's Olivia!” said the ancient porter as he held the door wide, indicating out of habit that she should cross the threshold on her right foot.

"Yes, Eteocles, it's Olivia.” She had smiled quickly to conceal the shock she felt at seeing the Greek slave in a badly frayed tunic and patched sandals.

Eteocles gave an understanding sigh. “Yes,” he said, “it's sad to have this come out so. Only those of us who belong to your mother were spared. All the rest, they were condemned along with your father and brothers. All of them. All.” He closed the door as he coughed.

Though Olivia had heard of the breaking up of the household, she had not known how sweeping it would be. “Just my mother's slaves were spared?” she said, thinking that there could not be more than a dozen people living in the house now.

"The law is specific, mistress. It is required that nothing be left of the sedition, and so—"

"But slaves can't be held responsible.” Olivia's voice had risen. “That law hasn't been enforced so strictly since the Republic. Now all they do is sell the slaves, not condemn them.” She looked down the corridor toward the library, where her father had often gone to study. The floor had not been swept recently and one oil lamp burned where four had shone before. Olivia felt her throat tighten. “Who was so barbaric as to condemn slaves for the master's folly? The Emperor is more reasonable than that.” It was true most of the time, she knew. She also knew that Nero was often frightened, with good reason, and that at such times he was dangerous and impulsive.

"I don't know that, mistress. I only know that it happened, and that there was no one who would help us."

Olivia felt chagrin at that. She wanted to explain that Justus had ordered her to avoid her family when they were condemned, and still disapproved of her affection. She was aware that Eteocles probably felt she was much to blame for the severity of the judgment that had fallen on her house. Olivia herself felt that, and knew that under other circumstances she might have done a great deal for her father and brothers. She could find nothing to say.

"No one blames you, mistress,” Eteocles said gently as he led the way toward her mother's room.

Much of the furniture was gone, seized at imperial order and sold at auction. The tables her great-grandfather had sent from Egypt were missing; and the fine chairs, all matching, made of pine brought from forests far to the north, no longer stood in the reception room. One of the old chests remained, but the larger and newer one where her father had kept the scrolls of household accounts had been taken.

"This is...” She could find no word sufficiently bad. “When did this happen, Eteocles?"

"The month after your father was imprisoned. They took little at first, but as time went on, more and more things were confiscated, and your mother had no one to help. Her brother was afraid to speak to her, her sister is still in Gallia with her husband, your sisters have been forbidden to write, and your husband never answered the messages she sent to him.” There was rancor in his voice now, and though it stung, Olivia welcomed it.

"My husband never told me about messages. If he had, I would have seen that something was done. He told me that all my family had been ordered not to send or receive messages.” Her hands tightened. It was like Justus to tell her such a lie.

Eteocles held a door open for her, and waited while Olivia passed into her mother's private apartments.

Here there was not so much missing, but the same oppressive air of want filled the room. At the window, Decima Romola Nolus, Domita Clemens, stood arranging a few flowers in a vase in an attempt to brighten the room. Her hair, which she had liked to wear in careful, ordered curls, was done now in a single knot at the back of her neck, and instead of being a rich, honey-brown color, it was blighted with gray. She was dressed in an old wool stola to keep off the chill, for the room was no longer heated. One last rose was put into place, and then she turned to her daughter. “Olivia,” she said, and almost choked on the word. Blindly she moved into Olivia's opened arms.

Both women were embarrassed to weep and neither could restrain their tears. They clung together, not daring to meet each other's eyes, until they both regained control of their emotions.

Romola was the first to succeed. She dashed her hand over her face and stood back, straightening her clothes and trying to appear unconcerned. “It is good to see you again,” she said with difficulty. “I apologize for the house. They left us very little, and I haven't enough wood for heating, so the floors are cold and there are drafts everywhere.” She went to one of the three chairs in the room. “The furniture here is mine, and so I have it still, but the rest, it's been taken, even to the kitchen supplies. I have Gedrica to cook for me still, but she is very old, and I don't like to ask much of her, so I hope you won't be offended if I don't offer you anything more than bread and fruit juice.” Her hands folded tightly together. “They took the wine, or I would give you that."

Olivia stifled the indignant outburst that welled within her. It was useless to speak out now. The time for that had been and gone. “I'll see that you have wine again, Mother. Justus will have to do that much for me, if nothing else."

"
No!
” Romola cried, thrusting out her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I want nothing more from that man. I have had all that I can bear from him, and more."

"What do you mean?” Olivia demanded, fearing that her suspicions might be proven true.

"I'm sorry,” Romola said in a strained voice. “I have no proof, of course, and the man is your husband.” She made a jerky motion toward one of the other two chairs. “There. Be seated. I'll have Eteocles bring our refreshments."