Blood Games (29 page)

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DARK CLOUDS had been building up in the west and the first low mutters of thunder, like the sound of a distant army marching, echoed along the sky. The day was hot and oppressive, with very little breeze from the storm that was hovering near the ocean. The air over Rome seemed filled with a nameless menace, as if rent by an unheard scream.

There were no Games at the Circus Maximus that day, “For which,” said the manager of the vast amphitheatre, “I am heartily grateful. In weather like this, the way things are, we'd have fighting in the stands before the day was half over.” He was standing on the spina, looking out across the sands to the tiers of seats and benches. Below him, a bestiarius was working with his performing bears while slaves spread the new sand.

Saint-Germain, who had been inspecting the hydraulic organ, agreed. “There is something worse than lightning in the air.” He was dressed in the Egyptian manner, in a short military kalasiris of pleated black linen, with red Scythian boots that reached almost to his knees.

"The grain dole has been cut again and the distribution of oil was stopped day before yesterday.” The manager said this calmly, though he was aware what such shortages would mean.

"What has the Emperor done?” In spite of himself, he was concerned now. If Nero did not respond to the people, they would turn against him, forgetting their enthusiastic affection for him.

"He says he's trying to get grain for them, but that Vespasianus has refused to send any grain.” The manager leaned over the low rail of the spina to call to the bestiarius, “Get them to run, fool! If you can't do any better than this, I'll turn the tigers loose on you!"

The bestiarius responded with a loud, savage cry that set his animals lumbering down the sands.

"What do you think, then?” the manager asked of Saint-Germain, turning to him once again. “I know the Emperor wants the organ improved, but I can't see how it's to be accomplished."

"I think there are some things that can be done with it,” he responded thoughtfully. “The pipes are old and their shape isn't true. A more perfect casting is possible, I think, and that should improve the sound. Also, the pitches are not carefully made, and that I know I can improve. It will take time, of course, but I have specialized equipment that might do what's needed. There are always problems casting brass pipes of that length; however, I'm reasonably certain that I can get what's required."

The manager, a Greek freedman, clasped his hands over his ample belly and sighed. “I'll confess that any change will be welcome. The organ has been in need of repair for some time, but there has never been anyone willing to undertake it."

"That's no longer a problem, is it?” Saint-Germain asked sweetly, then gestured toward the stairs that led to the passages beneath the floor of the arena. “I've seen enough. I'll do my calculations, and then return to get specific measurements for my work. I'll give you ample notice before I come to do the work."

"Yes, yes,” said the manager, leading the way down the steep flight. “I'll need to keep the time free and make plans so that no one else is on the spina. You'll be able to work in privacy that way. We have our annual cleaning of the dolphins and eggs coming up shortly, but there shouldn't be any conflict then."

Saint-Germain acknowledged this with a wave of the hand. “I doubt we'd be in each other's way, but it will be as you wish. My body slave will bring you my message. He's with me today. You met him earlier."

The manager's expression was slightly more grim. “Oh, yes. The Egyptian."

"He's seeing to the chariot we brought for the next races. It's a new design, something borrowed from the Scythians, with deep grooves in the floor of the vehicle. You need to wear heeled boots like these"—he gestured toward his feet—"to use the grooves as braces, but one of my charioteers has been practicing with it. He claims that he can hold the team steadier this way."

They were in the underground passage now, and the air was fairly cool, filled with the odors of animals and old blood. “That's the Persian, isn't it?"

"Yes,” Saint-Germain said, adding, “since that accident he had three years ago, he's been anxious to have a more stable chariot without losing any of the maneuverability he requires. I'll admit the project intrigued me."

"He's fortunate in his master,” the manager said, an odd irritation in his tone. “Most owners of charioteers don't care anything about the chariots except that they be fast. If the drivers get maimed or killed, they blame their skill and not the vehicle."

This unexpected vehemence surprised Saint-Germain. He had not thought that the manager would be so sympathetic to the dangers of racing. “This design, if it proves successful, would be available to anyone who wanted to use it."

They were nearing the end of the tunnel now, and the air was very close, almost cloying. Nearby a leopard coughed and padded in a holding cage, and there was another strange sound which Saint-Germain realized was the distressed whimper of wild dogs.

"I'll let it be known, but I don't expect much. They're all used to the old designs.” He stepped into the corridor that led to the stableyard. “I'm afraid I have to leave you here. There are other duties I must attend to. But I'm glad that someone is finally going to do something about that instrument. It's getting so the trumpets can't keep with its sequence.” He bobbed his head once or twice, for all the world like a gigantic bird, then hurried away into the gloom under the stands.

Saint-Germain made his way along the corridor to the stableyard. His mind was preoccupied with the design problems for improving the hydraulic organ, and it was not until he was almost across the wide expanse that he became aware of a sound stronger and more near at hand than the thunder. He stopped, listening. He knew what he heard then, for he had experienced it before while watching the Games; it was the eerie drone of thousands of voices. This time it was not the buzz and rush of anticipation of the Games, but a different sound, one more chaotic, echoing off the tall walls of the insulae near the Circus Maximus where much of the population lived.

Aumtehoutep stood beside the new chariot with a stable slave, instructing him in the method of harnessing the team with the new yoke that Saint-Germain had developed, which lessened the drag of the collar strap on the horse's neck. Occasionally he would give an uneasy glance to the gates as the noise outside grew louder.

The stable slave was visibly frightened, and paying little attention to what he was being told. He was young, hardly more than a boy, and his slave's collar identifying him as the Emperor's property was fairly new.

"This,” Aumtehoutep said, fingering the strap in question on the nearest of the four horses, “is a new feature as well. It runs from the collar strap to the girth, and prevents the collar riding up as well as helping to hold the girth in place. You may see how this works with the new, smaller yoke, binding less on the shoulders and making it possible for the horse to breathe more freely as it runs."

It was likely that the stable slave did not see any such thing. The noise from outside was growing louder as the mob neared the Circus Maximus, starting to mill around the huge, narrow structure.

"I am giving you instructions,” Aumtehoutep reminded the stable slave sharply.

The slave gave one frightened cry of agreement, then bolted from the stableyard seeking a haven in the gigantic stables.

"He wasn't listening to you.” Saint-Germain had to shout to be heard. “He's terrified."

Aumtehoutep looked severe. “The walls are stout and he was told to learn this new system of harnessing."

"Consider his position a moment,” Saint-Germain suggested. “Out there are he doesn't know how many people, and they are making more noise than hungry lions. He is familiar enough with lions to recognize them in human form. Let him go, Aumtehoutep."

The large wooden gate that blocked the far end of the stableyard began to sound as fists, rocks and other things were hurled against it.

"They may break in here.” Aumtehoutep said it quite calmly, his manner unafraid.

"They're probably after the food stores that are kept for the animals. There's a lot of grain brought in especially for the horses.” Saint-Germain looked quickly around the suddenly empty stableyard. “I think that's their purpose, if they have one—to get the grain."

As if in acknowledgment of this assessment, the pounding on the gate grew louder, more intense, and the huge timbers began to groan under the assault. The sound of the mob had become a feral howl, like some monster out of legend hunting its victim.

There was a splintering crash and one of the thick hinges tore away from the wood. A ragged cheer rose beyond the gate and the efforts of the crowd were redoubled.

"Into the chariot,” Saint-Germain said to Aumtehoutep, his manner now brisk and not open to question. He stepped into the light racing vehicle himself as he spoke, making room beside him for his slave.

The horses were restless, tossing their heads and sidling as far as their harness would allow. As a second timber splintered, the big bay on the far left side of the team, the horse that would in a race be on the inside of the sharp turns in the Circus Maximus, neighed shrilly and leaped forward, pulling the other horses with him and almost overturning the chariot.

A grating, creaking, snapping moan came from the gate as the wood gave way at last. The mob pressed against the falling timbers, frenzied with success.

Saint-Germain already had the reins in his hands as the first few figures rushed into the stableyard. With all his great strength, he dragged the horses around to face the rushing hordes of desperate Romans who poured through the broken gate like a floodtide. As the mob came on, he started the horses walking into that maddened mass of people, who were beginning to spread through the stableyards and into the passages under the stands.

The horses minced forward, their eyes showing whites, and foam flecking their mouths as their coats darkened with sweat. Saint-Germain held them steadily even as the chariot rocked as people knocked against it or grabbed it to keep from falling.

A young man in a cheap torn tunica tried to climb onto the back of the bay, and the horse reared up, whinnying and pawing the air as the other three horses strained at their bits, ready to bolt.

Saint-Germain reached for the light whip that was used to guide the outer two horses in the turns and with a quick, expert motion sent the lash across the forearms of the man clinging to the bay's yoke. The man shouted as he lost his grip, sliding off the horse and almost falling under the press of people before he disappeared in the mob.

For what seemed hours, Saint-Germain held the horses on a firm path for the gate. Their progress was made in inches as the pressure of the mob increased around them. The horses answered the rein reluctantly, only out of habit, kept in check by Saint-Germain's rigorous hands and the limits of their harness.

The crowd became denser as they neared the gate, and the chariot jostled and rocked. Hands, arms, clubs, refuse and other things appeared around them out of the vast swarm of bodies. The noise was as powerful as the physical presence of the mob.

Looking through the gate, Saint-Germain could see that an equally large mass of people waited beyond the stableyard as those thousands who had already forced their way into it. The street would be more difficult, with the narrow spaces and the limiting walls of the insulae decreasing their movement more than the expanse of the stableyard.

Aumtehoutep gave a cry, and clapped one hand over his eye.

"Don't let go!” Saint-Germain ordered, not daring to look around. “Are you hurt?"

"A stone struck me.” Aumtehoutep reached back and fixed his grip on the top rail of the chariot's frame. His fingers were bright with blood.

There was a little break in the crowd, and Saint-Germain gave the horses their head, taking care to keep enough tension in the reins so that they would not take their bits in their teeth and run into the crowd.

Now they were almost through the gate and the noise that had been a senseless roar became the repeated cry for “Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread!” until the word made no sense and the chant itself drove the people on.

Just as they got to the gate, they were very nearly overturned as several youths with cudgels rushed at the chariot, yelling incoherently, brandishing their weapons and ready to do as much harm as possible. Saint-Germain braced himself, and as the first of these clubs swung toward him, he lifted one arm to meet it and turn it aside, knocking his assailant off his feet. It was a calculated risk, for he had to loosen his hold on the reins while he dealt with the cudgel, and for that moment the horses might have bolted.

Then they were through the gate and into the pandemonium of the streets. People milled before the gate, turning into whirlpools and eddies like the ocean, pounding at the narrow entrance to the stableyard. Women holding infants in their arms rushed with the crowd, their eyes crazed. Great numbers of young men pushed and shoved, each one eager to break into the rumored storehouses of grain and bread that were kept for the animals and slaves of the Circus Maximus. A few rushed at the chariot, but most of them were put off by the danger of the hooves and the intensity of the eyes of the foreigner who drove it.

"Master,” Aumtehoutep shouted, though his voice was faint in the overwhelming sound. “There are more coming!"

Saint-Germain nodded to indicate he had heard. He could see the crush of people grow denser as they fought their way to the huge amphitheatre. It was foolish to continue against the tide. There was another, dangerous way, and for an instant he debated taking it. Once he committed himself, there could be no turning back, no restraining the crowd if the horses bolted out of control. The crowd thickened around the chariot, and soon they would not be able to move.

"Hold tightly!” Saint-Germain shouted to Aumtehoutep as he slowly, carefully turned the chariot broadside to the rush.