Blood Games (3 page)

The Jewish prisoners who have been set to this task are useless, as they have no experience with fine marbles. Set them elsewhere, O Emperor, where their skills and strength may be of use, and find us more Greek stonemasons, or you will lose even more of your beautiful marbles through their ignorance.

A few of the insulae that were thought lost may be rebuilt, should their owners deem it worthwhile, but I have already reported to them on that business, and await their answers. Should it be your desire that we turn our attention to those buildings, we will do it at once with all our hearts. If you do not give us orders to the contrary, we will set to work rebuilding the insulae upon the request of the owners.

Most humbly I thank you for hearing my report. It is an undeserved honor to address you, O my Emperor. When you gave the order that freed me, you made me the more your slave. Now that you have asked for this report, when you have so many around you of greater skill and higher station than I, my devotion is rekindled in an already ardent breast. Any task you require, great or small, you have only to ask it of me and I will surely do it, in gratitude of the deference you have been pleased to show me.

Unto death I am your man?

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HERE UNDER the stands the stink was worse, hanging miasmically on the hot, unmoving air. The sounds from the stand above were muted by the thick stones, though it was occasionally difficult to determine if the loud, mindless shout came from the throats of men or animals. In their wall brackets torches flickered, turning the underground twilight to a dull, ruddy glare.

Necredes, Master of the Bestiarii for this day's Games, stood beside the burly executioner from Dalmatia as he fingered the thongs that held the wrists of a dense-muscled young woman to an iron ring.

"Tighter, I think,” Necredes said, ignoring the cries of outrage that came from his prisoner. “Stretch her high before you lay her back open."

The executioner nodded as he obeyed, cursing when the young woman tried to force her knee into his groin. “The Twins save me from Armenians,” he grunted as he bent to secure her feet.

"Free me!” the young woman panted, fury in her eyes as she fought her restraints. “You have no right! Only my master can do this!” She was able to land one hard kick in the executioner's ribs before he finished knotting the thin ropes around her ankles.

"You disobeyed,” Necredes said in an oddly satisfied tone. “You have defied an express order."

The young woman glared at him. “I spent eight years training my horses. I will not put them into the arena with lions.” Her dark hair was cut short and fell in disheveled tangles around her young vixen's face. She was strong and her short tunica revealed the well-defined sinew of her arms and legs. There was no fear in her.

Necredes clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You will do what I tell you to do, slave.” He motioned to his executioner as he stood back. “Twelve lashes."

The executioner stepped to a low table where his instruments lay. There were mallets, scrapers, knives and hooks on one side, and his various whips on the other; plumbatae with long lashes twined through heavy rings of lead, flagelli with knots of bone tied to the ends of broad hide strips; and rods with long tails of leather braided with wire. It was one of these last the executioner selected, slicing the air with it once or twice to get the feel of it. The muted scream of the lash seemed louder than the din of the crowd above them. Satisfied, the executioner took up his position.

At the first fall of the rod, the woman stifled a scream. There was a line of pain across her shoulders that burned with the intensity of acid. She braced herself for the second blow, her arms tightened to take the impact as she had been trained to do so many years ago when her father had taught her to dive off the back of a galloping horse. This was not the same. The second stripe fell across the first, and she gasped as a hot, hideous weakness loosened her taut body. She felt blood on her back, and looked quickly down at her torn tunica, aghast at the rusty stain that spread rapidly through the fabric. There were ten more blows to endure, and for the only time in her life she doubted her courage.

"Again,” Necredes said, not quite able to disguise the pleasure of this command.

The executioner raised his arm, his shoulders bunching for the hard downward swing.

"Stop that.” The voice, though low and pleasant, carried a quality of indisputable authority. Necredes and the executioner turned toward the sound.

The man who stepped into the unsteady torchlight was somewhat taller than the average Roman, but that was the least obvious element of his foreignness. He was dressed in a black knee-length Persian gown embroidered at the neck and cuffs of elbow-length sleeves with red and silver thread. Tight black Persian trousers clung to his legs and were tucked into heeled Scythian boots of red leather. Dark, loose curls framed his aristocratic face. His mirthless half-smile was fixed and his compelling eyes glowed.

Necredes stiffened. “Franciscus."

The stranger nodded, motioning to another man who now stepped into the light. He was younger than his master, and though he wore an amber slave's collar, his bearing was noble. Tall and slight, but with the massive shoulders and arms of a charioteer, he wore a racing tunica of the Reds and carried a cloak over one arm.

"The punishment!” Necredes snapped, hating the sight of the elegant foreigner.

This time the executioner hesitated.

"I said, stop that.” Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus reached out and caught the lash as it came down. The sound of the strike was sharply loud and the executioner paled as the foreigner's small, beautiful hand closed on the rod and pulled it away. The executioner was a slave and he had struck a free man, an uncondemned man.

The black-clad intruder seemed to sense his thoughts. “On whose orders?” he asked.

"A-a-ah...” The executioner waved his hands toward Necredes, too frightened to speak. He had flogged too many men to death to be willing to face such a sentence. If the stranger brought complaint against him for the inadvertent blow he had received, that would be his fate—flogging with the murderous plumbatae.

Saint-Germain turned toward the Master of the Bestiarii. “Who gave you permission to beat one of my slaves?” He spoke pleasantly enough, with greater cordiality than Necredes would have expected under the best of circumstances, and the cool courtesy terrified him more than open hostility would have.

"She...” Necredes stopped to clear his throat so that he would sound less frightened. “She disobeyed a specific order from the editor himself."

"What order?” Saint-Germain had favored the woman with nothing more than one quick look, but he stood near her now, and touched her side once. “Who gave you the right?” In a sudden wrathful movement, he flung the leather-braided rod away from him. “Well?"

"She disobeyed...” Necredes began again and his throat was quite dry.

"A specific order,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “On whose authority did you command my slave
anything!
” He came across the evil-smelling room. “Answer me."

"It is my right, as Master of the Bestiarii, when the editor requests...” The words sounded ludicrous to Necredes now, and involuntarily he stepped back.

Saint-Germain pursued him. “The woman is mine, Necredes. She belongs to me. What I tell her, she will do. No one else has that right. No one.” He had forced the Master of the Bestiarii to retreat to the far wall, and he stood over him, the force of his gaze as potent as Greek fire.

Necredes cringed away from the hated, melodic voice. “As Master of the Bestiarii—"

"Master? The vilest rat is more worthy of that title than you.” He turned away, disgusted. “Cut her down,” he ordered the executioner, and as that frightened man hurried with clumsy hands to obey, Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus returned to his slave and looked down at her with compassion in his penetrating eyes. “Tishtry?” he said gently.

"I am...” Absurdly, since the worst of her danger was past, she felt tears well in her eyes. A moment later the thongs that bound her to the iron ring were cut, and to her horror, she almost collapsed at her master's feet.

His strong arm caught and held her until she could stand again, and although he did not look at her, there was comfort in that sustaining touch.

"Franciscus,” Necredes spoke up from the far side of the room, the name deliberately loud.

Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did Saint-Germain give any indication that he had heard Necredes call his name. He turned to the charioteer. “Kosrozd, my body slave is waiting. Give Tishtry your cloak."

The charioteer opened the garment he had been carrying, holding it for Tishtry, who was now trembling violently.

"Gently,” Saint-Germain admonished him. “She's bleeding. Aumtehoutep will have to take great care of her.” He helped Kosrozd place the cloak around Tishtry's shoulders, paying no attention to Necredes’ muttering.

Tishtry looked up when she had once more got control of herself. The light from the torches caught on the collar she wore, made of amber and embossed with her master's name. “My horses...?"

"Kosrozd will see to them. They are safe,” he assured her as he touched her tangled hair. “They will be taken to my villa tonight, when I leave the Circus."

She could not rid herself of worry and she gripped his arm tightly as she looked around the little stone room one last time. “Must I go? He"—she gave a scornful glance to Necredes—"might order someone else to drive them through the lions."

"I doubt he would be foolish enough to do that,” was Saint-Germain's soft, sinister reply.

"But he wants them in the arena.” Her voice had risen, and she looked beseechingly from Saint- Germain to Kosrozd.

"I give you my word, Tishtry, that no one but yourself will drive those horses. Will that satisfy you?” There was still sympathy in his voice but his eyes had hardened.

Both slaves knew that tone, and neither of them would ever question it. Tishtry lowered her eyes and nodded mutely.

"Go, then. Aumtehoutep is waiting.” He stood aside for her, watching as she reluctantly allowed herself to be supported by Kosrozd. “When she is safe, Kosrozd, come back to me."

The executioner moved farther out of the light.

With the slaves gone, Necredes felt braver. He straightened up and strode the few necessary steps across the room to confront the foreigner. “Franciscus, you aren't Roman..."

"All the gods be thanked for that,” he interpolated quietly.

"And it may be that you don't realize,” Necredes went on through clenched teeth, “that it is the Masters who give the orders for the editors of the Great Games. I was not told by the editor to spare your Armenian slave and her horses. You cannot interfere in this way."

As Necredes faltered, Saint-Germain regarded him with the air of someone finding a pustulant beggar in the kitchen. “How many others have you deceived with that explanation?” he asked. “Do you pretend that you are unaware of the law? Must I remind you of it?” His finely drawn brows lifted. “Had you forced Tishtry to enter the arena for a contest that would destroy her animals, since she has not been so condemned, she could accuse you in any open court, and you would have to pay not only the price of the horses that were destroyed at your order, but compensate her for the years it would take her to replace them. In addition to any damages I would require of you.
That
, Necredes, is Roman law, and has been since the time of Divus Julius."

It would not do to give ground now, Necredes thought. He raised his stubbled chin. “Do you also know the penalties for slave rebellion? That woman of yours tried to stab a Roman citizen. If she had succeeded in the attempt, she, and every slave you own, every one, Franciscus, would have been executed, probably in the arena.” He managed to meet the foreigner's hot stare without obviously flinching.

"No,” Saint-Germain corrected him gently. “That would only happen if she had killed
me
.” Strangely, he chuckled. “Necredes, little man, leave my slaves alone."

Necredes was silent as anger seethed in him. As he watched the foreigner turn away, he vowed that one day he would exact a price for this humiliation—it would be pleasant to plan his revenge slowly and meticulously. His eyes went to the table with the executioner's tools, and then to the executioner himself, who stood in the deepest shadow of the room, watching Necredes uncertainly. “You!” Necredes burst out. “If one word, if so much as a breath of this, is spread, you will die by the beasts!"

The executioner nodded his understanding, but stayed in the protecting corner, out of the light.

Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus walked quickly away from the tiny, fetid room where he had left Necredes. His controlled fury had not yet dissipated, and he did not trust himself to speak to those who greeted him casually. It was at such moments that his foreignness was a benefit to him, for he might behave in many odd ways and neither give offense nor attract undue attention to himself.

Down at the far end of the corridor he saw three Libyan armentarii walking a number of caracals on leashes. The Libyans sang softly to their trained cats, calming them in preparation for the next venation.

Saint-Germain moved closer and hailed the nearest of the armentarii in his own language. “What is it you hunt this afternoon?"

The Libyan looked up, startled to hear his native tongue from this foreigner. He glanced at his fellow grooms before he answered. “Small wild pigs, they tell us, from Germania and Gaul.” He shook his head, frowning now. “I don't like it. Our cats are not heavy enough for boars. My cousins and I"—he cocked his head toward the other two armentarii—"fear that our little brothers might be killed. They are trained to bring down birds and small antelope, not pigs."