Blood Games (37 page)

When it ended there was one ostrich still alive, and Vitellius ordered it presented with a laurel wreath, since the huge, bad-tempered bird was clearly the victor.

Vitellius was decidedly unsteady on his feet when he rose to announce the first demonstration of the new hydraulic organ, which was to be played by a musician brought to Rome for the occasion.

As the stirring strains of The Song of Jupiter Triumphant rolled through the Circus, Vitellius turned a satisfied face to Saint-Germain. “Very good. That's very good."

"It is what was required of me,” Saint-Germain said cautiously.

"A feat worthy of a Roman,” the Emperor suggested slyly.

"It is kind of you to say so.” Saint-Germain glanced uneasily at the nine armored guards in the imperial box, and at the drunken Caecina, who gave him a fatuous smile.

"I have been thinking about that,” Vitellius confided as he pushed his wreath farther back on his head. “You've done a great deal for Rome. Not just the hydraulic organ. No.” He snapped his fingers for more wine. “There's the mules you raise and sell the army. That's patriotic of you."

"It's profitable business,” Saint-Germain corrected him.

"Same thing, same thing.” He took a deep draft of wine. “It's a fine vintage. Not like the Greeks with their resins and honey. This is tipple for a man. Look at it. Red as blood, sweet as puncturing a virgin, strong as..."—he searched for a word—"strong as...good steel, by the she-wolf's tits!"

Saint-Germain closed his eyes a moment before saying, “You do this foreigner great honor and I am grateful.” He was also apprehensive, wondering what he could do or say that would allow him to leave the imperial box quickly.

"The foreigner part, that's what I wanted to see you about.” The Emperor set down his wine cup. “You shouldn't have to be a foreigner. Be a Roman. I'll make you a citizen. Just like that. The Senate will approve. For once,” he added darkly.

"But I can't do that,” Saint-Germain said as gently as he could. “It is a great compliment, and I am sincerely grateful to you for offering me Roman citizenship. But I must refuse."

"Refuse?” Vitellius’ heavy face was starting to change color, from ruddy to plum.

"I must,” Saint-Germain insisted as kindly as he could. “I have an obligation to those of my blood, and to my native soil. My first loyalty must remain there."

Vitellius drew back. “Loyalty to Dacia, and you not a Daci?"

He wished the offer had never been made, and certainly not here, with Caecina to watch. Saint-Germain sighed, and hoped that the Emperor would interpret it as disappointment. “The Daci are not the only people who have lived there. Those of my blood are far older, and as I was their prince once, I cannot desert them.” He looked squarely at Vitellius. “You have loyal troops, Caesar. Would you, for a treasured honor, turn away from them?"

"Troops? Do you head an army?” The Emperor folded his arms and smeared a pepper sauce on the front of his imperial toga.

"Not for many, many years. I have my followers, though, and they are as much a part of me as your Guard is of you."

Vitellius snorted, but it was easy to see that he was mollified by this comparison. “You're a fool, Franciscus. Become a Roman and the world is open to you."

"It would dishonor my house.” This was usually a clinching argument with a Roman. He had used it once, a century before, to Divus Julius. That first canny, acute Emperor had turned tired, knowing eyes on him and said wryly, “And are the rest of...your blood...as clever? I could wish them for allies.” This Emperor peered at him through red, bleary eyes and said, “Can't do that. Without honor to the house, the whole of Rome falls."

"So you see my predicament. What would you do, in my place?” Saint-Germain asked, taking advantage of the Emperor's assertion.

Vitellius gave a ponderous wag of his head. “Yes. Yes. I understand now. Does you credit, your conviction, but it's a shame. When I think of the access you've got. Snow leopards, tigers, apes, all of them, and what it would mean to Rome..."

Saint-Germain could not quite conceal his smile. “You're welcome to command me at any time, Caesar. If that is what you want of me."

"Good of you,” Vitellius said, unaware of the ironic edge in Saint-Germain's voice. “If you change your mind about being a citizen, let me know. Make you a Roman overnight. You'd like it. You could own dozens of gladiators."

At the end of the spina the hydraulic organ fell silent and the crowd cheered anew. The musician rose and took off the rag that bound his ears and prevented him from being deafened by the blare of the instrument he played.

"If you wish to do something for me,” Saint-Germain said with a nod toward the hydraulic organ, “you might give that player his freedom. He has done well and deserves recognition. Very few musicians can perform so skillfully."

The blurry lines of the Emperor's face were not promising. “I'll consider it,” Vitellius said indistinctly and loftily as he motioned for the next event to begin.

REPORT TO THE EMPEROR IN THE INVESTIGATION OF THE SMUGGLING ACTIVITIES OF KYRILLOS, CAPTAIN OF THE MERCHANT VESSEL
GULL OF
BYZANTIUM.

To the Procurator Senior:

Following the instructions of your office and the Senate, and upon behalf of the Emperor, we have detained the captain, Kyrillos, who was identified in our first report as being the master of the vessel the Gull of Byzantium, which is owned by the distinguished foreigner, Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus, who resides near Rome.

Acting on the recommendation of an unknown citizen, officers of the port inspected this vessel and found that it was carrying wheat, and that such did not appear on the manifest.

We have questioned the captain repeatedly, with only moderate application of torture, and he remains adamant on three points that were disputed at the time of his arrest.

I) that the purchase of wheat was a fortunate accident and not part of a continuing plan to smuggle forbidden goods into Roman ports,

II) that the opportunity to purchase the wheat came from men who approached him, identified themselves as Armenian and told him that the grain was available. Since Kyrillos was aware of the situation in Rome, he says that he decided to take a chance and sell the grain covertly after he arrived in Ostia. He claims now that the whole venture was a plot against him from mariners jealous of his success in trade.

III) that at no time was his patron, said Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus, part of his plan to carry illegal grain, that Franciscus had no knowledge of the transaction and that he was acting on his own and without instructions from the owner of his ship. Further, he declares that Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus has often admonished him to obey the laws of Rome to the letter and at no time to seek to circumvent those laws. Interviews with captains of other vessels owned by this man confirm what Kyrillos has said.

Therefore, we seek to know how to dispose of this case. The captain, Kyrillos, has been denied the right to sail from Ostia or any Roman port, and until he appears in court there is no way to determine how he should be treated. Because this is a first offense and because his record is good, we would recommend a light sentence. With his background, he could be bonded and his bond remanded to the state until the full amount of his contraband be returned. It seems a waste to send him to the galleys, where he would die within a year from the severity of the labor. Condemnation to the arena is not commensurate with the nature of his crime.

We await your opinion and will be diligent in carrying out your orders. Included with this letter is a full and accurate transcription of the statement given by Kyrillos. For the eyes of the procurator and Emperor only, and for their action.

Hail Vitellius,?

[Back to Table of Contents]

THREE DAYS BEFORE, the moon had been full, and now it floated through the sky, leaving a thin wake of clouds. The season was turning, bringing cold nights and the promise of rain.

Saint-Germain stood in the window of his bedroom, looking out at the tarnished silver of the night. His loose robe dangled half-open, caught at the waist with a carelessly tied sash. To his particular eyes, the night was filled with splendor that the brightness of the day hid. Now, in the time when owls hunted and cats slunk and scampered in the hills, the world seemed to be more truly his. Saint-Germain loved the night, was part of it.

"My master?” From the bed Tishtry's voice followed him and cut into his contemplation.

"Yes?” He did not turn, but he spoke affectionately to her. “Come to the window, Tishtry."

Obediently she rose from the bed and padded across the mosaic floor. “What is it?"

"Look at the night.” His dark eyes saw far into the moon-shadowed dimness. He spoke distantly even as he put his arm around her shoulder. “There. By the orchard. There's a bat flitting like a bit of soot. Look at the trees—they're like storm clouds anchored to the soil. They're like us in that.” He bent and kissed her shiny dark hair, but still looked out the window. “Oh, Tishtry, I haven't wanted to be cruel."

"Well, you haven't been,” she said heartily. “You've been more kind to me than many.” She was naked and the night was chilly, but her good nature kept her at his side, shivering faintly.

"Does it matter that I'm sending you away?” The darkness was familiar, but tonight it only served to reinforce his loneliness.

"From your bed?” She turned her head to rest it on his shoulder. “You know how I feel about this. It is my decision, not yours. You're the master and you're good to me. Your ways aren't my ways, but it's your right.” She put her strong arm around his waist. “You've given me pleasure and you've been more than fair with me."

"Do you regret this?” His small hand touched the curve of her breast, her hip, with familiar affection.

"No. You don't just use me, the way some have. I won't say I wouldn't like it better if you functioned as other men—I would. You've known that all along. But it isn't that important, really.” She was getting colder and there was gooseflesh all over her.

"Isn't it?” For the first time he looked at her.

"No, not really. Think how long this lasts, even your way. An hour, perhaps two, and all the rest are left open. I am in your bed twice in a month, certainly not more than a dozen hours. The rest of the time I'm with my horses, or in the arena or cleaning tack or one of all the other things I do in my life. Why should I trade all that for a dozen hours, no matter how pleasant?” She leaned forward and kissed him heartily. “I'll miss you, because you care so much for my pleasure."

The sad, ironic smile he gave her was lost in the darkness. He hugged her, then said, “You're freezing, Tishtry."

"It's getting cold,” she admitted. “I'm fine."

Saint-Germain untied the sash he wore and drew her close to him inside his voluminous robe. “Better?"

"Of course,” she said with an indulgent giggle.

He gazed out into the night one last time. “It's beautiful,” he said dreamily.

"You always like the night better than day,” she reminded him as she laid one hand on his chest.

"Night and I, we're part of each other.” It had been that way for as long as his memories reached back. In legends, his kind were inexorably linked with the dark. At night, he had no need of his earth-lined boots, except to cross running water. At no other time did he feel the same relaxed surge of power, or the same elusive peace. “You will share the night, eventually."

Tishtry pressed her powerful, taut body close to his. “There are a few hours yet until dawn. Since this is the last time, shall we lie together again?"

He had always liked her forthrightness, however bluntly she spoke. Even when she had asked that there be an end between them, he felt neither regret nor rancor. It was impossible to feel those things with Tishtry. “Would you like that?” With one hand he smoothed back her hair as he bent to kiss her.

She shrugged and nodded at once. “I enjoy what you do. Since this is the last time, it would please me.” She stopped and stared into his enigmatic eyes. “Why were you willing to let me go? Why did you accept? You are my master, and could have commanded that I stay with you."

"And have you unwilling?” The question did not surprise him, but he sighed anyway. “You have given me a great deal, Tishtry, and I know that though my ways are not your ways, or not yet your ways, you have learned to take pleasure in what we do. It was enough for me, and I like you. But I suppose now I've come to want...to need, something more. Not long ago it was enough to bring one to the height of fulfillment or terror. It satisfied me. I was, if not content, resigned. Now...” The word ended and he was silent.

"It's because of that patrician lady, isn't it?” There was no blame in the question, not yet. She waited while he sought for an answer to give her, that he could accept himself.

"If I hadn't been changing, Olivia might not have attracted me. I have lived long enough to accept change.” Even as he said it, he knew it was not entirely true. He had never learned to regard loss as inevitable. There had been times when he had closed himself off from humanity, taking the aloof stance he had learned when he was a boy and a prince. Something always broke through, and there was the full weight and pain of grief to endure again. Olivia had surprised him, touched him before he was aware how deeply she moved him. The memory of their last meeting, more than two months before, filled his mind, an overwhelming presence. Every motion, every glance, every nuance of speech was vivid in his mind.

"Will you give me to Kosrozd?” Tishtry asked, wondering if he heard her.

"To Kosrozd? Why? Do you want him? Since he changed, he is as I am.” He had thought she understood that.

"I know that. It seemed likely.” She hesitated.