Blood Games (5 page)

"Oh, thank you.” She gripped her hands together over the sheet. “When may I go?"

"Why, as soon as you wish,” he said rather abstractedly. “I'm certain your family will understand, however, when I have your father imprisoned.” He looked back toward her, drinking in the horror in her eyes.

"But...” She could find no words to say. Her eyes filled with tears that slid down her face, unnoticed by her.

"I've explained it to you before,” Justus was saying with patient indulgence. “So long as you are with me, and obedient, your father, indeed, your whole family, is safe from me. My quarrel with him, after all, is financial. Your brothers will have their debts paid, your father may maintain his house and keep his estates, and indulge in a few harmless extravagances with my goodwill. But the day you leave me, my cherished wife, on that day your father will find all his obligations spelled out, your brothers will lose their rank and they will be fortunate to find a home with your sisters’ husbands.” His laughter was unpleasant, as he intended.

"No!” she cried out, and gasped in fear as Arnax stirred in the corner.

The secutor did not awaken.

"Do be more careful,” Justus said as he raised an admonishing finger. “I want no rumors among the slaves. Let them all think that you are wanton. Otherwise they might not be so willing to come to you, and that would be a severe disappointment to me.” He reached out and raised her chin with his fingers. “Do you know what it is to need to watch you rut, wife? Can you imagine how humiliated I would be if it were known?"

"Divus Claudius was like you,” she said, with every bit of defiance she could find in her fear.

"Divus Claudius was Caesar!” His hand cracked against her jaw. “He made his wife a whore until my cousin found her. He made her drug herself with men. Gaius was a fool to change her.” He was breathing quickly, his eyes slightly unfocused. Olivia recognized the signs and steeled herself for another onslaught. “That Gallic soldier,” Justus whispered. “You wanted him. You helped him mount you."

This accusation was not new, and it was with weariness that Olivia reminded him, “You told me to help him, Justus. You thought that he might not want a woman. You said I should urge him.” She was not horrified at this memory now, with almost a year of other, increasingly degrading nights.

"You remember him.” Justus moved closer to her, leaning over her as he grabbed for her arms.

"I remember all of it, Justus,” she said, her shadowed eyes bright with loathing.

He pushed her back against the pillows. “Thinking of vengeance, Olivia?” He tugged his robe open. “Don't forget you father and brothers. And your sisters. So long as you please me, they are safe.” Brutally he forced her knees open.

Outrage rose afresh in Olivia's heart, and though she knew it would anger her husband even more, she struggled against him, striking out with her tightened fists and twisting as his weight came down on her.

When he had finished, he did not at once move away from her. “Do you want me to bring the Tingitanian in from the stables again?"

Of everything she had endured, the Tingitanian had been the worst. The thought of that relentless, cruel body that smelled of rancid oil, dung, and something more, something gaggingly sweet, almost made Olivia choke.

"Reluctant, wife?” Justus asked as he got off her. “A stable slave is not to your taste? If I sent you to the lupanar, you'd have doings with worse than stable slaves.” He read the revulsion in her face, though she tried to mask it. “It could come to that. Unless you can find someone who will do as I require. Think of that while you make your selection.” He was tightening his robe once more. “I wonder how you would look in a yellow wig?” he added wickedly.

"Only whores wear them,” she objected. “I am a wife, not a whore.” Her anger increased, shutting out her fear. “You have used me intolerably, Justus. If you did not hold such power over my family, I would denounce you in court, and obtain maintenance and a divorce. You may coerce me and threaten me, but I am still your wife, and I will not be made a harlot to the world. Bring any filth you want into this house, but I tell you now, that if you force me to submit anywhere but here, I will kill myself, and I will say why I kill myself.” She spoke softly, so as not to disturb the secutor, but there was an earnestness in her words that made them a vow.

"I'm sure your father will applaud such heroism from his prison. If he ever learns about it.” Justus was on his feet, looming over Olivia once more. “I'll have Sibinus remove the secutor,” he said in a different voice. “What a brute he is."

"You'll allow that?” Olivia said, almost laughing in disbelief.

"Certainly. I'm growing tired of such men. You must find another sort of lover.” He folded his thick arms over his chest. “I want to see you overcome, not beaten."

Olivia had taken one of the pillows and held it now close to her body, finding comfort in having it between her and her husband. “I will keep your wishes in mind, my husband.” There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Justus turn to her one last time.

"See that you do, Olivia. I admit that it amuses me to have you defy me, provided that you do not make the mistake of thinking that it will give you any power whatever.” He touched the fine linen hanging that could be pulled around the bed. “What becomes of your family is entirely in your hands. It would be most unwise of you to have me for your enemy."

"You are already,” she responded hotly.

"You think so? How innocent you are.” Justus chuckled. “One day you will see how I deal with my enemies, and then you will understand how fortunate you are.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Come, then, it isn't so terrible, is it? You have all my wealth at your disposal, and an honorable name. If I hadn't offered for you, your father would have been lucky to find you a line officer to marry. Can you honestly tell me that you would rather broil or freeze in some distant outpost with a rough soldier as a mate, half a dozen hungry children, whose only hope was getting a farm before your husband was cut down in battle?"

"Yes, Justus.” She saw his brows twitch in disbelief. “If that soldier treated me with honor, then I would know myself a fortunate woman."

"What absurd notions you have of honor,” Justus said as he turned away. “Tomorrow, wife, I will be leaving for a few days. I expect that when I return you will have found someone more likely to do as I require.” As he crossed the marble floor, the long Parthian robe brushed against the stone. When he got to the door, he clapped his hands briskly. “Sibinus,” he ordered, “the secutor is finished here. See that he leaves shortly, and is suitably rewarded."

Sibinus slipped into the room. He was more like a ferret than any man Olivia had ever seen, and she had never felt comfortable in his presence. Now his long, lean hands moved furtively over his long tunica and his narrow eyes darted from Justus to Arnax to her. “Suitably rewarded,” he repeated.

"Do not, of course, tell him that the money comes from me. If you can, contrive to make it seem that my wife has sent it.” Justus had given these instructions many times before, and Sibinus knew them as well as his master did, but it always distressed Olivia to hear these plans, and so they were repeated.

"I will wrap the coins in her new veil.” An expression that might have been a smile stretched his mouth.

"Excellent. I trust you to finish the business.” He put a coin in his slave's hand, then went out the door.

Sibinus came into the room, crossing the floor in a curious, sideways walk, as if he feared apprehension at every step. He paused to look once at Olivia, then scurried to the naked secutor. There he bent over the recumbent form, and shook Arnax gently, saying a few soft words that Olivia could not hear.

Arnax stirred and opened his eyes with an oath. He thrashed wildly, grabbing his clothes and hunting for a weapon.

"No, good secutor,” Sibinus murmured. “Do not make such sound, or someone may tell my master of what you have done here tonight with his wife."

This warning had an immediate effect. Arnax became quiet, almost docile, immediately. He looked toward the bed once, favoring Olivia with a lewd, frightened smile.

"My mistress will reward your prowess and your silence when you have left her.” Sibinus was already helping the big man to his feet, holding his tunica and cloak while Arnax struggled to lace his sandals.

At last he was dressed, and with a last show of obsequious deference, Sibinus bowed him toward the door, following him after covertly pulling one of Olivia's veils from the chest by the bed.

Olivia looked at the closed door, filled with shame. She had tried to do as Justus wished in order to protect her family, but after every such night, her doubts grew. She had once told her mother of Justus’ needs, and her mother had listened with strained sympathy, advising Olivia to think of something else, and to offer at the Temple of Venus for her husband's tastes to change. The unbidden question then had plagued Olivia—would her mother have said the same thing if her family's safety were not dependent on Olivia's docility? She had wondered that every time since then when she had seen her mother, and for that reason had learned to give inconsequent answers to her mother's occasional questions.

There was no one she could trust. Not her mother, her father, her brothers or sisters. The loneliness of that admission brought tears to her eyes, and impatiently she wiped them away. Tears would not help her. She rose and pinched out the perfumed lamps, then drew one of the sheets around her as she went to the window.

The new year was only seven weeks old, and the last storm of winter was blowing itself out. The clouds had gone earlier and only a frozen wind was left to scour the sky. A moon just past full hung over the city, lighting the world gently, deceptively, so that even the incompletely repaired buildings that had been gutted by the fire the summer before now had a grace and majesty. Beyond them there was a flash of silver where the Tiber made a sinuous, caressing curve around the city.

How many people slept out there? she asked herself. With so much humanity around her, there had to be an ally for her. She turned away from the window. Her husband had ordered her to find a lover, not an ally, someone who was...unusual. Her skin was touched with gooseflesh, and she told herself it was the cold. She returned to the bed, pale under her bruises, a sudden weakness possessing her. It reminded her of when she had miscarried, a year after her marriage. Until that moment she had consoled herself with the thought that Justus would not subject the mother of his heir to the degradation he had required. After the pain and the blood, her hopes were dashed. Her Greek physician had given it as his opinion that she would not bear any child to term. At the time, Justus had claimed to be disappointed, but thinking back, Olivia now wondered if, in fact, he had been pleased.

She pulled the blanket up under her chin and lay back. The oil of jasmine could not quite cover the pungent scent of Arnax's sweat. In vexation, Olivia got out of the bed and padded toward the door. Nestulia, her body slave, was supposed to sleep in the alcove across the way, though tonight Justus might have sent her away, as he often did.

The alcove was empty. Olivia stepped back into her room and closed the door, leaning upon it in her hopelessness. Then, there being nothing else she could do, she went to her bed and stripped the sheets and blankets from it, then climbed onto the bed to pull down the linen hangings, which smelled only of the perfumed lamps.

A HANDBILL FOR THE THEATRE OF MARCELLUS, FOR PERFORMANCES THE FIRST WEEK IN MARCH, THE 817TH YEAR OF THE CITY.

A NOTE APPENDED TO THE HANDBILL ADDS:

The Emperor hasn't favored Rome with an epic since he went out on the walls to serenade the fire of last summer, to praise its might as greater than his. Then he sang of the Fall of Troy.

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A WARM BREEZE carried the fragrance of blossoms across the training ring at Villa Ragoczy. The spring was pleasant, mild and promising, and from the vineyards that rose in neat lines up the hills to the fruit trees behind the extensive stables, the new villa seemed alive with its touch.

Only Tishtry occupied the training ring with her big Syrian gelding. The horse wore a special bridle and half-saddle that was little more than girths with a thick horn. As the horse cantered around the mid-portion of the ring, Tishtry used the horn to vault from one side to the other of the horse. She shouted encouragement as she rode and leaped.

When at last she was satisfied, she pulled the gelding to a slow walk, guiding him with her knees toward the gate.

Sain-Germain was waiting for her, one neatly booted foot on the lowest fence rail. He was dressed for riding in black Dacian tunic and leggings. He smiled as she came nearer. “You are better?"

"Almost myself again,” she answered, grinning. “Shirdas here is out of practice."

"He looked fine just now,” Saint-Germain assured her. He spoke educated and courtly Armenian with the same slight accent that colored his Latin, giving his speech a quality that was oddly archaic to Tishtry's ears.

"That's because I was forcing him.” She swung expertly off the gelding's back. “You see, I am strong enough. When do I return to the arena? The Neronian Games begin soon, and there are great prizes to be won."

"In payment for great risks,” he warned, reaching over the fence to put one fine small hand on her shoulder.

"There is risk in anything,” she said lightly. “Riding is my life. I was born to it, like my father and his father.” She reached to open the gate. “I've got to rub down Shirdas."