Blood Games (51 page)

"And will you give them to him?” Aumtehoutep kept his voice carefully neutral.

"No. But I don't think I'll tell him that just yet. It may mean a speedier investigation, since I have told him about the others who are in prison. Titus is greedier than his father, and he might find this an incentive.” He took a few steps back from the chariot. “Look for me in two hours."

"The chariot will be ready, my master.” Since they might now be overheard, Aumtehoutep adopted a more servile tone. “If you will be later, send me word so that I may stable the horses."

"Of course,” Saint-Germain called back through the gathering dusk. He went quickly through the long corridors, toward the sound of cheers and laughter, where Titus sat with his guests, watching the tumblers with blurred, avid eyes.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CONSTANTINUS MODESTINUS DATUS TO THE PERFECT OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS.

To the revered prefect of Praetorians, greetings:

I have in hand your inquiry concerning one Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus in which you ask me if he has ever spoken or behaved in such a way that I thought perhaps he was an enemy of Rome, or working for enemies of Rome.

Good Praetorian, I don't know how to answer you. Not that there is doubt in my mind concerning this worthy foreigner, but because I am baffled by your asking at all. Surely all that the man has done for Rome has shown that his interests are one with ours. He breeds the best mules and sells them to the army more reasonably than do many of our Senators. He has been active in the interests of the Games, owning some of the best charioteers as well as helping to improve the Circus Maximus with the hydraulic organ installed there. He has often supplied various patricians with rare and costly items for a fraction of what it might have cost them to procure such goods. He has helped those in need and his slaves are considered some of the best-treated in the empire. Why, then, do you ask about him? It would benefit us if more Romans showed the same degree of attention and activity on behalf of the empire that Franciscus does.

To be sure, I have personal knowledge of one who was much troubled by this Franciscus. An Armenian scholar, Led Arashnur by name, who visited me about two years ago told a fantastic tale that Franciscus was the same man as a legendary Egyptian physician and had the secret of eternal life, and was not a natural being. He claimed to have had proof of an old man in Egypt, but that in itself is little to go on. You know that Armenians, even the most educated of them, are superstitious fools, easily swayed by their fears and myths. Certainly it would be folly to believe such a man in a matter like this. No doubt this scholar had some reason to dislike Franciscus, for such aversions are common, though none can say why. To assume that it is because Franciscus is an unnatural being, unable to cross water or walk in sunlight—this is patently ridiculous, for all of us have seen him in the day, and if he could not cross water, what would he be doing living so near the Tiber?

There is a question about his slaves, you indicate here, saying that they are being held with the others suspected of insurrection. Of all slaves in Rome I can imagine none with less reason to revolt than those owned by Saint-Germain Franciscus. They are well-fed, well-housed, kindly treated and each is given his chance to excel in his work. There are some who would not be satisfied with purple silk, but most are grateful and value their master as they should. There are no legion deserters in his slaves, no foreign army men, no gladiators at all. Why should anyone suspect them? Were I asked to judge those slaves, I would say that they are wrongfully accused and I would free them immediately with compensation to their master for the loss of their labor and income.

Why does the prefect of the Praetorians seek to antagonize a man who has been tireless in his work and forthright in his business affairs? You say that there have been complaints against this man, signed by no one, and that the complaints have so far proven false. Why do you put faith in such flimsy and contemptible accusations? Is the foreignness of the man such that it blinds you to his excellent qualities? If so, must he forever be under a cloud of questions and suspicions? I confess your questions disquiet me. What must he do that will convince you of his intent?

My own association with the man, though rather slight, has always been the most satisfactory and honest. He has found texts for me that I feared did not exist in the world. He has been glad to assist in learning and teaching when my studies have gone into areas where I am not expert. It is true that he spent much time with Nero, but many of us did. That does not mean that he is disloyal to the Flavian House. He also, as you will recall, was a friend of Titus Petronius Niger, even when the Arbiter fell from favor, and it was said that he was at Cumae when Petronius died. It is true that Rome has not always enjoyed good relations with Dacia, which is Franciscus’ homeland, but by his own admission, he is not himself a Daci. What would it profit him to aid them when they are not one of his blood?

"If you have other questions, or if my testimony may help in any way, I urge you to send for me and I will gladly put myself at your disposal. It amazes me that these questions need be asked at all, but since it seems that they must, then let us dispose of the matter quickly and apologize to this distinguished man who has done so much to aid us.

Most respectfully by my own hand on the tenth day of December, the 823rd Year of the City,

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HE WAS VERY OLD and softly obese like a white toad, though he had no treasure to squat on, only his position of power which he wielded with the love of authority only a freed slave could have. His name was Alastor, for the Greek demon of vengeance.

"Your complaint will be filed, naturally,” he said to Saint-Germain as he sat in his gloomy office in the Curia where the Senate met.

"I beg your pardon,” Saint-Germain corrected him with a great show of deference, “but this is not a complaint, it's a petition. I have already filed complaints for the illegal seizure and imprisonment of my slaves. It was one thing to arrest my arena slaves with all the others, but it is a different matter entirely when you arrest my slave who visited them in prison on my orders. Or don't you agree?” It was difficult to keep the anger out of his voice, but Saint-Germain had had much experience with men like these to know that if he once revealed his irritation, he was lost.

"It is somewhat unusual,” Alastor allowed, sinking his three chins back against his chest. “There must have been a reason for it. Was the third slave authorized to visit the prison?"

"I authorized him to do so, and I had the assurance of the Emperor's older son that this was permissible."

Again the sage nod. “Yes, of course. But you must realize that Titus has not held his post long and is not entirely familiar with the way such things are done. He should have consulted me first. I have been procurator senior for the Senate since Nero came to the purple. It was Claudius who appointed me.” He was proud of this record, and justly so, for he had survived twenty tumultuous years of Roman politics.

"Certainly he should have,” Saint-Germain agreed, his annoyance building afresh. “But it is strange, is it not, that my slave who visited the prison on my orders should be confined? That is not at all like the usual procedure. If there was, or seemed to be, reason for such an arrest, don't you think I should have been notified? The slave belongs to me."

"You weren't notified?” Alastor said, shocked. “You should have been. It's required that owners of detained slaves be notified immediately, or as soon as is possible."

"I live three thousand paces from the Porta Viminalis, good procurator. It was more than three days before the prison officials sent me word.” He hoped that this might win Alastor to his side, and for a moment the old freedman seemed to be wavering. “Good procurator, I have been careful to live within the laws of Rome. It appalls me that certain Romans do not show a like respect."

"Truly,” Alastor muttered. He looked down at the five sheets of closely written arguments. “It is distressing. Very distressing. It must be looked into. Such arrests are irregular. I was not aware they had occurred.” There was a real sense of affront in the old man. “These matters are most complex. You are a foreigner and the slaves in question are foreigners as well.” His manner changed abruptly, becoming very bland. “There are other foreign slave owners petitioning the Senate just now. They have problems similar to yours. I'll see that your...petition is given every consideration. Someone has abused his authority, that's plain. You may be confident that he will be dealt with."

Saint-Germain knew that this was intended as a dismissal, but he stood his ground. “Good procurator, I would appreciate being kept informed of your progress. My slaves are valuable. Every day they remain incarcerated is one more day they do not win for me in the arena, and the longer they are inactive, the more time it will require to rebuild their strength. I'm not the only who is losing money. My charioteer Kosrozd races quite regularly for the Reds and they are displeased. They want to know when he will be available to race again.” The Reds, like most of the racing factions, were made up primarily of equestrian-and Senatorial-rank Romans, and this might spur Alastor to work if other considerations could not.

"The Reds. Yes.” He gave Saint-Germain a quick, pointed look, very unlike the crafty laziness he had affected. “The Emperor has many friends among the Whites.” Then his face was calm again and he murmured, “You will hear from me."

This time Saint-Germain accepted the eviction. He gave a slight bow, which was more than courtesy required, then drew his heavy black cloak around him and stepped out into the rotunda of the Curia. It was cold today, with few Senators about, since the weather was dismal. This was the third day of the first winter rains and almost all Rome was indoors. Not even the swine market had opened that morning.

But there were beggars in the streets, as there were through every winter. They lingered around the fora of Julius and Augustus, along the Vicus Triumphalis; they huddled under the Claudian Aqueduct and in the half-built first-story arches of what would be the Flavian Circus. At the Aventine Hill they gathered in the narrow streets around the Circus Maximus. When it was raining as it was this afternoon, they were more bedraggled than the mongrel curs that yapped in the streets, ribs showing under mangy coats.

Saint-Germain's light one-horse chariot was mud-splashed and dripping as he pulled away from the Curia. The beggars flocked around him like scavenger birds, crying shrilly for alms. Absentmindedly Saint-Germain threw them a handful of copper coins before turning down the Vicus Triumphalis. The interview with Alastor had not been encouraging. Saint-Germain smiled grimly as he thought of the procurator senior and his smug, soft face. He knew it would be useless to approach the Senate again.

One of the beggars, a girl of scarcely more than seven, grabbed for the handrail of the chariot. Her shapeless tunica of rough sacking barely came to her knees, and was torn at the neck. It dripped water like a sodden sponge. “Patrician!” she shouted in a high voice, her grimy face upturned and her sticklike arms stretched out as she clung to the side of his vehicle. “Good noble! I'm a virgin! Guaranteed! Ten sesterces for a virgin, good noble! Ten sesterces! You'll like it!"

He had heard such calls before too many times to be shocked, but this time he was saddened. “Ten sesterces, child?"

"Five!” she yelled, trying with one hand to clutch his thick woolen cape in her filthy fingers. “Five! A noble like you, five! No more!"

Saint-Germain pulled his horse into a walk. “A virgin for five sesterces? They charge ten times that in the lupanar for an experienced twelve-year-old."

"Four! Good patrician, four. I like you, maybe. Four will be enough.” She sniffed, still reaching for him.

Saint-Germain opened his money pouch and brought out two silver denari and two copper sesterces, her original price. “Here,” he said, offering them to her. “Take them. Buy yourself some food and a place to sleep."

She stared at him, blank-faced. “And you?"

"You don't have to sell yourself to me, child.” He tried to smile, but did not quite succeed. “My...tastes do not run to children."

"Don't you want me?” she demanded fiercely. “I'm a virgin! It's true! No diseases, no babies!"

His horse was hardly moving. “Child, take the money and be grateful that I will not accept your...proposition. You do not need to sell me your body. You would not want to."

Suddenly her face contorted with rage. “Eunuch! Pervert!” She pushed back from the chariot, almost falling on the paving stones as Saint-Germain's horse lurched into a trot. “Dried-up worm! Fucker of pigs! Dung-licker!” She continued to yell at him, though her fist was closed tightly around the coins he had given her.

The beggars gathered around the huge buildings laughed, pointing to the chariot as it rattled south toward the Circus Maximus. As he drove, Saint-Germain could hear the laughter over the rain and it stung him. Why had he bothered? he asked himself. What was the use of it, if the only reaction was open derision? His mood darkened with the leaden sky. He glanced to his left, toward the Oppius Hill where the Golden House sat, empty but for one wing where Vespasianus lived while he decided what was to be done with the rambling building. In the rain the walls were drab and the palace looked no more inviting than the worst of the insulae in the poorest quarter of the city.

Near the first upthrustings of the Flavian Circus the streets grew muddy, token of the earth that had been excavated after the lake had been drained. Now the huge foundations were almost complete and it was possible to look into the enormous ring and see the corridors, cages and braces that would run under the sands when the mammoth amphitheatre was finished. There had been many times that Saint-Germain had stopped to look at the progress that had been made, but he knew he would not do so today. He had yet to see Juvines Acestes, the tribune who acted as warden of the slaves’ prison just beyond the Porta Navalis. Two previous visits had been fruitless, as this one would probably be, if Alastor's attitude were any indication of the official posture at the moment. What had gone wrong between Titus and the Senate, Saint-Germain asked himself, that the foreign slaves had become such an issue? If the senior procurator of the Senate was vying with the prefect of the Praetorian Guard for power, then whatever they chose to be the issue for their battle was certain to be ruined by one side or the other. Fear for Aumtehoutep, Kosrozd and Tishtry bit sharply into him.