Blood Games (55 page)

"I'm counting on it,” Saint-Germain said sternly.

As he spoke, a young Cymric charioteer came striding across the stableyard. He was tall and loose-limbed and there was a confidence in him that reminded Saint-Germain of Kosrozd. “My master,” he called his greeting as he approached. “I'll be in Pisae five days from now or you may throw me to the sharks at Tiberius’ villa."

"If you are in Pisae in five days, you may have your freedom and five brood mares,” Saint-Germain said promptly as he watched the Cymric charioteer lash the bundle he carried into place in the chariot.

"Five brood mares and my freedom?” He turned to stare at Saint-Germain. “For that I'd drive to Britannia, over the ocean.” He stepped into the chariot and nodded toward Raides. “I'll take their heads now.” He had already begun to gather the reins into his hands. “This new harness of yours, master,” he said as he steadied the team, “it's better than the old one. I didn't like it at first, but Kosrozd taught me its tricks. It helps to have so much control of each horse. If you know what you're doing.” His grin plainly indicated that he did.

Saint-Germain put a restraining hand on the rail of the chariot. “You are not to be reckless. What is important is that the message is delivered, in time, intact, and that you do not bring unnecessary attention to yourself. In your authorization from me it says that you are bearing a message from me to my captain and that there is a side wager on your speed. That is all you should need to know. If you are detained on the road, it could go very badly for us all.” There was no levity and no mockery in what he said, and some of the jauntiness of the Cymric charioteer was lost.

"I will remember, my master,” he said, his young face quite serious.

"Yes. I think you will.” Saint-Germain stood back from the chariot and gave a quick gesture of permission. Raides stood back, the charioteer let the reins run as the horses sprang forward out of the stableyard and toward the road a fair distance down the gentle slope.

"He'll do,” Raides assured Saint-Germain. “He's young and he's eager, but he has sense. He'll let the team shake the fidgets out of their legs and then hold them to a long trot. That's the best plan, I told him. Horses like that can trot a long way."

"If their hooves hold out,” Saint-Germain reminded him, a crease showing between his fine brows. “That's what concerns me.” He shook his head and said in another, more rueful voice, “That's my worry talking, Raides. It's been such a long battle that I can't believe that we've won through."

Raides shrugged. “Well, when your slaves are taken, it's not every master who would care to fight for them as you have. Oh, it's talked about in the quarters, never doubt it.” He brushed the sleeve of his tunica and dust puffed around his hand. “We know what's been happening."

"Slaves always know,” Saint-Germain said with amusement.

"We know more than most,” Raides informed his master with a great show of dignity. “That's what I wanted to tell you. We know, and we're grateful. If more masters would do half of what you've done for those three, there'd be few runaways turning bandit in the hills.” He folded his arms and thrust out his jaw. “That's all."

Saint-Germain was silent as he thought that his slaves did not fully understand what he had done, and why. Kosrozd, Tishtry and Aumtehoutep were not common slaves to him. If the ones in prison were Raides or the Cymric charioteer who had rushed away to the north, or three of the bestiarii, would he have tried so much? he asked himself. He doubted it. Perhaps if he had known the slaves, it would have been different, and he would have fought for them though there was no deeper tie between them. “Perhaps,” he doubted, aloud.

Raides stared at him. “Perhaps?” he repeated.

"Nothing, Raides. More worry.” He looked about and saw Rogerian standing nearby. “Come. I have a message packet to prepare. It will go by messenger in the morning.” He paced back toward his private wing, Rogerian beside him. His face was closed in thought, his eyes looked inward. As he neared his side entrance and the black guard that waited there, he said to Rogerian in a low voice, “I tell myself that it is a matter of time now, that we are prepared.” He stopped walking and looked toward the fountain in the central garden.

"My master?” Rogerian asked. His feelings to his new, foreign master were still confused. Though he felt increasing gratitude for the return of his life, he was distressed at some of the changes he had perceived in himself. It was true that he was not like Saint-Germain, but he was no longer like other men, either. He responded with circumspection to Saint-Germain's kindness while his respect grew hourly. At the back of his mind was the feeling that this erudite man was more dangerous than the most brutal overseer he had ever known. Standing beside him in the garden of Villa Ragoczy in the cool violet shadows of late afternoon, he found it difficult to accept all the things Saint-Germain had told him about himself. That was, he found it difficult until Saint-Germain turned his dark, compelling eyes on him. Then all the rational doubts vanished before their penetrating brightness.

Saint-Germain gave an impatient jerk to his head. “I can't convince myself that it's settled.” He had had that strange sensation many times before, over the centuries, and always it had been a warning. As he went into the north wing of his villa, the pervading apprehension closed around him, darker and more inexorable than the lengthening shadows in the garden.

TEXT OF A NOTE FROM THE SLAVE MONOSTADES TO HIS MASTER, CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS.

Master:

They have met again, at her father's house. He arrived quite late in the night and entered by climbing over the kitchen sheds, onto the roof and then, apparently, going into the atrium. None of the slaves raised a cry against him, so it may be true that he has bribed them. He did not go until the hour before dawn, when he left by the slaves’ door in the garden. Everything that the Armenian said would appear to be true. There was no way I could approach her bedroom, and so I did not, in fact, see them in the act itself, but the hour, the locations, the previous circumstances make it obvious that this visit was not one of courtesy.

I have spoken to one of the kitchen slaves (there are only three) and she said that her mistress has been completely alone, that no one has visited her and that no slaves have come with messages to her. However she and Franciscus arrange to meet, I cannot discover who in the household assists her. You have said yourself that your wife is not regarded sympathetically by your staff. It might be wise to examine a few of them and find out if this has changed. You would have little control of her in this house if she has found allies among her slaves.

Let me suggest that you do not confront her yet. You have said that you wish incontrovertible proof that she is adulterous, and that is proof I have yet to obtain. I have asked the slave who does the washing if there has been any evidence of lust on the sheets, but the slave claims that she has seen nothing, and she is very much the sort who would find such spillings if there were any. Perhaps Franciscus is cleverer than we know, and takes your wife on the floor, or puts his clothing over the bed so that we will have nothing to offer in court. Since it is obvious that he does not come to her often, it may take a little time to observe them properly, but with your other plan going forth, if you arrange to have another attack of poisoning after a meal with your wife, and if I have been able to observe her lying with this foreigner, your way will be clear. There will be no defense she can make against your accusations and you will have no blame coming to you. It will be a simple matter to have your divorce, with scandal attaching only to your wife. If there are those who have lain with her before who would be willing to testify in court that they have taken their pleasure of her, it will be so much the better, as she cannot then rely on countertestimony from this Franciscus.

I have decided that of the rewards you've offered me, I would like best to have a tavern and inn at Ostia. I don't know enough about crops and livestock to do well on an estate, even a small one, but a tavern would please me very well. I look forward to my freedom, master. You will always be the most welcome guest at Ostia, and I will be thankful for the rest of my life.

You may be certain, with this reward awaiting me, that I will be diligent in my work, and nothing will stop me from getting the necessary evidence and testimony to condemn your wife.

From my own hand, written and sealed on the morning of the ninth day of April, the 824th Year of the City, with all duty and fidelity,

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WHEN THE FOURTH event of the imperial Games, a cavalry combat, was finished, the sun was directly overhead and the heat in the Circus Maximus was intense. In his imperial box, Vespasianus could be seen drinking iced wine, while in the stands the vendors of juices and other beverages did a far more brisk business than those who sold sausages and meat pies.

On the spina, a large military band was playing popular marching songs, and many of the enormous crowd sang the rousing verses with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Little boys dressed as cherubs with painted wings strapped to their shoulders swung over the spectators on ropes hung from the rigging of the enormous awning. The boys carried baskets of flowers and coins which they tossed to the people below in the stands.

Constantinus Modestinus Datus turned to his guest, holding out a wide fan. “Here, Saint-Germain. I'm sure you want this."

Saint-Germain's face was quite dry, unlike that of Modestinus. “It's not necessary,” he said as he took the fan and waved it through the stifling air.

"It's a pity about your slaves,” Modestinus said as he adjusted the pillows on his marble seat.

"Yes.” He hated talking about it, but there was no way he could say so without offending Modestinus.

"I think it's shameful the way Domitianus forced the Emperor to cater to the demands of the crowd. Executions should be according to the law not according to imperial whim,” he said disapprovingly.

Saint-Germain was suddenly very still. He no longer heard the sound of the eighty thousand Romans in the stands, or the cries of the vendors as they passed up and down the tiers. He was only distantly aware of it when the hydraulic organ began to play. “What do you mean?” he asked when he could trust himself to speak.

"What? Modestinus turned toward him. “Oh, the execution. The foreign-owned slaves are to be torn apart by wild beasts. I thought you knew."

"Torn apart?” Saint-Germain whispered. “No. I didn't know.” He rose, feeling ill. “Pardon me,” he said to Modestinus in a voice he could not recognize as his own, “I must...I must attend to...” He gestured meaninglessly.

"I don't blame you for not wanting to watch,” Modestinus called after Saint-Germain as he stepped into the corridor behind the patrician boxes. “There's no dignity in that kind of death. I share your feeling. It's a discredit to Rome."

"Yes,” Saint-Germain said vaguely as he tried to force his mind to think. It was his body that responded. He moved quickly and purposefully down the corridor toward one of the staircases that led to the passages under the stands. There might still be time, he told himself in desperation, to reach Kosrozd and Aumtehoutep and Tishtry. What he would do, even if he could reach them, he did not know. They were condemned. They would not be crucified. They would be torn apart by wild beasts, and that would be the true death. His jaw tightened and his stride lengthened as he reached the stairs, going down them two at a time. When he reached the foot of them a guard stepped forward, prepared to challenge him. Then he saw Saint-Germain's face and hastily stepped back into the shadows.

On this side of the Circus the bestiarii were engaged in raising the cages from the level below. Heavy ropes groaned and men tugged, sweating as much from fear as labor, to bring up the ferocious animals that were trained to attack and kill men.

As Saint-Germain made his way through the passage one cage tilted precariously as it reached this level and a huge shaggy paw with long curved claws swiped out from between the heavy bars at the slaves trying to right the cage. The bear made a low, barking sound as the terrified slaves eluded him.

Saint-Germain saw a gladiatorial trainer he knew and approached the man. “Where are they holding the condemned slaves?” he demanded without preamble. “Tell me, Tsoudes."

The old trainer looked up. “The other side of the Circus,” he answered before he realized who it was. Then he rose, a lopsided grin on his scar-seamed face. “Don't try it, Franciscus,” he said kindly. “There's half a century of Praetorians guarding them, and they've already arrested two men who wanted to get near them, just to touch them.” He looked at Saint-Germain rather wistfully. “It is a shame about the Armenian woman. She was a real credit to the Circus, though most of those louts haven't the sense to appreciate it."

"I must try to reach them,” Saint-Germain said with deadly calm. He moved nearer to Tsoudes. “They didn't tell me about the beasts. I thought it would be crucifixion."

Tsoudes sighed. “So did we all,” he agreed, falling into step beside Saint-Germain as they made their way through the dark passageway. “Domitianus was the one who had it changed. He said that it would be more effective, since these were not Roman-owned slaves. He thought it would remind foreigners that they are here on sufferance."

They had to stop as another cage was raised into place. This one held three tigers, each in a fury. Saint-Germain watched these cats expressionlessly.

"I think it's a mistake,” Tsoudes said philosophically. “If they're part of a conspiracy or rebellion, then treat them like rebels, but otherwise, why pretend?"

"You need not follow me, if there are soldiers guarding the condemned slaves,” Saint-Germain said, as if he had not heard Tsoudes comment. “I will find them."

"And when you do, you'll need someone to stop you from making it worse for your slaves; I know.” They were almost to the stableyard and the passageway was growing light. “It's bad enough to send them out on the sands to face the beasts, but if you give the Praetorians any trouble, they'll cut your slaves a few times—hamstring them so that they're helpless and bleeding, which means the animals will take them first.” He put a huge hand on Saint-Germain's shoulder, a hand that was missing two fingers. “It's cruel to make it worse for them. Fifty Praetorians, armed with short swords, under orders from the Emperor to guard the slaves and be sure that no one approaches them. What can you do against that?” He meant it kindly, and Saint-Germain knew that his advice was sound, that he was helpless, but he could not accept it.