Blood Games (56 page)

"I must see them,” he insisted.

Tsoudes sighed. “Listen, Franciscus: if you give me your word that you will not behave stupidly or foolishly, there may be a way I can do that. But if you ever reveal what I show you, it will be the cross for me, and hardship for many others.” He squinted as they walked into the sunlight, raising his hand to shade his eyes. “Will you give me your word?"

"Yes,” Saint-Germain said promptly, feeling senseless hope. “I will never speak of it."

Tsoudes watched him a moment, then made up his mind. “Follow me. Be silent and step warily.” He started off across the stableyard, limping a little. He motioned Saint-Germain to come along.

Saint-Germain did not hesitate. He was no more than half a step behind Tsoudes when they entered the passage on the far side of the stableyard.

This part of the passage was almost deserted, for it had been used for the cavalry battle which had just concluded. It would be more than an hour before there would be much activity in this quarter of the Circus Maximus.

"Here.” Tsoudes stopped to face a narrow light well where sunlight lanced down into the gloom. He stepped into the light well and reached up to a bracing bar, then pulled himself up. “Come quickly,” he whispered to Saint-Germain. “Hurry!"

Saint-Germain for a moment was still, a tall figure in close-fitting black. Then in one deceptively easy motion, he touched the bar and swung upward. Tsoudes was crouched in a narrow opening to the side of the bar.

"Here. Hurry. Someone could see your shadow!” He held out his arm to Saint-Germain and pulled him into the opening. “From here you must not speak.” He put his hand to his lips as emphasis, then darted away into the low tunnel that led away from the light well.

Over the years, Saint-Germain had heard rumors of these secret passages in the Circus Maximus, though he had given the tales little credence, since there were so many corridors and tunnels in the structure in any case. Yet the rumors had been true. He ducked down and went into the irregular and twisted course through the very walls of the Circus Maximus. The footing was uneven and occasionally the walls narrowed almost to impassability, yet they kept on in silence. It was like climbing through a seashell, Saint-Germain thought as the sounds from the stands above and the corridors below mixed eerily in the little space.

Suddenly Tsoudes stopped and motioned Saint-Germain to be still. He had reached a corner, and he looked around it with great care. When he was satisfied, he beckoned to Saint-Germain to join him at the junction of the corridors.

When Saint-Germain was beside him, Tsoudes pointed and said to his ear, “That way. A few paces farther along, the right side. There's only room for one. I'll wait for you here.” He drew back into the aperture. “Don't be too long. They're about to be sent out."

Saint-Germain nodded to show he understood, then crept past Tsoudes into the cross-corridor. It was just as Tsoudes had said. It was no more than half a dozen steps to another opening on his right, a shallow niche that looked down into the large holding cell where, at the moment, the foreign-owned slaves were kept. With great care Saint-Germain slipped into the little space and looked down.

More than eighty people huddled there, most of them with strong bodies. Through the bars of the cell Saint-Germain was able to see the squad of Praetorians guarding the cell. Once he had assured himself that he could not easily be seen by the soldiers, he turned his attention to those eighty people below him. He recognized many of the slaves. There were a dozen essedarii, their long hair bound in unruly knots at the backs of their necks. There were gladiators and retriarii, secutori, andabantae, bestiarii and charioteers. They were sullen, for the most part, knowing what they were to face. A few were gambling, though there was nothing to gamble for now. Others, watching the gamblers, jeered. One of the women, an andabante, lay in the far corner, inviting those men who wished to have a last taste of joy.

At last Saint-Germain saw Kosrozd, standing a little apart from the others. Behind him were Tishtry and Aumtehoutep. They were grave and very calm, which worried Saint-Germain. There was no way he could call out to them without exposing himself and his hiding place to all the slaves in the cell, and to the soldiers beyond. He stared at them with the full weight of his eyes, willing them to look up at him.

It was Aumtehoutep who saw him first, though his recognition was little more than a sharp intake of breath. He bent his head, and apparently spoke softly because Tishtry moved closer to him and plucked at Kosrozd's sleeve. Her eyes flicked toward Saint-Germain once, then away. Kosrozd stood with his back to his master.

Finally Kosrozd turned from the other two and began what appeared to be an aimless stroll around the confines of the cell. Others were doing the same thing and there was no notice paid to him. After rather slow progress, he paused under the cranny where Saint-Germain watched. He glanced up swiftly once, and then looked away. “You've heard, then."

"Yes,” Saint-Germain whispered. “There is nothing I can do, except die with you.” He spoke calmly, just loud enough for Kosrozd to hear him.

"No,” Kosrozd objected quickly with a swift motion of his hand. “That's useless."

"What, then?” Saint-Germain asked, staring down at the Persian charioteer.

"Avenge us!” Kosrozd hissed, then moved away abruptly.

Saint-Germain looked after him, fury rising in him with renewed intensity. He did not know yet where to vent his wrath, but there was a new, cold-burning rage lighting his dark eyes.

"All right!” the Master of the Games shouted from outside the cell. “It's time. Out onto the sands. You know where you're going."

A handful of the gladiators attacked the Praetorians as they pushed their way into the cell to drive the slaves out into the arena. The fight was quick, ending in the gladiators’ being knocked down and superficially wounded.

"That's what will happen to all of you, if you resist,” the Master of the Games said coolly. “You have all fought here before. You know what will be tolerated and what will not be."

"We've never faced beasts with empty hands before!” One of the slaves shouted this objection and many of the others joined in it.

"You may believe me or not, as you wish,” the Master of the Games said in a voice that could be heard over the growing resentful murmur. “I asked that you be crucified. I opposed this contest. You deserve better than this.” There was an unmistakable sincerity in his tone. “If it were not an imperial order, I would refuse to honor the requirements for your executions."

The last of the Praetorians forced their way into the cell, using their short swords to prod the most reluctant of the fighters toward the sunlight.

Saint-Germain quitted his hiding place and went back to Tsoudes. “Where can I watch?” he whispered through clenched teeth as he brought Tsoudes to his feet.

"You want to watch?” Tsoudes was aghast.

"No. But I must.” He dragged Tsoudes by the elbow. “Show me. Quickly."

Tsoudes obeyed, heading back the way they had come, but turning near another light well along the way. “There's a slot here. You can see most of them.” He hung back. “I don't want to stay,” he muttered.

"Then go.” Saint-Germain felt a surge of gratitude for the old trainer. “I will not forget what you've done for me, Tsoudes."

"No matter,” was the answer as Tsoudes hurried away through the secret corridor.

From the hidden place where he watched, Saint-Germain could see that most of the slaves were well onto the sand now, and many of them were beginning to form small fighting units, so that they could resist the first rushes of whatever wild animals were being released to kill them. Being arena slaves, they were wise to the behavior of most of the man-killers they were to face, and one of the bestiarii had boasted that if they sent lions against him, he would be safe, for he knew them all and need only give them orders to lie down and he could walk through them unharmed.

But it was not lions that raced around the spina toward them, but Sarmatian wolves, huge, fearless and deadly. Two of the bestiarii who had worked with the wolves cried out in despair, but a few of the others rallied. Saint-Germain could hear one of the slaves bellow, “Get them apart and break their necks! Stomp on their necks!"

Around the other end of the spina came more than a dozen bears, running with surprising speed, clearly maddened by teasing given them while they waited in their cages.

Saint-Germain pressed nearer the wall so that he could see more of the arena.

From the Gates of Life, there came a terrifying sound—the rasping squeal of wild boars. These enormous pigs were often twice the weight of a man, and their speed and tusks made wolves and bears avoid them. The barrier was raised and twenty boars, the bristles on their backs singed to make them furious, dashed onto the sands. The nearest wolves faltered, swerving to avoid the rush of the boars.

There was real fear among the slaves now, and one or two of them broke away, trying to run for the empty cages where they might hide. The wolves caught these without trouble. There were screams, thrashing limbs and the sickening sound of splintering bone as the wolves fell on their first victim, and an excited shout went up from the spectators in the stands.

In the imperial box, Vespasianus leaned back in his chair and nodded once to his son Titus.

Now that one of the slaves had been pulled down, the wolves grew bolder, rushing the clusters of men and snapping at their arms and legs, trying to drag the men away from the closed groups.

The bears saw this, and a few of them joined the wolves, rising on their hind legs as they attacked.

More of the slaves were screaming. Four of the boars charged the largest group of slaves, and sent the men scattering, except for those unlucky enough to be trampled and slashed with razor tusks.

The wolves were circling around for another attack now that the way was opened to them. Two of them began to stalk Kosrozd, Aumtehoutep and Tishtry. One of the wolves darted in, snapping. The crowd roared more loudly than the animals. Kosrozd took the wolf at the height of its leap, lifting the wolf as it opened its jaws. Possessing the same unnatural strength as his master, the young Persian forced the wolf's head back until the spine snapped. He dropped the big animal and turned to deal with its partner, yelling over his shoulder to Tishtry. She nodded, and began to decoy the second wolf while Kosrozd moved in on it.

They had killed four more wolves and were beginning to be cheered by the thousands of people watching when more wolves were released into the arena, causing something of a panic among the animals already there.

Many of the slaves were dead or dying, mangled and rent by the wolves, bears and boars that had been trained to kill them. Less than half of the men were still on their feet. A bear with an essedari in his jaws was attacked by one of the wolves, and between them they pulled the body into pieces as they fought over it.

Saint-Germain closed his eyes in anguish as one of the boars charged Aumtehoutep, tossing him into the air and slashing him from collarbone to the top of his hip as he fell. The stink of blood and entrails was hanging in the humid air, dense, almost palpable. One of the wolves trotted over to where Aumtehoutep lay and began to tear at his throat.

Kosrozd saw that, and rose from the wolf he and Tishtry had just killed. He began to walk toward the dead Egyptian, fury hot in his eyes.

"No,” Saint-Germain gasped as he saw a bear turn to charge with the speed of a racehorse. “
No!
"

The bear struck Tishtry a glancing blow that flung her into the path of a running boar. With infuriated squeals, the boar began to trample her.

At this sound Kosrozd turned sharply and saw the bear coming down on him. In that instant before the huge curved claws caught him and threw him and broke him, Kosrozd stood as straight and splendid as the prince he was, betraying no fear, accepting no defeat.

Saint-Germain's arms were crossed over his abdomen and he bent with a pain that was not part of his body. The loss was a raw and open wound in him, and for a moment he wanted to break through the wall into the arena and go down with them. He slumped against the stones, a thin, keening sound in his throat. Saint-Germain was blind with grief, battered in his soul by the true deaths that he had felt with Tishtry—agony stabbed him again—with Aumtehoutep, with Kosrozd. He drew his knees up to his chin, a tightened knot of suffering.

He never knew how long he lay there. When he came to himself, the bodies—what was left of them—had been dragged out through the Gates of Death and there were mounted Gauls pursuing what was left of the wolves and bears with long spears. He could do no more than glance once out the spy hole, then had to look away, telling himself it was the reek of the sands that affected him. It was an effort to stand. With each motion an unspeakable pain tore at him, keen as the teeth of wolves and bears, as the tusks of boars.

He had managed to stumble most of the length of the secret passage when the sound of voices stopped him. He steadied himself against the wall and listened.

"I took your word for the necessity,” said a clipped voice that Saint-Germain recognized with difficulty as belonging to the Emperor's younger son. “The crowd found it exciting, and that's to the good, but..."

The other voice was indistinct, muffled.

"I don't care what he told you. I don't want to discuss it with either of you. It's done. The people were satisfied. My father said it was a welcome change.” He was silent while the other voice spoke. When Domitianus answered, the words were louder, more impatient. “I made no promises to either of you. Leave me alone!"

There was a garbled objection and the slap of retreating sandals. Saint-Germain hugged the entrance to the corridor above the light well and waited for silence. When he could hear nothing but the tidal murmur from the stands above him, he reached for the bar and swung down.

He moved numbly, thinking that he must claim the bodies, what was left of them. Titus had given him a release and it would be peculiar if he refused to present it. He did not think he could bear to see the shattered limbs and ruined bodies. Yet he steeled himself to do it, feeling as if his soul were clad in granite and ice.