Blood Games (59 page)

"He does know your brother,” Justus admitted, knowing that the life-long rivalry between Titus and Domitianus would be useful in this situation. “I recall that they have had some association, and I have heard your brother speak highly of this man."

"Naturally,” Domitianus scoffed. “A Roman who stoops to live with a Jewish queen would not balk at condoning adultery among Romans."

"The man is not a Roman,” Justus said very quietly, watching Domitianus covertly, his face averted.

"Not a Roman? Who is it? What foreigner would dare...? How could she stoop...?"

Before Domitianus grew too excited again, Justus said, “The man is Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus."

"Franciscus?” Domitianus was on his feet again. “Franciscus? But there's never been any talk at all...never a hint...And you say that he is your wife's lover?” Bewildered, he stopped. “He has dealt with Titus occasionally. Titus likes him.” This was sure condemnation in Domitianus’ eyes. He spun toward Justus. “How did your wife meet him? When?"

Justus took his time answering. “They met for the first time at a banquet given by Titus Petronius Niger. He's been dead for years, but he was in favor once. Franciscus was there. He brought some slaves from Hind who danced for us. It was really most remarkable."

"Do you mean,” Domitianus demanded, his voice raising again, “that your wife has lain with this man for—what is it?—seven years?"

"I don't know,” Justus said, his mouth tightening at the thought that had infuriated him since he had learned of Olivia's deceit, the thought that she might have been intimate with him since that night when Saint-Germain had first come to her bed and dared to give her pleasure. “I don't see how she could have,” he added, more for his own assurance than for Domitianus'.

Something occurred to the Emperor's son. He stopped his restless pacing and came to sit on the foot of Justus’ bed. “Did you know that there were investigations begun against him that were dropped? One of them was in connection with the rebellious arena slaves, of course, but there was a question about smuggling. He owns ships, you know, and I remember that one of the captains was found to be carrying illegal grain. There was a report in the Praetorian records about it. I remember looking at it while
I
was prefect.” He grinned at Justus. “The investigations might be reopened. They were never concluded. If my father should decide that foreigners like Franciscus, who owns rebellious slaves and whose captains smuggle goods, should be given something more than a cursory check every three years, well, it could be that part of your trouble with your wife may be removed.” He fairly beamed. “If he were out of the way, she is sure to think twice about harming you, particularly since the interference will not come from you, but from the Senate itself."

It would not do to give in too easily, Justus reminded himself. “That might not be a good idea. Wouldn't she be suspicious? I would hate to do this and have it be for nothing."

"Justus, Justus,” Domitianus said with great sincerity, “the woman is your wife. You have your rights with her and she is using you shamefully. You could divorce her. It might be wise if you did. My father has said that he is well-inclined on your behalf, and would be willing to do what he could for the advancement of your house with ours."

"I have considered divorce,” Justus said slowly. “I think I mentioned it once to your father. This is very difficult for me. No man wishes to think ill of his wife...” He leaned back against the pillows. “Very well, Domitianus. You are most persuasive. See if the Praetorian Guard know anything more about this foreigner, and if there is cause, remove him from my wife's company. I would not like to disgrace her with him. She might be willing to deal more kindly with me."

"You're fooling yourself, Justus,” Domitianus insisted in a kindly way. “Be rid of her lover and of her. Consider what it has been like for her—she has had the excitement of this foreigner, and perhaps others. Offer her a quiet settlement and be rid of her.” He made an effort to sound as logical as possible, not allowing his rather strident voice to rise.

Justus wanted to laugh. When he rid himself of Olivia, she would be sentenced to death. He had no intention of leaving another live wife about where she might start spreading tales about him. He had the physician's report, the report that Monostades had written and the testimony of the slaves who guarded Olivia at her father's house. These would be enough, when he was ready, to establish her guilt beyond question. “I'll consider it, Domitianus, but you must understand that when a man is my age and has been married to a beautiful young woman, he has reasons to forgive...many things."

Domitianus gave an uncomprehending nod. “There is such a thing as too much forgiveness, Justus, and it can only breed contempt in those who receive it. Consider that, as well.” He came and stood by the head of the bed. “You've been very helpful to me, Justus, and it would upset me if anything were to happen to you. If you were to be ill again, for example. I might then insist that your wife be questioned as persuasively as possible. You say you admire her beauty. Wouldn't it be better to divorce her and leave her as she is than to give her to the questioners to practice with, and deprive her of both her looks and health?” He patted Justus’ shoulder, then turned and left the room.

"Young fool!” Justus erupted when Domitianus was gone. “He's going too fast. If he forces me to act before I'm ready...” He threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed. “I'll have to keep him distracted a little longer. If he makes up his mind to go after Franciscus...” He sounded a gong and a few moments later a slave opened the door.

"Master. What do you wish?” The slave stood in the arch of the door, away from Justus’ arm.

"Send Monostades to me. At once. I will require wine in an hour. See to it.” As he waited for Monostades, he threw off his bed robe and dragged a long-skirted tunica over his head, belting it with links of gold.

"Master?” Monostades said as he came through the door. There was an air of derision about him, a barely disguised repugnance in his aloof features that made Justus more irascible than ever.

"Smug slaves get whipped in this house,” Justus said conversationally. “Remember that, Monostades."

Monostades’ face was wooden. “What do you require, Master?” If he had used less inflection, he could not have spoken at all.

"You have all your reports on Saint-Germain, don't you? Not just his nights with my wife, but other material?"

"Yes,” Monostades said carefully. “As much as I could find out easily. There are records of ownership for land and slaves and ships; those are simply come by. There is other information, more obscure, that is a matter of report and rumor. You may read those records as well, if you wish.” It was an effort not to unmask Justus as the hypocrite he was, but that was dangerous work for a slave. He had promised himself that when he was free, he would denounce Cornelius Justus Silius, and knew, secretly, that he would never do it.

"I want to know the worst of those rumors. Prepare them for me and bring them when they are ready.” He did not bother to look at Monostades. “I will then have a message I want you to deliver to...an important person. No one is to know where you are going. Is that understood?"

"I understand. You want the worst gossip about Saint-Germain Franciscus, and then I am to deliver a message clandestinely.” He recited the instructions tonelessly while fixing his gaze on the rumpled sheets of the bed.

"See that it goes properly. That's all until you bring the report.” He stood with his back to the door until he heard it close. As he moved to a low writing table, he tried to recall what he had heard about Saint-Germain from one of the gladiators. There had been a ridiculous rumor that he had a special skill that made it impossible to wound him. After his Persian charioteer had walked away from that accident and returned to racing with only a few scars, there had been a great deal of speculation, most of it more envy than fact, which certainly was disproved when the charioteer was pulled to pieces in the arena. Still, he ruminated, such things could be useful. A man who can convince others he is invincible is a very dangerous man.

Justus rose from the desk and went to the window, looking out at Rome. His smile was greedy. The Emperor, he told himself, was older than he, and it had not been considered unlikely that he would rise to the purple when he was so old. Caesar himself had not begun his career until quite late in life. Why, then, for himself, many things were possible. If he could marry into the Flavian House, it would be simple to convince Domitianus to make Justus’ children—for there must be children—his heir, and then, if Domitianus did not live to rule, Justus would have to guide his infant Caesars. Vespasianus, he was certain, would not last more than five years, and Titus would not prove himself capable for any length of time. Domitianus, on the other hand, was tenacious and bitter enough to take risks that his handsome older brother would not consider. Domitianus would have to be the rung that lifted Justus to supreme power. He chuckled, knowing that Domitianus thought he was using Justus, and not the other way around. Seven years, at the most, he thought, seven years and he would be Caesar in all but actual name and honors. The lust for power gave him new potency, and he wished that Olivia had not fled to her father's house, for at moments like this, he longed most to see her writhe under the assault of a muscular provincial. He forced his mind to other matters.

At the desk he pulled a sheet of vellum from its drawer and began to write out his authorization to the prefect of the main prison. Occasionally he whistled as he wrote.

When Monostades returned, the vellum sheet was folded and sealed. Justus took the papyrus pages from his slave and gave him the vellum.

"This is to the prefect of the Mamertinus Prison. You are to take it to him personally and remain until he has read it. Do you understand?” He held out the sealed letter.

"Yes. Certainly.” Monostades took the note. “I will make sure the prefect reads it. Shall I wait for a message in return?"

Justus hesitated. “No. I doubt that will be necessary.” He folded his hands. “Don't linger on my account, Monostades."

The Greek slave paled, bowed slightly and went quickly out of the room, and for that reason did not see the malicious smirk that Justus wore when he left. As it was, Monostades went directly to the prison, bearing in his own hands the note that instructed the prefect of the Mamertinus Prison to seize the slave that brought the note, geld him, cut out his tongue, and send him to labor with the rebellious Jews building the Flavian Circus. The slave, according to Justus’ note, had forced the Senator's wife to lie with him, and because of her sense of disgrace, she had removed herself from her husband's house. The slave had then attempted to blackmail his master, and for that reason Senator Silius would be glad, he wrote to the prefect, if the business were kept as quiet as possible.

In the first hour after sunset, a slave came to the house of Cornelius Justus Silius, carrying a small bloodstained bag from the prefect of the Mamertinus.

TEXT OF A WARRANT GIVEN TO THE PRAETORIAN GUARD.

To the prefect, the tribunes, the centurions and men of the Praetorian Guard, from the Emperor, his greetings:

This will empower you to take in charge the foreigner Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus, who lives at an extensive villa and estate three thousand paces to the east of Rome. You are hereby given authority to hold this foreigner for five days while the full investigation of his activities is concluded. You may question him, you may starve him, but you may not torture him, as there are no formal accusations filed against him yet.

Since the Praetorian Guard has done some preliminary investigations of this foreigner before now, it is requested that any and all information in the files of the Guard be made available to the procurator senior of the Senate and to myself, should I require them.

This Franciscus has shown himself to be kindly disposed to Rome, and for that reason a degree of circumspection in his treatment is advisable, until it is determined that he has truly violated the laws of the state.

Do this with as much secrecy as possible. It is necessary that great caution be exercised; this man is well-respected. Keep watch on him by day and night and be certain that everything he says is accurately recorded. I will decide how best to act when I have examined the evidence.

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AN OLD hunchbacked fruit vendor had been crying his apples and grapes outside Olivia's garden for most of the morning before she said to one of the slaves who guarded her, “I'm going to go buy whatever he's selling. I don't want to have to listen to that bagpipe voice any longer."

"Have him beaten with whips,” the guard suggested laconically. “That way he won't come back."

"No,” she said quickly. “If I pay what he asks, and then remark that there is more traffic two streets farther down, I think we'll be left alone.” She looked at the slave who guarded her. “I am not going to run off. You may watch me, if you like.” Her disdain was genuine, and might have shamed him, but the slave knew his master, and said, “I will watch you from the door, Domita, and will do what I must."

"Mother Isis!” she exclaimed, giving him a quelling stare. “Do watch me, then.” She had lifted her stola, which had been flung casually around her neck, and pulled a portion of the fabric over her head, as befitted a woman of her years and station. There were five gold denari in her desk drawer, and a few coppers in the kitchen for the cook, and that was all the money she was allowed. Allowed! That still rankled with her, for she knew that there were three estates that were hers and her sister's, though she had never seen them and did not know what they earned. She took one gold denarius from the desk. It would be enough to buy the hunchback's fruit ten times over, but she was willing to pay that to be rid of the monotonous call of “Apples, grapes, fresh this morning, apples, grapes, fresh this morning, apples, grapes...” Clutching the coin, she stepped out of the house onto the narrow street.