Blood Games (8 page)

Nero apparently approved of Petronius’ new simplicity. He had discarded his lavish clothes for an ostentatiously simple Ionic chiton and chlamys whose only extravagance was that the cloth was shot with gold thread.

Three of the Praetorian Guard accompanied the Emperor, each in formal and elaborate armor, their red soldier's cloaks thrown back from their shoulders. They were silent, careful men, who quickly stationed themselves about the garden.

"I'm sorry I had to take this precaution,” Nero said with a negligent wave of his hand. His voice, though rigorously trained, had never lost its slightly muffled quality, as if he were speaking into a barrel.

"A lamentable necessity,” Petronius agreed, inwardly cursing his canny rival, Tigellinus, for surely these men would report the entire evening in detail to their captain.

The Emperor glanced around the garden. “I see you have done me the favor of inviting Justus Silius. A gracious gesture. He did me a great service recently."

"Indeed.” Petronius fell into step beside his illustrious guest. Covertly he signaled. Artemidorus to alert the musicians.

"And there is the foreigner from Dacia, who is not a Daci,” Nero went on, studying Saint- Germain. “He showed me designs for a new sort of hydraulic organ, which is exactly what is needed in the Circus Maximus. You must remind me to discuss it with him.” The arrogant young head lifted.

Petronius murmured his assent. It was painful to look at the twenty-seven-year-old Nero. Ten years before, when he had risen to the purple, he had been a handsome, cherubic youth, with skin like roses and cerulean, sly, knowing eyes. Now those eyes were hard, the skin was marked by dissipation, and his early enthusiasm had turned to rapacity. When, Petronius asked himself, had he begun to hate this Emperor who had been so full of promise?

"A bower!” Nero cried out in delight as he saw the couches set for dining. “You never fail to create novelty,” he said to Petronius. “Just when luxury was threatening to make me completely jaded, you do this."

That was one remark that Petronius devoutly hoped the Praetorians would report to their captain. He responded with graceful thanks, and concealed his satisfaction as the hidden musicians began to play. Perhaps he had worried in vain.

All but one of the guests moved quickly toward the couches as Nero sank down on the one set on a dais.

"Saint-Germain?” Petronius said, surprised to see that the foreigner did not join the others in hurrying to recline.

"I had thought to see to the dancers. You will excuse me, I'm certain. Since this is their first appearance in Rome, and it is before the Emperor himself, I want to be certain they are fully prepared.” His smile was quite bland, but Petronius sensed that it would be unwise to question him.

"Shall I have food sent to you?” He felt that he owed Saint-Germain this consideration.

"I'll...dine later."

Petronius wished he could fathom the ironic light in those commanding dark eyes. “Some wine, then?"

"I do not drink wine."

There was nothing more Petronius could say. “As you wish. Your couch will await you, when you are ready to join us."

"I thank you,” was the distantly courteous response.

As he turned to join the others, Petronius gave one last speculative look to Saint-Germain. What was it about the man that so perplexed him? He put the matter from his mind, and focused his whole attention on the Emperor.

The meal was almost over when Saint-Germain came back into the garden. More than an hour had passed, and the gathering had become more raucous as the unwatered wine was unstintingly poured by the most beautiful cupbearers money could buy. He took his place on the one empty couch and waved away the slave who approached him.

On the dais, Nero lay back, his usually petulant face now lit with a singularly attractive smile. Propped against his belly he held a small lyre, and this he plucked in uncertain accompaniment to the music of the pipes that came from the shrubbery. The other guests were somewhat weary of applauding his efforts, but did not have the courage to stop.

The ponderous figure of Cornelius Justus Silius rose from his couch, and the Senator approached the Emperor. “Very like the god Apollo,” he effused.

"Apollo?” Nero said, stopping in the middle of his aimless tune.

"God of light and music,” Justus went on, determined to make the most of this opportunity.

"And medicine,” Nero said thoughtfully. “I cannot help but think that he must cure by singing. Music is the rarest, the highest art.” His thick fingers plucked at the lyre again.

From her couch, Olivia motioned to her husband to withdraw, not trusting the caprice of the Emperor. She was ignored. Justus had spent the afternoon berating her for the lack of success she had had in finding a more stimulating lover. The Syrian merchant had been a bore, Justus told her, the magician from Britannia was a sham, and the last, a freeman from Raetia, had been demented enough to imagine himself in love with Olivia. Looking around the select gathering, Olivia bit her lower lip. Justus had renewed his threat of the Tingitanian from the stables, and the memory of that was enough to make her food turn to rocks inside her. Her eyes wandered over the gathering, searching and desperate. Would Justus tolerate a high-bred man as her lover, she asked herself, or must it be a freeman or soldier or slave? The sound of Petronius’ voice turned her thoughts away from her predicament.

"It is fitting that in this gentle setting, evocative of all that is best in nature, we be entertained in a manner appropriate to our condition.” He stood beside his couch, urbane, ineffably elegant, deeply wary. “So it is that I have procured through the good offices of Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus"—he indicated the foreigner with a gesture—"an entertainment that is truly new to Rome."

Nero had propped himself on his elbow, a greedy fascination in his alert blue eyes. “New?"

"Completely,” Petronius assured him. “These are not the fine Greek pantomimes that Rome has come to love, but dancers of entirely different skills.” He remembered how apprehensively he had approached Saint-Germain about new entertainments at the end of autumn. He recalled that Sanit- Germain had been amused by his request and had promised to find him something that would astound every Roman who saw it. “These are religious dancers,” he said, and faced the resultant groan with good humor. “Not in the manner you might expect. They come from Hind, where much of the worship is carried out in a manner that would please the most demanding Roman."

"How do they worship?” Nero asked, piqued beyond patience.

"They worship with their bodies. They have made a ceremony of the act of coition, and devote sacred texts to these matters. These dancers train from earliest youth to express every refinement of lust.” Petronius heard Nero chuckle. “At the end of the arbor, where the extra lamps are hung, they will dance for you."

As Petronius spoke, Saint-Germain had risen and gone for the three slaves from Hind. He addressed them in their native language. “You are to dance now. The man on the dais is the ruler of many lands. If you please him, it will be well for you."

The small, slender man turned his huge, liquid eyes to Saint-Germain. “It is not the same as when we dance in the temple."

"Perhaps not,” Saint-Germain said. “Nonetheless, dance to satisfy him and you will be rewarded. He does not like to be disappointed."

The two small voluptuous women exchanged frightened glances. “He is a big man,” one of them breathed.

"Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed. “Take your places.” He stepped back into the shadows, and made his way to his couch as the sinuous notes of the flutes began to slide through the night.

Under the soft lights, the three dancers began to move. Their tawny skins took on the look of polished metal, and their slow, chastely sensual display completely absorbed the Romans. As the lithe bodies twined, embraced, moved apart and combined again in ever-more-convoluted variations on coupling, the guests watched, silent now, their faces lit with increasing avidity.

Cornelius Justus Silius leaned toward his wife. “Olivia, that is what I want, but faster, and harder."

Olivia swallowed against the sudden obstruction in her throat. It was difficult for her to watch the dancers before Justus spoke, and now she wanted to avert her eyes. That the dancers should make that terrible ugliness into such beauty distressed her. Worst of all was her fleeting suspicion that there could be beauty in the act and it had been denied, would always be denied her.

From his vantage point on the dais, Nero devoured the dancers with his eyes. They were enticing, their movements the essence of temptation. If he had been a little more drunk, he would have joined them, so that their supple bodies would fasten on his. He wished now that Poppaea were not pregnant, so that he could possess her in all the various ways the dancers implied. It maddened him to be refused the delight of her body while his child grew within her. He felt jealousy gnaw at him. He set his teeth. To be jealous of his own unborn child! It was the greatest folly, and yet it burned in his heart.

As he watched the dancers, Petronius was pleased. They were as remarkable as Saint-Germain had promised they would be. He had feared they would be nothing more than the usual demonstrations of exotic and uncomfortable coital positions, and his fears had proved groundless. This was much more than the sexual display he had asked for—this was a worship that was art. He leaned back on his couch and let the fluid movements of the dancers enthrall him.

The dancers were almost to the end of their performance. Saint-Germain, who had watched them with an odd, remote smile on his lips, rose and slipped away from the arbor. He knew that there would be requests made of him for the use of the dancers’ skills, and he had to prepare the dancers for those demands. As he started to cross the grass, he noticed the large, haunted eyes of one of the women guests upon him. The intensity of the look startled him momentarily, for it was filled not with passion, but despair. It took him a moment to recall who she was—Atta Olivia Clemens, the young wife of Cornelius Justus Silius.

When the dance ended and the last sound of the flute faded on the warm breeze, the guests were loud in their approval. Petronius gracefully disclaimed all credit, but made sure that they would all remember that the dancers first appeared at his banquet.

"How intensely moving!” Nero cried over the babble of voices. “There is nothing like it in all my experience.” There was no need for him to mention that his experience was vast—his varied sexual exploits had provided Rome with gossip for years.

The guests were quick to agree with him, and for once their enthusiasm was genuine. They spoke quickly, their voices brightly loud, and their movements showed their awakened concupiscence. They were eager to touch each other, to show their bodies, to invite new attention.

Olivia felt some of this, too, and wished she could be swallowed up by the darkness. For Justus to see her now, with this strange longing in her, would be worse shame than anything he had subjected her to so far.

"I am inspired!” the Emperor announced as he got to his feet. In the pale light his blond hair was silvery, his face young. He reached uncertainly for his lyre. “Let me sing my tribute to those incredible dancers, so that art will reward art."

Response this time was forced, and one or two of the guests exchanged quick, telling looks. It was dangerous not to show themselves delighted to hear whatever Nero wanted to sing, for music was one of the genuine loves of his life.

Petronius had followed Saint-Germain to the area in the shrubbery that had been set aside for the dancers. He glanced over his shoulder toward the arbor, where he could hear a lyre being tuned. “It's unfortunate,” he said softly.

Saint-Germain's voice was dry. “What? That? You're probably right."

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded. You see, he does have some talent, and when it suits him, his discipline is enormous. But he has been given a small gift and great power, and so...” He stopped.

"The power is more important, then?” Saint-Germain had seen the ravages of power before, had once known it himself. The price he had paid because of it was immense, and the memory of it still had a sting.

Petronius looked away. “Agrippina—she was his mother..."

"Yes, I know."

"She taught him to live without limits. She controlled him for years by denying him nothing, and for a while, her power exceeded his. He changed, after a while, when he learned that no one could refuse him. He is still, I believe, looking for the limits of his power. Sometimes I think,” he went on, meeting Saint-Germain's penetrating look, “that the reason he loves music as he does is because it is the only thing in his life that will not surrender to his power, but makes demands of him, instead."

"And does he realize this?” Saint-Germain inquired, his fine brows lifting.

"He used to, perhaps. Now, I don't know.” He felt suddenly very helpless and forced himself to assume the same confident stance he had achieved a little while before. “You've given me a great success."

Saint-Germain said nothing, but a wry smile pulled at his lips. It had been so little a thing. “Shall I send the dancers to the arbor? Or do you think that would be unwise?"

"It's probably most unwise, but I'll undoubtedly ask you to send them shortly."

The beginning of a song sung by an unsteady baritone in quiet acceptable Greek echoed from the arbor.

"He's begun. I must return and show my pleasure,” Petronius whispered hastily, as if at this distance he might still offend the Emperor by speaking while he sang. “When he is through, then bring the dancers. They will be most welcome."

"As you wish.” Saint-Germain watched Petronius make his way back across the dark garden. His thoughts were bleak now, but all that his face revealed was a remoteness that nothing seemed to touch.

TEXT OF ONE OF SEVERAL IDENTICAL LETTERS FROM THE ARCHITECTS SEVERUS AND CELER, DATED AUGUST 24, THE 817TH YEAR OF THE CITY.

Esteemed and noble citizen of Rome:

You, along with all Rome, must be watching with awe the building of the Emperor Nero's Golden House. This glorious structure, when complete, will be the largest, most splendid building anywhere and will be the rule by which all other magnificent buildings are measured. The gardens alone have already attracted the admiration of the world.