Blood Games (9 page)

Many of you have had the opportunity to inspect the domus transitoria and we feel it would be only just to say that no building has ever had a more beautiful, more spacious vestibule.

As architects for this grand venture, we are eager to have your assistance and advice on how best to ornament this palace, which will stand for all time as a monument to all that is finest in Rome. Do you know of any noble works of art that might suitably adorn these august walls? Perhaps there is, in your own home, some particular object that you feel would enhance the beauty of the building. Let us encourage you to bring it forth, and not be ashamed to make an offer because you feel that it would not be worthy of so great a place in the world. It is in the little items, the finishing touches that magnificent buildings become complete works of art.

The Emperor has assured us that any citizen offering such additions to his palace will earn his gratitude and praise. Those who have reason to show their love of the Emperor will find it now quite reciprocated. To have the favor of the Emperor as well as the honor of being represented in the splendor of his palace is the highest good to which any Roman may aspire.

We are certain that you will show your sincere devotion and help us make the Golden House the most remarkable testament to the glory, might and scope of the empire that has ever risen beside the beloved Tiber.

For ourselves and the thousands who labor in the tireless realization of the Emperor's dream, we send you our appreciative thanks. Your generous response will please all of us.

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FOR THE LAST three hours the stands of the Circus Maximus had been filling. Sailors had run up the high masts above the seats to unfurl the huge multicolored awning that would protect the thousands of spectators from the intense Roman sun. Vendors of food and drink forced their way through the tightly packed mob, crying their wares over the oceanlike roar of conversation.

In the lower seats, the nobility were beginning to gather, entering their marble boxes with cushions and little awnings that could be stretched over individual seats to lend extra shading from the sweltering morning. Most of them carried pomanders and bags of sweet-smelling herbs and spices which they held to their noses to block out the overpowering odor of the more than sixty thousand Romans crammed into the stands above them.

The crowd cheered as the nobility arrived, for that meant that at last the Games were about to begin. Occasionally insults were shouted to particular Senators and lesser nobles, but these jeers were haughtily ignored, being beneath the notice of highbred Romans.

A sudden blare of trumpets, two for cadence and one for the low drone, announced the arrival of the Emperor, and for a moment the huge stadium was relatively silent, the roar of voices dimmed to the drone of bees. The fanfare was long, and the instruments were played more for volume than quality of sound, and it served well enough. As the trumpets fell silent, Nero, dressed today in a full robe like an actor's, of shimmering green silk, strode into the imperial box.

From every point in the arena, the infectious cries came. “Ave! Ave! Ave!” The sound was an intense physical presence in the Circus Maximus.

Nero grinned and raised his hand in acknowledgment.

Immediately the shout grew louder, coming faster. Nero stood alone in the imperial box, a flush of pride on his still-boyish face. When he lifted both hands in the same gesture of an actor accepting applause, the response was deafening.

Finally the tremendous sound subsided and Nero motioned to the rest of his party to join him. Four slaves carried in green cushions to place on the large marble chair where he would sit, and one of his Greek attendants handed him the wire-framed eyeglasses of fine green crystal that Nero habitually wore to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun.

Once he was comfortably disposed, Nero gestured to those in his company to be seated. Tigellinus, with a tribune and two centurions of the Praetorian Guard, framed the imperial seat. To Nero's left, Vibius Crispus shared a plate of cold grouse with Aulus Vitellius, who had recently furthered his political career through his triumphant management of the Neronian Games on behalf of his Emperor. On Nero's right, the young Marcus Cocceius Nerva, who had helped contain the most recent conspiracy, was in deep conversation with the distinguished general Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo. As the crowd renewed its cheers, Corbulo's long, sensitive face took on a cynical smile, and he turned away from the young Nerva to make some remark to the Emperor. Apparently it was successful, for Nero threw back his head with extravagant laughter.

Since he had Nero's attention, Corbulo asked, “Where's Petronius. I see Tigellinus, but the Arbiter is absent."

Nero made a face. “Petronius won't attend the Games since I've lifted the ban on killing of gladiators and animals."

Tigellinus smiled his malice. “Petronius is not in sympathy with true Romans."

This was overreaching, and Nero reprimanded him gently. “My good Praetorian captain, it was I who ordered the ban on slaughter. For a time it seemed so wasteful, all that death."

The rebuke struck home. Tigellinus straightened up, his color heightened, and was silent.

Another bray of trumpets announced the arrival of the Vestal Virgins, and once again the crowd became quiet as these venerable women entered their box. The reaction of the mob in the many tiers of seats was less vociferously enthusiastic, but still genuine and respectful.

There was one last brazen shout from the trumpets, then the hydraulic organ that was mounted in the spina which ran down the center of the Circus Maximus gave a peremptory belch, then launched into a spirited march tune as the Gates of Life opened and the great parade began.

The editor of this series of Games was Vivianus Septimus Corvino, a newly created Senator of twenty-nine who had just recently acceded to his father's dignity and estates, and was determined to make a stir in society. The mob was generally unimpressed with such social-climbing minor nobles, and their reaction to Corvino was typical. When the young Senator appeared in his fantastically ornamented chariot to make the first pass around the spina, there were catcalls from the upper seats. Corvino, noticeably nervous of the two lions that drew the chariot, led by slaves in silver armor, started to sweat as he heard the sound. The hoots and applause grew more raucous, and by the time he had made his way all around the spina and was prepared to mount the steps to the podium where he was entitled to sit, his face was set with fury because of the derision the crowd had heaped upon him. He climbed to his seat on the podium and glared at the Emperor.

With a loud, discordant blast, the trumpets joined the wheezy bellowing of the hydraulic organ, announcing the parade of the various combatants and contestants who would be appearing through the next three days of Games. Knowing the temper of the Roman populace, the editor had kept to tradition and put the charioteers first, though their races would not come until later that day. There were three ranks of chariots, four chariots to each rank, and the crowd shrieked out its pleasure, since it meant that there would not be the usual two, but three races during the Games.

In the second rank of chariots, Kosrozd held his team with steady, experienced hands. As always, the horses were nervous, but he had long since become used to the problem and was no longer flustered by the noise that swelled around him. He glanced toward the Blues’ charioteer in the next vehicle, already searching, studying to find any little flaw or lack of skill that would give him the advantage when he raced later that afternoon. The Blues’ charioteer returned the careful, measured look with hard eyes.

Behind the charioteers came all the trained fighters: gladiators, retiarii with their nets and tridents, marching with the armored secutori who would try to kill them before sunset; bestiarii and venatori came next, many of the bestiarii with their specially trained animals. Two gigantic Nubians led ostriches somewhat apart from the others, as the huge birds were known to have unsteady tempers.

So far the crowd approved of what they saw, and the reaction became more favorable as the parade continued. It would be a worthwhile three days for all of them. There was much to see, and a promise of real fighting.

In the imperial box, Corbulo leaned forward as a troop of essedarii passed beneath in their high-fronted chariots.

"They interest you, General?” Nero asked politely.

"I wish we'd had them in Armenia,” was Corbulo's thoughtful answer. “We could have used their lassos to break up the infantry. A few units like that, and we might have been able to take on the Persians.” He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “Well, it's over now."

"Would you like to go back to Armenia?” was Nero's next, too-innocent question.

"I am a warrior, my Emperor. I want to be with my soldiers, but thanks to the folly of my son-in-law, I would not blame you for keeping me here. It's good strategy, even though in this case it isn't necessary.” It was a clever answer, stealing the march on Nero's interrogation.

"Your son-in-law should have stayed away from conspiracies. Why didn't you warn him?” Nero was growing petulant as he thought of the recently failed attempt on his life. “If Justus Silius had not had the courage to warn me, you would cry ‘
Ave
’ to Piso now, and perhaps fight with those wretches who face the wild beasts for the amusement of Rome."

"Would you call Silius courageous?” Corbulo returned, but without any enjoyment in the game. “The people love you too much, my Emperor, to trade you for another.” It was true enough that Corbulo spoke without flattery.

The parade was almost through; most of the participants had already left the arena through the Gates of Life. Only a last few bull riders and dwarfs cavorted on the fine white sand as the trumpets and hydraulic organ blasted out the last of their march.

Saint-Germain stood near the stables as Kosrozd approached in his chariot. “How are they?” he asked when the young Persian was near enough.

"They'll do. Titanius"—he nodded toward the largest horse on the leftmost side of the team which would have to hold the other horses steady on the sharp turns around the ends of the spina—"is very strong. I've had him out on the practice trails and it should make a difference.” He handed the reins to one of the stable slaves as he came out of the chariot.

"When do you race?” Saint-Germain inquired, coming up to Kosrozd.

"We're the fourth or fifth event, just before the break at midday. Not a bad time, really. The heat won't be too great. Jeost is the unfortunate one—he's scheduled to do his exhibition race the hour before sunset. By that time, the heat will be unbearable.” He had fallen into step beside his master as Saint-Germain led him a little apart.

When they were sufficiently removed from the other charioteers, Saint-Germain turned to Kosrozd. “I've had a talk with Drusus Stelida. He's heard a rumor that the Blues have instructed their charioteers to win today at any cost."

Kosrozd recalled the expression on the Blues’ driver during the parade, and nodded once. “I'll remember that."

"The Whites might give support to the Blues for that. They both want to run the Greens off the track.” Saint-Germain stopped walking. “You're in an odd position, Kosrozd. I don't belong to any of the four factions, and that means they can attack you with impunity. The Reds are staying out of this particular confrontation."

A unit of Gallic cavalry clattered by, and Kosrozd watched them. “They're fighting Parthian cavalry. It looks like a good match."

Saint-Germain followed Kosrozd's gaze. “I'd give the edge to the Parthians—they've got the better horses and their armor is lighter. I doubt those Gauls will get close enough to use their spears and axes.” He returned his attention to Kosrozd. “I realize that this is not quite within the official rules, but so long as you carry this strapped to your leg"—he bent and pulled a long, thin-bladed knife from his high-topped boot—"you can say it's for the traces. Remember that the Blues are giving their drivers flails. Don't let him get close to your side, or he'll go for your shoulders with it."

Kosrozd took the knife, his expression very serious. “I don't know how to thank you."

"Thanks?” Saint-Germain asked sardonically. “I paid a great deal of money for you, and I won't allow political caprice to interfere—"

A loud blare of trumpets cut through the rest of what he said, and saved Kosrozd from having to make a reply. Around them activity increased dramatically, and there was the sound of straining ropes as massive cages were lifted into position.

"The first event is a venation, isn't it?” Saint-Germain asked as the sounds of distressed animals became louder.

"Yes. White bears, wolves and wild oxen at first. Senator Silius has bought half a dozen Hyperborean venatori for this hunt. They're good fighters."

Saint-Germain could not quite conceal his disgust. “Now that Cornelius Justus Silius is back in the Emperor's favor, he's fully determined to make the most of it."

"You have bestiarii scheduled here today?” Kosrozd asked, thinking that he had not seen any of them when he had come to the Circus the night before.

"They fight tomorrow. Most of them are lion handlers, and one of them works with the big Asian bulls. They'll be sent in tonight.” Saint-Germain now owned more than fifty bestiarii, a great number for a foreigner, but insignificant to a Roman noble.

Kosrozd accepted this. “I must prepare, my master. The venation is almost started. There will be a race after that, then forty pairs of gladiators will fight, and then I race.” Like all charioteers, Kosrozd spent a considerable amount of time exercising and strengthening his arms and shoulders.

"Good fortune on the sands,” Saint-Germain said as he turned away from the Persian charioteer. He made his way through the warren of halls under the stands toward one of the stairs that would take him into the stands. He did not hurry. The venation promised to be a long one and Saint-Germain had discovered that he was sickened by the carnage of these hunts.