Blood Games

PART I Chapter 13

TISHTRY PULLED in her chariot beside the long-legged blue roan her master rode. There was dust everywhere in the orchards; and the practice track that wound through them, around the lake and behind the vineyards was clouded from the passage of chariots during the morning.
"How are they?" Saint-Germain inquired, though his practiced eye told him that the bay mare on the right was flagging. "I think you've got the yoke too tight."
"Yes." Tishtry sighed. "I have been working them for over a week now, and they still aren't ready. Canvo there"-she nodded toward the horse on the right, the only one not yoked with the other three-"he holds his own on the inner turns, of course, but I can't get him to get speed enough when he's on the outside. It's habit. In the Circus Maximus, he always turns on the inside, so he's used to holding the pivot. I wish there were a way to explain it to him."
As if in disapproval of this, Canvo tugged at his rein and sidled away from the other three yoked horses. Tishtry reached for the reins tied around her waist and pulled him back. "You see how it is?" she said to Saint-Germain. "He's been like that for more than a month, ever since I took that toss in Nero's Circus in May. I think he was confused, an empty arena without a spina to guide him down the center."
"Would you rather not participate there again? I can refuse you to anyone who requests." He leaned forward in the padded, stirrupless Roman saddle. "Is all well with you, Tishtry?"
"Well?" she repeated, her strong, angular, sun-bronzed face revealing little. "I suppose so. My horses are learning, I am getting money of my own, I have learned a great deal." As she spoke she steadied her horses.
"Is that all?" He had felt himself withdraw from her before now, but had not been certain she was aware of how much he had changed. Looking down at her with the hot, diamond-bright sun hiding nothing, he realized he had not understood how sensitive she had become to him.
"It's enough." She could feel his concern, as intense as the heat. "I have liked sharing my master's bed, but you want more now. Wrongly or not, I don't have what you need. This"-she touched the reins that were tied around her waist-"is my life. The other, well, it is pleasant enough, but not what you've demanded of me. I can't do it, my master. When you took me to your bed the first time and were willing to be honest with me, I told you my feelings. They haven't changed. If you want to send me away from you, it's your right." She shaded her eyes with one hand in the hope that she could read his expression, but the sun was behind him and her eyes were dazzled.
"I've always appreciated your frankness," he said, feeling a sensation that bothered him. He was pleased not to have to make a choice between Tishtry and Olivia, since such choices were foreign to him. Yet he was sorry that in the four years he had shared the night with Tishtry, none of those delightful, sensual contests had moved her sufficiently to feel a bond with him. He wondered now how she would feel when she woke from death into his life, and he worried for her.
"Will you send me away?" There was a little apprehension in her question. She liked Rome, reveled in her fame and was well-treated by her master.
"No. Should you wish another master, you must tell me." He straightened in the saddle. "If I send for you tonight, will you come?" He had not seen Olivia for many days, and then they had had only a few moments to talk. Though his hunger for her was growing strong, he could not risk entering her house again so soon, while her husband still feared Persian spies.
"You are my master," she said with a slight hitch to her shoulders.
"Would it displease you?"
She looked away from him, toward the orchard and the hill beyond. "You've never displeased me, my master, not as you mean. I think sometimes that I disappoint you, but you've never said so. If I do disappoint you, it is not what I want to do. We're so different, you and I, that I think we often misunderstand each other." To change the subject, she looked at Saint-Germain's feet. "You wear Scythian charioteer's boots all the time, even when you ride. I wear proper sandals. You see."
Saint-Germain knew that their differences were otherwise. "Footgear isn't the problem," he said sardonically. "I accept your terms, Tishtry. I won't impose too much on you. I thank you for being willing to share my bed, and for your honesty."
"And if I weren't willing?" she asked, watching him, thinking how like a shadow he was, standing between her and the sun. "You could order me."
"Yes, I could order you," he said wearily. "It's a master's right. I wish you would believe that I would never order you." He thought briefly, painfully, on those years he had been a slave, and though they were long ago, he recalled them clearly.
"You haven't yet," she allowed. "My master, my horses are restless, and we have a long way to go to complete the course."
Saint-Germain pulled his blue roan back to give her chariot room to pass; then as the dust rose around her, he turned his horse and made his way down the slope toward his villa.
It had changed since he built it. Where there had been one large U-shaped stable, there were now three, and a heavily fenced animal compound beyond. The barracks and cottages for his slaves extended along the edge of his vineyards to the eastern limit of his land. The villa itself, with its double atrium, was completely finished, and the extensive garden between the atria was full of flourishing rare plants and large roof-high cages containing many strange, gorgeously plumed birds. Three intricate fountains cascaded in this garden, cooling the air and adding a delicate music to the hot afternoon. Two artificial streams flowed from those fountains through the stableyard, passed the slaves' barracks and cottages and into a small, artificial lake in the animals' compound where, at the moment, a pair of tigers were lolling to be rid of the heat.
Drawing up at his colonnaded portico, Saint-Germain slid out of his saddle and called for a slave to lead his horse around to the stables. "I will come later to feed him," he added as the boy took the reins from his hand. "Be sure to put the saddle on its rack immediately. It could be ruined otherwise." Padded saddles were still something of a novelty in Rome, and many of the older stablehands treated them with contempt. To avoid that, Saint-Germain had two Parthian slaves to care for his tack, but he had learned to be sure that orders were given for proper care.
The slave nodded, bowed slightly, and led the horse away.
Saint-Germain went swiftly through the garden and entered the larger wing of the house through one of a series of huge windows that opened onto his main dining room. There were nine couches there, the proper number, and the little tables before them were lacquered with fantastic designs. A long table on a dais at the end of the room was reserved for women, since at formal dinners women did not recline. Saint-Germain's eyes flicked over the room, looking for signs of poor preparation, but he could find none. His guests would be pleased, which was what he wanted.
As he left the dining room, Aumtehoutep approached him. "I've been looking for you, my master."
"And you have found me. What is it?" He crossed the mosaicinlaid atrium to his main reception chamber, Aumtehoutep falling into step beside him.
"There were two Praetorians here today, conducting what they called a routine inspection." The Egyptian's expressionless face was unreadable to anyone but Saint-Germain.
"Why does that worry you?" he asked as he opened the gold-fitted doors of palest northern pine.
The reception room was the most splendid apartment in the larger wing of Villa Ragoczy. Its style was distinctly not Roman. Tall narrow windows let in light, so that the very air seemed to glisten. There were no murals on the high walls; they were painted a fine, pale blue, and the false columns that rose to the ceiling at regular intervals were silver. Instead of mosaics, there was a carpet on the floor, of colors to match the walls. This extravagance was unusual enough, and had taken Persian weavers a year to make, but more outstanding were the rosewood chairs with pale blue silk cushions, which had come the entire length of the Silk Road, from that fabulous land that was so rich the very skins of its people were golden.
"It worries me," Aumtehoutep said carefully, "because it means someone wants you watched."
"Why do you say that?" He looked around the room carefully. "Do we have any white flowers? Have them arranged in the three silver-and-lapis bowls, and bring in the rosewood tables for them."
"Of course," Aumtehoutep said, and scribbled a note on his tablet with his stylus. "I think there are some white blooms, still. I'll put one of the household slaves to work on it shortly. You said that you wanted your black cotton Egyptian robe tonight, the long kalasiris and the black shenti..."
"Yes. The silver girdle, I think, and my ruby-and-silver collar. No headdress, no earrings."
"Bracelets?" Aumtehoutep asked hopefully.
"Oh, I think not. I'll seem foreign enough without that. And," he added with a slight smile, "since I'm on my own ground, as it were, I think I will go barefoot." He tugged at his short-sleeved black tunica. "It will be good to wear something a little lighter than this." At last he relented. "Very well, Aumtehoutep. About the Praetorians."
"They were polite, but I would not like to have denied them too much. They wanted to see the private wing, of course, but I told them I had no authority to admit anyone there. They accepted that, and by Thoth's Feather, it is so. All the barracks and stables and compounds were inspected." He closed his fingers tightly around his stylus. "If you owned gladiators, it would have been bad for you today, I think."
"Yes," Saint-Germain agreed. "That's one of the reasons I don't own any. Did the charioteers and bestiarii disappoint them?"
"One of them, indeed. With all the plots that have been afoot, and the conspiracies, it would be easier for them if they could find proof of a foreign plan to overthrow the whole empire. That would be more easily dealt with than a plot against Caesar." His brown, impassive eyes rested on Saint-Germain's face. "There are those in Rome who wish you ill, my master. They will not rest until they have made you guilty and condemned."
Saint-Germain shrugged. "It's not the first time, Aumtehoutep. Is it?" He clenched his hands together. "You're right. I should make a few provisions against that day. Babylon taught me that, if nothing else." He turned quickly on his booted heel. "Come to my library. We'll take care of this now."
Aumtehoutep moved after him, holding his tablet ready and his stylus poised. If anyone else in Saint-Germain's household had seen the tablet, except for Saint-Germain himself, he would have been bewildered by what was written there, for Aumtehoutep wrote in the language of his youth, the elegant modified hieroglyphic script of Egypt's Eighteenth Dynasty.
"Have the oysters arrived?" Saint-Germain asked as they went through the garden.
"A barrel of them. They are in the cold room, packed in ice and wood shavings." He knitted his brows. "The plovers' eggs haven't been sent yet."
"Send one of the slaves to Scimindar in the Old Market. He'll have them. What about wine?"
"The best from your own estates in Gallia. The red is twenty years old. I had the master cook test one of them. He said it's excellent."
"Good. Serve it unwatered. Are the musicians ready, and the cupbearers?"
Beside them, a peacock in full display made a raucous sound as it minced toward a Chinese pheasant.
"They'll be ready in two hours. Are you still planning to give the cupbearers to the men they serve as gifts?" Aumtehoutep nodded to the tall lean African who guarded the garden entrance to the north wing of Villa Ragoczy.
"Certainly. They expect that kind of gesture of me." He turned to close the door. The room they had entered was good-sized, of simple design and pleasing proportions. It would have been impossible to assign a style to it, for it was unique to its owner. The high walls were paneled in cedar that had been rubbed with wax until it glowed. The few articles of furniture were of the same wood, of simple and elegant lines. On the far wall there was a tall chest, and Saint-Germain went to it, opening it and drawing out two thin parchment sheets and a small jar of ink.
"What are you doing, my master?" Aumtehoutep asked, as Saint-Germain drew up a chair to his writing table.
"I'm taking precautions, as it seems I must." He had taken a fine brush and was writing quickly in a small, neat hand. "You will find my slave deeds in my Assyrian chest in the library, should you need to present them. There are copies in Rome, but they may not be secure if I have too-powerful enemies." He was silent as he wrote, filling all of one of the parchment sheets and half of the second. Finally he looked up. "There. I hope that this is enough."
"Enough?" Aumtehoutep did his best to keep the fear from his flat voice.
Saint-Germain looked down at the parchment. "This provides that should I be exiled, executed, imprisoned, arrested on capital charges, or disappear for more than sixty days without word to anyone, then every slave I own will be freed, without condition, and granted a plot of land on one of my estates. That won't help the household slaves much, or the bestiarii, but they will have something of value beyond their freedom. At least they need not starve." He rose and placed a small amethyst carving on the parchment. "I will have two or three of my guests witness this tonight, and that should be sufficient. Corbulo will do it, I know. If two others sign as well, it will be enough for any court."
"Will it come to that?" Aumtehoutep asked, studying Saint-Germain's quiet face.
"I hope not. But it could." He turned away from the writing table. "You, Kosrozd and Tishtry are provided for elsewhere, but this covers you as well, in case the state moves against me and my grants are invalidated. They are blood of my blood now. And you...how many years have you been with me, old friend?" He did not expect an answer, and got none. "In time, it will be so with Olivia." For a moment his eyes were troubled. "She's in great danger, more than she knows. If her husband ever learned of her affection for me, he would use her much more brutally than he does now." Without being aware of it, he had lapsed into his native tongue. "He's looking for an excuse now."
"She isn't safe to know," Aumtehoutep said carefully.
Saint-Germain raised his brows. "Yet it was you who told me that I was becoming too remote, too untouchable. You see, I have taken your advice. Now you warn me of the very thing you urged. How can I deal with all your strictures?" He was teasing, an ironic note in his voice.
Aumtehoutep responded seriously. "I don't question your need for her. You are changed since you've known her, and it is good to have it so. She has awakened something in you-I have no words for it, my master. You are like one recovering from a long illness, who rediscovers the world, and life. Yet this caring has become a grave risk for you, for her, perhaps for all of us."
"Yes," Saint-Germain said, cutting him short. "Though it may be that the risk is necessary. What good is this awakening, as you call it, if it demands nothing of me in return?" He himself had no answer for the question he posed. He had thought of it several times as he walked alone in the night, unrested and filled with desire. At such times he had refused to read, or study, for he wanted nothing to interfere with his reflections. Aumtehoutep was correct in saying that he was changed, and the change was increasing, like ripples in a pond. Olivia drew him with the force of a tide. Twice since their last night together he had ventured into Rome to Cornelius Justus Silius' house on the Aventine Hill, but had not been able to gain entrance. He had seen Olivia a few times, but at a distance, and when he had tried to approach her, a tiny gesture on her part had kept him away.
"My master?" said Aumtehoutep.
Saint-Germain forced his mind away from Olivia. "Yes, you're right." He started toward the door, saying, "We're having ducks cooked in honey, aren't we? Is the cook planning to serve those before or after the dates and chopped mushrooms?"
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS TO SERVIUS SULPICIUS GALBA IN TOLETUM, DELIVERED EVENTUALLY IN TARRACO.
To the revered and distinguished S. Sulpicius Galba, greetings:
In this unfortunate empire, filled with suspicions and hatred, there are few who command the respect that is given you, and fewer still who begrudge it to you. I say this, who have seen my wife's family suffer the full weight and fury of the law for their folly in allying themselves with hopeless causes and inadequate leaders. Certainly you have heard that Maximus Tarquinus Clemens has been convicted of conspiracy to overthrow the Emperor. His sons, Pontius Virginius, Fortunatus Drusillus, Cassius Saultus and Martinus Licius, are all condemned with him, and my attempts to assist them have been to no avail. They have claimed that only two were involved in any plotting and that the others are blameless, and one must admire their heroism, if not their sense. They insist that their cause was betrayed, and it is with grief that I hear them speak so. Who would have thought that so valiant men would rely on that ancient excuse for their lamentable failures?
Word has reached me that your legions want to hail you as Emperor and displace Nero. With the Emperor prepared at last to embark to Greece, some say that this would be a fine opportunity to march on Rome, providing Nero does not delay again. Surely a man as wise as you, one who has grown nobly old in the service of Rome, must realize that such an act would be disastrous to his hopes, for Rome is readied for just such an attempt. Think on your many years of service to the empire, and bide your time. Should Nero prove intolerable, then the Senate must listen to wisdom, and where better to seek it than from one with your experience. Do not let the zeal of your men lead you into unwise decisions. There is time yet to hope for reform, and more than that, many still have hopes for Nero, who, for all his extravagance, has been an Emperor of peace with an astute grasp on many of our needs. Those needs may well be the key to his rule.
Be patient, and watch to see the changes in the Emperor, so that you may not be led into unwise alliances or precipitate endeavors. Reflect that greater houses than yours have fallen on fewer suspicions than are now directed toward you. The ruin of my wife's family has taught me a great deal. Profit by my experience.
Should your plans change, I hope you will let me know of them so that proper steps may be taken. I am ever eager to advance the cause of the Roman Empire, as are you.
From my own hand, on the twenty-fourth day of October in the 818th Year of the City,
Cornelius Justus Silius