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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Dark Fantasy, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical

Blood Games (34 page)

BOOK: Blood Games
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Arashnur was paler and he looked aghast at his black-togaed visitor. “You can't."

A narrow stream ran from the fountain into the garden, winding between trees and banks of flowers, shining like molten metal in the torchlight. Saint-Germain rose from the bench and stepped across it, then followed it through the garden, making a show of crossing it at every bend. He walked back to Led Arashnur and looked down at him. “You've mistaken your opponent, spy."

With a quick motion Arashnur summoned one of the soldiers to his side, but before the formidable bodyguard could reach his master, Saint-Germain had stepped up to him and had touched him on the arms, using a firm pressure of his small hands. The bodyguard faltered and his drawn sword clattered to the mosaic walkway. With a swift motion Saint-Germain stepped to the side and with one seemingly gentle blow sent the soldier crashing to the ground. He had confronted the second bodyguard before he had his sword out of his scabbard, and grabbed the soldier's sword arm above the elbow.

Startled, the soldier tried to pull his sword into play, but gave an agonized shriek as the hands tightened. A moment later his arm dangled uselessly, and he had sunk to his knees, holding his broken arm to his chest.

Saint-Germain turned back toward Led Arashnur and laughed. “Spy, I have fought ten times this number alone. And that is no boast."

White-faced, Led Arashnur stepped backward. “I...I...” He fumbled in his belt for the knife there.

"Since you were unwise enough to reveal your plans to me, Persian, I think it had better be you who leaves Rome. The Praetorians might get a message about a spy at the house of Constantinus Modestinus Datus if you are not gone.” Contemptuously he turned his back on Led Arashnur. “Three days should be ample time."

"You would not dare! I will tell Otho what you are!” His voice had risen and fright made him stink.

"Send your message, if you think it will help you. Otho has other things on his mind just now. I doubt he'll be worried by...unnatural creatures like me.” He looked at the Persian again. “Don't make it necessary for me to kill you, spy. Be glad that you can escape me.” He looked at the bodyguard who whimpered over his broken arm. “See that the bone is set, or he'll be useless to you. The other...well, it's a shame. He'll be dead by the end of the month, probably within fifteen days.” He saw the horror in Led Arashnur's face. “Oh, there's nothing unnatural about it. Men as mortal as you are can learn the blows. His organs are bruised, and they will stop working. When that happens he will die.” His face became sardonic. “Think of this when you are back in Persia, and if you decide to come to Rome again, or send others to bargain for Kosrozd, remember this soldier's death before you act."

Led Arashnur made a frantic attempt to recover his dignity. “You dare not risk open court!"

"And who is to accuse me? You?” Before the Persian could answer, Saint-Germain had turned on his heel and moved off through the garden toward the wall. With practiced ease he vaulted the wall and was gone into the night, leaving the villa of Modestinus and its torchlit garden behind.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS TO TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS, IN EGYPT.

To T. Flavius Vespasianus, greetings:

It is many months since I have written to you, and for that I must crave your indulgence. No doubt you have had news of all the troubles that have beset this city, shaking us like so many political earthquakes. Fantastic rumors are repeated everywhere and it is only with diligence and care that the truth can be learned, although that is strange enough. The latest revelation is little more than a continuation of what has gone before. I have recently had news that Otho died by his own hand only a few days ago. This is not yet generally known in Rome, though, doubtless, the word will be abroad by the time the sun sets tomorrow. The Senate is prepared to proclaim for Aulus Vitellius. What a year this has been: Galba, his heir Piso, and now Otho dead and spring is not over.

Vitellius is supported by his generals, of course, and Aulus Caecina Alienus is a very ambitious man. I don't know that much about Fabius Valens, though I am willing to wager a considerable part of my fortune that he's in Caecina's sphere. Caecina is really the one we must watch. He is clever, handsome and a persuasive orator. I think he sees Vitellius as a ladder to imperial power. It would not be the first time such things have been attempted.

Assuming that there are no more disruptions, Vitellius should arrive in Rome in June, though he may want to come slowly to allow matters to calm themselves before he enters the city.

The hippos you sent for the Great Games of last month were a great success. Where you get these gigantic animals, I do not know, but the crowd was delighted with them, and many have spoken well of you. We haven't used all the animals yet; there are more Games coming in May, and I have arranged with the Master of the Bestiarii, Necredes, that there will be a long aquatic venation. These new sorts of hunts are becoming very popular with the people, who greatly appreciate the variety of strange animals that take to the water. One of the bestiarii told us that tigers can swim, and we've decided that it would be very exciting to add a few of them to this splendid venation. So far, we have had no luck in getting porpoises to battle in the water, and they are most difficult to transport. There was an attempt to bring a few sharks into the arena, but it failed when the transport case broke and the huge fish escaped and killed eight slaves before it died. We have got eels and ocean-bats, but they are no longer the novelty they were, and do not do well in fresh water.

Permit me to say that your handling of the grain situation has been most astute. I realize the crisis is apt to continue a little while longer, and when it ends, you will be very high in the esteem of the people. There is some grain reaching the city, of course, being brought from farther east, and from Gallia. It would be impossible to make up for the loss of Egyptian grain, and the success of these small traders has been unpredictable, as grain is now worth stealing. I would imagine that by fall, any genuine relief would be hailed as the gift of the gods.

I had occasion to speak to your nephew Tullius, and he assures me that you have not abandoned the plans we discussed last year. I'm certain that your enterprise will be successful, and for that reason alone, I am happy for any opportunity I might have to contribute to its outcome.

There have been two minor fires in the poorer insulae. Those buildings, you know, are not well built. In the worst of these, half the building is underground, and so there is little circulation of air. There are always complaints about the dripping of water there, for the plumbing works badly, and now that so many are trying to prepare what little grain they are given at home, in makeshift ovens, there have been fires and will probably be more. Most of the very poor no longer take their grain to the public mills because they are apt not to get it back again. There will be a great deal of rebuilding to do in the next year, particularly of the insulae. It has been a rule that there be no more than seven apartments per building, but I think that could be increased to ten or eleven without significant danger. Housing is always an important matter in Rome, but just at present, it is even more so. You might want to give it some thought.

I look to a happy reunion before too many more months go by. You and I, Flavius, are not so young that we can postpone such occasions indefinitely. I will be fifty-two shortly. A sobering thought, isn't it? Yet I am hoping that the decline of my life will be less of a disappointment than the rise of it has been.

Until our next meeting, this by my own hand on the twenty-third day of April in the 821st Year of the City,

Cornelius Justus Silius
Senator

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2
* * * *

VITELLIUS BELCHED as he moved his hand over his massive belly. On the other couches his guests reclined, men and women alike, for the new Emperor disliked any formality that distracted from the food set before them. “Best thing I ever did,” he said, wagging a finger at the disapproving patrician across the room from him. “If I hadn't disbanded the Praetorians, they would have had one of them into the palace and then one of their number would ascend to the purple.” He motioned to one of the slaves to remove the whole pig that lay in the center of their couches. There were seven other U-shaped clusters of couches and diners around the enormous banquet room, each with a similar dish in the center.

The patrician Vitellius had addressed kept a noncommittal expression. “Your generals are wise men, Emperor. They are aware of...many things.” He stopped as he licked honey from his fingers. “But the Praetorian Guard is part of Rome, and the people aren't used to any other. It won't make your establishment here any easier."

Now Vitellius was scowling. “Remigeus,” he said to the patrician, “your sympathies are well-known in Rome. Nine members of your family have been part of the Praetorians. I will excuse your zeal on their behalf this time, but I refuse to continue to do it for your convenience.” He motioned to the cupbearer nearest him. “Refill Remigeus’ cup, Linus. Get his mind off this subject."

The Senator on the couch beside Remigeus took up the argument. “He's right, Emperor,” he said with a knowing expression. “The people of Rome, they're used to certain things—"

This time Vitellius was not so indulgent. “Fabricus, I have done it. There is no more time for discussion.” He beckoned to his two attendants who stood near his couch. “I've got to relieve myself so I'll have room for the next course. Peacocks’ tongues, calves’ brains and fish roe. It's a dish of my own. If any of you have suggestions as to how I could make it better...I'm not pleased with it yet.” He lumbered to his feet and went off between his two attendants to the vomitorium.

Remigeus looked over at Fabricus. “He'll regret his action with the Praetorians. They won't forgive him."

"That's certain,” Fabricus agreed. “Has there been any news from Egypt?"

"Talk to Justus. He's the one who seems to know everything.” Remigeus stared ahead rather blankly at the table from which the pig had just been removed. “How many more courses tonight?"

"Four,” Fabricus answered. “And a supper after the entertainment."

Fabricus sighed. “It's like the old days. Except that Vitellius likes wine better than iced water.” At this oblique reference to Nero, he looked about furtively. “I don't know what will happen to us all if we keep living like this."

Remigeus laughed uneasily. “We've ridden out three Caesars this year; four if you count Piso. If there's one thing we do well as Senators, it's keep power. Emperors may come and go, but the Senate remains."

Behind him, one of the slaves leaned a little nearer.

"Loose talk,” Fabricus admonished him, and was pleased to see that there were slaves coming with the next course. “Delicious,” he called out with enthusiastic sycophancy.

Vitellius had required two feathers down his throat before he felt himself ready to return to the banquet room. His slaves had given him a wet towel to wipe his face and hands, and he had had to adjust his toga, which was hanging untidily about him. As he stepped into the hall, he was startled to see one of his guests there.

"Saint-Germain,” he said to the foreigner. “How are you enjoying the meal?"

Saint-Germain nodded casually to the Emperor. “I was certain that you were aware that one of my idiosyncrasies is that I never eat in public. Among my kind, taking nourishment is considered to be too...intimate to be shared with a room full of people.” He was very grand tonight, and quite aloof. He wore a long pleated gown of black silk with a deep, open neck. Against his chest lay a wide pectoral of silver, jet and polished rubies in the form of his signet, the eclipse disk with raised wings. Tonight he wore thick-soled sandals on his small feet instead of his usual Scythian boots.

This understated magnificence was lost on Vitellius. He gave Saint-Germain an annoyed smile. “Surely you can make an exception for the Emperor."

"Ah, but, Caesar, you are not my Emperor. I am not a citizen of Rome.” He spoke with such deference that it was nearly impossible for Vitellius to take offense. “Your invitation, considering my status, was a great honor."

Vitellius was somewhat mollified. “It isn't the usual way, but with all the things you've been doing for me and..."—he paused awkwardly—"my predecessors, it seemed appropriate to have you here. And there is the matter of the fish roe,” he added in a rush.

One of his slaves had gone to the banquet room and now returned with a cup of wine, which he handed to the Emperor.

"Good.” Vitellius drank deeply, and his already high color flushed a little darker. “I don't know about this, Franciscus. I don't like this refusal to eat."

"My customs no doubt seem strange to you, but as a Roman, you should understand the honoring of tradition.” Saint-Germain decided that he did not like this tall, lame man in the disarrayed toga who stood before him. “You, yourself, evoked old tradition tonight at this feast, did you not?"

The announced purpose of the evening was a tribute to Romulus and Remus, the legendary founders of Rome. “Well,” Vitellius said slowly to keep from slurring his words, “it has been a neglected tradition among us, and I thought it would be beneficial to revive it. It's a mark of Romans that we honor our heritage."

Saint-Germain would have liked to challenge this unctuous declaration, and to tell Vitellius that it was the Emperor's main purpose to lend an air of permanency to his shaky rule, but he was experienced enough to hold back the question that rose to his lips, and contented himself with saying, “A fortuitous time to restore it. The people cheer you and the Senate calls you a statesman."

Visibly irritated, Vitellius drew himself up and fussed with his toga. At last he hit upon a way to give this polished foreigner back his own coin. “About that hydraulic organ you're working on. When do you think you'll be able to install it?"

BOOK: Blood Games
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