Blood Games (4 page)

One of the other armentarii smiled nervously. “We tried to argue, but...” His shrug was fatalistic. He reached down and patted the nearest tawny head, and the hunting cat pushed upward, eyes closing, short tail curling against his flank, a deep purr in his throat.

"They are beautiful animals,” Saint-Germain said, dropping to one knee, not heeding the quick warning from the Libyan armentari who held the leash. “Splendid cat, magnificent cat,” he said softly, and reached to touch the tufted ears. The caracal lowered his head for those expert fingers that found the very spot that wanted scratching. As Saint-Germain stroked the rich fur, he felt his anger fading at last.

"He won't often let strangers approach him,” his Libyan trainer said, new respect and curiosity in his voice.

"Perhaps I am not a stranger,” Saint-Germain suggested as he got reluctantly to his feet.

The armentarii exchanged quick looks, and one of them made a sign with his fingers.

"That won't be necessary,” Saint-Germain said as he stepped back, feeling profoundly alien.

The nearest Libyan armentari tried to smile. “Excellency, we meant no offense, but we live so much with our cats that...” He broke off nervously. “Truly, they do not like strangers."

Saint-Germain had no answer for them. He stood silent while the Libyans tugged their elegant caracals away.

"I do not think they know,” said a voice behind him. Saint-Germain turned quickly to face Kosrozd. “The cats like you, my master, and their trainers are jealous."

"I wonder.” His expression was enigmatic as he studied his slave.

In the next moment they were forced to move aside as a squad of Greek hoplites marched down the narrow corridor, their spears up and shields held uniformly at their sides. At their head, their captain called out crisp marching orders.

"They are to fight Armenian charioteers with archers,” Kosrozd said expressionlessly as the Greek troops went by.

"Who do you think will win?” Saint-Germain studied the Persian youth as he answered.

"It will go hard for the hoplites,” Kosrozd said when he had given the matter his consideration. “But if the Armenians can't break their formation, in the end they will lose. If they keep their distance and let the archers pick off the back rows first, then the Armenians might win."

Saint-Germain nodded his agreement. “The Armenians aren't often so circumspect in their fighting, not as I recall."

A sudden increase of noise from the stands above distracted both men, and they looked quickly toward one of the narrow windows that gave onto the arena. There was nothing to see in the little slice of light that was colored red from the great awning that sheltered the crowd from the relentless Roman sun.

"What event? Saint-Germain” asked.

Kosrozd could not entirely disguise his revulsion. “Asses trained to violate condemned women."

The noise grew louder, and then one terrible shriek rose above the crowd, a cry born of acutest agony. It hung on the stinking air, then stopped abruptly.

"Well,” Saint-Germain said as he turned away from the window, “it's over.” He put one hand on Kosrozd's shoulder and drew him away. “Do you race again today?"

"Yes. And once tomorrow. The Reds haven't done well in this set of Games and they are pressing me to win.” He was relieved to be speaking of racing again. In his seven years as a slave in Rome he had not learned to accept the Roman mob.

"Would you rather not race for them? Since I'm not a citizen, I cannot join a racing faction, and there is no reason for you to race for the Reds if you'd prefer Blue or Green or White."

"Or Purple or Gold,” Kosrozd added fatalistically, adding the two recently created factions. “No, it makes no difference what color I wear—the race is the same."

"You could race for the Emperor's Greens. He gives lavish rewards to his charioteers.” They were walking through the maze of halls and stairways toward the portion of the Circus Maximus that was set aside for charioteers.

"When they win. When they lose, he is equally free with his punishments. He had Cegellion of Gades dragged to death behind his own team.” Kosrozd paused a moment and looked at his master. “We do not live long, who race here."

"The cruelty is new,” Saint-Germain said reflectively. “There was a time, only a few years ago, when Nero forbade the wanton killing of animals and contestants in the arena, and only made an exception of political criminals. Now...” His face grew somber and he walked in silence, Kosrozd beside him.

They had almost reached the charioteers’ rooms when Kosrozd grabbed his master's arm. Saint-Germain stopped and looked unspeaking at the wide, long-fingered hand that crushed the cloth just above his elbow.

"I...I must talk with you.” The words were desperate, spoken in an urgent whisper.

At last Saint-Germain met his eyes. “Yes?"

"Do you...will you take Tishtry to your bed again?” He blurted out the question and waited for his answer.

Saint-Germain had been a slave himself and was not surprised at how much they knew. He pulled his arm away. “Not immediately, no. She's badly hurt."

"Will you sleep alone?” He knew that he had no right to ask such a question, and half-expected a curt dismissal or a blow.

"Sleep?” There was an ironic tinge to the word.

"Is there anyone else you desire more?” He was risking too much, he thought, but could not stop himself now.

A strange, remote look of anguish crossed Saint-Germain's face, and for one suspended instant his penetrating eyes were fixed on a great distance. “No. No, I no longer desire anyone else more."

Kosrozd felt a chill as he stood beside, Saint-Germain and he almost faltered in his purpose. “Then...will you...would you...want me?” He knew that he might be sold for this impertinence, or sent to Treviri or Divodurum or Poetovio to race in the provinces, far away from Saint-Germain in Rome.

"I am very old, Kosrozd, far older than you think,” Saint-Germain said kindly. “The price of caring is the pain of loss, and I have lost...much."

"You are alone,” Kosrozd murmured. “And I am alone."

There was mockery ‘ Saint-Germain s expression now. “More alone than you, though we are both sons of princes whose kingdoms are lost to us. Kosrozd Kaivan,” he said, using his slave's full name and seeing the young man start. “Oh, yes, I know who you are. It is a pity your uncles could not find more trustworthy conspirators. You're fortunate to have been sold into slavery. Another king might have dealt more harshly."

"He roasted my father on a spit!” Kosrozd burst out.

"But spared his children. And left you a whole man. Remember that. Persia is growing gentler with age."

An aurigatore spotted Kosrozd and came into the hallway. “It is almost time. I've got your chariot ready."

"A moment, Bricus.” He watched his master with intent young eyes. “Will you sell me? Or send me away?"

Saint-Germain considered this. “I suppose I should, but I won't. I'm...touched by your...interest.” Then abruptly his tone changed. “Come, you must prepare for the race."

Kosrozd made one last attempt. “Tishtry told me once that you did not behave as she expected."

"Very likely,” he said dryly.

"It would not matter,” Kosrozd insisted.

"Wouldn't it?” He was interrupted by another prolonged shout from sixty thousand voices. When the sound had subsided, he said, “For some there is death in what I do.” The coldness of this statement was directed inward, filled with old bitterness.

Kosrozd laughed bleakly as his glance turned toward his waiting chariot. “Death. There is death in what
I
do.” Without looking at Saint-Germain again, he went through the door, walking quickly to his aurigatore, who had just begun to lead four high-strung horses from the stable on the far side of the Gate of Life.

TEXT OF A LETTER TO THE EMPEROR NERO.

To Nero, who is Caesar, lord of the world, hail!

As a citizen of Rome, no matter how lowly, I approach your august presence on behalf of those who are my brothers and who are unjustly condemned to vile and glorious deaths for their religion.

You have said that Rome will tolerate all forms of worship, and surely there are temples enough in Rome to give an outward sign of that tolerance, but that is illusion. You have shown yourself to be utterly opposed to those who have chosen to worship the only true manifestation of God on earth, and have set the might of the Roman state against us.

Perhaps you still confuse us with the rebellious Jews who have risen in revolt against your rule in their land. It is true enough that we follow the teachings of a man who was a Jew, but it is wrong to condemn us along with them, for we do not question political rule, and we do not share their objections to Roman presence. We who follow the teachings of Jesu-bar-Joseph and his disciples are not in agreement with other Jews. There are, it is true, a great many Jewish sects, and often there is little accord between them, but in one critical issue we differentiate ourselves from all Jews: most Jews, in reading the prophecies of the great teachers of the past, believe that there is one coming to free them from the bonds of this world, an anointed master who will be the path to all liberty. We who call ourselves Christians believe that this prophecy was fulfilled with the birth of Jesu-bar-Joseph sixty-five years ago. We do not reject his salvation, as do the rest of the Jews, but accept him as our redeemer, and worship him as the living presence of God.

If you are determined to persecute us, there is little we can do to oppose you, but I beg for myself and my brothers that you do not continue to identify us as Jews, since we are not Jews. Many of us languish in prisons and at the oars of triremes because you and your deputies have not taken the time to learn the difference between us and Jews.

I beseech you to examine your heart and take heed of your own laws, O Caesar, so that those innocent of rebellion may not continue to suffer for your ignorance and the ignorance of other Romans. You have accepted without prejudice all the false gods of the world, all the evil worship done anywhere that Roman troops have trodden. Why, then, do you forbid us, who have the promise of true salvation to offer you, and the one path to God, to practice our faith with the same openness and freedom as you allow to the misguided women who frequent the Temple of Isis? Certainly Egyptian Isis is no more foreign than we are. Why is it impossible for you to extend her protection to us? If you continue to deny us, then all will know that Roman justice is a lie, and you will be hated in this life and cast into darkness when you die, for your abuse of those who willingly follow the rule of the True God.

Though you kill my body in this world, still I will pray for you, here and before the Throne of God.

Most humbly, and in the Name of Christ,

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ON THE FAR side of the luxurious room Arnax lay snoring, his discarded clothing tucked under his head for a pillow.

The room was softly perfumed, and hanging lamps gave it a soft glow, showing the rumpled bed and the two figures who faced each other there.

Atta Olivia Clemens watched her husband, dismay on her bruised face. “Justus...” she said cautiously. Her hands were unsteady, and had Cornelius Justus Silius not chosen that moment to cover her with his now-urgent body, she would have clenched them. As it was, her fingers hooked into the silken sheets. Her flesh was newly marked by Arnax's lust, and it took more of an effort than usual for her to keep from crying out as her husband pushed into her.

"Lie still!” he commanded thickly as she flinched.

She was pitifully glad to obey. She stared past his shoulder toward the ceiling, and wished, as she had almost every night for the past two years, that she would die and at last be free of this hated marriage.

A little while later, Justus moved off her, grunting his displeasure. “You weren't doing it right,” he muttered as he looked down at his flaccid organ.

Torn between relief and apprehension, Olivia drew the sheet around her for protection. “I submitted,” she protested. “Even when he beat me. Do you want me to die? Will that be enough?"

Her question brought to Justus’ mind all the unpleasant rumors that had persisted about his third marriage. “No, of course I don't want you to die. But I think it ought to be possible for you to find someone who can do what is needed."

"But I thought he"—she flung out a hand to point at Arnax—"was what you wanted. You said he would have to be more forceful. You saw him! How much force do you require now, Justus?” She drew her hand back and held it over her mouth. She wanted terribly to be calm.

"Brute force is one thing,” Justus said slowly as he regarded the sleeping secutor, “but there are other sorts of fear. I think that perhaps you should look elsewhere. Find a man who is different from the others, whose tastes are...devious.” He permitted himself a half-smile of anticipation. “I know of men who take their enjoyments...strangely. Surely you can seek out one such."

Olivia shrank back in the bed. “How strange?” she asked in a thread of a voice.

"I leave that to you, Olivia. But I warn you, choose well. I don't want to have another night as disappointing as this one.” He started to rise as he reached for the Parthian night robe that had fallen to the floor some time before.

She tried to nod, but found she could not move. Her body seemed to belong to someone else now, some malformed child. “Justus,” she said, fixing him with her stare, “no more. I beg of you. Send me away, anywhere. I'll go meekly, without complaint, no matter where you send me. I'll live simply. I won't ask you to help me in any way. Let me go. Please, please let me go."

He opened his small eyes very wide at her plea. In this light they appeared almost sand-colored, and their very lightness was frightening. “If that is what you want, Olivia, of course I will send you away.” He was drawing on his robe as he spoke, catching the loose garment around his waist with a brightly dyed cord.