Blood Games (46 page)

She nestled closer to him. “I think I'll enjoy being like you. I want to be like you.” This was true. Until that evening, she might have resisted the idea of such a change, but not now, since Justus had sent her to her father's empty house, under guard, with the threat of worse if she opposed him. She remembered vividly his description, a few nights ago, of the brothel in Syria that specialized in Roman women. She had tried then to convince herself that life as a prostitute would not be as bad as what her husband had already done to her, and the pain of it was hard as the blow of a fist. There would be no escape from that brothel, and there was no escape now from Justus, though Saint-Germain offered another way, one that pleased her. She lifted a hand to her eyes.

Saint-Germain had watched the rapid, agonized changes in her expression. “What is it, Olivia? Have I upset you? Tell me."

"It's not you, Saint-Germain. Never you. My husband..."—the words were spat out angrily—"my husband said a thing...” She stopped, misery closing off her voice. “I have earned the right to my own pleasure, haven't I?” She did not know how wistful she sounded in the cold, bleak room.

"Yes, if pleasure must be a right that is earned, you have done it.” He kissed the line of her brow. He was alarmed by the tone of resignation that had come into her voice. “Listen to me a moment, Olivia. You have never learned what it is to be moved as other women are. I do not want to give you up, not now. You are too much a part of me. There are things you must know, however, and a few things you and I must accept. In time, before you go to your tomb and walk again, you may want a man again. You deny that now,” he said quickly, cutting off the objections that burst from her lips. “Not all men are like Justus. There will be those who will fire your blood and you will be drawn to them, when the bitterness and hatred have faded. You will be drawn to them, as you should be. Understand that, my love. You should desire others, and seek them. It is our life."

"But tonight, it is only between us?” Anxiety made her voice high and small. She had a dim comprehension of what he said, but she no longer wanted to listen. Now his nearness had become as inexorable a force to her as the moon to the tides. “The two of us, all night?"

"All night,” he promised her, feeling her senses quicken under his hands. “We will do whatever you wish. Do you want me to caress you and embrace you until you have your release of your own accord? That is your right, and you may ask it of me. Do you want me to search for new expressions of love? You have only to tell me, and it will be as you wish. You've been ordered too long. Be abundantly selfish, Olivia, and you will be more generous to me than you know."

"But is this mine?” she mused aloud. “Or is this something else, foreign to me?” She had wondered this from the first time he had come to her, giving her pleasure when she had expected the worst brutality.

"Foreign.” He laughed, though there was melancholy in the dark eyes. “Do you think that this is any more foreign than what you have been subjected to? Is what your husband forces on you more human because there is semen on the sheets at the end of it?” Centuries ago that question would have angered him, but he had answered it many times and the distaste it once engendered in him was gone. Now it was only a matter of reassuring Olivia so that she could set her anguish, her doubt and worry aside.

"I suppose it isn't important,” she sighed. It was pleasant to lie back, Saint-Germain's dark woolen cloak around them for warmth, the sure touch of his small hands, gently persuasive, waking her senses. She let her mind drift as he clothed her in kisses. Now her arms felt softer, less wooden, and she breathed faster. A delicious anticipatory shudder ran through her as her legs opened to his questioning hands. Nothing he did was urgent. His mouth, his hands, the pressure of his body, all were unhurried, as restful and as sensual as the lapping of the sea. Olivia reached for him, sinking her hands in the loose dark curls to pull his face to hers. “It will take time, Saint-Germain. I'm..."

"I have time.” He ran his hand lightly up her thigh, over the arch of her hip, along the line of her ribs, across her breast to her shoulder and down her arm. He saw some of her animation return to her face at last, and the tension and fear that held her locked in a shell of herself fell away from her as her garments had. “Ah, Olivia.” Now his lips were more insistent, his mouth lingering over hers, summoning the need that was hidden in her, parting from her slowly before moving over the same path that his hand had taken.

The abysmal despair that had possessed her for so many days began to lift, like mist rising from the Tiber at the first morning light, turning from gray to silver to golden white before fading into the day. At last despondency loosened the dank hold it had on her mind. She gave a long, quiet sigh and her hands clenched and then opened as she gave herself over to the exaltation he found in her.
Let me love you. Let me love you
. She heard him say it in her mind as he had spoken the words so many times. Each time it had been a battle to accept him, to let her herself know the depth of her pleasure, and each time the desire for him grew stronger. She felt her body was made of light, glowing, a fire, a star, a luminous mist at dawn, that would disappear for elation.

Deep within her she felt her senses contract so that the spasms that engulfed her were more frenzied than any she had ever felt. She cried out for the power and joy of it. In that cold little room she burned like the heart of molten gold.

It was some time before she released him, before the tremor of her passion left her breathing, before her bones felt solid within her. She lay back, her eyes half-closed. Then, with a start she realized that he had not satisfied his own need yet. She turned to him, questioning. “Saint-Germain?"

He laughed softly, the sound low and musical, his eyes smoldering as he moved off her. The faintly mocking cast to his face was gone. “Now, Olivia,” he said in a tone she had never heard him use, one that was unrestrainedly happy, “now we can begin to love each other."

There were tears in her eyes as she opened her arms to him, but not for hopelessness or despair. This time she wept with poignant longing as her desire soared to new life. As his lips brushed the curve of her neck she cradled his head in her hands, the immensity of their rapture filling them both.

TEXT OF A PROCLAMATION OF THE EMPEROR TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS.

From the Emperor to the Senate and the People of Rome, greetings:

On the suggestion of my older son, who bears my name, I am pleased to announce to you all that it is my intention of celebrating my imperial reign by causing to be built a new amphitheatre for future Great Games. I have sought the advice of those knowledgeable in such matters, builders and arena workers alike, and their recommendations have been weighed and evaluated most conscientiously.

The location I have elected for the site of this amphitheatre is between the Esquiline and Palatine hills, where the lake in the gardens of Nero's Golden House currently lies. This lake will be drained, and in so doing will not only provide a superior location for the amphitheatre, but will help in the removal of that profligate Emperor's stamp on Rome.

This new amphitheatre will be large enough to accommodate those who wish to attend the Games without the serious overcrowding that has so often resulted in accidents and injuries in the Circus Maximus, the Hippodrome and the Circus of Caligula and Nero. So that it will be easier for all those who attend to see the full action of the Games, the circus will have no spina to block the view of many, and a special track will be constructed for the chariot races outside of the major arena, surrounding it. No more will chariots have to race where battles have just taken place. This will be beneficial to the charioteers, and will speed the flow of arena activities.

For those who worry about a conscription of slaves, I, as your Emperor, pledge to you that this will not happen. It is possible for us to use slaves already consigned to imperial use—the prisoners of the recently contained Jewish revolt. These prisoners will be given the task of building this fine circus. Before the end of summer, there will be ten thousand Jewish slaves in Rome to work on the amphitheatre.

Our plans are set, and we can tell that this will be a circus unlike others. This time it will not be necessary to cobble in improvements, for all the best architectural features have been planned, and the very latest in circus engineering has been studied for the construction of this amphitheatre.

The draining of the lake will begin in April, and as soon as the ground is sufficiently dry, formal building excavation will commence. When the circus is complete, it will be the glory of Rome.

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KOSROZD SHADED his eyes so that he would not be dazzled by sunlight. He had just emerged from the dark stables of the Circus Maximus into the full noon glare. It was hot, and would be hotter tomorrow when he was scheduled to race.

"Persian!” called another charioteer, a flamboyant young man from Burdigala in Aquitania. “Come drink with us!” He waved his arm toward a group of other charioteers.

Kosrozd returned the wave. “Sorry! Maybe after we race."

"That's tomorrow,” the Burdigalan objected. “A cup of wine won't fuddle you.” He laughed his encouragement.

"After the race, perhaps,” Kosrozd called again. “I'm not sixteen like you, but an old man of twenty-five.” Among charioteers he was, in fact, at a fairly advanced age. His body, aside from the white seams of scars in his shoulder, had not changed since the night when he had tasted his master's blood and had become like him. He had not believed at first that his body would always be that of a nineteen-year-old, but it had been nearly six years since he made the change, and he had learned that it was true.

"Leave him alone, Havius,” one of the others said. “The Persian doesn't drink.” He added something under his breath that Kosrozd did not quite hear. The other charioteers chuckled and one of them gave Kosrozd an inquisitive stare.

Kosrozd knew that he had become an oddity among the charioteers, but his annoyance had worn off, just as Saint-Germain had said it would. Two years before, he had got into a fistfight because he had refused to have a meal with Salamis, a famous charioteer who had won his freedom and a fortune in one afternoon. At the time, Kosrozd's honor was stung, and he had, he realized, acted very foolishly. “Have one for me,” he called after Havius.

"Two!” came the prompt answer.

With a shrug Kosrozd turned away from them and found the Master of the Bestiarii facing him. “Good day, Necredes,” he said with a minimum of cordiality.

"Kosrozd,” Necredes answered with unsettling satisfaction. “I saw the woman here, as well.” He folded his arms over his chest.

"It's her last appearance,” Kosrozd remarked, feeling a touch of sadness. “She's going to be a trainer now. Our master has assigned four young charioteers to her already, and they're preparing to perform in the arena in two years or so.” He was aware that Necredes knew this, but saying it gave him an excuse to study the Master of the Bestiarii closely. He was disquieted by what he saw. Necredes was smug.

"It certainly is her last appearance,” Necredes agreed, “though she may be persuaded to one more presentation.” He gave Kosrozd a curt nod and turned toward the corridor that ran under the stands. “We're getting new beasts today. Be careful of your horses. It wouldn't do to lose them."

"I appreciate your concern,” Kosrozd said with heavy sarcasm. He shook his head and started across the stableyard to inspect his chariot and harness. The new rig that Saint-Germain had developed was working well, but many of the slaves did not know how to handle and clean them properly.

"Persian!” Necredes shouted suddenly.

Kosrozd stopped. “What?"

"I have not forgotten!” Even at this distance, his rage was easy to see.

"Neither have I, Necredes,” Kosrozd replied, and continued toward the quadrigium.

"Tell your master!” Necredes screamed, though Kosrozd gave no response. “Tell him!"

For an instant Kosrozd wanted to turn on Necredes, though Saint-Germain had forbade such outbursts. He stifled his dislike and went on toward the long, low building where the chariots were stored.

Somewhat later, when the other charioteers had returned to the Circus Maximus bringing two skins of wine with them, and the new shipment of leopards had at last been unloaded into their holding cages, Kosrozd was sitting on the shady side of the stableyard watching three pairs of essedarii practice passes in their high-fronted chariots. His eyes narrowed critically as one of the pair completed a successful throw of the lasso on the target post.

Havius, his hand around the top of one of the wineskins, reeled toward the two-man chariots. “Catch me!” he cried out in challenge.

The other charioteers whooped their approval as the nearest of the essedarii shouted, “Right!” The driver pulled the two horses around and the roper began to spin his lasso. Havius let out a happy yell and sprinted across the stableyard. A second essedari chariot joined the chase.

A Greek charioteer shouted a wager on the impromptu contest and moments later there were bets being made on all sides.

"What's this?” Tishtry had come up beside Kosrozd. Her face was flushed and her rough tunica had a tear near the shoulder.

"Havius is playing tag with the essedarii,” Kosrozd said rather obviously. “What happened?” He touched the flap of torn cloth, waiting for an explanation.

"It's Kalon. He mistimed a jump, and came close to getting his brains kicked out. He would have deserved it, too,” she added with narrowed eyes. “He's learned to do one trick, and he thinks he knows everything it took me a lifetime to learn. If he keeps it up, he'll get killed.” She sat down beside Kosrozd, her eyes bright with fresh indignation.