Blood Games (61 page)

"I can't leave you alone, Domita,” he said almost apologetically. “The plumbatae..."

"Yes,” she said with a dryness not unlike Saint-Germain's. “I want to go into the garden for a while,” she told him with a control that startled her. “I must...be out-of-doors...You may watch from the doors or the windows. I don't care.” She had broken away from him, and then, quite to her astonishment, she was running down the corridor toward the back garden, her ruined palla flapping about her, her face contorted with tears. As she ran, there was one ember of hope: tomorrow morning Rogerian would come again, and through him, somehow, there would be Saint-Germain.

TEXT OF AN INTERIM REPORT FROM TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS, PREFECT OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TO HIS YOUNGER BROTHER, TITUS FLAVIUS DOMITIANUS.

To Titus Flavius Domitianus, brotherly greetings:

Domi, I've reviewed the material you sent on Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus, and it would be fairly conclusive stuff if there were any way to prove one word of it. The trouble is that these suppositions and rumors are nothing more than that, and not even the most credulous Senator will believe half of the things that are said about him. It may be true that he owns more ships than we know, but as long as they operate within the law and trade honestly, it is no concern of ours. It may be true that he practices sorcery in his private wing of his villa, and if it is true, it is a dangerous thing, but there is no confirmation that he has such skills, or if he has them, that he uses them for evil purposes. It may be that he is unnaturally strong, but it is more likely that he is an experienced and accomplished fighter who does not often lose. It may even be that he drinks blood when lying with a woman. I have heard of stranger things happening in bed. But so long as none of his partners complain, what does it matter if he gives his companion a nip or two? Haven't you ever used your teeth in love play?

Your note suggests that you think I don't want to act against Saint-Germain. You're right. I like the man, and I don't think any good will come of killing him. You're pushing things that needn't be pushed. If Saint-Germain has done anything truly criminal (which I must say I doubt) then the Senate can bring full and formal proceedings against him. This rushed condemnation is not what I think of as being admirable in Rome. Neither you nor I rule Rome yet, Domi, and it is well that we both remember that fact. If, when you are Caesar, you want to murder half the city, that will be your affair. What is done by imperial edict is now our father's affair, and if either of us is to wear the purple, it will be because Rome likes him, not because we are any more promising than half the young patricians in the streets.

If you honestly believe that Romans will not pay attention to the treatment of a foreigner like Franciscus, you're deluding yourself, brother. Saint-Germain, as you yourself have pointed out, has a great many powerful friends, and is himself a very rich man. No Emperor can afford to despise wealth, Domi. You must recall our days in Egypt, when we had very little. It was quite a change from the fun of Claudius’ palace. You're too young to remember that, but you know what it is to be poor. Think of the goodwill that a man of Saint-Germain's wealth can generate for Rome. Is it worth killing him out of spite when he could enrich the country?

If you still feel that you must have this man dead, I will side with you, because there have been fights enough in this family. But it is sad that you had to insist on this man. You told me that Cornelius Justus Silius was the one who alerted you to the duplicity of this foreigner. While I hold Senator Silius in as high esteem as anyone, I think that he might be mistaken about Saint-Germain. There are those we cannot agree with, and this might be such a case. Think about that before you accept his statements as incontrovertible facts.

May I have your response by tomorrow? I want to spend a few days at the beach, and I'd like to leave in two days. You might want to join us. It will be a very lively group, good music, wine, dancing, privacy when you want it, with whom you want it. We'd be happy to have you along.

By my hand, the eighth day of September, the 824th Year of the City.

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WHAT LITTLE LIGHT there was reached the underground cell through the foot of a light well. Those who lived under the stands of the Circus Maximus often used it to dump garbage and other, less attractive things. On this humid afternoon, the stench from the light well was miasmic.

In the center of the little cell there were two pillars placed close together. Between these pillars Saint-Germain hung from the fetters that bound his wrists. He had been there twelve days.

"Still breathing?” the Master of the Bestiarii mocked from the door. He had made a point of coming each day to jeer at the prisoner. “They're going to kill you, foreigner."

"Go away, Necredes,” Saint-Germain said wearily through bruised and torn lips.

"You can't give orders here, Franciscus: This is my kingdom, and I give the orders. I can order them to whip you again,” he said as if this were a delightful new idea instead of the one he had had each day. “Another twenty lashes, Franciscus, what do you say?"

Saint-Germain was silent. They would bring the flagellum whether he spoke or not. His shoulders were raw from the previous beatings: his black dalmatica was in tatters. He closed his eyes and waited for Necredes to say the rest.

"I told you that this day would come, but you, so fine and foreign, you wouldn't believe me.” He relished this moment of vindication. “Now you know that you should not have defied me. Your slave deserved whipping, and you'll take the strokes for her now.” He pressed against the bars. “I'm going to count each blow, Franciscus. I want to hear you scream."

"Have you yet?” Saint-Germain asked ironically. His refusal to cry out was infuriating the Master of the Bestiarii. “If I indulge you, will you whip me less?” He stood straighter and flexed his fingers, feeling lightheaded. He had had no nourishment since he had been seized. The food they brought him he refused. He doubted it was possible for him to starve, but it might be that his hunger—his special hunger—would madden him. Twice before he had been imprisoned for long periods and each time he had become senselessly ravenous. He did not want to remember those times, or repeat them.

"Answer me!” Necredes demanded, and Saint-Germain realized that he had not been listening.

"Why?” It was a safe response, one that did not admit his attention had wandered.

"Crocodiles don't frighten you, then?” Necredes was incredulous. “These are the big ones; three times your height, nearly four times. Those jaws can go through logs as if they were loaves of bread. Think what they will do to you."

Saint-Germain did not move. Crocodiles. Water, running water. Vampire limbs did not grow back. Vampires torn in pieces died as true a death as anyone. Water. Sunlight. If they removed his earth-lined boots, he would have no protection, and he was already weak. If his hunger were great enough by then, it might give him a desperation that would serve as strength for a time. After that, he would be at the mercy of the crocodiles and the water and the sun.

There was a sound as the bolt was drawn and Necredes came into the little cell, carrying a metal-tipped flagellum. When he had come up beside Saint-Germain, he pressed the base of the whip against his face to look at the dried blood on it. “No scars yet,” he said, disappointed.

"There won't be any. I've told you.” He knew that Necredes did not believe him, yet he said it as he had before. “Get on with it."

Necredes laughed slowly, savoring the moment. He took three steps back, so that there would be room for a good swing, and brought down the parchment lashes with the full force of his arm.

Saint-Germain caught his breath as the whip struck, grateful for once for the fetters that held him upright. He did not want to fall before Necredes. The pain went through him like living fire, narrowing his world down to his flesh, where the parchment and metal claws tore at him. With the pain came a terrible fatigue, a lassitude that he knew was dangerous.

"Tomorrow, Franciscus,” Necredes promised when he had finished. His face was flushed from effort and there was a slight glazing to his eyes. “That will be the last. The day after, you go on the sands.” He took a handful of Saint-Germain's hair and pulled his head up. “I'm going to watch you die, Franciscus. I'll enjoy it.” Still holding the bloodied whip in his hand, he went to the cell door, letting himself out with insulting slowness.

To forget the hurt that raged in his body, Saint-Germain let his mind wander. His memories spanned very nearly two thousand years, and now, with an aquatic venation two days away, those years did not seem enough to him.

A sliver of sunlight angled its way across the floor, preternaturally bright in these dim surroundings. Saint-Germain watched it avidly, giving it his whole attention as it marked the passage of the sun. It climbed a section of wall, faded, and was gone. The light well was now a soft amber color, and this once Saint-Germain did not mind the stench. His arms were almost entirely without sensation and his eyes felt as if they had been burned into his head. When they took him down, the day after tomorrow, he thought he might fall, and he did not want to do that. He stiffened his legs, held himself erect until his thighs shook. It was easier, easier and less painful, to hang in the fetters. Night had begun to close in on the city, lightly shrouding the Seven Hills, lending the Tiber its darkness and stars.

There was a noise near at hand and Saint-Germain winced as he remembered the huge rats that had scurried through his cell on the previous nights. One of the rats had been attracted by the blood caking his shoulder, and had climbed his trousers and dalmatica to stand on his shoulder, on the raw flesh, and nibble at what he found. He considered his revulsion ironically. It was strange that he, of all men, should be upset by the rat with a taste for blood, but so it was. He steeled himself to endure the rats.

Another sound, sharper and more metallic, brought him out of his thoughts. He tried to turn his head to see what had made it, but the pain in his lacerated shoulders flared as he moved, and he held himself still, waiting for what would be next. He had not been flogged twice in the same day before, but he was not surprised to find that it could happen. Was it Necredes? he asked himself, wishing he knew who had come into the cell on this quiet, oppressive, beautiful night.

"Saint-Germain?” The hand on his arm was light, long-fingered, kindly.

He dragged his mind away from the despairing fears that had taken hold of it. “Olivia?” he breathed.

She touched his face, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Saint-Germain. What's become of you?"

"Olivia?” he repeated, his exhausted eyes on her, so it seemed she brightened and fluttered, like a torch in the wind. There was the light touch of her mouth on his, her trembling hands on his fettered arms. “How?..."

"Rogerian found you,” she said quickly. “He asked a few of the children who live under the stands, and an old trainer, who said he knew you and had heard the Master of the Bestiarii talk about you. We've been looking for days.” The whispered words stopped. “I have left my father's house. I have left Justus. My mother is dead. She's been dead for some time.” Her lips compressed to a tight line.

"I'm sorry,” Saint-Germain said, feeling useless. He wanted to take her in his arms, to draw her close to him so that the pain and the dark would be shut away from him. There was one other thing he wanted of her, wanted so desperately that he dared hardly think of it. He forced his mind away from it.

"He said things...They were like the things he did to me...” She looked around suddenly as a rat dashed across the earthen floor. “How can you bear it here?” she asked, stifling the hysteria she felt in herself.

"I don't have much choice in the matter,” he replied with a degree of sardonic humor.

"But here...a dungeon!” She glanced upward once at his wrists.

"A dungeon is a dungeon, whether in Nineveh, or Rome, or Lo Yang. I've been in dungeons in all three places, and there's little difference. Once you are in a cell, it becomes the world, Olivia, and it matters little if those outside are Romans or Parthians or Hyperborean barbarians.” He pushed himself far enough forward to be able to brush her face with his lips. “I'm glad you've come. I've thought of you a great deal."

"We wanted to find you sooner,” she said. “Saint-Germain, does it give you much pain?"

He was startled at the intensity in her face. “I've known worse,” he answered noncommittally.

"Do they take care of you?” She knew the question was inane.

"As you see.” Olivia started to reach for the fetters at his wrists. “Olivia, don't do that,” he said quietly.

"But your arms—” she began.

"First,” he said harshly, “I would rather remain standing, and this is the only way I can. Second, the fetters are burred on the inside. If you move my hands, the fetters cut me."

She drew back as if the metal were white-hot. “Burred—that's unspeakable!"

"Then let's not mention it again.” He did not want to talk about what had happened to him since his imprisonment, so he asked her with genuine curiosity, “How did you get here?"

Olivia met his eyes with difficulty. “One of the gladiators who...used me once"—her voice sank to a whisper—"was willing to show me where you were. He'd heard about the prisoner being held in the second-level cell. He took me down the nearest stairs, and pointed the way."

"Was there a price for this?” he inquired gently, searching her face. He wanted to hold her pressed against him, to blot out the dim, fetid cell with passion and need.

She closed her eyes a moment. “No. There was no price."

He sighed, relieved.

"Would it have mattered?” she asked in a small voice. “You know what my life has been. How could one more make any difference to you."