Blood Games (36 page)

Kosrozd, his arm still stiff from a recent accident, turned to Saint-Germain as he tugged at the special harness that Saint-Germain had made for his racing chariot. “I'm not quite used to handling eight reins instead of four, but it makes a difference, having each side of the horse under control.” Satisfied, he gave the left-hand stallion a reassuring pat. “It would be a real military advantage, to be able to handle all four horses individually. The mobility alone would be worth the time and trouble necessary to train the charioteers."

Amused by this martial enthusiasm, Saint-Germain asked, “If you win today, will you offer yourself to the army, to train their charioteers with this new rig?"

"You mean you will free me if I win?” He was very serious, and his eyes searched his master's face.

"I don't imagine I'll have much choice. Vitellius has declared that all winners are to be free, and I don't think he's going to allow any exceptions. The crowd wouldn't let him.” Then Saint-Germain realized that Kosrozd was seriously upset. “There is no question of you leaving my service if you don't want to. You are of my blood now, Kosrozd. There is nothing that will change that, short of the true death."

"Then I have nothing to worry about,” Kosrozd said with a sudden smile.

"That's not quite so,” Saint-Germain told him, growing somber.

"Isn't it?” Kosrozd looked about swiftly, making sure they were not being closely observed. “That fall I took in the summer, it would have been a near thing if I hadn't...changed. As it is, all that's left is a little stiffness."

"Kosrozd,” Saint-Germain said measuringly, “how many miraculous escapes do you think you can have before some people start asking questions? No, don't answer me yet. I want you to think it over awhile. You've been through a lot and you're learning more than I thought you would. I have no complaints with that. But there is more to this than you might think. You must learn to be circumspect. Otherwise there is real danger that you will not be able to deal well in the world."

"What do you mean?” Kosrozd stared at Saint-Germain. “I haven't taken blood from anyone unwilling. I haven't bound myself to anyone. Where's the danger?"

"All around you, my friend,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “You are being watched. For that reason alone, you should be cautious, but it's doubly important now. Suppose you were captured, kidnapped, held prisoner. How could you explain your needs? Where would you find sustenance? What would you tell your captors when they tried to harm you and you felt no effect? How would you convince them that you must have your native earth in the soles of your boots or be unable to cross running water, or stay in the sunlight without terrible burns? Have you thought about that?” He waited patiently.

"That spy is gone.” Kosrozd was truculent. He knew that Saint-Germain was right, that he had been flamboyant and foolish, but he hated to admit it.

"You're not sure of that, and neither am I. We know that someone speaking Armenian left Ostia with one tall bodyguard a few days after I spoke to Arashnur. However, someone informed on Kyrillos, and he is in prison now because of that. Arashnur may be afraid of me, but he will not give up so easily, I think. He wants you, and he'll do everything he can to have you. Never doubt that."

Kosrozd looked down at his feet. “Perhaps you're right, my master. But you forget what it is to change. It happened to you a long time ago, and for me, it's only a few short years.” He tried to laugh. “What shall I do, then? Should I lose?"

Saint-Germain could not quite smile but there was deep compassion in his eyes. “I leave that up to you. You shouldn't be ostentatious about it, whatever you decide to do. But if there is another accident in the arena, this time you cannot entirely escape from it. I will set you to training other charioteers and their teams, but there can be no more recoveries.” He put one small hand on Kosrozd's shoulder. “If you win your freedom, so much the better. But it has been yours for the taking for three years. You had only to ask."

There was a warning shout behind them as the teams for a novelty race were led up toward the Gates of Life.

Kosrozd looked with contempt on the teams. The first was a tall chariot drawn by two ostriches. The charioteer held the reins tightly since the unpleasant tempers of these birds were well-known. A second chariot was behind it, held by six nervous bestiarii. This chariot was drawn by two dark brown Scythian bears that made low distressed sounds to each other and fretted at the restraints of yoke and harness.

"Ever since Nero had those chariot races with camels, these foolish novelty races have gained in popularity,” Kosrozd said with a disgusted shake of his head. “It's a disgrace to the art. There's no skill in driving such a team, aside from luck and survival. The confusion of the animals is all the crowd wants to see. It's a waste of chariots and animals, and it cheapens real racing."

"You're a purist,” Saint-Germain said. “You don't have to bristle like that. I agree with you. What else goes into the arena against those?” He thought that ostriches and bears were quite enough, but there were never less than four chariots in a race. “The other teams are equally appropriate, I assume."

"There's a team of oryx and a team of leopards. Quite a challenge, in their own way. They'll be fortunate if any of them come out through the Gates of Life.” Kosrozd put his hand on the flank of his team leader. “He's sweating.” He motioned to one of the grooms. “Take my team into the holding stable. These beasts are upsetting them.” As the groom obeyed, he looked back at Saint-Germain. “I'll avoid collisions, if I can."

"All I ask of you is that you use good judgment,” Saint-Germain replied. “That, and remind you to be careful of strangers. I've learned to heed my feelings and I've felt the pricking of danger along my spine since that night in Modestinus’ garden."

"That was months ago,” Kosrozd said, dismissing the matter.

"If Arashnur was willing to take years to find you, and learn about me, a few months are not apt to discourage him.” He folded his arms and the silver bracelets on his wrists glowed in the muted light. “Have a care, Kosrozd."

"I will. I will.” He touched his amber slave collar. “But it would be a delight to lose this before all Rome."

"That can happen anytime you ask. The Reds will like it if you win, and you can have your moment of triumph. Remember, though, that the loss of that collar might lead to the loss of other things, including the liberty you desire.” He glanced over his shoulder as the cry of a leopard sounded nearby. “I had better leave. This is getting too crowded.” He waved to the bestiarii handling the chariots with the two big cats yoked to it.

Kosrozd frowned at the leopards. “I've seen them before. They're both killers. Necredes wants blood on the sand."

Saint-Germain nodded. He had sensed the lust in the crowd, the eager anticipation of slaughter. Two years before, Nero would have forbidden a race like the one being readied now, but the Emperor had changed and tastes had changed with him. Vitellius enjoyed the sight of carnage, and the people of Rome were happy to follow his example. “He only supplies what's wanted."

"Sometimes I think that one day that's all it will be—blood and death and spectacle.” He shook off his mood and gave Saint-Germain a grin. “By then, I'll be out of it."

"You've only to ask. Don't forget your danger now, though.” He stepped back.

"You'll watch from the imperial box?” Kosrozd called after him.

"Yes.” He turned away, and in a few long strides entered the passageway under the stands. He moved quickly through the shadows, past trainers and animals, past cells into which the condemned were jammed, awaiting the last few minutes of sunlight and space they would know, past the professional fighters, each jealous and proud of his skill at killing. Saint-Germain had been there too often to notice them. Now his dark eyes were distant and his thoughts turned to Olivia. He had managed to see her twice while Justus was away, and both times, though she had not complained, there had been too little time and too much risk. It was no longer enough to give her pleasure and fulfillment; nothing he could do could erase the brutal use her husband forced on her. She told him little, and that reluctance to speak was more eloquent of her suffering than any words would be.

An imperial slave greeted Saint-Germain as he stepped into the mural-lined hall that led to the imperial box. “Vitellius Caesar awaits you."

"I'm honored.” The exchange was automatic, almost senseless. Saint-Germain fell into step behind the slave as they made their way between officers of the new Imperial Guard. The sound of the crowd echoed through the narrow hallway like the rush of the sea.

Then the slave stood aside, and Saint-Germain stepped into the imperial box and inclined his head to Aulus Vitellius.

"Greetings, Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus,” Vitellius bellowed, holding up a thick-fingered hand. He was slumped amid pillows on the marble throne, his imperial toga sloppily draped and the wreath on his brow at a rakish angle. Beside him, two slaves tended a little table on which wine and cold meats were laid. “Have some wine, if you like.” He broke off his hospitality as he flung himself forward, pointing delightedly toward the spina.

The oryx-drawn chariot had been brought down by the leopards, one of which had already climbed on the nearer antelope's back and was getting down to the serious business of killing the animal. Both charioteers were tugging uselessly on the reins, panic visible in their features. The second oryx made a futile attempt to pull the chariot free of the leopards, and in the next moment the two vehicles were tangled together and blood gouted onto the sand.

Succumbing to fear, the charioteer of the oryx scrambled out of the wreckage and started running toward the far end of the arena and the Gates of Life. He had not gone far when the ostrich chariot came around the end of the spina, and he ran toward the huge birds, shouting to the driver and waving his arms to slow them. He had almost reached the chariot when one of the birds kicked out in that vicious, forward thrust of a clawed foot and disemboweled the terrified charioteer. As he fell forward and the ostriches moved over him, the crowd hooted with laughter.

"A great show! I hope the bears last long enough to fight the leopards,” Vitellius said, wiping his streaming eyes with the hem of his toga.

To the Emperor's right, his favorite general sprawled between four Imperial Guards. Today Aulus Caecina Alienus was very grand in golden lorica and silk caracalla, with rings clustered on his fingers like warts. If anything, he was more drunken than Vitellius. He gave Saint-Germain a broad wink. “Good sport today,” he declared, emphatically slurring the words.

"So it would seem,” Saint-Germain responded dryly. He went to the chair indicated, and seated himself.

"Now that's what irks me,” Vitellius said as he gulped down another cup of wine. “That's what I don't like."

The ostriches had rounded the spina and were heading toward the far end of the Circus Maximus. The crowd broke into greedy shouts as the huge birds came up against the chariot drawn by bears.

"What?” Saint-Germain asked, ignoring the sounds around him.

"That foreign clothing. Black, too. Hardly fitting for a true Roman.” He held out his cup to the waiting slaves.

"But I am foreign,” Saint-Germain reminded the Emperor gently. “I wear this because it is similar to what I wore years ago in my own land."

"Dacia,” Vitellius said sagely and turned to Caecina for confirmation.

"Yes, but I'm not a Daci,” Saint-Germain reminded him.

"From Dacia,” Caecina agreed. “We talked about that, Vitellius. I said I didn't like it."

The bears had risen to their feet in order to deal with the ostriches, and had tossed their charioteer from the flimsy vehicle. Amusement erupted all over the Circus Maximus as the two bears tussled with each other, one trying to reach the battered charioteer, the other determined to seize the huge birds.

"The organ will be played while they pour fresh sand,” the Emperor informed Saint-Germain grandly. “A special moment today, the first call of that instrument. It had better be all you've promised."

"It is,” Saint-Germain said confidently. He had spent three nights working on the great brass pipes, adjusting each one with meticulous care so that they had the same clarion tongues as the military trumpets that called the legions to battle.

"We're all looking forward to it,” Caecina told him with sudden intensity.

"I'm flattered,” Saint-Germain responded, making no attempt to hide his disinterest.

The bears had broken their yokes, and one of them was running free in pursuit of the ostriches while the other, trailing the remains of the chariot, mauled the unlucky slave who had been their driver. A hush fell over the Circus Maximus as the first bear rounded the end of the spina and saw the leopards.

"Hush!” Vitellius ordered, leaning forward again. “Look at that!"

The bear had started toward the leopards as they pulled apart the oryx. One of the leopards raised his head and growled a warning. The bear paused, then rose on his hind legs and advanced, huge curved claws swiping the air as he neared the big cats.

"Get him! Get him!” Vitellius shouted, though whether he addressed the bear or the leopard, not even he knew.

Forgotten by bear and cat alike, the ostriches sped on around the spina as the bear began its rush for the leopards.

Screams, hoarse shouts, clashed together as the battle between bear and leopards was joined. The sound was like a crashing ocean storm, battering at the walls of the Circus Maximus and the nearly eighty-thousand people who crowded together in the stands.

"We're going to have to add more seats,” Caecina shouted to Vitellius as the cacophony grew.

"What?” The Emperor was less than an arm's length from his general, but could hardly hear him.

One of the leopards had sunk his fangs into the bear's shoulder as the bear raked the spotted fur with its claws. The animals went down, rolling on the blood-streaked sand, each tearing at the other while the people howled their pleasure.