Blood Games (38 page)

"What is it? Is there someone you'd prefer?” He lifted her chin up and smiled down at her. “As your master, the least I can do is see that you're properly provided for. Roman law requires that of me."

Now that she was in a position to ask a favor of him, she became shy. “I don't want you to think that I prefer a slave to you."

"But you do, don't you?” He held her a little more tightly. “Who is it, then? If it's in my power, I'll give him to you, and free both of you, if that's your wish."

"Free?” She made a sound not unlike a snort. “When my days in the arena are through, then I'll want my freedom, but until then, I'd rather have a master who is generous and kind than be cast out into the world with my skills and my teams and turn bondservant in order to support myself."

"All right then,” Saint-Germain promised her. “When you are ready to leave the arena, tell me and I will free you and whatever man you wish, and see that you have a house and stables of your own.” He hugged her impulsively. “Tishtry, you have been a joy to bed. I'm grateful to you, and I want you to know it."

"You don't have to tell me.” She grinned because he had.

He pulled the robe tightly around them both, trying to hold off the melancholy that had got hold of him. “What do you want of me, this last time?"

"I don't know,” she said rather slowly. “It would be nice to have something extraordinary, but I don't know what it would be.” Her arms, strong from her life as a charioteer, held him increasingly forcefully. “I want...I want...” she murmured, her lips brushing his chest as she thought. At last she had it. “I want to lie atop you and have you move under me, so that nothing, not even your touch, can hinder my pleasure.” She laughed at her own audacity, knowing that he might refuse her. She knew always, if he did not, that she was the slave and he the master, and that, given a free choice, she would have preferred a lover who used her as a man uses a woman, and who would give her children.

Saint-Germain's brows rose with amusement. “Very well, if that's what you wish.” With his arm and his robe around her, he walked through the dark bedchamber. As they reached the bed, he stopped. “Tell me where you would like me to lie, and I will do it."

"Really?” No man had made such an offer to her, and the satisfaction of the moment was delicious to her. “I want you to lie back. You may have a pillow, if you wish,” she added magnanimously. “Lie across the bed, so that your feet touch the floor."

He turned, dropping the robe at his feet, and sank back. “Like this, Tishtry?"

"A little higher, my master. That's better.” She stood, studying him in the gloom as he lay back. “You must caress and kiss me until I tell you to stop.” Fleetingly she realized this would be the only time in her life when she could order a lover so completely to her own satisfaction, and that certainly held her a moment, almost reluctant to continue for fear there would be too much pleasure and it would shake her resolve to leave him. Saint-Germain had been a considerate partner, willing to indulge her, anxious to gratify her as well as himself. She doubted very much that she would ever find a lover more expert in all things sensual but one. Expertise was not everything, and she had begun to feel the first touch of age within her, which, at twenty-eight, did not surprise her. It was time for her to establish herself with children, and she would never, could never get them with her master. Giving a tiny, fatalistic sigh, she decided to make the most of his offer for this last evening. Following the dictates of her senses, she said, “First I will lie so that our lips may meet and you will kiss me in many ways. I will tell you when to stop."

"Very well,” he said gravely, though there was amusement in his dark eyes.

"And then I will tell you how we're to proceed.” She announced this as if expecting a last-minute contradiction.

"As you like.” His voice in the cool darkness warmed her with desire.

"If you think of anything more that I might like, you are to ask me if I want to do it. Let me decide everything.” She knew she was postponing their lovemaking, fearing that the reality would be less than her imagination promised her. “I'm ready now."

His arms opened. “Then come to me, Tishtry."

Slowly, luxuriously, she stretched out atop him; her well-muscled, compact body was trained to respond to balance and movement so this new experience awakened her senses much the way that racing did when she stood on the backs of her horses as they galloped around the spina while the crowd roared above them. Saint-Germain was of trim, stocky build and his strength was, as she knew, enormous. She did not worry about crushing him or inadvertently hurting him as she lay on him. Her mouth touched his, lips parting.

She moved over him leisurely, lingering when his lips discovered another of those mysterious sites that produced a new spurt of delight or deeper satisfaction. She pushed herself up on her arms, arching her body away from him as her thighs responded to his gentle coaxing, spreading to admit his questing hands and kisses.

There was a sound in the garden, and for a moment both were tensely still, alert and listening.

"What was it?” Tishtry whispered.

"I don't know. Don't be concerned.” He reached around her and drew her tight against him once more.

"I...” she began, feeling the exultation slipping away from her.

"Shush.” His hands were amorous and sure, knowing precisely where to touch her to restore and inflame her desires. His mouth sought out the center of her passion, drawing new pleasure from her as water is drawn from a well.

For Tishtry it was difficult to speak, to breathe. She feared for that instant when the spasm finally released her—joyously feared that she would burst apart. Her eyes were half-closed and there was a sound in her throat between laughter and moaning. Her body became a vortex of fulfillment, and she was caught in the rapturous whirlpool that coiled and spun from that one pulsing point of almost unendurable pleasure.

When at last Tishtry fell beside Saint-Germain, her breath had nearly returned to normal. She lay beside him, silent, eyes on the pale, moon-clear night beyond the window. There were things in her mind that she wanted to say to her master, but she found words for none of them.

Saint-Germain understood something of this, and accepted her quiet. He relaxed, listening to the rhythm of the night that he knew so well. When he spoke to her, he said, “I will miss you, Tishtry."

She turned a startled face toward him. “I will miss you as well, my master."

"But you will not change your mind?” He did not expect that of her, but it was easy to ask.

"No,” she said slowly when she had given the question her consideration. “That was...more than I've ever had. But I don't think I could stand to have it too often. You were something like those fig pastries the Egyptians make—the first and second bites are delicious as the food of the gods, but after that, there is too much sweetness, with the honey and the almonds and the cinnamon, and the dates are cloying instead of rich. If I did this too often, I would become like those Persian soldiers who eat the poppy dust. Soon there would be nothing in the world but the hunger, the craving, and all the pleasure would be gone, not only from this, but from everything."

Her insight surprised him. “It can happen that way,” he admitted, remembering too many times when it had. There had been a time when that was no consideration with him, but that was before King Shalmaneser raised the walls of Nimrud, when he felt more rage than loneliness.

Tishtry reached blindly for his hand. “It will be strange, not to be the master's woman...."

"You are always of my blood,” he said somberly.

"That is not the same. I don't know if I'll like the next one. There must be a next one, I suppose. For many reasons.” She was suddenly, irrationally angry. “Why didn't you have more of us? Then I wouldn't have to get used to seeing another woman with you when there had not been one before. You've never met the patrician woman here."

"You've never objected to Kosrozd,” he pointed out.

"Kosrozd is different. Once he changed, he did not lie with you. You told me that such things do not happen. When you change, you lie with those unchanged, not one another.” There was an accusation in these words and she waited for him to try to mollify her.

He looked away from her, saying in a remote way, “I have never experienced it for myself but it was said when I was young, that if there is true acceptance and deep love, such things can happen. Those of my blood can lie together. I have never known of it. After all this time, I doubt it is possible, that kind of intimacy, but the wish for it still remains.” It was an effort to turn his mind from such unfruitful speculations.

She had known him long enough to feel his pain, and she was aware that she had overstepped that unspoken limit behind which he hid his anguish. “My master,” she said, contrite. “I did not mean..."

"I know.” He turned toward her again. “Well, we must deal with this problem. What would you like me to do? Do you want to leave Rome?” he asked her gently. “You might prefer to be sent away. I have other estates, and you may live at any one you like with whomever you like, until you want to retire and be freed."

"If you wish to send me away,” she said after a pause, her voice so small it was hardly audible, “that is your right. You may do with me as you will. And I would not blame you, truly I would not. But I would be very sad.” She had no intention of weeping for this strange man. Romans despised tears, she knew, and though Saint-Germain was not a Roman, she had never seen his eyes moist.

"Of course I don't want to send you away,” he assured her, feeling a touch of annoyance. Tishtry in general was a sensible woman. It had been her wish that they part. She had asked him to let her choose one of the charioteers or bestiarii who liked her and would give her children. Now this. He propped himself on his elbow and studied her. “Tishtry, tell me what is disturbing you.” He said it casually, as if they were talking about the merits of his new harness design, but it was an order and he expected to be obeyed.

"Nothing,” she said curtly.

Patiently he thought of her life, and from what he knew of her he formed his next questions. “Would you like to return home to Armenia? Do you still miss your family? Tell me.” He touched her cheek where there was a trail of wetness.

Her answer was not direct. She had no intention of telling him that she had come to prefer Rome to the rugged hills of her own land. “The last time I raced, there was a scholar from Armenia who talked to me afterward. He was very pleased with my team and my skill. He asked a great many questions about my racing and training. He said that it had been a great mistake to have such a treasure sold to Rome.” She was staring at the ceiling where the murals were almost invisible in the dark, picturing in her mind the bright glare of the Circus Maximus.

Saint-Germain felt himself grow cold. “An Armenian scholar?” he inquired casually.

"Very distinguished. He spoke with Necredes in Greek. You must not think that he was bent and gray, however—he was fairly young with a strong face.” She wondered why it was so important that Saint-Germain know how much she was admired. It was more than the petty satisfaction she felt in making him jealous. “He was respectful and attentive."

"I'm not surprised,” Saint-Germain said dryly. “Tell me, did this Armenian scholar have an accent?"

Tishtry laughed. “
All
courtiers have accents,” she said. “The whole court speaks strangely."

That was true enough, Saint-Germain told himself. And it would be unusual for Tishtry to recognize whether the scholar spoke in the courtly manner, or whether there was a touch of the Persian in his words. He tried to convince himself that this was needless worry—that Led Arashnur had left Rome months ago. “Tell me more about this Armenian scholar: what kinds of questions did he ask you?"

"Oh,” she said blithely, beginning to enjoy herself, “he wanted to know everything. He said he was going to make a report to the king, and I told him I had already appeared before Tiridates when he came to Rome to see Nero. That impressed this scholar, and he inquired about when I had come here, and how long I had been performing in the arena. I told him quite a lot about that. Even about that time Necredes wanted me to take my team through lions and you protected me when I refused. That impressed him a great deal, my master."

"Did it?” Saint-Germain asked ironically.

"Yes,” she insisted. “I told him all about you. He didn't believe much of it."

"All?” he repeated.

She stifled a chuckle. “Well, not quite all. But it was enough for him to know that you don't abuse your slaves and that though you're not a noble or a citizen of Rome, you're still no one to meddle with."

Saint-Germain reached for a pillow and dragged it under him. “I'm grateful for that. I wonder why this Armenian scholar took so much time on such matters. Surely he can't be planning to include that in his report to the king."

"There aren't a lot of Armenians in Rome,” she pointed out, her momentary pique entirely forgotten. She was pleased that the scholar had been so attentive, and wanted Saint-Germain to understand that this was no idle compliment she had been given. There were many men who admired her, and some who regarded her with avid, lustful eyes. The scholar had been different. He had cared about how she lived. “Try to understand, my master, that I was something new to him. My father and brothers often performed at the king's command, but that was years ago, before my brothers were sent to the army to train the charioteers for battle. Since then, not many of the court of Tiridates have seen the kind of demonstration I do. He was curious about it. He wanted to know how I came by my skill, who had bought me and why, and how I was treated. He wanted to know if there were others who had my abilities, and I said that so far none had been seen in Rome. No one has ever cared about that before."

"Ah.” Saint-Germain kissed her forehead lightly.

"Should I not have spoken?” she asked, suddenly anxious.

"It may not have been entirely wise,” he said after a moment. “Never mind, Tishtry. It's good to know that someone appreciates your skill. Be glad that he was good enough to tell you. In future, however,” he added in a more astringent tone, “do not be too open with such strangers, even if they are from Armenia."