Blood Games (25 page)

"But I didn't come for refreshments,” Olivia protested. “I came because I've wanted to see you. Justus is angry that I'm here, but I'd rather endure his anger than stay away from you any longer.” Her voice almost broke, but she was silent a moment. “Mother, I wanted to be with you. I pleaded with Justus to let me come sooner. He forbade it. If he hadn't sold my slaves and replaced them with his own, I would have come in spite of him, but none of his slaves will disobey him for me.” She sighed.

"He's sold your slaves?” Romola said as if she had not heard the rest. “By what right? Why did you let him?"

"Let him?” Olivia repeated shakily. “There was no question asked of me. There was no permission given. He said he would do it and that if I objected, he would foreclose on all the loans and other considerations he'd given Father just before we were married. Sometimes he threatened to have the whole family banished for debt.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I didn't know what to do. He never let me talk to Father alone, he...forced me to agree with him on...Well, that doesn't matter. He said if I refused it would mean disgrace and ruin for the rest of the family."

Romola nodded, saying bitterly, “I understand. I feared it was like that. Your father never thought that Justus would actually prosecute him, since the family is so old and noble."

"The junior branch, however,” Olivia said, as she had heard her cousins say it all through her youth.

"The junior branch. I've never doubted that if he were given a chance, your husband would harm us.” She said this defiantly, lifting her head and staring at Olivia. Her deep, new wrinkles were revealed uncompromisingly; what had remained of her youthful beauty had gone, but in its place there was a majesty she had not possessed before, a look of strength that had come only on the far side of suffering.

"Yes,” Olivia said quietly. “He likes to harm people."

There was a discreet knock at the door and Romola called, “Enter."

Eteocles brought in a tray with refreshments piled on it. There were sweet cakes dripping with date syrup, flaky little pastries with spiced meats in them, plump buns that had been cut open and heaped with savory pork, thin batter breads folded around ground nuts and then cooked in hot oil. Because the room was cold, a glass jug of well-spiced apple juice steamed in the center of the tray, crowned with a cloud of whipped egg whites.

"But this is a feast!” Olivia protested as the old slave set the tray down on the antique scarred table by the door.

"Gedrica wouldn't hear of you coming home to nothing but little wheaten cakes, like a freedman. She said that this was to be a proper celebration.” Eteocles folded his arms in determination. “She says that there's plenty of extra in the kitchen for us, and so that's not to come back with nothing eaten."

Olivia flushed with confusion and gave a quick, inquiring glance to her mother. “I'll Gedrica that I've missed her cooking, and that nothing could have pleased me more than to have her willing to make such a delicious meal for us."

Apparently this was the response that Eteocles expected. He unfolded his arms and relaxed his stance. “I'll do that, mistress, and it will please her that you said so.” With that he left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Do you really think that there is enough for them in the kitchen?” Olivia asked softly as she looked at the food.

"Probably not.” Romola sighed. “We haven't very much, and little money to buy it with. I've thought of selling one of the slaves, but most of them are fairly old and wouldn't fetch much at market, in any case. It would be cruel to send them to a new master now, when they've been with me so long."

Olivia reached out impulsively to take her mother's hand. “I'll see that you have money. I know I can get some."

"I want nothing from your husband,” Romola said harshly. “I am touched that you would do this for me, but I won't accept anything from him. There has been too much evil from him already."

"If not from Justus, would you take it from someone else?” She told herself that she was being rash to assume that Saint-Germain would aid her. She had so little contact with him, and most of their meetings had been furtive, hardly more than a few words and rushed kisses. Yet she knew he was rich, and had offered her help before.

"Who else?” Romola demanded.

"A friend.” Olivia looked away.

"A lover?” her mother asked critically. “Before you have an heir?"

Olivia's sudden laughter sounded hideous in her own ears, and she saw the alarm in Romola's face. She stopped almost as abruptly as she had begun. “I've had countless lovers, Mother.” She shook her head. “No, that's not true. I suppose I could count them if I could bring myself to think about them."

Romola was shocked. “Does Justus know? Is that why he's been so determined to hurt us?” She felt a terrible, hot anger inside her.

"Oh, yes, Justus knows. He brings them to me.” Olivia's voice had risen and this time it was hard to control it. “He makes me ask them—terrible men, Mother. Some of them are banned from the lupanar because the whores are afraid of them. Then, when they come, he has a place where he watches. Lately that's changed. Now he wants to help them with me.” Her face was hot and she could barely whisper out the last few words.

"I see.” Romola sat still, the icy majesty stamped on her face like a mask in a Greek play. “How long has he done this?"

"From the first.” She was shamed to admit this, and dared not meet Romola's eyes. “I tried to tell you once."

"Mother Isis shrivel him!” Romola cursed as her hands tightened in her lap once again. “He has destroyed our house!"

Olivia nodded miserably. “I hoped to reason with him, Mother, but he would not heed me. He said I had been bought and paid for like a slave, and he expected the same obedience from me.” She pulled at the corner of her stola, winding it about her fingers. “I wanted to tell you before, but he's made threats and I was frightened. He meant what he said."

"But you tell me now,” Romola said in a flat voice. “Why now, after all that's happened?"

"Because it has happened. It doesn't matter that he threatens to destroy my father and my brothers, because it has been done. They are gone, and all the household. He showed me the tally. Three hundred forty-eight slaves were sent to the arena because they belonged to my father. They weren't tried or given any of the rights that Divus Julius assigned them. They were sent to die.” She had not felt so helpless as she did at this moment, talking to her mother in this empty house.

"When they beheaded your father, Justus was there. He watched the whole thing.” She looked at the table. “The meal is growing cold."

"I don't think I can eat it,” Olivia said as she stared at the big tray.

"You must. Otherwise poor, lonely Gedrica would be desolate. Have some of the juice while it's still hot, and as we go along, we will eat the rest. You have time, don't you? You needn't go at once."

"No, not at once.” She accepted the warm apple juice that her mother offered her in a plain glass cup.

"The silver and gold goblets were sold,” Romola explained with little emotion. “We have the glass, and the slaves have earthenware plates and cups, those that are left."

"How much money do you need?” Olivia asked bluntly after she had tasted the hot juice.

"I don't know, Olivia. Eteocles might be able to tell you, if he has the figures. The household has never been so small, and our position so precarious."

"Find out and send me word. I'll see that you have it.” She was not certain how she would be able to get money from Saint-Germain, but she believed in her heart that he would not deny her what she asked.

"Your lover has no interest in me,” Romola said as she watched her daughter's face.

"But he has an interest in me, and he is rich.” She was surprised at how coldly she said it. To speak of Saint-Germain thus, as if he were a tolerated favorite instead of a man whose nearness brought her to life, whose touch could transform her.

"I don't want to know who he is. It's wiser not to know such things. If he is willing, I fear I would have to accept what you give me. I don't have anything else.” For a little time she trembled and could say nothing more. “That Decima Romola Nolus, Domita Clemens, should come to this! I might as well join the women who collect the grain dole each morning. They say almost a third of the population gets free grain now. Why shouldn't I join them?"

Olivia had no answer for her. She drank the rest of the hot juice and then nibbled at one of the little cakes. Though the food was tasteless to her, it was welcome because it saved her from having to speak with her mother. As she ate, she promised herself that she would see that Romola was better provided for, and living decently again. Justus could not forbid that now.

"Your husband,” Romola said in a somewhat distant tone, “was the one who betrayed your family. I thought you knew that, but perhaps you don't. Virginius found out, and before he was condemned, he sent me word."

"Justus?” Olivia asked stupidly. She had thought that he had refused to help her father and brothers for fear of being condemned along with them. “Who told him?"

"He heard it from Tigellinus himself, when Drusillus was being beaten. Tigellinus declared that he had learned of their treachery from their own brother-in-law, and that if he was so shamed by their actions to inform against them, then it showed that they were acting not out of honor but from greed and spite.” Romola rose and walked to the window, where she touched the flowers in the vase.

Olivia sat very still, afraid that if she moved the earth would open or the building would collapse around her. She had thought she knew the worst of Justus when he had delighted in her suffering at the hands of the brutal men he sent to her. She had taught herself to accept that to ensure the protection of her family. Now that sacrifice seemed empty and of no worth at all. Fear and rage warred within her. She wanted now to take a long dagger and push it into his chest while he writhed. She wanted to watch Justus’ blood, steaming and spurting, drain from him while she laughed.

Her mother recalled her from this imagining, saying, “Let me give you the rest of the juice, and then we can eat the buns while we talk."

TEXT OF AN OFFICIAL PROCLAMATION FROM NERO TO THE SENATE AND PEOPLE OF ROME.

To the Senate and the People who are the soul of all Rome, your Emperor sends you greetings from Greece:

At Corinth, on the twenty-eighth day of November in the 819th Year of the City, I proclaimed the liberation of Greece. It is inappropriate that Rome, who has been given so much from Greece, should put the foot of oppression upon the neck of this splendid nation. The freedom of this country is a tribute to Rome, for it was a shame upon us all that we maintained the trappings of conquest here where we instead should have come as devoted suitors and admired the glory of this place.

The Olympic Games have now concluded and I am determined to return to Rome, and to that end, notify you that I will set out within a month of signing this decree. The Games were a great triumph for Rome, as we have demonstrated our skills and talents beyond question. I myself competed in many events, and for that, have been awarded 1,808 prizes in all the Games in which I participated, being the Olympic, the Pythian, the Isthmian and the Nemean. Such great honor is not just for myself, but for the might of Rome.

My agent Helius has begged me to return quickly, and I am taking his advice to heart. Before February is ended, I will return. I am anxious to see my city once again, to note the progress on my Golden House, and to touch the sacred soil of Rome with renewed devotion.

Be prepared to make me welcome, who is bringing you so much glory. Tell all the people that my love for them is increased and that I am as anxious to see them as a lover is to hold his beloved to his breast. The winter storms alone have stopped my return until now, and soon, even they will not have sufficient force to keep me from the place I love best.

With assurances to you all and anticipation of my welcome, I look forward to our reunion with joy.

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KOSROZD PAUSED at the door to the private wing of Villa Ragoczy. He had been in the restricted rooms half a dozen times since his master had taken him there from the arena, to tend his wounds and restore him to life. He raised his hand and knocked twice. The slave who guarded the door watched him carefully.

A few moments later, Aumtehoutep opened the door carefully. “Yes?"

"It's Kosrozd. I must see my master.” He moved restlessly, black eyes flicking from the face to the door to the slave beside it and back again. “It's important, Aumtehoutep. I wouldn't come here for something trivial. Let me in."

The Egyptian studied the beautiful young Persian. The ravages of his accident more than two years before were gone except for the deep, angry scars on his shoulder. “Follow me, Kosrozd,” he said with little inflection.

"Thank you,” was the grateful response as Kosrozd stepped inside the door. “Where is my master?"

"In the clock room. I don't believe you've been there. It's on the far side of his bath. Would you like me to take you there?” Aumtehoutep held wax tablets in his hands and had obviously been interrupted at his work.

"The far side of the bath. I'll find it.” He started down the long corridor, the tap of the Scythian boots he now wore instead of sandals clicking sharply on the mosaic and marble.

Saint-Germain sat in his clock room, frowning over a fan-folded manuscript. He was dressed in his familiar Persian clothes—a black sleeved tunic over black trousers. The only jewelry he wore was a silver ring engraved with his signet, the eclipse. He was very much preoccupied, and did not look around until Kosrozd called his name. “You."

Kosrozd looked uneasily at all the clocks in the room. There were Roman clocks, carefully designed to run by weights, dividing the day and the night into an equal number of hours, and geared to adjust to the changing lengths of day and night. There were clocks that ran by water and ratchets and sand. Most were silent in their operation, or nearly so, but a few squeaked and hissed as they marked their particular divisions of night and day.