Blood Games (32 page)

"One day, Justus, I will. When you cannot threaten me with my mother. On that day, I will denounce you, and all that you've done to me, and it won't matter what you say of me, because then at least I will be free of you, without any necessity to see you again.” Her voice was steady and calm as she fixed him with a strange stare. In her mind, she thought of Saint-Germain, and the last time they had met. It had been shortly after Nero's death a few months ago, and they had taken advantage of the confusion to spend a few short hours in each other's arms. She could remember even now the tenderness of his touch and the gentle power of his lips.

"I prefer you this way, Olivia,” Justus told her with a snide laugh. “I don't enjoy it when you cringe or become passive. You must tell me again sometime what it is you're going to do to me. I'll be interested to hear it.” His hands tightened and he saw her go white around the mouth. “You'd like it better if I beat you now? Of course not. But you provoke me with this defiance. I am amused by it now, but at another time I might not be."

Through the hurt, Olivia watched her husband. “You're loathsome,” she whispered, and the words were more terrible for the quiet, “you aren't worth my hatred. Contempt is all you deserve.” With a single fast movement she broke out of his grip, ignoring the hurt that came as she did. She unlatched the door and stepped out of the study, saying as she did, “You are a sickness, my husband.” Then she slammed the door, and apparently oblivious of the stares of the slaves around her, walked toward her wing of the house.

When Justus called Monostades to him a little later to hand him the scroll and give him instructions for its delivery, he was brusque with his secretary. “Go. Do as I've told you. I don't want anyone to disturb me again today,” he snapped as Monostades hurried toward the door. “Not anyone, is that clear? Not anyone!"

TEXT OF A PROCLAMATION OF THE EMPEROR GALBA.

To all loyal citizens of Rome, the empire, and to the nobility and freedmen, my greetings:

It nears the time of the festival of the Saturnalia, a time of gifts and the pleasures of rejoicing. I will rejoice with you as well, for my heir will be with me, sharing with me responsibility and power so that he will not come to the purple unprepared and unknown to you.

Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licianus has officially been made my heir, and I know that you all will be proud that so noble a young man has consented to be part of my administration and to follow after me.

It is always a difficult decision to make, this selection of an heir. There are those who believe that they deserve such recognition more than others, and a few are misled into thinking that they have earned the honor through service. But though such actions are laudable, they are not sufficient. Piso Licianus will bring to the empire his faultless lineage and a character of the most dedicated and honorable.

As we approach the new year, let me remind all of you that there are a great many tasks before all of us, and that we must renew our dedication to the empire so that the great rifts of the past year may be mended. To that end, I caution you all against the various rumors that always make themselves heard in Rome. It is true that there are those who have been disappointed by recent events, but such matters are soon resolved among honorable men. The rumors that have come from Germania are not sufficiently important to be given attention. As an old soldier, I know how such rumors are subject to exaggeration. Do not be deceived by those who tell you that there will be a revolt in this province or that one. Our upheavals and battles are over. The great injustices that you all endured under Nero will be corrected, and we will return once again to those stern virtues that have made the empire as mighty as it is.

I hope you will share my satisfaction in my choice of heir and will join with me in lifting us from the mire of self-indulgence and vanity that almost engulfed us.

The next year will be the 821st Year of the City. Let us strive to make it the finest Rome has ever known.

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Ragoczy Sanct

Germain Franciscus

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TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CENTURION CAIUS TULLER TO HIS COMMANDER, AULUS CAECINA ALIENUS, IN GERMANIA.

To the general A. Caecina Alienus, greetings:

Less than a month has passed since Galba and his heir Piso met their deaths here in Rome. That happened on the fifteenth of January, and already the purple is awarded to Marcus Salvius Otho. The people like Otho better than they did Galba: the old general was too stern for them, too full of the talk of virtue and not much given to pleasure. Piso Licianus, poor fool, has had the worst of this affair. Galba attempted to resign in his favor, in order to prevent the rebellion that overtook him. For five days Piso reigned as Caesar, hardly long enough to review the coinage. They died together on that cold, bright morning while the wind rode down the Tiber.

Otho has already had word of the movements in Germania, and is planning to take his legions north to meet any advancement toward Rome before the city is reached. He is quite flamboyant, this Marcus Salvius Otho, and the people are pleased with him. The taxes he has tried to impose do not meet with the same enthusiasm. So far the Senate has not responded to his demands, and therefore Otho will take into battle troops who have not recently been paid, which may affect their loyalty. Otho has declared that the whole question will be resolved by May, and that the shipments of grain will be at their usual level. He has arranged for loaves to be distributed to those on the dole, and for a portion of pork to be given twice a week. The Senate has said that this is a dangerous precedent, and it may be that, but Otho knows that he must earn the respect of the people if he is to fulfill his promise to them, and this is the quickest way to do it.

The Great Games have been suspended for a time, but Otho has promised a full five days of Games, with grants and awards distributed on each day. He has already promised that some of the imperial gifts will be of certain items owned by Nero himself.

Work on the Golden House has stopped completely. Galba hated the place, Piso said he wanted to pull it down, and Otho has not been Caesar long enough to know what to do with it. Many of the people of Rome have come to dislike the building, but they are still sentimental about Nero and would oppose taking the palace down because Nero loved it so much.

There has been talk in the Senate about water theft again. Twelve illegal taps have been found on the Claudian Aqueduct alone, and the inspection of the others hasn't begun. The price of aqueduct water has soared this last year, and some of the builders of insulae for the poor have threatened to leave out the plumbing entirely unless some adjustment is made. If Vitellius would address himself to this issue, he would find a great deal of support and little opposition, for to oppose such reform is very nearly an admission of water theft.

I have attempted to contact all the Senators you listed, but it has been difficult. There are three Praetorians who watch me constantly and report all my activities. More than one patrician has told me that the Praetorians are a government unto themselves and none dare oppose them. All have warned me that if Vitellius is victorious, he will have to accept the demands of the Praetorian Guard if he intends to rule for more than a month. Many of the high-ranking officers are openly courted by men of rank, as if they were minor rulers. They're a very haughty unit, without regard for the legions and any soldier who is not of equestrian rank, at the very least. They're dangerous, those Praetorians, and much more powerful than I'd ever realized. Let Vitellius be warned.

There has been an increase in spying, which is to be expected. Very few citizens will speak their minds, but the walls of every street in Rome reflect their discontent. Everywhere there are threats and slogans scrawled, and those who read them laugh and nod.

The conflict with Otho must be settled quickly, as Rome is growing tired of rebellion and confusion. By no means should the current Caesar be allowed to fight from the city, so do not follow the plan you made to drive him back to Rome and kill him here. It would go badly for you that way. Otho must die away from the city, where there will be no chance for the Romans to take up sides. See that the Emperor falls on the battlefield in the north, so that there can be no disputing it within the city walls.

I await the good day when you enter the ancient gates bringing a new and finer Emperor with you. I will work toward that day with all my capabilities. I have even hired sign writers to go about the streets and paint Vitellius’ praises on the walls during the night.

P.S. There was a banquet two nights ago, with lavish entertainment, as in the days of Nero. Dancing girls from Egypt and musicians from somewhere in Africa to entertain. Greek wines served unwatered, fifteen dishes for each course. Very grand. Otho was as liberal a guest as he was a host, and after his fourth cup of wine, he threw his wig into the air and rubbed oil on his pate to make it shine. Everyone is still laughing about it. Except Otho, of course.

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THERE WAS a dark place on the paving where the water ran down from the garden of the villa of Constantinus Modestinus Datus on the hill above. In the fading dusk, as the shadows grew denser the wetness seemed to resemble a lean, elongated, cloaked figure, all the more sinister for lying toward the sun instead of away from it. One or two late travelers who hurried toward the gates of Rome hesitated as they neared this ominous mark, then, discovering it was only water, were filled with relief as they crossed the spreading trickle. From the villa came the perfume of the garden's flowers, which the rising wind carried away.

Shortly after the Roman gates had been closed for the night and the Watch posted, Saint-Germain approached the villa, dismounting some distance from it. He had expected this summons for more than a year. The last letter from Sennistis had warned him that he had received a visit from a man claiming to be an Armenian scholar, but who spoke with a marked Persian accent. The high priest of Imhotep said that the scholar had demanded information about both Saint-Germain and Kosrozd. Then there had been no more letters from Egypt. When the polite invitation had been delivered to Saint-Germain the day before, he had welcomed it. At last he would have an opportunity to investigate further. In the note the Armenian scholar had said that he had heard of Saint-Germain in Egypt. He would have to learn from whom, and how much.

As he walked down the Vicus Tusculis, Saint-Germain studied the villa on the brow of the hill. He sensed he was being watched, but there was no movement in the garden to give his observer away. When he came to the rivulet that ran from the wall of the garden, an unpleasant smile touched his lips. “Running water,” he said softly. Did anyone truly believe it would stop him? His heeled Scythian boots raised two little splashes as he strode through the wet toward the villa of Constantinus Modestinus Datus.

The slave who opened the door to his knock was not quick enough to disguise his fear of the visitor, and he stammered a welcome, adding that “The foreign scholar and his escort are in the garden, at the end of the corridor. Shall I show you...?"

"Thank you, I know the way.” Saint-Germain inclined his head slightly and stepped into the house. He had departed from his usual custom of dressing in Persian and Egyptian garments. Tonight he wore a toga draped a little shorter than was most fashionable. It was of black linen, and the border, instead of being Roman eagles or Greek keys, was of his signet, the eclipse with raised wings, and was embroidered in silver thread.

There were three men in the garden. Two were dressed in the uniforms of the palace guard of Tiridates, king of Armenia, but the swords they carried were of Parthian design, as were their sandals. Both men were massively tall, and fixed their eyes on some invisible point near the horizon. Saint-Germain glanced once at them and raised his fine brows in inquiry.

The third man rose from a bench by the fountain. He, too, was wearing Armenian clothing, but not the military gear of his bodyguard. His was the long tunic and fringed cape of a favored and courtly scholar. His young face was craggy and intelligent, and though he smiled readily enough, his dark eyes were wary. “Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus?” he asked unnecessarily.

"I understood from your invitation that you would be expecting me.” He looked about. “Modestinus is not here?” He was grateful that this interview would take place in private, though it was remarkable for a guest to entertain without his host in a private villa. “A pity.” This formality was not lost on the Armenian.

"The unpleasant difficulty in the north has called him away. Word has come that there is to be a battle between Otho and the generals of Vitellius. Modestinus has chosen to befriend Otho and protect his interests in Gallia. Do you think this entirely wise?” He gave a short, cynical laugh.

"My opinion can have no bearing on Modestinus’ actions.” He decided to let the scholar have the direction of the conversation for the moment, in the hope that he would reveal more than he had intended. As he moved to the bench across the fountain from the scholar, he asked, “Are you interested in Roman politics? It seems a perilous study just at present."

"Hardly perilous,” the Armenian disclaimed. “I'm a foreigner."

"All the more hazard, I should have thought. Is what you learn worth the risk?” He saw the other man's eyes narrow once quickly. “War is not a scholarly matter,” he said at his blandest.