Blood Games (33 page)

"Politics do intrigue me, and Roman politics are fascinating just now. Three Caesars since January. Remarkable.” He resumed his seat on the opposite side of the fountain, watching Saint-Germain through the falling water.

"Particularly to Parthia and Persia?” Saint-Germain suggested with gentle irony.

The scholar's hard bright eyes narrowed, but he said with great aplomb, “Parthia and Persia are as important to Armenia as Rome is. You will agree that the current...I hesitate to call it a civil war, but you must have noticed that it appears to be like one...civil war, then, is apt to have a lasting effect on Armenia."

"And on Persia and Parthia. They have been at war with Rome since the days of the Republic.” Saint-Germain had spoken in Armenian, and noted with satisfaction that the scholar was startled by this. “It would be to Persian advantage to keep the war going."

"I know nothing of Persia,” the scholar said too quickly, in Armenian, his eyes flicking away from Saint-Germain's ironic gaze.

"Surely, one of Tiridates’ court must be aware...” he said and let his voice trail off.

"No more than any other. I am a scholar, not a diplomat. It isn't fitting that I spend my time on politics. There are great schools in Parthia and Persia that interest me, of course,” he went on hurriedly. “I have spent a little time studying in those countries. But as to this conflict with Rome..."

Saint-Germain nodded sagely. “As you say, it's hardly a matter for scholars. And yet"—he gazed dreamily beyond the garden—"I cannot help but find it strange that you speak Armenian with a Persian accent. No doubt it's the current fashion at court.” He knew beyond doubt that this was not the case. At other times he might have found the game amusing, and would have taken time to lead the scholar into more and deeper lies, but not now.

The scholar's glance was quick and poisonous, but he managed to give a smooth answer. “My first tutor was Persian, and I learned the accent from him. I am the son of my father's second marriage,” he improvised unnecessarily, “and had no brothers or sisters near me in age."

Though Saint-Germain gave the scholar mental credit for facile wit, he also recognized in him the common failing of liars, that he made things too complicated, and explained too much. “No doubt that isolation drew you toward learning,” he said gravely, then went on deferentially, “You must forgive me, but I thought I knew all the scholars traveling from Armenia. Modestinus has been host to many of them, and they have often mentioned their colleagues. Your invitation this afternoon did not say much more than your name, which I confess I don't recognize. No doubt it slipped my mind. Led Arashnur...” He contemplated the name. “No, I'm afraid I can't place you."

"I'm...I had not planned to come to Rome so soon. But then an opportunity presented itself, and I took it.” Arashnur was decidedly nervous now, and the Persian accent was much more pronounced. “Such things happen."

"Certainly,” Saint-Germain said with a self-deprecating smile. “But what do you study, that brought you here so quickly?"

Led Arashnur licked his lips. “I'm a student of practical mathematics. I study the designs of bridges and buildings..."

And military fortifications, Saint-Germain was certain. “And with such turmoil in the city, you came here to study?"

The self-proclaimed Armenian scowled, and his striking young face became menacing. “I must take advantage of opportunities as they arise. If there is turmoil in the city, it's unfortunate but I must not let it deter me."

"Indeed,” Saint-Germain said softly. “Precisely how great a fool do you think me, Led Arashnur?"

"Franciscus?” the scholar demanded as his eyes flew to his silent bodyguards.

"Call them at your peril, Arashnur,” Saint-Germain murmured as he fixed an apparently friendly expression on his features. He made a point of reclining on the bench, supporting himself on his elbow as he watched the tension settle in the scholar's face.

"There are two of them, and they're armed,” Arashnur said at last.

"Do you really think that would make a difference?” Saint-Germain's amusement lit his dark eyes. “Well, you're welcome to try."

Arashnur hesitated before he answered. “No,” he said slowly. “I don't think they could best you."

"Very wise.” Saint-Germain busied himself with the drape of his toga. “Now, what does a Persian spy from Armenia want with me?"

"I am not a spy!” the scholar protested with an abrupt, angry shout. “I am a scholar."

"I asked you not to treat me like a fool,” Saint-Germain reminded him silkily. “You want something of me; what is it?"

Arashnur was clearly taken aback. He had not dealt before with someone who thought so little of the threat he represented. “There's nothing...” he began, then saw the sardonic light in his visitor's eyes. “You have a slave."

"I have three hundred slaves,” Saint-Germain corrected him. He hoped that the spy would not lie again, for he knew that they had begun very dangerous talk.

"Only one interests me and...my associates,” Arashnur said curtly.

"Your masters, rather,” Saint-Germain amended. “Which of my three-hundred-and-some-odd slaves deserves this attention?” He knew who it must be, but suggested, “It can't be my Armenian bestiaria, can it? Tishtry is not for sale, not to you or anyone, at any price. If your masters want to curry favor with Tiridates, they'll have to think of another present."

Arashnur looked disgusted. “We're not interested in an arena performer. Not that performer."

It was Kosrozd, then, as Saint-Germain had feared from the first. “I have over sixty bestiarii and thirteen charioteers. Who among them has caught your fancy?"

"You're flippant,” Arashnur snapped.

"Am I.” His voice grew hard. “Led Arashnur, I fear you will have to disappoint your masters. None of my slaves is for sale."

"One of your slaves is a Persian prince!” Arashnur burst out, and the bodyguards turned toward him, one of them reaching for his sword. Arashnur gave him a stern look and a sharp gesture. The bodyguards returned to their positions, silent as ever, but they no longer stared abstractedly at the horizon. Now their attention was on the two men by the fountain.

"No, Led Arashnur,” Saint-Germain said quietly, “one of my slaves
was
a Persian prince. Now he wears a collar and races a four-horse quadriga in the Circus Maximus."

Torches had been lit in the garden by the household slaves, and now the flames, licked by the wind, flickered over the marble of the fountain and touched the falling water with tints of gold, amber and red.

"Kosrozd Kaivan is the oldest son of—"

"Prince Sraosha, third heir to the throne of Persia until his death for treason.” He saw the cunning in Arashnur's eyes. “No, spy, my slave did not confide in me. I knew who he was when I bought him. Let me guess,” Saint-Germain went on with a sardonic laugh. “There is yet another conspiracy brewing, and you intend to benefit no matter who wins. If the conspirators succeed, you will be the one to give them their rightful prince, and if they do not, you will be able to bargain for favor by turning Kosrozd over to the king. That is your intention, is it not?"

Led Arashnur was silent, his eyes like shards of flint. “Yes,” he said at last.

"And you are in Rome, not to study practical mathematics, but to learn how much damage this civil war has done to Rome, so that Persia and Parthia can decide whether or not they want to break their current truce with Rome."

"Yes,” growled Arashnur.

Saint-Germain was not surprised to learn this. He had been expecting something of the sort since Galba and Piso died in January. “I wonder,” he said reflectively, “why you're willing to admit this to me."

This time Arashnur's voice was decidedly unpleasant. “I learned a few things while in Egypt."

"About the wheat supply?” Saint-Germain suggested with feigned innocence.

"Until the wheat dole is reinstated in Rome, there will be civil war,” Arashnur said, scoffing. “There is no shortage of grain in Egypt, only a canny and ambitious governor-prefect named Vespasianus."

"On that, at least, we can agree.” Saint-Germain nodded. “What else did you learn in Egypt?” He kept his tone gently mocking, but his mind was wholly alert. Led Arashnur might prove to be more of a threat than he had seemed at first.

"There was an old man,” Arashnur explained. “He sold herbs and spices and had the reputation for being skilled in medicine. There were those who called him a priest. His name was Sennistis."

"Was?” Saint-Germain asked in spite of himself. He had an instant of vivid memory of the tall, dignified Sennistis in his white robes and pectoral.

Arashnur shrugged. “He was not very strong, and toward the end his mind wandered. He thought he was back in the temple of Imhotep. He spoke a great deal of his predecessor. It was a curious tale. Perhaps you'd like to hear it?"

How much had Sennistis revealed before he died? Saint-Germain asked himself. The old priest had had full knowledge of him, but would have resisted telling what he knew. He could see the gloating curve of Led Arashnur's full mouth and wished that he had the opportunity to peel the flesh from bone and teeth. His anger was hazardous, and he kept it banked within himself. “I am often entertained by curious stories."

"This former high priest of Imhotep, according to old Sennistis, was a foreigner. That, in itself, was unusual, but apparently this man was more remarkable. He had many strange habits, including that he neither ate nor drank except in private, and then, he claimed, only of the Elixir of Life. He was attributed with miracles. It was said that his body slave had been brought to him a dead man, the victim of plague, a novice from the Temple of Thoth, and that after two days, life returned to him."

"Another drinker of the Elixir of Life, no doubt,” Saint-Germain said with feigned boredom. If Sennistis had been brought to speak of Aumtehoutep, he had revealed more than Saint-Germain had thought.

"Not according to Sennistis. He said that the slave was not like his master, but what the difference was, he would not reveal.” He gave Saint-Germain a careful, expectant look. “You have a body slave who is an Egyptian, or so I have heard."

"Yes."

Arashnur waited, but Saint-Germain said nothing further. “The old man died before he told us more,” he admitted.

Saint-Germain's dark eyes grew hard. “How did he die, that good old man?"

"Bravely, if that pleases you. Almost a year ago. I stumbled on him by accident, you know, after I learned something of the man who had bought Kosrozd. My task might have taken longer if the priest had not kept your portrait. The inscription with it tells an amazing tale. How old are you, Franciscus? If that's your name."

"Older than you think me,” was his grave answer. “And Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus is as much my name as any that Sennistis knew.” He rested his compelling eyes on Arashnur. “I am surprised, spy, that knowing what you do, you have attempted anything so rash as this interview."

Led Arashnur got hastily to his feet. “I know something of you, Franciscus, and it's written down. If you and I do not come to some understanding tonight, I will dispatch that record to Otho in the morning. It should reach him at mid-April. He'll ask the Senate to act on the information, civil war or no."

"And if I refuse?” Saint-Germain forced himself to maintain his relaxed, reclined posture on the bench. “In ten days, I can be gone from Rome."

"From the city, but not the empire, and Roman law is persistent,” the spy said with satisfaction. “You're vulnerable, Franciscus, and unless you come to terms with me, you will regret it. For example, one of your captains, a Greek, often uses his ship for smuggling. He might be willing to testify that he did so on your instructions. He was the one who found the old priest for me; his uncle. Were you aware of that?"

"No,” Saint-Germain lied, not adding that he had suspected that Kyrillos might be bringing in illegal grain to Ostia in order to profit from the high price on the illegal market.

"It would take little to have his entire cargo impounded, and from there it could mean that your other ships would be seized. That would be a blow to your finances, and then you might have to take advantage of the offer I have to make."

Saint-Germain recognized the boasting in Arashnur's voice, and decided to draw him out some more. “I can't see why any Roman would take the word of a Persian—your pardon, an Armenian—scholar about any ship, Roman, Greek, African or unknown."

"I would not give the warning myself. It would come from a faithful but unknown Roman.” Suddenly his expression turned crafty. “Oh, no, Franciscus. None of that. I won't give myself away to you so easily.” He came around the curve of the fountain and stood over Saint-Germain, his face flushed in the torchlight. “I want Kosrozd. I will have him. You think that because of your age and your blood that you are clever and safe, but you're not. Try to keep the prince and I will ruin you."

"Will you?” Saint-Germain sat up slowly. “You will find that a difficult task, spy."

"Say the same thing when you see your household disbanded. Then the Senate will be delighted to let me purchase Kosrozd. The slaves of a condemned foreigner are not welcome in Rome. The Emperor might even require that your slaves be sold outside of Rome. Otho cannot afford much more unrest. In your case, it would go very hard. Otho has a great distrust of foreign magicians."

Saint-Germain had seen the fear in Arashnur's eyes that lurked behind the bravado. “And you share his distrust, it seems."

"You...” He made a sign with his hand to ward off evil, breathing more quickly. “Unnatural creature!” he cried out rather wildly, moving back to the other side of the fountain.

There was an ironic gleam in Saint-Germain's eyes again. “You do believe the myth about running water. I crossed some on the road as I came here.” Had the thick soles and heels of his Scythian boots not been filled with his native earth, a sufficient amount of water, especially running water, would be very difficult and painful to cross, but he thought it best to keep that to himself. “Shall I stride through the fountain, spy?"