Blood Games (41 page)

"They're sending spies here all the time,” Domitianus said petulantly. “Parthia and Persia both. Sometimes they do it through Armenia, and sometimes through Jerusalem."

"Now that the government will be stable again, that will stop,” Justus said with a show of complacence. “I have great faith in your father, in your whole family. I was very pleased when Mucianus presented you to the Praetorian Guard as Caesar. It will do a great deal for Rome to have the Praetorians again. Vitellius’ private Guard was not popular."

Ixion stepped forward carrying a platter of pickled fish. He put this down before Domitianus as a temple priest might offer sacrifice to his god.

"This is good, very good,” Domitianus said when he had eaten two of the little fish.

"I have them sent from Britannia. Nothing south of there is as tasty, I've found.” He picked up one of the fish by the tail and dropped it into his mouth. Actually, he disliked the salty northern fish, but that would not win the approval of the Emperor's son.

"They're very good,” Domitianus said mechanically as he reached for more. “Is your wife away?” he asked between bites.

"My wife?” Justus said with distaste. “No, I fear that she is reluctant to join us tonight. Since that sad day when her father and brothers were condemned for political intrigue—that was during Nero's time, you wouldn't remember—she has been uninterested in political things, and I have ceased trying to persuade her. She is an odd woman, though I shouldn't say it. You may have heard something about her tastes in men. There has been some gossip. I know that having an old man for a husband can be difficult for a young woman, and so I cannot bring myself to criticize her for what she may do. Not that I favor adultery, but a man must make allowances.” He let himself sigh heavily, and then showed a tolerant smile. “Women. What creatures they are."

Domitianus had another fish in his mouth and could not answer at once. When he did, he said, “It sounds to me as if you might consider divorce."

"What? You forget that I've been divorced once already, and it would not look well for me to do so a second time.” He reached for the wine jug and refilled his guest's cup.

"Why not? There are plenty of others who've had any number of spouses in their lives. A wife like that,” he went on, assuming the manner of a sage, “she's no credit to a man like you, Justus. I can understand why you wish to be loyal. No one would like others to think that he had put a wife away, because of folly in her family, but you must consider your position and your future. There are women who would be a greater credit to you and who would not have the cloud of suspicion hanging over them."

This was precisely what Justus wanted to hear, and from someone as powerful and naive as Titus Flavius Domitianus. “I had hoped that in time she might come to regard the matter differently. She is generally not unreasonable.” The platter of pickled fish was empty except for a thin film of brine. Justus motioned for this to be taken away.

The next dish was stewed sows’ udders stuffed with honeyed dormice. Dishes of tart and sweet sauces were set on the table along with little buns. A second jug of wine had been broached.

Justus was deep in conversation with Domitianus when he noticed that Ixion was hovering near their table. He stopped his conversation and looked up. “Why are you standing there?"

Ixion pointed to himself, turning scarlet. “You said I was to—"

"I said you were to serve us, not breathe on us!” He was feeling the effects of the wine as well as pleasure at the way the evening was going. “You're listening to us."

"I'm not!” Ixion protested, moving back and almost tripping over the end of Domitianus’ couch.

A measuring, crafty look came into Justus’ face. “You're still new in my house,” he said as he glared at Ixion. “I got you last autumn. You came cheap."

"My master was bankrupt,” Ixion said, feeling very frightened. There was something in his master's eyes that filled him with horror. “You said it was fortunate that he was bankrupt. You bought fifteen of his slaves."

"Sixtus Murens was a supporter of Otho,” Justus said suddenly.

Ixion nodded, hoping to escape the wrath he could see gathering in Justus’ face. “Because of Otho, master, he lost all his fortune, in defending that false Emperor. Vitellius would not honor the various pledges that Otho had given my master. There was nothing else he could do but sell off his slaves and land. It was all that he had.” His voice had risen.

"Or perhaps he wants to buy favor. Perhaps someone has made him an offer, and in exchange for a few services will restore his fortune.” Justus knew it was what he would do in the same circumstances, and he found it difficult to believe that anyone else would not behave as he would.

"No!” Ixion protested.

"No? How do you know that, slave?” Justus was on his feet now, coming toward Ixion with an expression of dreadful anticipation in his eyes.

Belatedly Domitianus looked up from his plate. “Have your houseman take him away, Justus. You can examine him at leisure."

Justus refused to be robbed of his pleasure when it was so close. “Pardon me, young Caesar. If there were any other guest but you in my house, I would, of course, do that. But you are too precious, and too high above me for me to expose you to any more threats. Gaius Sixtus Murens was a traitor, yet he lives. It would be like him to plant one of his creatures here where he might spy upon you, and gather information that would be used by your enemies."

"No,” Ixion whispered as he took another step backward. “No. I never would..."

Now Domitianus was interested. It was little more than a month ago that he had been in danger of his life and his uncle had been killed. He paled as he regarded the slave. “Tell me, you, is there any truth in what your master says?"

Ixion dropped to his knees and crawled toward the young man on the couch. “No truth, Caesar. None. I have never been a spy. There is no reason. I should be one. My master is...wrong. I would not—"

"Make a liar of me, would you?” Justus thundered. “Monostades!” he yelled as he reached down and dragged Ixion to his feet by the hair. “Monostades, bring the rods, quickly!"

"Master,” Ixion protested, almost inaudibly. “Master, no. I swear to you that I never did anything contrary to your orders and interests...."

Monostades opened the door, three long leather-and-wire-wrapped rods in his hand. “What do you wish, master?"

"This one!” With a shove, Justus sent Ixion sprawling. “He has been spying on the young Caesar, who has honored me as my guest, and he will not admit it. See that he does.” He stood straddling the slave. “Ixion. An appropriate name. He suffered, and you will, too."

While Justus and Titus Flavius Domitianus dined on the special pomegranate-stuffed thrushes dipped in the secret sauce that Triges had made, Ixion was dragged to the stableyard and tied between two tall posts. As the rain fell and darkness came on, Monostades beat him until the required confession was obtained. Satisfied, he tossed the bloody rods away and went back into the house to report, leaving Ixion hanging in the rain while his life ran out of him.

TEXT OF A LETTER WRITTEN IN CODE BY LED ARASHNUR TO AN UNNAMED PERSON, DELIVERED SEALED INTO THE HANDS OF A TRAVERLER FROM SELEUCIA IN MESOPOTAMIA SHORTLY BEFORE HE BOARDED A SHIP BOUND FOR ANTIOCH.

To my superiors:

I regret that I can report no progress in the matter of the Prince Kosrozd Kaivan. Not only was I unsuccessful in purchasing him from his owner, the Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus we learned of in Egypt, but Kaivan himself is reluctant to return to Persia again. Two of the charioteers have told me that Kaivan has expressed himself on the question of his heritage with a degree of scorn, which is most unfortunate. We may have to resort to less subtle measures. I realize that it is essential that he not live out the year, but I will have to find a way to kill him here in Rome.

It may be possible to discredit this Franciscus, who is not Roman. He is said to be from Dacia and yet not a Daci. Although at first I doubted much of what that old priest said before he died, it seems there is something to it, and if only we can find proof, then the Senate will deal with him. I have been attempting to get that proof, but so far with little success. He is very careful and has many friends in high places. I have heard that one of the old Senators, a man of very ancient house and fortune, has expressed himself as being against Franciscus, though I have yet to learn why. This Senator, a Cornelius Justus Silius, has a great deal of political power, and if I can find a way to persuade him to exercise it upon our behalf, then the road to Kaivan is clear and he will be delivered into our hands.

Your message of three months ago has just reached me, and I was pleased to learn that two more of the heirs to the throne have gone their way into the black Mansion of Death. It would be a great mistake to have them left alive. There is too much to be lost if we allow them to live.

It would not be appropriate to send more soldiers, even Armenian ones, because I am currently living in a very poor district of Rome, not far from the Temple of Minerva. The building is old, no one dares to light the holocaust for fear the entire building will burn down. There are rats on the ground floor, but they rarely come higher because there are no cooking facilities in the apartments, and most of us buy our food from the little shops on the street below. The cheapest food is a thick wheat bun filled with cooked pork in a heavy pepper sauce. These are very popular. Everyone eats them. In such a setting, any soldiers would be noticed, and at the moment, I wish to be invisible. Should it seem desirable to find another place to live, or to establish myself in a grander setting, I will inform you, and would then welcome the soldiers you offer.

The Emperor is yet to arrive in Rome, though spring is well-advanced. He is still represented by his younger son, who has shown himself to be very popular with the reestablished Praetorian Guard. Though very young, Titus Flavius Domitianus demonstrates a good grasp of politics and his intellect is acute. His severity may lessen with age. If you can find a clever Greek who might be willing to do the work of a library slave or secretary, he could be very useful near Domitianus. Of the older son, who has the same name as his father, but who is called Titus to avoid confusion, I know no more now than I did two years ago. There is a degree of gossip about him, but I put little stock in any of it. Perhaps you might find someone close to him with an unguarded tongue.

If our plan is to succeed, then we must be very cautious. Kosrozd Kaivan is one of the more important of the princes, but only one. Should any of them be alive when our brotherhood makes its move to power, then we will have done it all for nothing.

Ours is a holy cause, and our course is clear. I will not fail in my task, I vow it with my blood and my life. It would be better that he die on Persian soil, but Rome will do. See that your dedication is as firm as mine, for though you are my military and religious superiors, you have chosen me to accomplish these important missions. When many of you would have faltered in Egypt, I carried on. I found the priest and had the truth out of him before his death. I will accept any reprimand you give me if it is warranted, but otherwise I must be allowed to act in the manner I think best.

You will have word from me again before the summer solstice. For the honor of the gods and the righteousness of our goals!

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AUMTEHOUTEP'S EXPRESSION was impassive as he entered the private wing of Villa Ragoczy. “My master?"

Saint-Germain looked up from the scroll he had been reading. In the slanted golden afternoon light it was just barely possible to read the spidery, faded scrawl in what appeared to be Greek. He handled the scroll with extreme care, as age had made it brittle and already bits of the papyrus had broken off the sides of the ancient document. “What is it?” He could read the distress in his old slave's eyes. “What's wrong?"

"There are three officers of the Praetorian Guard and a member of the Senate here, my master. They insist—'insist’ is their word—that you see them at once.” He looked toward the far wall rather blankly. “I have told them that you're occupied, but they won't accept that."

"Won't they?” Saint-Germain set the scroll aside, placing a little statue of a dancing dwarf on the scroll to hold it. “Then, of course, I must obey. Tell them that I will be with them very shortly, and apologize for the delay. Show them into the main reception room and see that they have wine. Give them the good white wine, since it's so warm today and they undoubtedly have become thirsty on their journey out here.” As he rose he put one small hand on Aumtehoutep's arm. “Don't worry, old friend. After more than a year of continuous upheaval in Rome, it's surprising that they're just getting around to me. This is not the first time such things have happened, as you recall."

The Egyptian nodded once. “I doubt that the matter is simple. I hope that it's nothing more than the usual distrust of foreigners. We've had our share of it. But three Praetorians and a Senator?"

"You forget, I'm very wealthy. Rome would not like to lose my taxes and the cheap mules I sell the legions.” There was more resignation than cynicism in his voice. “Go, Aumtehoutep. Give them my message and see to the wine."

"As you wish,” was the old slave's answer, though his eyes were unhappy.

As soon as the door was closed, Saint-Germain moved quickly, slipping three small boxes into various parts of his desk so that they came to have the look of decorations instead of concealed drawers. It would not do, he thought, for the Praetorian Guard or the Senate to learn what was hidden in those boxes. He straightened up and smoothed the short dalmatica of black cotton he wore over his usual tight Persian trousers. Reaching for the pectoral he had removed while he worked, he wished, as he so often had for almost two thousand years, that he could see himself in mirrors. When he had adjusted the heavy silver collar of the pectoral, he left his library and went through the garden toward the public wing of Villa Ragoczy.