Blood Games (63 page)

Trumpets brayed out a second fanfare, then played a fast, rhythmic version of the currently popular song
Don't Be Sad When I'm Gone
.

Titus whistled the tune through his teeth and Domitianus said to the air, “I'm getting sick of that thing."

At last four barges floated onto the flooded arena, each drawn by two small boats with five rowers in each. On two of the barges stood tall, black Numidians with wicker shields and long spears. On the other two were light-haired northerners from Lugdunum Batavorum, with double-pronged fishing tridents and crude brazen breastplates.

"They'll fight first,” Necredes said maliciously to Saint-Germain, who stood with six other men on one end of the spina. “When that's almost over, the crocodiles will be released to clean up the remains, and then you'll go in to clean up the crocodiles while we drain the water off. We'll do that slowly. You'll have almost an hour to battle the crocodiles. Do you think that will be enough?” He shook his head in mock concern over the condition of Saint-Germain's back and shoulders. “That might be a problem, having your back cut up that way. The blood brings the crocodiles, you know, Franciscus."

"There will be blood enough in the water by then,” Saint-Germain said, squinting down into the arena, feeling slightly sick. The sun was painful as nettles on his skin, the water made him dizzy. He wished fervently and uselessly for his earth-lined boots. He had not willingly stood in the open sunlight unshod for more than a thousand years. His only garment now was a loincloth, his only protection one small knife.

"When those lizards get their teeth in you,” Necredes muttered with satisfaction, “you'll shriek like a woman in childbed."

Saint-Germain did not answer; he stood watching the four barges as they lined up for battle.

At the other end of the spina, the trumpeters fell silent.

There was a quick flurry of activity as the rowers cast off from the barges, and then the first weapon, a Numidian spear, was thrown.

Lacking their boats to pull them, the barges began to drift with the movement of the water. The Numidians hurled spears again, this time in a coordinated effort, and all but two found marks in the blond northmen. This was what the crowd wanted to see, and they shouted encouragement to the barges.

On the second northmen's barge, there was a brief conference going on, and at the end of it three men set down their double-pronged tridents and took up positions on the back of the barge, where they paddled with their arms. Some of the spectators applauded. The Numidians immediately appointed paddlers, and the battle of the barges was joined in earnest.

Saint-Germain watched with sad detachment. So much skill, he thought, going to amuse bored citizens with ceremony and death. He gazed at the stands, where people sweltered under the great awning. There were men screaming, their faces filled with lust and anger. There were women panting, eyes glittering. He watched lovers fondle each other as the men on the barges bled and died. All the time the sunlight hammered at him, and the water glinted.

There were half a dozen bodies in the water when the signal was given to release the crocodiles. The long, lethal shapes slid out of their cages at the sides of the arena, and the Numidians cried out in horror as they saw the size of the beasts. The northmen, unfamiliar with crocodiles, since they had been brought to Rome only two weeks before, exchanged dismayed looks as the first of the huge reptiles reached a body and opened its jaws.

Almost at once the battle between the barges stopped and a rout to escape the crocodiles began. But there was no place for the men on the barges to go. The water was more than twelve arm-lengths deep, the first row of seats was almost that high above them. The Gates of Life were closed, and even the Gates of Death were barred until the arena was drained of water.

Finally a crocodile rammed one of the barges, upsetting it and throwing the northmen on it into the water, where open jaws waited for them. Almost directly below where he stood on the spina, Saint-Germain saw two crocodiles seize a Numidian, one holding the black man's foot, the other his upper arm, and, oblivious of his struggles, pull him under the water, where each huge animal turned over in opposite directions, literally twisting the Numidian apart.

"You've got that to look forward to, Franciscus,” Necredes said in his ear. “It won't be long now."

Saint-Germain took one last look at the stands, hoping to see a familiar face, Olivia's face, but among so many, he knew he would never find her, if she were there. He glanced at the other men who were condemned to the crocodiles with him. “Why do we wait?” he asked, and before anyone realized what he was doing, he had walked to the edge of the spina and dived neatly into the water. As he rose to the surface, he pulled his knife from where it had been tucked in his loincloth, then began, very clumsily, to swim toward one of the rafts.

The northmen looked about in confusion as this unknown man climbed onto the barge, but they were too busy fending off the nearest crocodile to challenge this stranger.

Saint-Germain got to his feet slowly. Having wood under him was not quite so bad as being in water, but he still felt somnambulistic. He bent to pick up two of the pronged tridents that lay abandoned by his feet. Speaking in the language of the Suevi, Saint-Germain said to the few remaining defenders on the barge, “It does no good to pierce their hide. They feel very little pain, and their hide is thick. You must take them in the mouth, and get the points as far back as you can."

The northmen stared at him. “Are you one of us?” the oldest of them asked in his native tongue. “You don't look like us.” He motioned toward the other Suevi on the barge.

A crocodile was nudging the barge as if testing it, little eyes fixed on the men on the barge.

"Never mind,” Saint-Germain rapped out. “Here.” He thrust one of the tridents into the oldest man's hands. “When he opens his mouth, press that in as far as you can. Let go at once, or he'll pull you in with him."

The Suevus did not hesitate. He took his stance at the edge of the barge, and as the crocodile approached, jaws gaping, he plunged forward, the trident extended, forcing it deeply into the gullet of the animal. The crocodile made a grunting sound, whipped his body about, and sank back in the water, thrashing in an attempt to dislodge the trident. The northman looked at Saint-Germain. “It worked,” he said.

"The crocodile isn't dead yet,” Saint-Germain pointed out. He was pulling a mangled body over the edge of the barge.

"Get that off!” the oldest man shouted. “It's unholy."

"Would you rather the crocodile bit off your arm? If another comes near, let him attack this instead of you."

Slightly mollified, the Suevus nodded once to the others. “Do as he tells you."

The crocodile beside the barge closed his mouth suddenly, splintering the shaft of the trident that was in his throat. The northmen watched soberly.

"How many of these monsters were let out?” one of the men said softly.

"Ten or twelve,” Saint-Germain told him. “Too many."

The oldest man was awed. “Twelve?"

"They will try to ram this barge, as they did the other. When that happens, we must be ready."

Another of the crocodiles swam nearer and this time the northmen waited until the reptile had come quite close before trying to kill it.

"The mouth and the eyes!” Saint-Germain called to them all. “The mouth and the eyes! Anything else is useless!” As he shouted he took a broken trident shaft and ground it into the crocodile's eye as it came alongside the barge. The animal croaked in fury and drew off, body twisting in irritation. “Watch him,” Saint-Germain said, pointing to the half-blinded crocodile. “He's maddened now."

The Suevi accepted this, and waited for the next assault.

One of the Numidians’ barges was breaking apart as a huge crocodile battered at it with snout and tail. As the men fell into the water, the crocodiles converged on them, churning the water as they sped to the attack. The horrible sounds of the Numidians was drowned in a cry of delight from the stands as thousands of Romans rose to their feet to have a better view of the carnage.

"Move closer,” Saint-Germain shouted.

"Closer?” the old Suevus repeated, horrified.

"While they're like that, we can kill a few more. Otherwise, they'll start hunting us again.” His head ached from the intensity of the sun and he had to fight to keep his concentration. He felt abominably weak, sick, old.

The remaining Numidians saw what the northmen were doing, and joined with them. A seventh crocodile had been killed when the northmen's barge was upset, throwing everyone on it into the water. As Saint-Germain fell, he dropped the trident he carried, but grimly hung on to his knife.

A long, leathery snout grazed by his arm. Saint-Germain pushed back from it, resisting the crazed fear that had flickered through him. The crocodile opened its jaws lazily and they closed on the hip of the old Suevus, who shrieked once, then fell silent.

The Numidians’ barge passed over his head and Saint-Germain tried to reach it. As he broke the surface of the water, he saw two crocodiles bearing down on the Numidians, so he swam off a little way, looking about him for pieces of the men who had already been killed by the reptiles. He had part of an arm and a whole leg in his grasp when one of the crocodiles turned on him, putting on a burst of speed as it closed the distance between them. Saint-Germain barely had time to force the torn leg into the open maw as the crocodile slammed into him. Saint-Germain slipped under the water, and as the crocodile passed over his head, he raised his knife and plunged it into the belly of the animal, jerking the knife sharply to pull it free. In the next instant the monstrous tail smashed his shoulders, flinging him back through the water. He was nearly blind with weakness and pain, but for the moment he was away from the slaughter. As he paddled to stay afloat, he looked at the spina, wondering whether he could risk swimming to it. The other condemned men stood there no longer, but in the frothing, bloody water there was no way for Saint-Germain to tell what had become of them. Then he noticed that there was a wide stripe of wetness on the wall above the water. Slowly, very slowly, the Circus Maximus was being drained. He wanted to laugh at the preposterous hope that leaped in him at that sight.

Some of the men had clambered onto the broken bits of the barges that floated on the water, and from there they fended off the crocodiles with the systematic courage of the doomed. There were nine crocodiles dead now—nine crocodiles and thirty-eight men.

Low in the rust-colored water, Saint-Germain caught a sudden movement. Another crocodile was stalking him. He moved farther away from the ruined barges, seeking more distance between himself and the reptile. The crocodile came after him. A patch of shade from the awning high overhead lay across the water, a little wing of shadow. Desperately Saint-Germain swam toward it, his arms aching, the welts on his shoulders becoming more unbearable with each movement. That shade, he thought, was his one hope, for there at least he would be out of the direct sunlight and could husband what little strength remained to him.

A ripple against his neck warned him an instant before the crocodile struck. He sheered off through the water, coming at last into the shadow by the wall. He knew enough not to expect a sudden return of energy, and the minor respite the shade gave him was so small that he very nearly lost heart. The crocodile had turned and was coming in again, drifting lazily, jaws still shut. Watching the huge reptile, Saint-Germain remembered days centuries before when he had watched the priests feed the crocodiles at the Temple of the Second Cataract, singing the praises of their charges, some which grew to twice the length of those now in the arena. The priests of the temple would occasionally lure a crocodile onto the land, and prove their power over the animal by holding his terrible jaws closed. One of the priests had told Saint-Germain that it was much simpler to hold the jaws closed than to hold them open, and that the real might of the animal was in the bite. Saint-Germain began to unwind his loincloth. As he did, he revealed massive, age-whitened scars, running deep across his abdomen.

The crocodile was somewhat startled when, as it neared Saint-Germain, he sank under the water, trailing something strange behind him. The crocodile, curious, nosed the end of the cloth.

It was the moment Saint-Germain had hoped for. He rose at once, wrapping the cloth around the crocodile's snout three, then four times. The knot was awkward but it held as the crocodile began to writhe.

With the last of his strength, Saint-Germain took hold of the cloth knotted around the crocodile's jaws and pulled the head back while the reptile floundered, his tail churning the water in a vain attempt to break Saint-Germain's hold.

The water had dropped even more. The crowd was starting to cheer for the few survivors of the barges who were being dragged out of the arena by the same boats that had pulled the barges onto the water.

Dizziness threatened to overcome Saint-Germain and he strove to master it: if he faltered for an instant now, the crocodile would turn on him. He could not survive another attack, he knew, and as the water level dropped, he focused his whole attention on that knotted cloth.

The crocodile gave a jolt as its back feet touched the sand. Then it tried to scrabble away from the man holding it captive, but Saint-Germain pulled at the cloth, bending the head even farther. With a last shattering effort, Saint-Germain forced the huge head back. The crocodile gave one tremendous convulsion, then twitched and lay limp in the water.

Saint-Germain let his legs sink and was surprised to find that the water was now little more than waist-deep. He took his knife and placed it low on the side of the crocodile's neck, slamming it into the beast with such force that he staggered and would have fallen had not one of the boats nudged up behind him then. Ghastly pale, hideously weak, Saint-Germain nevertheless motioned the boat away. The imperial box was a little farther down the wall, and Saint-Germain began to slog his way toward it.