FOR THE LAST three hours the stands of the Circus Maximus had been filling. Sailors had run up the high masts above the seats to unfurl the huge multicolored awning that would protect the thousands of spectators from the intense Roman sun. Vendors of food and drink forced their way through the tightly packed mob, crying their wares over the oceanlike roar of conversation.
In the lower seats, the nobility were beginning to gather, entering their marble boxes with cushions and little awnings that could be stretched over individual seats to lend extra shading from the sweltering morning. Most of them carried pomanders and bags of sweet-smelling herbs and spices which they held to their noses to block out the overpowering odor of the more than sixty thousand Romans crammed into the stands above them.
The crowd cheered as the nobility arrived, for that meant that at last the Games were about to begin. Occasionally insults were shouted to particular Senators and lesser nobles, but these jeers were haughtily ignored, being beneath the notice of highbred Romans.
A sudden blare of trumpets, two for cadence and one for the low drone, announced the arrival of the Emperor, and for a moment the huge stadium was relatively silent, the roar of voices dimmed to the drone of bees. The fanfare was long, and the instruments were played more for volume than quality of sound, and it served well enough. As the trumpets fell silent, Nero, dressed today in a full robe like an actor's, of shimmering green silk, strode into the imperial box.
From every point in the arena, the infectious cries came. "Ave! Ave! Ave!" The sound was an intense physical presence in the Circus Maximus.
Nero grinned and raised his hand in acknowledgment.
Immediately the shout grew louder, coming faster. Nero stood alone in the imperial box, a flush of pride on his still-boyish face. When he lifted both hands in the same gesture of an actor accepting applause, the response was deafening.
Finally the tremendous sound subsided and Nero motioned to the rest of his party to join him. Four slaves carried in green cushions to place on the large marble chair where he would sit, and one of his Greek attendants handed him the wire-framed eyeglasses of fine green crystal that Nero habitually wore to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun.
Once he was comfortably disposed, Nero gestured to those in his company to be seated. Tigellinus, with a tribune and two centurions of the Praetorian Guard, framed the imperial seat. To Nero's left, Vibius Crispus shared a plate of cold grouse with Aulus Vitellius, who had recently furthered his political career through his triumphant management of the Neronian Games on behalf of his Emperor. On Nero's right, the young Marcus Cocceius Nerva, who had helped contain the most recent conspiracy, was in deep conversation with the distinguished general Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo. As the crowd renewed its cheers, Corbulo's long, sensitive face took on a cynical smile, and he turned away from the young Nerva to make some remark to the Emperor. Apparently it was successful, for Nero threw back his head with extravagant laughter.
Since he had Nero's attention, Corbulo asked, "Where's Petronius. I see Tigellinus, but the Arbiter is absent."
Nero made a face. "Petronius won't attend the Games since I've lifted the ban on killing of gladiators and animals."
Tigellinus smiled his malice. "Petronius is not in sympathy with true Romans."
This was overreaching, and Nero reprimanded him gently. "My good Praetorian captain, it was I who ordered the ban on slaughter. For a time it seemed so wasteful, all that death."
The rebuke struck home. Tigellinus straightened up, his color heightened, and was silent.
Another bray of trumpets announced the arrival of the Vestal Virgins, and once again the crowd became quiet as these venerable women entered their box. The reaction of the mob in the many tiers of seats was less vociferously enthusiastic, but still genuine and respectful.
There was one last brazen shout from the trumpets, then the hydraulic organ that was mounted in the spina which ran down the center of the Circus Maximus gave a peremptory belch, then launched into a spirited march tune as the Gates of Life opened and the great parade began.
The editor of this series of Games was Vivianus Septimus Corvino, a newly created Senator of twenty-nine who had just recently acceded to his father's dignity and estates, and was determined to make a stir in society. The mob was generally unimpressed with such social-climbing minor nobles, and their reaction to Corvino was typical. When the young Senator appeared in his fantastically ornamented chariot to make the first pass around the spina, there were catcalls from the upper seats. Corvino, noticeably nervous of the two lions that drew the chariot, led by slaves in silver armor, started to sweat as he heard the sound. The hoots and applause grew more raucous, and by the time he had made his way all around the spina and was prepared to mount the steps to the podium where he was entitled to sit, his face was set with fury because of the derision the crowd had heaped upon him. He climbed to his seat on the podium and glared at the Emperor.
With a loud, discordant blast, the trumpets joined the wheezy bellowing of the hydraulic organ, announcing the parade of the various combatants and contestants who would be appearing through the next three days of Games. Knowing the temper of the Roman populace, the editor had kept to tradition and put the charioteers first, though their races would not come until later that day. There were three ranks of chariots, four chariots to each rank, and the crowd shrieked out its pleasure, since it meant that there would not be the usual two, but three races during the Games.
In the second rank of chariots, Kosrozd held his team with steady, experienced hands. As always, the horses were nervous, but he had long since become used to the problem and was no longer flustered by the noise that swelled around him. He glanced toward the Blues' charioteer in the next vehicle, already searching, studying to find any little flaw or lack of skill that would give him the advantage when he raced later that afternoon. The Blues' charioteer returned the careful, measured look with hard eyes.
Behind the charioteers came all the trained fighters: gladiators, retiarii with their nets and tridents, marching with the armored secutori who would try to kill them before sunset; bestiarii and venatori came next, many of the bestiarii with their specially trained animals. Two gigantic Nubians led ostriches somewhat apart from the others, as the huge birds were known to have unsteady tempers.
So far the crowd approved of what they saw, and the reaction became more favorable as the parade continued. It would be a worthwhile three days for all of them. There was much to see, and a promise of real fighting.
In the imperial box, Corbulo leaned forward as a troop of essedarii passed beneath in their high-fronted chariots.
"They interest you, General?" Nero asked politely.
"I wish we'd had them in Armenia," was Corbulo's thoughtful answer. "We could have used their lassos to break up the infantry. A few units like that, and we might have been able to take on the Persians." He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "Well, it's over now."
"Would you like to go back to Armenia?" was Nero's next, too-innocent question.
"I am a warrior, my Emperor. I want to be with my soldiers, but thanks to the folly of my son-in-law, I would not blame you for keeping me here. It's good strategy, even though in this case it isn't necessary." It was a clever answer, stealing the march on Nero's interrogation.
"Your son-in-law should have stayed away from conspiracies. Why didn't you warn him?" Nero was growing petulant as he thought of the recently failed attempt on his life. "If Justus Silius had not had the courage to warn me, you would cry 'Ave' to Piso now, and perhaps fight with those wretches who face the wild beasts for the amusement of Rome."
"Would you call Silius courageous?" Corbulo returned, but without any enjoyment in the game. "The people love you too much, my Emperor, to trade you for another." It was true enough that Corbulo spoke without flattery.
The parade was almost through; most of the participants had already left the arena through the Gates of Life. Only a last few bull riders and dwarfs cavorted on the fine white sand as the trumpets and hydraulic organ blasted out the last of their march.
Saint-Germain stood near the stables as Kosrozd approached in his chariot. "How are they?" he asked when the young Persian was near enough.
"They'll do. Titanius"-he nodded toward the largest horse on the leftmost side of the team which would have to hold the other horses steady on the sharp turns around the ends of the spina-"is very strong. I've had him out on the practice trails and it should make a difference." He handed the reins to one of the stable slaves as he came out of the chariot.
"When do you race?" Saint-Germain inquired, coming up to Kosrozd.
"We're the fourth or fifth event, just before the break at midday. Not a bad time, really. The heat won't be too great. Jeost is the unfortunate one-he's scheduled to do his exhibition race the hour before sunset. By that time, the heat will be unbearable." He had fallen into step beside his master as Saint-Germain led him a little apart.
When they were sufficiently removed from the other charioteers, Saint-Germain turned to Kosrozd. "I've had a talk with Drusus Stelida. He's heard a rumor that the Blues have instructed their charioteers to win today at any cost."
Kosrozd recalled the expression on the Blues' driver during the parade, and nodded once. "I'll remember that."
"The Whites might give support to the Blues for that. They both want to run the Greens off the track." Saint-Germain stopped walking. "You're in an odd position, Kosrozd. I don't belong to any of the four factions, and that means they can attack you with impunity. The Reds are staying out of this particular confrontation."
A unit of Gallic cavalry clattered by, and Kosrozd watched them. "They're fighting Parthian cavalry. It looks like a good match."
Saint-Germain followed Kosrozd's gaze. "I'd give the edge to the Parthians-they've got the better horses and their armor is lighter. I doubt those Gauls will get close enough to use their spears and axes." He returned his attention to Kosrozd. "I realize that this is not quite within the official rules, but so long as you carry this strapped to your leg"-he bent and pulled a long, thin-bladed knife from his high-topped boot-"you can say it's for the traces. Remember that the Blues are giving their drivers flails. Don't let him get close to your side, or he'll go for your shoulders with it."
Kosrozd took the knife, his expression very serious. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Thanks?" Saint-Germain asked sardonically. "I paid a great deal of money for you, and I won't allow political caprice to interfere-"
A loud blare of trumpets cut through the rest of what he said, and saved Kosrozd from having to make a reply. Around them activity increased dramatically, and there was the sound of straining ropes as massive cages were lifted into position.
"The first event is a venation, isn't it?" Saint-Germain asked as the sounds of distressed animals became louder.
"Yes. White bears, wolves and wild oxen at first. Senator Silius has bought half a dozen Hyperborean venatori for this hunt. They're good fighters."
Saint-Germain could not quite conceal his disgust. "Now that Cornelius Justus Silius is back in the Emperor's favor, he's fully determined to make the most of it."
"You have bestiarii scheduled here today?" Kosrozd asked, thinking that he had not seen any of them when he had come to the Circus the night before.
"They fight tomorrow. Most of them are lion handlers, and one of them works with the big Asian bulls. They'll be sent in tonight." Saint-Germain now owned more than fifty bestiarii, a great number for a foreigner, but insignificant to a Roman noble.
Kosrozd accepted this. "I must prepare, my master. The venation is almost started. There will be a race after that, then forty pairs of gladiators will fight, and then I race." Like all charioteers, Kosrozd spent a considerable amount of time exercising and strengthening his arms and shoulders.
"Good fortune on the sands," Saint-Germain said as he turned away from the Persian charioteer. He made his way through the warren of halls under the stands toward one of the stairs that would take him into the stands. He did not hurry. The venation promised to be a long one and Saint-Germain had discovered that he was sickened by the carnage of these hunts.
When at last he entered the box of tribune Donatus Egnatius Balbo, all but a few of the animals lay in heaps on the sand. The venatori had not fared much better-there were only seven of them still capable of facing the two huge white bears and one wild ox that remained.
"Saint-Germain," the tribune said as he waved his guest to one of the marble seats. "You should have got here sooner. There was real sport for a while. The wolves got three men between them and tore them to pieces." As he spoke, he kept his eyes on the white bears that stood on their hind legs, long claws curved to rip open the vitals of any venator foolish enough to get too close.
"I was detained with my charioteer," Saint-Germain said shortly as he dropped onto the hard stone.
The Circus Maximus was heating up, and the smell of slaughter mixed with the effluvium of the crowd. It was worse than any battlefield Saint-Germain had known, for battlefields had not been sheltered with the enormous awning that flapped gently overhead.
Only one white bear was left, the ox and the second bear having fallen to the venatori. Already the Gates of Death had opened and teams of slaves with ropes and hooks were coming to drag away bodies of animals and men impartially.
With a terrible coughing bellow, the last white bear collapsed, transfixed by two javelins.
"Excellently done!" Egnatius cried out, though Saint-Germain could hardly hear his words through the howl of the crowd.
As the last of the animals were dragged away, sand wagons circled the spina, spreading a thick layer of new white sand over the blood. The slaves spreading the sand worked carefully, for if the scent of blood lingered at any one location too strongly, the racing horses would balk, refusing to run where death was too apparent.
"There's going to be an aquatic venation later on, after the midday meal. Crocodiles and hippopotami; Egyptians and Numidians will hunt them from rafts. That's always worth watching, particularly when one of the venatori falls into the water." Egnatius' face was flushed, partly from the terrible heat of the Circus and partly from pleasure.
"Indeed," Saint-Germain murmured, and wondered how he might excuse himself without seeming impolite.
Egnatius' young wife was pouting, and complained to her husband, "They say that Telcordes won't fight today. He isn't recovered from the wound in his shoulder."
The tribune laughed as he patted his wife's thigh, and said to Saint-Germain, "Celia adores gladiators, and that brute from Cyprus has caught her fancy. I don't understand it, myself, how a well-bred lady decides that she would swoon for the dubious pleasure of taking a professional killer to her bed."
Celia stared moodily at the long, thin wall of the spina. "I heard from my body slave that Mocantor says that Olivia, Domita Silius, has bedded Telcordes."
Her husband scoffed at this. "If half of what slaves said were true, the rest of Rome would never have time to get out of the sheets."
Below them the sand was almost ready for the first race. The tribune's box was on the return side of the spina, away from the starting line, so the beginning of the race would not be visible. They watched as the four chariots came from the Gates of Life to the edge of the spina to line up.
"The Whites have a good team, there," Egnatius said. "What do you think, Saint-Germain? You breed horses."
"Showy," Saint-Germain said after a cursory glance. "They're handsome enough, but they won't last the course."
His predictions proved accurate. By the time the erectores had removed five dolphins and four eggs from the high columns at the end of the spina, indicating that four and a half laps had been run, the Whites' team was lagging, although the charioteer lashed them with the light whip that was more for directing the team than spurring them on. The Blues' team was in the lead with the Greens' immediately behind. Hoping for an advantage, the Reds' chariot swung close in around the spina, and the left wheel caught on the nearest meta, those tall marble cones that acted as bumpers at either end of the spina.
The crowd shouted as the Reds' chariot was dragged forward and sideways by the force of the impact, and for a moment it seemed the charioteer would be thrown from his vehicle into the wheels of the Whites' chariot.
At the last possible instant, the charioteer rocked his chariot free of the meta and continued on the course. The sound of applause was colored by moans of disappointment from the upper stands.
Nero, who had been watching the race intently, was openly delighted when the Green team made the winner's solitary circle of the spina, to the noisy acclaim of the crowd. At the end of this last, glorious lap, the charioteer pulled up before the imperial box.
"Hyacinthos," the Emperor called out, and waited while the mob became quieter. "Hyacinthos, this is your fiftieth win for the Greens." The reaction to Nero's words was mixed. Some cheered and called the charioteer's name, others booed. Nero held up his hand for silence. "In acknowledgment of that, today you are a free man, and a citizen of Rome!"
An eruption of noise followed this proclamation, and the sound did not lessen until the overjoyed Hyacinthos had left the arena through the Gates of Life.
"Nero knows what the people love," Egnatius observed. "By tonight, they'll be singing songs about this in the taverns, and every whore in the lupanar will swear that she slept with Hyacinthos on the night he was freed."
"I thought Crispus owned Hyacinthos," Celia said, puzzled.
Egnatius dismissed the question. "He'll be compensated. If they didn't arrange this in advance."
Once again the procuratori dormi were smoothing the sand, eliminating the deep grooves left by the chariots' wheels.
The trumpets gave the call of the gladiators as the Gates of Life opened, and eighty armed men marched to the podium to salute the Emperor and the editor of the Games.
"You don't have any gladiators, do you, Saint-Germain?" Egnatius asked as the fights began.
"Gladiators are very expensive. It takes years to train them, and they need more attention than bestiarii. And a bad afternoon can bankrupt you." He turned so that he would not be watching the two men below who fought with the traditional wide-bladed swords with only their smallest shield to protect them. By decree of the editor, they were provided Corinthian helmets, which were considerably less protection than their usual headgear. "Also," Saint-Germain added, "I am a foreigner. Roman officials are suspicious of foreigners with too many highly trained fighters in their possession."
"How cynical," Egnatius said distantly as he leaned forward for a better view of the arena.
"Look!" Celia said as she pinched her husband's arm. "That one! That's Plaudes, the one who killed Murens last month."
Before the gladiatorial combats were through that morning, Plaudes, like Murens before him, had left the arena through the Gates of Death.
When the sand was once again clean and smooth, the second group of charioteers came through the Gates of Life. Kosrozd had drawn the starting position one place over from the spina, with the Blues in the favored position. He had already tied the ends of the reins around his waist and was feeling for the best hold for each horse's mouth.
"Keep behind, Persian," said the charioteer in the Greens' colors to his right.
"Only if my horses aren't swift enough," he snapped.
There was a last flurry of activity at the starting gate and then the race was on. Kosrozd held his position the first two times around the spina, pacing his horses for a last, demanding sprint. They were to race seven full laps, and he did not want to tire his team too quickly.
Saint-Germain watched closely as Kosrozd's chariot passed beneath his box. The Persian was doing very well, his nerves were steady, and he drove as if in battle.
Over the next two laps Kosrozd began creeping ahead of the inside chariot, not enough to take the lead on the inner track, but sufficient to strengthen his position and to press the Blues' driver.
"Your charioteer is very good," Egnatius said as Kosrozd finally began to pull ahead of the Blues on the inner track. "I give him one more lap before he's got the lead on the spina."
"Perhaps," Saint-Germain allowed as another dolphin came off the high crossbar on the lap counter.
The chariots were on the far side of the spina, out of Saint-Germain's sight when a sudden distressed, greedy cry went up from the spectators, and whole tiers of people leaned forward, shouting. Those on the same side as Saint-Germain craned their necks, trying in vain to see what had happened.
They did not have long to wait. The chariots rounded the metae at the end of the spina, and now there were only three of them. The Blues' chariot was no longer in the race, and Kosrozd was trying to hold his chariot on course in spite of a wheel that was nearly off its axle. He was almost around the turn when the wheel broke free and the chariot lurched heavily onto its side.
A terrible hush fell over the stands, and for the time it would take to count five there was as much silence as there ever was in the Circus Maximus, and the muffled thunder of hooves on sand could be heard to the top row of the stands. Then the incredible welter of thousands of voices broke out again as Kosrozd, still tied to the reins of his horses, was dragged behind them over the white sand.
At first sight of Kosrozd, Saint-Germain had moved forward, intent. His face had gone white as he watched Kosrozd twist, trying to grab the knife in his high sandals that would cut him free.
For a little time it looked as though he might succeed, for he had pulled himself around so that he could grab the reins in one hand. Then the end of the spina loomed and the horses, long used to the course, cut in close to the three tall metae. There was too much noise from the crowd for Kosrozd's shriek of agony to be heard, but Saint-Germain saw the terrible impact before the horses dragged him on.
Saint-Germain was out of his seat on the instant, and with a terse word to Egnatius, left the box, running down the stairs to the stable area, pushing his way past bestiarii and various fighters in his rush.
Two moratori were already moving through the Gates of Life to grab Kosrozd's maddened team as Saint-Germain dashed into the area by the stables. A surgeon was waiting, and he looked up laconically as Saint-Germain approached.
"You're the owner?" he asked as he dropped his well-used tools into a pot of water hung over a brazier.
"Of the charioteer for the Reds, yes." As he spoke, his foreign accent was stronger, which was the only indication of the degree of his worry.
The surgeon nodded. "The Blues' charioteer will go out through the Gates of Death." He was a man of grizzled middle age, the veteran of many military campaigns, and now resigned to his degrading work of tending to those wounded in the arena.
The moratori had caught the horses at last, and were dragging the team by main force toward the Gates of Life.
"Those lads," the surgeon said, indicating the moratori, "they've got a rough job. Catching a team of racing horses isn't my idea of soft work."
Saint-Germain was not listening. He hastened to the open doors where the moratori stood calming the team. Ignoring the horses and the shocked exclamations of the moratori, Saint-Germain went to Kosrozd's side.
The Persian charioteer was, mercifully, no longer conscious. His left shoulder was broken and a white shard of bone pushed through the mangled skin. Bruises and abrasions marked the rest of his body, and a deep gash in his leg was steadily pumping blood.
Angry with worry, Saint-Germain took the knife from Kosrozd's ruined sandal and cut the reins at last. He motioned away the medico who came to drag Kosrozd to the surgeon, and instead took Kosrozd in his arms as easily as he might have lifted a child. Holding the charioteer with care, he took him across the stableyard to where the surgeon waited.
"You've a deal of strength, to carry him that way," the surgeon remarked as Saint-Germain lowered Kosrozd onto the low pallet by the stable wall.
Saint-Germain had no response to make to that. "He's badly hurt."
"I can see that," was the testy rejoinder. "I'll have to get the saw if I'm going to take that arm off."
"No!" Saint-Germain grabbed the surgeon by the shoulder. "I forbid it!"
The surgeon gave a patient sigh. "Look, foreigner, it's not that I want to do it. But take a look for yourself. There are three bones broken around the shoulder. If I leave the arm on, he won't be able to use it, and the wound will fester and kill him. This way, he's got a chance to live. That's all you can hope for."
"I said no." He did not relax his grip on the surgeon's shoulder.
"There isn't any choice." The surgeon wasn't annoyed, but he disliked the attitude of the foreigner. "If you think you can do better..."
Saint-Germain released the surgeon, who cleared his throat in preparation of ordering him to leave, but he was startled to see the foreigner kneel once again and lift the charioteer as he had before. "Stand aside, Surgeon."
A new voice interrupted them. "Franciscus, if you take that slave from here, no one will be responsible for what happens to him." It was the Master of the Bestiarii, Necredes, who stood to one side, an unpleasant expression on his hard features.
"That is quite acceptable to me." Plainly, Saint-Germain did not want to be kept waiting any longer than necessary. "I will sign a document to that effect as soon as I have Kosrozd in a sedan chair bound for my villa."
"How do I know that you will not change your mind? You must give me that document first." He was close to smiling, and waved the surgeon away.
"You have my word on it," Saint-Germain said, and started away toward the arches that led to the street.
Necredes hurried after him. "I won't be cheated by you as I was once. You'll say that I harmed your slave, or that no one cared for him."
Saint-Germain's dark eyes took on a steely glitter. "I gave you my word. Stand aside!"
What might have occurred next was never known, for one of the bestiarii came running up. "Necredes, the big crocodile has gotten loose from his cage. We've got to have help with him!"
"Where?" Necredes demanded.
"Second level down. The door of the cage opened. We can't drive him back." The words were lost to Saint-Germain as he hurried through the arches toward the street.
There were a number of chairmen standing about waiting for the Games to reach their midday break. Saint-Germain chose four men who lounged beside a palanquin with several luxurious cushions and curtains to close it. "You, chairmen!" he shouted.
The largest individual turned. "Me?"
"Your palanquin. Get it ready." He had come up beside it and was carefully setting Kosrozd down in it.
"Hey! He's bleeding. You can't ruin our cushions."
"I'll pay for them." When he was certain that Kosrozd was well-supported, he reached and bound the smallest of the cushions tightly against the deep cut in his leg. The bleeding had lessened, but not enough to reassure Saint-Germain.
"Get him out of there!" ordered the chairman.
Saint-Germain straightened up. "I'm hiring you. You can't refuse legitimate hire."
The chairman gave him one caustic glance. "How do I know that?"
Saint-Germain had endured more interference than he was willing to tolerate. "You know because I wear jewels in my rings, good citizens, and because that man's slave collar bears my name. The cost of your services outside the walls of Rome-"
"Outside the walls? Are you insane?" the chairman demanded.
"-is two sesterci per thousand paces. If you will carry this man to my villa, which is three thousand paces beyond the Praetorian camp, my body slave will give you three times that. All you must say is that it is because of the eclipse." Saint-Germain reached into the bag that hung from his belt and extracted four gold coins. "This is your first payment. You must hurry."
The chairman grumbled even as he motioned to the other three to take up their positions. "Right, boys," he said like the old soldier he so obviously was.
When the palanquin had disappeared down the dusty street, Saint-Germain stepped back through the arches of the stableyard, then turned toward the long hallway that would lead him back to the stairs to Egnatius' box. He had just come in from the sunlight when a voice spoke to him in the darkness.
"Saint-Germain Franciscus." The voice was low, distinctly feminine, with the hint of a tremor.
He stopped, his eyes still dazzled by the brightness outside. "Yes?"
"I want to talk to you." She moved closer, keeping to the shadows. "I want to know you better."
"Better?" Saint-Germain waited as his vision at last adjusted. He recognized the woman with a start as Olivia, Justus Silius' wife. He recalled the strange, frightened way she had looked at him in Petronius' garden.
"I want...I want you to...come to me. At night. Soon." Her face was flushed, her eyes still wide and frightened.
Saint-Germain's thoughts were still on Kosrozd and the hideous injuries the Persian had sustained, and so he found it quite difficult to deal with Olivia. Ordinarily he had a deft and flattering reply for such offers, but now he stepped back. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Domita. It isn't wise for one so...foreign as I am to accept such invitations as yours." He set his jaw. "Let me pass, Domita."
"No. No." She stepped in front of him. "You mustn't deny me. You can't." There was a curious desperation in her pleas, and her hands lifted toward him as if seeking help. The lascivious charm most women displayed in these moments was entirely lacking in Olivia's manner. Saint-Germain frowned at this strange supplication. He remembered the gossip he had heard among the gladiators and other arena combatants about this woman, about her constant seeking for new and violent lovers, and suddenly the gossip seemed at odds with the fearful eyes of the woman before him.
"When, Domita?" he heard himself ask in a harsh voice.
She sighed, actually sighed. "In three days. Two hours after sunset. Come to the door by the garden. A slave will admit you." Her mouth turned down at the corners, almost in distaste. "I will be in my bedchamber to receive you." She turned abruptly, making a gesture as if to push something away from her.
There were bellows and squeals and shouts from the arena as the aquatic venation at last began, but Saint-Germain hardly heard the sounds. He stared after Olivia, his mind in new turmoil. Far down the passage, she passed through two pools of light, and it seemed to Saint-Germain that she was fleeing from the dark and violent world below the stands. If that were so, why had she sought him and the others out? He could not fathom what had made him weaken toward her, but the more he considered it, the less he desired to find out. She was a dangerous woman to know. She was the wife of a powerful Senator, and Saint-Germain a foreigner. Then he realized one other thing about her: she was terrified; and against his will, that understanding woke the sympathy within him.
TEXT OF A LETTER NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS, WITH TIGELLINUS, THE COMMANDER OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TO THE GENERAL CNAEUS DOMITIUS CORBULO.
To the honorable general, Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo, greetings:
Since the hand of the Emperor and fortune have elevated me to share jointly with Ofonius Tigellinus the command of the Praetorians, I believe that with this honor go certain responsibilities, which I must exercise if I am to discharge the duties of my office with merit.
The Emperor, as I am certain you are aware, has suffered much this year. It is not only the conspiracy of Gaius Calpurnius Piso that has wounded him deeply, but some of those involved in the conspiracy were those he most loved. Seneca and Lucan accepted their fates and killed themselves for their role in that plot. It is some comfort to reflect that although they betrayed the Emperor, still they recalled that they were Romans, and died with dignity.
More recently, the tragic death of Poppaea, when she was so near to giving Nero a child, has been a severe blow to the Emperor, and he deeply grieves for her, blaming himself for her untimely death.
You have expressed yourself willing, even anxious to return to your legions, and we have made note of these wishes. Until now we have striven to be circumspect in your case because of your son-in-law's part in the late conspiracy. However, much has changed in the last few months, and we feel it might be advisable, even beneficial, to have you once again defending the honor of Rome in the field, where you desire to be.
At this time, the Emperor would find a victory noteworthy. You have often shown yourself to be the most capable of generals, well-loved by your men and devoted to the cause of the Emperor, the Senate and the people of Rome. For that reason, we are requesting that you reserve some time for us to speak, so that we may reach a more thorough understanding of the wishes of the Emperor and the Senate. It is senseless to let so capable a general as yourself fritter away his time in Rome when the empire is so much in need of your skills.
Conquest and triumph are certainly the highest reward to which any commander can aspire, but in addition, there is official recognition and honor to be given those who best serve the Emperor. Let me assure you that should you be willing to lead your men into battle once more, Nero would be much inclined to advance you and your family here at home, removing forever the stigma of disloyalty that now touches your house.
Let me have your reply by the messenger that brings this, and we will meet at your earliest convenience. I am confident that you will be eager to undertake the venture we will propose to you.
In anticipation of your interest, I salute you, Corbulo.
Nymphidius Sabinus
Commander, with C. O. Tigellinus
The Praetorian Guard