FROM HIS vantage point near the Gates of Life, Saint-Germain watched the Circus Maximus fill with more than seventy-five thousand Romans. As much of the populace of the city as might cram themselves into the public stands had turned out for Nero's last Games before he left for Greece.
The great tarred ships' beams were in place so that the arena could be flooded for an aquatic entertainment. Slaves were already stationed at the sluices, ready to let in the torrent that would flood the floor of the amphitheater to a depth almost twice the height of a man.
"They didn't used to do this," remarked the old, freed gladiator who stood beside Saint-Germain. "The spina was lower, too, and the metae were standing on it, to keep chariots from running onto it when they turned too tightly. Now they have to have the metae on the ground and the spina is almost as tall as they are. They've raised the stands, of course. Well, they had to after that leopard climbed into that old Senator's box and mauled him and his slave." He rubbed at his neck. "Hot day."
"Yes," Saint-Germain said.
"That bestiaria of yours going to be here today? I saw her last time she was in the arena. It's a pity she doesn't know how to fight. A woman like that, with a sword and those horses..." He ducked his head in respect. "Fine woman, your Armenian."
"Thank you," Saint-Germain responded. "I will tell her you said so."
The old gladiator snorted. "Why, she wouldn't know Tsoudes from a savage. It's good of you to offer."
A shout went up from the various managers of the Games, and the slaves waiting at the sluices bent to turn the stiff brass handles. There was a throaty rumble under the susurrus of the crowd as the water began to rush into the arena.
"Where's the court?" Tsoudes muttered. "You can't tell me a showman like Nero'd let the Games begin without him." The old gladiator folded his thick arms across his massive scarred chest. "Sometimes I think the only thing they care about now is the spectacle. Not so long ago, it took skill to fight in the arena. We had pride, all the fighters, because we were the best-trained warriors in the empire, and that includes the legions. Now"-he tossed his head scornfully-"it's blood they're after and blood they get. Last month, those Greek hoplites were in the arena. I tell you, they are soldiers, those men. It was a joy to watch them. But the crowd hated them. There wasn't enough blood on the sands for them. The hoplites fight too efficiently and too well."
"Did you fight when the spina was lower?" Saint-Germain asked, eager to turn the conversation.
"By Mithras' Bull!" A low, rumbling laugh shook him. "That was done before my grandfather was made a slave; Divus Julius or Divus Augustus did it."
"Nero has talked about adding more stands. There were two people killed in the rush to get seats this morning, and so long as part of the stands are being rebuilt, they might as well be made higher." Saint-Germain looked up into the packed stands and toward the multicolored awning of fine-spun wool.
Tsoudes followed his glance. "I was here the day that Caligula had the awning removed and the exits blocked. He wanted to punish the people for laughing at one of his displays. It was very effective, really. The sun and the heat were terrible. A handful of them died of the sun."
Through the thick tar-coated logs came the scent of roses. The water filling the arena had been perfumed. Saint-Germain recalled Petronius and his aversion to roses, and was saddened.
"Yes," Tsoudes went on, delighted to have so distinguished an audience for his ramblings, "it was dangerous being a gladiator for old Gaius Caligula. Never knew where you stood with him. I remember watching him in the parades, very tall and gangly, forever looking about. And Claudius...well, I never liked Claudius. There were unpleasant rumors about him, and there was something in his eye. See this scar?" He pointed to a jagged white line that ran from his collarbone to the top of his hip. "That happened under Claudius' podium. I killed my opponent, straight and fair, but it wasn't enough for Claudius. He ordered one of the others to kill me. Screamed at him, telling someone I had not fought with to kill me. If it hadn't been for the crowd, I'd have gone out through the Gates of Death that day."
Saint-Germain, who had seen Claudius once, in Britannia, held his peace, though he agreed with Tsoudes.
"Two of the fighters I trained will appear today," Tsoudes went on. "I had less than a year with each of them. They're nowhere near ready for a combat, but that's the way of things now." He hooked his thumbs into the wide leather belt pulled tight across his hips. "There isn't the pride there used to be. No one cares for skill and training. It used to be there was honor in the arena, but now, it's disgusting the way-"
His words were lost in the sudden blare of trumpets and the drone of the hydraulic organ on the spina. From the awning lines high above the crowd, beautiful young boys with gilt wings tied to their shoulders were lowered to hang like cherubs over the heads of the people. They had been given roses and gold to toss to the crowd, and various gifts from the Emperor, among them deeds for land, large estates, a brace of wild boars, fine jewels, a fully manned bireme, a charioteer, half a dozen ostriches, bolts of silken cloth, an invitation to dine with the Emperor on his pleasure barge, a man-eating tiger, an Egyptian mummy, and other equally whimsical expressions of the Emperor's favor, all of which would be signed over to the new owners at the end of the Games.
Just as the crowd had grasped at the last of this largess, the boys were once again drawn up to the awning and the trumpets pealed out their fanfare announcing the arrival of the Emperor. There were rustlings and murmurs as the people looked toward the podium. It, and many of the nobility's boxes, stood empty. The noise of the crowd grew louder and the trumpets were almost overwhelmed by the din.
Then, at the far end of the Circus Maximus, three huge doors that rose above the logs at waterline lifted, and six fine barges, each drawn by fifty beautiful youths trained to swim in precise coordination together, surged onto the perfumed water.
In the foremost of these barges was Nero himself, resplendent in silver-and-blue cloth, with a fanciful wreath of seashells in his dark blond hair. Around him were part of his court, and most of the nobility followed on the other barges. The last barge was ornamented with flowers and gauze to resemble a seashell borne on the waves, and in it rode the Vestal Virgins, stiff with disapproval.
This amazing procession circled the spina twice as the crowd voiced its approval. At last the barges drew up before the various boxes of their passengers, and from the marble stands, gold-painted steps were lowered by slaves dressed as fauns, and the nobles climbed out of the barges into their boxes to the wild acclaim of the people crowded together in the stands.
As Nero took his seat in the imperial box, the fanfare came to a glorious climax and the nearly hysterical Aves began. Nero stood with arms raised, his usually discontented expression changed to one of genuine delight. Then he gave a sign and turned to take his seat.
The youths, still swimming with fine precision, were tugging their barges toward the far side of the arena where two doors waited, open.
A cry went up from more than seventy-five thousand voices, and the swimmers broke their rhythm, wondering what had occasioned the sound that rang around them, as vast as the sound of ocean waves. The leader trod water long enough to shout a few terse orders, and once again the barges moved forward through the water.
But now there were other shapes in the water with them, long, dark lizardlike shapes that moved with deadly swiftness toward the barges. These were the great crocodiles from the Nile, some of them three and four times as long as the height of a tall man. Every motion of the reptiles was filled with purpose as they sped forward.
The swimmers knew now that something was terribly wrong, and they faltered in their smooth strokes, looking around, looking above for archers, or for more boats that might be filled with armed men. Finally one of the swimmers looked down into the water, and shrieked out his terror.
The confusion among the swimmers was brief. The first of the crocodiles struck, jaws gaping, and closed on the lead swimmer, dragging him underwater before he could scream.
In the stands, the expectant silence that had fallen a few moments before now erupted in excited yells. From the highest tiers to the finest senatorial boxes, the spectators leaned forward with avidity as the water began to churn with thrashing bodies and hungry crocodiles. One of the swimmers was caught between two of the huge beasts: one crocodile seized the swimmer's shoulder, the other took both legs in his hideous jaws, and then each crocodile turned over in opposite directions, twisting the young man apart with appalling ease.
Saint-Germain turned away from his stand by the Gates of Life, sickened.
"Ah, you foreigners," Tsoudes said with a sympathetic wag of his head. "You're not like Romans. The sight of blood strengthens a man." He peered toward the arena again, where only two swimmers were in sight, and one of them was fighting hopelessly with the crocodile who had his arm in his teeth. "I don't like this sort of thing myself," he added inconsistently. "There's no point to it."
"What is next, after this?" Saint-Germain asked, looking toward the cages that were being drawn up near them.
"A venation for the crocodiles from rafts, naturally, and then a series of combats between blinded soldiers. That always pleases the crowd." He nodded as if remembering an engagement. "I should look their gear over. Sometimes, to be amusing, they're given defective weapons." Tsoudes got down from his position with uncharacteristic haste. "I believe your Armenian races after that. She's doing that alone, isn't she?"
"Yes. The Emperor has requested a repetition of the performance she gave for the visit of the king of Armenia." He was concerned, for Tishtry had one new horse in her team, and she was not convinced that he was ready to work in the arena, with all the noise and the huge press of bodies in the stands.
"A great honor for her," Tsoudes said, and lumbered away.
There was a last great scream from the stands, and then Saint-Germain watched as new rafts maneuvered out of the narrow gates, floating over the water, smelling now of blood and ordure instead of roses. On the rafts rode tall Nubian slaves, each with two long, deep-pointed spears held at the ready.
Another flurry of activity near him caught Saint-Germain's attention, and he gratefully left the watch station by the Gates of Life.
He had just stepped into the twilight world of caverns and passages under the stands when a voice behind him stopped him.
"Franciscus!" Necredes spat out the name like a curse.
Saint-Germain stopped, but did not turn. "What do you want, Necredes?"
"I want to warn you, foreigner, that I haven't forgotten the shame you brought upon me. The time will come when you'll wish you had never made me your enemy." The Master of the Bestiarii strode up to Saint-Germain. "I saw you watching the crocodiles. You don't like them, do you?"
"I don't like slaughter, Necredes. I don't like waste of life." His face was set as he forced himself to respond coldly to the man who confronted him.
Necredes glared into Saint-Germain's dark eyes. "One day I will have my vengeance, Franciscus. I'm willing to wait for it."
"I trust you won't mind being disappointed?" Saint-Germain asked quietly. "I have to see to my slave who performs today."
"Yes!" Necredes declared. "The disobedient woman, who is the favorite of Nero now. Make your conquest of him complete, and send her to his bed. They say he's come to like barbarians." With a smug glow in his eyes, he waited for Saint-Germain to challenge him.
"I don't fight with slaves and freedmen," Saint-Germain said. "You are not worth my notice or my contempt. If you take any action against me or my slaves, now or in the future, I will see you in the arena, the way those swimmers were." He shouldered past Necredes and started down the nearest passageway.
"If I don't see you there first!" Necredes shouted after him.
By the time he found Tishtry, Saint-Germain had decided to say nothing to her about his encounter with Necredes. He had told her before to avoid the Master of the Bestiarii, and now, with this difficult performance facing her, he had no wish to add to her worries.
"I still don't know about Shinzu," she said as she patted her new horse in the hitch. "I wish Immit hadn't gone lame. Well, I'll do all my somersaults on the straight parts and keep to the standing bits on the turns. He can hold through that, I'm certain." She was gaudily decked out, with many copper bracelets on her arms and her most startlingly woven Armenian fringed tunic belted twice around her.
"Don't take any chances, Tishtry. And don't try that handstand if you have any question whatever about the new horse." He put his hand on her shoulder. "I'll take responsibility for that. I'll tell the Emperor that you are acting under my orders, and I'll have a good reason for it." His degree of concern for her surprised him-it went beyond their shared satisfaction to an abiding affection. He knew that his growing ardor for Olivia had brought an unexpected fondness for Tishtry in its wake, and this disturbed him.
"I don't want to disappoint the Emperor," she said rather sharply. "He wants to see everything I performed for Tiridates, and I will do all of it." She flicked the short switch that was attached by a thong to her wrist. "I've gone over all the equipment twice, so I know that won't fail."
"Are the leathers new?" Saint-Germain asked as he glanced quickly at the wide girths and collars that attached to the abbreviated racing yoke.
"Fairly. I've been aging these a few months so they won't chafe." She put her hand on her lightweight racing chariot. "I'm going to need another chariot in a while. This one is getting old."
"How long have you had it?" Saint-Germain felt his concern flicker again as he looked at the wood-and-wicker vehicle.
"Not quite two years. Long enough." She grinned up at him. "May I have scrollwork on the next one?"
Saint-Germain laughed. "If it doesn't alter the balance or weight, of course. Tell me what you want and I'll put the chariot-makers to work on it tomorrow."
"Oh, good." Her eyes danced. "And paintings on the sides? I'd like pictures of horses racing through the clouds."
"Whatever you want," he promised her as he ran one finger along her jaw. "Do well, Tishtry. Keep safe."
It was her turn to laugh. "You're kind to me, my master." She gave him a roguish look, then climbed into the chariot and secured the reins around her waist. "I've got to take the team out and warm them up." So that it would not sound as if she were dismissing him, she added, "I like that new tunica. It isn't Persian, is it?"
"I had it from a merchant from Hind. It has the virtue of being cool."
"If you want to be cool, why do you always wear black?" She expected no answer to this inquiry and got none. A flick of the wrist and her horses moved off smartly and Tishtry turned her whole attention to them.
When he had seen her enter the practice track beside the Circus Maximus, Saint-Germain sought the stairs that led to the stands and the marble-seated boxes of the nobility. He passed a squad of black dwarfs armed with throwing knives and spears, and beyond them, in narrow, foul-smelling cells, Jewish prisoners waited to be sent into the arena with wild beasts. One of the tunnels that ran under the arena to the spina opened onto the main passage a little farther on, and there a few custodial slaves gathered, two of them dressed in tunicae of cloth-of-gold with gilded laurel leaves in their hair. These, later in the day, would present various gifts and tributes to the victors in the Games, but now were attempting to get something to eat before they began the long, hot watch on the spina. Fifty paces farther on, a bestiarius struggled to bridle his unruly mount-a white rhinoceros.
At last Saint-Germain came to the stairs that led upward, and squinting upward into the subdued light, he entered the world of the spectators. The sound was constant, like swarms of bees but much louder, and occasionally punctuated with cries and oaths. In the marble boxes of the patricians, slaves were serving fruits and cooked meats to the high-ranking Romans while hawkers of various foodstuffs made their way through the stands above, calling their goods and prices. On the sands, in the full glare of sunlight, Gallic cavalry were slaughtering a small, determined squad of Daci bowmen.
Saint-Germain had rented a marble box of his own, and Aumtehoutep waited there for him, a somber figure in a white shenti and linen headdress. Saint-Germain raised his hand as he approached, and saw Aumtehoutep nod his acknowledgment when a very beautiful young slave with a collar of jewel-studded gold and dressed in a Greek chiton of sheerest Coan linen approached him.
"Nero Caesar would be happy to have a word with you," the slave said, making what was clearly a command seem like a polite request.
"Now?" Saint-Germain asked, apprehension pricking along his spine.
"Certainly. He has sent me to escort you." The beautiful young man beamed at him.
"Then, by all means, lead the way." Almost everyone in the Circus Maximus knew where the imperial box was, but plainly, Nero wanted to be sure that Saint-Germain came quickly. "Will you send one of your companions to tell my slave why I am called away?" This was not an unreasonable request coming, as it did, at midday, when many had a light meal. Saint-Germain was willing to have Nero's slave assume that such was the case with him.
"It will be done as soon as you greet the Emperor. I will go myself." With the same engaging smile, the young slave stepped into the mural-lined corridor that ran behind all the patrician boxes.
They walked briskly past slaves with food and wine who eyed the fare set out for their masters. Some of the nobility loitered here as well, searching with famished, jaded glances for that special beauty or ugliness that promised novelty. Finally they entered a heavily guarded corridor that ended in five steep steps. The slave stood aside and inclined his head to Saint-Germain.
Nero was licking the last of a fruit sauce from his fingers as Saint-Germain entered the imperial box. His pale, intelligent eyes were cold with fright in that instant before he recognized the newcomer; then he smiled and waved Saint-Germain to the chair on his right. "Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus," he said with delight, as if his arrival were wholly unexpected. "The man with the very impressive name. Sacred freedom, isn't it?" He smiled at Saint-Germain and made an expansive gesture to the others in the imperial box.
"Actually, the meaning is closer to 'one with the god's liberation,' " Saint-Germain answered smoothly as he looked at the others.
"Let me see," Nero said. "You know Justus Silius, I believe, and Adamenedes, who is to be one of the judges of the Olympic Games. My wife you've met. Aeneas Savinian is a poet, newly come from Treviri. His companion is Placidus Reggianus. You know Sabinus of the Praetorians, and Viridius Fondi, his tribune. We're all waiting to see your wonderful Armenian charioteer demonstrate her skill. Tiridates was quite thrilled with her performance."
Saint-Germain nodded to each as they were introduced, taking care to conceal his disturbance. Why did Nero want him here? What did he want of Tishtry, or himself? In the past, Nero had forced his guests to make him lavish gifts during the Games in tribute to the Emperor's genius. Saint-Germain was certain he could not sign Tishtry away, so he waited while a place was made for him under the wide green awning.
"Did you see the Games last month?" Nero asked, interrupting himself to indicate the food that was spread on low tables. "Have what you want. The goose is particularly good, and so are the larks' tongues."
"Thank you, but among my kind, dining in public is considered very rude conduct." He was glad to be seated out of the sun, for even with his earth-lined boots, sitting in direct sunlight, which the imperial box was, would be severely uncomfortable in very little time.
Nero's crowing laughter was dutifully echoed by the others in the box. "How quaint foreigners are," he said as he wiped his kohl-lined eyes with the hem of his robe, leaving a black smudge on his cheek.
"About the Games," Saint-Germain prompted him as he took his couch and propped himself on his elbow.
"Ah, yes, there was the most exquisite joke. Everyone enjoyed it." He chuckled at the thought. "There was a criminal sentenced to the arena, for fraud. He had debased coins, being a goldsmith. Well, it was found out, and he was condemned. The poor fool was ready to die of fright. They put him out on the sands alone, and the slaves dragged out one of those huge cages they use for tigers, all very solid and closed, and then they hurried off with just the catch line running to the side so that the cage door could be opened." Nero reached for a large goblet of silver inlaid with pearls and drank from it greedily. "The goldsmith was certain he was going to be torn apart, and he very nearly fainted. Finally, the editor of the Games gave the signal and the catch line was pulled. Everyone leaned forward for the terrible minute, because they, too, thought a tiger would leap out and rend the criminal in pieces. But after a moment, a chicken came from the cage. The criminal collapsed, and the entire crowd laughed, and the editor reminded the criminal and the crowd that one fraud deserved another."
The guffaws that greeted this were more than polite, and Saint-Germain joined them. "Very clever," he said.
"Appropriate," Nero concurred. "But that's not why you're here. I want to honor your slave, and it would be most fitting to honor you at the same time."
"Honor me?" Saint-Germain asked, wishing he knew what Nero had planned. "I have done nothing deserving of honor."
"That is for me to determine," Nero said, and waited while his company nodded.
Justus cleared his throat, and without once looking at Saint-Germain, addressed Nero. "It is not wise to invest too much attention in foreigners while deserving Romans go without imperial favor," he said with a portentous frown. "Since there are those who disapprove of your plan to go to Greece shortly, they will feel even more abused that you should take time to distinguish Franciscus."
For once Saint-Germain found himself in agreement with Justus. "That's true. And it is not my intent to take credit from Romans, who have been willing to have me as a guest for so long."
Nero waved both these objections away. "Nonsense. You're being too self-effacing. You've supplied me with animals for these Games and those of Tiridates' visit. You've shown me how to play on the tall Egyptian harp. You've sent your slaves into the arena at my request. Show me a Roman who has done so much." This was obviously a challenge, but no one chose to respond to it.
"This is home for a Roman, and as such, it is a place where he can feel, and rightly, that he has certain rank and privileges not granted to those of us who are guests." As he spoke, Saint-Germain was still troubled.
"All sons," Nero said, turning suddenly petulant, "should be a credit to their houses. They should be eager to bring praises to it and to show civic virtue." He stared moodily into his cup. "My mother was a terrible woman, a terrible woman, but she was right about one thing-those who wear the purple are surrounded by traitors and liars, and Caesar is a fool to trust any of them."
A tension thrummed through the imperial box, and though no one spoke, the guests stiffened and looked away.
It was Saint-Germain who broke the silence. "Am I suspect, Caesar?"
"You?" Nero shook his head. "No, not you." He held his cup out for more wine, and while the slave filled it, he said, "No, what I want from you, Saint-Germain, is your advice about a new project I have in mind. These others, well, it was friends who killed Divus Julius. I must remember that."
On the spina, trumpets brayed and the victorious gladiator was cheered by the crowd while he lifted bloody arms in response to the ovation.
"Your slave is next," Nero reminded Saint-Germain unnecessarily.
"She is ready, I'm sure," Saint-Germain answered.
"Saint-Germain," Nero said abruptly with a slight wistful smile, "do you think she would be willing to teach me to do that? I'd love to be able to stand on my hands, balanced on the backs of two racing horses."
"It's very dangerous," Saint-Germain responded quickly, knowing that Nero's enthusiasm for racing had led him to rash acts before. He was anxious to avoid any difficulties with the capricious Emperor. "Tishtry herself said that it took her most of her youth to learn how. Her family has done such feats for three generations, and the training begins as soon as the children can walk." He tried to sound calm as he added, "Such stunts aren't part of a leader's skill, Caesar. Great leaders should know how to drive chariots in war, not use them for tricks to amuse a mob."
"You're right, of course," Nero said when he had considered the matter. "But what a splendid trick it is." He looked at the other men in the imperial box. "What of the rest of you? Would you like to see me do that, and fail? It would be easier for you, wouldn't it, if I'd kill myself driving a chariot. Then you could take command of the government without your plots and intrigues. And in no time, you'd be at each other's throats, each one wishing Nero were still with you, so you could be agreed in hatred, if nothing else." He met the eyes of each of his guests in turn, then looked into the bright arena.
The Gates of Life were flung open and Tishtry galloped her team onto the sands and down the length of the spina. Cheers met her and became louder than thunder.
In his imperial box, Nero leaned far forward and watched the Armenian slave with yearning eyes.
TEXT OF AN OFFICAL DISPATCH FROM GREECE TO THE SENATE AND PEOPLE OF ROME.
To the august Senators and knights, and the people of Rome, from the Greek garrison of Athens, hail!
By order of the Emperor, Nero Caesar, the treacherous general Cnaeus Domitius Corbulo has taken his life upon his arrival in Greece for the Olympic Games. The general, once the hero of wars on the eastern borders of the empire, redeemed his honor by his prompt obedience to the Emperor's orders, and died a good death upon his own sword.
His last word was Axios, which in the Olympic Games is the shout that greets the victor, signifying approval of a victory justly won. In this Corbulo expressed his recognition of the Emperor's right to his life. Those malcontented and misinformed Romans who say otherwise harm the memory of this valiant and sadly deceived warrior who did so much for the empire.
May this commend the Greek garrison to you and to all Romans.
Titianus Sassius Bursa
Centurion, Athens garrison
on the fourteenth day of
May in the 819th Year of the City
