Blood Games (Saint-Germain #3)

Blood Games (Saint-Germain #3) Page 32

THERE WAS scattered applause as Saint-Germain finished playing and stood back from the tall Egyptian harp. He nodded his acknowledgment to the gathering, right hand touched to his breast in the Egyptian manner. The harp, his manner, his jewelry and clothes, the songs he sang, everything about him was Egyptian tonight.

His host called for more wine to be poured, then called across the dining room to Saint-Germain, "Wonderful! I've never heard anything like it, not even in Egypt!"

"If you will pardon me, Titus," Saint-Germain said wryly to the Emperor's older son, "there are many things Romans never hear in Egypt."

"So it would seem." He drank deeply from his golden cup. "Do one more for us, please. We love to hear you." This was not quite an imperial command, but from the look on Titus' handsome face, he did not want to be refused.

Saint-Germain measured Titus with his eyes, thinking that it would be wrong to indulge him too far. He did not want Vespasianus' heir to think that he could command anything at his convenience. Saint-Germain had learned long ago that it was foolish to indulge kings and princes too far. "I think," he said lightly, "that rather than bore your guests with more Egyptian songs, I would prefer to sing something Roman, something that will please them and be familiar. There is a song...they say that Gaius Valerius Catullus wrote it, but who may be sure of it?"

One of the women in an almost transparent stola looked over her exposed shoulder at Titus. "But he's so dreary," she protested. "Always suffer, suffer, suffer. Can't he do something by Ovidius? I like Ovidius."

Titus looked at Saint-Germain inquiringly as a few of the guests seconded the woman's request. "Well?"

"I think you will find the song isn't dreary," he said with a half-smile. He had no intention of pandering to these seventeen Romans. "Ovidius is delightful, there's no denying it, but he has little left to imagine. After the first theme, it's all said and there is nothing to expand upon, wouldn't you say? With Valerius Catullus, there is more to play with."

Despite the protests around him, Titus waved his hand as he settled back on the couch. "As you wish, Saint-Germain. Sing us one of those dreary songs of Valerius Catullus."

The other guests took their cue from Titus, and reclined, though the woman who had made the objection began to pout as she held out her cup for more wine.

Saint-Germain watched them a moment, his fingers touching the harp strings softly, so that there was almost no sound from them. Then he leaned the instrument against his shoulder and began.

Why, O Lesbia, should tender love torment me?

What malevolent sweetness works your magic

That makes travail of a single embrace?

My love is like a tattered rag in the wind:

Your promise burns me to the core

Even as your touch scalds my flesh.

Saint-Germain began the melody simply, and saw Titus' party grow interested. Gone were the little restive movements and the sharp glances. As he caught their attention, he made more complicated chords with the harp, though he was still keeping to a simple, declamatory style.

Yet what is freedom worth, compared

To this delirium of my passions?

What meager pleasure can match this hurt?

What can joy offer richer than this pain?

I desire to be consumed by your love

Though it thrives on its own ashes.

The guests were silent now, and the cup boys stood by the wall, unmoving. Only the sound of Saint-Germain's voice and the ringing notes of his tall harp were heard in the room. No one spoke. No one moved. No one drank.

His first variation was light and mocking, the high strings making flirtatious countermelody to his voice. He saw the knowing expressions in the eyes of Titus' company, the suggestive, lascivious smiles on those indulged faces. The second variation was angry and dissonant, the harp tolling out accusations against his harsh phrases, bitterness stinging each note. Now the listeners were startled, and one woman seemed more pale than she had been a moment ago. She toyed with her rings as she listened. The third variation was a long, caressing lament, a soaring plea that rose in spiraling cadences, the harp and the voice each drawing the other onward in rhapsodic despair.

When he was finished the room was completely still, as if even breathing was an intolerable interruption to the song. Then Titus thumped the table with his golden cup, roaring his approval. In the next instant, all the others followed his example.

"Thank you, Titus," Saint-Germain said as he returned the harp to its upright position. There was an enigmatic expression in his dark eyes.

"Splendid! Splendid! I wish more of our Roman musicians could do as well." He had risen from his couch and was picking his way toward the raised platfrom where Saint-Germain stood like an archaic statue in a kalasiris of three layers of sheer fluted linen. The Emperor's son stumbled up the step and draped an arm over Saint-Germain's shoulder. "I wish I could hear that again."

"I will copy out the music if you like, Titus." He moved slightly so that Titus had to drop his arm.

"No, no. There's no artistry in that. I'll have to remember it as best I can. I wish I hadn't had quite so much wine." As he spoke he moved a little nearer Saint-Germain's harp. "It's quite big, isn't it?"

"It's two handbreadths taller than I am," Saint-Germain said quickly. "It's very old and must be handled carefully."

Titus, who was about to try his hand with the instrument, grinned sheepishly. "Then I won't touch it. Amazing the variety of sound that you can get out of it. I heard harps in Egypt, of course, but none of them were like this."

Saint-Germain smiled. "Mine is unusual. I was given it long before I came to Rome." He did not choose to elaborate on this, but nodded toward the others. "Do you think they might enjoy the tumblers I brought with me tonight? They're most remarkable."

"Tumblers?" Titus said, puzzled. "You mean you brought more?"

"These are slaves of mine, very gifted. I think you would find them entertaining. There are four of them. The other three who usually work with them were arrested with the other arena slaves in June." He said this quite calmly, but was pleased at the rather guilty expression in Titus' eyes.

"I'd like to have them entertain, of course," he said uneasily, not willing to commit himself. "It is late, however..."

"They will be here as long as I am," Saint-Germain assured him. "I don't mean to distress you, but I would like to know precisely what my imprisoned slaves are accused of." He looked away so that the Emperor's son could not see the full power of his dark eyes. "I can't abandon them, Titus. They are mine. I have certain...obligations to them."

"Obligations to slaves?" Titus laughed at that, then broke off as he realized that Saint-Germain had not echoed him, though his other guests, who had not heard what he said, dutifully laughed with him. "How can you have obligations to slaves? They're your property. You may dispose of them as you wish."

"Would you feel that way if you wore the collar, I wonder?" Saint-Germain asked gently. "Let me send for the tumblers, and you will enjoy them."

Titus nodded his acceptance. "Tumblers. Very good. By all means, have them in."

"They are from Panticapeum at the mouth of Lake Maeotis in Sarmatia. I don't think you have seen the like in Rome before." He knew the Roman love of novelty. "They have performed in the arena only once, and then it was with trained bears, but they have other...demonstrations that they do in closer surroundings."

"Excellent," Titus said with false enthusiasm. "Bring them in, certainly." He got down from the platform. "I'll have my slaves put your harp away...."

"But, Titus," Saint-Germain reminded him, "it is old and delicate. I will do it."

"As you wish." Titus was feeling uncomfortable now, and his face was beginning to flush. He hated being asked to do things, though it was worse, in this case, not being asked. "I'll see what can be done about your slaves. It's silly, keeping them in prison. It's all nonsense, of course, but we have to take precautions."

Saint-Germain had picked up his harp, holding it with affectionate care. "Certainly. You need not explain."

This permission made it more difficult for Titus. "There's an investigation, though it's just a formality. It's not as if you're a Roman. The Roman slaves have all been condemned. Your being foreign is what makes it so difficult."

One of the women called to Titus. He turned toward her, annoyed to be interrupted. "What is it, Statillia?"

She read the irritation in his face. "Nothing," she responded quickly. "A small matter."

"I will see to it later." He faced Saint-Germain once more. "That woman. She thinks if she gets into my bed that I will make her husband governor of Lusitania or something of the sort. Look at her-panting with false lust. It's my father who appoints the governors. She should go pant at him."

"But you," Saint-Germain pointed out tactfully, "are young and handsome. Can you blame her for preferring to try with you?" This was a calculated remark, but he relied on Titus' vanity to mask its insincerity.

Titus chuckled. "Now, if she had sent her son...Have you seen him? Just fourteen, graceful as a dancer, with a face like a young god. Next to Berenice, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have in my bed." He gave Saint-Germain a friendly pat on the arm. "I don't suppose you understand. So many foreigners don't. They want either boys or women, but not both."

"I understand you, in my way," Saint-Germain said with an irony that was lost on Titus.

"Do you? That's amazing. I'd expect it of a Roman, but you're..."

"Foreign?" Saint-Germain finished for him, hoping to divert him from questioning him about his meaning. "Let me get the tumblers."

"Good." He motioned to slaves waiting by the doors. "This man has brought tumblers to entertain us. Escort them here."

Saint-Germain stepped down from the platform. "I must put this in my chariot. I will return shortly."

"Your couch will be ready." He hesitated, then said, "I will do what I can about your slaves, Saint-Germain. As prefect of the Praetorians, it shouldn't take me long. But you realize, it can't seem like a favor, or my father will forbid it. Give me a few months, and all will be well."

"It has been several months already," he pointed out.

"I know." He frowned and tugged at the folds of his toga. "It's not a simple matter. There are certain questions..." He was aware that he should not be saying so much to Saint-Germain, but he was sufficiently embarrassed to speak further. "I'll tell you what I will do: as soon as the first report is filed, I'll end the investigation, and then you can petition for the release of your slaves." He wished he had never mentioned the matter, but this should end it.

"I would be most grateful," Saint-Germain said quietly, thinking as he spoke that the months in prison must have been painful for Kosrozd. He had been put in a cell with Tishtry, that much Saint-Germain had learned, and for this he was grateful, since Tishtry could serve his needs without difficulty. If they had not been together...Resolutely Saint-Germain put that thought from his mind. There was nothing to be gained from such reflections. He made a gesture that might have been a salute, then went swiftly from the elaborate banqueting room.

He found Aumtehoutep waiting in the covered chariot, wax tablets in one hand, a stylus in the other.

"How has it been tonight?" Saint-Germain asked as he handed the harp up to his slave.

"There are ten men dining with the Emperor, none of them very influential. It seems to be more courtesy than anything else. You know who dines with Titus. I have seen six Praetorians come to the palace, but that's not unusual." He paused and the ghost of a scowl passed over his impassive face. "Domitianus is closeted with Justus Silius."

Saint-Germain looked up sharply. "Where?"

"I don't know. I tried asking one of the kitchen slaves, and was told it was none of my concern." He tapped the stylus against the wooden frames of the tablets. "Justus Silius has been busy with the Emperor and the younger son. Titus and Domitianus do not love each other. Justus could be encouraging that alienation."

"It would seem so," Saint-Germain agreed. "Why? What would he gain from that? He's no relative and is not likely to be an heir. Vespasianus is not about to assign power away from the Flavian House. What does Justus want?" He did not expect an answer to the question, and got none.

"Did you speak to Titus?" Aumtehoutep asked flatly.

"For what good it may have done." He sighed. "He has said he will help, but Titus will promise anything if he thinks it will please the asker. If he will act upon his word, who knows?"

Aumtehoutep wisely said nothing.

"If the matter were to be heard tomorrow, then it might be possible to expect Titus' aid. He will not hurry the investigation, however, which will delay action for some while yet. In that time, Titus can forget a great deal." He leaned against the chariot as he cast a knowing glance at the troubled winter sky. "Rain by morning," he remarked.

"Will you go to the prison?" the Egyptian asked.

"I suppose I will have to. It will cast more suspicion on me, but it can't be helped. After tonight there will be suspicions, anyway." He felt strangely tired, a fatigue that grew out of his frustration.

"Would you prefer that I go?" The question hung between them, for both knew the risk that Aumtehoutep would be taking. "I understand the danger. They might decide to imprison me as well, and it would not make matters any easier for you. But for you to visit slaves in prison would be very suspect." He said nothing more while Saint-Germain thought.

"You're right, of course," he said heavily. "It would only make things worse if I went to the prison. But I don't want to ask it of you."

"When you took me from the Temple of Thoth," Aumtehoutep said distantly, "I was dead. You restored me to life then, and I have served you ever since. Had you made me like you, perhaps I would have done otherwise. You couldn't do that, but you did all that was possible, and so I have cheated Anubis for years without number. I am not of your blood, but still I am somewhat like you. You have protected me and used me honorably. It would not displease me to do this for you now."

This time Saint-Germain was silent for a longer time. "Aumtehoutep...." He stopped. "Why must you be right, old friend? Do as you think best." His small hands closed tightly on the handrail. "But go carefully." It seemed for a moment he would say more, and there was a hardness in his eyes. Then he opened his hands and stepped back. "Keep watch until I return. And if you can find out what Justus Silius is doing with Domitianus..."

"You will learn of it," Aumtehoutep assured him.

"I know that. I'm not able to deal with him as I should. I have too much hatred." He made an odd gesture, as if to close off some ruinous thought. "I must get back. Doubtless Titus will want to know more about the tumblers." His mouth widened in what was supposed to have been a smile. "They are very beautiful, the tumblers, young and athletic. Titus is certain to be interested."

"And will you give them to him?" Aumtehoutep kept his voice carefully neutral.

"No. But I don't think I'll tell him that just yet. It may mean a speedier investigation, since I have told him about the others who are in prison. Titus is greedier than his father, and he might find this an incentive." He took a few steps back from the chariot. "Look for me in two hours."

"The chariot will be ready, my master." Since they might now be overheard, Aumtehoutep adopted a more servile tone. "If you will be later, send me word so that I may stable the horses."

"Of course," Saint-Germain called back through the gathering dusk. He went quickly through the long corridors, toward the sound of cheers and laughter, where Titus sat with his guests, watching the tumblers with blurred, avid eyes.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CONSTANTINUS MODESTINUS DATUS TO THE PERFECT OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS.

To the revered prefect of Praetorians, greetings:

I have in hand your inquiry concerning one Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus in which you ask me if he has ever spoken or behaved in such a way that I thought perhaps he was an enemy of Rome, or working for enemies of Rome.

Good Praetorian, I don't know how to answer you. Not that there is doubt in my mind concerning this worthy foreigner, but because I am baffled by your asking at all. Surely all that the man has done for Rome has shown that his interests are one with ours. He breeds the best mules and sells them to the army more reasonably than do many of our Senators. He has been active in the interests of the Games, owning some of the best charioteers as well as helping to improve the Circus Maximus with the hydraulic organ installed there. He has often supplied various patricians with rare and costly items for a fraction of what it might have cost them to procure such goods. He has helped those in need and his slaves are considered some of the best-treated in the empire. Why, then, do you ask about him? It would benefit us if more Romans showed the same degree of attention and activity on behalf of the empire that Franciscus does.

To be sure, I have personal knowledge of one who was much troubled by this Franciscus. An Armenian scholar, Led Arashnur by name, who visited me about two years ago told a fantastic tale that Franciscus was the same man as a legendary Egyptian physician and had the secret of eternal life, and was not a natural being. He claimed to have had proof of an old man in Egypt, but that in itself is little to go on. You know that Armenians, even the most educated of them, are superstitious fools, easily swayed by their fears and myths. Certainly it would be folly to believe such a man in a matter like this. No doubt this scholar had some reason to dislike Franciscus, for such aversions are common, though none can say why. To assume that it is because Franciscus is an unnatural being, unable to cross water or walk in sunlight-this is patently ridiculous, for all of us have seen him in the day, and if he could not cross water, what would he be doing living so near the Tiber?

There is a question about his slaves, you indicate here, saying that they are being held with the others suspected of insurrection. Of all slaves in Rome I can imagine none with less reason to revolt than those owned by Saint-Germain Franciscus. They are well-fed, well-housed, kindly treated and each is given his chance to excel in his work. There are some who would not be satisfied with purple silk, but most are grateful and value their master as they should. There are no legion deserters in his slaves, no foreign army men, no gladiators at all. Why should anyone suspect them? Were I asked to judge those slaves, I would say that they are wrongfully accused and I would free them immediately with compensation to their master for the loss of their labor and income.

Why does the prefect of the Praetorians seek to antagonize a man who has been tireless in his work and forthright in his business affairs? You say that there have been complaints against this man, signed by no one, and that the complaints have so far proven false. Why do you put faith in such flimsy and contemptible accusations? Is the foreignness of the man such that it blinds you to his excellent qualities? If so, must he forever be under a cloud of questions and suspicions? I confess your questions disquiet me. What must he do that will convince you of his intent?

My own association with the man, though rather slight, has always been the most satisfactory and honest. He has found texts for me that I feared did not exist in the world. He has been glad to assist in learning and teaching when my studies have gone into areas where I am not expert. It is true that he spent much time with Nero, but many of us did. That does not mean that he is disloyal to the Flavian House. He also, as you will recall, was a friend of Titus Petronius Niger, even when the Arbiter fell from favor, and it was said that he was at Cumae when Petronius died. It is true that Rome has not always enjoyed good relations with Dacia, which is Franciscus' homeland, but by his own admission, he is not himself a Daci. What would it profit him to aid them when they are not one of his blood?

"If you have other questions, or if my testimony may help in any way, I urge you to send for me and I will gladly put myself at your disposal. It amazes me that these questions need be asked at all, but since it seems that they must, then let us dispose of the matter quickly and apologize to this distinguished man who has done so much to aid us.

Most respectfully by my own hand on the tenth day of December, the 823rd Year of the City,

Constantinus Modestinus Datus