Blood Games
PART I Chapter 2

HERE UNDER the stands the stink was worse, hanging miasmically on the hot, unmoving air. The sounds from the stand above were muted by the thick stones, though it was occasionally difficult to determine if the loud, mindless shout came from the throats of men or animals. In their wall brackets torches flickered, turning the underground twilight to a dull, ruddy glare.
Necredes, Master of the Bestiarii for this day's Games, stood beside the burly executioner from Dalmatia as he fingered the thongs that held the wrists of a dense-muscled young woman to an iron ring.
"Tighter, I think," Necredes said, ignoring the cries of outrage that came from his prisoner. "Stretch her high before you lay her back open."
The executioner nodded as he obeyed, cursing when the young woman tried to force her knee into his groin. "The Twins save me from Armenians," he grunted as he bent to secure her feet.
"Free me!" the young woman panted, fury in her eyes as she fought her restraints. "You have no right! Only my master can do this!" She was able to land one hard kick in the executioner's ribs before he finished knotting the thin ropes around her ankles.
"You disobeyed," Necredes said in an oddly satisfied tone. "You have defied an express order."
The young woman glared at him. "I spent eight years training my horses. I will not put them into the arena with lions." Her dark hair was cut short and fell in disheveled tangles around her young vixen's face. She was strong and her short tunica revealed the well-defined sinew of her arms and legs. There was no fear in her.
Necredes clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You will do what I tell you to do, slave." He motioned to his executioner as he stood back. "Twelve lashes."
The executioner stepped to a low table where his instruments lay. There were mallets, scrapers, knives and hooks on one side, and his various whips on the other; plumbatae with long lashes twined through heavy rings of lead, flagelli with knots of bone tied to the ends of broad hide strips; and rods with long tails of leather braided with wire. It was one of these last the executioner selected, slicing the air with it once or twice to get the feel of it. The muted scream of the lash seemed louder than the din of the crowd above them. Satisfied, the executioner took up his position.
At the first fall of the rod, the woman stifled a scream. There was a line of pain across her shoulders that burned with the intensity of acid. She braced herself for the second blow, her arms tightened to take the impact as she had been trained to do so many years ago when her father had taught her to dive off the back of a galloping horse. This was not the same. The second stripe fell across the first, and she gasped as a hot, hideous weakness loosened her taut body. She felt blood on her back, and looked quickly down at her torn tunica, aghast at the rusty stain that spread rapidly through the fabric. There were ten more blows to endure, and for the only time in her life she doubted her courage.
"Again," Necredes said, not quite able to disguise the pleasure of this command.
The executioner raised his arm, his shoulders bunching for the hard downward swing.
"Stop that." The voice, though low and pleasant, carried a quality of indisputable authority. Necredes and the executioner turned toward the sound.
The man who stepped into the unsteady torchlight was somewhat taller than the average Roman, but that was the least obvious element of his foreignness. He was dressed in a black knee-length Persian gown embroidered at the neck and cuffs of elbow-length sleeves with red and silver thread. Tight black Persian trousers clung to his legs and were tucked into heeled Scythian boots of red leather. Dark, loose curls framed his aristocratic face. His mirthless half-smile was fixed and his compelling eyes glowed.
Necredes stiffened. "Franciscus."
The stranger nodded, motioning to another man who now stepped into the light. He was younger than his master, and though he wore an amber slave's collar, his bearing was noble. Tall and slight, but with the massive shoulders and arms of a charioteer, he wore a racing tunica of the Reds and carried a cloak over one arm.
"The punishment!" Necredes snapped, hating the sight of the elegant foreigner.
This time the executioner hesitated.
"I said, stop that." Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus reached out and caught the lash as it came down. The sound of the strike was sharply loud and the executioner paled as the foreigner's small, beautiful hand closed on the rod and pulled it away. The executioner was a slave and he had struck a free man, an uncondemned man.
The black-clad intruder seemed to sense his thoughts. "On whose orders?" he asked.
"A-a-ah..." The executioner waved his hands toward Necredes, too frightened to speak. He had flogged too many men to death to be willing to face such a sentence. If the stranger brought complaint against him for the inadvertent blow he had received, that would be his fate-flogging with the murderous plumbatae.
Saint-Germain turned toward the Master of the Bestiarii. "Who gave you permission to beat one of my slaves?" He spoke pleasantly enough, with greater cordiality than Necredes would have expected under the best of circumstances, and the cool courtesy terrified him more than open hostility would have.
"She..." Necredes stopped to clear his throat so that he would sound less frightened. "She disobeyed a specific order from the editor himself."
"What order?" Saint-Germain had favored the woman with nothing more than one quick look, but he stood near her now, and touched her side once. "Who gave you the right?" In a sudden wrathful movement, he flung the leather-braided rod away from him. "Well?"
"She disobeyed..." Necredes began again and his throat was quite dry.
"A specific order," Saint-Germain finished for him. "On whose authority did you command my slave anything!" He came across the evil-smelling room. "Answer me."
"It is my right, as Master of the Bestiarii, when the editor requests..." The words sounded ludicrous to Necredes now, and involuntarily he stepped back.
Saint-Germain pursued him. "The woman is mine, Necredes. She belongs to me. What I tell her, she will do. No one else has that right. No one." He had forced the Master of the Bestiarii to retreat to the far wall, and he stood over him, the force of his gaze as potent as Greek fire.
Necredes cringed away from the hated, melodic voice. "As Master of the Bestiarii-"
"Master? The vilest rat is more worthy of that title than you." He turned away, disgusted. "Cut her down," he ordered the executioner, and as that frightened man hurried with clumsy hands to obey, Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus returned to his slave and looked down at her with compassion in his penetrating eyes. "Tishtry?" he said gently.
"I am..." Absurdly, since the worst of her danger was past, she felt tears well in her eyes. A moment later the thongs that bound her to the iron ring were cut, and to her horror, she almost collapsed at her master's feet.
His strong arm caught and held her until she could stand again, and although he did not look at her, there was comfort in that sustaining touch.
"Franciscus," Necredes spoke up from the far side of the room, the name deliberately loud.
Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did Saint-Germain give any indication that he had heard Necredes call his name. He turned to the charioteer. "Kosrozd, my body slave is waiting. Give Tishtry your cloak."
The charioteer opened the garment he had been carrying, holding it for Tishtry, who was now trembling violently.
"Gently," Saint-Germain admonished him. "She's bleeding. Aumtehoutep will have to take great care of her." He helped Kosrozd place the cloak around Tishtry's shoulders, paying no attention to Necredes' muttering.
Tishtry looked up when she had once more got control of herself. The light from the torches caught on the collar she wore, made of amber and embossed with her master's name. "My horses...?"
"Kosrozd will see to them. They are safe," he assured her as he touched her tangled hair. "They will be taken to my villa tonight, when I leave the Circus."
She could not rid herself of worry and she gripped his arm tightly as she looked around the little stone room one last time. "Must I go? He"-she gave a scornful glance to Necredes-"might order someone else to drive them through the lions."
"I doubt he would be foolish enough to do that," was Saint-Germain's soft, sinister reply.
"But he wants them in the arena." Her voice had risen, and she looked beseechingly from Saint- Germain to Kosrozd.
"I give you my word, Tishtry, that no one but yourself will drive those horses. Will that satisfy you?" There was still sympathy in his voice but his eyes had hardened.
Both slaves knew that tone, and neither of them would ever question it. Tishtry lowered her eyes and nodded mutely.
"Go, then. Aumtehoutep is waiting." He stood aside for her, watching as she reluctantly allowed herself to be supported by Kosrozd. "When she is safe, Kosrozd, come back to me."
The executioner moved farther out of the light.
With the slaves gone, Necredes felt braver. He straightened up and strode the few necessary steps across the room to confront the foreigner. "Franciscus, you aren't Roman..."
"All the gods be thanked for that," he interpolated quietly.
"And it may be that you don't realize," Necredes went on through clenched teeth, "that it is the Masters who give the orders for the editors of the Great Games. I was not told by the editor to spare your Armenian slave and her horses. You cannot interfere in this way."
As Necredes faltered, Saint-Germain regarded him with the air of someone finding a pustulant beggar in the kitchen. "How many others have you deceived with that explanation?" he asked. "Do you pretend that you are unaware of the law? Must I remind you of it?" His finely drawn brows lifted. "Had you forced Tishtry to enter the arena for a contest that would destroy her animals, since she has not been so condemned, she could accuse you in any open court, and you would have to pay not only the price of the horses that were destroyed at your order, but compensate her for the years it would take her to replace them. In addition to any damages I would require of you. That, Necredes, is Roman law, and has been since the time of Divus Julius."
It would not do to give ground now, Necredes thought. He raised his stubbled chin. "Do you also know the penalties for slave rebellion? That woman of yours tried to stab a Roman citizen. If she had succeeded in the attempt, she, and every slave you own, every one, Franciscus, would have been executed, probably in the arena." He managed to meet the foreigner's hot stare without obviously flinching.
"No," Saint-Germain corrected him gently. "That would only happen if she had killed me." Strangely, he chuckled. "Necredes, little man, leave my slaves alone."
Necredes was silent as anger seethed in him. As he watched the foreigner turn away, he vowed that one day he would exact a price for this humiliation-it would be pleasant to plan his revenge slowly and meticulously. His eyes went to the table with the executioner's tools, and then to the executioner himself, who stood in the deepest shadow of the room, watching Necredes uncertainly. "You!" Necredes burst out. "If one word, if so much as a breath of this, is spread, you will die by the beasts!"
The executioner nodded his understanding, but stayed in the protecting corner, out of the light.
Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus walked quickly away from the tiny, fetid room where he had left Necredes. His controlled fury had not yet dissipated, and he did not trust himself to speak to those who greeted him casually. It was at such moments that his foreignness was a benefit to him, for he might behave in many odd ways and neither give offense nor attract undue attention to himself.
Down at the far end of the corridor he saw three Libyan armentarii walking a number of caracals on leashes. The Libyans sang softly to their trained cats, calming them in preparation for the next venation.
Saint-Germain moved closer and hailed the nearest of the armentarii in his own language. "What is it you hunt this afternoon?"
The Libyan looked up, startled to hear his native tongue from this foreigner. He glanced at his fellow grooms before he answered. "Small wild pigs, they tell us, from Germania and Gaul." He shook his head, frowning now. "I don't like it. Our cats are not heavy enough for boars. My cousins and I"-he cocked his head toward the other two armentarii-"fear that our little brothers might be killed. They are trained to bring down birds and small antelope, not pigs."
One of the other armentarii smiled nervously. "We tried to argue, but..." His shrug was fatalistic. He reached down and patted the nearest tawny head, and the hunting cat pushed upward, eyes closing, short tail curling against his flank, a deep purr in his throat.
"They are beautiful animals," Saint-Germain said, dropping to one knee, not heeding the quick warning from the Libyan armentari who held the leash. "Splendid cat, magnificent cat," he said softly, and reached to touch the tufted ears. The caracal lowered his head for those expert fingers that found the very spot that wanted scratching. As Saint-Germain stroked the rich fur, he felt his anger fading at last.
"He won't often let strangers approach him," his Libyan trainer said, new respect and curiosity in his voice.
"Perhaps I am not a stranger," Saint-Germain suggested as he got reluctantly to his feet.
The armentarii exchanged quick looks, and one of them made a sign with his fingers.
"That won't be necessary," Saint-Germain said as he stepped back, feeling profoundly alien.
The nearest Libyan armentari tried to smile. "Excellency, we meant no offense, but we live so much with our cats that..." He broke off nervously. "Truly, they do not like strangers."
Saint-Germain had no answer for them. He stood silent while the Libyans tugged their elegant caracals away.
"I do not think they know," said a voice behind him. Saint-Germain turned quickly to face Kosrozd. "The cats like you, my master, and their trainers are jealous."
"I wonder." His expression was enigmatic as he studied his slave.
In the next moment they were forced to move aside as a squad of Greek hoplites marched down the narrow corridor, their spears up and shields held uniformly at their sides. At their head, their captain called out crisp marching orders.
"They are to fight Armenian charioteers with archers," Kosrozd said expressionlessly as the Greek troops went by.
"Who do you think will win?" Saint-Germain studied the Persian youth as he answered.
"It will go hard for the hoplites," Kosrozd said when he had given the matter his consideration. "But if the Armenians can't break their formation, in the end they will lose. If they keep their distance and let the archers pick off the back rows first, then the Armenians might win."
Saint-Germain nodded his agreement. "The Armenians aren't often so circumspect in their fighting, not as I recall."
A sudden increase of noise from the stands above distracted both men, and they looked quickly toward one of the narrow windows that gave onto the arena. There was nothing to see in the little slice of light that was colored red from the great awning that sheltered the crowd from the relentless Roman sun.
"What event? Saint-Germain" asked.
Kosrozd could not entirely disguise his revulsion. "Asses trained to violate condemned women."
The noise grew louder, and then one terrible shriek rose above the crowd, a cry born of acutest agony. It hung on the stinking air, then stopped abruptly.
"Well," Saint-Germain said as he turned away from the window, "it's over." He put one hand on Kosrozd's shoulder and drew him away. "Do you race again today?"
"Yes. And once tomorrow. The Reds haven't done well in this set of Games and they are pressing me to win." He was relieved to be speaking of racing again. In his seven years as a slave in Rome he had not learned to accept the Roman mob.
"Would you rather not race for them? Since I'm not a citizen, I cannot join a racing faction, and there is no reason for you to race for the Reds if you'd prefer Blue or Green or White."
"Or Purple or Gold," Kosrozd added fatalistically, adding the two recently created factions. "No, it makes no difference what color I wear-the race is the same."
"You could race for the Emperor's Greens. He gives lavish rewards to his charioteers." They were walking through the maze of halls and stairways toward the portion of the Circus Maximus that was set aside for charioteers.
"When they win. When they lose, he is equally free with his punishments. He had Cegellion of Gades dragged to death behind his own team." Kosrozd paused a moment and looked at his master. "We do not live long, who race here."
"The cruelty is new," Saint-Germain said reflectively. "There was a time, only a few years ago, when Nero forbade the wanton killing of animals and contestants in the arena, and only made an exception of political criminals. Now..." His face grew somber and he walked in silence, Kosrozd beside him.
They had almost reached the charioteers' rooms when Kosrozd grabbed his master's arm. Saint-Germain stopped and looked unspeaking at the wide, long-fingered hand that crushed the cloth just above his elbow.
"I...I must talk with you." The words were desperate, spoken in an urgent whisper.
At last Saint-Germain met his eyes. "Yes?"
"Do you...will you take Tishtry to your bed again?" He blurted out the question and waited for his answer.
Saint-Germain had been a slave himself and was not surprised at how much they knew. He pulled his arm away. "Not immediately, no. She's badly hurt."
"Will you sleep alone?" He knew that he had no right to ask such a question, and half-expected a curt dismissal or a blow.
"Sleep?" There was an ironic tinge to the word.
"Is there anyone else you desire more?" He was risking too much, he thought, but could not stop himself now.
A strange, remote look of anguish crossed Saint-Germain's face, and for one suspended instant his penetrating eyes were fixed on a great distance. "No. No, I no longer desire anyone else more."
Kosrozd felt a chill as he stood beside, Saint-Germain and he almost faltered in his purpose. "Then...will you...would you...want me?" He knew that he might be sold for this impertinence, or sent to Treviri or Divodurum or Poetovio to race in the provinces, far away from Saint-Germain in Rome.
"I am very old, Kosrozd, far older than you think," Saint-Germain said kindly. "The price of caring is the pain of loss, and I have lost...much."
"You are alone," Kosrozd murmured. "And I am alone."
There was mockery ' Saint-Germain s expression now. "More alone than you, though we are both sons of princes whose kingdoms are lost to us. Kosrozd Kaivan," he said, using his slave's full name and seeing the young man start. "Oh, yes, I know who you are. It is a pity your uncles could not find more trustworthy conspirators. You're fortunate to have been sold into slavery. Another king might have dealt more harshly."
"He roasted my father on a spit!" Kosrozd burst out.
"But spared his children. And left you a whole man. Remember that. Persia is growing gentler with age."
An aurigatore spotted Kosrozd and came into the hallway. "It is almost time. I've got your chariot ready."
"A moment, Bricus." He watched his master with intent young eyes. "Will you sell me? Or send me away?"
Saint-Germain considered this. "I suppose I should, but I won't. I'm...touched by your...interest." Then abruptly his tone changed. "Come, you must prepare for the race."
Kosrozd made one last attempt. "Tishtry told me once that you did not behave as she expected."
"Very likely," he said dryly.
"It would not matter," Kosrozd insisted.
"Wouldn't it?" He was interrupted by another prolonged shout from sixty thousand voices. When the sound had subsided, he said, "For some there is death in what I do." The coldness of this statement was directed inward, filled with old bitterness.
Kosrozd laughed bleakly as his glance turned toward his waiting chariot. "Death. There is death in what I do." Without looking at Saint-Germain again, he went through the door, walking quickly to his aurigatore, who had just begun to lead four high-strung horses from the stable on the far side of the Gate of Life.
TEXT OF A LETTER TO THE EMPEROR NERO.
To Nero, who is Caesar, lord of the world, hail!
As a citizen of Rome, no matter how lowly, I approach your august presence on behalf of those who are my brothers and who are unjustly condemned to vile and glorious deaths for their religion.
You have said that Rome will tolerate all forms of worship, and surely there are temples enough in Rome to give an outward sign of that tolerance, but that is illusion. You have shown yourself to be utterly opposed to those who have chosen to worship the only true manifestation of God on earth, and have set the might of the Roman state against us.
Perhaps you still confuse us with the rebellious Jews who have risen in revolt against your rule in their land. It is true enough that we follow the teachings of a man who was a Jew, but it is wrong to condemn us along with them, for we do not question political rule, and we do not share their objections to Roman presence. We who follow the teachings of Jesu-bar-Joseph and his disciples are not in agreement with other Jews. There are, it is true, a great many Jewish sects, and often there is little accord between them, but in one critical issue we differentiate ourselves from all Jews: most Jews, in reading the prophecies of the great teachers of the past, believe that there is one coming to free them from the bonds of this world, an anointed master who will be the path to all liberty. We who call ourselves Christians believe that this prophecy was fulfilled with the birth of Jesu-bar-Joseph sixty-five years ago. We do not reject his salvation, as do the rest of the Jews, but accept him as our redeemer, and worship him as the living presence of God.
If you are determined to persecute us, there is little we can do to oppose you, but I beg for myself and my brothers that you do not continue to identify us as Jews, since we are not Jews. Many of us languish in prisons and at the oars of triremes because you and your deputies have not taken the time to learn the difference between us and Jews.
I beseech you to examine your heart and take heed of your own laws, O Caesar, so that those innocent of rebellion may not continue to suffer for your ignorance and the ignorance of other Romans. You have accepted without prejudice all the false gods of the world, all the evil worship done anywhere that Roman troops have trodden. Why, then, do you forbid us, who have the promise of true salvation to offer you, and the one path to God, to practice our faith with the same openness and freedom as you allow to the misguided women who frequent the Temple of Isis? Certainly Egyptian Isis is no more foreign than we are. Why is it impossible for you to extend her protection to us? If you continue to deny us, then all will know that Roman justice is a lie, and you will be hated in this life and cast into darkness when you die, for your abuse of those who willingly follow the rule of the True God.
Though you kill my body in this world, still I will pray for you, here and before the Throne of God.
Most humbly, and in the Name of Christ,
Philip, freeman of Rome