THERE WAS a dark place on the paving where the water ran down from the garden of the villa of Constantinus Modestinus Datus on the hill above. In the fading dusk, as the shadows grew denser the wetness seemed to resemble a lean, elongated, cloaked figure, all the more sinister for lying toward the sun instead of away from it. One or two late travelers who hurried toward the gates of Rome hesitated as they neared this ominous mark, then, discovering it was only water, were filled with relief as they crossed the spreading trickle. From the villa came the perfume of the garden's flowers, which the rising wind carried away.
Shortly after the Roman gates had been closed for the night and the Watch posted, Saint-Germain approached the villa, dismounting some distance from it. He had expected this summons for more than a year. The last letter from Sennistis had warned him that he had received a visit from a man claiming to be an Armenian scholar, but who spoke with a marked Persian accent. The high priest of Imhotep said that the scholar had demanded information about both Saint-Germain and Kosrozd. Then there had been no more letters from Egypt. When the polite invitation had been delivered to Saint-Germain the day before, he had welcomed it. At last he would have an opportunity to investigate further. In the note the Armenian scholar had said that he had heard of Saint-Germain in Egypt. He would have to learn from whom, and how much.
As he walked down the Vicus Tusculis, Saint-Germain studied the villa on the brow of the hill. He sensed he was being watched, but there was no movement in the garden to give his observer away. When he came to the rivulet that ran from the wall of the garden, an unpleasant smile touched his lips. "Running water," he said softly. Did anyone truly believe it would stop him? His heeled Scythian boots raised two little splashes as he strode through the wet toward the villa of Constantinus Modestinus Datus.
The slave who opened the door to his knock was not quick enough to disguise his fear of the visitor, and he stammered a welcome, adding that "The foreign scholar and his escort are in the garden, at the end of the corridor. Shall I show you...?"
"Thank you, I know the way." Saint-Germain inclined his head slightly and stepped into the house. He had departed from his usual custom of dressing in Persian and Egyptian garments. Tonight he wore a toga draped a little shorter than was most fashionable. It was of black linen, and the border, instead of being Roman eagles or Greek keys, was of his signet, the eclipse with raised wings, and was embroidered in silver thread.
There were three men in the garden. Two were dressed in the uniforms of the palace guard of Tiridates, king of Armenia, but the swords they carried were of Parthian design, as were their sandals. Both men were massively tall, and fixed their eyes on some invisible point near the horizon. Saint-Germain glanced once at them and raised his fine brows in inquiry.
The third man rose from a bench by the fountain. He, too, was wearing Armenian clothing, but not the military gear of his bodyguard. His was the long tunic and fringed cape of a favored and courtly scholar. His young face was craggy and intelligent, and though he smiled readily enough, his dark eyes were wary. "Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus?" he asked unnecessarily.
"I understood from your invitation that you would be expecting me." He looked about. "Modestinus is not here?" He was grateful that this interview would take place in private, though it was remarkable for a guest to entertain without his host in a private villa. "A pity." This formality was not lost on the Armenian.
"The unpleasant difficulty in the north has called him away. Word has come that there is to be a battle between Otho and the generals of Vitellius. Modestinus has chosen to befriend Otho and protect his interests in Gallia. Do you think this entirely wise?" He gave a short, cynical laugh.
"My opinion can have no bearing on Modestinus' actions." He decided to let the scholar have the direction of the conversation for the moment, in the hope that he would reveal more than he had intended. As he moved to the bench across the fountain from the scholar, he asked, "Are you interested in Roman politics? It seems a perilous study just at present."
"Hardly perilous," the Armenian disclaimed. "I'm a foreigner."
"All the more hazard, I should have thought. Is what you learn worth the risk?" He saw the other man's eyes narrow once quickly. "War is not a scholarly matter," he said at his blandest.
"Politics do intrigue me, and Roman politics are fascinating just now. Three Caesars since January. Remarkable." He resumed his seat on the opposite side of the fountain, watching Saint-Germain through the falling water.
"Particularly to Parthia and Persia?" Saint-Germain suggested with gentle irony.
The scholar's hard bright eyes narrowed, but he said with great aplomb, "Parthia and Persia are as important to Armenia as Rome is. You will agree that the current...I hesitate to call it a civil war, but you must have noticed that it appears to be like one...civil war, then, is apt to have a lasting effect on Armenia."
"And on Persia and Parthia. They have been at war with Rome since the days of the Republic." Saint-Germain had spoken in Armenian, and noted with satisfaction that the scholar was startled by this. "It would be to Persian advantage to keep the war going."
"I know nothing of Persia," the scholar said too quickly, in Armenian, his eyes flicking away from Saint-Germain's ironic gaze.
"Surely, one of Tiridates' court must be aware..." he said and let his voice trail off.
"No more than any other. I am a scholar, not a diplomat. It isn't fitting that I spend my time on politics. There are great schools in Parthia and Persia that interest me, of course," he went on hurriedly. "I have spent a little time studying in those countries. But as to this conflict with Rome..."
Saint-Germain nodded sagely. "As you say, it's hardly a matter for scholars. And yet"-he gazed dreamily beyond the garden-"I cannot help but find it strange that you speak Armenian with a Persian accent. No doubt it's the current fashion at court." He knew beyond doubt that this was not the case. At other times he might have found the game amusing, and would have taken time to lead the scholar into more and deeper lies, but not now.
The scholar's glance was quick and poisonous, but he managed to give a smooth answer. "My first tutor was Persian, and I learned the accent from him. I am the son of my father's second marriage," he improvised unnecessarily, "and had no brothers or sisters near me in age."
Though Saint-Germain gave the scholar mental credit for facile wit, he also recognized in him the common failing of liars, that he made things too complicated, and explained too much. "No doubt that isolation drew you toward learning," he said gravely, then went on deferentially, "You must forgive me, but I thought I knew all the scholars traveling from Armenia. Modestinus has been host to many of them, and they have often mentioned their colleagues. Your invitation this afternoon did not say much more than your name, which I confess I don't recognize. No doubt it slipped my mind. Led Arashnur..." He contemplated the name. "No, I'm afraid I can't place you."
"I'm...I had not planned to come to Rome so soon. But then an opportunity presented itself, and I took it." Arashnur was decidedly nervous now, and the Persian accent was much more pronounced. "Such things happen."
"Certainly," Saint-Germain said with a self-deprecating smile. "But what do you study, that brought you here so quickly?"
Led Arashnur licked his lips. "I'm a student of practical mathematics. I study the designs of bridges and buildings..."
And military fortifications, Saint-Germain was certain. "And with such turmoil in the city, you came here to study?"
The self-proclaimed Armenian scowled, and his striking young face became menacing. "I must take advantage of opportunities as they arise. If there is turmoil in the city, it's unfortunate but I must not let it deter me."
"Indeed," Saint-Germain said softly. "Precisely how great a fool do you think me, Led Arashnur?"
"Franciscus?" the scholar demanded as his eyes flew to his silent bodyguards.
"Call them at your peril, Arashnur," Saint-Germain murmured as he fixed an apparently friendly expression on his features. He made a point of reclining on the bench, supporting himself on his elbow as he watched the tension settle in the scholar's face.
"There are two of them, and they're armed," Arashnur said at last.
"Do you really think that would make a difference?" Saint-Germain's amusement lit his dark eyes. "Well, you're welcome to try."
Arashnur hesitated before he answered. "No," he said slowly. "I don't think they could best you."
"Very wise." Saint-Germain busied himself with the drape of his toga. "Now, what does a Persian spy from Armenia want with me?"
"I am not a spy!" the scholar protested with an abrupt, angry shout. "I am a scholar."
"I asked you not to treat me like a fool," Saint-Germain reminded him silkily. "You want something of me; what is it?"
Arashnur was clearly taken aback. He had not dealt before with someone who thought so little of the threat he represented. "There's nothing..." he began, then saw the sardonic light in his visitor's eyes. "You have a slave."
"I have three hundred slaves," Saint-Germain corrected him. He hoped that the spy would not lie again, for he knew that they had begun very dangerous talk.
"Only one interests me and...my associates," Arashnur said curtly.
"Your masters, rather," Saint-Germain amended. "Which of my three-hundred-and-some-odd slaves deserves this attention?" He knew who it must be, but suggested, "It can't be my Armenian bestiaria, can it? Tishtry is not for sale, not to you or anyone, at any price. If your masters want to curry favor with Tiridates, they'll have to think of another present."
Arashnur looked disgusted. "We're not interested in an arena performer. Not that performer."
It was Kosrozd, then, as Saint-Germain had feared from the first. "I have over sixty bestiarii and thirteen charioteers. Who among them has caught your fancy?"
"You're flippant," Arashnur snapped.
"Am I." His voice grew hard. "Led Arashnur, I fear you will have to disappoint your masters. None of my slaves is for sale."
"One of your slaves is a Persian prince!" Arashnur burst out, and the bodyguards turned toward him, one of them reaching for his sword. Arashnur gave him a stern look and a sharp gesture. The bodyguards returned to their positions, silent as ever, but they no longer stared abstractedly at the horizon. Now their attention was on the two men by the fountain.
"No, Led Arashnur," Saint-Germain said quietly, "one of my slaves was a Persian prince. Now he wears a collar and races a four-horse quadriga in the Circus Maximus."
Torches had been lit in the garden by the household slaves, and now the flames, licked by the wind, flickered over the marble of the fountain and touched the falling water with tints of gold, amber and red.
"Kosrozd Kaivan is the oldest son of-"
"Prince Sraosha, third heir to the throne of Persia until his death for treason." He saw the cunning in Arashnur's eyes. "No, spy, my slave did not confide in me. I knew who he was when I bought him. Let me guess," Saint-Germain went on with a sardonic laugh. "There is yet another conspiracy brewing, and you intend to benefit no matter who wins. If the conspirators succeed, you will be the one to give them their rightful prince, and if they do not, you will be able to bargain for favor by turning Kosrozd over to the king. That is your intention, is it not?"
Led Arashnur was silent, his eyes like shards of flint. "Yes," he said at last.
"And you are in Rome, not to study practical mathematics, but to learn how much damage this civil war has done to Rome, so that Persia and Parthia can decide whether or not they want to break their current truce with Rome."
"Yes," growled Arashnur.
Saint-Germain was not surprised to learn this. He had been expecting something of the sort since Galba and Piso died in January. "I wonder," he said reflectively, "why you're willing to admit this to me."
This time Arashnur's voice was decidedly unpleasant. "I learned a few things while in Egypt."
"About the wheat supply?" Saint-Germain suggested with feigned innocence.
"Until the wheat dole is reinstated in Rome, there will be civil war," Arashnur said, scoffing. "There is no shortage of grain in Egypt, only a canny and ambitious governor-prefect named Vespasianus."
"On that, at least, we can agree." Saint-Germain nodded. "What else did you learn in Egypt?" He kept his tone gently mocking, but his mind was wholly alert. Led Arashnur might prove to be more of a threat than he had seemed at first.
"There was an old man," Arashnur explained. "He sold herbs and spices and had the reputation for being skilled in medicine. There were those who called him a priest. His name was Sennistis."
"Was?" Saint-Germain asked in spite of himself. He had an instant of vivid memory of the tall, dignified Sennistis in his white robes and pectoral.
Arashnur shrugged. "He was not very strong, and toward the end his mind wandered. He thought he was back in the temple of Imhotep. He spoke a great deal of his predecessor. It was a curious tale. Perhaps you'd like to hear it?"
How much had Sennistis revealed before he died? Saint-Germain asked himself. The old priest had had full knowledge of him, but would have resisted telling what he knew. He could see the gloating curve of Led Arashnur's full mouth and wished that he had the opportunity to peel the flesh from bone and teeth. His anger was hazardous, and he kept it banked within himself. "I am often entertained by curious stories."
"This former high priest of Imhotep, according to old Sennistis, was a foreigner. That, in itself, was unusual, but apparently this man was more remarkable. He had many strange habits, including that he neither ate nor drank except in private, and then, he claimed, only of the Elixir of Life. He was attributed with miracles. It was said that his body slave had been brought to him a dead man, the victim of plague, a novice from the Temple of Thoth, and that after two days, life returned to him."
"Another drinker of the Elixir of Life, no doubt," Saint-Germain said with feigned boredom. If Sennistis had been brought to speak of Aumtehoutep, he had revealed more than Saint-Germain had thought.
"Not according to Sennistis. He said that the slave was not like his master, but what the difference was, he would not reveal." He gave Saint-Germain a careful, expectant look. "You have a body slave who is an Egyptian, or so I have heard."
"Yes."
Arashnur waited, but Saint-Germain said nothing further. "The old man died before he told us more," he admitted.
Saint-Germain's dark eyes grew hard. "How did he die, that good old man?"
"Bravely, if that pleases you. Almost a year ago. I stumbled on him by accident, you know, after I learned something of the man who had bought Kosrozd. My task might have taken longer if the priest had not kept your portrait. The inscription with it tells an amazing tale. How old are you, Franciscus? If that's your name."
"Older than you think me," was his grave answer. "And Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus is as much my name as any that Sennistis knew." He rested his compelling eyes on Arashnur. "I am surprised, spy, that knowing what you do, you have attempted anything so rash as this interview."
Led Arashnur got hastily to his feet. "I know something of you, Franciscus, and it's written down. If you and I do not come to some understanding tonight, I will dispatch that record to Otho in the morning. It should reach him at mid-April. He'll ask the Senate to act on the information, civil war or no."
"And if I refuse?" Saint-Germain forced himself to maintain his relaxed, reclined posture on the bench. "In ten days, I can be gone from Rome."
"From the city, but not the empire, and Roman law is persistent," the spy said with satisfaction. "You're vulnerable, Franciscus, and unless you come to terms with me, you will regret it. For example, one of your captains, a Greek, often uses his ship for smuggling. He might be willing to testify that he did so on your instructions. He was the one who found the old priest for me; his uncle. Were you aware of that?"
"No," Saint-Germain lied, not adding that he had suspected that Kyrillos might be bringing in illegal grain to Ostia in order to profit from the high price on the illegal market.
"It would take little to have his entire cargo impounded, and from there it could mean that your other ships would be seized. That would be a blow to your finances, and then you might have to take advantage of the offer I have to make."
Saint-Germain recognized the boasting in Arashnur's voice, and decided to draw him out some more. "I can't see why any Roman would take the word of a Persian-your pardon, an Armenian-scholar about any ship, Roman, Greek, African or unknown."
"I would not give the warning myself. It would come from a faithful but unknown Roman." Suddenly his expression turned crafty. "Oh, no, Franciscus. None of that. I won't give myself away to you so easily." He came around the curve of the fountain and stood over Saint-Germain, his face flushed in the torchlight. "I want Kosrozd. I will have him. You think that because of your age and your blood that you are clever and safe, but you're not. Try to keep the prince and I will ruin you."
"Will you?" Saint-Germain sat up slowly. "You will find that a difficult task, spy."
"Say the same thing when you see your household disbanded. Then the Senate will be delighted to let me purchase Kosrozd. The slaves of a condemned foreigner are not welcome in Rome. The Emperor might even require that your slaves be sold outside of Rome. Otho cannot afford much more unrest. In your case, it would go very hard. Otho has a great distrust of foreign magicians."
Saint-Germain had seen the fear in Arashnur's eyes that lurked behind the bravado. "And you share his distrust, it seems."
"You..." He made a sign with his hand to ward off evil, breathing more quickly. "Unnatural creature!" he cried out rather wildly, moving back to the other side of the fountain.
There was an ironic gleam in Saint-Germain's eyes again. "You do believe the myth about running water. I crossed some on the road as I came here." Had the thick soles and heels of his Scythian boots not been filled with his native earth, a sufficient amount of water, especially running water, would be very difficult and painful to cross, but he thought it best to keep that to himself. "Shall I stride through the fountain, spy?"
Arashnur was paler and he looked aghast at his black-togaed visitor. "You can't."
A narrow stream ran from the fountain into the garden, winding between trees and banks of flowers, shining like molten metal in the torchlight. Saint-Germain rose from the bench and stepped across it, then followed it through the garden, making a show of crossing it at every bend. He walked back to Led Arashnur and looked down at him. "You've mistaken your opponent, spy."
With a quick motion Arashnur summoned one of the soldiers to his side, but before the formidable bodyguard could reach his master, Saint-Germain had stepped up to him and had touched him on the arms, using a firm pressure of his small hands. The bodyguard faltered and his drawn sword clattered to the mosaic walkway. With a swift motion Saint-Germain stepped to the side and with one seemingly gentle blow sent the soldier crashing to the ground. He had confronted the second bodyguard before he had his sword out of his scabbard, and grabbed the soldier's sword arm above the elbow.
Startled, the soldier tried to pull his sword into play, but gave an agonized shriek as the hands tightened. A moment later his arm dangled uselessly, and he had sunk to his knees, holding his broken arm to his chest.
Saint-Germain turned back toward Led Arashnur and laughed. "Spy, I have fought ten times this number alone. And that is no boast."
White-faced, Led Arashnur stepped backward. "I...I..." He fumbled in his belt for the knife there.
"Since you were unwise enough to reveal your plans to me, Persian, I think it had better be you who leaves Rome. The Praetorians might get a message about a spy at the house of Constantinus Modestinus Datus if you are not gone." Contemptuously he turned his back on Led Arashnur. "Three days should be ample time."
"You would not dare! I will tell Otho what you are!" His voice had risen and fright made him stink.
"Send your message, if you think it will help you. Otho has other things on his mind just now. I doubt he'll be worried by...unnatural creatures like me." He looked at the Persian again. "Don't make it necessary for me to kill you, spy. Be glad that you can escape me." He looked at the bodyguard who whimpered over his broken arm. "See that the bone is set, or he'll be useless to you. The other...well, it's a shame. He'll be dead by the end of the month, probably within fifteen days." He saw the horror in Led Arashnur's face. "Oh, there's nothing unnatural about it. Men as mortal as you are can learn the blows. His organs are bruised, and they will stop working. When that happens he will die." His face became sardonic. "Think of this when you are back in Persia, and if you decide to come to Rome again, or send others to bargain for Kosrozd, remember this soldier's death before you act."
Led Arashnur made a frantic attempt to recover his dignity. "You dare not risk open court!"
"And who is to accuse me? You?" Before the Persian could answer, Saint-Germain had turned on his heel and moved off through the garden toward the wall. With practiced ease he vaulted the wall and was gone into the night, leaving the villa of Modestinus and its torchlit garden behind.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS TO TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS, IN EGYPT.
To T. Flavius Vespasianus, greetings:
It is many months since I have written to you, and for that I must crave your indulgence. No doubt you have had news of all the troubles that have beset this city, shaking us like so many political earthquakes. Fantastic rumors are repeated everywhere and it is only with diligence and care that the truth can be learned, although that is strange enough. The latest revelation is little more than a continuation of what has gone before. I have recently had news that Otho died by his own hand only a few days ago. This is not yet generally known in Rome, though, doubtless, the word will be abroad by the time the sun sets tomorrow. The Senate is prepared to proclaim for Aulus Vitellius. What a year this has been: Galba, his heir Piso, and now Otho dead and spring is not over.
Vitellius is supported by his generals, of course, and Aulus Caecina Alienus is a very ambitious man. I don't know that much about Fabius Valens, though I am willing to wager a considerable part of my fortune that he's in Caecina's sphere. Caecina is really the one we must watch. He is clever, handsome and a persuasive orator. I think he sees Vitellius as a ladder to imperial power. It would not be the first time such things have been attempted.
Assuming that there are no more disruptions, Vitellius should arrive in Rome in June, though he may want to come slowly to allow matters to calm themselves before he enters the city.
The hippos you sent for the Great Games of last month were a great success. Where you get these gigantic animals, I do not know, but the crowd was delighted with them, and many have spoken well of you. We haven't used all the animals yet; there are more Games coming in May, and I have arranged with the Master of the Bestiarii, Necredes, that there will be a long aquatic venation. These new sorts of hunts are becoming very popular with the people, who greatly appreciate the variety of strange animals that take to the water. One of the bestiarii told us that tigers can swim, and we've decided that it would be very exciting to add a few of them to this splendid venation. So far, we have had no luck in getting porpoises to battle in the water, and they are most difficult to transport. There was an attempt to bring a few sharks into the arena, but it failed when the transport case broke and the huge fish escaped and killed eight slaves before it died. We have got eels and ocean-bats, but they are no longer the novelty they were, and do not do well in fresh water.
Permit me to say that your handling of the grain situation has been most astute. I realize the crisis is apt to continue a little while longer, and when it ends, you will be very high in the esteem of the people. There is some grain reaching the city, of course, being brought from farther east, and from Gallia. It would be impossible to make up for the loss of Egyptian grain, and the success of these small traders has been unpredictable, as grain is now worth stealing. I would imagine that by fall, any genuine relief would be hailed as the gift of the gods.
I had occasion to speak to your nephew Tullius, and he assures me that you have not abandoned the plans we discussed last year. I'm certain that your enterprise will be successful, and for that reason alone, I am happy for any opportunity I might have to contribute to its outcome.
There have been two minor fires in the poorer insulae. Those buildings, you know, are not well built. In the worst of these, half the building is underground, and so there is little circulation of air. There are always complaints about the dripping of water there, for the plumbing works badly, and now that so many are trying to prepare what little grain they are given at home, in makeshift ovens, there have been fires and will probably be more. Most of the very poor no longer take their grain to the public mills because they are apt not to get it back again. There will be a great deal of rebuilding to do in the next year, particularly of the insulae. It has been a rule that there be no more than seven apartments per building, but I think that could be increased to ten or eleven without significant danger. Housing is always an important matter in Rome, but just at present, it is even more so. You might want to give it some thought.
I look to a happy reunion before too many more months go by. You and I, Flavius, are not so young that we can postpone such occasions indefinitely. I will be fifty-two shortly. A sobering thought, isn't it? Yet I am hoping that the decline of my life will be less of a disappointment than the rise of it has been.
Until our next meeting, this by my own hand on the twenty-third day of April in the 821st Year of the City,
Cornelius Justus Silius
Senator