A WARM BREEZE carried the fragrance of blossoms across the training ring at Villa Ragoczy. The spring was pleasant, mild and promising, and from the vineyards that rose in neat lines up the hills to the fruit trees behind the extensive stables, the new villa seemed alive with its touch.
Only Tishtry occupied the training ring with her big Syrian gelding. The horse wore a special bridle and half-saddle that was little more than girths with a thick horn. As the horse cantered around the mid-portion of the ring, Tishtry used the horn to vault from one side to the other of the horse. She shouted encouragement as she rode and leaped.
When at last she was satisfied, she pulled the gelding to a slow walk, guiding him with her knees toward the gate.
Sain-Germain was waiting for her, one neatly booted foot on the lowest fence rail. He was dressed for riding in black Dacian tunic and leggings. He smiled as she came nearer. "You are better?"
"Almost myself again," she answered, grinning. "Shirdas here is out of practice."
"He looked fine just now," Saint-Germain assured her. He spoke educated and courtly Armenian with the same slight accent that colored his Latin, giving his speech a quality that was oddly archaic to Tishtry's ears.
"That's because I was forcing him." She swung expertly off the gelding's back. "You see, I am strong enough. When do I return to the arena? The Neronian Games begin soon, and there are great prizes to be won."
"In payment for great risks," he warned, reaching over the fence to put one fine small hand on her shoulder.
"There is risk in anything," she said lightly. "Riding is my life. I was born to it, like my father and his father." She reached to open the gate. "I've got to rub down Shirdas."
"One of the other slaves will do it," he said as he held the gate open for her and the big horse.
"I care for my own horses," she answered briskly. Then she looked toward the far side of the courtyard where her master's mount waited. "You care for your own, don't you?"
He admitted it, and started across the courtyard beside her. "What do you think of him?" he asked, indicating the black stallion that waited at the hitching rail.
This was a splendid animal, heavy-bodied and well-muscled with an erect neck, a broad, intelligent head and steady eyes. Mane and tail were full and long and there was thick feathering around each hoof. The small ears pricked as Saint-Germain approached.
"Do you like him?" Saint-Germain put one hand on the glossy flank. "I had him sent from Gallia Belgica."
"He's beautiful. How are his hooves?" The arena was known to be very bad for hooves.
"Better than the Iberians, but not quite so tough as the Libyans. I was thinking that he could compare well with the Sicilians, though he's not quite so fast. He comes from a marshy area, so his hooves are hard enough." He stood aside so that she could examine the stallion more closely. "He's steady-tempered, with excellent stamina."
"He looks it." She ran expert hands over the stallion, who stood quietly for this inspection. "You should be proud of him. I'd be willing to give a great deal for such an animal." Neither of them considered it odd for a slave to say such things. Often slaves who appeared in the Great Games amassed large personal fortunes. Tishtry herself, while not rich, had some prize money and owned ten horses, which would have been a considerable amount for many Roman freemen.
"You need not give a thing. He's yours." Saint-Germain untied the lead rope and handed it to her. "Two of your mares are ready to be bred."
Tishtry looked from her master to the fine black horse. "You don't mean that."
Saint-Germain smiled. "Of course I do. I wanted to give you a present to mark your recovery. I couldn't think of anything you would like more. If there is something else, tell me."
She held the lead uncertainly. "Mine? Truly?" This time when she touched the stallion her hand was almost reverent. "It is a princely gift, master."
He said nothing. His pleasure at her delight was genuine but remote. It was such a little thing to give a horse to a slave, yet her gratitude disturbed him. He nodded toward Shirdas. "Rub him down, and then take the stallion to the end of the compound. You'll want to check his hooves and teeth at your leisure."
"They're fine; I know they're fine," she said happily.
"I hope so," he said, though he had already inspected the stallion and knew he would not disappoint Tishtry.
She turned to him, smiling. "I would like to try him in the ring, my master, to see how he goes."
"He's yours. Do as you wish. The ring is open for a while longer. I'm going to ride out after the charioteers. They're on the practice road and I want to see how Glynnth, this new Briton, does." Since his villa was occupied, he had made it a habit to follow his charioteers on their course through the vineyards and orchards, particularly when, as now, he had a new slave whose skill he wanted to assess.
"Glynnth is clumsy," Tishtry said offhandedly. "I watched him this morning. His aurigatore was angry with him because he would not stand properly in the chariot."
"Hardly surprising," Saint-Germain remarked. "Have you ever seen Britannic chariots? They're more like carts."
"He was good with the horses," Tishtry allowed. "He handled the reins well, for a barbarian."
"For a barbarian," Saint-Germain repeated, looking down at the stocky woman in ragged leather breeches, loose linen vest, with copper bracelets on her arms and three protective amulets on thongs around her neck.
"Britannia is a mad place," she said seriously. "I heard a tribune say that they paint themselves blue."
"So I understand." He touched her hand briefly. "When I return, I would like to talk to you."
This time she looked squarely at him. "Why? Have I offended you?" It would be like her master, she thought, to give her this horse by way of farewell. "I haven't been well enough to come to you, but if you-"
"You are better now. This is one of the things we must discuss, but not the only one." He looked down at her open face. "Would it trouble you to come back to my bed?"
"You are my master," she said with a shrug. "It is good to sleep in the master's bed."
"I see." It was what he had expected her to say, and he told himself that it was the most sensible attitude, yet he was strangely disappointed. "Would you rather go to someone else?"
"In time," she said when she had given the matter her thoughtful consideration. "I enjoy what you do to me." She stopped abruptly.
His smile was sad. "Later, then. I will be in my library, I think. I will tell Aumtehoutep that you're expected. He'll admit you promptly."
Tishtry frowned at the mention of the somber Egyptian who was Saint-Germain's body slave, but though she found him haughty and distant, she knew it was only through his skill that her strength had been saved. The salves he had applied had ended the pain, and after that, Saint-Germain had set the Egyptian to nurse her. She liked him no more now than she had then, but her respect for him bordered on awe.
"Is something the matter?" Saint-Germain studied her face closely. "Tell me."
"It's nothing. I was remembering what Aumtehoutep did after Necredes had me beaten." She moved her hands as if pushing an ugly thing away. "That is behind me." It was not entirely true. There were two crossed scars on her back that would be with her all her life.
Saint-Germain touched her face. There was hardly any weight to his fingers but they seemed to her to be penetrating as sunlight. "Tishtry, do you ever wonder what will become of you?"
"You told me about that when you took me to your bed. It doesn't seem real, though. Perhaps I will believe it when it happens." She put her hand on the flank of the black horse. "This is real. The other..." With a shrug she dismissed it.
He accepted this. "I'll expect you later, then."
"Certainly." She was more interested in the horse than in him. He was faintly amused by this, finding her honesty as delightful as it was blighting. Giving her a casual wave, he turned on his heel and went to get his horse.
The charioteers had pleased him, he decided when he had returned to Villa Ragoczy. Tishtry had been right about the Britannic charioteer Glynnth-he was clumsy, but showed promise. He had handled the four nervous horses with more wisdom than artistry, and Saint-Germain had decided to speed up his training. The twenty-two other charioteers were familiar to him and all but one attracted only moderate attention. The exception was Kosrozd. As always, he had driven the best of the lot, keeping the lead easily over the long, difficult practice route. The beautiful young Persian handled his light chariot with a singleness of purpose that showed, more than his erect bearing, his warrior training.
Dusk was beginning to soften the warm golden light when Saint-Germain dismounted in the courtyard of Villa Ragoczy. He was dusty from the long ride, and anxious to wash away the grime of the day. He tugged the saddle from his gray stallion's back and summoned a slave to take it away. While he rubbed the gray down, he sent another slave into the house with orders to prepare his bath. He worked on the horse with familiar economy, so that it was only a little later that he crossed the courtyard toward the rear entrance to his villa.
Aumtehoutep met him at the door. "The bath is ready, my master," he said in his native tongue.
Saint-Germain answered him in the same language. "Excellent. I need it tonight, old friend." He had already begun to undress, pulling the Dacian tunic over his head and handing it to the lean Egyptian at his side.
"Two more crates arrived from Ostia today," Aumtehoutep said as he gathered up his master's clothes.
"Stones?" Saint-Germain reached for the robe Aumtehoutep held out to him. As always when naked, he stood with his back to the Egyptian, and did not turn until the robe was tied around him.
"That, and more earth from Dacia." Aumtehoutep's voice was light and curiously neutral, as if nothing could touch him or move him on this earth.
"From Sennistis?" It had been almost a year since he had heard from the high priest of Imhotep.
"Yes." He gave Saint-Germain a steady look. "He is not well, my master. He thinks he is near death."
Saint-Germain put a hand to his eyes. Poor, faithful Sennistis, who had been so loyal and devoted, he thought. "I feared that."
"And I." Aumtehoutep betrayed little of his feelings with his face, but he had been with Saint- Germain for centuries and his master could read the finest nuance of his expression.
"Do you want to go to him?" He stood in the doorway between his bedchamber and the bath now, his dark eyes full on his slave. "You have only to ask. I would not deny you. If it is your will, you may return to Egypt a free man, with one of my old estates to keep you."
Aumtehoutep looked away. "What good would it do? If he is minded to die, there is nothing more to say. Egypt is foreign to me now, more foreign, perhaps, than Rome."
There was no answer to that. Saint-Germain knew that sense of foreignness in every fiber of his being. He closed his eyes a moment in private acknowledgment of that loneliness.
"Will you want anything else, my master?" Aumtehoutep said in his usual polite manner.
Saint-Germain was always grateful for the Egyptian's tact. "I doubt...No, wait. When Tishtry comes, send her in to me here." He indicated the quiet room where scented steam rose from the waiting water.
"As you wish." With the slightest of bows Aumtehoutep slipped from the room.
Left to himself, Saint-Germain strolled into the bath, his Scythian boots clicking against the mosaic of semiprecious stones. Lamps burning perfumed oils hung around the shallow pool, lighting it with a ruddy glow. Saint-Germain pinched out all but two of the lamps, so that the room was sunk in its own twilight.
Near the tall, narrow windows there was an elaborately carved wooden bench, and here he sat to draw off his boots. The sun was down and night was taking hold of the world. Saint-Germain flexed his toes, feeling stiff from the long ride of the afternoon. He rose, slipping out of his robe. Warm water rose above his waist as he entered the bath, and he sighed with pleasure. There had been a time, long ago, when he would have faced even so little water as this with dread, but he had learned to build his baths with linings of his native earth, and to fill the soles of his shoes with it, so that water lost its threat to him.
He leaned back, half-floating, his eyes almost closed. The tension eased out of his body, leaving him drifting, languid, subtly aroused.
Behind him a door opened and uncertain steps entered the tiled bath.
Saint-Germain set his feet on the floor of the pool. "Tishtry?" he said quietly.
"My master?" came the answer from the scented gloom.
He smiled. "Come. Bathe with me." He raised one arm in invitation and the water ran and splashed around him.
She stepped out of the shadows. On the edge of the pool she hesitated. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Yes." He moved nearer to where she stood, reaching up at last to pull at the hem of her rough woolen cloak. "Don't be afraid, Tishtry."
"You don't frighten me," she said almost gruffly. "I haven't bathed with a man before." There was no seductive pretense in her. She loosened the girdle at her waist and pulled the full-cut robe over her head. Each movement was utilitarian and clean. Carefully she folded the robe, placing it near the door, away from the pool.
"Tishtry." He came to meet her as she stepped carefully into the water. Taking her hands as he would a child's, he drew her away from the side of the bath, toward the center, where the shadows were deepest and the air was still.
"It's big," she said rather apprehensively.
"Three times my height on each side." He released her hands. "There. Lie back. The water will support you."
"I don't know how to swim," she confessed, but attempted to do as he had instructed her. She was nervous, and started to thrash as she felt her feet lift from the bottom of the pool.
Immediately Saint-Germain was beside her, reassuring her, one arm lightly under her shoulder. "As if you were sleeping, Tishtry. Lie back." He moved away from her again, and let her try once more.
This time she fared better. At first she was uncertain, but the warm water soothed her, and the dim light saved her from embarrassment. Gradually her anxiety left her. She spread her arms to the side and felt herself carried by the still water. It was so pleasant, so dreamlike to drift there, that she hardly felt it when Saint-Germain moved nearer. His hands moved with the water to caress her, slowly, lightly, never forcing, yet always finding the ways to summon her to joy.
When he drew her softly into his arms, her need for him had begun to build from a sweet titillation to a demanding thirst. His hands were more insistent now, exploring each awakening delight. She sighed, her body as entirely alive, as entirely sensitive as the finest Aeolian harp. His lips sought out her passion, filling her with a splendid delirium.
At various places around the pool, water had splashed out. In the pool the tempest of the two bodies continued. Tishtry felt something within her gather, but the release eluded her. She braced her hands against Saint-Germain's shoulders. "Do as you wish," she whispered breathlessly. "I'm well-served."
With more force than he had shown before, he pulled her back into his close embrace. "By all the lost gods," he murmured, his mouth just below her ear, "take pleasure of me, woman."
The intensity of his demand evoked an unknown hunger within her. Responding with an urgency that she had never known before, she abandoned herself to her desire.
When, sometime later, he carried her from the pool, she was deeply satisfied. There was no more reluctance in her. She stood quietly while he wrapped her in a new robe of fine silk that matched the one he wore.
Taking her hand, he led her from the bath to his bed, and tenderly lifted her onto it. She smiled up at him. "You did not do that before," she whispered.
"You didn't want it before." He sank down beside her. "You are learning to have fulfillment."
"But you?" she asked, a slight pang of guilt coloring her contentment.
"There is time enough for that," he said as he parted her robe.
This time she warmed quickly, eagerly, her appetite sharpened by her earlier enjoyment. She moved into his hands, meeting his lips, hoping to call him from his essential remoteness. When she was certain that she could endure no more pleasure, she heard his soft voice. "Come to me." There was one keen instant as his mouth touched her throat, and then the surge of his ardor carried her to satiety and wonderful languor.
TEXT OF A LETTER TO THE SENATOR CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS FROM SUBRIUS FLAVUS.
To the Senator Silius, greetings:
I and my associates have reason to believe that you are as unhappy about the state of rule in this empire as we are, and for that reason, we ask that you consider well what follows. Should you decide to stand with us, we welcome you. If not, we charge you upon your honor not to reveal what is set down here, as more than our lives are at stake.
What Julius and Augustus built, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, who now wears the purple and calls himself Nero, has done his best to destroy. You may argue that he promised well at first, and there is no one who will deny that he was a charming lad when he was twenty. Those abuses which seemed to be the product of youth have grown since that time, and his judgment and good sense are no longer in evidence. When he was young, I loved him, as did all worthy soldiers. As long as he was deserving esteem as Emperor, I was the most loyal of his men, and my oath to him was doubly sacred. Yet how can any Roman, from the highest noble to the lowest slave, feel he merits anything but odium. His stepfather, his mother and his wife have died at his orders. For that alone I have learned to hate him. My hatred grows with each new atrocity. I have seen my Emperor change from an intelligent, respectful youth into a greedy and debauched tyrant, an actor, a singer of Greek nonsense, a charioteer and a burner of cities.
This man must be removed from power if the empire is to continue. Rome is without virtue while Nero rules us. The philosopher Seneca, who was Nero's tutor, is with us. He knows more profoundly than any other man how far Nero has turned from the path the Emperor should tread. If Seneca opposes Nero, who loved him once as a son, it is sign enough that his Emperor is no longer deserving of the loyal love of his people.
We have others with us, men of judgment and rectitude who have given unstintingly of their minds and fortunes that we may bring about the changes that are so desperately needed.
In place of Nero, we have proposed to elevate Gaius Calpurnius Piso. There are those who claim that he is a trivial young man, given too much to light pursuits. It would be useless to deny that he gambles, and fancies himself something of a singer, but were it not imperial fashion, he would comport himself with more dignity. He has assured us that he will seek our guidance and be attendant to our advice. The people like him, as much for his winning ways as for his handsome appearance. There are those, of course, who admire him for little more than his beauty, but this has ever been a problem with the lower ranks, who are more easily swayed by appearances than the more intelligent nobility. Be certain that Calpurnius is an acceptable candidate for the purple, more modest and less headstrong than Nero.
In less than a month the ill-advised Neronian Games will begin, and that will give us the opportunity we need to strike out at the Emperor who so greatly abuses us. There will be great confusion, and we may take advantage of it. It will be appropriate to bring Nero down at his own Games, as it will show our intentions to be rid not only of him but of everything he has come to represent.
Say you will help us to restore honor and order to the purple. We place our faith in you, Justus. Join with us and be rid of Nero. It is true that the undertaking is dangerous, but think of the reward, not only in dignity, but of the opportunity once again to be near the seat of power. You have suffered much at imperial hands. Take your destiny now, and help us to triumph over Nero. There is nothing more honorable than service to the empire, and there can be no greater service than aiding in the end of the Neronian reign.
In the hope that you are with us,
In faithful confidence,
Subrius Flavus