Free Blood Games by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

dais.
    "Saint-Germain?” Petronius said, surprised to see that the foreigner did not join the others in hurrying to recline.
    "I had thought to see to the dancers. You will excuse me, I'm certain. Since this is their first appearance in Rome, and it is before the Emperor himself, I want to be certain they are fully prepared.” His smile was quite bland, but Petronius sensed that it would be unwise to question him.
    "Shall I have food sent to you?” He felt that he owed Saint-Germain this consideration.
    "I'll...dine later."
    Petronius wished he could fathom the ironic light in those commanding dark eyes. “Some wine, then?"
    "I do not drink wine."
    There was nothing more Petronius could say. “As you wish. Your couch will await you, when you are ready to join us."
    "I thank you,” was the distantly courteous response.
    As he turned to join the others, Petronius gave one last speculative look to Saint-Germain. What was it about the man that so perplexed him? He put the matter from his mind, and focused his whole attention on the Emperor.
    The meal was almost over when Saint-Germain came back into the garden. More than an hour had passed, and the gathering had become more raucous as the unwatered wine was unstintingly poured by the most beautiful cupbearers money could buy. He took his place on the one empty couch and waved away the slave who approached him.
    On the dais, Nero lay back, his usually petulant face now lit with a singularly attractive smile. Propped against his belly he held a small lyre, and this he plucked in uncertain accompaniment to the music of the pipes that came from the shrubbery. The other guests were somewhat weary of applauding his efforts, but did not have the courage to stop.
    The ponderous figure of Cornelius Justus Silius rose from his couch, and the Senator approached the Emperor. “Very like the god Apollo,” he effused.
    "Apollo?” Nero said, stopping in the middle of his aimless tune.
    "God of light and music,” Justus went on, determined to make the most of this opportunity.
    "And medicine,” Nero said thoughtfully. “I cannot help but think that he must cure by singing. Music is the rarest, the highest art.” His thick fingers plucked at the lyre again.
    From her couch, Olivia motioned to her husband to withdraw, not trusting the caprice of the Emperor. She was ignored. Justus had spent the afternoon berating her for the lack of success she had had in finding a more stimulating lover. The Syrian merchant had been a bore, Justus told her, the magician from Britannia was a sham, and the last, a freeman from Raetia, had been demented enough to imagine himself in love with Olivia. Looking around the select gathering, Olivia bit her lower lip. Justus had renewed his threat of the Tingitanian from the stables, and the memory of that was enough to make her food turn to rocks inside her. Her eyes wandered over the gathering, searching and desperate. Would Justus tolerate a high-bred man as her lover, she asked herself, or must it be a freeman or soldier or slave? The sound of Petronius’ voice turned her thoughts away from her predicament.
    "It is fitting that in this gentle setting, evocative of all that is best in nature, we be entertained in a manner appropriate to our condition.” He stood beside his couch, urbane, ineffably elegant, deeply wary. “So it is that I have procured through the good offices of Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus"—he indicated the foreigner with a gesture—"an entertainment that is truly new to Rome."
    Nero had propped himself on his elbow, a greedy fascination in his alert blue eyes. “New?"
    "Completely,” Petronius assured him. “These are not the fine Greek pantomimes that Rome has come to love, but dancers of entirely different skills.” He remembered how apprehensively he had approached Saint-Germain about new entertainments at the end of autumn. He recalled that Sanit- Germain had been amused by his request and had promised to find him