Free Blood Games by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

Clemens, the young wife of Cornelius Justus Silius.
    When the dance ended and the last sound of the flute faded on the warm breeze, the guests were loud in their approval. Petronius gracefully disclaimed all credit, but made sure that they would all remember that the dancers first appeared at his banquet.
    "How intensely moving!” Nero cried over the babble of voices. “There is nothing like it in all my experience.” There was no need for him to mention that his experience was vast—his varied sexual exploits had provided Rome with gossip for years.
    The guests were quick to agree with him, and for once their enthusiasm was genuine. They spoke quickly, their voices brightly loud, and their movements showed their awakened concupiscence. They were eager to touch each other, to show their bodies, to invite new attention.
    Olivia felt some of this, too, and wished she could be swallowed up by the darkness. For Justus to see her now, with this strange longing in her, would be worse shame than anything he had subjected her to so far.
    "I am inspired!” the Emperor announced as he got to his feet. In the pale light his blond hair was silvery, his face young. He reached uncertainly for his lyre. “Let me sing my tribute to those incredible dancers, so that art will reward art."
    Response this time was forced, and one or two of the guests exchanged quick, telling looks. It was dangerous not to show themselves delighted to hear whatever Nero wanted to sing, for music was one of the genuine loves of his life.
    Petronius had followed Saint-Germain to the area in the shrubbery that had been set aside for the dancers. He glanced over his shoulder toward the arbor, where he could hear a lyre being tuned. “It's unfortunate,” he said softly.
    Saint-Germain's voice was dry. “What? That? You're probably right."
    "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. You see, he does have some talent, and when it suits him, his discipline is enormous. But he has been given a small gift and great power, and so...” He stopped.
    "The power is more important, then?” Saint-Germain had seen the ravages of power before, had once known it himself. The price he had paid because of it was immense, and the memory of it still had a sting.
    Petronius looked away. “Agrippina—she was his mother..."
    "Yes, I know."
    "She taught him to live without limits. She controlled him for years by denying him nothing, and for a while, her power exceeded his. He changed, after a while, when he learned that no one could refuse him. He is still, I believe, looking for the limits of his power. Sometimes I think,” he went on, meeting Saint-Germain's penetrating look, “that the reason he loves music as he does is because it is the only thing in his life that will not surrender to his power, but makes demands of him, instead."
    "And does he realize this?” Saint-Germain inquired, his fine brows lifting.
    "He used to, perhaps. Now, I don't know.” He felt suddenly very helpless and forced himself to assume the same confident stance he had achieved a little while before. “You've given me a great success."
    Saint-Germain said nothing, but a wry smile pulled at his lips. It had been so little a thing. “Shall I send the dancers to the arbor? Or do you think that would be unwise?"
    "It's probably most unwise, but I'll undoubtedly ask you to send them shortly."
    The beginning of a song sung by an unsteady baritone in quiet acceptable Greek echoed from the arbor.
    "He's begun. I must return and show my pleasure,” Petronius whispered hastily, as if at this distance he might still offend the Emperor by speaking while he sang. “When he is through, then bring the dancers. They will be most welcome."
    "As you wish.” Saint-Germain watched Petronius make his way back across the dark garden. His thoughts were bleak now, but all that his face revealed was a remoteness that nothing seemed to touch.
    TEXT OF ONE OF SEVERAL IDENTICAL LETTERS FROM THE ARCHITECTS SEVERUS AND CELER,