Read Online Blood Games by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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laws limited the jewelry any foreigner could wear, even a wealthy and noble foreigner, and so Saint-Germain had limited himself to a large pectoral of onyx and electrum in representation of his signet, the eclipse.
"For the flask. Not one sneeze for more than an hour.” Petronius was chagrined. “What an absurd complaint."
Saint-Germain dismissed this with an idle gesture. “There are many such antipathies. Look about you. Hadrianus Tullian, there, cannot endure the taste of anything from the sea. With you, it is the scent of roses.” He walked beside Petronius into the garden. “It's really quite beautiful here. The night, the fountains, so many lanterns..."
This was precisely what Petronius wished to hear. “I wanted to get away from the elaborate. These banquets are becoming nothing more than competitions in excesses."
"Which is hardly elegant. I agree.” Saint-Germain looked across the grass to the artificial arbor. “Positively arcadian."
Petronius caught the slight sarcasm in his guest's cultured voice, and stiffened. “It disgusts you?"
"No.” Saint-Germain laughed outright, which was rare. “I was thinking of Arcadia. A more desolate, bleak bit of land would be hard to imagine, but because shepherds graze their flocks there and pipe to relieve their unutterable boredom, the region has got a reputation which, believe me, it does not deserve."
This was an intriguing beginning, and Petronius was eager to pursue it, but a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Emperor, and he excused himself to greet his august guest.
Nero apparently approved of Petronius’ new simplicity. He had discarded his lavish clothes for an ostentatiously simple Ionic chiton and chlamys whose only extravagance was that the cloth was shot with gold thread.
Three of the Praetorian Guard accompanied the Emperor, each in formal and elaborate armor, their red soldier's cloaks thrown back from their shoulders. They were silent, careful men, who quickly stationed themselves about the garden.
"I'm sorry I had to take this precaution,” Nero said with a negligent wave of his hand. His voice, though rigorously trained, had never lost its slightly muffled quality, as if he were speaking into a barrel.
"A lamentable necessity,” Petronius agreed, inwardly cursing his canny rival, Tigellinus, for surely these men would report the entire evening in detail to their captain.
The Emperor glanced around the garden. “I see you have done me the favor of inviting Justus Silius. A gracious gesture. He did me a great service recently."
"Indeed.” Petronius fell into step beside his illustrious guest. Covertly he signaled. Artemidorus to alert the musicians.
"And there is the foreigner from Dacia, who is not a Daci,” Nero went on, studying Saint- Germain. “He showed me designs for a new sort of hydraulic organ, which is exactly what is needed in the Circus Maximus. You must remind me to discuss it with him.” The arrogant young head lifted.
Petronius murmured his assent. It was painful to look at the twenty-seven-year-old Nero. Ten years before, when he had risen to the purple, he had been a handsome, cherubic youth, with skin like roses and cerulean, sly, knowing eyes. Now those eyes were hard, the skin was marked by dissipation, and his early enthusiasm had turned to rapacity. When, Petronius asked himself, had he begun to hate this Emperor who had been so full of promise?
"A bower!” Nero cried out in delight as he saw the couches set for dining. “You never fail to create novelty,” he said to Petronius. “Just when luxury was threatening to make me completely jaded, you do this."
That was one remark that Petronius devoutly hoped the Praetorians would report to their captain. He responded with graceful thanks, and concealed his satisfaction as the hidden musicians began to play. Perhaps he had worried in vain.
All but one of the guests moved quickly toward the couches as Nero sank down on the one set on a
"For the flask. Not one sneeze for more than an hour.” Petronius was chagrined. “What an absurd complaint."
Saint-Germain dismissed this with an idle gesture. “There are many such antipathies. Look about you. Hadrianus Tullian, there, cannot endure the taste of anything from the sea. With you, it is the scent of roses.” He walked beside Petronius into the garden. “It's really quite beautiful here. The night, the fountains, so many lanterns..."
This was precisely what Petronius wished to hear. “I wanted to get away from the elaborate. These banquets are becoming nothing more than competitions in excesses."
"Which is hardly elegant. I agree.” Saint-Germain looked across the grass to the artificial arbor. “Positively arcadian."
Petronius caught the slight sarcasm in his guest's cultured voice, and stiffened. “It disgusts you?"
"No.” Saint-Germain laughed outright, which was rare. “I was thinking of Arcadia. A more desolate, bleak bit of land would be hard to imagine, but because shepherds graze their flocks there and pipe to relieve their unutterable boredom, the region has got a reputation which, believe me, it does not deserve."
This was an intriguing beginning, and Petronius was eager to pursue it, but a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Emperor, and he excused himself to greet his august guest.
Nero apparently approved of Petronius’ new simplicity. He had discarded his lavish clothes for an ostentatiously simple Ionic chiton and chlamys whose only extravagance was that the cloth was shot with gold thread.
Three of the Praetorian Guard accompanied the Emperor, each in formal and elaborate armor, their red soldier's cloaks thrown back from their shoulders. They were silent, careful men, who quickly stationed themselves about the garden.
"I'm sorry I had to take this precaution,” Nero said with a negligent wave of his hand. His voice, though rigorously trained, had never lost its slightly muffled quality, as if he were speaking into a barrel.
"A lamentable necessity,” Petronius agreed, inwardly cursing his canny rival, Tigellinus, for surely these men would report the entire evening in detail to their captain.
The Emperor glanced around the garden. “I see you have done me the favor of inviting Justus Silius. A gracious gesture. He did me a great service recently."
"Indeed.” Petronius fell into step beside his illustrious guest. Covertly he signaled. Artemidorus to alert the musicians.
"And there is the foreigner from Dacia, who is not a Daci,” Nero went on, studying Saint- Germain. “He showed me designs for a new sort of hydraulic organ, which is exactly what is needed in the Circus Maximus. You must remind me to discuss it with him.” The arrogant young head lifted.
Petronius murmured his assent. It was painful to look at the twenty-seven-year-old Nero. Ten years before, when he had risen to the purple, he had been a handsome, cherubic youth, with skin like roses and cerulean, sly, knowing eyes. Now those eyes were hard, the skin was marked by dissipation, and his early enthusiasm had turned to rapacity. When, Petronius asked himself, had he begun to hate this Emperor who had been so full of promise?
"A bower!” Nero cried out in delight as he saw the couches set for dining. “You never fail to create novelty,” he said to Petronius. “Just when luxury was threatening to make me completely jaded, you do this."
That was one remark that Petronius devoutly hoped the Praetorians would report to their captain. He responded with graceful thanks, and concealed his satisfaction as the hidden musicians began to play. Perhaps he had worried in vain.
All but one of the guests moved quickly toward the couches as Nero sank down on the one set on a
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