Blood Games Read Online Free PDF Page A

his flank, a deep purr in his throat.
    "They are beautiful animals,” Saint-Germain said, dropping to one knee, not heeding the quick warning from the Libyan armentari who held the leash. “Splendid cat, magnificent cat,” he said softly, and reached to touch the tufted ears. The caracal lowered his head for those expert fingers that found the very spot that wanted scratching. As Saint-Germain stroked the rich fur, he felt his anger fading at last.
    "He won't often let strangers approach him,” his Libyan trainer said, new respect and curiosity in his voice.
    "Perhaps I am not a stranger,” Saint-Germain suggested as he got reluctantly to his feet.
    The armentarii exchanged quick looks, and one of them made a sign with his fingers.
    "That won't be necessary,” Saint-Germain said as he stepped back, feeling profoundly alien.
    The nearest Libyan armentari tried to smile. “Excellency, we meant no offense, but we live so much with our cats that...” He broke off nervously. “Truly, they do not like strangers."
    Saint-Germain had no answer for them. He stood silent while the Libyans tugged their elegant caracals away.
    "I do not think they know,” said a voice behind him. Saint-Germain turned quickly to face Kosrozd. “The cats like you, my master, and their trainers are jealous."
    "I wonder.” His expression was enigmatic as he studied his slave.
    In the next moment they were forced to move aside as a squad of Greek hoplites marched down the narrow corridor, their spears up and shields held uniformly at their sides. At their head, their captain called out crisp marching orders.
    "They are to fight Armenian charioteers with archers,” Kosrozd said expressionlessly as the Greek troops went by.
    "Who do you think will win?” Saint-Germain studied the Persian youth as he answered.
    "It will go hard for the hoplites,” Kosrozd said when he had given the matter his consideration. “But if the Armenians can't break their formation, in the end they will lose. If they keep their distance and let the archers pick off the back rows first, then the Armenians might win."
    Saint-Germain nodded his agreement. “The Armenians aren't often so circumspect in their fighting, not as I recall."
    A sudden increase of noise from the stands above distracted both men, and they looked quickly toward one of the narrow windows that gave onto the arena. There was nothing to see in the little slice of light that was colored red from the great awning that sheltered the crowd from the relentless Roman sun.
    "What event? Saint-Germain” asked.
    Kosrozd could not entirely disguise his revulsion. “Asses trained to violate condemned women."
    The noise grew louder, and then one terrible shriek rose above the crowd, a cry born of acutest agony. It hung on the stinking air, then stopped abruptly.
    "Well,” Saint-Germain said as he turned away from the window, “it's over.” He put one hand on Kosrozd's shoulder and drew him away. “Do you race again today?"
    "Yes. And once tomorrow. The Reds haven't done well in this set of Games and they are pressing me to win.” He was relieved to be speaking of racing again. In his seven years as a slave in Rome he had not learned to accept the Roman mob.
    "Would you rather not race for them? Since I'm not a citizen, I cannot join a racing faction, and there is no reason for you to race for the Reds if you'd prefer Blue or Green or White."
    "Or Purple or Gold,” Kosrozd added fatalistically, adding the two recently created factions. “No, it makes no difference what color I wear—the race is the same."
    "You could race for the Emperor's Greens. He gives lavish rewards to his charioteers.” They were walking through the maze of halls and stairways toward the portion of the Circus Maximus that was set aside for charioteers.
    "When they win. When they lose, he is equally free with his punishments. He had Cegellion of Gades dragged to death behind his own team.” Kosrozd paused a moment and looked at his