King of the Romans

-King of the RomansA Novel of Late Antiquity

John Gorman

Published by Awe-Struck E-Books Copyright ©1999 ISBN: 1-928670-09-1

For T.P. Gorman Brother and Friend

A noble Roman for our time Rashness avails naught, Still less, unending grief. The first earns blame The second brings more. Goethe

Syagrius is a historical character, as are Aegidius, Aetius, Alaric, Clovis, Euric, Ragnahild, Riothamus (whom some scholars believe to be the basis for King Arthur), Sidonius and many others. As the last Roman ruler in the West, Syagrius became known as "King of the Romans," governing a domain including much of what is today Northern France between the rivers Somme (Samar) and Loire (Liger), with its capital at Noviodunum, modern Soissons. He held out there until 486 A.D., ten years after the official dissolution of the Roman Empire in the West, when he was defeated and crushed by Clovis. The events and characters of Part Two are fictitious. The citizens of the Byzantine Empire did, however, refer to themselves as "Romans" long after the Eternal City had become a ruin.

PART ONE I Gaul Lucius always fell asleep after they made love. Even when it was morning with the daylight starting to stream through the east window and the first birds already singing, he would drop off with her in his arms, limp and spent. These were times Julia wished could last forever, the two of them united, hardly knowing where one

began and the other left off, no world beyond their own clasped bodies. Julia was glad to waken before him. She could lie in the stillness, imagining another life in another time, another place where he was just the man she loved, where they would have many more years together. She would give up all the gold, the pomp, the ceremonies for that life. Only four summers out of fifteen had gone by, she thought, when her husband did not have to take the field against some invader, telling her it was not fitting to send others into dangers he did not face himself. Like so many women in the province, she had to watch her beloved march off with only the certainty that he would return with his shield or upon it. She had come to yearn for winter, to dread the first warm breezes of May that stirred the curtains now. On the old maps she had seen in the library, the frontier lay a hundred miles east. Then, any trespassers would have been surrounded and annihilated long before they reached Gaul. Now, when spring came, and the snow melted, there was only Lucius and his legion to keep the darkness at bay. Twice, Noviodunum itself had been besieged with every door and window barricaded and everyone who could carry a weapon armed to the teeth. When those blue eyes opened, he would be Publius Lucius Syagrius, King of the Romans, as the tribes called him, procurator of the last Roman province in Gaul, all that remained of the Empire in the West. What was to become of him, of them? Clovis was marching south, with a force some said was larger than Attila's horde. The tribes east of the Samar were joining him - if he gave them the chance - before he fell upon them and slaughtered them. Sooner or later, he would cross the river, a direct challenge to Lucius and all he'd fought so long to defend. The man who lay beside her feared nothing. Yet, with so many others so frightened, it was hard not to be troubled. Even Pendra, his friend since boyhood, had sent no word from the old Roman fort. Was Marius all right? At fourteen, their son was sturdy, quick and strong, much like the man Julia envisioned he would become. She understood why Lucius had sent the boy to Pendra to be trained in arms, safe from his father's enemies. But she still feared for him and wished she had him near. He was their only child, and the faint scar below her navel told her there would be no others. God willing, he would rule one day in his father's stead and ride at the head of his Romans. If something should happen to him.... Lucius stirred, and she moved closer to him, opening the clasp on her robe to show her small, firm breasts. Whenever they slept together, Julia wanted to be the first thing his gaze fell on when he woke. Lucius awakened with a start, his eyes darting everywhere, as though he were in camp and heard the enemy close by. As always, it took him a moment to realize he was safe with her. He smiled up at her and drew her to him, tossing aside the covers and pressing the length of her body to his. When the warm weather came, he liked to sleep naked. Since he was king here, he'd told her, he'd wear as much or as little clothing as suited him, at least in his own bed chamber. She had always been a bit shy, not with him, but for fear that some messenger might start pounding on the door. Lucius, especially if he was still half asleep, might revert to his campaign habits and order the courier to enter at once, whether Julia had got her robe on or not. It had happened often enough, now that Clovis was

on the move. Fifteen years she'd shared his bed. Yet the lean, hard lines of his body still excited her. Even the scars that marked him were places to touch and kiss. Some of those wounds, she had dressed herself. Only with the caress of her hand and her lips could she smother thoughts of what might have been, had one of those blows struck a bit higher or lower or gone deeper. He stroked her black hair and nibbled on her ear. "You'll go and see Marius today?" "As soon as the morning council meeting is over," Syagrius replied, rolling over and getting out of bed. She sat up. "Being 'King of the Romans' seems mostly a matter of meetings," she mock-pouted. "When do you get to wear a crown? When do I get to put on all those wonderful gowns I see in the pictures? When do people start falling on their knees as you pass and prostrating themselves before daring to speak to you? When do you get thirty valets to help you dress, like the Emperor in Constantinople - or maybe only fifteen? You're just a king after all. When do they put you and me in mosaics, surrounded by our abjectly grateful subjects?" For years, her husband had forbidden anyone to utter that title in his presence. Roman citizens living in his domain never used it. Finally, he had surrendered to the inevitable, at least when he dealt with the tribes. Now they could joke about it. "Never, I hope. I was appointed procurator by the Emperor and confirmed by the Senate to govern this province for Rome, not to crown myself a tyrant like Clovis or Alaric. If the Empire could spare a few legions to take Gaul back, I'd be the first to welcome them. "In the meantime," Syagrius mused as he dressed, "someone has to keep order, keep the roads open, keep the Saxons from plundering the coast, keep the Goths from swallowing up the rest of Gaul, keep the Franks from stealing everything in sight. "What was I to tell my legion? 'News from Rome, men. Emperor's been deposed. No more Empire in the West. Go on home now. That is, if you can get home over the roads we'll have without your patrols, and if the bandits don't kill you on the way. You'll get your back pay. Just don't ask when.' Was that how their loyalty was to be rewarded?" "Lucius, Lucius," Julia interrupted, seeing he was starting to expand on his favorite theme, "you don't have to convince me or anyone else in the province. Your soldiers are the best troops in Gaul. They'd follow you through the Pillars of Hercules. Even when their enlistments are up, they don't want to go home. No ruler in the West with has many veterans in his army as you. "The people respect you and trust you. Anyone unhappy with your governing has only to look beyond our borders to see what would happen without you and your legion." Syagrius nodded and went back to shaving, something he insisted on doing himself. Barbers, he complained, were too talkative and too slow.

"And I love you so much it still frightens me," Julia confided, running her fingers slowly down his spine. His eyes softened as he turned to look at her. He wondered sometimes if she understood how much of his own strength was drawn from hers. Without her, he thought, he'd not be half the man he was. He kissed her softly as she helped him on with his toga. Julia stepped back to admire her husband as he adjusted the folds. He looked as Roman as any of the portrait sculptures she'd seen in the Forum, nose just slightly aquiline, enough to give him a commanding look, eyes sharp, mouth firm but not grim. In another time, she thought, he might have been an Emperor, one of the best, like Aurelius or Hadrian, restoring Roman rule and Roman law to a world gone mad. Today, he had only his legion and his courage. "Let's get something to eat before the meeting starts," Syagrius said. "It will probably be a long one." For years, Syagrius had kept the old Roman custom of having only dark bread dipped in sauce and a cup of water for his breakfast. But Julia had persuaded him over time to take something more, a dish of porridge, some fruit, even a glass of wine, so he wouldn't be so short with the counselors when they launched into narratives of whatever was troubling them that week. She also made it a point to be present when he received petitioners. Some of the requests were more like prayers, better offered at an altar than before a procurator. Others were simply ridiculous. Until Julia had persuaded him to keep a rein on his temper and see the humor in the situation, those petitioners could count themselves fortunate to escape without a fine or a flogging for wasting the procurator's time. But there were always some matters that were serious and needed as much attention as he could spare. Tribes that had not been under Roman law for decades brought their disputes to him. The word of a Roman official had meant nothing to them until he had come to be procurator and taken the trouble to learn their languages. Most of the time, he needed no interpreter and was even able to apply his skill in rhetoric to these strange tongues. He had no authority to enforce any of his decisions beyond the border. Yet the tribes promised to do as he decided. They knew, if they broke their word, he would never consent to hear any of their cases again, and their feuds would have no end. From the first, her husband had wanted her beside him at council meetings. In deference to the delegates, she said nothing, but heard and remembered everything. What Julia recalled, Syagrius found, was a better record of the proceedings than any scribe could make, and he was always eager to learn from her what had actually been said and by whom. He was quick to anger but not vindictive. The counselors could speak as they wished. Still, there were nuances he might miss, but Julia did not. II The meeting that morning was more than a little turbulent. Reports of Clovis' approach had been verified. He had reached the Samar and was headed south along its east bank, ostensibly to strengthen his alliances with the river tribes, a tale no one believed. Clovis would move west. When he did, it would mean war. Like Syagrius, most of the council members seated at the long oak table were wearing togas as a sign

of their Roman citizenship. Only Lucan wore his cuirass as the mark of his rank as military commander of the legion. A delegation from the border towns was on hand, as were several of the chiefs, some in togas, some in tribal dress. What, they wanted to know, was Syagrius prepared to do? "Clovis demands tribute: food, men, gold and obedience. He will let us keep our ways and our laws," the mayor of Aminium explained. "We need only pay and be baptized in his new religion." "And if you refuse?" Syagrius asked. "He will lay waste our land, make us all slaves." Syagrius suppressed his amusement at the phrase, "new religion." Most of them were Christians already, followers of Arius, like Recared their bishop, who sat opposite him. Not quite the right kind of Christian, though, to suit Clovis, it seemed. Behold these Christians, the procurator thought. See how they slay one another! To him, it appeared as foolish as the worshippers of Jupiter making plans to murder those who preferred Apollo's temple. "How many men does Clovis have?" Syagrius wanted to know. The question went around the room. Estimates ranged from thirty thousand up to half a million. "How many troops can you raise?" Syagrius asked one of the chiefs. "My people are not fighters," the chief began. "That's not what I asked," Syagrius interrupted. "You have been allowed to keep arms and train men since the time of Attila. Your taxes have been abated to provide funds for this purpose. I have one legion here, and there will be no reinforcements from Rome, from Constantinople or from anywhere else. Without help from your tribe and the others, I will only be able to hold Noviodunum and watch from these walls while Clovis burns your crops, loots your towns and enslaves your people. "When Clovis and his pack get tired of laying siege to this place, and winter comes, they'll wander off wherever they came from. I'll still be here. Rome will still be here. Where you and your tribe will be, I wouldn't care to guess." "Then let us make terms with him," said Charius, chief of the Alesians. Syagrius exploded. "You are allies of Rome. Some of you are citizens. All of you are living on Roman soil. Not one square inch of that soil will be given up to the Franks or anyone else while I sit in this chair. If you want to join Clovis, pack up your wagons and go to him. See if he doesn't baptize you in your own blood!" There was a long silence. "If the King of the Romans will fight, so will I," Eborax, Chief of the Suessones, rumbled, stroking his huge brown beard. "And I," another chief cried.

"And I. And I," went around the room. But some were silent. Recared spoke up in the measured cadences learned from Cicero and Virgil. "The matter before us is a weighty one which should not be decided hastily. That many men move very slowly. We have time to make our decision wisely. It would be best," he added, catching Syagrius' eye, "that we wait until our procurator has visited Castle Pendra and has better information. Pendra has had dealings with Clovis, knows far more about him than we do." "Very well," Syagrius conceded, controlling himself with an effort. "I am riding there this afternoon and will learn whatever I can." Syagrius did not share Recared's faith in the new god or his distaste for the Holy Trinity. The Christians could have three gods or as many as they wanted as far as he was concerned - if they'd just stop killing one another about it. But he did respect the bishop's learning and the wisdom that told him unnecessary haste was always a bad idea. "Come back in five days," Syagrius told the chiefs and the mayors. "I will have an answer for you. In the meantime, send out your couriers. Bring me word of how many troops you can raise, when they will arrive. If I am to protect anything beyond these gates, I cannot fight Clovis alone." The chiefs and the mayors departed, leaving Syagrius and his council to themselves. Several wanted to discuss the crisis at once. Recared insisted that the day's agenda be attended to first. "There is always a crisis," he said. "We still have a province to govern, roads to mend, bridges to repair, taxes to collect." Finally, an hour later, they turned to Clovis. Lucan wanted to assemble the legion, cross the Samar and strike Clovis before the month was out. "Any delay," he warned, "only gives that pup time to raise a larger force and cause more trouble. Caesar," he reminded them, "bridged the Rhenus and chased this rabble back into the forest. Your father," he added, turning to Syagrius, "had no problem handling Childeric either." "Caesar had a trained Roman army, ten legions, I believe," the bishop answered. "Aegidius had four, along with the Goths and most of the tribes in Gaul to help. We have only one legion in the whole province. Crack troops, I grant you," with a nod toward Lucan, "but not invincible. "Besides," Recared added, "sending our troops so far off would leave the land unguarded, open to the Saxons, the Cimbri or anyone else looking for plunder." "If our legion is destroyed," Tribune Claudius remarked thoughtfully, "it is truly the end of Rome in the West." "We could take the border chiefs hostage when they return," Hortensius, the merchants' delegate, offered. "Then their tribes would have to help us." "How much would their aid be worth under that kind of duress?" Claudius asked. "If we lose, they'd be happy to help Clovis exterminate us. If we win, they'd be our enemies for decades, ready to support any

troublemaker who came along." "How many men can the tribes send?" Lucan inquired. "We can count on Eborax for cavalry," Syagrius said. "But we will still need at least ten thousand foot besides our legion, if we are to take the field." "What about Pendra?" Claudius asked. "He has barely enough men under arms to garrison his fort," Syagrius replied. "When I see him today, I will find out what force he can raise among his people." The council decided to call for volunteers throughout the province. They would send for help to King Alaric at Tolosa, and to anyone else who might still be a friend of Rome or at least unwilling to risk arousing the procurator's wrath. Recared would draft the letters. His scribes would have them ready for Syagrius to sign within the hour. After the counselors had left, Syagrius turned to Julia. Her face was lined with concern. "Clovis has the border tribes terrified," she said. "They know how he dealt with the Franks who opposed him, and they were his own people. You can't rely on them for any real help. Whatever they send will be too little to make any difference. Any men Charius provides, you'd best keep close watch on. "Most of the others have more sense. They realize that Clovis will do whatever he wants with them, terms or no, once he doesn't have to worry about you and your Romans. "Eborax hates Clovis for having his brother killed," she added. "He'll fight while he can breathe." Syagrius' face darkened. "You know I've always believed that Childeric had my father murdered. Now his conniving son wants to do the same with me. Let him try - in the daylight and on a battlefield. I have never enjoyed killing anyone. In his case, I would make an exception." "Alaric would probably help," Julia went on, "if he could see some advantage. That boy is not his grandfather and has none of his courage. Besides, the Goths have a treaty with Clovis." "And with us." "Clovis has more to offer than we do. If he wins, he'll share the loot - at least for now. If he loses, the Goths gain nothing." "If Clovis does win, they'll be next," Syagrius said. "You'd think they'd see that much, at least." "They should. But their chiefs are a greedy lot. They might even kill Alaric, if he moved to help us." Julia thought for a moment. "How good are the troops the rest of our chiefs and mayors will send?" Syagrius sighed. "Not very, I'm afraid. I never pressed them. I didn't want them recruiting armies and

getting ideas. I only used the militias for garrison duty when the legion took the field, kept everyone dependent on my Romans for any real fighting." There was a long pause while Syagrius pondered. "Riothamus," he continued, "was a brave and loyal man, a true king. I should have marched with him. His men joined with my legion would have been a match for three armies of Goths or Franks or Huns or anyone. Together, we might have built another Rome in the North. He will be honored forever in the Britains. Already, there are legends about him. But I..." "That was years ago, Lucius. It can't be helped now. You made a decision. All of us have to live with it." "Aye." III Syagrius saw the smoke first, too thick to be from a campfire, sharp and bitter, rising in a dirty cloud above the trees just ahead. He ordered his escort to pick up the pace and ready their weapons. When they topped the next rise, they saw the burning wagon lying on its side, the horses grazing nearby. Beside it lay two of Pendra's soldiers, their skulls crushed. At the approach of Syagrius and his party, a crowd of ragged men took to their heels. Another moment, and they would disappear among the trees. Syagrius took a javelin from the nearest of his Romans and threw. The toss was a long one, from horseback too. The spear almost fell short. Only by luck did it strike one of the brigands in the calf and bring him down. He scrambled to his feet. But the fall and the wound slowed him. Two of Syagrius' men overtook him and dragged him before the procurator. "Who are you?" Syagrius demanded. "How dare you commit such a crime on Roman soil? Where do you come from?" The bandit made no reply but only moaned from the pain of his wound from which the javelin still trailed. The decurion dismounted, seized him by the beard. "I'll squeeze it out of him, sir," the burly soldier offered. "Let him be," Syagrius ordered. "Pendra is better at that. Pull the spear from his leg and bind the wound. Tie him to one of the wagon horses and bring him along. Unless he's lost his tongue, Pendra will make him speak." The Romans beat out the fire with their cloaks, distributed as much of the wagon's cargo as they could among their mounts, laid the two dead soldiers on the other draft horse and pressed on. Another hour's ride brought them before the gates of Pendra's castle. The decurion sounded his horn and was answered by another from the walls. As they rode across the

bridge and through the open gates, they could hear the shouted commands as Pendra's guards turned out to meet the procurator. As military courtesy required, Pendra came down the stairs from the upper porch to meet Syagrius as he sat his horse in the courtyard. Watching him approach, Syagrius could not help thinking of the changes that had come over both of them since they had been children, playing at soldier in a world at peace. Childhood had ended when they joined their fathers on the Catalonian Fields where Aetius had marshaled the last of Roman power to meet Attila and his Huns. Back to back, the boys had fought, surrounded by enemy horse, their shields feathered with arrows, their swords dripping blood, each too proud to suggest to the other they retreat before they were ridden down and trampled. It seemed a miracle they lived to see Rome carry the day. Both had grown. Their world had shrunk. In this one, "peace" seemed to be only a word for a half legendary time when Rome had ruled. Syagrius had set aside the meditative and introspective character he had inherited from his pensive mother to become a judge and a warrior like his father whose firmness and courage were the hope of his friends and the terror of his foes. Pendra had followed a different path. With his father gone, he had retired to this fort and to whatever pleasure and prestige remained to the sole descendent of a sometime Count of the Empire. When his father's officers reproached him for laziness and even cowardice, he dismissed them and hired mercenaries in their place, enough to keep the people quiet and the taxes coming, but nowhere near the number needed to deal with a serious threat. For that, he relied on Syagrius. The procurator knew Pendra's fort was not the best place for his son. But he could not bear the thought of Marius possibly falling into the hands of his enemies. Here, at least, the boy was safe. All of these thoughts entered Syagrius' mind in one moment and left it in the next, as he dismounted to greet his old friend. The two men saluted one another with the ease that comes of frequent meetings and partings. Pendra then turned his attention to the wretch that lay bound across the horse's back. "And who is this?" Syagrius gave a brief account of what had happened that afternoon. "Yet he would say nothing?" Pendra inquired, half smiling. "This muteness is a disease I know how to cure." Then, with an abrupt gesture to the guards, "Bring him below." Pendra turned back to Syagrius as the man was led away. "You will excuse me, I'm sure. Marius is waiting for you at the north tower. His watch is nearly over. Both of you can join me for dinner." Syagrius mounted the stairs that led from the courtyard to the parapet and walked swiftly along the wall to the base of the tower overlooking the gate. Marius came down to meet him, his Gallic long sword at

his side. Father and son embraced, stood back to look at one another. Whatever he thought of Pendra as a leader and a soldier, Syagrius could not deny his son was thriving at the castle. Marius was tall and slender, tanned by the sun and hardened by every sort of martial exercise. From his mother, he had inherited dark hair and eyes, fine features and deft movements. From his father, he drew strength of will and steadiness of hand and eye that made him expert in the use of arms. From both of them, he had his love of learning and polished speech. Immediately, Marius asked the inevitable question. "When am I to leave the castle and join you at Noviodunum?" Syagrius made the usual reply. "You are still young, Marius. There will be time enough for you to share some of my burdens. Here you are safe and free of the troubles that will fill your life as they have filled mine." "Father, you told me once a Roman boy can join the army at fourteen. At sixteen, he puts on his toga and becomes a citizen. Three months ago, I passed my fourteenth birthday. I am not a child any longer, and I know you need help. Pendra does not need me. He sits secure in this fort strong enough to hold off an army. "You are surrounded, father, by enemies who would gladly do you any harm they dared. If I am ever to hold your staff, I must learn to rule. Fate has preserved you up to now. May you live to see a son of mine command the legion! But a sudden arrow or a dagger thrust may end your life as it did grandfather's, leaving only an ignorant boy to take your place, bringing all your work to naught." "I was much older than you are now when my father was killed." "You had been at his side ten years," Marius countered, "watching and learning from him. You were with him fighting Atilla when you were my age. "Mother was barely seventeen when she decided to come north. She told me herself. Besides," Marius added, departing from what he had prepared, "Silvius has enlisted in the legion." "Silvius is almost sixteen," Syagrius replied quickly. "That's what he told the decurion. I know he is only two months older than I am. For that matter, I'd rather be one of your legionaries than command all of Pendra's mercenaries." Syagrius fell silent. Over the past year, these arguments had become more frequent and harder to carry on. "Marius," he began, "all the threats I face menace you as well. While we are apart, no enemy can be sure of dispatching us both at a blow. You are protected, not only by Pendra and your own sword, but also by the knowledge that any who harm you would find no place under heaven safe from my vengeance. So too, my enemies know that you would avenge my murder, even as I hunted down those who slew Aegidius, and they withhold their hands."

"And how should I avenge you, father? Who would follow a boy who has only given orders to the horse he rides? If any withhold their hands, it is only for fear they might fail and find a swift death their only reward." The clattering of hooves on the drawbridge as a troop of Pendra's men rode out to bring in the wagon and hunt down the bandits provided a welcome distraction. But Syagrius knew Marius was right. The boy could not remain with Pendra much longer. When the noise died away, Syagrius gathered his thoughts for a reply. He was spared this effort by the arrival of a guard who came puffing up the steps with a message from Pendra. "Your Excellency," he said to Syagrius, "Lord Pendra requests that you come at once to the keep. The robber you took has found his tongue. My lord is anxious you hear his tale." "Lead on," ordered Syagrius, turning on his heel to follow the portly messenger who was already on his way down the steps. He motioned Marius to follow. Now is as good a time as any, he decided, for my son to learn what awaits him beyond these walls. The guard led the way down from the parapet, across the courtyard and through the oaken door that was the entrance to the subterranean corridors that lay beneath the castle. Here, in one vault, Pendra kept his store of gold and, in another, the hapless wretches who had committed some crime or otherwise incurred his anger. Syagrius had no liking for these places but had of necessity become inured to them. On Marius, the effect was far stronger. Indeed, his father could see it was only with difficulty that the boy kept his feelings in check as the moans and shrieks of the half- mad prisoners reached his ears. Finally, they passed through the narrow archway that was the portal to the room that served as a combination grain magazine and torture chamber for Castle Pendra. Syagrius steeled himself for a sickening spectacle. He was startled to see nothing more revolting than the newly captured bandit sitting dejectedly on a rough hewn bench surrounded by Pendra's guards, obviously disappointed that the affair had come off so easily and anxiously awaiting the slightest sign giving them permission to avenge their comrades. Pendra looked up as they came in. "I am sorry to have interrupted your meeting. I think you should hear this man yourself. His story bodes all of us no good. I had no trouble getting it out of him. The mere sight of the hot iron was enough to restore his power of speech." Then, turning to the prisoner, "Tell the procurator what you just told me." The man raised his head and began in a low voice. "I did not mean to become a robber, Excellency. I was born a farmer. I loved the land my father's fathers had plowed before me. One day, messengers came from Clovis, bidding us accept his new religion and send men, food and gold to his camp for a campaign to subdue all of Gaul. Our chief thought little of Clovis, told him he would consider his request. Two days later, our chief was poisoned. Two days after that, before we could choose a new chief, Clovis came, burned our homes and crops, drove us into the woods to starve. "We did not want to steal or kill. We were hungry. No one would take us in anywhere. Just yesterday," he added cautiously, "we were turned from these gates. This afternoon, we saw the wagon, loaded with

food for the garrison. Only two soldiers. We had no weapons. We used stones. "We were so desperate to get at the food, we tipped the wagon over onto the fire the guards had built for their lunch. The oil spilled, and it started burning." The man stopped. There was a long silence while Syagrius pondered. "How far have you come since your lands were taken?" "I do not know, Excellency. It was two weeks ago that Clovis burned our village. We have been running and hiding ever since." "And Clovis, which way was he heading?" "South, along the banks of the river, Excellency. The tribes are submitting to him. Those who refuse, he makes outcasts like us, if they survive at all. Any who hope to save their lands and their lives are sending all that he demands." "So," said Syagrius, "the son of that lecher Childeric, who never learned to rule himself and couldn't keep his hands from the wives of his own chiefs, now wants to rule Gaul. He's made a good start, I see." "He claims not even the King of the Romans will dare..." "Enough," Pendra interrupted. "Take him out and..." Pendra paused. Ordinarily, flogging to death or burning alive would have followed. In deference to his friend, Pendra finished with "lop off his head and put it on a pike. Let anyone else who's thinking of robbing my wagons see what happens to those who do." Then, turning to Syagrius and Marius, "Let's go to dinner. We have much to talk about." PART The three of them were joined at the table by the commander of the mercenaries. He had a name, but everyone just called him Old Soldier from his grey locks and the white beard that shrouded his chin. Not until the servants had left, and the wine jug had made several rounds did Pendra ask the question that had been on everyone's mind since the bandit had spoken. "Will Clovis cross the Samar?" "He must," Syagrius replied. "He can't risk marching into Alaric's domain with my army at his back. Alaric would call me to help and move with his own forces too. Clovis would be outnumbered and trapped." "If he moves against you first?" "I can handle him. He's just another chief with a big head and not much inside it. He's hardly past twenty. His 'army' is nothing but a marching mob. I'm assembling the legion right now. I've already called out the militia and summoned my levies."

"Don't underestimate him," Pendra warned. "I've spoken to dozens of merchants and traders who have had contact with him. I met him myself once. He's loud, crude and cruel. Torture is his pastime. But he is also devious and cunning, even more so than his father. He was often heard to lament his loneliness at having no family, not even distant cousins. Any who revealed themselves, he had killed, so there would be no rivals for his throne." Syagrius resisted the temptation to wonder aloud why his friend had made so many inquiries. "How many men can you raise?" "The people here are lazy and cowardly," Pendra replied. "The only real soldiers are in my garrison. I'll send out a call for volunteers, of course. But I suspect that every man who can run will disappear into the woods. After what Clovis has done to his enemies already, there won't be many who'll want to be numbered among them. You'll probably have the same problem raising recruits too." "What do you advise?" "Buy Clovis off. It's what Constantinople has been doing for a hundred years. Why do you think Attila wound up in Gaul and not in Greece? It's amazing what gold in the right hands can accomplish. "I have plenty here. I'll lend you as much as you need. Send a few bags to Clovis and tell him he can have ten times that much after he brings you Alaric's head. That will keep him busy." Syagrius looked at his friend, dumbfounded. "If he loses, that's the end of him. You can use the rest of the gold to square things with Alaric later. A stream of gold pieces will quench the fire of his anger, I'm sure. "If Clovis wins, you attack him before his army can recover from fighting Alaric. Tell everyone you wanted to help. You got there too late to save Alaric but in time to avenge him. If you're quick, you may even be able to get back some of your father's old domains before the Goths know what's happening." The memory of Riothamus swept over Syagrius. "I am a Roman procurator," he said, "and I will not pay tribute to barbarians. Alaric is my ally, and I will not betray him." "I doubt he has similar feelings toward you," Pendra countered. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's made some arrangement with Clovis already." "Whatever feelings he may have, I still have my honor." "Lucius," Pendra said, "this is not a matter of honor, yours, mine or anyone else's. We're talking about survival. We're not dealing with some petty chief hungry for loot. Clovis has been planning this move for years. He means to rule all of Gaul, perhaps more. He has thousands of men and enough money to equip thousands more. Not even your legion may be able to stop him." "That savage will not trespass on Roman soil and live to tell of it," Syagrius declared. "My father ran his father off into the swamps. I'll do the same for him. Let us speak no more of these schemes." Pendra sighed and drained his wine cup. Marius gazed admiringly at his father. Old Soldier nodded

slowly and stroked his beard. V Eighty miles away, Clovis was also finishing dinner. Soon the priests would take their leave, and it would be time to start the night's drinking. One matter had to be settled first: what to do about the King of the Romans. "How many men does he have now?" Clovis asked his chief scout. "As regulars, he still has only what the Romans call a legion - six thousand men on paper, closer to five in fact, even if you count the auxiliaries. But these are soldiers the equal of any who followed Caesar. For them, a battle is no more than a drill with sharp weapons and real enemies. With Syagrius, they'd march against a horde of devils and order the wine for the victory celebration before they left. "He has summoned his militias, called in the levies and sent word to all the tribes he thinks might help. Most will hold back to see what happens, or they will join us. Others will send him contingents. He could raise another twenty thousand horse and foot. We must move quickly, if we are to prevent him from taking the field against us." "Let him raise his twenty thousand. We will still outnumber him ten to one," Clovis replied. "If he keeps to his city," Bishop Remigius observed, wiping his greasy fingers on the table cloth, "it could mean a long siege against a strong garrison, great prince. Your men know nothing of that kind of fighting." "Noviodunum is heavily fortified. With that many soldiers, her walls would be well manned," another bearded cleric added. "Besides," remarked one of the chiefs, "we have no siege equipment. By the time we built any, it could be winter and time to return to camp." "What says your god to all of this?" Clovis asked the bishop. "Syagrius is the son of Satan," Remigius assured him, folding his hands and sending his gaze heavenward. "Divine wrath will surely strike him down. "The One True God looks with the greatest favor upon your most pious efforts to extirpate the abominable heresies of Arius and restore the True Faith in the West. Our Holy Father in Rome, much moved by your generosity to the One True Church, joins his prayers unceasingly to ours that Our Holy Saviour will bless your arms and sow confusion among your enemies, divinely chosen one." The other priests at the table nodded vigorously. "With or without your god," Clovis summed up, "if Syagrius will not come out to fight, this whole campaign will fail." Then, turning to his chieftains, "We will give him time to raise his army and train his troops. Send him

word of sickness among us, dissension, even treason. Let him think he can win." The chiefs looked perplexed. "We must bring him to battle in the open, where we can crush him," Clovis explained. "Aye," the chiefs agreed. "But how?" "He is brave and wise in the ways of war," Clovis said slowly. "Like many brave men, he is also proud. His pride can make him foolish. I will find a way." Then, turning to the messenger at his elbow, "Bid Albius attend me tomorrow after breakfast. I have a task for him." VI Julia mounted the watch tower. From the first time her husband had left Noviodunum to go on one of his campaigns, she had kept vigil there for him. It gave her a chance to be alone with her thoughts without the distracting chatter of her handmaids and the cares of running a household that seemed to merge indistinctly into the city surrounding it. It was also a time for remembering. It seemed an eternity ago, another life, when she had been a teenager growing up in a Patrician house in Rome. Like all the girls of her station, she had assumed a rich marriage and an easy life lay ahead. The Empire, to be sure, had suffered setbacks. But the old glories would come again and, with them, the life that was her due as the only daughter of an important senator, counselor to the Emperor. She recalled how she put aside her Greek lesson and sent her tutor home that winter day she saw her mother and father drawing near. What was it? she thought. Had they found her a husband? So far, their search among the men of Rome had turned up only boys too foolhardy to be trusted and old men too sly and careful for anyone's good but their own. She reproached herself for her selfish concerns. Perhaps one of her brothers had been taken ill or had fallen in battle. Perhaps her father was out of favor with the Emperor and faced exile or worse for his blunt words. Perhaps her mother had received bad news from her own family. All of these possibilities raced through Julia's mind, as she rose to greet her parents. There was a long silence before her father spoke. "Julia," he began gravely, "you are the daughter of a proud and noble house that has never hesitated to put the honor and safety of Rome before personal gain or private advantage. The Emperor knows this. Now he asks of us - and of you - a sacrifice for our city and our Empire." Julia looked at him uncertainly. "Publius Lucius Syagrius, the procurator of our province of North Gaul," her father explained, "has sent

for a wife. He has written that he cannot take a bride from among the tribes. Doing so would offend all those chiefs whose daughters were not chosen. The same dissension would arise, should he marry a woman of any Roman family there. "He has stated she must be of noble birth and spotless reputation. She must also be young enough to bear children and learned in both Latin and Greek, as he is himself. She must be willing to come to him in Gaul, to his capital at Noviodunum. His duties forbid him to leave the province unattended. "The Emperor himself wishes you to be our procurator's wife." Julia took a step backward. "Syagrius has sent this medallion with his image," her mother added quickly, handing her daughter a small golden circle. Julia beheld a handsome face, its refinement hidden beneath a stern martial expression, a man, she surmised, who would be an easy friend but a determined foe. "I had thought to prepare you gradually for this request," her father went on. "But there seemed to be no easy way. You need not consent. Life and youth in Rome lie before you. Gaul is a bleak and northern place, full of strangers and threatened by savages. I have heard good reports of this Syagrius, but I could find no man in Rome who has met him." "And the Emperor?" Julia inquired. "The Emperor will be displeased, if you refuse. He has been displeased with me before and will be many times again, I am sure." A look of stark terror flickered across her mother's face. Julia had seen it. Her decision was made. She turned to her father. "This is what the Emperor - what Rome - what you - ask of me?" Her father nodded. "Than be it so. Send word to Syagrius I will come north as soon as the weather permits." Her father embraced her. "You do honor to Rome and to our house. If a few more of our Empire's 'great' men had your courage..." He did not permit himself to continue. "Your mother will instruct you," he said, as he hastened out. Julia and Faustina embraced. "You are leaving our house sooner than I had thought, and I shall not cry at your wedding," her mother said softly. "So I weep now. "I will see to it you know all that you must," she continued. "Remember. Whatever happens, think of Rome. In your veins flows the blood of Camilla who fought Aeneas himself for her people's freedom,

and of Portia, daughter to Cato and wife to Brutus, who swallowed fire sooner than desert her husband's cause. Your great aunt, Galla Placidia, did not hesitate to give herself into the hands of barbarians to save Rome and seal the Emperor's pledge. All we have, we owe to your grandmother, who let her flesh be torn from her bones, sooner than tell the Goths where I and our family's gold lay hidden. "My own life," she conceded, "is not a model for yours. But I regret nothing. Your father would have been destroyed by his enemies, had I not done what I had to do to save him and you and your brothers. That strength is in you too, my daughter." Even in those weary times, becoming the wife of a procurator was no small honor. The next weeks had been a whirl of parties and preparation. Julia's friends looked on her with a mixture of envy and dismay. To Claudia and Felicia, it was the adventure of a lifetime, trekking off to marry a mysterious and powerful man no one in Rome had ever seen, a man able to hold a Roman province against barbarian hordes with only a single legion. Surely, he must have the strength of ten men and the military genius of another Trajan! Other girls told her she was simply crazy: To give up life in Rome and every hope of a good match to disappear into the wilderness and live among brutes who dressed in animal skins and rubbed themselves with rancid fat! Never to see her parents again! To suffer some dreadful fate when those bloodthirsty barbarians killed her husband and overran the province! To die of some horrible northern plague or perish in childbirth at the hands of witch doctors! Barbara and Lydia could scarcely keep from wailing aloud at the very thought. Julia wondered what had become of those girls. Letters to and from Rome were uncertain, now that the Empire in the West had ended. Lucius had stopped sending the tax revenues years ago, when he learned that less than half of what he collected ever reached Italy, let alone Constantinople. Did anyone in Rome ever think of her, now that her parents were dead and her family scattered? A strange calm had come over Julia as she went about preparing for the journey, as though it were just another departure for the family's summer home in the hills. Perhaps this marriage was what the auguries at her birth had predicted when they told of power and distance, when an eagle had circled twice overhead before flying off to the north. She consoled her parents that her destiny lay beyond the Alps, and no one should resist it. They saw her off at Ostia, the two of them leaning on one another as they waved her out of sight. A century before, her route would have taken her over fine Roman roads. Now, with Northern Italy infested with brigands, only the sea was safe, and only in a state war galley fast enough to outrun any pirate vessel that might pursue them. She was terribly seasick and had to think often of Rome. Beyond Massilia, they had a safe conduct from Euric, King of the Goths, now an ally of Rome. As a safety measure of his own, the Emperor had sent along a century of his best troops, as well as enough of a dowry to show how pleased he was that his procurator still thought to petition him for a wife. Despite the safe conduct, the tribes were always an unknown quantity. Some seemed as civilized as any Romans, speaking good Latin and keeping up the ancient roads and buildings. Others dressed and smelled like the savages in Lydia's laments and looked every bit as dangerous. Some were helpful to the point of obsequiousness, providing guides and men to strengthen her escort. Others were

suspicious, even hostile. Twice, her soldiers had to stand with javelins at the ready to convince some chieftain it would be wiser to let them pass. Detours were frequent, and much of the Emperor's gold had to be spent to keep the procession on its way. Julia passed her eighteenth birthday camped out among the broken walls and columns of what had once been a magnificent Roman villa, put to the torch decades before. She shuddered at finding bones among the weeds, realizing no one had ever returned to bury the house's last inhabitants. She had the soldiers inter the remains, offering wine and oil to put their shades at rest. "May the earth lie lightly over you," she murmured, concluding the ritual and wondering if she were seeing her own fate, to lie unburied and unknown far from home. The farther north they went, the more the name Syagrius was respected among the natives. It was from them Julia first heard the phrase, "King of the Romans." What did it mean? she asked herself. To Romans, a king was a despot lording it over a backward land, changing the law every day to suit himself, luxuriating in a palace full of concubines and eunuchs while his people starved. Even the most powerful Emperors had shunned that title. Two days march from the river that marked the southern border of her bridegroom's domain, they saw a dust cloud approaching from the north, obviously a large body of men but advancing too slowly to be cavalry. Her soldiers were uneasy. The centurion saw no choice but to continue. To halt or retreat would invite attack. "Battle formation," he ordered. "Uncover shields. Javelins ready. Slow advance." From her traveling case, Julia took the silver dagger her mother had given her, telling her how to avert the worst. She murmured a prayer to Diana for courage as she kissed the image of the goddess on the hilt and hung the knife by its chain around her neck. By noon, two Roman cohorts were in sight, marching by centuries with Syagrius mounted at the head, wearing the silver parade armor of a procurator. Her own troops drew themselves up smartly, eager to show a Roman commander there had been no laxity on their part. She took her place at the front of the first wagon, eager to catch sight of the man who was to be her husband. He acknowledged the salute of her escort and then guided his horse to her side. He looked a bit older and harder than the image she held in her hand. But he was still a handsome man with no trace of cruelty in the cast of his eyes or his mouth. He regarded her carefully without speaking, as she struggled to meet his gaze. Was she too short? Were her breasts too small? Had he noticed the front tooth she chipped falling down the stairs on her eighth birthday? Had he seen that one of her eyes was slightly crossed? Was her hair the wrong color? Were her feet too large? Had the cameo she sent him been too flattering? What did he think of the dagger pommel that showed just above the curve of her bosom? Did he suppose she planned to murder him? Despite herself, she began to blush with a heat she could feel even now. "How was the journey?" he asked in Greek. She replied at once in the same tongue.

His eyes widened in admiration. "I was told you were beautiful and brave, well read and skilled in languages," he said, smiling for the first time. "I see they did not lie to me. You will need all of your gifts here." From that day forward, they always spoke Greek when they were alone together. "It was good of you to come so far to meet me." "We are forty miles south of the Liger," Syagrius answered. "I am sure Euric will resent the intrusion. He and his Goths will be grumbling about it for years. But some of the tribes hereabouts are unruly and treacherous, paying no heed to him or anyone else. "I'd have sent a courier, but I could not risk my message falling into their hands. You might have been taken hostage or worse. A show of Roman force will help them remember who I am, and what you mean to me." Julia kept that phrase, "what you mean to me," in her heart ever after. VII That night they slept within a fortified camp constructed by the soldiers, complete with palisade and ditch. The first time in weeks, Julia had a bed and did not have to stretch out on the thinly covered boards of the wagon floor. Her husband-to-be spent the days with her, talking of life in Gaul and asking the latest news from Rome. They would be married, he told her, once they reached Noviodunum where a proper ceremony could be held. Until then, he said, her nights were her own. "I would have preferred," he explained, "that we had the time to learn to know each other and to court each other. Love is a difficult plant to grow, even in the best of seasons." Love? thought Julia. The man walking beside her was handsome and well spoken. So were many in Rome. She would be his wife as she had promised, bear his children if the gods willed. She would honor and obey him, as a Roman wife should. Loving him seemed another matter entirely. Yet she could not help noticing how his gaze, ordinarily so sharp and quick, softened when it fell on her. Was that enough? She tried not to meet his eyes too often, lest he read her doubts. "The life I have chosen here," Syagrius told her, "does not allow much leisure. In a week, I leave with these two cohorts to put the fear of Rome into the Saxons who have been raiding the coast again. My spies have brought word of their plans, and my Romans will be waiting for them when next they land. We'll be outnumbered - we almost always are - but one of my legionaries is worth three of those brutes." "You cannot take more troops?" "I have only the one legion to protect the whole province and have to keep the cohorts scattered. Raising a second would mean imposing taxes the people could not pay. My troops would be guarding a poor house." "Why," Julia ventured, "do they call you 'King of the Romans'?"

Syagrius frowned. "Romans never call me that. It's the tribes' idea, not mine. Consuls, legates, tribunes, procurators don't mean much north of the Alps these days. I'm the one the tribes see in charge, so I must be the king, like Euric is King of the Goths, Gunthram is King of the Burgundians, and Childeric he hopes - is King of the Franks. My people call themselves Romans, so I must be 'King of the Romans.' It would be difficult to explain to the Emperor, but I don't think I'll be seeing him any time soon." Then Julia posed another question that had been on her mind since she had first seen him. "I see men coming and going around you constantly, many armed, but no one seems assigned the safety of your person. Is that the custom here? Are you so fearless?" Syagrius shrugged. "Even the best guards cannot protect you from one willing to yield his life for yours. Besides," he continued, "too many emperors and kings have been killed by the very men assigned to protect them. Such men are always subject to temptations and bribes. Sooner or later, they yield. "I prefer to rely upon the loyalty of my people. Anyone who raised a hand against me openly would count himself fortunate to meet a quick death. From a well laid ambush," he looked away for a moment, "the best bodyguard could not protect me." "Even the beloved Julius was assassinated." "Aye. Ambushed in the Senate Chamber, by men who should have been his friends. Against that kind of treachery, there is no shield. The Emperor lives - if you can call it that - behind a wall of guards with him every hour of the day and night. I doubt he ever has a moment alone. Yet all these precautions have never saved any Emperors from death, once they had lost the loyalty of those close to them. All the Emperor's 'protectors' really do is keep his friends away and let his enemies know where to find him. Hard as things are here in North Gaul, I would not change my life for his." Three days later, at Noviodunum, they were joined in the strangest wedding Julia had ever seen. It took place in the temple of Juno, hastily repaired for the occasion. Julia wore the white gown trimmed in gold that her mother had packed away so carefully, making sure the drops of her tears did not stain the fabric. Syagrius, like many of the men, had donned his toga as a citizen of Rome, the equal of any man who wore it and the superior of any who did not. On his head sat the straw crown Roman bridegrooms had worn since the Founding of the City. The gowns and jewelry of the women, Julia noted, were somewhat old fashioned in cut and style, but all were immaculate and skillfully mended wherever needed, their colors bright, as though they were kept locked away for special occasions. The priestess who performed the ceremony was so old and so addled that her memory failed her several times during the ritual. But the Christian bishop standing beside her took her gently by the arm and recited the ancient verses for her without faltering. The people, Romans and Gauls, stood in silence until the rite was concluded. Then everyone filed out into the sunshine for the feast. The Christians, Julia learned later, had planned to shun their nuptials. Syagrius was furious. Then Bishop Recared had said he would take his place himself by the altar. The murmuring subsided. Whatever his fellow believers thought of Recared's orthodoxy, they knew he was probably the most learned man in the province and certainly one of the most virtuous, quick to show by his own example what was true and right.

Julia stood beside her husband as five cohorts of the legion - as many as could be spared from duties elsewhere in the province - passed in review. Then she and Syagrius took their places at the head of the receiving line in the shade of a huge oak tree where legend said Caesar had accepted the homage of the tribes after the surrender of Vercengetorix. She thought her legs would break under her as every chief and sub-chief and official, high or low, Gaul and Roman, for a week's journey in every direction waited in the receiving line to meet her and remind the procurator of his good will. She smiled at each of them and filed their names and faces away in her memory, a gift she had possessed from childhood. Finally, they could sit together at the high table with Recared on one side, the priestess on the other. The food came just in time. Julia was feeling faint. She tried to converse with the old woman, but her mind was far away, lost in ancient glories. So Julia let her talk, absorbing as much as she could of the past, cutting her meat for her and wiping her chin when the wine spilled. To her left, she could hear Syagrius and Recared exchanging polished Latin with one another, as her husband joked with him about his knowledge of pagan rites and rituals. They were about the same age, she saw, and had an easy way with one another that she had seldom seen between pagan and Christian. In that, Syagrius reminded her of her father who had friends, as he said, "at all the altars." Someday, she thought, she would have to ask Recared why he had become a bishop at all. He seemed much better suited to philosophy than religion. The feasting went on through the afternoon and far into the night. Wine and beer flowed by the barrel. Food vanished as fast as it appeared. Her husband ate heartily, she noted, but drank just enough to make him smile at some of the more clumsy witticisms that went around the gathering. Heaven only knows, thought Julia, how many have feasted at our table today. Syagrius didn't seem to care. "I don't expect to marry again," he had remarked, "so they may as well fill up now." Recared had escorted the priestess back to the temple and gone to bed himself, leaving the two of them to bid farewell to their guests, most of whom were so drunk they could hardly stand when the procurator rose. More than few, Julia saw, would not have been able to get up for anything short of the clap of doom. She wondered how they'd ever get the wine and gravy stains off their togas. Syagrius waved at them, as he led her across the courtyard and up the stairs to their bed chamber. He left her a few moments to herself while he closed the curtains and lit the fire. She laid aside her garments, folding them neatly as her mother had instructed, and slid under the covers. Despite all her mother had told her, she still trembled, feeling her flesh grow taught and her nipples harden as though from a chill. He stood over her a long moment before he took off his toga and hung it carefully on a rack. Julia had seen many statues and pictures, but he was the first naked man she'd seen in the flesh since she'd spied on her brothers swimming in the Tiber so long ago. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the scars that marked him. "My battle ribbons," he said, noticing her stare. "Armor helps, but it doesn't stop everything."

Reaching down, he lifted the quilt. She resisted the urge to cover herself and lay still, smiling up at him. "Think of Rome," Faustina had said. "You are as beautiful as I had thought you would be," he murmured. "I will do whatever I can to see that you are happy here." Sensing her shyness, he turned and blew out the lamp before he climbed in beside her and took her in his arms. All that happened next was new to her, and there was no time to think of Rome. She had read much of love, but had never thought her own body would respond this way. His hands ran over her flesh, even as his tongue ran over her lips, her eyes, her neck, her nipples. His touch was always firm but never hurried. She felt her skin grow hot and her breasts swell, as the softness between her thighs grew moist, and her breath came faster and faster. When his hand touched the inside of her thigh, her legs opened, and she reached down for him, turning onto her back. Her virginity resisted just enough to let them know it was there. Then he was inside her. She sighed, feeling warm and weak as she held him close. He made a few tentative thrusts, and her pelvis began to rise and fall as waves of pleasure surged through her, building to a crescendo that left her covered with sweat and nearly paralyzed. She knew he had climaxed only by his gradual softening and slow withdrawal. He pressed her to him once more before he rolled away, carrying her with him. His slow breathing told her he was asleep. Only then did she feel the soreness within her and realize that a little trickle of blood ran between her legs, mixed with his seed. It is the way our lives will run together, she thought to herself, pressing a towel between her thighs as he found a niche on his chest for her head. She was nearly asleep herself when she heard him murmur, "Flavia," and something else she could not make out. Julia was awake at once. Was there a mistress? A rival? Perhaps she would have to think of Rome after all. She curled herself up in a corner of the bed, keeping her tears to herself. VIII The next three nights, it was the same, that name and a few words, military commands, Julia realized. By moonlight, she could see her husband's eyelids move and his body twitch just a bit. He was dreaming. Of what? Did she have any right to know or even to ask? Did she really want to know at all? Finally, as they were sitting down to lunch, she could contain herself no longer. "Who is Flavia?" she said. There was a long silence. Syagrius set his plate aside. "I still dream of her, I see," he replied slowly. "Perhaps I should have told you sooner. It did not seem to be the kind of story a man should tell his bride, at least not so soon. It is not easy for me to speak of her. "She is nearly two years gone," he sighed. "She still comes to me when I sleep. Sometimes, I recall the

dreams, sometimes not. It is almost like the days we were together. There have been times I hoped I would not wake." Julia could see his eyes were moist. She leaned forward, took his hand. "You need not speak of her, if you do not wish to. I am new to you. I don't have to know everything at once." "Flavius was a centurion who served twenty-five years," he continued, returning her clasp, "first with my father, Aegidius, then with me, one of the best and most loyal men I have ever known. He was killed on the northern frontier. His century was surrounded, cut off. We counted them for lost. He rallied his troops to form up and hack their way through an enemy force five times their number to rejoin our lines. He was so badly wounded, no one knew how he stayed on his feet, let alone kept on fighting. He would not let himself die until he saw his men safe. "He had a daughter, Flavia by name, who kept a home for him when he was not on campaigns. His wife was many years gone. I'd met Flavia once or twice at ceremonies when I conferred decorations on her father. She was thought to be a little daft. "I officiated at Flavius' funeral, tried to say some words of consolation to his daughter. It was like speaking Latin to one who barely knows the language. I thought the grief at her father's death had unhinged what remained of her mind." Syagrius looked away for a long moment. "A month after the funeral, she came to Rufus, the judge, seeking the pension that was her due as her father's only surviving kin. He told her she would have to lie with him before he would draw up the papers. She nearly cracked his skull with the lamp stand on his desk. "Rufus ordered her scourged for her 'insolence.' She was already stripped and tied to the post when Recared came to me and told me what he had seen as he passed the court room. He had been keeping an eye on Rufus, he said, and it was time I found out what my judge was up to. "I sent a messenger and had both of them brought before me. They had given her back her garments. She was still bound, with the marks of the lash on her flesh. "Rufus had a bloody bandage around his head. "I asked a few questions Recared had proposed and soon learned this was not the first time Rufus had abused his trust. "He was not a young man, so I spared him the flogging that was his due. I told him to be out of Noviodunum by sundown and ordered that he be denied fire, water and shelter within twenty miles of the city. He was to leave the province within a week. After that, any man who found him inside our borders might kill him with no fear of my justice. "I had Flavia untied, told her I would have my own scribe prepare the documents she needed. I was about to send her home, when she knelt before me, put both hands on my knee and implored my

protection as procurator, using the ancient formula. Rufus, she claimed, had friends who would surely do her some mischief without that protection. "There was no way I could refuse such a public request. I stretched my right hand over her, proclaimed her my ward, let it be known that any who harmed her would find that hand raised against them. Then I told her to go to the palace and see the major- domo for a place, thinking he'd put her to work somewhere. "An hour later, Rufus' family appeared to beg pardon for him. I gave them the same instructions I had given him." "You are a hard man, Lucius Syagrius." "Hard?" he replied, his eyebrows rising. "I could have ordered him executed, and no one would have thought me cruel. He had dishonored his office by his extortions. His relatives dishonored themselves by asking mercy for his crimes." "What became of them?" "I don't know. I made no inquiries. I never saw or heard of them again. Rufus, I'm sure, wasted no time finding some chief in want of a judge who knew how to bend the law." "And Flavia," Julia could not resist asking, "what did she look like?" "A bit taller than you - two, maybe three inches - very slender, fair skin, brown hair in ringlets over her shoulders. She was a few years past twenty. She always wore brown, the same color as her eyes." He hesitated. "When I try to picture her, I can hardly recall her features. In my dreams, I see her as clearly as I see you now." "What happened then?" "I thought no more about the matter. I had much else to occupy me that day. I did not see her again until I was on my way to bed. "As I came up the stairs, I heard a commotion in front of my door. It was Flavia, insisting on sleeping across the threshold. Had it been anyone else, the guards would probably have thrown her down the stairs. Knowing she was under my protection, they hesitated to use force. "I asked her what she meant by these antics. She explained quite calmly I was her protector, and her only hope of safety lay in keeping me safe. She would do that by taking her place on my threshold, so no one might enter without her knowing. I was a little annoyed with her, but I supposed a few hours on the stone floor would make her see reason. I told the guards to give her a blanket and let her do as she wished. "That night, her house burned. She would surely have perished, had she been within." "And you had no one to keep you company in bed?" Julia asked, half in jest, half in fear of the answer.

"Oh, there were plenty of ambitious fathers who would have been happy to send their daughters to me. But I had realized early on what would happen if one or more of them should find herself with child. The envy and the quarreling among the families could easily have led to a blood feud or even my assassination. "I could have had any of the servant girls," he went on. "That's not my way. Nor was it my father's. I found it wiser to sleep alone. A man who cannot rule himself has no right to rule others." "Not my way," Julia thought. What an odd turn of phrase! It was one she was to hear often in the years that followed. "For weeks, Flavia kept her vigil and became something of a joke in the palace. She didn't seem to care. I think now it troubled me more than it did her. She spoke very little, although she was not slowwitted. It was more as though words were a foreign language she had never cared to master. "To occupy her days, I appointed her my wine taster. I did not drink much myself, but I enjoyed watching her eyes sparkle, the glow come to her cheeks, when she'd had a few sips of Moselle or Burgundy. "Winter was coming on, and the nights became truly frigid. There was frost even on the inside of the window glass. The corridors were impossible to heat. The guards at my door had to be relieved every hour. Flavia wouldn't budge. "To keep her from freezing to death, I opened the door one night, told her to come in. At least there was a fire in my room to hold off the chill. I said she could keep just as good a vigil on the inside of the door as outside. "She did not answer, just rolled herself up in her blanket and lay down. I could see she was still shivering. Her teeth were chattering. So I gave her one of my fur robes. She snuggled into it like a vixen coming back to her den. I kept watch over her until she slept. "It was the worst winter anyone could remember. The cold was so fierce, the trees were cracking as their sap froze. We burned firewood by the cord and charcoal by the hundredweight. Every night, the court rooms, the halls, the churches and the temples were filled with unfortunates who had no more fuel to heat their homes and would otherwise have died." "And Flavia?" Julia inquired, bringing him back to the story. "She'd been on the floor ten days or so, when she climbed into my bed, got under the covers and pounced on me. "I could not bring myself to throw her on the floor. Making love to her was like being devoured. She was so strange and wild. "I fell asleep right afterwards, as I have always done. When I awoke, I expected to find her beside me. She was back at her station by the door. So it was every night thereafter." "Why?" Julia inquired, astonished.

"I asked her that myself. She found the question puzzling. It was as though she followed a logic no one else knew. "With spring, I prepared for a campaign against the Cimbri. They had forgotten where the border was, and I was going to remind them. Flavia disappeared, was gone all that day and night. I feared some evil had befallen her, or that Rufus' vengeance had found her at last. "I was mounted at the head of two cohorts, ready to ride out of the city, when she appeared at the gate, astride a huge brown mare - she would never say where she got it - wearing her father's helmet and carrying a spear. His sword, she told me, was too heavy for her. "I ordered her to go back. She only replied that the procurator must not take the field without his protector - or his wine taster. Her father, having no sons, had taught her the use of arms. She would hold her own in any fight. Besides, she said, my wine could be poisoned just as easily in camp as in the banquet hall. "I tried to reason with her. There was no way of leaving her behind short of having her locked up, hardly a fitting thing for a Roman official to do to one under his personal protection." "She went with you, then?" "Everywhere. In my tent, she shared my bed only for love making. Afterwards, she would wrap herself in one of my robes and sleep across the entrance, her spear close at hand. Her ears were sharper even than mine. At the first suspicious sound, she'd be on her feet, crouched in the shadows where she could see without being seen. "In war, she was Bellona. Even her horse would go for the enemy with her hooves and her teeth like an attack dog. I know now how Spartacus must have felt watching Varinia fight. "Twice, I saw Flavia mount a scaling ladder with only her spear - no shield - when the arrows and stones were coming down like hail. The second attack, the Cimbri threw back our ladders, leaving her and ten or twelve of my men trapped on their rampart. I was frantic, ordered a century to form a sloping tortoise, kneeling and standing on one another's shoulders like acrobats to make a ramp with their shields. The men had done it as a drill, never on a battlefield. But they'll try anything I ask. "As soon as the formation was in place, I led thirty of my Romans over the wall. The Cimbri thought they had us both. They closed in, howling like wolves. They didn't know my Romans. We cleared the catwalk, forced the gate. The Cimbri broke and ran. "When I tried to tell Flavia how foolish she'd been, she just shrugged her shoulders, said I'd have done the same, whether she were up there or not. It was why the men trusted me." Syagrius sighed and emptied his wine cup before he continued. "Two weeks later, she shamed a century into following her into a ravine full of Cimbri hidden behind every rock and bush. The centurion was killed, and the senior decurion wanted to retreat. She told him they'd retreat over her dead body. She'd die a Roman like her father, face to the enemy, weapon in hand, even if they wouldn't. The soldiers kept the Cimbri engaged until I could come up with the rest of the

cohort and wipe them out. "I feared for her life and begged her to take care, at least wear some armor. She said she had no concern for her own safety as long as I was safe. I even hoped she might be with child, so I could persuade her to withdraw for the infant's sake at least. "Late in the fall, in an ambush, she took an arrow meant for me and died in my arms." His voice caught in his throat. "She asked that I put her spear in her hand and turn her face toward the thicket whence the arrow had come. She said she'd been 'so happy.'" Syagrius wiped his eyes with his napkin. "The moment she was dead, the mare she rode galloped off and was never seen again. "I tracked the assassins, four of them, myself, scarcely eating or sleeping. The first snow had fallen, so they could not hide their trail as they headed east for the Samar. They did not live to cross it. I only regret that I did not take one alive to tell me who had sent them, confirm my suspicions. "I had Flavia's ashes interred with her father's. Every spring and fall, I offer oil and wine to their shades. I read her name among our valiant dead when the legion gathers to honor the fallen. "For months, I hardly knew where or who I was. Recared ran the province. "Then I sent for you. It was Recared's idea, not mine. But I knew he was right. I could not go on that way much longer." "You still miss her very much," Julia observed. Then she asked the question she scarcely dared pose. "Do you wish I were more like her?" Syagrius stroked his chin. "No," he replied thoughtfully, "you have your own courage and your own powers I will need beside me in the years to come. You have abandoned everything to share my life. I will never forget that." IX The levies and the volunteers were starting to come in, along with any militia not needed for garrison duty. Syagrius and Julia watched from the walls. As they had expected, most were half trained, nearly all poorly armed. Syagrius had to detail forty of his best decurions to teach them something of marching and fighting. Only Eborax's two wings of cavalry were ready for battle. Syagrius was pleased to see all the contingents had obeyed his instructions to bring their own food. If it came to a siege, he'd need every scrap to feed the people and keep the garrison fit to fight. The armory at Noviodunum held enough weapons to equip two or three armies. But no tribe or town had furnished more than a thousand men. Most sent fewer. Charius had refused Clovis' demand for tribute and provided two hundred horse. They held themselves aloof, as if waiting further instructions. Pendra had sent a ragged handful, saying he could not spare any soldiers from his garrison.

From Alaric had come a temporizing message that it would take him at least two months to raise a force sufficient to be of any assistance. From Bishop Sidonius, the procurator's long time friend and best source of information on the Goths, came a carefully coded letter with word they feared the procurator's enmity but were even more frightened of Clovis and would wait out the war. A few days after the call for help had gone out, bands of haggard and distracted people began to appear at Noviodunum. Their story was always the same. They were the last of their tribe, crushed and scattered by Clovis. The men, they said, would fight to the death, with fists and stones, if need be. The women would prepare food and tend the wounded. The children would do whatever they could. The King of the Romans was their only hope. Syagrius was skeptical, needing no more mouths to feed and fearing spies. Julia read the hunger and despair in their faces, persuaded her husband to shelter them. The rest of the legion had been gathered from the outlying forts and towns, leaving only militia to hold them. If Clovis prevailed, a cohort here or a century there would be no use to anyone. The procurator was glad to see many of his own retired troops among the levies. "They're too old to be conscripted," he observed. "They must have volunteered. I should think they'd had enough of soldiering to last them for this lifetime at least." "They want one more chance to serve under their old commander," Julia smiled. "Drink themselves under the table at one more victory party." Syagrius chuckled. It was more than that, Julia thought. From the first, she had marveled at her husband's ability to inspire loyalty and trust. Even his enemies knew him for an honorable man, fierce in war, mild in peace, one whose word, once given, was always good. Most of the troops in her escort had asked to join his legion rather than return to Rome. Syagrius had been perplexed, seeing they were fine soldiers but not wanting to countenance desertion. Julia had suggested he send the rest back with a letter requesting the Emperor's advice. When no reply came, he took the soldiers into his service. "I'll go watch the drills," Syagrius said. "Let them know the 'King of the Romans' has his eye on them." He touched her hand and then went down the stone steps and around the corner, headed for the main gate. Julia leaned on the parapet and let her mind carry her back to the day she'd climbed to this very place, six months pregnant with Marius, about a year after her arrival. It was getting hard to go up stairs. She wanted to enjoy the view again as she waited for her husband's return from his march against the Belgians. What would she do, she wondered, if he did not come back? She would be a Roman widow with a child, a thousand miles from home. As a practical matter, she knew the answer to that question. Recared would protect her and the child with his life. The soldiers were loyal. The council would ask the Emperor to send a new procurator. He would come, of course. One of his first official acts would be to arrange safe passage for her and the infant back to Rome.

What would she do with the rest of her life, she asked herself, with Lucius gone? She could certainly marry again in Rome. Taking her to wife would add prestige to any house. But who could fill the void that would open in her soul? Losing Lucius would be like losing an eye or a hand. She would survive physically. Something inside her would be broken forever. She had started to feel this way the morning he had spoken of Flavia. Her heart opened as she came to sense more of his solitude and more of his courage to fight on when others would have despaired, the honor keeping him from a profitable accommodation to the "new realities in the West." The nights in his arms helped, what he could do with his hands and his tongue, what she'd learned to do with hers. Her body seemed to mould itself to his as though it were made to fit. Yet there was another bond that had grown between them, stronger even than the child they shared. She had come north for the sake of Rome. Now, if he fell, she would stay in this land, bring up that child among those who had known his father and would respect his memory. The soothsayer who read the omens at her birth told more than he knew. She turned to look out over the ruins of the Temple of Juno where she and her husband had been wed so long ago. It was ten years, she thought, since the priestess had died in her sleep. There was no one to take her place. Recared officiated at her funeral, calling on the goddess to receive her faithful servant, so long and so loyal at her post. He knew the verses and the rituals better than anyone. Now his church stood nearby in what had once been a law court. She had hoped Marius would lead Pendra's contingent, but he remained at the castle. Only Lucius' promise to summon him to Noviodunum next spring made him consent to stay behind. His life had nearly cost her own, she reflected. Her time had come early. Nearly two days, she was in labor. The pains were sharper than anything she had imagined. She tried not to cry out, lest others lose courage, but the cries were jerked from her. The midwives summoned Parmes, the Greek physician who served as chief doctor to the legion, now gone himself these five years. He examined her and gave her some opium to chew. More, he explained, could kill the child within her. He called Syagrius aside. "She cannot bear the child," he told the procurator. "The bones are not right." "What can you do?" "I can give her more opium and force the birth. The child will be born dead." Parmes began scrubbing his hands. "Or?" "I can open her belly and take the child. The infant will probably live. Your wife may die." "Let me speak with her." Julia remembered Lucius kneeling beside her bed, taking her hand and brushing the strands of her sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead. He spoke very softly, so no one else might hear.

"Julia," he began, "you must decide. Parmes says he cannot give you any more opium or the child will die. You cannot bring the child into the world either." Julia stared up at him, not understanding. "Parmes will have to cut you open and take the child, if it is to live." "Lucius," she replied, choking back the pain, "tell Parmes to take the child, now." "You may die." She gathered her strength. "Kiss me," she said. "Promise me - if I die - you will send at once for another to take my place. You will love her as you love me. Our child must have a mother. Only out of love for you will a new wife treat him as she should." "It shall be as you say." Syagrius kissed her softly, released her hand. He motioned to Parmes who was already lifting his instruments one by one from the boiling cauldron. Julia fixed her eyes on Syagrius as she lost consciousness. Parmes was skillful and quick. Julia revived enough to see her son before she sank into darkness. Parmes sat with Syagrius, grinding herbs and brewing potions that he administered to Julia whenever she was conscious enough to swallow. Neither left her bedside. Three days, Recared fasted and prayed publicly before the altar of his god, imploring her life, much to the dismay of his fellow Christians. Even the priestess managed to keep vigil at the altar of Juno, although she had to be reminded often why she was there. Julia recovered slowly over the next weeks and was able to nurse the tiny boy. Parmes, however, had more news for his procurator. "When I took the child from her womb, I could not stop the bleeding until I did other things." Syagrius looked at him, puzzled. "I did not tell you then, because your wife could well have died, and it would have made no difference." "Will Julia be all right?" Parmes nodded. "She will bear no more children," the doctor explained. For a dark moment, the suspicion crossed the procurator's mind that Parmes had been suborned to do this so that he might have no more offspring. Then he thought of the times the doctor's skill had stood between his own living and dying. Parmes could have killed Julia and the baby too, he realized, had he wished.

He put his arm around the Greek's shoulders. "You are the physician, not I. You did as you thought best. I will tell Julia myself. She must not think she is at fault." So he had. She asked him at once when he planned to divorce her and send her back to Rome. Even her parents would understand, she said. Syagrius looked at her as if she had been taken mad. "Speak no more of this," he replied. "You are my wife. I will not with you while I live. You have given me Marius and very nearly your own life as well. That is enough." X The bands that had straggled in over the past weeks were beginning to look like soldiers. The legion's cohorts, unused to working with one another, were once again showing the skill that had earned Roman arms respect in centuries of battles. Scouts brought regular word of Clovis' advance. Syagrius met daily with the council to plan their response. Clovis, they knew, would bring his horde across the Samar. What no one could say was when. He kept moving south, bypassing one likely ford after another but drawing steadily closer to Noviodunum. There were reports that some of the tribes were having second thoughts about following him, especially since many had died of an illness no one could name. Chararic, supposedly his most loyal ally, had promised thousands of troops, but they had yet to appear. Round and round the questions went: Should Syagrius wait for Clovis at Noviodunum, hoping that sickness and discord would leave him too weak to press on? Should he prepare for a siege? Should he march against Clovis the moment he crossed the river or even before? How many fighting men could Clovis count on? What was he planning? How could he get such numbers to follow him so far? "The women and children of the tribes who joined him are his hostages," said Claudius in answer to the last question. "Any man who falters knows he will not see his family again." The arrival of a delegation riding under a flag of truce ended their deliberations. Their leader was shown into the great hall where he could speak to Syagrius and the council. The envoy wore a green cloak with a purple border and garish gold decorations over a short silken tunic that barely reached his knees. His dirty blond hair fell to his shoulders. A scraggly beard tried to mask his receding chin. His carriage and the odd cast of his mouth made him look vaguely familiar. He unrolled a scroll and read from it. "To the so-called King of the Romans, from Clovis, son of Childeric, most worshipful descendant of the mighty Meroveus, the Lion of Gaul and God's chosen ruler of this land: "I will cross the Samar in three days. If you and your deluded followers have not returned to me what was my father's, given up your arms and handed over the criminals you are harboring, abjured your false beliefs and been baptized in the One True Faith, paid your tribute and pledged your obedience by that time, I will lay waste your land and enslave you all, as Heaven commands.

"If you wish to contest my rights in battle, state the time and the place where you will meet me. "My envoy will return in one hour to hear your answer." The young man bowed and turned to depart. Syagrius called him back. "Who are you?" "I am Albius Rufus," was the reply in uncertain Latin, "son of the man you banished." "I see your father was not long in finding a master." "He served a better one than you, a true king who rid the world of your worthless sire." Albius paused to relish the effect of his words. Under his white flag, he felt safe. "My father used to open a cask of wine and give presents every year on the day your filthy whore, Flavia, died as she deserved." Syagrius knuckles went white as he gripped his chair. Had it not been for Julia's hand on his arm, Albius might not have left that hall alive, flag of truce or no. "Out of my sight," the procurator spat. "Send another to hear my reply. If I behold your misbegotten face again, I'll dye that white flag with your blood." Albius scurried out. As soon as he was gone, Lucan unrolled a map drawn on hide. "It's too late to stop Clovis from crossing the Samar, but we can meet him at Nogentum," the legate advised. "It's a day's march from here. Our army can cover three miles to his one. We get there first, set up our war machines on the high ground overlooking the creek, behind the crest of the ridge, so they can't be seen. The Franks will have to advance through the marsh to reach us. Their cavalry will be of no use. Our catapults can keep their infantry from massing on our side. "As fast as a contingent gets across, they'll have to charge uphill against the legion or be buried under our missiles. Our men will cut them to pieces. The militia will hold the flanks, keep the enemy from getting around us." The plan was a bold one, everyone agreed. Claudius wondered if it would work against a multitude as large as the one Clovis commanded. "Could he just bypass Nogentum, march on Noviodunum and leave us waiting for him?" Hortensius inquired. "Not after publicly challenging us to meet him and giving us the choice of the field," said Lucan. "He'd be the laughing stock of Gaul. Besides, he couldn't risk having a fortified city like Noviodunum in front of him and our whole army in his rear between him and the Samar." Recared pointed out a ford four miles above the one at Nogentum. What would happen, he asked, if Clovis used his cavalry to cross there and fall on Syagrius' army from the rear. "While I command our horse," Eborax declared, "there will be no crossing. I have scouts who will

watch his every move. We'll be there, if he heads upstream." "What about Charius?" "I'll keep my eye on him," Eborax added. "If he wavers, he'll not leave the field alive." "What's the status of our auxiliaries?" Syagrius inquired. "About as good as they're likely to get," Lucan replied. "They have had enough training to be of some use on a battlefield. They haven't had time to think how many of them won't come back. If we let them sit idle, they could begin deserting, especially when Clovis starts burning their farms and pillaging their towns." "If we have a large enough garrison here," Recared offered, "Clovis won't dare send his foraging parties far. Our men could sortie against his lines any hour of the day or night." "You still think we should let him lay siege to Noviodunum?" Lucan argued. "Clovis' strength increases every day and will grow even more, if we seem afraid to come out and fight." "We've been besieged before," Recared answered. "If they don't take the city in the first assault, the Franks will lose heart. Any troubles in Clovis' camp will worsen. Food will start running low. He'll have his own problems with deserters." "I do not trust these reports from Clovis' camp," Claudius said. "He would not have offered battle, if he did not see his advantage there. He has the numbers for now, it is true. For just that reason, we might do better to wait for him here. The Franks know nothing of sieges. They could starve long before they learned enough to do us any harm." There was a long silence as everyone turned to Syagrius. "That savage has challenged me to battle," Syagrius declared. "He will not live to say this Roman feared to accept his challenge. Send word to Albius. Open the doors. Call in everyone from outside. I want them to know my answer." When Albius' delegate stood before him, Syagrius spoke loud enough for all to hear. "The self-anointed 'Lion of Gaul' has sent his yapping cur to tempt the Roman eagle from his nest. Now he will feel that eagle's talons. Let Clovis come to Nogentum in three days, or as soon as he dares. Let those who want to die follow him there!" Then, "Tell Albius to stay close to his master. Clovis will need all his dogs to lick his boots and howl over his corpse." The Frank bowed and departed. "There has been enough talk," Syagrius said. "Now that brute will see what Romans can do." Syagrius stood up. The others rose in silence. "Romans," he said, putting the ancient question, "are you

ready for war?" "We are," the councilmen answered, as Romans had for a thousand years. "Arm then. Arm and out. Take up your posts for the Senate and People of Rome. Sound the great war drum. Let all who hear it know we march tomorrow for Nogentum." The counselors departed, each to his duties. Only Julia and Syagrius remained. "Now I wish I were more like Flavia," Julia said softly. "At least, I could die with you." "Why all this talk of defeat and dying? I've fought the Franks before and never had any trouble showing them the way home. Nobody thinks much of them as fighters." "You have never faced numbers like these." "A mob is not an army, no matter how big it gets. It's just a bigger mob." "I hope so. I have had some terrible dreams." "Julia," he said, "I know what Recared thinks, and I know what Claudius thinks. I even know what Hortensius thinks. Now I know what you think. I do not need your doubts too. "I've held this province fifteen years with one legion - five thousand men. Today, I have twenty thousand, horse and foot. I will fight Clovis, and I will win. The man whose father had mine murdered will not see his home again. Flavia will be avenged. "Being defeated in battle will be ten times worse for Clovis than having to give up a siege. I'll chase him back across the Samar, maybe even to the Rhenus. Those who have supported him in this folly will learn what it is to have Rome as their enemy. The word of my victory will spread through all Europe. Any chief hungry for our Roman land will think on Clovis and turn aside. We'll have peace here for decades." Julia was silent for a moment. "I have dreamt what I have dreamt, Lucius." she paused. "But I am your wife and a Roman like yourself. The savage does not live who can set us at odds. Tonight, I will sleep in your arms, perhaps for the last time. I will be content there. My love follows you to Nogentum, or wherever you may go." She took his hand and turned toward the door. "Let us stand forth," she said, "and show ourselves to the people." "I will lay my procurator's staff before the altar of Mars and offer sacrifice to the god of battles," Syagrius declared. "Then we shall feast in his honor." "Let everyone see that we Romans fear only the gods," Julia concluded. XI

The previous night's celebration meant a slow start that morning, but Lucan had been right. Syagrius reached Nogentum before Clovis was within a day's march and had plenty of time to pitch camp and reconnoiter the land. Except for the cohort chosen by lot to stiffen the city militia against any raiding party Clovis might send, the legion was at full strength. The catapults were deployed as Lucan had advised and then sighted in. From where they sat, they could send a rain of missiles down on the near edge of the swamp and well into it. When scouts brought word of Clovis' approach, the militia and the levies were put on the flanks and ordered to hold their position. The legion lined up along the crest of the rise in the classic triple battle line with a yard open on either side of each man to give him room to swing his sword. The cavalry under Eborax was massed in the rear, ready to counter any move Clovis might make. "Flavia" was the password for the day. The dust cloud was visible long before Clovis' army came in sight late that afternoon. Syagrius thought Clovis would wait for morning to attack, but he began massing his forces at once. From horseback, the procurator watched a sea of armed men gather on the other bank of the swamp, all on foot. Where was Clovis' cavalry? Syagrius wondered. One of Eborax's scouts galloped in. "Franks," he cried, "thousands of them on horseback, crossing at the ford." Syagrius turned to Eborax who was already raising his banner. "Can you hold them?" "As long as I can hold a sword," Eborax replied, as he signaled his men to follow. Raising a mighty shout, the cavalry raced after him, even Charius' troops. Syagrius turned to Lucan. "Assign the ninth cohort to defend the catapults in case Clovis' horse attack from the rear." Meanwhile, the Franks began wading across the creek and through the marsh. "Hoist the battle flag," Syagrius ordered. Then, to the trumpeter, "Sound for the artillery to commence shooting." No sooner had the notes died away when a hail of stones weighing ten pounds apiece and darts that could pin a man's shield to his chest fell on the Franks. Many died, but many more pressed on, the ranks behind them keeping them from turning back. Soon, the rear echelons were advancing over the bodies of those who had come before, filling the swamp and giving them firm footing. Syagrius watched the mass of men on the near side of the creek grow and grow. Once they started up the hill, they would be under the range of the catapults and could charge his battle line. Then it would be Roman skill against barbarian strength. The legion stood ready, javelins in hand. A horseman, dusty and bloody, charged into the midst of Syagrius and his officers. "Eborax bids me say he has died in the saddle. Charius is fallen, fighting bravely. Clovis' horse have

overwhelmed us and will soon be upon you." Syagrius turned to Lucan. "The legion must attack at once, destroy the Franks on this side of the creek before their cavalry can reach us." "Aye." Lucan headed up the line, followed by his trumpeter sounding the advance. Then, turning to his messenger, "Tell Claudius to position the militia around the catapults and prepare to receive cavalry. Take the archers and slingers too. Those catapults must stay in action." A moment after the trumpet call, Syagrius heard the drumbeat, one, then four, then a roll, the cadence that had heralded the advance of Rome's legions the world over, as the troops started down the slope, rank on rank, century by century, their armor shining and their polished helmets gleaming in the sun. What magnificent men! he thought. Proud and fierce as any who had ever borne Rome's eagles. Three more legions like them, and he could smash the Franks forever and sweep the Goths out of Gaul in a month. As they passed, they hailed their procurator with the same salute their ancestors had given Caesar, Trajan, Aurelius, Aetius. The Franks hesitated as the soldiers bore down upon them. Then they saw how few Syagrius' troops really were, plucked up their courage and charged. Two flights of Roman javelins hardly slowed the roaring mass hurtling toward the Roman lines. "Battle stations," the procurator ordered. The officers around him dispersed. Syagrius watched his legion steady its lines as the Franks approached. He tried to look beyond the seething mass to see if he could pick out Clovis. Once, with Lucan close behind him, he had cut his way through an attacking tribe, killed their chief and ended a fight. Now he could see only waves of armed men. "How much of a chance do we have, Marcus?" Syagrius heard one soldier ask his comrade. "It looks pretty bad." "The procurator has brought us through worse ones," was the reply. "I'll stand as long as he does." Syagrius eased his sword from its ivory scabbard, looking down for a moment at the filigreed hilt and the eagle on the pommel. It was the same blade he'd received from the Emperor's hand at Arles so long ago. Its edge was razor sharp. He raised his shield just in time to ward off a shower of missiles from the onrushing Franks. "Swords!" Syagrius heard the centurions shout. "Stand to it, Romans!" Like the other officers, Syagrius rode back and forth behind the lines steadying his Romans and watching for any weakness in the Franks. A few yards away, he saw the Franks rip a hole in the line and swarm around the standard bearer. The

ranks closed, but no one could be spared to help. The soldier fought desperately, holding his sword in one hand and the eagle's staff with a death grip in the other. He was already surrounded. Another moment, and the Franks would have the eagle. Syagrius charged into the knot of struggling men, slashing the throat of one Frank and felling a second before his horse took a spear and collapsed under him. He was on his feet in an instant, toe to toe with a huge Frank. Syagrius ducked under his clumsy axe, ran him through. He parried a cut from another with his sword, slammed the man across the face with his shield. A third thrust at him with a spear. Syagrius caught the point on his shield and cut the Frank down. A stone from a sling rebounded off his helmet. "Steady the lines," he ordered. "Protect the eagle." Syagrius smashed another Frank to the ground. He whirled just in time to see a battle axe high over his head. He blocked the blow with his shield and heard the wood splinter beneath the stroke. His attacker did not get another chance. Syagrius rammed his sword into his throat. A falling Roman staggered against Syagrius, blood running from his mouth and ears. The collision spun the procurator around, pushed him back from the lines. He caught a quick glimpse of the body_strewn field. He turned to the standard bearer. "Advance the eagle," he commanded. "Bring it here." The standard bearer came to his procurator. "Stay close," Syagrius ordered. "Hold the eagle high. Not one step backward while we live." An arrow hissed overhead. "Sir," the standard bearer said, "there are so many of them. Can't we retreat?" "In a fight like this, there is only victory or rout. If we turn our backs they'll beat us into the ground. Stand fast," Syagrius added. "The worst is over." Even as he uttered these words, the procurator knew he was wrong. The Roman lines were already giving ground from the sheer weight of the heaps of men piled against them. Syagrius turned back to the press. Everywhere, he was attacked. He had no breath now to shout, and a gash running down his cheek made it painful to open his mouth. A glancing blow from a throwing axe had shorn the plume from his helmet and shaken every tooth in his head. His body ached from the blows his armor had taken. His arms and legs had cuts everywhere. He had no idea how many Franks he had killed, twelve, perhaps fifteen. There were always more. The cries of the enemy filled his ears. His own men fought in silence. Some time before, the sound of the catapults had ceased. Syagrius hoped only that they could hold on until darkness when Roman discipline might make it possible to withdraw.

He had two of the soldiers raise him up on a shield so he could see the battlefield. His blood ran cold. They were surrounded. The catapults were in flames. What was left of his army was hemmed in on the tiny rise where he stood. Only the line where he had fought held the same place where it had met the Franks' rush. Suddenly, the Franks pulled back. Syagrius had his men form a hollow square. How few they were now! Perhaps two cohorts at most. Yet, when he walked among them, his Romans still had strength to cheer him. Clovis sent Albius under a flag of truce. "You are defeated," he proclaimed. "Surrender now, or we will bury you under our arrows and spears. It is only your commander, the false 'King of the Romans,' whom Clovis will punish. Give him up now, and the rest of you will be spared." Syagrius wanted to answer, but the wound on his cheek made it impossible to speak above a whisper. A young soldier shouted back, "We are Romans and will not give our commander or ourselves into the hands of barbarians." Albius rode off, and the rain of death began. Most of the missiles struck harmlessly against the Roman shield wall. A few found a target, and the soldiers began dropping, one by one. Syagrius exposed himself everywhere, but no weapon came near him. Suddenly, a cry went up from the Franks. "The Roman camp is ours!" Their lines wavered as some rushed off to share the loot while their chiefs tried to force them back to the fight. Syagrius saw his chance. "Pass the word," he ordered, "when the trumpeter sounds retreat, we break for the woods." As the horn blared, Syagrius led his Romans down the hill toward the distracted enemy and the forest beyond. A bearded man blocked the procurator's path and thrust at him with a spear. Syagrius raised his sword to cut him down, but the man caught the blow on the shaft of his weapon. Syagrius threw him aside. "Don't stop to duel with them," he urged. "Into the woods!" The first line of trees was only yards away when he fell headlong. He wondered what had made him fall. He tried to get up and sprawled again as his left arm buckled beneath him. Only then did he feel the pain of the spear in his shoulder Suddenly, there were strong arms beneath him, lifting him to his feet, pulling the iron from his flesh. Even as they raised him up, one of his Romans fell transfixed by an arrow through his throat. "Lean on me," the young soldier offered "We can make it, sir." Together, they staggered the last few yards to the darkness of the forest. They hurried down one path

after another. Syagrius could hear the sound of footsteps all around him as pursuers and pursued mingled in the gloom. Dizziness and nausea threatened to overcome him. "Where shall we go, sir?" "Pendra." Syagrius gasped, hardly able to speak and fearing he would faint from loss of blood. "Romans here! Romans here! Flavia! Flavia!" he heard shouted among the trees. This cry brought a few of the Franks down on them, but the pursuit had already been given up. Their attackers were easily dispatched. "Tullius," Syagrius said to a centurion he recognized, "you were raised here. Guide us through these woods to Castle Pendra." "Aye, sir," Pendra's fort. Syagrius pictured the gray ramparts where he and the young lord has spent so many hours together. He remembered how he had marched with a cohort of his Romans to aid Pendra against the forest tribes who threatened to burn the crops and level his fort, if tribute were not paid. Pendra would have given in. Syagrius had persuaded him to fight. They had won, crushed the invaders utterly. The taste of victory had been like heady wine. Yes, Syagrius said to himself, Pendra would help. Once there, he could regroup his army and fight again. Even as the thought went through his mind, its hopelessness struck him. He had barely a century with him. "Where are the others?" he asked. "I do not know, sir," one of the soldiers replied. "There must be more of our men scattered through these woods. I see none from my own cohort here. "Clovis took many," he explained. "The wounded he slew. The sound were put to torture." "How do you know this?" "I was among the prisoners, sir. The Franks were roasting us one by one. I had a chance to run. My friends were not so fortunate." Syagrius plodded on. His throat was dry and his lips thick with dust. His left arm hung useless by his side, the dried blood from the raw wound in his shoulder caked along his flesh. His whole side throbbed with a dull ache. A few minutes went by. Syagrius gathered his strength to ask, "Does Clovis still pursue?" "No, sir. His cavalry has turned back." "Then let us rest. Centurion, call a halt."

The ragged column stopped. Some merely stood and stared. The walking wounded sank down upon the earth. Syagrius sat beneath a scraggly tree and leaned against the rough bark, his eyes closed. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see a decurion bending over him. "If you please, sir," he said, "there is a youngster who wants to speak to you. He hasn't much time." Syagrius pulled himself to his feet and limped over to the knot of soldiers. They stepped aside. At first, he didn't know who it was lying on the ground, the face covered with dried blood and the eyes so wild. As he knelt, he saw. "Silvius," he gasped, remembering what his son had told him about the boy. "Sir," Silvius rasped, "when will we fight again?" Syagrius paled. "As soon as we can raise another army to drive this pack out of Gaul." "Can I come then too?" "Of course, Silvius. You will march with the veterans." Syagrius felt the lump rising in his throat along with his tears. He swallowed both and took the boy's hand. It was damp with cold sweat. "Sir, it's getting darker, isn't it?" Several soldiers looked eastward where a faint streak of light could be seen, A murmur began, but Syagrius checked it with an abrupt wave of his hand. "Aye, son," he answered. "Soon it will be full night here." "Sir, I can't see you any more. I don't see the stars now either." Syagrius took the boy in his arms. A few sharp gasps, and it was over. Silvius' features relaxed. Syagrius closed his empty eyes. "Decurion, get a burial detail," the procurator ordered. "With respect, sir," the man replied, "further delay could be dangerous. The people hereabouts are not friendly. They may set upon us soon as soon as it is light enough to see how few we are." Syagrius knew the decurion was right. Yet to leave the boy's body for the vultures seemed a final betrayal. "There are many who must lie unburied tonight, sir."

"All right. March on." Once again, the column moved ahead. Syagrius stumbled onward. Once again, the young soldier was beside him, keeping him upright. The sun had nearly risen by now, its beams glinting off the still polished iron helmets of the soldiers. A legionary came hobbling up to him. "Castle Pendra in sight, sir." "Good. Have the trumpeter sound the salute." A few weak notes floated on the air and were answered from within. *** Marius had been on the ramparts since dawn. Old Soldier had joined him that afternoon. laying his helmet and sword on the battlement to relieve himself of their weight. When they saw the clouds of smoke billowing up from Nogentum, both knew what it meant. Marius said it first. "It is my father's camp they are burning. He has lost." Old Soldier nodded gravely. "I should have marched with him. I should be with him now." "Noviodunum is far," Old Soldier calculated. "If any from your father's army survive, they will probably come here. We may yet see him alive." Marius' reply was interrupted by a chorus of groans from below. "How long must the people wait Pendra's word? Clovis will be on us before the day is out. He'll kill anyone he can get his hands on. If Pendra doesn't let them in, he might as well murder them. "Why is he keeping his gates closed? Surely he must know my father will come this way with the Franks close behind." "Pendra is not one to open his gates to the defeated." "He and my father have been friends since they were children." "Even so..." "If these gates stand closed when my father comes, I'll open a gate in Pendra's skull and let out all his wretched schemes." Old Soldier looked around quickly to be sure no one had heard. "Be careful. Pendra is not a forgiving man." The wind brought the faint notes of a horn to their ears.

Old Soldier leaned over the parapet. "Answer," he told the trumpeter. Then, to a sentry in the courtyard, "Tell Lord Pendra Syagrius approaches." Now Syagrius could see the castle itself at the end of the winding road. Gathered before it was a ragged multitude, murmuring and weeping. "Who are these people?" Syagrius wondered aloud. "Pendra's folk, no doubt," a soldier answered. Now they stood in silence before the closed gates. Finally, they heard heavy bolts being drawn and chains running over a windlass. The gates creaked open. A score of Pendra's guards cleared a way through the crowd with the butts of their spears. Syagrius staggered forward, then stopped. "Bring the eagle," he ordered the standard bearer. "Form up the men, centurion. Column of two." The soldiers lined up behind their standard. "Now forward." The column marched over the drawbridge and into the courtyard. Syagrius saw Pendra coming to meet him, Marius close behind. He stopped, unable to go farther. Marius ran toward him, his arms outstretched. Syagrius tried to reach him. His feet would not obey. The castle turned in circles and everything dissolved into white mist. XII Syagrius' strength returned, once his wounds had closed. He told Pendra and Marius of the battle and of the valor of those who had seen him safely off the field. He had to repeat the tale over and over to convince himself that it was not a nightmare from which he might awaken at any moment. He composed and sent off another letter to Alaric, recounting what had happened, exhorting the king to send an army to crush Clovis before the Franks recovered from the battle and marched against him. He joined Marius and Old Soldier on their rounds. He visited his wounded, spread what cheer he could. Those beyond help had their procurator to assure them they were not dying in vain. Stragglers wandered in from the battlefield. All the news they brought was bad. Lucan was dead, speared trying to rally a legion that didn't exist. Claudius had fallen at his post, fighting like a madman to keep a space open so a catapult could get off another shot. The other officers had fared no better. A few centuries had been able to fight their way back to Noviodunum. Whatever else remained of the army was broken and scattered. What puzzled Syagrius was why Clovis had not already attacked the fort. Surely he must know by now his enemy had not been killed at Nogentum.

Word came that Clovis was preparing to assault Noviodunum. Syagrius, he believed, was within, inspiring the defenders to desperate resistance. He had seen the procurator himself on the walls. Thoughts of sending relief evaporated when Syagrius saw how few men he had. Even with Pendra's garrison, they numbered barely a cohort, perhaps enough to hold the fort but useless against an enemy outnumbering them a hundred to one. Three days later, fugitives told him his city had been taken and put to the torch. Hortensius, he heard, had stuffed himself into his grandfather's armor and perished leading the last of their reserves, trying to secure a gate the Franks had forced. Recared had opened his church as a refuge for the women and children, hoping the Franks might spare them. Clovis' men, egged on by Bishop Remigius, had barred the doors from the outside and set the building on fire, burning Recared, his flock and his precious library, the largest in the province, to ashes. Why wait to burn heretics one by one, Remigius had reasoned, when God presented them an opportunity to incinerate hundreds of them at once? Of Syagrius and of Julia, there was no word. Before the gates, the ragged crowd still stood in silence. "Who are these people?" Syagrius asked. "What are they waiting for?" "They have come for their due," Marius replied, "to be taken within the walls they passed through so often, laden with tribute. They are counting on Pendra to save them from death and the horrors of war. They have brought food. Their men are willing to fight. They have nowhere else to go." "Why are they not inside then? Pendra gave his word to protect them when they carried earth and water to him. He swore the same to his father as he lay dying. Both times, I heard myself." "Pendra has other plans," said Marius. It was a moment before Syagrius understood. "I'll talk to him," he said. "Pendra is my friend. I cannot believe he would do anything so dishonorable." Pendra had just dismissed a delegation from his people and was talking to his vault keeper as Syagrius walked in. He sent the man on his way and then turned to greet his friend. "The people outside..." Syagrius began. "I've told them my decision. They can wait outside until they starve. I'm not letting them in." "Where are they to go?" "They have feet. Let them run." "There are old people and children among them. They'd not get three miles. Why treat them so? You are their sworn protector. They have fed you and your men for years." "Look, my friend," Pendra began, as though instructing a slow pupil, "this place is but a castle of sand on the shore of a raging sea. One wave, and it is gone."

"What do you intend to do?" "Buy Clovis off, as you should have. Even now, I am having the gold brought up from the vault. Do not fear. I have instructed the keeper to bury half the gold and show only the rest to the Franks. I'll find someplace to hide you and Marius. I'll tell the Franks you died of your wounds, and we burned your body. I'll claim Marius disappeared into the forest." "I don't know what to say to this, Gaius. I still don't understand why you do not take the people within the walls. Inside, they would be safe. Where they are, they will be massacred." "So much the better reason for them to leave now." Pendra paused then, seeing his friend perplexed, went on. "Lucius, the Franks are going to want more than gold." "You mean you'd barter the gold these people paid you in taxes and then sell them besides?" "Do you want to die, Lucius? "It matters little now. It is my son whose life I would preserve." "Then save him!" "At such a price? We need not surrender at once. I have sent a message to Alaric warning him of what will happen if he doesn't act now." At the mention of Alaric's name, Pendra rolled his eyes heavenward. "And if no help comes, and we are starving?" "Then we can surrender, but not now." "Once you show resistance, the Franks slay without mercy. You know what happened at Noviodunum. I have no taste for decorating a pike with my head." "What about my men? Many of them are wounded. When the Franks search the castle, they will be recognized." "You must give them up, along with your standards." "I cannot hand my men over for slaughter." "It's our lives or theirs," said Pendra. Syagrius made no reply. "Find your boy and bring him here, so we can make our plans." Syagrius sought out a corridor where he knew Marius would pass on his way to the ramparts. There was no telling what his son might do, the procurator realized, if he heard Pendra's scheme unwarned. A cry of despair from outside distracted him. The delegation had brought Pendra's word to the people.

"Do you hear it, father?" Marius said as he entered. "It is their doom. Is there a man more heartless than Pendra?" "How do you come to know Pendra's refusal?" "I saw the delegates on their way out. A man would have to be blind not to know. I always thought Pendra delighted in cruelty. Never have I seen the like of this." "My son, do not speak so harshly of Pendra. He has thought of a way to save us. He is going to buy peace." "And what of your men and your standards?" "They must be given up when the Franks come." "You would give up the eagle you saved yourself and with it the brave men who saved you too, the men who refused to hand you over, even to save their own lives?" Marius asked, dumbfounded. "Is my life is so precious that it be worth the lives of scores who fought to save yours? I'd sooner give myself up to the Franks than live with so much blood on my hands." "The Franks will carry the fort at the first assault. There is no honor in fighting battles you cannot win." "Then let me die alone. Better such a death than to slay my own soul." "We can atone for crimes. There is no remedy for death." "Indeed there is none, father. But all do not die the same. Some men die well, others badly. If I join with you, I only postpone what must be and change a noble end for a sorry one. Our cause may be lost. I will serve it to the end, because I cannot bear its fall." "Marius, even if I wished to prevent this massacre, I could not. Pendra's force is twice mine." "Pendra's men are all mercenaries. I know their leader for a man of honor who will have no part in this treachery. Kill Pendra, and the castle falls to you." "I cannot. Pendra is my friend." "There are ties higher than friendship, father. It is these you will violate, if you let Pendra go his way unchecked." "We have been close since boyhood. He will not forsake us." "But the people? Tell me what their crime was. I have seen them bring Pendra the first fruits of every harvest, mend his roads, tend his cattle. Now he deserts them in their need." "It is a base thing he plans, but..." "Is his desertion any worse than yours will be?"

"Do not be so rash in your pursuit of honor, my son. Worse deeds have been forgotten and forgiven." "Whose pardon you hope for, father, I cannot tell. Nor in whose temple you will sacrifice. For me, there is but one holy place, which I have set up for myself." Marius brought his fist to his chest. "There, as I learned from you, I revere what is noble and despise what is base. That place does not forget a wicked deed, blinded by the smoke of burnt offerings or deafened by jangling bells and gongs." "Pendra rules here. I cannot allow you to raise your hand against him." "Father, I know the way I must travel and will not be turned from it while I live. You see I wear no armor. If you think me wrong, take your sword, strike for my heart. If not, stand aside and let me pass. For I will kill Pendra, or I will die trying." Syagrius stepped back, his arms limp at his side. He wanted desperately to say something, do something that would stop everything now. Nothing seemed right. Marius went forth as his father sank into himself. With a start, Syagrius realized that his son had put himself in deadly peril. He grabbed his sword and started after him. There was a commotion somewhere below. Old Soldier appeared. "Sir..." he began, "Pendra sent a lackey to spy on you. He breathes no more. Your son is fallen." "Does he live still? I'll go to him." "He is beyond our help." "You let him die?" "Pendra struck without warning." "My son! My son!" "Pendra comes here to kill you." "Let him. I have nothing left to fight for." "My men will not assist him." Pendra marched in, carrying Marius' long sword. Several men-at-arms were with him. "Seize him and kill him," he shouted, pointing to Syagrius. Old Soldier made a sign. No man moved. "You heard my command. Kill him!" "It is by you these men are fed and paid, Pendra," Old Soldier said. "But I led them here and am leader still. You have murdered the boy I loved. Defend yourself, if you can!"

Pendra looked about desperately. He slashed clumsily at Syagrius with the sword. The procurator sprang aside. His answering stroke nearly severed Pendra's head from his body. He collapsed and died without a sound, his blood spilling out of him into a pool beside his corpse. "Marius! Marius!" Syagrius cried, reversing his sword in his hand. "My blade will bring me across the gap that parts us." "No," Old Soldier commanded. "Put up your sword and live. Do not let your son die for naught. Lead us against the Franks! My men will obey me. Yours trust only you. Without you, we cannot fight. The people will be lost." Syagrius hesitated. Old Soldier knelt and took the signet ring from Pendra's finger. He pressed it into Syagrius' hand. Then he drew his sword and saluted. The men-at-arms did the same. Syagrius looked up and nodded. He sheathed his sword, put on the ring. "Tell your men to open the gates," he told Old Soldier. "Admit the people. As soon as all are within, secure the portal, raise the bridge and put the garrison under arms." "Yes, commander," Old Soldier answered as he departed. Syagrius looked hard at the signet ring. "Marius' life for my soul," he murmured. Then, to the men-at-arms, "Take up Pendra's body and bear it once around the battlements. Bid all clash their weapons in salute, for he was your commander. "Bring me to my son that I may mourn him. We shall lay him atop a funeral pyre, with this dog, Pendra, at his feet." XIII Four days later, Clovis invested the fort. He set his men to building a huge ramp that would carry them to the top of its walls. The work went slowly. The Franks had hardly any digging tools and had to cut the earth with their swords and carry it in their cloaks. "Clovis has no patience for this kind of work," said Old Soldier as he looked out over the construction. "He'd much prefer to rush us, cost what it might. You must have bloodied him badly at Nogentum. He probably took heavy losses at Noviodunum too. Some of the tribes may be losing their enthusiasm for his holy cause." The builders were still well out of catapult range when a messenger came to the gate under a white flag and demanded to speak to Syagrius. It was Albius. Syagrius came to the parapet. "My king, Clovis, rightful ruler of Gaul," Albius proclaimed, "would speak with the sometime 'King of the Romans' about the surrender of this place and an end to your hopeless resistance."

Syagrius was about to give a defiant answer, when Old Soldier tapped him on the shoulder. "It can do no harm to speak with him," he said quietly. "Perhaps we can learn something in his camp, get an idea of what he is planning." "He'll probably murder us both." "I don't think so. It's the fort he wants. Killing us won't get it." Turning to Albius, Syagrius shouted down, "When shall we meet?" "In one hour." "Very well." As soon as Albius was gone, Syagrius turned to Old Soldier. "Do you think it wise that both of us should go? If Clovis kills or captures us, there will be no one to take charge of the fort." "Put your centurion in command. I want to meet Clovis, see how he thinks. He has no idea who I am. I will wear no badge of rank. To him, I'll just be your escort." "Let's get some horses. I don't want to go anywhere near that savage without a good mount close by." *** Syagrius has seen the woman naked on the cross from a long way off and wondered what devilment Clovis was up to now. If he thinks he can frighten me with his cruelty, the Roman thought, he's badly mistaken. Because of the blood and the bruises on her face, Syagrius did not recognize her until he was past the guard posts at the edge of the camp. "Julia," he gasped. Then, under his breath, "Save yourself, Old Soldier. I'm going to kill him." "That will be no help to Julia." They rode on in silence. "Can you make a throw from horseback at ten paces?" "Clovis?" "No." "I understand. When?" "I will kneel to Clovis. When my knee touches the ground, throw."

"I will." Syagrius dismounted and started toward the throne where Clovis sat. Old Soldier stayed in the saddle. A stocky Frank barred the procurator's way. "Your sword, Roman." "When I am dead," replied Syagrius, brushing the man aside. There was a movement among the guards. Old Soldier thought it might come to blood right there. He set his hand on his javelin. Clovis shook his head and beckoned Syagrius onward. The procurator passed unopposed. Syagrius kept his eyes on Clovis, forced himself not to look at Julia at all. Syagrius halted far enough from the throne to let Clovis feel safe. The huge chair was made of human bones, decorated with skulls and draped in purple. Behind it hung a banner with the Merovingian crest of a white horse rising from the sea embroidered upon it. The young man who sat before him had his blond hair and beard stiffened with lime and braided into long strands to make him appear even more ferocious. There was scarcely an inch of his tunic that was not adorned with some enormous jewel. On his head was a golden crown Syagrius recognized as stolen from the temple of Jupiter in his city. Before the Frank lay a heap of silver vessels the procurator remembered from his best table service. Behind him stood Bishop Remigius, rubbing his chubby hands together. "What say you now, King of the Romans?" Clovis sneered. "I am Lucius Syagrius, procurator of North Gaul," Syagrius said. "I have come to hear your terms." "They are simple: Deliver the fort and all within to me, or your woman dies by torture." "No, Lucius, no!" Julia cried. "I'd sooner burn alive than see you do that." Her voice broke, and she gave a hoarse scream as the hot iron touched her thigh. The torturer let the iron lie against Julia's flesh for a moment before he tore it away. Another scream. Syagrius set his teeth but did not move. "The fort is not mine to give," he replied. "Pendra commands there. I offer my life in exchange for hers." Clovis grinned. "Your life means nothing now, son of Aegidius. Your army is gone. Your city is mine. You can live to be a hundred for all I care." He nodded, and Julia strained against the cords as the iron seared her flesh again. "What terms will you give?" "You have heard them."

"May I speak with her?" "A moment only." Clovis signed for the torturers to withdraw, leaving Syagrius alone before the cross. At first, he was mute for anger and shame as he looked at the slight body he had so cherished, now so scarred and burned. He spoke in Greek. "Julia, I was a fool, and..." "Marius?" she gasped. "He is - with Pendra." "Lucius, you did what you thought right. I was proud to help. I only regret I was taken alive. Nothing they can do to me will change that. The pain I can bear, but not having you sacrifice those people for me. I did not wear your armor, face the fury of the Franks on our walls to see you grovel before that beast." Syagrius composed his features and spoke quickly. "Julia, this is farewell. When I kneel to Clovis, hold yourself erect, close your eyes and don't flinch. You shall not sleep the endless night alone. I'll put us both beyond his reach." "Live, Lucius." "Why?" "So many have died because they believed in you. You cannot fail them now." "I will not go on without you." "Your life is not your own, Lucius. It belongs to me and those who died to save it." "And you?" "I will endure what must be." "So will I." "Enough, Roman, I grow impatient," Clovis barked as he signaled the torturers. Syagrius stepped back, his face a mask to hide the agony that was splitting his soul. "I thank you, son of Childeric. But I need time to consider." Clovis raised his hand. Another scream.

"Consider that." "Once more, I offer you my life for hers." "Do not waste my time, Roman. I have but to snap my fingers, and you would join her. It's the fort I want and without a fight. Your foolishness has cost me enough already." "You will have my answer shortly." Syagrius started to depart. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to face Clovis and bent his knee to the ground in homage, bowing his head. A stir went through the crowd. Every eye, save one, was on him. Clovis' bodyguard threw up their shields when they saw Old Soldier raise his javelin. Julia jerked once at her bonds and then slumped forward, beyond pain. In seconds, Syagrius was mounted and galloping for the fort, Old soldier a few yards behind. The Franks started in pursuit. Clovis bade them stand easy. He knew when he was beaten. XIV Within a week, the ramp was twenty feet high and forty wide. Parties were cutting timber to build walls to protect the builders and then the soldiers who would come up the incline. Syagrius went about his duties like an automaton, sharpening the edge back on his sword, checking guard posts, strengthening weak spots in the old walls, calculating the trajectories of the catapults, looking over lists of provisions, deciding how they were to be portioned out. He chose the most complicated tasks for himself, anything that would keep his mind from the past. Only the promise he'd given to Julia kept him from opening his wrists or hurling himself from the battlements. Old Soldier was with him often, talking of military matters and the battles he had seen. He had no love of war. He had seen too much death. Soldiering was the only life he'd known since leaving home as a teenager. "Perhaps I was born to be a soldier," he remarked. "It seems certain I will die one, killing Franks. From what you tell me, and what I have seen, they are more in need of killing than most." Old Soldier shrugged. "And I thought I'd found a soft billet when I signed on with Pendra." Syagrius and Old Soldier watched Clovis' preparations. "Once they come within catapult range, we can slow them down a bit," said Old Soldier. "That's about all. We don't have much ammunition. The stones we do have aren't heavy enough to smash through that breastwork. We can mount a sortie or two and try to set the timbers on fire, but Clovis will be looking for that." "What do you advise?" "You'll have to go for help."

"I've already sent messengers to Alaric." "I know that little weasel," Old Soldier said. "I thought about taking service with him, years ago. Pendra was the better choice. "He'll pay no attention to any messenger. You'll have to go yourself, invoke the treaty, ask for help in front of his whole court, tell him you need the force he said he would send. You might be able to shame him into giving you an army or at least letting you raise one in his territory. Your name would be a rallying cry for everyone in Gaul who hates Clovis and fears his rule." "That could take weeks, months. I can't just ride off and leave you." "It's the only chance we have. If we don't get help before that ramp reaches our walls, Clovis will storm the place and kill us all. Knowing help is coming might make him break off the siege and go home. "He could still decide to rush us before the ramp is done anyway. It would cost him a thousand, maybe two thousand, of his Franks. Casualties don't concern him. That scene in his camp was more about humiliating you than saving his men." "How can I get out of the fort?" "Pendra had a tunnel dug a few years ago in case he had to make off with his gold. It runs from the wine cellar to the embankment of the river. The Franks haven't found it yet. "Can't we use it to get everyone away?" "The Franks would be after us in no time. In open country, we wouldn't have a chance. One man might get through. "The tunnel will get you clear of their front. The sentries in the rear won't be expecting anyone and may be drunk as well. You should be able to slip past them easily. Once you're gone, I'll have the tunnel sealed." "And if Alaric won't help." "We'll be no worse off. We can't surrender, unless we want to be roasted alive or boiled in pots. My men and I prefer a soldier's death. I'm sure yours feel the same way. Whatever day the Franks take this place will be a good day to die." Syagrius took the old man's hand. "I would have preferred to perish with you in that fight. I see you are wiser than I." In a solemn torchlight ceremony the next evening, Syagrius turned over the command of his men to Old Soldier, explaining their situation and instructing them to obey him in all things unto death. "I shall return with help," he promised, "or I shall not return at all. If you do not see me again, know that I have found an honorable end. I expect no less from you."

The men clashed their weapons in salute. Old Soldier brought Syagrius to the end of the tunnel. They could feel the cool air from outside. The passage was too low for a horse, so the procurator was on foot. "There is an iron door that opens inward," Old Soldier explained. "When you move it, the earth and brush piled outside may make a noise. If anyone is nearby, you'll have to kill him before an alarm can be raised." The two men embraced before Syagrius slipped silently into the night. XV The Roman waited until he was a few miles away before stealing a horse and making for Tolosa, disguised as a Frankish scout. He spoke enough of their language to pass. He kept to the woods by day, eating the dried venison Old Soldier had given him and moving only at night. Twice he outran Frankish patrols. Had it not been for his mission, he'd have stood and fought, no matter what the odds. Only when he had crossed the Liger into Alaric's domain did he risk riding by day. Even so, he spoke to no one and kept his face well hidden, his hand never far from his sword. As he made his way southward, he pondered what he would say to Alaric. Appearing before him unannounced might provoke him to act rashly. Some preparations were in order. Syagrius decided to stop at Augustineum to ask help of Sidonius, once a comrade in arms, long since a bishop of the Roman church. His letters were famous throughout the West with nine books of them published, although only two of his epistles to the procurator had been included. A letter of introduction from him to the king would lower many barriers. Alaric had no love for the bishop, but he feared the prelate's pen and the ridicule it could bring him. Sidonius would know how to sound just the right tones of exhortation and warning to move that weakling. Syagrius remembered how Recared had admired Sidonius' style, although he thought it a bit florid, and wished he could meet him face to face, if only for the theological debate the bishop was always urging. Three days later, Sidonius was out for his evening stroll, taking the twilight air. He passed a ragged traveler with his head bowed deeply beneath his cowl. "You are chosen," the man said, "as advisor and judge. As soon as you utter a decision, it is received with respect." The bishop stopped in his tracks to hear his letter to Syagrius quoted. He whirled to look at the stranger. "Lucius," he gasped. "Aye, Sollius." The bishop ordered his servant to go on ahead. "I see before me," he told him, "a sinner pressed down by the burden of his transgressions, who fears the judgment of God and seeks absolution. I must speak to him alone."

"I have come to ask your help in reaching Alaric," Syagrius whispered. Sidonius nodded. "Walk beside me," the bishop ordered. "Keep your head low, as if you were confessing your sins and asking God's pardon, as well you should." "The absolution I need is not from you, dear friend." "Come with me to my house. Clovis has stormed the fort, slain all within. His scouts and spies are looking for you everywhere." Syagrius was speechless for anger and remorse. When they had reached the bishop's townhouse, Sidonius ordered food and a room prepared. "I have brought with me a hapless pilgrim known to me from my student days," he told the servants, "who has met with great misfortune on the road. He wishes only to be left in peace until his spirit can be healed, and he can continue his pious journey. Let him not be disturbed unless it be by myself." The two sat together in the dark as Syagrius narrated all he knew. The bishop turned his face to the wall and wept when he heard how Recared had perished. "That man was a heretic," Sidonius lamented, "died in his errors. But he was always generous to the poor, the sick and the unfortunate, quick to do and say the right, more Christian than many who proclaim the True Faith. I cannot believe God would not see his goodness and take him to Himself. I shall remember Recared in my prayers while I live and seek him among the holy martyrs in Heaven, when it shall please the Lord to call me home. Remigius," the bishop added, pressing his lips together, "I will leave to God, knowing that vengeance is His." Sidonius set his pen to work that evening and sent two messages off the next day at first light, one to Alaric and the other to Alaric's mother, Ragnahild. "If that child had half his mother's courage," Sidonius explained, "he'd have had an army with you at Nogentum. She is a heretic, an Arian like Recared, and a barbarian to boot, but she is brave and honest. Would that she had been able to pass those virtues on to her son!" XVI Syagrius waited three days for a response. It came with a messenger galloping through the open gate into the cobblestone courtyard with word from Ragnahild. Albius, he reported, had already been in Tolosa, threatening the king with Clovis' wrath, if Syagrius were not handed over to him at once. Alaric had received Sidonius' letter and told Albius where to find the procurator, all the while begging to be counted the faithful servant of the new ruler of the North. Albius and his men were only a few hours behind. Syagrius saw no escape. He saw only that he had brought trouble on his friend, who would surely be punished for daring to harbor him. Sidonius had another idea. "Alaric may betray you. I will not," the bishop said firmly. "I have among my medicines a potion that will simulate death for several hours. Drink it. I will tell Albius you took

poison out of shame for your defeat. I will lay out your 'body' for him to see." "Albius will insist on examining everything, maybe even taking back my head with him." Syagrius objected. "He won't be fooled." "We have the remains of a stranger found yesterday beside the road. The corpse awaits burial in the chapel. It has lain three days in the sun, and the monks can barely stand the stench. I will have the body brought here and put beneath your bier, covered by the hanging cloth, so it cannot be seen. I doubt Albius will want to remain long in its presence." Sidonius brought Syagrius a tiny vial. He drained the bitter liquid at a gulp. "Have I drunk death?" he asked, half in hope. Sidonius shook his head. "A real poison might have been better," the Roman remarked as he felt his legs grow heavy and his breathing slow. "You will see many things," Sidonius told Syagrius, as he lay down on the long table that was to be his catafalque. "All are of your mind and can do you no harm. Voidness cannot injure voidness. Meet them with courage and heed what they have to say. Your old path is ended, and you must find a new one." By the time Albius marched into the courtyard, Sidonius was ready. When Clovis' henchman demanded to be taken to Syagrius that he might put on him the chains he carried, the bishop and four of his strongest monks ushered Albius and his soldiers into the storeroom he had prepared. The whole party spontaneously covered their noses. "It is good that you have come, worthy Albius," said Sidonius. "The poison Syagrius took last night is rotting his body from the inside. We shall have to bury him soon. I rejoice to have someone as trustworthy as yourself see him dead and bring word to the victorious Clovis that the King of the Romans is no more." Albius looked down at the corpse before him and snorted. "I had hoped to bring this sometime king to Clovis myself," he said. "The way he's stinking now, he wouldn't be fit company for a herd of swine." Then, turning to one of his escort, "Find a bucket and fill it with wine." The man went out quickly. Albius raised his sword. "At least, I can bring my king this usurper's head." Sidonius was an old man, but the strength and speed of his athletic youth and his soldierly middle age had not deserted him. He used the crook of his bishop's staff to catch Albius' arm and whirl him around. "Under my roof," the bishop declared, "the dead are not defiled!" Albius' men drew their swords. The monks took tight hold of their staves. The look on the bishop's face told Albius he would be the first to fall, if it came to blows. "Very well." Albius conceded, lowering his weapon. "My king shall hear of this defiance." "Let him," answered Sidonius. "But beware my letter to him about your barbarity does not precede you." Albius sheathed his sword. He knew Clovis needed the support of the Roman Church. A complaint

from one of its most respected bishops would not be taken lightly. Albius bowed to the bishop and stalked out, followed by his men. XVII Syagrius found himself walking on a deserted road in the evening twilight. On either side of him were two cloaked figures. He was unarmed but felt no fear as they followed an overgrown path into a dark wood. Great fires seemed to be burning in the distance, yet Syagrius could smell no smoke and feel no heat. Suddenly, they stopped. "We go no farther," one of the figures said. "You are at the border between life and death. Do not return here until you have heard what you must hear and seen what you must see." Syagrius strode onward. It was full dark now without moon or stars. The woods were bathed in the glow from the fires that made it easy to find his way. A tall woman in armor stood before him, rising seemingly out of the earth itself. She was so heavily veiled he could not make out her face. "Publius Lucius Syagrius," she said, stretching out her arm, "you come seeking forgiveness. There is none for you here. Turn back, wretch." Syagrius continued his advance despite her command. Voidness cannot injure voidness, he repeated to himself. "You have come before me," he said. "You stand in my way. Tell me what message you have brought or be gone." "Once, with your sword," the woman went on, "you thought to pass this barrier. It will not open for you until the balance is struck, until the debt is paid, until the dead who believed in you are at rest. Look now beyond me, if you dare." A mist swirled behind the woman. In it, Syagrius made out the familiar figures of his friends, then Silvius, then his son, his wife and Old Soldier, behind them his legion, rank on rank, all bearing the wounds that had sent them from this life. No one spoke. Syagrius fell on his knees, covered his eyes. "Why do you not permit me to join them?" he demanded. "Those who have bought your life with their own will not receive you." "What are you that you torment me so? I cannot bear such a sight," he cried. "No man can. I shall go mad." "You will not see them again," the woman replied, "until my seer lifts with her blood the curse that follows you. The Furies that pursue you will show no mercy until the Dark Goddess commands." "Forgive me!" Syagrius pleaded to the figures already fading into the thickening mist. "It is not theirs to forgive," she intoned. "Your pardon comes in another time and place, when you bring pride and honor to the forsaken, when my child wears armor not her own, when your pride has left you,

when your only wish is to serve. "Now go and trouble us no more." Syagrius collapsed, writhing in pain of body and spirit. Sidonius and two of his cowled monks held him fast until he stopped trembling. "Albius is gone," Sidonius told his friend. "Now we must get you out of Augustineum. Head east, then south. I will write to Clovis, describing Albius' misdeeds at length but urging that 'most wise and puissant monarch,'" Sidonius grimaced, "to pardon them as the zealous acts of his most loyal servant, done only to please his sovereign lord, the defender of the True Faith. I will humbly suggest that Clovis might even consider rewarding Albius for his 'success' in returning you to Noviodunum for an ignominious secret execution as befits your heinous crime. That tale should satisfy both his vanity and his historians." Before he left, Syagrius gave Sidonius his sword with its ivory scabbard trimmed in gold. "This weapon," he said, "I have from the Emperor's own hand. It will be recognized everywhere and bring Clovis on my trail, endangering everyone I meet. I want you to keep it, my friend." "I am now a man of God," Sidonius objected. "I ask only that you hide it in a safe place. I shall not come for it again, but I do not want it to be among Clovis' trophies. Let my sword be the one spoil of war he never gets." "There is a lake by my summer villa. How deep it is, no man knows. Your friend Sidonius will see to it that your sword takes its place in those depths." Sidonius gave Syagrius his best horse and sent him off, ostensibly a messenger with letters to the Pope in Rome. Before he left, the two embraced solemnly in the old Roman manner, forearm to hand. Sidonius was wearing the toga he had put on the day he had been elected prefect of Rome - it seemed an age ago - after one of his speeches had earned him a statue in the forum, a garment he had not worn since the province had fallen to the Goths. It was like saying farewell to his Roman citizenship yet again, he said, his eyes full. "We shall not see each other again in this life, Sollius," Syagrius replied. "I will remember your friendship and your courage as long as I breathe." "You are the last Roman in the West," Sidonius told him, "and my last friend from those happy days." The bishop raised his hand in blessing. "May God protect you from all Rome's enemies and see you home at last!" So Syagrius rode east and then south, through a tortured landscape of feuding petty kings and a shattered empire. There was no lack of work and opportunity for a skilled commander, who seemed to bear a charmed life, whom men would follow into every peril. He led Burgundians against Alemani, Goths against Lombards, Lombards against Vandals, Vandals against Persians. Always some greedy chief or ambitious royal sibling wanted his services. With Rome gone, one army was as good as another.

Then someone would tell the tale of the King of the Romans, perhaps in a month, perhaps in a year, perhaps at a banquet, perhaps around a campfire. Syagrius would move on, pursued by demons no one else could see. He was reported in Ravenna, in Athens, in Antioch, in Palermo, in Jerusalem, in Constantinople. In the New Rome, he thought of offering his services to the Emperor. Certainly these New Romans needed better commanders than court fops and favorite sons who could scarcely handle a sword, let alone an army. Too much was for sale in the city on the Bosporus. Syagrius turned away, sickened. Clovis heard the rumors too. He proclaimed them lies, this "Syagrius" an imposter. He would allow no one to speak of him. Finally, Syagrius took ship for Africa.

PART TWO MATALA I Syagrius did not know how he kept on swimming, sometimes on his back, sometimes on his side. He had shed his clothing as soon as he had come to the surface, Now he paddled onward, naked. The storm, he could see, was subsiding, the clouds dispersing, the waves becoming smaller. The stars told him he was swimming north. When dawn broke, he was surprised to see mountains on the horizon. He hadn't thought Crete was so close. His arms and legs barely answered his will, yet something seemed to keep him from sinking. The seamen might have been right, he said to himself. Perhaps he was bad luck for any ship. Once they knew who he was, they blamed him for the gale that followed them, night and day. They'd been glad enough to have him on board, though, when the mast threatened to fall. No one else had the nerve to go aloft and secure the yard before it punched a hole in the hull. When the great wave swept him over the side, someone threw a float after him. No ship could put about in that weather, even if they'd wanted to. He couldn't find the float, decided not to waste any more of his strength looking for it in the darkness. He struck out for Crete, the nearest land, though he hardly believed he'd ever reach it. Suddenly, there was a hissing noise close by like air escaping from a bladder as a dolphin surfaced beside him. Syagrius was startled. He had thought at first it was a shark come to finish him off. What happened next startled him even more. The tiny whale stayed beside him, keeping pace with his feeble strokes. Syagrius put out his hand to shove the creature away. The dolphin dipped his body so that Syagrius' arm slipped across his back. By reflex, he took hold of the dorsal fin when it touched his palm. The dolphin set off at a brisk pace, staying on the surface and towing him toward the distant

shore. About an hour later, the dolphin submerged and left him. It was mid-morning by now, and Syagrius swam on, closing slowly on the beach in the distance. He could see a small ship drawn up on the sand and a knot of struggling figures nearby. He was going to stand up in the shallows and call for help, but some instinct warned him to keep low, see what was happening ashore first. He let the waves hide the top of his head as he worked his way toward the stern of the ship, keeping its hull between him and the commotion. He felt his strength returning. At the center of a ring of men was a tall, red haired woman wearing a green cloak. She had a short, curved dagger in her left hand, and she knew how to use it. One of the men was already nursing a deep cut on his arm. A second had come close to losing his nose. They must want to take her alive, Syagrius thought, as he heard their leader, an Egyptian by the look of his dirty white robe, order two of his crew to fetch a net from the ship. Slave traders, Syagrius concluded. But what are they doing here? There were plenty of slaves for sale in any marketplace. No need to snatch women off the beach. This was abduction. The Egyptian was coming back to the ship, shouting in bad Greek for his men to hurry, when Syagrius intervened. He stood up behind the slaver who turned when he heard the splash. "Who - who are you?" he asked, dumbfounded at the sight of a naked man not a yard from him. "I am Lucius Syagrius, and I want to know..." "I'm Scaphrax, and you'll mind your own business," the Egyptian snapped, as he pulled a knife from his sash and slashed at the Roman. Syagrius blocked the clumsy blow, knocking the weapon from Scaphrax' hand. He spun him around, clamping his arm around the slaver's throat. The Egyptian's cry had alarmed his men who turned away from the woman and hurried to aid their master. "Tell them to stand back, or I'll crush your windpipe," Syagrius ordered. Scaphrax obeyed. His men stood uncertain, as Syagrius waded ashore, dragging the slaver with him. "Come with me to the temple," the woman whispered. "We can hold them off there." As soon as he saw the way was clear, Syagrius flung the Egyptian at his crew and used the confusion to follow the woman across the sand and up a narrow staircase to an opening cut in the rocks. She vanished into the darkness beyond, returning a moment later with a rusty sword and a piece of cloth to wrap around his loins.

"I'll fetch a shield," she said, as she disappeared again. The oblong shield's leather was rotten, but the brass fastenings still held, and the wood was sound. "Votive offerings from the temple," the woman explained. "I'm Cassandra, the priestess here." Scaphrax was literally jumping up and down with rage, calling his men every filthy name imaginable. "My bowstring is damp," Cassandra told Syagrius. "Otherwise, I'd clear that pack off the beach right now." She paused. "If it comes to a fight, I'll cover your back." A patrol of soldiers had come into view, moving slowly down the beach. Syagrius braced himself in the doorway and watched them approach. The Egyptian had come to the foot of the steps, shouting to the troops to hurry, heaping abuse on his own men for their cowardice. The soldiers picked up their pace. The Egyptian hastened to meet them. Syagrius could see the squadron commander as he stood in silence listening to the slaver's tale. The officer was not a large man, but the ease and grace of his movements marked him as one to be reckoned with in any contest where speed and skill counted more than brute strength. His carefully polished armor was made of small, curved plates overlapping one another like the scales of a fish, light and easy to move around in, elegant, but not much protection against anything more than a glancing blow. His helmet was of iron with the cheek pieces gilded. Instead of a plume, a bronze scorpion crouched above the visor. Syagrius could not hear the conversation and could tell that the officer was speaking only by the occasional silences of the Egyptian. The officer was of high rank, it seemed, and not at all impressed by the scroll the slaver kept flourishing. "If your men won't do it," the Egyptian shrieked, "mine will. Go on!" he cried, turning to his crew. "Five silver pieces for his head." The slaver's crew started slowly up the stairs. Syagrius looked at the soldiers to see what they would do. The officer sat down on a rock and told his troops to stand at ease. One of the crew had a spear and was looking for a chance to throw. Syagrius gave it to him as he leaned to one side and lowered his shield, apparently speaking to the priestess behind him. The man threw. Syagrius ducked and let the weapon sail over his head to clatter on the floor behind him. Cassandra picked up the spear and brought it to him before the slavers could get more than a few steps nearer, leaving them bunched on the stairs with no cover or retreat. Syagrius considered trying to hit the Egyptian. But the throw would be a long one. He might just as easily hit the officer or come close enough to make it his fight. Syagrius looked toward the slavers, cocked his arm and made as if to throw. The men on the staircase cringed and scrambled backward, falling over one another in their flight. Syagrius started to pick a target, then thought better of it. No one had been killed yet. Putting a spear in someone's back might make it necessary to take on the soldiers too. Scaphrax was in a frenzy and berated his men furiously as he urged them forward again. No one

moved. He turned to the officer. "We can't do anything, Valens. My men have no shields, and he's got a spear. What are you and your soldiers paid for? That she-devil is my lawful property. That rogue is depriving me of it," he went on, pointing to the document in his hand, "and you just stand there and watch him do it. I'll complain to Constantinople. I'll go to Carthage. See if I don't! I have friends there. Valerius won't be any help to you then." At this, the officer stiffened. It looked for a moment as if he might strike the Egyptian. Scaphrax stepped back quickly as the officer answered something Syagrius could not hear. The officer borrowed a shield from one of his soldiers and started up the stairs. The troops started to follow, but he motioned them back. He came on slowly, keeping behind his shield, offering no clear target. Syagrius balanced the spear for a throw. The priestess laid a hand on his arm. "Don't," she whispered. "You can trust him." The officer came carefully up the steps until he was about ten feet away. "Do you speak Greek?" he asked. "Latin too, if you like," was the reply. "My name is Flavius Valens," the officer continued in an easy Latin. "I am first centurion and command the garrison here. Who are you?" A wave of memories swept over Syagrius on hearing that name. "Lucius Syagrius," he answered. Then, after a pause, "Once I was called 'King of the Romans.'" Syagrius had no idea what had led him to divulge the past he had struggled so long to hide. Did this temple still have the power to make men speak the truth inside its walls? The centurion's eyes narrowed. "I have heard of you. What has brought you to us?" "I was washed overboard from my ship, bound for Tangier. They could not turn back. I swam ashore and found this gang trying to carry off the priestess." The two men looked at each other. Syagrius could see that Valens was at least two decades younger with features that revealed an ancestry only partly Greek. He was a handsome man, but his countenance showed a sadness beyond his years. "Is Cassandra all right?" Valens asked, his tone softening. "I'm still here," the priestess replied, stepping between them, "thanks to this man."

"Come with me," Valens offered. "I'll take you to the procurator. You will not be harmed. You have my word." "And Cassandra?" "I'll post a guard. My men could keep off a hundred of these clowns," Valens assured him, gesturing to the slavers who were licking their wounds below. "I'll be in no danger," Cassandra said. "Flavius will leave his guards. I'll dry out my bow string." "Very well, I'll come," Syagrius agreed, handing the priestess his weapons. He followed Valens down the stairs and watched while he posted four of his soldiers. "It's not lunch time yet," Valens told him. "Valerius may still be good for some business." Then, turning to Scaphrax, "You can take your paper to the procurator, if you like. See what he makes of it." Scaphrax glared at Valens but said nothing as he rolled up the scroll and put it back in his pouch. Syagrius and Valens walked off, followed by the rest of the patrol, leaving the Egyptian and his crew facing the four soldiers. They had gone some distance before Syagrius ventured a question. "What was on that scroll the Egyptian kept waving?" "Some kind of affidavit from the bishop in Mires saying Cassandra owes him so much money he's entitled to sell her. He's even attached a bill of sale to Scaphrax." "You mean that slaver actually paid him, just because of that paper?" Valens chuckled wryly. "If any money changed hands, it went from the bishop to Scaphrax. He's been looking to get rid of Cassandra for years. He'd have done away with her a long time ago, if he could find a way to keep his name out of it. I thought something like this might be in the wind when I heard Scaphrax had visited the bishop, and when I saw his ship passing so close to shore. "Once he'd got her off the island, Scaphrax could have used that scroll to sell Cassandra to someone else or auction her off in Africa. I doubt he'll chance appearing before Valerius with it, though. The bishop would pretend to know nothing about the transaction. Scaphrax would be lucky not to find himself arrested for forgery and kidnapping. He'd probably get off, but Valerius wouldn't mind keeping him in chains for a few months until everything was straightened out. It would be very bad for Scaphrax's business." "Why didn't you arrest him back there?" Syagrius asked. Valens sighed. "Arrest him? I'd have preferred slitting his throat. But Scaphrax and all the pirates and slavers around here are connected with the Vandals in Carthage. Valerius has orders from Constantinople not to do anything that might provoke them. The Empire is too busy with the Persians to take on the pirates too. The Vandals aren't stupid, though. They know Valerius is an honorable man.

They're not willing to back just any fool who might push him too far." "That's why you didn't press the attack," Syagrius observed. "We're two of a kind," Valens said thoughtfully. "We should not fight. But that's not a story for now." He did not speak again as they walked toward the citadel. Looking down at the sword Valens wore at his left, Syagrius observed that the hilt was offset with an odd twist, obviously a custom made weapon built to fit his gloved hand which seemed somehow misshapen. His dagger showed the same workmanship. Now that the centurion was no longer carrying a shield, Syagrius could also see that Valens' right arm was twisted as well. The path was rough and steep. It had once been wide enough for chariots. Now most of the stones were loose, and it was only practical for a man on foot. Ahead was the broken outer wall of the Greek fort. Beyond it lay the Roman fort, the only part of the whole complex not in ruins. "Earthquakes," Valens explained as they approached. "We have them all the time, mostly just enough to rattle the crockery, sometimes a lot more." The soldiers at the gate came to attention momentarily as they passed and then went back to lounging in the shade. Outside of these two and the soldiers from Valens' patrol, Syagrius saw no one in armor. He looked for the exercise grounds or the war machines but saw nothing save weed-grown fields and piles of rotten lumber. Valens stopped one of the men who was walking across the courtyard. "Is the procurator at lunch yet?" "I think so. He came back from town about an hour ago," the man answered. Valens frowned but said nothing. Although there was no hint of disrespect in the soldier's reply, it was obvious that he had long since lost any trace of military bearing. It was also clear that the centurion had other things on his mind more important than military protocol. Valens thanked the trooper, dismissed the squad and told Syagrius to follow him. "There is no hurry to meet the procurator," Valens advised. "It can wait until tomorrow. Let's get something to eat in the meantime. I think we might find a place for you here." After Valens had drawn a tunic and a robe for Syagrius from the stores, he led him up a worn stairway to the officers' mess. The two decurions rose momentarily as they entered. Seeing Syagrius, one of them pulled an extra chair over to the table and got a place setting and a cup for the newcomer. A moment later, the cook brought in the salad, the bread and the meat, while Valens poured out the wine. As he ate, Syagrius expected to be questioned by the other two officers. But Valens must have given them a sign. No one said anything out of the ordinary. The wine circulated freely, and the men were at ease with one another. Syagrius noticed, however, that Valens did not remove his gloves, even at the table.

When they had finished eating, Valens turned to one of the decurions. "Marcus, take a squad up to the temple and relieve the men I left there until Scaphrax gets under way, unless, of course, he's still fool enough to want to see the procurator. Considering how Valerius is probably feeling right now, Scaphrax would get a good deal more from him than he wants." "Right." Both decurions chuckled as they rose and left. Valens kept silence until they were out the door. "As you can see," he explained, "we don't have a real officers' mess here. There's a second centurion, but he's usually with the garrison at Timbakion. Either I eat with my senior decurion and his second, or I take my meals alone - unless the procurator invites me to his table." Valens' expression told Syagrius that these invitations were not entirely welcome. "Let's find you some quarters," Valens said as he stood up. "We have plenty of empty rooms upstairs." The two men climbed a second flight of steps to a long corridor over the mess. A dozen chambers stood open and deserted. "We used to have a whole cohort stationed here," Valens remarked. "That was long before my time, when Constantinople still cared about this place. "Take any room you like. There's bedding and furniture stored below. I will tell the storekeeper to give you whatever you need. Once you have a mattress, get some rest. We can talk more later." Until Valens made this offer, Syagrius had not realized how exhausted he was. His legs barely held him up until he could set down the mattress and stretch out on the creaking bed. He was asleep in a moment, not even taking the time to undress. The first time in as long as he could remember, he did not dream. II It was full dark, and Syagrius had no idea of the time when he awoke. The moon had set, and the stars gave the only light. He felt restless, so he lit the lamp he had drawn from the stores. Why, he thought, had he told Valens his name? Any of the dozen he'd used in the past would have done as well. Now he would have to move on, stay only long enough to find another ship that would let him work his passage to Africa. He noticed some scrolls in an open canister on the floor and was curious what they might be. He fished one out and unrolled it on the table, a copy of Plato's Symposium. Whoever lived here last, he mused, had good taste in philosophers. He began to read. When he reached the place where Agathon was said to be "gone to feast with peaceful kings," he sighed and wondered where those kings ruled today. I doubt they'd need a man like me there anyway, he thought to himself as he turned back to the scroll. When he reached for the lamp to bring it nearer, he noticed a movement in the shadows just outside the door. He was about to call out when Cassandra stepped into view, her red hair falling to her elbows and a necklace of amber beads about her neck. Around her waist was a belt of silver plates linked together from which hung her dagger. Her feet were bare.

Syagrius was surprised. He had heard no one approaching. She stood for a moment in the lamp light. Then she laid her necklace on the table and unfastened her blue gown at the shoulder, revealing her small, firm breasts, tanned as dark as the rest of her skin. She smiled at him but said nothing. Syagrius hesitated, bewildered. It had been so long since he had allowed himself the comfort of a woman. "You don't have to do this," he said slowly. "Oh, but I do," she answered firmly, opening the clasp of her belt and laying it beside the necklace. The plates made a soft sound of metal on wood as they spread over the table. "The goddess changes everything she touches. Everything she touches changes." Cassandra blew out the lamp, then reached for the belt on his robe. Her nipples tightened at his touch. He felt her flesh grew warm. She returned his tentative kisses, her tongue nearly as sharp as her dagger. Her body felt almost hard, save for the softness between her thighs. She made no sound, only pressing him close as though he were all that kept her from dissolving into the darkness. For a time, she could not open, and Syagrius did not want to hurt her. She drew him inside her with a calm insistence then lay beneath him, scarcely moving, her arms locked around him. At last, some spring seemed to snap. Her whole body began to heave and surge, carrying his to a release like the opening of a floodgate sealed for years. Only a short gasp and the clenching of her fists in his back told him her climax had come. Even when they had separated, Cassandra did not speak, only lying in his arms as he fell asleep. When Syagrius awoke, it was well into the morning. Cassandra was gone. He was not sure the whole episode had not been a dream brought on by wine and exhaustion, until he saw the necklace lying on the table. "It seems I am expected to return it," he thought aloud. III Syagrius' thoughts were interrupted by Valens' arrival and a call to breakfast. The centurion smiled when he saw the necklace but said nothing. At the table, the conversation consisted of morning pleasantries and the plans for the day. After the decurions had gone about their duties, Valens took Syagrius aside. "You told me who you are," Valens began. "I can keep a secret. So can Cassandra. We both know what she thinks. I would like you to stay too. We need someone here with combat experience. I look wonderful in parade armor, but I've never led men in battle." "The patrol you had with you yesterday seemed ready to follow when you came up the stairs."

"Follow me? Of course. They'd never let 'our Golden Boy from Constantinople' show them up. But that's just one squad. I take them with me whenever I think there'll be trouble. They're the only veterans we have, the only ones I'd trust in a fight." "You think there will be one soon?" "From the reports I have, our situation is bad and getting worse. The pirates are getting bolder by the day. They've been raiding up and down the coast, even inland, encouraging the slavers to abduct people for sale in Africa. Cassandra isn't the first. Constantinople won't help, and Valerius... Well, you'll see for yourself." "What do you want of me?" "I'll speak to the procurator this morning about making you second centurion to take charge of the garrison at Timbakion, about 15 miles from here by road. I won't tell him anything more than he needs to know. Most of the time, when you talk to him, he's not listening anyway. "Besides the men here in Matala, that's all the force we have to protect the whole coast. We don't have boats or any horses fit to ride. "The centurion at Timbakion isn't well. He's been looking to retire for years, but there's no one to take his place. His senior decurion is a drunkard and a bully. The men hate him. If Paulus were promoted, half the garrison would desert in a month. Valerius has asked Constantinople a dozen times for a replacement. No one ever comes. The last time he wrote, they told him to appoint anyone he wanted but not to bother them any more about it. He'll be happy to have you. The job pays four gold pieces a month, minus your keep." "I'd like to speak to Cassandra first," said Syagrius, more to gain time than anything else. "She is more than a little strange," Valens replied, "but I have always found her counsel wise." *** Syagrius made his way back along the beach to the temple set in the rocks. He could see now it was more a cave than a manmade structure. Earthquakes had tumbled what had once been an impressive portico and left the outbuildings in ruins. Broken columns lay everywhere, some clearly older even than the first Greeks. This place must be ancient indeed, he thought, as he drew near. Cassandra was sitting on a huge rock, her legs tucked under her, her green cloak gathered against the morning's coolness. She waved when she saw him coming. "I have brought back your necklace," Syagrius began, handing her the beads. He stopped short. The stone beneath her brought her eyes to a level with his own, and he was amazed to see that they were two different colors, one blue, the other gray. "No," she said, smiling, "I do not have the evil eye, although Hecate has given me other powers." "Has she told you what Flavius has offered me?"

"No. Flavius did, when he came to ask my advice." "And what did you advise?" Suddenly, Cassandra stiffened, her gaze fixed. "Publius Lucius Syagrius," she said in a hollow voice not her own, "the storm subsides. The harbor is in sight. Turn not away." Syagrius was alarmed and moved to catch her as she began to fall from her perch. She dropped into his arms, trembled and was still. Her blue and gray eyes opened slowly, as the color returned to her cheeks. He set her back on her feet. It was good to have her close, he thought. A strength seemed to flow from her to him. "Did I speak?" she asked. "Aye." "I am sorry if I startled you. I have had the falling sickness ever since I can remember. Perhaps it comes from this," she added, brushing back her red hair to reveal a deep scar in her temple from which the hair grew white. "Iris was priestess here before me. She found me wandering on the beach with a great gash in my head, bleeding and talking to the air. I was twelve, perhaps thirteen, and could give no account of myself. I knew only that my name was Cassandra. Everything before is just pain and horrible dreams. "When I spoke like that, Iris told me it was the second sight from Apollo, a gift not to be questioned. When the Dark Goddess called Iris to herself, I took her place." She drew him down to sit beside her on the sand. By daylight, Syagrius could see that the hilt of her dagger was carved from ivory in the form of a leaping dolphin. "I will say more of myself later," she declared. "Now I wish to know of you, King of the Romans, how you have come to be here on this beach with me." Syagrius did not speak easily of his past, and he was tempted to answer curtly. But something had indeed changed since yesterday. He felt an ease with Cassandra that he had not experienced since those golden days with Julia so long ago. He took a milder tone, although his doubt remained. "Before I left Constantinople," he began, "I watched a merchant unload his ship of rarities brought from afar. There were delicate silks and wondrously woven cloths, incense, ivory carved in outlandish shapes and bronzes of remarkable workmanship, spices and all manner of strange goods. "One was a bowl in which swam a striped fish, a sluggish creature, red and black, perhaps eight inches long with spines pointing in every direction. I remarked that it was a small and ugly thing to bring so far at such cost. The merchant explained that the fish was from the great still ocean far to the east and was as venomous as the deadliest snake. One prick from its spines was death. So it swam all alone and unmolested in its glass prison."

"And someone would actually buy such a thing?" "In Constantinople? Of course." There was a long silence as they listened to the waves washing up on the sand before them. "You understand what I am saying to you?" Syagrius asked. "There is no poison for which the gods have not given the antidote," Cassandra answered, taking his hand in both of hers. So Syagrius told her of his wanderings, of his battles and his losses and the mistakes that could not be mended. "I had a world and a place in it," he murmured, "and I destroyed them both through my blindness and my pride. The Furies are always close behind me. It is dangerous to draw near." "I obey the Dark Goddess," said Cassandra. "When she commands, I fear nothing." Syagrius was about to go on, when the priestess pointed over his shoulder to tell him Valens was approaching. The centurion greeted both of them as they rose. "Valerius wants to see you," he told Syagrius. "You'll be second centurion, but you report directly to him, not to me. You're to come here once a week from Timbakion to let him know your progress," Valens added, glancing at Cassandra. Syagrius looked toward her too. She nodded. "Let's go see the procurator then," Syagrius said. IV The town walls were in better condition than the fort's, Syagrius noted as they walked toward the procurator's residence. Two catapults stood guard over the harbor entrance. But their coils were slack and their joints loose. The breakwaters and the docks were obviously intended to accommodate large vessels, but only a few fishing boats were moored there. A hundred yards or so down the coast, he could see the ruins of what had once been a lighthouse. When they were ushered into Valerius' office, Syagrius kept his answers short and offered no unnecessary conversation. He could see, as Valens had told him, that the procurator was badly hung over, probably in a foul mood as well. His clothes were unkempt, scarcely more than a sleeping robe, and his brown hair and beard untrimmed. He was several years younger than Syagrius but had the paunch and gait of a much older man. His bleary eyes showed the wandering gaze of one on the verge of having the drink devour his mind as well as his body. An open jug of wine stood on the table beside him, and a red stain on the mosaic floor showed where a cup had spilled. Papers were strewn everywhere. Valerius asked a few perfunctory questions, told his scribe to write out the documents for him to sign

and seal, then administered the oath of office to Syagrius. "You can leave for Timbakion this afternoon with the supply cart," he told Syagrius. "I'll send a courier on ahead to let them know you're coming. Valens will see to it you have all the equipment you need." Then he invited both of them to lunch in an hour, pouring himself another cup as they departed. He went back to reading the scroll on his desk before him, reproaching himself bitterly as he drank. "Septimus, Septimus, my friend" he sobbed. "All gone, and no one to help. Sophia too. If I had known..." He refilled his cup. "Marcia, Marcia, what have you done to me?" *** With Syagrius as a new audience, Valerius used lunch, taken on couches in the old Roman style, as an occasion to rehearse the tale of his "promotion" to procurator. Valens gazed off into the distance or busied himself cutting his food and tasting most carefully the dishes brought in by the cooks. Even at the procurator's table, Valens' gloves remained on his hands "I had - still have - a famous and honorable name," Valerius said between gulps of wine. "Marcia that's my wife - thought it would be a fine thing to marry into a family like mine. I did too. I loved her. She was so beautiful." He fell silent, staring into his cup. "I never hid anything from her. I didn't tell her any lies. I guess I just didn't tell enough of the truth. I thought she loved me." He laughed bitterly. The procurator turned to Valens who tried his best to look interested. "A few months after we were married," Valerius continued, "one of her nephews came to me to sign for a loan so he could buy a ship or something. I had to tell him that I was so pressed paying off my father's debts that I had nothing left to pledge, not even the house we lived in. "Marcia was furious, said I'd deceived her, was a fraud, a cheat, just another cad with a name and nothing behind it, taking advantage of an innocent girl. She would have divorced me, but the Emperor had forbidden divorce among his court. We were to set an example for the lesser folk, it seemed. "Marcia was so angry, I thought she might have me murdered. Her family has that kind of connections, you know." Valerius belched. "One of her relatives must have had a better idea," he said, refilling his goblet. "One morning, a messenger came, summoning me before the Emperor to receive a 'great honor.' Ha! "What I got from the Emperor were orders to take ship within a fortnight for this godforsaken hole and be procurator of a new district in Crete carved out just for me.

"I was struck dumb. It was just as well. I would have been a fool to hesitate even a moment in accepting this 'favor.' I've often wondered just how much this posting cost Marcia and her lovers - the ones with money, that is." Valens' sigh was barely audible. Valerius turned to Syagrius. "Marcia, of course, 'begged' me to let her stay behind. I was - am - her husband. I could have made her go with me. I wanted to keep on living, so I left her in Constantinople to have her fun. I get a pro forma letter once a year saying how much she misses me and yearns for my return. I reply pro forma that I miss her too. Only my devotion to duty prevents me from hastening to her side. Indeed." Syagrius made no comment, so Valerius continued. "You haven't heard the worst yet," he said. Valens looked up. "I - I drink more than I should when this sorrow comes upon me. It was during these times that the letters came from my friend Septimus in Heraklion, begging my help. We had been friends since school days. I had eaten at his table, been a welcome guest in his home. But I was too drunk, didn't want to read anything. By the time I was sober, it was too late. "His ships had not made port. The pirates took them, I suppose. The cargo insurance wouldn't make good his losses. His creditors were threatening to auction off everything he had, sell him and his family and all their household to pay the debt. I could have got the money, used it to hold them off and avert the worst. But I did nothing. Nothing! I was drunk." The tears began rolling down the procurator's cheeks as he buried his head in his hands. Valens signalled Syagrius that it was time to go and leave Valerius to his sorrows. "Is he often like this?" Syagrius asked as they walked down the steps. "Aye. You understand now why I am not eager to lunch with him." Syagrius was silent for a while. "Perhaps our procurator should be told to feel sorry for someone besides himself," he observed. "I am not the man to do that," answered Valens. V Syagrius reached Timbakion that evening. On the way, he tried to draw the driver out, asking about the garrison where he was going. The man, a civilian contracted to haul freight for the army, knew little and said less. Syagrius would have pressed him, but for the thought that his inquiries might encourage questions about his own past he was not prepared to answer. Only one sentry was at the gate to greet them. Everyone else, the soldier explained, had turned in. The cart would be unloaded in the morning, the driver said, as he led the mules to the stable. Syagrius said nothing, only asking to be shown to his quarters, a room next to the retiring centurion's

apartment. There was a bed, a table, a chair and a lamp. On the table was a cold joint and a hunk of bread. Syagrius ate quickly and was getting ready to go to bed himself, when there was a rap on his door. Before he could even say "Come in," the door swung open and Paulus, the senior decurion, swaggered into the room and sat down in the chair, leaving Syagrius standing. He waited for Paulus to speak. "I hear you will be taking Titus' place," he announced. Syagrius saw the man was slightly drunk, probably just enough to give him a bit of extra nerve. "I am." "We should have an understanding." "Of course." "I'm senior decurion here. I run things and will keep on running them. Is that clear?" "You want to have an understanding," replied Syagrius, his muscles tensing beneath his calm demeanor. "Well, understand this. Tomorrow there will be a formation after breakfast. I will give an order. You will see it is obeyed. If you refuse, I will call you out of the ranks, sword to sword, and kill you." "You wouldn't dare. The troops would..." "The troops would be delighted," Syagrius interrupted, "to see an end to your bullying. I have killed more men, Paulus, than you've ever commanded. I've spent half my life on battlefields. I'm twice the swordsman you are. There is very little I would not dare." Syagrius let his words sink in. "Now go, before I call the watch." Paulus rose, put his hand to his sword. The Roman read his thoughts. "Or would you rather have it out right now? I see you're drunk enough to be just a little slow. "We can use the parade ground." Syagrius continued. "The exercise will help me sleep. No one will interfere. One of the junior decurions will be happy to have your place and your pay." Paulus stalked off into the night. Syagrius was awakened at dawn by a gentle knock on the door post. He rose, sliding his sword out of its scabbard as he reached for the latch. It was Titus. "I could not help overhearing your talk with Paulus last night," he said. "I do not sleep well, have not for some time. I want to apologize for his conduct and for my own laxity as centurion in not disciplining him. I am not the man I was." Syagrius could see that Titus was quite pale, and his eyes were cloudy. What Valens had told him was

obviously true. "Today, after breakfast, you will call the men into formation for the last time," said Syagrius. "I will present you with the certificate of honorable discharge I have brought with me. You will draw your pay and your service bonus, which you have surely earned. Then you will hand over your staff and your keys to me. After that, you may depart whenever you wish. New Rome thanks you for your devotion above and beyond duty." Titus saluted and turned to go, then stopped. "Remember me to Valens and to Valerius. I was proud to serve here and only wish I might have done better. They are both good men and will need any help you bring." Syagrius called the centurion back. "Go with my thanks too, Titus. I too will serve here as best I can." The formation went off as planned. Titus departed for his brother's farm near Heraklion. Then Syagrius addressed the troops. "I see that many of you are lacking in armor and weapons. In one hour, when the trumpet sounds, you will return to the parade ground in full battle kit. If any of you need equipment, draw it from the stores. It will be deducted from your pay. If there is anything lacking in our stores, you will inform the senior decurion who will put it on the requisition list I shall take to Matala next week. No one will go on leave who cannot present himself first to the senior decurion in full uniform." "Paulus!." There was a long silence. Syagrius looked his senior decurion in the eye. "See to it." "Aye, sir." Syagrius had led men for thirty years and knew how to win their respect. The soldiers were weak and soft. But he demanded nothing of them that he was not prepared to do himself. Any drill he ordered, he showed first how it was to be done with precision and speed. One thing Syagrius could not understand was why there was a garrison at Timbakion at all. The harbor was small, barely large enough for fishing boats. There was nothing worth protecting. A watchtower and a keen lookout to warn the people when danger approached so they could flee into the hills would have been enough. It would have been much more sensible, he thought, to concentrate the troops at Matala and equip them with fast horses and swift boats. Nonetheless, the imperial edict Paulus showed him commanded expressly that the defense force be divided between Timbakion and Matala. The document, however, said not a word about horses or boats, an omission that set Syagrius to pondering. VI The first week Syagrius reported to Matala, Valerius was too drunk to receive him, so he had to wait until the next day to talk to the procurator. The delay gave him a chance to see Cassandra. This time,

she did not come to him but sent word he should go to the temple as soon as the moon set. "Why was I not to come sooner?" Syagrius asked when she met him on the beach. "The moon is Hecate's eye. While it shines, I am hers," she smiled. She took him by the hand and led him inside. The only light came from the fire burning brightly on an altar of stone, polished over the centuries by reverent hands. In the shadows stood many statues of gods, some so ancient Syagrius could not guess their names. Portions of the walls had been smoothed off and adorned with frescos. some showing priestesses who stood with bared breasts before their altars, holding the sacred snakes in their hands, others the daring young women with curly hair and large, dark eyes who did not fear to leap over the horns of bulls. "The temple has always been Hecate's. The other gods were gathered here, one by one, over the centuries. It is their last stronghold." Syagrius noticed an empty niche. "The Dark Goddess," Cassandra explained. "Her image may not be made." "You promised me you would tell me of yourself," said Syagrius. "Set your garments aside, as I will mine, and hold me. It is not an easy tale to tell." Syagrius did as he was bidden and took her in his arms on the bed that stood in an alcove. He had thought they would make love, but he felt no desire for her body, only the wish to have her near. Now the strength seemed to flow from him to her as the fire slowly died. "I told you Iris found me wandering on the beach." Syagrius nodded. "She thought I was crazy. She was not well herself. Pirates had killed her husband and stolen their daughter some years before. She turned to Hecate for consolation and revenge. Callista, who was priestess then, taught her the spells to rouse the storm god and wreck four of the pirate ships on the headland. A hundred of them were drowned. When Callista passed, Iris succeeded to her place. "Sometimes, Iris thought I was her Eurydice, sometimes a changeling sent from hell to torment her. "Iris had no apprentice. With the bishop's threats and anathemas, no one would come near the temple by day. By night, only when someone was ill and needed the old gods. So she began to teach me." "At least you had someone to look after you and be kind to you." "Kind? I never knew what Iris might do next. She taught me to read the scrolls and do the rituals with her by rote. She would not tell me what the words, the gestures, the symbols meant. She sent me out to gather roots and herbs but would tell me nothing of their workings.

"If I made a mistake or broke something or didn't move quickly enough, she would hang me up and beat me with knotted cords until I was covered with blood and screaming with pain. Sometimes, she made me watch while she braided the cords she was going to use. Afterwards, I would bathe in the sea to stop the bleeding. There were days when I had more stripes on me than a zebra. "When she didn't have the strength to whip me, she would make me strip, tie my hands behind my back and fasten me to that ring in the wall," said Cassandra, gesturing into the darkness, "leaving me for days on end without food or drink." "I am surprised you didn't kill her or at least run away." "I was not then as I am now," Cassandra said evenly, "and I had nowhere to go. The law is almost as harsh for runaway apprentices as it is for fugitive slaves. If I'd been caught and brought back, Iris could have done anything she pleased to me, branded me, sold me as a slave. If the slave traders had found me first, they'd have taken me and sold me in Africa. Who'd have believed a story like mine?" "You bear no mark of this torment," said Syagrius, looking at her closely, "and you speak kindly of her now. Is that only because she is dead." "I heal easier than you," she replied, touching one of the scars on his chest. She was silent for a moment. "One day, when I was perhaps twenty, Iris was gathering driftwood for our fire, usually my task. She had me scrubbing the floor just then. She was bitten by a venomous snake. It must have come ashore with the wood. We have none on the island. "She barely reached the cave before she collapsed. I washed the wound, did what I could for her. Nothing helped. She told me to fetch one of the scrolls she'd never shown me, break the seal and read it aloud. I did not know then it was the Scroll of Summoning for Hecate." "You saw the Dark Goddess?" "Not then. But Iris did. She was terrified. "I did not hear what the goddess said, only what Iris replied. 'Yes, it shall be so. I promise,' over and over. Finally, she sank into a deep sleep. "I kept vigil until I fell asleep myself. I was awakened by her call. When I went to her, I was afraid she was going to whip me again. "She embraced me, said I was the goddess' child. There would be none other. She would teach me all she knew. "From that time forward, she was mother in spirit to me. There were no more beatings. She taught me the meanings of all the scrolls and to speak the tongue King Minos used to converse with Zeus. She explained the rituals she did, let me know all the incantations she used, the herbs she gathered, the medicines she made, how to give them, how to dream for the living, what to do for those who were beyond help, how to speak with the dead. When the earth moved, and the breath of the gods came

forth, she and I would inhale it together, prophesy for one another or anyone else who asked. "Iris even paid for me to go to Ephesus to learn the rites of Aphrodite and Diana and then on to Egypt to learn the ancient magic as she had. I could not bring myself to tell her of the idleness and filth I found in the temples. "It must be nine years now - I have never followed time easily - Iris asked me at breakfast if I truly wished to be daughter to Hecate as she was. I said I was ready. She ordered me to set down my food, eat and drink nothing more and keep silence until the full moon rose. "That night, Iris opened a portal in the roof, so the moonlight could enter. I shed my garments at her command and knelt before the altar bathed in moonlight, my forehead to the ground. "Iris struck me three times with her rod, as hard as she could. It hardly hurt at all. Then she asked three times if I truly wished to be daughter to the Dark Goddess, have her gifts and her powers, endure all things as she commanded. "Three times, I said I would. Iris bade me rise. She took off her own cloak and laid it about my shoulders, placed her crescent crown upon my head, proclaiming before Hecate and all the gods that I was now daughter to the Dark Goddess. She would protect me, and I would serve her all my days." Cassandra stretched herself like a cat on a hearth. "Now, King of the Romans, make love to me. Let me sleep in your arms." VII Sophia tried to doze off, but the cords that held her were too tight. No position on the stone floor was comfortable for more than a few minutes. If only she could sleep, she thought, she would awaken from this day as though it were a nightmare. She had not felt such despair since the day her parents had perished in the fire that consumed their warehouse and their home, leaving a nine-year-old girl crying alone in the street. Although Sempronius had been more a business associate than a friend, Septimus and Livia had taken her in. They had no children of their own. Without them, Sophia would have been sent to the orphanage or the work house, if there was no one to pay her keep. It took months to find her only blood relative, a cousin in Sicily. "I want to adopt that girl," was all Livia had said, but Septimus had his doubts. They vanished when he learned that Sophia's cousin lived on a worn out farm and had five children of his own to feed. He would take Sophia, of course, but he could send no money to pay her passage. Septimus filed a petition with the magistrate and wrote to the cousin. A month later, a letter came back written in a labored hand with many corrections, blessing him for his kindness. The magistrate agreed. The adoption gave Sophia the right to live in their house. She moved into their hearts as well. Septimus and Livia spoiled her outrageously at first. Later, when she showed a serious bent, they taught her everything she would need to know to take over the business when the time came. Septimus had always been hopeful, even when the pirates took his ships. He would go to Glaucon the Factor, and collect the cargo insurance, he said. The insurance wouldn't pay for the ships, he admitted,

but it would keep him solvent until he could raise enough money to finance another voyage. Exactly how Glaucon managed to get out of paying, Sophia never understood. She understood the bailiffs, though, when they came to the house with a final demand from her father's creditors for payment. The alternatives were simple. Either Septimus paid everything he owed within a fortnight, or he and his entire household would be sold to pay the debt. Being unmarried, Sophia, his legally adopted daughter, would, of course, be included in the sale, along with his household furnishings, his animals, his slaves, his wife and himself. Even when that final demand was presented, Septimus did not give up hope. He had written, he assured everyone, to the friend of his youth, Valerius, now procurator at Matala. Valerius would surely find a way to save him, even if only with another loan to pay off the most pressing debts. Sophia remembered the procurator visiting them in happier days, amusing when not in his cups, telling his weepy tale. When no reply came, Septimus dispatched another letter, then a third. He would have gone to Matala himself, but his creditors forbade him to leave Heraklion. Valerius never answered. Tomorrow would be the day of the sale. On their last night of freedom, Septimus and Livia went for a stroll along the heights overlooking the harbor. No matter how hot it became in the city, a cool breeze always blew there. The handbills announcing the morning's sale were already pasted to the walls of the buildings they passed. Sophia was beside them, the bailiffs a few paces behind, when the strap of her sandal came loose. She stopped to fix it as Septimus and Livia walked to the edge of the cliff, joined hands and stepped into eternity. Sophia ran to follow them, but the bailiffs seized her and held her fast, dragging her back to the house, leaving her bound hand and foot on the pavement of the cellar of the home she thought would one day be her own. "We'll probably lose our jobs over this," one of them snarled as he pulled the knot on her ankles tight. "If you weren't being sold tomorrow..." the other muttered. Sophia tried to speak. "One peep out of you," his colleague warned, "and you'll have a gag to chew on the rest of the night." The only sound Sophia heard now was the clanking of the chains that held the household slaves and the quiet weeping of Philina who knew this night would be her last in the house where she had grown old in service to a master she loved. The next morning, the auctioneer's helpers untied her and gave her a few minutes to comb her curly black hair and make herself presentable, taking the brooch from her gown and the rings from her ears and fingers to sell separately. They bound her hands in front of her, hung a plaque about her neck extolling her virtues and led her out into the sunshine. To keep the crowd interested, the auctioneer saved her for the last, let her watch everything she'd grown up with sold, first the house itself, then the furniture, then the clothes and jewelry, then the animals, then her family's slaves and finally herself. She knew the auctioneer, having watched him sell cargos for her father. It was all the same to him, freight, furniture, grain, lumber, slaves. He led her forward and presented her to the crowd. "Here we have the adopted daughter of the house," he proclaimed, "young, strong, able to read and write as well as do any domestic work needed. She is gentle and kind, could tutor your children, an asset to any home.

"Smile," he whispered to Sophia. "I'll start the bidding," the auctioneer declared, "at fifteen gold pieces." "Bah!" said someone in the crowd. "A freeborn girl like her will be good for nothing. She'll just pine away." "Or run away," another called. "So might any barbarian wench you could buy," the auctioneer countered. "Where can you get one like Sophia here who has mastered all the arts, speaks Latin and Greek?" The crowd argued back and forth, but no one offered a bid. "Let's see the merchandise!" someone cried. The auctioneer took hold of Sophia, opened the knot at her shoulder and let her gown fall to her waist. She raised her arms to cover herself. "Lower your hands, Sophia," the auctioneer whispered. "Or I'll tie them behind you and strip you naked." Sophia had seen women and men offered for sale this way in the marketplace herself, the auctioneer's lash ready to strike any who hesitated. She put her hands down. A murmur of approval ran through the crowd at the sight of her full breasts and the dark nipples at their points. "Fifteen pieces," someone offered. "Seventeen," said another. "Twenty," bid a third. "Twenty-one," called a voice that made Sophia's blood run cold. It was Glaucon, come to add insult to the injury he'd already done her father. There was a silence. Her father had friends in the crowd, and the bidding would certainly have gone higher. But no one dared risk offending Glaucon. Half the merchants in Heraklion owed him money. The other half were hoping he'd lend them some. "I am offered twenty-one gold pieces," the auctioneer chanted. "Do I hear more?" A pause. "No one offers more?" Another pause. "No one offers more? Very well. Sophia is sold to Glaucon the Factor for twenty-one gold pieces. A bill of sale to be issued as soon as the money is paid." The auctioneer banged his gavel. Glaucon handed a purse out of his litter and ordered the bearers to carry him onward. One of his slaves brought the money to the desk where the scribe wrote out the papers. A tall, heavy set woman took charge of Sophia, led her away from the home of her childhood.

"I am Dorcas, a slave like you," the woman told Sophia as she walked rapidly through the streets, pulling her along by the cord that bound her. "I am in charge of all the female slaves in Glaucon's house. I know you, Sophia. When you passed me in the street, you hardly deigned to notice me. You'll notice me now, or you'll have good cause to wish you had." Dorcas did not speak again until they were inside the house. She led Sophia downstairs to a storeroom where she fastened her wrists to a ring set in one of the pillars. Then Dorcas stripped her to the waist and gave her five strokes with the whip that hung from her belt. Sophia had not been struck since she was a child. She cried out more from shock than pain. "Stop your wailing," Dorcas said scornfully, as she untied her. "You're not hurt. That's just a reminder of your new state in life and a sample of what you'll get from Burbo if you don't do as you're told. Now fasten your top and go to the kitchen. Claudia there will put you to work." Claudia was another with a whip at her belt and a willingness to use it. Sophia's shoulders were sore by the time the lunch was ready. Only then did she have a chance to sit down with a bowl of porridge and a few nearly rotten vegetables. She could not eat. After lunch, she was summoned to Glaucon's study. Her master looked her up and down, had her turn around slowly before him. "I see," he said, looking at her striped shoulders, "you've been made welcome here. You're an intelligent girl. I trust the lesson was useful." Sophia said nothing. "I'd hoped to have Septimus and Livia as my slaves too," said Glaucon, "put them to work on my docks. Let everyone see what happens to those who won't pay their debts. They were inconsiderate enough to deprive me of that delight." "Why did you wish such a thing? What harm did they ever do you?" "A slave never asks why, unless she wants stripes for an answer," Glaucon replied haughtily, "something you'll have to get used to in the future." He paused to let his warning sink in. "I'll indulge you this once, Sophia, so you will know where you stand in this house," he continued, pursing his thin lips. "I hated your father for his pompous ways, saying I was just this side of the law and no fit company for an honest merchant, bringing up that business in Lesbos. People didn't trust me, thought I wouldn't honor my agreements. Thanks to him, I missed out on some very profitable arrangements." It seems people were right, Sophia thought. Glaucon stroked his thin gray beard. "Your father would never have chosen me as factor for his cargos. I bought up the contracts from other firms, never told him until I learned the pirates had his ships. You should have seen him sweat, especially when I found a way not to make good and leave him at the

mercy of his creditors. "One thing every businessman like me needs," he smirked, "is a clever lawyer and a helpful judge. I certainly had both." He chuckled. "Our procurator, Theocritas, was useful too. "Your father thought that drunken clown in Matala would help. Ha! You can see for yourself how much help he was. I doubt Valerius is sober enough yet to read your father's last letter. Of course, he might have read the others. It's amazing, though, how the weight of a little silver can slow down the fastest messenger, a day here, a day there, just to be sure the letters arrived when Valerius was looking too deep in his wine jug to look anywhere else." Sophia fought back her tears. Glaucon must not see me weep, she told herself. "I had thought to bed you myself - a final revenge on your father. But my wife is a jealous woman. She might kill you. A better idea has come to me. My younger son Orestes will return from Athens in two weeks. I'll appoint you to warm his bed while he's here. Your father thought you were too good for him. Maybe he was right. The boy's certainly no prize. But that decision isn't yours anymore. You're a slave. You'll do as you're told." VIII The first time Sophia ran away, it was blind flight. A soapy dish had slipped from her hands and shattered on the stone sink. Claudia had laid into her, leaving her whimpering on the scullery floor. As soon as it was dark, Sophia hoisted herself out a cellar window onto the ground outside. She started off to the south, thinking to find a place to hide in the mountains, knowing that no one, not even her father's best friends, would dare shelter her. In a few hours, she was hopelessly lost. At the end of the second day, the patrol picked her up, hungry, thirsty and exhausted. The lash marks on her shoulders gave her away. They had let her ride in the wagon, her hands tied loosely to one of the rings set in the planks, along with three other runaways they had found that day. Five more walked behind, loaded with chains. At night, those in the wagon were left to bed down as best they could on the straw. Those walking behind, the men at least, were bound to trees after a meager supper. The women were taken behind some rocks for "recreation." "The first time a slave is brought back," the young soldier left with the wagon explained, "the master has to pay one gold piece, to be divided among the patrol. The second time, it's three gold pieces, the third time, six. It's your first time running off, so we want to bring you back in good condition. As miserly as he is, Glaucon will certainly pay one gold piece for you. "The others are two time runaways. You can tell by the iron collars around their necks. The inscription says a reward is offered for their return, But their masters may still refuse to pay, especially if they're hard to handle and likely to run off again. If they're not claimed, those slaves become government property, and we've had our trouble for nothing. So we have our fun with them first." "What happens to those who aren't accepted back?"

"The galleys or the mines or the brothels or the work house. When they get too old to be any use, the auction block in Africa. The Berbers will buy almost anything. You don't want to know the rest." One of the other guards called to the soldier, telling him it was his turn. "Not today," he answered. Sophia looked at him, puzzled. "I have a sister," he went on. "Three years ago, what happened to you nearly happened to us. Our father's friend brought the money himself." Then Sophia wept, in great racking sobs that shook her whole body. When he saw the others returning, the soldier gave her a rag to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. He did not speak to her again. Glaucon took Sophia back and told Burbo, his major-domo, to give her thirty lashes. He hung her up, half naked, in the cellar, appraising her carefully by lamplight, looking closely at her skin. "I see you haven't really been whipped before," he said. "Well, after today, anyone who looks at your back will know you've had a talk with my Sylvia." Burbo pinched her nipple. Sophia shrank away. "No need to worry about that - this time," he told her. "I didn't get where I am by disobeying my master's orders or exceeding his instructions. Sylvia's a selfish playmate, anyway," he added, caressing the leather lash. Sophia hoped she would pass out, but Burbo knew just when to stop, let her recover, before he went on. She felt every one of the strokes cutting into her flesh. When the major-dome let her down, her back looked like raw meat and felt like it was on fire. She could hardly walk. Glaucon had an iron collar riveted about her neck to tell everyone that she was not allowed to leave the town and should be detained immediately if seen beyond its walls. A reward was guaranteed. As soon as Sophia recovered from the whipping, she started planning her next escape. Glaucon's halfwit son had been delayed in his return, but he would be back by the end of the month. Her only hope, she realized, lay in getting off the island, somewhere beyond the reach of Glaucon's and Constantinople's power, where she could be free again. Stowing away on a ship out of Heraklion, she saw, would be impossible. The port was too closely watched, especially when news of a runaway slave was out. Word reached her through another slave of a safe house near Mirtos on the south coast where she could hide until a ship would take her and any others who could reach the place away to Carthage where they could work for their freedom. It seemed fantastic. Orestes was due back in three days. Sophia ran away again. This time, she knew enough to keep hidden by day and move only at night, telling south by the stars. Water she found in the streams. The bread she had taken when she left and the berries on the bushes gave her enough strength to keep going. She kept careful lookout for the watch and the slave catchers but saw no one. In four days, she was in sight of the hut painted red she had been instructed to look for. She waited until nightfall when everyone seemed asleep. As she crept closer, it struck her that she heard no dogs barking. It was strange, she thought, that

someone in this village did not keep a dog to warn of prowlers. She rapped on the door of the hut. "Come in quickly," said a deep voice, "and shut the door behind you." Scarcely had Sophia done so when she was seized by calloused hands, tied and gagged, then thrown on the floor. By the moonlight streaming through the windows, she could make out several other bound figures, standing over them a fat man with a cudgel ready to knock senseless any who tried to raise an alarm. Before daylight, two more fugitives had joined the captives. At dawn, the leader of the slave catchers decided no more would be taken. He ordered the prisoners' ankles untied and had them prodded to their feet. There were eight. "Slave catching is slow these days, especially on an island like this one," the chief explained. "So I stir things up a bit, spread the word, you might say. Now, I'll bring you back to your masters and collect my fee. Seeing we're not the watch, but a private enterprise, the charge will be double. I'm sure your owners won't enjoy paying. I'm sure you won't enjoy them getting their own back out of your hides. You shouldn't put so much faith in rumors. "And don't bother telling your masters we lured you away. Even if they believe you, the testimony of a slave against a free man is worthless. Just be thankful you're not on your way to Africa." It took three days for the caravan to reach Heraklion. There were two slaves who had to be dropped off in Mires and Dafnes first. The haggling with their owners took hours. Sophia and the others were chained to the wagon, dragged along behind it throughout the day. The iron cuffs chafed her wrists raw, no matter how she held her hands. Outside of a bowl of gruel and a cup of water in the morning and the same in the evening, the slaves got nothing. Each night, there was the almost ritual rape of the women by their captors, one after the other. It was, as one guard said, a way of collecting a bit of their pay in advance. Sophia had often tried to imagine her first night with a man she loved. Now, she could only close her eyes and wait for her ordeal to be over, try not to cry out for pain and shame. Glaucon was pleased at first to see Sophia back in his house again. His smile faded when he heard that her return, now that she had run away for the second time, would cost him six gold pieces. He paid. The slave catchers removed her fetters and went on their way. Glaucon looked her up and down. "I see, Sophia," he said, "that your first meeting with the lash did not teach you very much, although you still bear the scars. They will make you difficult to sell. No one wants a refractory slave. Fortunately, I have no plans to dispose of you just yet." Glaucon called Burbo. "Our Sophia," he told him, "has run away a second time. Her return has been costly to me. Make it costly for her too. See to it she's soundly whipped. See to it also that she has reason to be mindful of her status. The collar she wears is apparently not enough. Let her ears be cropped as well."

Burbo took her back to the cellar and hauled her up again. Again, Sophia felt his oxhide whip slash across her flesh with the same skill that left her screaming herself hoarse. She hoped she would faint, but she felt all of the fifty lashes laid on her. Burbo left her hanging by her wrists while he heated an iron in a brazier. Finally, he let her down and dragged her over to a chair, forced her head down onto the seat, holding her by the neck and turning her face to one side. With a paring knife, he cut the top off first one ear and then the other, searing the wounds with the iron. Only then did Sophia faint. She revived when Burbo threw a bucket of saltwater on her back. Then he raped her himself, leaving her sobbing in a corner of the cellar. "It could have been worse," he said gruffly, kicking her once, then again as hard as he could. "Master might have had me brand an 'F' on your forehead. That's for 'fugitive,' so everyone would know you like to run away. There's worse than that even, if you don't learn." Burbo's tone softened for a moment. "I was born a slave. You weren't. Maybe you still don't understand." He paused to let his words take effect. "You belong to Glaucon. You're his property. He can do whatever he wants with you, just like his horse or his dog or the chair he sits on. If he tells me to whip you again, I'll hang you up and beat the hide off you. He can send you to the House of Pain, have you disfigured or maimed. He can go to the magistrate, sign a few papers, have you on a cross before the day is out. No one will say a word. Always remember that, if you want to live. "Now, stop your whimpering and go to bed," he ordered, dragging her to her feet. Sophia crawled up the stairs to the slave quarters where she found a place on the straw laid out over the stone floor. Everyone else was asleep or pretended to be, leaving her alone with her pain. Sophia struggled through the next three weeks, wondering how she could end her life. The only consolation was that Orestes wanted nothing to do with her until her wounds were healed. The fire in her back slowly died, although the scars remained. Her ears still hurt terribly, despite the ointment Irena, her fellow kitchen slave, applied each night. She got no sympathy from the others. Many of them had suffered worse punishments, and they were concerned only that Sophia's injuries might slow her work and increase their burdens. Word was passed to get ready to move to the family's summer place in the hills at Zaros. It was cooler there, and Glaucon could oversee his affairs from his branch office in Mires. The collar was removed from Sophia's neck, so she could accompany the household. More important, Sophia thought, Zaros was close enough that she could reach Matala in a night and confront Valerius the next day. Even if running away again cost her life, it would be worth the price to let that drunkard see what his desertion had cost and watch him squirm in his shame. IX Cassandra was just finishing her morning marketing when she saw a small crowd gathered before the doors of the procurator's residence. The guards were more amused than anxious. As she drew near, Cassandra could hear a woman's voice raised above the market noise.

Sophia stood before the door shouting up at the empty balcony over her head. "Come out, you cowardly wretch. Come out, Valerius. Behold what your betrayal has wrought." With that, she yanked the cloth from her head and pulled back her hair to reveal her cropped ears, the mark of a slave. "See, everyone, how your fine procurator left his friend, Septimus, to die a pauper and that friend's daughter, Sophia, to the living death of slavery in Glaucon's house! This is the man you trust? With what? Watching your sheep when your dog is sick? Valerius ate at my father's table, frequented his house. Look what Septimus' trust got him! "See, people of Matala, how the coward is afraid to face me, a woman, a powerless slave! He hides in his shame. What do you think he will do when real danger threatens? Pile up everything you own on the dock and offer it to the pirates now. Put chains on yourselves and on your children. It will save the procurator the trouble of pretending to protect you. Maybe he'll even get a share of the loot." Sophia was about to go on when she cried out and fell to the ground. Burbo put his cudgel back in his belt. "I am Orestes, son of Glaucon the Factor." the young man with him told the crowd, "and I wish to apologize for this disturbance. This refractory slave belonging to my father has run away. Burbo and I have been pursuing her since last night. "We have not been remiss in our discipline," Orestes explained. "She has refused to learn better ways despite correction. Rest assured, good people, this madwoman will now receive a punishment that will keep her from disturbing your peace ever again." Orestes nodded to Burbo who picked up the stunned Sophia, carried her to a waiting wagon, bound her hands and fastened them to one of the stakes. Before her eyes opened, Sophia had a gag between her teeth. Orestes climbed into the seat beside the major-domo, gave the horse a whack. In a moment, the wagon had reached the edge of town. Cassandra asked one of the guards where Valerius was. "He's gone to Mires," was the answer. "Won't be back for two or three days at least." Cassandra stopped a small boy passing by, gave him a copper coin. "Find Valens," she told him. "He's probably fishing on the cliffs. Tell him I must speak to him." The boy set off at a run. Cassandra turned toward the sea, her gaze fixed on the horizon, her lips moving silently, until Valens stood beside her. The centurion wore a leather jerkin over his tunic, his usual off duty garb. Somehow, Cassandra reflected, Flavius always looked armored, even when his cuirass was on its rack in his quarters. His dagger hung from his belt. His gloves were on his hands. She told Valens what had happened, then asked, "How soon can you get to Mires?" "It's about an hour's ride, if I take the courier's horse."

"Go then. Tell Quintus what you see on the road when you overtake Glaucon's cart. It is his last chance." Valens was uncertain. "He's on one of his pilgrimages to every tavern in town. Even if I find him, he'll be too drunk to be of any use." "We owe him that chance, nonetheless." Valens started for the stable. X The blow left Sophia nauseated and faint, her head throbbing with pain. The rocking of the cart made her sick to her stomach. All that came up was thin yellow fluid that burned her throat. She forced herself to look at the backs of Orestes and Burbo, then at the people they met on the road. None of them showed any interest. She was just another slave being returned, bound, to her master. If they thought anything at all, it was that she must have a foul mouth to need a gag in public. She pulled at the cord that held her wrists in front of her. It was so tight her fingers were turning numb. She hardly noticed the handsome rider who overtook them on the road a mile or so outside of Mires. Valens made his rounds. Valerius was always looking for a new audience to hear his tale of woe. There were always bar room idlers ready to listen as long has he paid for the drinks. He pretended to be just another traveler, although everyone knew who he really was. His fellow topers could barely stifle their laughter. Each place Valens sought word of Valerius pointed him onward until he found the procurator slumped under a table, his clothes stinking of stale wine. Valens shook him in vain. Finally, he got a bucket of icy water from a well and poured it over Valerius. "Wha- What is it?" Valerius demanded, his bleary eyes blinking. "I'm not sure," Valens answered softly, making the procurator strain to hear him, a trick he'd learned from his encounters with drunks over the years. "Cassandra has told me there is someone coming here you must meet." "Not now," replied Valerius, slumping again. "Today or never, Quintus," the centurion insisted, dragging Valerius to his feet. Keeping his procurator from falling took all Valens' strength as they wobbled through the door onto the street in time to see the wagon approaching. The brilliant sunlight left Valerius momentarily blinded. Sophia saw him before he saw her. She twisted her neck and her arms to pull the gag from her mouth. "You, Valerius," she cried, pointing at him with her bound hands, "useless pig! Go back to your wine barrel. Drink it dry. Leave your friend's daughter to her pain, as you left your friend, Septimus, to his death. Drown your conscience in wine, if you haven't already. Drunkard! Traitor! Faithless..."

Sophia's cries stopped abruptly as Burbo slapped her so hard stars danced before her eyes. He grabbed her by the hair, shoved the gag back into her mouth, tightened the knot and threw her to the floor of the cart. Valerius reeled as though he, not Sophia, had been struck. The wagon rumbled past as the procurator turned aside to vomit. He leaned on his centurion. "Flavius," he said thickly, "Find out where they're taking her, who owns her. We must buy her." "She belongs to Glaucon," Valens replied. "Cassandra told me." "We'll follow her then." Valerius could barely walk. Valens could have made faster progress alone, but the procurator insisted on coming. Sophia thought she was going back to Zaros, but the cart stopped to unload her at a storehouse. Glaucon was waiting at the door, his business for the day just concluded. "Good work," he told Burbo and his son. "I would not have cared to pay another return fee for this girl." Then, turning to Sophia, "You have run away for the last time, Sophia." She was silent, half hoping Glaucon would order her killed. Even crucifixion would be better than the life she saw before her. "It's time for you to visit the House of Pain," said Glaucon. "After Vitus is through with you, you won't run away any more. You won't even be able to walk away." He turned to Burbo. "Take her to Vitus. Tell him he can do whatever he wants with her. Just don't kill her. When he's done, he's to cut the tendons in her ankles, let her crawl back here. We'll take her in the cart to Zaros." Burbo nodded, grabbed Sophia by the arm and marched her down the street. A few minutes later, Valerius arrived. Glaucon was uneasy. The procurator was obviously very drunk, but not so drunk he might not want to know why he had not heard of his friend's plight until it was too late. Mires was within his jurisdiction. He could make trouble. The younger man with him, though hardly imposing, had a gaze the factor felt boring right through him. "To what do I owe this honor, Your Excellency?" Glaucon said, grinning nervously. "You own," Valerius' tongue wandered, "slave, Sophia." Glaucon nodded. "I want to buy her." Valerius felt dizzy, looked for a chair. "I paid twenty-one pieces for her. Then I had to pay one more to get her back and then six more the second time. That's when I had her ears cropped. Then there's the fee I've just paid."

Valerius winced. "I'll give you thirty-five," he offered, not certain of his inebriated arithmetic. Valerius barely made it to a bench against the wall. It was hard to stand, he thought, with the room spinning so. Glaucon was a vengeful man and cruel as well. He was also greedy. The thought of a quick profit got the upper hand. "You have that sum with you?" Valerius stared, confused. Valens spoke up. "Have your scribe write out an invoice. The procurator will sign it. You can send it to Matala for payment." "Very well," said Glaucon. "But there won't be much left for you to buy, when Vitus gets through with her." Besides, he thought, Simon owes me a favor. This is as good a time as any to collect. "Vitus? You sent her to the House of Pain?" Valerius demanded. "Why not? I'm not squeamish about having my slaves whipped at home. Their cries and their welts help remind their fellows what awaits the unruly. I save Vitus for the more severe penalties. Burbo can sometimes be a bit clumsy, overdo things. "I'm having Sophia's ankles cut. I want her crippled, not killed." "Flavius," the procurator ordered, "tell Vitus..." The centurion was already gone. *** Sophia floated on a sea of pain. She wondered who it was screaming and felt sorry for her, until she realized the cries came from her own throat. After he'd hauled her up, Vitus had driven two iron pins through her breasts, letting the pain radiate in circles through her chest. "It will keep you from passing out," he told her. Then there was the whipping, only twenty strokes this time, but with a barbed metal lash that tore her flesh to the bone. Vitus had been wanting to try out his new instrument, and he was pleased with the results. Now Sophia hung by her wrists, her legs bent at the knees and strapped to a butcher's block, waiting for the iron to heat, so Vitus could close the wounds he would make when he cut her ankles. She could hear him sharpening his knife on the whetstone. Why couldn't she just die and be done with it? The knock at the door was an annoyance. Vitus had sent Burbo off. He preferred to do his work alone. He didn't like being interrupted at it either. He'd been paid good money to leave Sophia able to crawl though the streets to Glaucon's office, a lesson to any other slaves thinking of taking to their heels. Dead, she was worth nothing.

The searing iron was hot. Whoever it was could wait, Vitus thought, as he tested the edge on the blade. The door swung open. Vitus cursed under his breath. He'd forgotten to lock it again. The slender, blonde haired man standing before him was not familiar. To Sophia, he looked like a demigod, framed in the doorway with the light from the street behind him. She wondered if she'd died already, and Hermes had come to conduct her to the Underworld. "What do you want?" Vitus asked. "If you've come to watch, it will cost you a silver piece." "The woman's been bought," Valens told him. "She's to come with me. Now." "How do I know?" "Follow me back to Glaucon's office. He'll confirm it." Vitus didn't like having his fun spoiled. He laid down his knife and picked up the hot iron. Valens drew his dagger from his belt and took the relaxed, alert stance of the practiced knife fighter. Vitus shrugged. "No need to brawl about it, my friend," he conceded, plunging the poker back into the coals. "I still keep my fee, though." "Of course." "Help me get her down," Vitus said, turning to Sophia. "You'll need a wagon," he told Valens. "I didn't do her ankles, but she's in no shape to walk far by herself." Once she was on the floor, Vitus sloshed Sophia down with brine to stop her bleeding. Valens drew the pins from her nipples as gently as he could, then covered her with his cloak. Valerius rented a cart. Valens hitched his horse to it. They headed back to Matala, Valens driving and Valerius trying his best to cushion Sophia against the road's bumps. She was barely conscious and lapsed into delirium before they had gone three miles. By the time they reached Matala at dusk, it was obvious her wounds were badly infected. The medical orderly looked at Sophia and shook his head. "I can keep her out of pain," he told Valerius, "but that's about all." "We'll take her to Cassandra," Valens offered. When Cassandra saw Sophia, she had her laid before the altar on a bed of straw, while she fetched her medicines, among them some oranges. She peeled them quickly, wet the skins and set them aside. "If she can hold out until the green mold comes, I may be able to save her," Cassandra said. Valerius started to tell what had happened, but Cassandra cut him short. "Go," she told him. "Change your clothes. Get sober. Come back and see her tomorrow. Let her not behold her new master filthy and stinking of wine and vomit."

Valerius departed. Cassandra turned to Valens. "Ride to Timbakion and ask Lucius to come at once. Glaucon is not the man to take his loss gracefully." Valens left as Cassandra removed Sophia's bloodstained clothing. She barely moaned when Cassandra rolled her over onto her side to spare her breasts and back. XI When the moon rose, Cassandra drove her hands into the earth raised her face to the light and chanted slowly, invoking Demeter for strength and Hecate for guidance. She grew pale, and her shoulders shook. By the time Syagrius arrived, the moon was down, and Cassandra stood unmoving before the altar, the sacred snakes wrapped about her arms. She knelt as he approached, and the serpents disappeared into a crevice beneath the altar. Only when she turned to face him did he see that the blue and red gown she wore left her breasts bare, just as in the frescos. "Do you also leap over the horns of bulls?" Syagrius asked, smiling. "At Hecate's command, I would attempt it," she replied evenly. "No one knows today how those animals were trained." Then, turning to Sophia, "If she lives through the night, the green mold will save her. But there is more danger here than from her wounds. They should not have festered so quickly. Glaucon has called on Simon and his black arts. Hecate has told me. You and the Furies must stand by her now." Syagrius nodded. "Drink this," she ordered, handing him an earthenware cup. "It will let you see our enemies." Syagrius swallowed the sour liquid. "I will raise the cone of power over you and her. Sit in that chair beside her, hold her hand and do not release it. Do not rise, no matter what you see. Call up the Furies that follow you, as you do before a fight. They are stronger than any spirit Simon commands. Take my dagger. If anything comes within the cone, strike at it at once." "And you?" "Hecate protects her children when they do her work." Cassandra chanted in a language that seemed as old as the cave itself. The walls began to shimmer as though seen through a heat wave. Only Sophia's bed, his chair and the floor beneath it remained solid. Cassandra sat down by the altar, locked her crossed legs beneath her, scarcely breathing, her eyes closed, her hands palms upward on her knees. In the hours that followed, Syagrius saw many things, some alluring, some terrifying. The armies of the

dead seemed to draw near, but the Furies would allow none to approach. He and anything he touched was theirs, they said. Once, it seemed Flavia beckoned to him. Looking hard at her face revealed a twist to her mouth that warned him not to believe. Even Julia motioned him to follow. The same sinister quality kept him in his seat. When Marius put out his hand, Syagrius slashed at it with the dagger. The phantom howled like a wolf from the pain. By dawn, he was exhausted, but Sophia was still alive. The cone of power dissolved when the first light from the cave entrance struck it. He rose from the chair and stretched his aching limbs. Cassandra was so cold, Syagrius feared she was dead. She opened her eyes at his touch and kissed his hand. He helped her to her feet and gave her back her dagger. "I have many powers," she said, still not steady on her feet, "but I could not have saved her without you and the Furies that follow you. "I am so tired," she continued. "Help me off with this gown and let me sleep. Stay close until I wake." Syagrius half carried Cassandra to her bed and laid her under the thin coverlet. She shivered slightly, and he looked around for another blanket. He saw nothing else that would serve, so he took off his cloak and laid it over her. She snuggled into it with a movement that made him start and feel the tears behind his eyes. XII Syagrius watched the shadows shorten in the cave. He knew the time for his appointment with Valerius was drawing near. Sophia had not stirred. Cassandra still slept. He did not want to rouse her. He breathed a sigh of relief when Valerius appeared in the doorway. The procurator's face still showed the ravages of yesterday, but his hair was combed, his beard trimmed. He had put on a fresh tunic and cloak. Valerius entered quietly and pulled up a chair beside Syagrius. "The orange peels are turning green," Syagrius informed him. "When Cassandra wakes, she'll set the mold to work on Sophia's wounds." Syagrius was about to tell the procurator about last night when Sophia cried out. Her eyes opened. Her gaze wandered about the cave until it fell on Valerius. "You," she screamed, raising herself on her elbow. "Even in hell you torment me. Was it not enough that you left your best friend to die? Must you torture his daughter too in your wickedness?" Valerius hung his head. "Shame! Shame! Shame!" she shrieked, her eyes wild. Suddenly, Cassandra was there, kneeling beside Sophia. No one had heard her approach. She squeezed Sophia's arm so hard she winced.

"When you are healed, Sophia," she told her, "you will walk out of this temple. Were it not for this man, his strength, his generosity, you would still be Glaucon's slave, and you would not walk at all. If you cannot be grateful, you can at least be civil." Sophia began to sob. Valerius spoke up, holding his right hand over Sophia. "Before all here present," he said solemnly, "I, Marcus Quintus Valerius, Procurator of Matala, stretch my hand over this woman. Let any who think to harm her know that hand will be raised against them." "Procurator," answered Syagrius and Cassandra simultaneously, "we hear you." Sophia looked about, bewildered. "Is this some horrible joke? Where am I really?" she asked. "In Matala," Syagrius answered, "in the temple of Hecate. Cassandra here is priestess. I am Lucius Syagrius. Our procurator you already know." Sophia sank back on her pallet. Cassandra went to fetch the orange peels she had prepared. Sophia looked at the rotting peels and shrank away. "I will do you no harm," Cassandra reassured her. "Iris showed me years ago how to use this gift from the Dark Goddess to save those who could not otherwise live. If the gods are kind, it will save you too." Then, turning to Syagrius and Valerius, "Leave us. It is not only her body that is wounded. There is much I must do." XIII Syagrius and Valerius walked back toward the town. Syagrius was silent, wondering what to make of Valerius' actions. "I had some terrible dreams last night," the procurator began. "Septimus and Livia accused me before King Minos and all the gods of faithlessness and cowardice. Even Bacchus was there, but he offered no mercy. I pleaded that I had not known. I was drunk. They laughed and laughed, said I had dishonored my name and was worthy only of eternal ignominy. "I said I had at least saved Sophia. More laughter. I awoke in a cold sweat. "I dozed off again and found myself once more before the seat of judgement. 'Saved Sophia, have you?' King Minos asked. 'From what? For what?' The gods roared with mirth, pointing at me like I was some kind of circus freak. Minos raised his rod. All fell silent. 'Will you keep her safe while you live?' said Minos. I swore I would. 'He has given his word,' the king declared. 'Let us see if he will keep it.' I awoke, cleaned myself, dressed and came to the temple." Syagrius walked beside him in silence as they drew near the town.

"Let us have lunch together," Syagrius said. "I have a story to tell you today." In deference to Valerius' stomach, the meal was a simple one. Both men helped themselves freely to the wine, but curiosity about what Syagrius would relate kept Valerius from imbibing too deeply. Finally, with the dishes cleared away, Syagrius began. Valerius had no idea what to say when Syagrius had finished. Nothing seemed enough to assuage that anguish, expiate that guilt. He refilled both cups from the pitcher and took a deep draught from his own before he spoke. "I was sent here to forget and be forgotten," the procurator sighed. "It nearly worked." He looked across the table at Syagrius. "You are braver than I. You have forgotten nothing. I wonder that it is I and not you who have sought solace at the bottom of a jug." "I have drunk enough wine to fill this harbor," Syagrius replied. "It only made my Furies stronger. I ran and ran. Now, I have turned to fight." "You have come to meet your past, to demand absolution." "If I do not find it here, it is nowhere," Syagrius replied. "You have been talking to Cassandra, I see. Perhaps I should have a talk with her too." Then, after a deep silence while Valerius refilled his cup, "What is it that your need of me?" "Money to buy some horses." Valerius was startled by this sudden transition from the mystical to the mundane. "What for?" he wanted to know. "The pirates have been raiding along the entire coast. From what I've learned from the reports, by the time we can march to wherever they've landed, they're long gone. All this marching is good exercise for the men but no help to anyone else. We need horses." "Mounting the entire garrison would cost a fortune." "I'm talking about enough good horses for ten or twelve picked men, a flying squad that could get to a village before the pirates got away." "They might be badly outnumbered when they arrive." "The reports I've seen all speak of small parties and small ships. Let me train our men the way I did my Romans. One of them will be worth three of those sea scavengers." "All right. I'll set Flavius on it. He has a good eye for horse flesh. He loves to ride." "Something else I've thought of," Syagrius went on.

"Oh?" "Can we get some boats?" "I can ask for them, like I've been asking for reinforcements or at least authority to raise recruits for the past three years. With retirements, deaths, discharges, both centuries are badly under strength, as you've seen yourself. Constantinople pays no attention. I sometimes think..." Valerius checked himself. "You already have more reinforcements than you know," said Syagrius. "I have never met a more loyal man than your centurion." "Flavius has his reasons for being here, as do you and I," answered Valerius. "Someday, he may tell you. He seems hard, but it is no thicker than the armor he wears or the gloves on his hands." Valerius fell silent as if debating what to say next. "Can you teach me to fight?" asked the procurator. Syagrius was puzzled. "Oh, I don't mean how to direct battles. I mean fight, sword to sword. I had some lessons in swordsmanship when I was in school. I passed the course easily. That was decades ago. In combat today, I'd be useless." "Why now?" "If we're going to start fighting the pirates along the coast, we'll have to fight them here, sooner or later." Syagrius nodded. "The men will need their procurator with them in that battle," he said slowly. "When I am back next week, we can draw practice swords and padding from the armory. I will show you everything I know." "One thing more," Valerius added. "I would like you and Flavius to alternate your duties between here and Timbakion, starting next week, one week at each place. I want the men in both garrisons to get used to working with either one of you. "It will give you more time with Cassandra. Flavius won't care one way or the other. He may even enjoy being out of my sight for a change." "And Paulus?" "You have him well in hand, and Flavius knows Paulus too well to allow him to forget anything you've taught him." Syagrius smiled. Apparently, Valerius was beginning to recall more than his swordsmanship lessons. XIV

Sophia's physical wounds were healing well. Monsters came to tear her soul. Cassandra stood them off. Sometimes, Sophia was sure it was Cassandra who held her close, mindful of her wounds, giving her strength. Sometimes, it seemed the Dark Goddess herself stood over her, daring the loathsome creatures to step within the circle she had drawn. After three days, Sophia was on her feet again, although her scars would remain with her to the grave. Valerius had not been back. Cassandra told her it was time to seek him out. Sophia took Cassandra hands. "Do not think I am ungrateful for what you have done. But, if the procurator orders me to his bed, I swear I will kill myself." "Quintus is an honorable man," Cassandra replied. "He does not take what is not his." "I am his slave. He bought me." "He does not take what is not his," Cassandra repeated calmly. When Sophia presented herself to Valerius it was mid-morning. He was immersed in trying to make sense out of a heap of documents. He made some quick notes and then looked up. "I am told you read and write both Greek and Latin." "I can." "Then you are now my secretary. Petrus was trained as a book keeper. He is a good man with numbers. I have never found fault with any of his reckonings. But his grammar and spelling are atrocious. There are so many mistakes in his letters and reports, I spend as much time correcting them as I would if I were writing them myself. He'll be happy to go back to store keeping." Sophia made no reply. "Sit down at that desk and start by transcribing those letters - without the mistakes, mind you. There's parchment on the shelves, ink and pens in the drawer. If you need anything else, get it from the cabinet behind you. "Work until lunch time. Then see Dido for some food. She'll get you some clothes too. Cassandra's will never fit you," Valerius observed, looking her over quickly. "Have Salus, my major-domo, find you a place to sleep. Get settled and come back tomorrow morning after breakfast. It's too hot to do anything this time of year, once the sun is high." Sophia took a seat and started unrolling the scrolls. They were exactly as Valerius had said. The arithmetic was perfect, the language awful. She began to make fair copies and did not look up until Valerius came to check her work. He nodded his approval, then left the room to go to lunch. Sophia was almost as unnerved as if Valerius had ordered her to his bed. What did he really want of her? Dido, she found, was a rotund, pleasant woman who had a marvelous eye for figure and size. She was

able to fit Sophia with three robes and a cloak without having to take a single measurement. Dido had Sophia pick out some sandals from a bin she kept by the door. She showed her to the slaves' dining room and introduced her to the rest of the staff. The food was simple but fresh, ladled out with a generous hand. Sophia looked for the whip at Dido's belt but saw none. Salus, the major-domo, showed her to a small, sparsely furnished room in one of the town wall towers. The procurator's residence, he explained, had never been properly repaired after the last earthquake. No money from Constantinople. Personnel had to be quartered wherever warm, dry space could be found. Because of her duties, she would have the room to herself. Like Dido, Salus seemed to have mislaid his whip. She told Cassandra what had passed. "Quintus has a long road ahead of him," the priestess told her. "He may yet lose the path. "I violate no confidence," Cassandra continued, "when I tell you Quintus is not a strong man. He is badly bent and may break. I do not think there is anyone within twenty miles who has not heard his story of Marcia. You will undoubtedly be his captive audience for yet another telling, perhaps many. "Those burdens have crushed him to the earth. It is beyond your power, mine or anyone else's, to raise him up. That he can only do for himself." Then, more solemnly, "Do not judge him too harshly. You are his last handhold before he slides into the abyss." Sophia was bewildered. The way she felt that moment, she'd have been happy to help Valerius over the edge of any handy cliff. "Oh," Cassandra added, almost as an afterthought, "you need fear nothing more from Simon and his spells. He has been found dead among his books, his staff broken, his evil returned to him threefold." If there was anyone who looked in need of a handhold, it was Valens, Sophia thought in the succeeding days. She encountered him often in the course of her work or his. He was always friendly and pleasant but kept his distance. His every move spoke of a wound not healed, deeper than any she bore, perhaps too deep ever to be healed. When she asked Cassandra about him, the priestess would say nothing. XV Two weeks later, Sophia was back at the temple. She had no formal afternoon duties, so she had taken it upon herself to bring order out of the chaos in the archives. What she found there sent her to see Cassandra. Syagrius was at Timbakion. "I have examined the tax records for the past five years, as long as Valerius has been procurator. Every copper has been paid." Cassandra nodded. "What I do not understand is how he gets the money. The district is poor, the taxes much too high. No one could pay them and feed himself, let alone a family. Valerius collects what he can, but it's not half enough to satisfy Constantinople. He has hardly any money of his own. He can't be making up the lack

that way. Most of his salary goes to pay his father's debts." "The first year Quintus was procurator," Cassandra explained, "the tax collectors came as usual from Constantinople with their rolls. As usual, they were accompanied by their torturers. Some who claimed they could not pay found the money after a flogging or a session on the rack. Others were not so forthcoming, until they were burned with red hot pincers. A few died afterwards. "They spared Iris and me only because we could pay. They feared the wrath of the old gods, even though they no longer believed in them or in any god save Plutus. "Quintus complained to Constantinople. They told him not to be so squeamish. It was his job to collect the taxes, not worry about evaders getting their just deserts. He was ill for three days, drunk for another five. "Iris and I fasted and prayed long to Hecate for guidance. The Dark Goddess told us what to do." Sophia looked at her, baffled. "For many years," Cassandra explained, "centuries in fact, this temple served as a repository for the wealth of those who were going on long voyages, or who feared robbers and pirates. Most returned to claim their deposits. Some never did. There are coins in our vault dating back to the time of Diocletian. "First Iris and then I have let Quintus have whatever he needed to satisfy the tax collectors and save the people from harm." "And he has not taken the treasure for himself?" "Quintus is not Glaucon. He does not take what is not his. It is only Quintus' protection that enables me to live here unmolested. If the bishop had his way, I'd be burned at the stake or lynched like Hypatia before the week was out. "Besides, there is no one else alive who knows where that vault is, how to open it. I will die before I allow it to be plundered." "And when the gold is gone?" "That is for the gods to decide." "Why does the bishop hate you so? Have you done him some harm?" "He is sure Iris put a spell on this place. He has never been able to build a church here in Matala. The roof fell in. The cement would not harden. An earthquake leveled the building. The priest fell ill or went mad. "My very existence enrages him," Cassandra declared. "Every day his god does not strike me down makes that god seem weak and far away, and his vicar in Mires powerless and silly. He'd kill me tomorrow, if he dared."

XVI During the week that Syagrius was in Matala, he and Valerius spent an hour a day practicing with their wooden swords and wicker shields. Despite his thick padding, Valerius would return bruised and stiff, rivers of sweat running off him, barely able to stumble to the warm bath his old valet prepared for him. He sank into the water, his groans filling the house. Yet, the next day, he and Syagrius would be at it again. Valerius lost five pounds the first week. Sophia watched them. The procurator had been almost comically clumsy at first and had taken dozens of whacks all over his head and body. Had they been using real weapons, he'd have been a dead man many times over. Yet Valerius would not hear of stopping until the agreed-upon hour was up. Only after he had bathed, and his valet had rubbed him down with oil and ointment for his bruises would Valerius open the wine jug. He was so tired that he could scarcely manage a glass before dragging himself off to bed. The next day, he would be back at his desk, more than a little stiff but still cheerful. Sophia could not help giggling at Valerius' attempts at soldiering, although she was careful not to let him see her mirth. He looked so funny in all that padding. She and Cassandra had some good laughs over his antics, especially after they'd shared a glass of wine or two. Sophia said he was so serious about learning to fight she had to acknowledge he had nerve at least, even if he wasn't very good looking. Cassandra only smiled. Cassandra had just put down her glass and was reaching for the jug, when she stiffened and nearly slipped from her chair. Sophia caught her just in time. "Fetch my battle armor," Cassandra said in a hollow voice, then trembled and was still. Sophia was alarmed. "I often speak without knowing," Cassandra reassured her, her eyes opening slowly. "Did I say anything interesting?" "You spoke of battle armor." Cassandra made no reply, let Sophia help her back into her chair, refilled both glasses. "I'm surprised you haven't broken half your bones, falling like that," Sophia said. "What if there's no one to catch you?" "Most of the time, it's not so dramatic," Cassandra answered. "Usually, I'm just 'gone' for a bit. Hecate lets no harm come to me." Then she turned the talk to other things. When Sophia related the incident to Valerius, he was not surprised. "Our Cassandra has the second sight," he said. "There is much that she knows before anyone else. She is also fierce as any Amazon, if you haven't noticed." "She mentioned battle armor." "Aye. Every Roman officer has two sets at least, one for parades and the other for fighting. I have got

my own out of storage. I'm having the armorer get it back into shape." One of Sophia's duties as Valerius' secretary was to sit at a low desk beside him when he held court, making a record of the cases, how they were resolved. She smiled when she saw the banner hung over the procurator's chair. "Restitution not Retribution," it read. Anyone who didn't like a judge's decision could appeal to the procurator, but there were not many cases for him to hear. Valerius, for his part, had little patience with devious lawyers and even less with litigants who thought they could buy justice. Appearing before him could have unpleasant consequences for both the contentious and the greedy. From Valerius' decision, there was only the appeal to Caesar, and that only for Roman citizens. An appeal in a criminal matter meant a trip to Constantinople in chains, where Imperial Justice often included blinding, maiming, exile to a penal colony, slavery in the mines, flogging to death or whatever cruelties the executioners had devised that week, penalties that Valerius had neither the heart nor the stomach to impose. Even civil suits could have bizarre outcomes, once the courts in Constantinople got hold of them. After one of these sessions, as Sophia was putting the documents away in their carrying case, she said, "Tell me again about Marcia." Valerius was taken aback. It was the first time he could remember that anyone had asked to hear that story once, let alone a second time. He told it briefly as they walked back to the residence, leaving out neither his own foolishness nor his wife's scheming. "It is a hard lot you were given," Sophia remarked. "It must not be easy for you to trust." "Strange, coming from you," he replied as they climbed the stairs. "Marcia has certainly scourged my soul, but my body is still intact. I don't think she's planning to cripple me either, unless she's written Glaucon for instructions. Knowing her, though, I'm sure she's up to something. She always is. "While I live," he added, "you will suffer no more wounds." "It must be very lonely and difficult for you here." "If Lucius and Flavius can do their duty, I can do mine," Valerius replied simply, putting away the vestments he wore when he sat in judgment. "You would go with them into battle?" "My oath is as good as theirs, if it comes to that." "You could die." "And Lucius and Flavius can't? They stand with me. I must stand with them." She was going to answer, when a gong sounded.

"Lucius will be on the field in a few minutes. It's time for another pounding," Valerius told her. "I never thought being procurator here would involve being beaten half to death two weeks out of four. Perhaps I should make that one of my sentences, have the miscreant take my place with Lucius for a day or so. "I am getting better," he concluded. "I'm twelve pounds lighter. We're using full weight equipment now." He's such an odd fellow, Sophia thought, as Valerius hurried off. He is brave and honorable, though - if he can stay sober - and kind. He's not all that bad looking either. If I am to be a slave, I could do worse. If I were still free... Things might have continued this way, but an audit from Constantinople three weeks later changed everything. Valerius and Sophia were working over the books far into the night, taking supper at their desks as they prepared for the committee's visit. There were no shortages, but matching receipts to expenditures took hours and hours. When he saw how late it was getting, Valerius ordered a pallet brought into the study to spare Sophia the long walk in the moonless dark back to her quarters, let her get a few hours sleep before they continued. He'd ordered his valet and all the other servants to retire, while he and Sophia toiled on alone. Finally, Valerius called a halt. He started for the bedroom which adjoined his office, an idea from his drinking days. The numbers had begun to dance before his eyes. Had his bed been any farther off, he'd probably have lost his way, he thought, as he sank down on the mattress, not even bothering to shut the door. "Are you comfortable?" he called to Sophia as his eyelids closed. "I - I'd rather be in there," was the reply. There was a long silence. Sophia thought Valerius had fallen asleep. "Come then." "Put out the lamp. I don't want you to see me." Valerius did so. The darkness enveloped them both. XVII Syagrius had been at his task about two months, working a week with the garrison at Timbakion, a week with the troops in Matala. He had reached an understanding with Paulus. The man could be trusted to look after the soldiers in his absence. Syagrius had sensed the mood of the men at Matala and undertaken their training as carefully as he had at Timbakion. At first, except for the squad that accompanied Valens on his rounds, they had been fearfully soft, unable to do even short exercises in armor. As always, he had led the men rather than driven them. Whatever he could do at his age, the troops had come to feel, should be possible for them too. Soon it was.

Morale went up along with achievement. The walls were repaired and the catapults rebuilt. A flying squad was chosen and taught to ride the horses that Syagrius had persuaded Valerius to buy. For Syagrius, it was like the old days, in some ways too much like them. The first test was not an easy one. Syagrius was at Matala for his weekly change over with Valens when a farmer brought word of pirates looting a village a few miles down the coast. Before Syagrius had come, these reports were an occasion for assembling the entire garrison and marching off, arriving just in time to watch the raiders sail out of sight. "How many of them are there?" Syagrius asked the peasant. "About twenty, sir." "I'll turn out the garrison," Valens said, starting for the tower. "Wait," Syagrius interrupted, "Are the horses rested?" "Aye." "It's better we arrive in time with a few than too late with many." "All right." "Have the duty officer and the watch mount at once. With you and me, that should be enough." Valens gave the orders that sent him and Syagrius pounding along the road with a double file of troops behind them. As they cleared the town, they saw Cassandra standing beside the road with her bow and quiver. She raised her hand. Syagrius' horse stopped short. He drove his heels into the animal's flanks. It stood fast. Cassandra hoisted herself up behind Syagrius, throwing one arm around his waist. Only then did the horse resume its gallop and overtake the squadron. "What are you doing?" Syagrius asked. "You will need my bow," Cassandra replied calmly. The raiders had not finished gathering their booty when the Romans burst upon them. Syagrius was dragged from his mount and would have been speared on the ground, if Valens had not cut the pirate's throat with a dagger stroke. Cassandra was already off the horse. "I'll hold the beach road," she cried, as she scrambled up onto a rooftop. There was no time for orders. The corsairs had recovered from their surprise and were making a fight

of it. Already two of the Romans were down. Valens rallied his men, throwing himself headlong into the struggle. It was the kind of fight he was best at, over broken ground with no fixed line to hold. With his light armor, one good thrust would finish him. He had no shield. Only his speed kept him alive. Syagrius stood firm and cut down his attackers as fast as they came within reach. Cassandra had already put an arrow in the back of the pirate running to get reinforcements from the ship, stymied the others trying to come up the road from the shore. It was uncertain which way it would go until the Romans got into formation and began pushing the raiders back across the square. One by one, they started to slink off toward their ship, dodging Cassandra's arrows as they ran. For a moment, it looked like the corsairs would get away. Then the Romans were on their deck, and the fight was over. The remaining raiders threw down their weapons and surrendered. Syagrius sailed the pirate ship back to Matala with Cassandra sitting at his feet, her chin resting on her hand as she looked out over the dark waters. It felt good to have the helm of a ship again, to feel the sea beneath him. "You were right about needing your bow," Syagrius admitted. "Hecate told me," Cassandra answered as though explaining the obvious. "You could have been killed." "I am Hecate's daughter," Cassandra said simply. "I do as she commands." "And did Hecate tell you to come to me that first night?" Syagrius asked, smiling. "Yes," she replied with no trace of irony in her voice. "Iris prophesied that a man would come out of the sea, naked as Odysseus to Nausicaa. The moment I saw him, something would bend inside me that would not be straight again while I lived." Syagrius expected her to say more. But Cassandra had closed her blue and gray eyes and withdrawn into her spirit world, scarcely breathing. He looked down at her, so strange and so brave. She reminded him much of Flavia. Would he be the death of her too? he asked himself. Would it be better to leave before the curse that lay on him took her as well? No. Cassandra had risked everything for him. He would play out this cast of the dice with her, come what may. It's time to have a talk with the bishop, he said to himself. The silence gave Syagrius a chance to think more about the day. He was pleased with the victory and the prisoners Valens' men had under guard. Their centurion, always glad of a chance to ride, had decided to return to Matala with the horses. One of the Romans was dead and another dying. The other two wounded were not badly hurt. It was

fortunate they had the ship to bring them back and spare them four miles of bumpy road in a wagon. The ship, Syagrius pondered, was a small one and certainly had not sailed very far. It was odd for such a small band of pirates to travel alone. They had made other raids, of course, but the booty and supplies on board indicated only a short voyage. They must have a refuge somewhere nearby. His reverie was interrupted by one of the soldiers approaching from the forecastle where the wounded lay. "Sir," the man began, "Faustus won't last much longer. He's having a bad time of it." Cassandra opened her eyes and got to her feet. "Bring him out into the light," she ordered. Syagrius nodded, and the soldier hastened to get one of his comrades to help carry the dying man to Cassandra. He was delirious and in much pain, rolling back and forth on the litter as he groaned. She knelt beside him and took his hand in hers. He grew still. She murmured some words and then placed her fingers on his temples, pressing firmly. Faustus shuddered, then relaxed. Cassandra closed his eyes and made a gesture of blessing over him as she rose. "What did you do?" Syagrius asked. "Iris showed me years ago. It was her way to help those whose suffering she could not ease." Cassandra resumed her place at his feet and fell silent. Syagrius went back to steering until he felt a touch on his leg. He looked down to see Cassandra's head resting against his thigh, her eyes half closed. Her body trembled for a moment and was still. She turned slowly to look up at him. "Teach me to guide the ship," she said softly as she rose. XVIII Back at Matala, Valerius questioned the prisoners. They did not have much to say, and he was reluctant to use torture. He was spared that decision by the arrival of a messenger from Theocritas, procurator in Heraklion. Valerius read the tablet aloud to Syagrius and Valens. Theocritas advised the immediate release of any captives he might have along with their vessel. Refusal to do so, he added, would arouse the wrath of the Vandal court at Carthage. Valerius stopped reading and considered a moment. Syagrius and Valens looked at him expectantly. "These men," he said slowly, "have plundered and murdered the people I am sworn to protect. They will die." The executions took place that afternoon.

Later, for the funeral ceremonies for the two fallen Romans, Valerius turned out the garrison and appeared himself in his parade armor. Before he lit the pyre, the procurator spoke to the soldiers and the townspeople, praising the bravery of Faustus and Marcellus, reminding everyone these two might not be the last to fall. "They chose the path of honor," Valerius summed up, "kept their oath and did their duty. Their lives were the price of that choice. I and all of us shall do the same, if Fate demands it." Then, turning to the townspeople, "We who wear armor will be your armor. Whoever threatens you threatens me and all of us. He will not go unpunished." Both soldiers and townspeople received these words in silence. Valerius had never said such things before. They did not know what to make of them now. Valerius had another surprise for Syagrius and Valens as they walked back with him to the town. "What about the ship?" he asked. The two of them looked at him uncertainly. "She seems sound," Syagrius explained. "How many men would be needed to row and fight her properly?" "With twenty of our men to row and ten to fight," Syagrius replied, "she could patrol our waters. With thirty to row and thirty more to fight, she could take any ship her size." "The soldiers may not want to be marines," Valens noted. "Offer them a silver piece extra in their pay each month if they volunteer. Only those who can swim, though," Valerius concluded. Syagrius and Valens stood for a moment in silence as Valerius continued on to the residence. "The die is cast," Valens murmured. "Aye." XIX When Syagrius and the soldiers marched off, taking the dead and the prisoners with them, Cassandra remained on the quay, dangling her feet in the water. She had recovered most of her arrows from the fight and was checking the points to see they were still straight and sharp, rubbing the dulled ones on the stone beside her. She looked up when she heard Sophia call and smiled to see her friend approaching. Sophia sat down beside her.

"Why did you ride off like that?" Sophia began. "I was afraid I would not see you alive again." "Lucius said the same thing," Cassandra replied. "Hecate told me I should not let him fight alone." There was a long silence between them. "Cassandra," Sophia sighed, "what's to become of me?" "What do you mean?" "After all that happened to me with the slave catchers, then in Heraklion and in Mires, I did not think I would ever lie with a man. Now I share Quintus' bed." "You are not content there?" "Sometimes I hurt. It is not from him. He is gentle and kind. In his arms, I feel warm and safe. When I fall sleep, the dreams are always good." She paused. "But it is not as it would have been with you." Cassandra answered slowly. "Lucius," she said, "has his demons for strength and me for comfort. Without you, Quintus would be lost. Marcia would destroy him." "You love Lucius then?" Cassandra leaned her head on Sophia's shoulder. "When he touches me, I can barely stand. When he frowns, I cannot speak. Iris told me long ago a naked man would come out of the sea, pursued by the Furies. I would love him to distraction, although his coming would mean the end of me. I did not believe her until I saw the Furies behind Lucius in the surf. I was fey the moment I laid eyes on him. "If Lucius had been killed on the beach," Cassandra went on, "Scaphrax would not have lived to see the sunset, if I'd had to tear his throat out with my teeth. If Lucius had sent me away that night, I do not know how I would have lived." "But he does not love you?" Sophia asked, astonished. She stroked her friend's red hair. "Lucius is fond of me," Cassandra replied softly. "He'd trust me with his life in battle. He makes love to me, and I sleep easy in his arms. But he cannot love me. Even when I hold him inside me, he is not mine." She looked down at the water for a moment before she spoke again. "Once, as he lay sleeping beside me in the temple, I called his demons out."

"You can do that?" "And more, when I must," Cassandra said firmly as she sat up. "I am daughter to Hecate by her choice and by mine. It is my power and my fate. "I fought them with all my arts, but I could not drive them off. My knees grew weak. My sight began to darken. I knew, if I failed, we would both awaken mad." Sophia stared at her, transfixed. "I called Hecate with blood and fire," Cassandra continued, gesturing to a small scar on her right forearm. "You dared such a thing?" "Sophia, I am fey," Cassandra explained. "I'd have done it, if it had meant my life on the altar that moment. "The Dark Goddess came as I had bidden. The Furies stood back, gnashing their teeth in rage. They too are her children, and they obey her. She would not harm them, but she did make them bargain. "The Furies will stand with Lucius to the end, as will I." "Is that why the men say to close with him is death." "Probably." "And you?" "Lucius will not love me until I die before his face, pierced with iron." "Pierced with iron?" Sophia gasped. "As was another, years gone. I only hope I am as brave as she." "Cassandra, is there no happiness for us anywhere?" "We are where the gods have called us. We are with those we love. Many would envy us our lot." Sophia took Cassandra's hand. "I am sorry to have troubled you. I shall not speak of such things again." "You are my friend. You may speak of whatever you wish." XX The next time Syagrius was back in Matala, Valens had the Hawk ready for sea trials. The ship had been repainted and the Roman eagle sewn onto her sail. Only her name remained unchanged. It was bad luck to change a ship's name, Cassandra had told him.

The Hawk was fast and sturdy, responding well to oars or sail. Those pirates knew a good ship when they saw one, Syagrius thought, wondering how she had fallen into their hands, how much blood had already been spilled on her decks. Her crew was as swift and eager as their ship, getting the grappling irons and the hooked gangplank ready faster than Syagrius had ever seen it done before, knowing how to fight to repel boarders using every advantage the ship's layout gave them. Their speed from "Boat oars!" to "Battle stations!" was amazing. Paulus, Syagrius learned, was the son of a fisherman and knew much of boats and the sea, knowledge he was eager to impart to his fellow Romans, now that he had a ship under him. When they were back on the quay, Syagrius told Valens he was going to Mires to settle matters with the bishop, see to it that there were no more visits from Scaphrax or anyone like him. If the cleric didn't fear the King of Heaven, he'd at least have something to fear from the King of the Romans. Valens asked to go along and take a squad with him. The horses needed exercise, he explained. An hour later, they were standing before the bishop, seated on his ivory throne. Syagrius explained why they had come. The pudgy prelate looked bored. "Surely you must know," he explained, "that our Holy Writ commands 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' If Cassandra does not forsake her evil ways and embrace the One True Faith, God will surely punish her." Syagrius nodded. "Your Holy Writ, I'm told, says many things," he replied. "I will say only one. If any harm comes to Cassandra, you'd best be at peace with your Saviour. For I will not suffer you to live one day longer." "You dare threaten a man of God?" "I bring you a warning, lest you confuse yourself with your god." "Indeed. I have but to ring this bell, and my guards... "Go ahead," Valens interrupted. "I have a squad of my Romans with me. They'd like nothing better than to come up here and mop the floor with your 'guards.' These fearless fighters of yours, I hear, found one woman with a bow too much for them in their last engagement." "Be certain, my lord bishop," said Syagrius coldly, "if blood is spilled, you will not leave this room alive." The bishop's chubby fingers toyed with the bell. "You are still breathing now," Syagrius told him, "only because I honor the memory of two real men of God whose boots you're not worthy to lick." "Valerius will hear of your insolence, so will Constantinople." The bishop joined his hands on his belly. "I have no doubt of that," Valens answered.

"I have other friends too in..." He checked himself. "Where?" Syagrius asked. "Carthage, perhaps? Be sure to tell them, when you bless their ships. Maybe Scaphrax would like to bring his bill of sale back with him too." The bishop pressed his lips together, said nothing. Syagrius and Valens bowed and left. The bishop called for his scribe. On the way back to Matala, Valens dropped back and motioned Syagrius to do the same. He slowed his horse, letting the men go on ahead until they were nearly out of sight. "When we first went to fight the pirates," Valens began, "I did not fear for my own life. I have always been ready to face any peril myself. I did not know if I would have the resolve to order my men into danger. "If it had come to blows today, I would have summoned them at once, led them against ten of the bishop's guards or fifty. They'd have trusted me even as you trusted me. I do not know if that is right." Syagrius looked at him quizzically. "What are you saying? Why should soldiers not trust their commander?" "You see my hands and my arm," Valens went on. "They are not combat wounds. They come from torture. I am broken inside. I was not born left handed. I taught myself to wield a sword with that hand when my right was shattered. I cannot even carry a shield properly with that arm." "What happened?" Syagrius asked softly. "I was an officer in the palace guard in Constantinople, young, handsome, a fine career ahead of me. I had a lover - another man - Demetrius, son of a senator. We were very discreet. No one knew. "He was handsome, brave and kind." Valens eyes grew moist. "We did not know what the future might bring. We pledged to face it together, to stand by one another. We took a blood oath." Valens sighed and hung his head. Syagrius put his arm around Valens' shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it now." "I do," he replied. "Cassandra knows, Quintus knows. Now you must know too. If you are to trust your life to me, you must know what kind of man I am, how I failed those who had most right to trust me. I wear these gloves so I do not have to look at my hands and be reminded of my cowardice." "Go on then." "There was a conspiracy against the Emperor, or someone thought there was or hoped there was. I have no idea. Important people were supposed to be involved. The prosecutor needed someone to give evidence, so he could arrest the 'plotters.' He couldn't move against them without it. They were too powerful. "So they arrested me. I was nobody. I knew nothing. I knew only Demetrius and his friends." Valens

fell silent, gathering his strength. "They tortured me, broke my fingers with thumbscrews, hung me up with my wrists tied behind me and weights on my ankles until my shoulders were wrenched from their sockets. They whipped me, burned me with hot irons, tore out my fingernails, put my testicles in a vise, stuck me in a hole with rats, where I couldn't even stand upright, left me..." "I understand," Syagrius interrupted. Valens was still for a long time, his hands trembling, his face pale. "Finally, one day, I couldn't bear any more. I said what they wanted me to say. Demetrius was executed, along with his father and half a dozen other senators. They were flogged to death for treason. I still hear their screams at night. I was let go, commended for my 'cooperation.' "After the trials were over, no one needed me for anything. I was an embarrassment, a cripple creeping about the palace. I was promoted to first centurion, shipped out here to command the garrison." Valens buried his head in his hands. "If I had been able to hold out just one more day, Demetrius might have found out what was happening, made them release me and saved us all. "I should have known I would break, never have let them take me, died like a man, my sword in my hand." His shoulders shook. "Since that day, I have not allowed anyone close to me. There is too much poison in my veins, too much rot beneath my flesh." "Flavius," Syagrius said, "you can't blame yourself. The Emperor's torturers could make a man denounce his own mother." "I've told myself that a thousand times," the centurion answered. "It doesn't help." "You know my story," Syagrius told him. "Nothing helps my past either. I go on because I must. Not to go on would betray those I left behind, tell them they died in vain. If there is any reason for you and me to be living, when your Demetrius and so many others are not, we must find it here or nowhere." Valens took Syagrius' hand. "Stand by me as I by you. I will give you no oath because I know how weak I am. If the gods are kind, we will keep our friendship unto death." "Let it be as you say." XXI When they came in sight of Matala, Syagrius and Valens saw three ships entering the harbor, the smaller ones, about the size of the Hawk, towing a trireme. The two men spurred their horses to a gallop.

Valerius met them on the quay. Beside him was the captain of one of the smaller vessels, the Romulus. He had been instructed, he told them, to tow the War Eagle from Constantinople to Matala, where she would be stationed along with the Romulus. Once the paper work was completed, he and his crew would sail off in the Argo and leave the other two ships with Valerius. The winter storms were coming. Further delay could be dangerous. Valerius asked the captain how he was to use the ships. He could train another crew to man the Romulus, to be sure. The War Eagle, he saw, was fully equipped and a fine ship. But not even both garrisons put together would be enough to row and fight her. The captain was as baffled as the procurator, but he had his orders. By evening, the Argo was hull down on the horizon. The Romulus and the Hawk were moored behind the War Eagle. "If we are careful of the winter storms," Valerius observed, "we can patrol the coast in both directions, now that we have the Romulus. What are we to do with the War Eagle?" Syagrius and Valens shrugged their shoulders. "Constantinople works in mysterious ways," Syagrius offered. They were about to separate when a slave hailed the procurator and handed him a small scroll, sealed in wax. "I wonder what the tribune has to say now," Valerius remarked, looking at the impression before he broke it. All three of them were surprised to find the tribune had anything to say at all. He was an old Roman, retired years ago from his post in Athens. He kept the ancient ways, thought Valerius was a disgrace to Rome, old and new. Whenever Syagrius or Valens met him, he confined his conversation to routine pleasantries. To Valerius, he refused to speak at all. Now he had sent a dinner invitation to all three of them for the following evening. "I don't know what Constantinople is thinking," Valerius observed. "But the climate has certainly changed here." The tribune was an intelligent man and well read, although grown a bit grumpy with the years. He was also inclined to be more than a little pompous and stuffy. The food was excellent, but the wine so watered as to be barely drinkable in keeping with the tribune's notions of ancient sobriety. Were it not for his wife with her graceful wit, their host would have been unbearable with his tales of ancient honor and his railing against the unworthiness of their own time. Portia must pray every day to Juno for patience, Syagrius thought, as the tribune launched into yet another peroration. For Valerius, the tribune had only praise, hoping that he would not waver in his resolve to do his duty and protect his people. He could not resist, however, the opportunity to "pass over in silence" the unseemliness of the procurator taking one of his slaves to his bed and, what was even more to be deplored, treating her almost as though she were a free woman. Valerius might have been insulted. Instead, he just refilled his wine cup and looked thoughtful.

As befitted the ancient ways, the dinner ended early. Everyone went to bed sober. XXII When Sophia finished work the next day and was about to leave for lunch, Valerius asked her to wait a moment. He hesitated before he spoke. "Last night, the tribune called to my attention the unseemliness of our liaison, which, of course, respect for my exalted station obliged him to 'pass over in silence.'" Valerius smiled at the elegance of the phrase. Sophia would have appreciated it too, had she been sure where this speech was going. "I have also learned that you have been seen about the town these past months, consorting with our priestess, almost as though you were a free woman. I have resolved to act appropriately, do, as the tribune would say, 'as our worthy forefathers often did in such situations.'" Sophia was puzzled. Valerius was obviously serious, but something else lay beneath his earnest mien. "The solution is here," he said, opening a drawer and taking out a small scroll bearing his seal. Sophia gasped. Was she to be beaten and sold again? Was there any man on Earth as faithless as Valerius? Would she never learn? He handed her the scroll. "Read it," he commanded. "Then we'll go to lunch." Sophia's fingers shook as she unrolled the parchment. It was a Certificate of Manumission. Her freedom. "After we eat, you will make two copies, Valerius told her, "one for the archives here and one for Cassandra to keep in the temple. I will sign and seal them both. The original, you take with you wherever you want to go." Sophia sank into a chair. She feared she would faint. "There are scrolls like yours prepared for all my slaves," Valerius explained, "to take effect upon my death. They are good people who have served me well. I will not have them fall into Marcia's hands." "Where am I to go?" Sophia asked slowly. "What am I to do with this freedom? With these ears and these scars, I'm not safe anywhere beyond the border. I'd not reach Heraklion before some slave trader seized me, tore up that certificate and shipped me off to Africa." Valerius stared at the floor. "I am sorry for everything that happened to you. I would make it right if I could. Is there anything else I can do now? Do you need money, an escort somewhere?" "I didn't mean it that way," Sophia replied quickly. "I - It's just that I do not want to leave Matala, to leave you, to leave what I have here. There is nowhere I want to go. Everything I had is gone. Let me stay." Valerius sighed with relief. "I will still need a secretary," he admitted. "The job pays one gold piece a

month with your keep, plus whatever you can earn doing letters for people on your own. You can work off the thirty-five I gave Glaucon for you. After that..." Sophia was looking out the window, scarcely hearing, trying to compose herself. She turned back to him, her voice unsteady, as she stood up. "Let's go to bed. I want you to make love to me." "In the middle of the day?" "I want the daylight. I want you to see everything - this once - so you will know what you have taken into your bed, into your life. Whatever happens, I am yours, and I will understand." In their chamber, Sophia stripped off her garments and stood before Valerius, trembling, her eyes closed so she could not see his face. Valerius kissed her lips, then her mutilated breasts. He turned her around, his hands resting on her hips. Running his palms up her sides to her shoulders, he Lifted the curls of her hair, laid his cheeks against her ears. One by one, he touched his lips to the scars on her back. "Do they hurt?" he asked. "No. Not any more." "Then they don't bother me," he said, taking her in his arms. XXIII Marcia had got the bishop's latest letter from Crete. She was so furious she beat both her bedroom attendants until they were half dead and sent them away sobbing. She finished combing her blonde hair herself, looking carefully in the mirror every few strokes. She felt she could burst from sheer rage. Valerius had been sent out there to find his way to disgrace. He had been doing a good job of it too, she mused, drinking himself to death while the district was neglected and evidence built for a charge of dereliction of duty - if he survived long enough to face it. With him out of the way, Marcia could marry again, this time someone with real money, not just an empty name. She already had a few candidates in mind. Valerius' first centurion had been a perfect match, half a man, wearing his own badge of shame. Things had been going well indeed with Valerius drunk, Valens lost in his own miseries and Titus too ill to be of any use to either of them. All that had kept Valerius in office was his ability to render the taxes accurately and on time, not an easy thing for a procurator to do these days. Charges of dereliction were postponed again and again. Marcia went back to hoping, planning and enjoying herself. Being married gave her a refuge from her more insistent lovers, a chance to look around for better opportunities. Nonetheless, she had expected the report of her husband's demise any day. Why couldn't he do the decent thing, she demanded, throw himself off a cliff, open his wrists, take some poison, get himself killed in a drunken brawl? Five years

- almost six now - was much too long to wait for her freedom. Last spring, this tramp, Syagrius, claiming to have been Rome's procurator in Gaul, had come ashore, got her husband's nose out of the jug, put some backbone into his centurion, sent Titus into retirement and turned everything upside down. It was high time something was done about him. Long past time, if she had anything to say. She called on her uncle and her cousins. Surely, with their connections, they'd find a way. Their first thought was to kidnap this Syagrius, put him in a cage and send him to Clovis. That looked risky, though. If it failed, the kidnapers might be persuaded to tell who hired them, and why. Valerius' success against the pirates had brought him some influence at court, and he could bring charges before the Emperor that would be an embarrassment to everyone. Worse yet, the letter they got from Clovis insisted there was no such person as Syagrius at all. The King of the Franks would pay nothing for the return of a man he'd executed years ago. "Perhaps we should just kill him," Cousin Linus suggested. "Not that easy," Uncle Phocas countered. "Whoever we send might fail. We'd be in the same position as with a kidnaping." "Can't we just find some charge and have him arrested? We could stick him in a dungeon until he died, waiting for his trial," Cousin Phineas suggested. "Too late for that," said Phocas. "He has the loyalty of the troops and the support of the procurator. Romans fighting Romans could get ugly. From what I've been able to learn, his soldiers would be a match for just about any force the Empire could spare from the wars. The people on Crete are not happy with our rule. An energetic procurator at the head of a even two centuries of men like that could make a lot of trouble, if he got ideas about the island becoming independent. "Besides, that red haired witch Syagrius has taken up with is said to have the second sight. She might warn him. Leave them alone for now. I'll think of something when the time is ripe." When Marcia read about Sophia, she went livid. Taking a slave into the bed that was hers was bad enough. But giving the slut her freedom and letting her sit beside him at table were not to be endured. Glaucon had told her the woman didn't even have breasts! Her family simply must do something at last. All the people who mattered, she insisted, would be laughing behind their hands, once word of this shame got out. How was she to keep her wealthy lovers, if her own husband was allowed to make a fool of her with that mutilated slave girl? Marcia had also seen the official reports, so different from the dreary narratives of other ports. The garrison had fought three engagements on land and two at sea, and with only one ship, a vessel captured from the pirates, at that. The corsairs had got the worst of it every time. Many had been executed as the law demanded. Roman losses had been light. Replacements were needed. Carthage was not pleased. The Vandals had sent one of their chieftains, Sorax, the most feared pirate in the Adriatic, to negotiate an end to this embarrassment.

Marcia was shocked to learn Sorax was in the city. He had been publicly proclaimed an outlaw a dozen times. There was a huge reward for his head. Now he had a safe conduct from the Emperor himself with ghastly penalties proclaimed for any who might do him harm. Marcia was horrified at Cousin Linus' suggestion she should actually meet this cutthroat. "Sorax is proving very difficult this year," Linus explained. "Once the winter is over, he'll begin raiding again. None of our ships or depots will be safe, if we can't reach an agreement." "What has that to do with me?" "We were thinking of having Sorax raid Matala, leave the rest of Crete alone, including Heraklion. Theocritas would be happy with that. Valerius would take to his heels at the sight of Sorax's fleet. Your husband's trial for cowardice would be a formality, his execution a forgone conclusion, if he didn't do away with himself first. His disgrace would leave you free to marry without waiting out the year of mourning." "Why should Sorax have any interest in Matala? He's never landed there before." "True. There's not much in the port. With the proper inducements..." Marcia turned pale. "I see. I'm to make love to that stinking, red haired beast. How do we know he'll keep his word?" "He always has." Marcia's arts worked as well as ever. It turned out, however, that Sorax wanted a good deal more, although he kept his demands to himself until after Marcia had become his lover. "Raiding Matala is going to cost me," he reminded the merchants at their meeting. "You say Valerius won't put up a fight, once he sees my ships coming. He'll pull back into the fort and watch us plunder the town. I'm sure you're right. That's what your procurators always do." Linus, Phocas, Phineas and the Imperial Legate nodded agreement. The other merchants murmured their approval. "I won't loose any men or ships," Sorax admitted. "What I will lose is time, time I could be spending getting real loot in a place like Lesbos or Rhodes." The merchants were visibly distressed. Linus started fidgeting. Phocas began to sweat. "What else do you want?" the legate inquired. "I need a good ship, a trireme large enough and strong enough to let me raid wherever I please - only in Italy, I assure you." "How should you get such a vessel? The only galleys like that are in the Imperial Fleet." "Send one to Matala - without crew, of course. I'll pick it up when I raid the place. I'll leave the rest of

the island alone this year, Lesbos too." "You want one of our best ships, after all the tribute we've paid?" the legate said. "Yes," Sorax replied. "Some of mine are getting old and rotten. It's time they were replaced. Send a light galley to Matala too. Have both vessels there by spring. "One thing more," the pirate demanded. "I want a safe conduct, a pass that authorizes me to be in your waters, in case I run into a patrol that hasn't heard about our arrangement. I don't want to fight anyone I don't have to." The pass was easy. An impressive document with the imperial seal commissioned Sorax to hunt down and punish illegal fisherman and traders. At the behest of the Patriarch, a clause was added urging him to purge the land of idolatry and the "filth of the old religion" in any way God might command. The blessings of Heaven were assured. All Imperial Officials were directed to cooperate. There was more haggling over the next two weeks, but Sorax wouldn't budge on the ships. Finally, the War Eagle and the Romulus were despatched to Matala where they would await his coming. Marcia watched from her balcony as the flotilla vanished over the horizon, her comb and her glass in her hand. A week later, Sorax vanished too. It took another week at the baths before Marcia felt clean again. Now to see whom she would marry, once Valerius was out of the way. A stunningly beautiful woman like her, she thought, deserved all the finest things of life and the right man to provide them. XXIV The new coils and ammunition for the harbor catapults had finally come from Athens. They had been ordered in late October, but only now had the winter storms subsided enough to make the voyage out to Crete safe for a vessel carrying them. Even so, the crew had been obviously relieved to get the sturdy straw-lined crates holding the pots of Greek fire off their ship. Newborn babies could not have received more careful handling. If one of those pots had broken at sea, nothing on Earth could have saved the sailors from death by fire or by drowning. Breaking a pot on the pier would have set the whole dock ablaze. It took another two days to get the new coils mounted. The catapult master was sick with a fever and had to relay instructions from his bunk to the platforms. Finally, he was on his feet again, and the thick ropes were fastened to the drums and twisted tight to give the machines power. It took the better part of the morning to sight them in, using round stones of various weights and jugs filled with sand to simulate the fire pots. When the drill was finished, the catapult master wrote on a board the number of turns needed to hurl each weight stone various distances and the sighting coordinates to reach the harbor entrance and other targets. Cassandra had watched the practice from the pier. When it was just about over, she came to the platform and asked Syagrius to show her how to aim and shoot one of the war machines. Syagrius was surprised. Cassandra was a good shot with a bow, and, up close with her dagger, she was truly dangerous. She had never shown any interest in other weapons.

"You have seen something," he said. "A dream," she answered softly. "I will have to know these things." The men were tired, but they were always willing to do something extra for Syagrius. They wound the drum tight again. "It takes four men on the capstan to turn the drum," he explained. "How many turns you put on depends on how far you want to reach. The targets, turns and coordinates are written on this board, along with the weight of the stone to be thrown. "You have to be especially careful when you're using the fire pots. There's one man whose job it is just to handle them. If you drop one, you'll be lucky to get off the platform without being burned alive," Syagrius warned. "The stones will keep forever, but the Greek fire only lasts a year or so before it becomes useless. That's why we had to order more. "The only ones who know how to make it," he added, "are six men in Constantinople. They live in the emperor's palace and have every comfort. They are never allowed to leave or to be together in one room. Soldiers accompany them everywhere with orders to kill them at once should any of them attempt to get away or even to write down what he knows. Only when one of the men dies may another be told the secret in his place. "You use these wheels to aim the catapult. This one," he pointed, "is for vertical. This one for horizontal." Cassandra watched closely as the catapult was aimed and shot. Then she stepped to the aiming wheels herself after the machine was wound again. "It's dangerous up here," Syagrius reminded her. "Since the catapult must have a clear field in any direction, the parapet is only waist high. If enemy archers get close enough, you have no protection." Cassandra seemed to have an immediate rapport with the machine, perhaps because of her skill at archery. By lunch time, she could drop a stone anywhere within the catapult's range. *** Watching from the balcony of the residence, Sophia had seen Syagrius teaching Cassandra how to work the harbor catapult. Later that afternoon, she sought her friend out on the beach at the little cove by the ruins of the Minoan watch tower. Before Syagrius had dealt with the pirates, lingering there was an invitation to being kidnaped or worse. Even now, the townspeople still avoided the coastal path, and the tiny inlet was their private meeting place and retreat by the sea. Sophia knew better than to come upon Cassandra unawares. She had intended to call out as soon as she was within earshot. As she expected, Cassandra was lying face down on the warm sand, sheltered from

the wind by the rocks around her, her hair rolled back in a bun. As always, her dagger was within easy reach. Most of the townsfolk feared the sun and kept covered, but Cassandra seemed to take delight in stripping off her clothing and letting herself cook like a sausage under its rays. She called it her "homage to Apollo," the god who had given her the second sight and turned her once fair skin almost as dark as Sophia's. At the top of the ravine, Sophia found the trail that led to the shore. She had only gone a few steps when a stone rolled out from under her foot. She was hurled headlong down the path, running as fast as she could to keep her balance, a small avalanche of rocks rolling ahead of her. Cassandra was up in a flash, her back against the broken wall, her dagger in her left hand, her green cloak wrapped around her right arm. When she saw Sophia coming, Cassandra dropped her weapon and caught her friend in her arms to keep her from falling, almost losing her own balance. Laughing, they sat down on the sand. "I saw you with the catapult this morning," Sophia began. "You learned very quickly. Sometimes I think you were born to be a soldier or a general." "I asked Lucius to show me how to aim and shoot it," Cassandra answered. "The new coils had to be sighted in. There was plenty of ammunition." "The Dark Goddess has spoken to you," Sophia interjected. Cassandra nodded. "Marcia will have her way. Cruel and powerful men plan to do us harm. A messenger comes from Constantinople. Soon after comes war by land and by sea. I must be ready." Sophia hesitated a moment. "How is it you are so fierce?" she asked. "Iris taught me to shoot the bow," Cassandra replied simply. "The dagger, I learned from Flavius. I dreamed for him." "That's not what I meant," Sophia persisted. "I have seen you heal. I would not be here otherwise. I know you can kill too. "I can't bring myself to hurt anyone. If I see the lambs in their pen, I can barely eat the meat on my plate. What is it that makes you able to fight?" "It is not anger," Cassandra said after a moment's thought. "When what I love is in danger, something inside me turns cold like the meltemi that blows in winter. I see more sharply. I move more swiftly. I hardly feel pain at all. And I can kill without a thought." Cassandra fell silent. Sophia looked at her expectantly. "It started about four years ago," she went on. "Iris had not long to live. She was at peace, waiting for the Dark Goddess to take her. When the bishop heard the news, he sent some of his lackeys from Mires

to 'convert' her. A boy she'd cured of the fever brought us word. "Iris said she would die before she'd let anyone profane the temple. She was too weak even to get out of bed. So I took my bow and hid myself among the rocks. "My shafts sent two of them to help their carpenter god in his workshop. I'd have died with this dagger in my hand," she exclaimed, picking up her knife and setting it back in its sheath, "before they'd have crossed the threshold. The rest of them thought better of it and ran off. "Later that day, just before she died, Iris called Hecate to witness and gave me her last blessing. She promised me I would be daughter to the Dark Goddess and have her gifts and her powers as long as I kept faith with her and with the old gods. I renewed my vow. "I laid her to rest in the crypt below the temple in the niche she'd shown me. The graves go back a thousand years." Cassandra brushed a tear from her eye. "The bishop wanted to have me arrested. Valerius told him the law against desecrating temples was still in force, at least here, advised him to leave well enough alone, if he didn't want to be prosecuted himself. "Later, the bishop sent his guards to 'teach that witch a lesson.' I don't think they'll be teaching anyone anything for quite a while," she added with a wry smile. "I thought that was the end of it, until Scaphrax showed up with his slave catchers, and Lucius came ashore. "You know that story. But there are others I do not tell, memories I would rather not have. It was not my desire to be a warrior or to have the second sight. It is the life appointed for me, the one I have accepted, the one I must live. "I take no pride in killing," she went on. "But I would do the same for you or for any of us. Whoever raises his hand against the circle that shelters me here dices with death." Sophia shrank back from her friend's vehemence. "But what am I to do, Cassandra?" She pleaded. "I can't fight like you, and I can't endure any more pain." "One thing we can both do," Cassandra answered lightly, drawing Sophia to her feet, "is wash the sand off ourselves." Sophia wanted to talk more. She knew Cassandra needed to think before she spoke again. Cassandra was already nude, and they had swum many times together. Cassandra had taught her. But Sophia still found it hard to let her friend see the scars on her breasts and back. When she came to Valerius, she would still put out the lamp before she laid aside her robe.

She opened the knots at her shoulders, undid the cord at her waist, using it to tie back her hair as she turned quickly toward the water and stepped into the deep spot just off the beach. Cassandra followed, stopping only to fasten her knife belt above her hips. They were both good swimmers. Cassandra was a bit faster, but Sophia was more rounded and floated better. Not until they'd reached the lee of the great boulder twenty yards offshore did Cassandra speak again as they rested on their backs rising and falling slowly with the motion of the sea, Sophia breathing easily, Cassandra exhaling and inhaling rapidly again to keep from sinking. Here, the two of them felt even more alone and at peace than on the solitary beach. "It will be hard for you," Cassandra explained. "It will be harder for Quintus. If he breaks, he cannot be repaired. "His trial is here, and there will be no appeal from that verdict. Stand by him, if you can. Go with him, if you wish. You owe nothing but to him." Sophia did not reply. "There is no niche for me beneath the temple," Cassandra continued. "Nor will there be another to come after me. The dark goddess has told me I shall wear armor, die a warrior's death upon the sea. I have asked her for other things I may not speak of, even to you. She has heard me." There was a long silence between them. "Cassandra," Sophia asked, "where do you strike to kill at once?" "Here," Cassandra answered, "pointing to her chest close to her left breast. "The thrust will reach the heart. Death will be quick." Sophia expected her friend to ask why she wanted to know such a thing. Cassandra said nothing, only floating in silence beside her. "Bring fire," Cassandra gasped, her eyes fixed and her body stiff as it started to sink. Sophia rolled over. "What?" "Did I speak?" Cassandra asked, treading water. "I'm sorry, if I startled you. You know I sometimes say strange things." *** Valens was also troubled by Cassandra's practice with the catapult. He lingered over lunch with Syagrius and drank two extra glasses of wine, the way he always did when he wanted to talk.

"Let's walk around the walls to work off that meal," Syagrius offered, sensing his friend's mood. Valens stopped at a corner of the parapet where they were out of sight and hearing of anyone in the town. "Cassandra has seen something," he said softly. "Aye. A dream," Syagrius replied. "Not clear yet, but she says she will have to know how to shoot the catapult." "Quintus has been troubled too," Valens offered. "Some letter. I asked him about it. He wouldn't say anything." "I've noticed. It is not like him to keep such things to himself." "You think there'll be trouble?" Valens asked. Syagrius nodded. "Pirates, most likely." "But all we've ever seen here are small raiding parties like the one you and I fought at Gortynia." "But they have friends at Carthage and who knows where else. They could still come in force." "Should we bring the rest of the garrison in from Timbakion? The century is under strength, and I don't think we'll get any recruits before the fall. But concentrating the garrison in Matala might lead the pirates to hit Timbakion instead and loot the town while we sit here. Besides, there's the Emperor's edict." "I trust Cassandra's vision," Syagrius replied. "We can always tell Constantinople it was just for maneuvers. There's not much worth taking in Timbakion. The pirates know we'd put to sea after them, cut them off, the moment we got word of them landing. All we need there is a few lookouts and a courier." Valens pondered in silence. "I'll go to Timbakion tomorrow," Syagrius offered. "I'll have the troops ready to move in a few days." Valens agreed. Syagrius had turned to go back to the fort, when his friend suggested a stop at the taberna by the gate. Valens picked out a table overlooking the sea, ordered wine for both of them but did not speak again until the tavern keeper was back in his kitchen. "I have the feeling, Lucius," Valens began, "that we shall not meet again. I want you to know how much your coming has meant to me. Without Cassandra, I'd have thrown myself off a cliff. She made the dark ones give back my soul. She could not win back my heart, the trust in myself to send men into danger, order them into in battle. That I owe to you."

"You honor me, Flavius," Syagrius answered after a long pause. "Any man is fortunate to have a friend like you." "May it always be so," Valens replied slowly, raising his wine cup. "Quintus will need us both," Valens went on. "We may not prevail, but I will not see our bond broken, while I can still hold a sword." "Nor I," Syagrius answered, touching his cup to his friend's. Then both of them turned to hurl their cups against the stone wall. "Host," Syagrius called, "put these cups on the bill. Bring us two more. We're celebrating." XXV Valerius was finishing his first jug of wine when he heard the watchman climbing the stairs. He'd left Sophia in their bed alone, while he sat at his desk, staring into his cup. The letter from Constantinople had been the end. Marcia had arranged everything, he thought. For her, a husband stationed on Crete had been only an occasional inconvenience. The years at Matala had made him forgive and almost forget. Now it seemed he had become more than an "inconvenience." "Your failure to cooperate in Our Efforts to halt smuggling and suppress the false doctrines and abominable practices of the old religion in your district," he read again, "as well as your cowardice in the face of danger, has come to Our Imperial Attention and earned Our Deepest Displeasure. You are hereby commanded to relinquish your baton and all records and insignia of office to Felix Marcellus Atreus, who will arrive shortly to arrange your transportation to Our Imperial Presence, where you will stand trial for malfeasance." The first two parts of the accusation were easy to translate: He had allowed his people to keep from starving. He had kept the bishop from having Cassandra stoned or burned alive. "Cowardice in the face of danger" puzzled him. What danger? When? He'd been fighting the pirates for months. What else was he supposed to do? Swim after them with a knife between his teeth? How much had that letter cost Marcia? he wondered. Would he ever reach Constantinople for his "trial," or would some "accident" or "illness" befall him on the way? Beside him on the desk lay his razor. With that blade, he could open his wrists, and it would all be over. Petronius and Seneca had died sooner than grovel before a tyrant. He wanted to do the same. What might happen to Sophia without his protection troubled him. He could do nothing for her now. Three times, he had picked up the razor, three times he had set it down, cursing his cowardice. He didn't want to die, not this way, like a rabbit from fright at the sight of the hounds. He could already see Marcia's performance as she heard the news and hurried to put on mourning, get her vial of onion juice for a few public tears.

Perhaps he should show the letter to Lucius. He might find a way out. Yet even knowing about the letter could get Lucius in almost as much trouble as he was, if his friend continued to obey him as procurator. Valerius pulled himself upright in his chair as the watchman entered. "Your Excellency," he began, "the lookouts have spotted three large ships, coming fast under oars and sail. They show no lights. They fly no flag." Pirates! Valerius thought. Had Marcia been able to arrange that too? Maybe. Who else would be heading for land at night, even with a full moon to show the way? There had been a raid on Mykonos last month. But what could they want here? Matala was not a rich port. All he had to do was pull back into the fortress, and he would be safe. Then the pieces fell into place. The letter was supposed to come after the raid, not before. Either the messenger had been too swift or the pirates too slow. They were planning on him retreating to the fort and leaving them the town and the harbor. With the garrison penned up, the pirates could spread out over the Plain of Mesara and fall upon the villages one after another. Afterwards, they would return to Matala and load their plunder from its docks. By the time reinforcements arrived, they would be well out to sea, his cowardice proven. Valerius had another idea. Below in the basin lay the three war ships. To man them and fight on the sea was impossible. He had barely seventy men, not even enough to cover the town walls. Yet those ships were far more important to the pirates than they were to him. As long as they were afloat, the raiders were not safe from pursuit. They had to sink them. "Send in the courier," he told the watchman. "Then go back to the lookouts, tell them to report to their units." The watchman departed. A moment later, the young man stood before Valerius. "Ride to Timbakion," he commanded. "Warn the villages you pass but don't stop. Tell Syagrius the pirates have come. We're going to fight them. He's to march here with the entire garrison in close formation. They may be attacked on the way." The courier saluted smartly, turned on his heel and was gone. Valerius climbed to his feet and shouted for the guard. "Have the crews wind the harbor catapults and load with fire," he ordered. Valerius thought for a moment. With the catapults already sighted in, he could set two of the ships ablaze as they entered the harbor. But he would still have one pirate ship intact and a few hundred desperate pirates on his docks. He'd have no choice but to fall back to the fort, just as they had planned. "Drop a pot just beyond the breakwaters," he said. "Then tell Valens to turn out the troops in the town square. Full armor, two javelins each. "On your way downstairs, wake my valet and tell him to fetch my battle armor." The soldier hastened out.

Just then, Valerius heard a slight sound behind him. Sophia was standing in the doorway, the ringlets of her soft black hair cascading over her shoulders, her dark eyes wide with fear. She had heard everything. "What are you going to do?" she demanded. Valerius did not answer at once, because he was not yet certain himself. The old slave entered with the armor. Sophia shrank back. "Quintus," she gasped, "have you gone mad?" Valerius spoke as though in a dream. "The pirates won't risk sailing into the harbor now that they know we're ready for them. They'll have to land at the old Minoan port. It's just out of catapult range. "You know the pass that leads into Matala where the cliffs come down to the sea. The pirates will have to come that way. Marching through the hills would take hours. They'd have to leave too many men to guard their ships. We'll meet them, block the passage." "And you?" "As procurator, I will be at the head of my troops." "As fool!" she cried. "You'll come back dead." "You saw the letter from Constantinople. What am I to do? Hide, until I'm dragged off in chains?" "It's better than being carried off dead." "I don't think so." "And me?" she countered. "What am I to do when you're gone?" "Living or dead, I can't help you now. Go to Cassandra. You'll be safe there until Lucius comes." "Safe! Safe for what? I want you, Quintus, not an urn full of ashes in a tomb." Valerius flared up. "What is it you want? The wastrel who sat here drinking and feeling sorry for himself while the countryside was overrun with robbers, and people were being kidnapped off the very streets? The useless drunk who let his best friend's daughter be sold? The idle pig you found beneath contempt until you looked into his soul and dared him to be a man? Then I could have ordered the troops out, and no one would have taken a step. Now, every man will come with me." "So they can all die at your private Thermopylae," Sophia retorted. "Lucius put on a show like that in Gaul. You can practically see the Furies behind him. At least wait until he comes. Let him march out. Or send Flavius. He's the garrison commander, not you." "You know as well as I it will be too late if we wait for help. And what will the soldiers be good for, if they see their own procurator is too scared to step outside the walls? I cannot ask them to do their duty, if I do not do mine. I won't have to wait for a trial in Constantinople. I'll already be convicted right

here." Sophia could bear no more. At the sight of the old slave with Valerius' armor, she fled sobbing into the night. Valerius turned his face to the wall. The valet fumbled with the straps. It seemed he would never finish. Valerius was about to urge him to hurry, when the man was thrust aside, and a firm hand took hold of the clasps. Sophia had returned, her eyes still running "I met Cassandra outside," she whispered. "She had her bow and was on her way to the catapult platform. She knows everything. She told me you would need the crew with you, but someone has to tend one of the catapults to keep the pirates out of the harbor. She asked me to get the women to help. I said I had to do this first." Valerius kissed her hand as she tightened the shoulder straps. Sophia choked back her tears. "If I were like Cassandra and could fight," she said, "I would wear armor and die beside you." She paused. "I know your Roman customs, my love. I will keep them." She laid her left hand on the hilt of his sword and raised her right. "Go forth, Marcus Quintus Valerius, procurator of Matala, soldier of Rome. Come back with your shield or upon it. Before the gods above and below, I swear to you I will not fall alive into the hands of your enemies, end this day however it will." Nor shall I live to mourn you, she added to herself. He thanked her gravely. "Stay close to Cassandra," he advised. "She is very brave. I would trust her with my life." "I will." With that, she fastened the last of the straps and gave him his sword and his dagger, then the ivory baton topped with a gold eagle, his badge of office and sign of authority. Even in his procurator's armor, Valerius still looked small, not much bigger than she was. He kissed her softly. She caught hold of him and pressed him to her with all her strength as the trumpeter blew assembly outside. Valerius stepped out onto the balcony and explained the situation to the troops gathered below. The pirates had turned at the sight of the flames and were already bearing down on the beach as Valerius had expected. "We have sworn an oath as Romans," he concluded. "Now we must keep it." Valerius asked the ancient question, "Romans, are you ready for war?" "We are," the soldiers shouted, raising their spears in salute. Turning to Valens, "First Centurion, for the Senate and People of Rome, we march."

"Aye, sir." Thus it was that Marcus Quintus Valerius, Procurator of Matala, marched out at the head of his troops with both drums beating and both trumpets blowing to fight the pirates. The sun had risen. Valerius was already on the road leading out of the town when it happened. First only one or two, then more and more of the men ducked into their houses and came out carrying all sorts of crude weapons, pitchforks, axes, flails, hammers. They hurried down the hill to fall in behind the soldiers. Valerius felt the hair under his helmet stand on end. The same people who had turned their backs and spat on the ground when he passed were with him now. If Lucius had not come... He did not allow himself to think of those days of drunken cowardice and shame. As they neared the tribune's villa, he was already on the steps in full armor. His wife stood close, her gown open to show the hilt of the silver dagger that hung between her breasts, a pledge she would not be taken alive. Cinna fell in beside him. "I would be honored, sir," Valerius said respectfully, "if you would take command of our right wing." The tribune nodded. "The honor is mine." Just then, they were joined by Balbus, the pensioned decurion from Armenia. He had no armor, only a thick jacket and a heavy cloak wrapped around his left arm. He wore the sword that had seen him through a dozen mountain and desert campaigns. He'd just said a hasty goodbye to Diana the cook, who had taken him in when the pirates killed her husband years ago. She had a carving knife at her belt. "I'll take the left," Balbus rumbled. "I've fought Persians, Parthians and half the tribes in Asia. I can handle this sea scum. If they pass, you'll know I'm dead." XXVI Now, Valerius and his men were there. Without the people, he would have had only enough for one line. As it was, with the townsmen posted on the slope and along the beach to keep the pirates from turning his flanks, Valerius had two. He and Valens, the standard bearer and the four musicians were the only reserve. The pirates jumped ashore as soon as their prows touched land. For a moment, they hesitated. They had expected no resistance. Here was this fool blocking their path. Even worse, the Romans with him had the look of disciplined and determined troops, not the barracks room braggarts that garrisoned most of these towns. Valens turned to his procurator, using the formalities he always did when they were in public. "Your Excellency, in view of the situation, it might be better for you to withdraw. We're badly outnumbered." "When haven't we been badly outnumbered, my friend?" Valerius replied softly. "Don't worry about

me, Flavius. I'm through withdrawing from anything. "Give me your hand," he said, taking the centurion's forearm. "My life for your life, my friend," he declared. "Victory or death." Valens answered with the same words, and they took their positions. Turning to his left, Valerius saw the young standard bearer, pale and trembling beside him. His parents had bought him the post. He couldn't swim, so he hadn't volunteered for sea duty. He hadn't joined the flying squad either, Valerius recalled. It's probably the boy's first real fight. Mine too, for that matter, he added wryly. "Stay close," Valerius ordered. "If you're hit, I'll get the eagle. If I'm hit, don't let me fall. The men must not lose heart. I'm depending on you." The boy's chest swelled with pride, his shaking stopped as he stood firm beside his commander. The pirates let fly a rain of arrows, spears and stones. "Shields up!" Valens ordered. The soldiers set their rectangular shields one atop the other, making a wall nearly seven feet high. On the flanks, Balbus and the tribune got the townsmen behind the Romans' shield wall. The musicians, who doubled as archers, unlimbered their weapons and replied as best they could. A few minutes made it clear nothing would be settled this way. The pirates started their rush. "Call the throw, Flavius," the procurator said. "Your eye is sharper than mine." "Break formation. Double battle line. Ready javelins," Valens ordered, judging the distance. Sixty-three hands took up their spears. "Balance." "Throw!" "Miner-vaaah!" shouted the soldiers as they let fly, echoing the battle cry of a legion destroyed a century ago. The pirates came on like a wave from the sea. The first flight of spears hardly slowed them down, although a few of them were struck and others had to drop their pierced shields. The second had more effect, but the pirates' attack still carried the Romans backward from the sheer shock. Valens barely had time to shout "Swords!" and draw his own before he found himself in the midst of a wild melee. The first line was broken. The second barely held. "Steady, Romans," Valens urged. "Steady. Let them come to you."

Valerius was knocked head over heels in the rush. He got up, shook the sand from his cloak and plunged into the fray as a soldier went down, and a gap appeared in the line. The procurator's arm was laid open by a spear from elbow to wrist. He thought he was going to faint. He leaned a moment on his standard bearer. Then something snapped inside him. He fought back like a wounded tiger, his eyes playing tricks on him as the years of anger welled up. Before him was Phineas with his leering smile and fawning ways. Next to Phineas stood Linus, grinning like a monkey. The laughter of Phocas rang in his ears as he told his lewd stories. Fear vanished. Valerius' heart knew only rage. To his lips came the ancient battle cry, "At them, Romans! At them!" His shield was battered beyond recognition, the plume on his helmet cut to ribbons. His sword was red to the hilt. The pirates could not stand against him. As though from a great way off, he could hear Balbus bellowing "C'mon! How many more of you sons of filth want to die today?" Suddenly, Valens was beside him, fighting like a well oiled machine. "We're gaining," the centurion panted. Valerius cut down another man. All at once, he could see the beach. "They're broken," he cried hoarsely, ducking just in time to keep from being brained with an axe. Valens rammed his sword through the pirate's throat. Valerius called for the messenger. "To town," he gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Tell women - bring fire. Burn ships." The man dropped his shield, set off at a dead run for the gate. "Trumpeter," Valerius commanded, "sound the advance." Then, to those nearest, "Follow me." The battle continued at the water's edge, as the pirates tried to rally. Their numbers gave them an advantage. The Romans found themselves nearly surrounded as the raiders poured down arrows and spears on them from the height of their ships. Their chieftain was about to order another assault, when a ball of fire flew through the air and landed just astern, spreading slowly downwind. The pirate gasped in amazement. He never thought a catapult could reach that far. He looked toward the walls where he could see the tall, red-haired woman cranking the aiming wheels while seven others turned the capstan, and two more stood ready to load another pot of Greek fire. The pirates feared for their ships, started to turn back. Their chieftain rallied them again as the fighting surged up and down the shore. He shouted to one of his lieutenants. "Take a small boat and some archers. Kill that redhead and clear the catapult platform before they get another shot." The boat pulled off quickly. A shower of arrows brought three of the women down. The others hesitated. "Back on the wheel!" Cassandra ordered. "I'll cover you," she cried, picking up her bow. Before she put it down again, she had an arrow in her thigh. The pirate archers were dead, the oarsmen swimming for their lives.

With three of their number fallen, the remaining four women were not strong enough to turn the capstan. Those holding the fire pot dared not set it down. Ignoring her wounded leg, Cassandra threw her weight against one of the bars. The wheel did not budge. Under her breath, she whispered the invocation to Hecate which only her most trusted children may use, just once and never for themselves. The pawl of the ratchet clicked three times as the teeth of the gear passed beneath it. The catapult was wound again, the fire pot loaded. On the shore, Valerius had cut his way to the stem of the largest vessel with Valens close behind him. He called for fire. That cry drove the pirates to desperation. Already, they could see the women coming from Matala waving firebrands and shouting like the Furies. The sea rovers came at Valerius from every side. He dropped two of them as they closed in. A moment later, he lay on the sand, covered with wounds, his blood mingling with the waves. The pirates pressed forward. Valens stood over his procurator like a dragon, holding his ground against men twice his size, until a battle axe split the scorpion crest on his helmet and crushed the skull beneath it. He pitched forward, died without a sound. The Romans wavered. There was a flash and a roar as the earthenware pot shattered on the afterdeck of one of the pirate vessels. The flames that nothing could put out caught hold immediately. The pirates panicked. Abandoning their doomed ship, they scrambled on board the remaining two, pushed off at once. The Romans were too exhausted to try to stop them. XXVII Syagrius had not waited for the garrison, had not stopped to put on his armor, taking only his sword and his dagger, driving his horse unmercifully, the road smoking behind him. Even as he rode, he knew he would come too late. The soldiers had carried Valerius a little way back from the beach and the burning ship, laid him on the sand, the blood running out of him like wine from a cracked jug. Syagrius leapt from his horse, knelt beside him and took his hand. Valerius lifted his head and opened his eyes. "I thought it would end this way," he said slowly. "I'm only surprised I lasted this long." He groaned. "I wasn't much of a procurator, but the people trusted me." He closed his eyes for a moment. "They trusted me," he sighed. "Valens?" he asked, looking around him. The soldiers shook their heads. "Bend close, Lucius." Syagrius put his ear to his friend's lips. "There is a letter on my desk," he whispered. "Read it, burn it. You never saw it."

Syagrius nodded. "Tell Sophia..." He did not finish. She was kneeling beside him, trying to staunch the flow of blood with her hair and her dress. "Without you, Sophia, without your forgiving me, loving me, everything would have been so much harder. More than I could have done." He paused. "Thank Cassandra for me." Then, half to himself, "I don't have any pain now. I guess I must be going." Sophia could bear no more. She flung herself across his chest. He caught hold of her shoulders and was gone. Sophia raised herself to her knees. She was covered with Valerius' blood. She looked hard at his pale face and uttered a cry that echoed through the rocks. She snatched Valerius' dagger from its sheath, raised it over her head. Syagrius caught her arm. She turned and looked into his eyes. For a moment, they made a tableau, she, Syagrius and the soldiers looking on. She whispered something to him no one else could hear. He let go of her wrist, turned away as she drove the dagger into her breast and fell headlong over the corpse. Syagrius found Valens. He could only carry him from the water, close his sightless eyes, smooth his features, wipe the blood and sand from his face. It was what he wanted, Syagrius thought, a quick death in battle fighting beside his friend. No time to think, only to die, sword in hand, face to the enemy, leading his Romans. No more fear and no more pain at last. Syagrius looked for Cassandra and saw her sitting on the parapet. She waved but did not come down. Only when he was beside her did he see the arrow still lodged in her leg. Blood was oozing from the wound. The pupils of her eyes were small from the opium tablet she was chewing. "Quintus?" Cassandra inquired. "Dead with Flavius. Sophia too," Syagrius murmured, his eyes filling. "The gods are kind," Cassandra said, blinking back her own tears. "We shall not mourn them long, you and I." "The doctor will be coming from Timbakion with the troops," Syagrius replied after a long silence. "I'll send him right up. He can draw that arrow." "No," Cassandra answered. "There are many with worse hurts than mine. I want you to do it. Push the arrow through and cut the shaft. The point won't touch the artery." Syagrius pressed the arrow down until the head showed clear, then cut the shaft with his dagger and drew it out. Cassandra gasped only once and squeezed his shoulder hard. She was very pale. "What is the point made of?" she asked, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.

"Iron," Syagrius answered, puzzled. "I shall not die of it," Cassandra sighed. Syagrius knew better than to question her about such things. He knelt down before her and bandaged the wound tightly, while Cassandra laid her hands on his head in a sign of blessing. When he had finished, he asked how she had made the catapult shoot so far. "When the crews were practicing to break in the new coils, I saw some of the shots went well beyond the breakwater, before the sights were adjusted. I thought, if we wound tight enough, we just might be able to reach the ships." "You could have been killed on that platform," Syagrius said slowly. "Death has never been my enemy or yours," Cassandra replied calmly. "You are all I have left," Syagrius answered, "all that keeps what is broken inside me from shattering. Losing you would take more from me than remains." He had never spoken like this before, even when she had lain on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Cassandra kissed him softly. "Do not fear for me, Lucius. My time is not yet come." XXVIII The century from Timbakion marched in about three hours later, Paulus in the lead. They had been delayed, the senior decurion explained, because his scouts had seen the pirates' camp on the beach. He had decided to detour around them, avoiding a fight against such odds. The scouts, Paulus reported, had also sighted two more pirate ships approaching. Syagrius drew a cuirass and a helmet from the armory then sat down to read the casualty list. The pirates had not passed, but Balbus was dead all the same, a spear in his eye. Cinna's wife had died on the catapult platform. Fourteen others, townspeople and soldiers, among them Decurions Marcus and Tiberius whom he'd met the day he came ashore, awaited funerals too. Nearly twice that number were wounded. Many would not last the day. He had just finished reading Valerius' letter, when the lookout reported a small boat approaching. He put the parchment into the brazier and saw it turn to ashes before he went down to the breakwater. The rowboat carried a flag of truce. In the stern sheets sat a huge man with a thick, red beard. As the boat neared, he rose and held up his hand. Syagrius beckoned him to come ashore. "Who's in charge here?" the chieftain demanded.

Syagrius hesitated. "I am," he finally said. "The procurator is dead." "And who are you?" the pirate snapped. "Publius Lucius Syagrius" "The King of the Romans?" Syagrius flinched. "Aye." "I've heard of you." the chieftain replied. "And you?" "Captain Sorax." "I've heard of you too." "Where can we talk privately?" Syagrius led Sorax to Valerius' balcony overlooking the bay. The corsair wasted no words. "You've brought reinforcements. So have we. They were late getting here. Otherwise, we'd have put an end to this foolishness on the beach this morning. By noon, I'll have four ships and almost 500 men. If you fight us there again, we'll cut you to pieces." "What is it you want?" "I didn't come here for plunder. There isn't enough to make a raid worthwhile." He paused. "I came for a cargo to sell." "Slaves." "Not exactly." the pirate replied, unrolling a parchment bearing the imperial seal and handing it to Syagrius. "Some arrangements were made in Constantinople before we sailed." The Roman stared at the scroll, amazed. "This document authorizes you to arrest and punish smugglers and infidels, not to go slave raiding." "You're right, my friend," the pirate answered. "Originally, I had planned to take Lesbos. It's a lot richer than this hole. There's copper, silver, even gold and ivory being shipped on to Constantinople. Some big merchants in Constantinople had a meeting, got me this parchment as a consolation prize, so I'd attack Matala. That way, I'd leave their goods alone. With the cargo I'd pick up here, I wouldn't have the trip for nothing.

"Tracking down every smuggler and blasphemer on the island would take far more trouble than it's worth. I've decided to make an example of Matala to frighten these people into giving up their bad habits, so to speak. As you can read, you are instructed to assist." "Why didn't you just show this document to Valerius?" "I have my reasons," Sorax answered. "I'm beginning to guess what they are." "They don't matter," Sorax replied. "I'm showing the pass to you now. I expect you to cooperate." Syagrius was stunned into silence. "On the other hand," the chieftain continued, "I don't see why you and I can't reach an agreement on our own. Shall we say 20 male slaves and 20 female to be picked at my discretion? One of them is to be that red haired witch who shot the catapult at us. You'll get your percentage, of course." "And if I refuse?" "I shall wait until the new procurator takes office and make a deal with him after I've attended to you." "How do you know about that?" "It doesn't matter. I know." "Is that all?" "I'm not asking much. I'm letting you off easy. You've made your point. I've had enough of my men killed or wounded already." He paused, watching Syagrius closely. "And the people here?" "What are they to you or to me?" the pirate persisted. "We make our way as best we can. Life is not the theater, my friend. When you're dead for a lost cause, you don't get up again after the scene ends." Syagrius nodded slowly but made no reply. "All right," the chieftain conceded, "I'm in a hurry. Let's make it thirty slaves and be done with it. My choice. I still want that woman." Syagrius leaned back in his chair. "Don't be a fool," the captain added. "We outnumber you at least two to one, maybe three. You don't have anywhere near enough soldiers to man these walls. If we attacked, you couldn't hold out an hour. If I were you, I'd get into the patrol boats with your men and set sail right now. Leave me the War Eagle. I'll let you go, tell Constantinople you were very cooperative."

"You think you can take on the garrison from Heraklion too? I sent a courier there before I left Timbakion. They're already on the march." The pirate chuckled. "Is that what you're waiting for? Theocritas has been working with me for years. He'll not set one foot outside his walls to help you." There was a long silence. "You have three hours to think it over. Remember, thirty slaves are a lot cheaper than a hundred dead and a whole town in flames, not to mention what my men will do to the villages, once I turn them loose." The pirate rose and started to go, then turned back with an afterthought. "All right," he conceded, "you pick the slaves. No percentage, though. If they're healthy, you can keep the redhead. She won't be good for much with that arrow in her leg. That's my final offer." Sorax went down the stairs to the dock and boarded his boat. Syagrius sat there, stupefied. He had seen corruption and rottenness at Constantinople, never the like of this. There would be no help. If any came, it would be for the slave raider, not for him. He was "obstructing justice." His first instinct was to fight, but other thoughts crowded in. Once before, he'd refused to pay tribute and answered force with arrogance. His wife, his city and his army had paid the price of his pride. The memory of Julia, brave to the last, almost carried him away. Then he remembered Pendra. He'd hesitated there. It had cost Marius his life. He'd let the people in and fought. What good had it done? Were any of them alive because of it? Only he had survived under a curse that not even Cassandra's arts could lift. Quintus had kept his word with his life. What had it got him? He was dead and sixteen others with him. If he gave in, Syagrius thought, they were still dead, and for nothing. A shadow fell across his desk. He looked up to see Cassandra standing in the doorway, her red hair falling to her elbows. As always, she moved with scarcely a sound. In her hand was the ivory and gold procurator's baton. "The soldiers gave this to me when they took up Quintus' body. It belongs to you now, and I bring it to you." She held out the baton. Syagrius shrank back. "I can't," he whispered. "You must." "I'll fight, but I'll not be in command," Syagrius insisted. "Let the tribune take charge." Cassandra limped to a chair before she spoke again. "The tribune is a brave man, good with a sword," she said. "I saw him fight this morning. But he was only a parchment officer, keeping records and

arranging parades in Athens. The men won't trust him in battle." There was a long pause. "I dreamed last night that Valerius gave me this baton," Cassandra continued. "I said it belonged to him and tried to give it back. But he insisted it was yours." "No!" "Are you afraid?" "Yes. Not for myself. I am already one of the dead, as are you. The others are alive. With me there is nothing but death." "And slavery in Africa? Is that better than death?" "What do you mean?" "One of the servants overheard. The whole town knows. They are already choosing the thirty." "They will give in?" "Unless you take the command." "Whom have they chosen?" "You see the first one here." Cassandra answered. "No!" "Why not?" "You can't." "Am I more important than anyone else? I'd sooner die under the lash in Africa than live free at such a price." Syagrius was silent. He felt fate closing in. "Give me the baton." He took it and held her close. "God protect you all from the curse I bear." "You will have the help you need," Cassandra said calmly. Syagrius stepped out onto the balcony and ordered the word passed for the soldiers to assemble and

with them any townsmen willing to row the ships. Then, turning to Cassandra, "Find the tribune. Ask him to come here as soon as he can. I'll need him to take charge of the Romulus." Cassandra had not even reached the door before the tribune entered. He saluted stiffly, despite his wounded shoulder. Syagrius rose and offered him a chair. "I know your wife died today," Syagrius began as they both sat down. "I see you are wounded. I also know you are not under my command." "Portia is gone," the tribune said, blinking back his tears, "and I shall follow shortly. I stood with Valerius. I have come to stand with you." "Will you command the Romulus, when we sail against the pirates? My senior decurion, Paulus, will be your second. If we are quick and sure, we may destroy them with a single blow. But it will cost us." "I would sail against that pack in a skiff, if I had to row myself." "As soon as we clear the harbor," Syagrius instructed, "head northwest under sail with just the soldiers on deck. Keep the townsmen out of sight. If the pirates are watching, they'll think we're running. When I hoist the battle ensign, put about, get everyone on the oars, pull for the cove, attack speed." The tribune nodded. "At fifty paces, lower the sail, go to ramming speed and take out the nearest ship. Hit them at the stern before they get off the beach. Then back off, try to ram another. I'll do the same. "They outnumber us at least two to one. It will probably come to close quarters. The soldiers can take care of themselves. Draw enough weapons from the armory to make sure everyone else on board both ships is armed as well." By this time, the troops and the townsmen had gathered in the square. Syagrius went outside and addressed them briefly. "Here are my orders," he declared. "We attack the pirates. Man the small galleys and make ready to sail. I will command the Hawk and the tribune will take charge of the Romulus. The War Eagle will stay behind. We leave in half an hour." The soldiers marched off toward the harbor. The tribune went to arm the men. A moment later, a boy brought word that Titus had just trotted in on his brother's mule. The old centurion reported at once to Syagrius, confirming what Sorax had said. Theocritas had not stirred. There was no sign he would. Titus' had color in his cheeks, but it was obvious from his squint that his sight was failing. "Commander," he continued, "I have not come all this way just to bring you bad tidings. I know you will be fighting today. I wish to join you."

"Titus, you can barely see." "I can see as far as this will reach," the centurion answered, tapping the hilt of the short sword that hung at his side. "My brother is a good man, generous and kind, but I will not be a burden to him." "Our chances today are not good." "Commander, I have been a Roman soldier all my life. Permit me to die as one." Syagrius pondered. "Twenty-five years ago," Titus went on, his voice unsteady, "when my first enlistment was up, I went back to my farm. I planned to marry Sara, help her raise our two sons. They were seven and nine. I found the farm laid waste, Sara murdered, her body still warm, the boys stolen by pirates. She had my cameo in her hand. It was the last thing she saw before her eyes closed forever. "I ran after the pirates, screaming like a maniac. I followed them to the shore, but their ship was already thirty yards out. I remember to this day their captain shouting back at me, mocking me, telling me what a good price the boys would fetch in Africa. I still hear his voice in my dreams. "I signed the farm over to my brother and reenlisted the next day. Since then, I've been waiting for a procurator who wasn't too stupid or too cowardly to fight." "Titus," Syagrius answered, his own voice unsteady, "I will be honored to have you as my second. If I am killed, the men will follow you. If we do not defeat the pirates, we must at least inflict enough damage to make them return to Carthage. There can be no retreat." Titus nodded. "Now, draw some armor and join me aboard the Hawk." Titus saluted and left. "What are you planning?" Cassandra asked. "The pirates think we're too frightened to fight them again. They haven't asked for a truce to pick up their dead. They're probably having their lunch right now on the beach the other side of the headland, getting drunk and dividing up the loot they think they'll get. I doubt they've even bothered to post a lookout. The wind is light, but it's steady and in our favor. We may be able to ram two or even three of their galleys before they can get under way." "Can you win?" "I don't know. I'd take the War Eagle too, if we had enough men. She's a better ship than anything the pirates have. I just can't divide my forces any more." Syagrius thought for a moment. "I want you with me. You can wear Flavius' armor. We need archers. I know you can handle yourself in a fight, if we're boarded."

"You mean when you're boarded," Cassandra replied evenly. "You're outnumbered nearly three to one. They'll be all over you. "I won't be much good with this leg," she added, gesturing to the blood stained bandage on her thigh. "Besides, someone has to stay behind to guard the War Eagle and hold the town, if you are defeated." "With what?" Syagrius demanded. "A quiver full of arrows and a few women?" "We can't hold it," Cassandra admitted. "But we can make them pay for it." "No!" Syagrius almost shouted, as the image of Julia and her agony rose before him. "I want you with me." Cassandra started to answer. Her body stiffened, her voice became hollow. "Julia held her post," the voice intoned. "Cassandra shall hold hers. Do not falter, Lucius Syagrius. Do not look back. The balance is struck. The eagle drowns in blood. Your help comes over the sea." Syagrius had seen Cassandra this way many times, but it was still a shock to watch her fade into something else and then return, scarcely aware of what she'd said. In another moment, she was in his arms, the woman who loved him more than her life. "If we do not return," Syagrius told her, his hand upon her cheek, "you must set fire to the War Eagle. If the pirates capture her, no island port will be safe." She nodded and kissed his fingers softly, touching the knuckles to her forehead. "Have the people scatter into the hills," Syagrius went on. "The pirates won't have time to chase them." "I will not leave you." Cassandra replied firmly. "You have your promise to keep. I have mine." XXIX Cassandra stood alone before the altar, clad in the flounced blue and red gown of the ancient priestesses. She kindled the sacred flame and chanted the invocation that summoned the messengers of the gods, keeping time on her drum. Kneeling, she held out her hands, and the two snakes slithered from their dens, coiled themselves about her arms, hissing softly as their tongues flickered. She rose to stand in the ancient pose, arms upraised, gritting her teeth against the pain of her wound. There was a deep silence before she spoke in the old tongue from the days of King Minos, long before anyone had heard of Roman or Greek. "Tell the gods below," she said, turning to the serpents, "the temple is no more. I shall break the sacred vessels and depart to meet the end decreed for me. I shall wear armor and die upon the sea, pierced with iron, as was foretold." Cassandra lowered her arms, threw back her head and cried, "Hecate! Hecate! Hecate!

Dark Goddess, hear your daughter. Stand by her at the last." Then, in a voice that filled the chamber, "The curse! The curse! The curse of innocent blood betrayed, The curse of greed and a bartered trust, Descend once more. Smite down these brutes, Destroyers of our world. Let not one escape! Dark Goddess of Vengeance, Hear me! Rouse the storm god! Raise now the tempest you showed me long ago, Power beyond the strength of mortals. Dark Goddess of Vengeance, Hear me!" Cassandra lowered her head and cast her eyes upon the earth. "My fears shall rest in hope." There was a long silence before she continued. "I thank the gods for my life and the chance to serve them," she went on, her voice softer now. "I give thanks for those the gods have sent me and ask only for courage not to fail them in this final hour. "Long years shall pass before another comes in my stead, perhaps never. But the patience of the gods is greater than any fate. So mote it be." Cassandra let the snakes down onto the earth and watched them disappear as she touched her forehead to the ground in final obeisance. Stepping to the fire, she stripped off her gown, laid it in the flames. By the firelight, she donned a tunic, then buckled on Valens' armor, the scales of the cuirass molding themselves easily to her body as she tightened the straps. A Corinthian helmet covered her face.

She picked up the sword but found it heavy and awkward in her hand. So she used the blade to smash the temple vessels, kissed it and then laid it before the altar. "All honor to a brave man," she said softly, "fierce and loyal to his friends unto death." As she left, taking only her dagger, she set the mechanism in motion to seal the cave forever. Outside, the breeze was already picking up, whirling dead leaves and dust through the air. XXX Syagrius kept his back to the rail and fought on in the rain, gasping for his breath. The blood was running fast over the eagle on his shattered breast plate. His ship was going down by the head, her seams split from ramming. Around him, only a handful of his Romans were left, most of them already wounded, a few, like himself, dying on their feet. His sword had been wrenched from his hand at the first onset. Now he held a broken boarding pike in one hand and his dagger in the other. He could barely raise his arms to parry. Soon he'd be too slow. Yet a strange calm had come over him, almost as though he were watching himself do battle. The shouts of the pirates were deafening. Syagrius and his men fought in the silence of desperation, no quarter asked, none given. When the corsairs had stormed on board, Sorax bellowing encouragement, Titus had seized Syagrius by the arm. "Commander, that voice," he whispered, drawing his sword. "Go for him, Titus," Syagrius answered. "I'm behind you." A moment later, Titus was dead, the first Roman to die, but not before he'd rammed his sword through Sorax's black heart. Sooner than have their eagle taken, the standard bearer, cornered and with one arm nearly severed by an axe, had hurled himself into the sea, where he and the eagle sank like a stone. Off to port, Syagrius could see the Romulus, abandoned and sinking. The tribune lay slumped over her taffrail, his white cloak fluttering in the wind as the rain washed the blood from his armor. With his ship mortally wounded, Cinna had ordered Paulus to get the crew off to join Syagrius on the Hawk. He had covered their retreat, holding the quarter deck with the ferocity of a cornered bear, leaving a circle of pirate dead around him when he fell. They'd almost won, Syagrius thought. The surprise had been complete. Two of the pirate ships were on the bottom. A third would join them shortly. One more ship and the troops to man her would have done it. The pirate in front of him slipped on the bloody deck and missed a stroke with his sword. Syagrius ran him through, and the man dropped. Before Syagrius could free his pike, another pirate leapt down from the rigging. The two of them rolled on the deck. Syagrius tried to get his feet under him, but he had no strength.

The man raised his axe over his head and brought it down. Syagrius barely managed to roll aside, as the blade bit into the deck. He drove his dagger between the pirate's ribs. Syagrius never expected to rise. He waited for the spear that would pin him to the planks or the axe that would spatter his brains on the wood. But the raiders had broken off the fight. He was hauled upright by two of his own soldiers who could scarcely stand themselves. Paulus hastened to his side. Swaying, they stood on the tilted deck and watched what could not be real but was. "Sir," Paulus gasped, "The War Eagle. She's coming out." Indeed she was, the golden eagle full upon her black sail, the sea foaming around the bronze point of her ram. A thunder cloud had come up the moment the galley cleared the breakwater, and the lighting drove its crooked fingers into the sea behind her, as the ship bore down upon them. The pirates were already scrambling on board their last vessel, grabbing the oars, while others worked frantically to cut the grappling lines that held them to the Hawk. It was obvious they would be too late. Syagrius started to sink to the deck. Where had these reinforcements come from? he wondered. Did Theocritas have a change of heart? No matter. The troops on the War Eagle would make short work of any pirates mad enough to show fight. "Sir," Paulus reported, "there's no one on board." Syagrius looked up. The galley was much closer now. He could see there were no oarsmen, and her decks were bare. Only an armored helmsman who looked somehow familiar kept the ship on course, straight for the side of the pirate craft. Only just before the War Eagle struck did Syagrius recognize Valens' armor and guess the truth. The galley smashed into the pirate ship, holing her below the water line, rolling her half over and spilling most of her crew into the sea. The remaining pirates, desperate now, stormed on board the War Eagle to capture the ship for themselves. The helmsman plucked a dagger from his belt and made for the nearest pirate. A thrown spear caught him full in the chest piercing the armor and the flesh and bone beneath it. He staggered back, falling across the steering oar. The bronze helmet rolled on the deck. The red hair cascaded onto the planks. Syagrius felt a pain go through him sharper than the iron pike. "Cassandra!" he screamed. He snatched the ivory baton from its sheath and, cursing the gods and himself, flung it into the sea. The whole world seemed to dissolve into a white hot flash, an instant later into blackness. Syagrius hoped he was dead. The pain of his breathing forced him back to consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he could see only darkness. He thought he'd been struck blind. Then his sight slowly cleared. The lightning had shattered the pirate vessel like a blow from a giant fist and cleared the decks of the War Eagle. The wind had dropped suddenly. The ship floated quietly in the rain as the downpour beat the waves flat.

"Bring me over to her," Syagrius ordered. The small boat was already alongside, and the soldiers helped him gently into it. Where he found the strength to sit upright, he did not know himself. Somehow, he hoped she might be alive, and he could speak his love to her. But smoke was already pouring through the oar ports at the bow. The hull planks were burning. She must have set a fire pot at the stem, Syagrius realized. When the War Eagle rammed, it broke. Her way of keeping the pirates from getting the galley. They tried to board at the stern. The heat was already too great. Syagrius feared that Cassandra would be burned alive, but she never moved. Her blue and gray eyes did not blink, even when the deck beneath her feet took fire, and the flames blazed up around her. The War Eagle burned to the water line and sank hissing into the sea. The soldiers were barely able to save the Hawk, putting everyone not needed on the oars to pumping and bailing until they made the harbor, where she went down at her moorings. Diana met them on the quay, told them how Cassandra had got the women to help her set the fire pot, hoist the sail and then cast off, giving her blessing and receiving theirs. XXXI No one thought the King of the Romans would last the night. He lingered almost two days, sinking slowly toward the shadows. He spoke very little at first, even to the townspeople who came to thank him and say goodbye. He seemed already withdrawn into another world. The pain did not trouble him, even when the physician tried to clean his wounds. Perhaps it was the opium the doctor gave him to chew. Perhaps it was, as he said, that his sufferings were already over. Later, his mind wandered. He held long conversations, sometimes in Greek, sometimes in Latin, with people no one else could see. A messenger brought word the new procurator was to arrive in two days. Syagrius expressed his good wishes and his regrets at not being able to receive him personally. Toward evening, he asked his attendants to carry his chair out onto the balcony. To his right, he could see the town that mourned so many dead. Directly below was the bay. Beyond was the fresh cut tomb where Valerius' and Sophia's ashes lay in a single urn, next to Valens', two among so many others. To his left was the wine dark sea that held Cassandra. He looked first to the town, then to the tomb and then out to the horizon where the dolphins had come to play. Paulus stood at a respectful distance until sunset, when a thick fog, most unusual for that time of year, rolled in. He approached to ask Syagrius if he wanted to come inside, but he found his spirit already departed.

XXXII The new procurator came just in time to officiate at the funeral ceremonies. He wanted to make a speech, but there was no time to prepare. He had to content himself with a public reading of the names of the dead and the standard Ave atque vale. The End

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