"Then," he said simply, "we will have to put her on a horse, wrapped in blankets and tied to the saddle."

Zoe had been sure that if they struck against Damascus, the Syrian populace would rise in their favor and throw out the Romans. Odenathus had simply not believed it, but Zoe's madness had infected the others, and nearly all of those who remained had pledged to follow her. His heart breaking, in the end he had agreed to follow her. They would have little chance without him and his power to back up Zoe's. Now, standing in the twilight, looking into the grief-stricken face of his cousin, he wondered if she had not bent her will and power to influence all of them. This was a mad thing.

"I will carry her," Zoe said, climbing into the wagon. "She is myburden."

Odenathus looked away, his heart sick, as the lithe figure of his cousin bent to undo the wires that held the corpse of the dead Queen to the chair. He climbed up out of the bottom of the wadi to his horse and swung into the saddle. The western sky was a riot of red and orange and purple. Night was coming, and the track they were following was climbing up the side of a long, rocky ridge. Somewhere beyond it, beyond this last vestige of cultivation and fertile land, rose the vast highland plain of the Hauran. A bleak land, shattered by ancient agonies deep in the earth. Nothing grew there save endless fields of sharp-edged black rock. The Hauran was a haunted place, a hundredmile-wide wedge of devastation that thrust into the Syrian heartland like a spear flung from the wastelands of Arabia. It would be hard going, with little water and searing heat by day, chilling cold by night.

"But," Odenathus said to himself, motioning to the others to ride on into the night, "it has been the refuge of bandits and friendless men for centuries." He looked down into the wadi, his mage-sight showing his cousin struggling to pull a harness onto her back. The dead Queen had been strapped to it, the empty pits of her eyes staring up at the evening stars. Zoe shrugged the corpse onto her back and, with the help of her two guardsmen, managed to climb into her saddle.

"And we are friendless," he finished, gently nudging his mare to move. The horse flicked its ears and ambled back onto the road. Odenathus rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble growing in. He had not had a chance to shave in days. The Imperial pursuit was pressing them too hard for a proper camp. Tired men rode past him, squinting into the dark. After a moment, Zoe followed, avoiding his glance. The dead Queen bobbed at her back, withered hands crossed over her breasts, legs pulled up to her chest and bound in place with wire.

When the last man had passed, Odenathus turned in behind the column and muttered something under his breath. A tinymote of light, no more than the gleam of a firefly, drifted away from him and skipped forward along the line of men and horses. When it reached the front of the column, it brightened and cast a pale glow over the desert before them.

Following the witch-light, the band of men pressed on into the night. Somewhere ahead the badlands of the Hauran were waiting, and beyond them the jagged spirit-haunted peaks of the Trachontis.

Ottaviano, on the Slopes of Vesuvius

Whoa!" Maxian stood from the seat of the big wagon and waved behind him at the others, signaling a stop. Sitting beside him on the high driver's seat of the carruca, Krista leaned forward and looked out from under the canopyshe had rigged over the seats. The little caravan- three wagons filled with boxes and crates made of pine boards, their bedding, food in wicker hampers, bags of fruit, amphorae of wine in wooden carriers- had spent the afternoon in a long, slow climb up the side of the mountain. Now they had reached some kind of crossroads, and Krista shaded her eyes against the sun, making out a plinth of weatherworn gray stone. There were markings and arrows chiseled into its surface, showing the distances in miles to the nearest towns, to Roma, and to the provincial seat at Neapolis.

The Prince sat back down and flipped the reins. The four mules hitched to the front of the wagon flicked their ears irritably but then began clopping forward. With their grudging assistance, Maxian pulled the carruca off to the side of the road. Krista fanned herself with a cotton spring-fan dyed with small scenes of men and women picking grapes. She had purchased it for a copper from a vendor in the last town.

"Where now?" Her voice was languid, though she had been observing the Prince closely since they had slipped out of Rome three days before. Cold conscience disputed the feeling of her heart. She had to make a decision about this man, and soon. "A nap, perhaps, under a shady tree?"

Maxian grinned and shook his head. He reached under the seat and pulled out a flagon of wine. After taking a long swallow, he offered it to Krista. She shook her head slightly. A headache was already tickling around the edge of her consciousness; she didn't need to help it along.

"I think this is the turnoff to an old estate that came from my mother's family." Maxian pointed between the trees that lined the road, up the long slope of the mountain. Acres of vinyards and orchards sprawled away from them, reaching up into the fluffy white clouds that were clinging to the summit. It was a hot day, and the air was sticky with humidity. Flies and bees hummed in the air, and the thick green smell of the countryside was overpowering. Krista wrinkled her nose. She preferred the clean breezes of the seaside to this soupy atmosphere.

"The last that I heard, it was deserted save for a caretaker and some tenants. We should find plenty of quiet."

Gaius Julius came up on the side of the wagon, his leathery old face fairly beaming with the genteel beneficence of a patrician on summer holiday. He was wearing a short-sleeved white tunic that showed off the muscles of his upper arms and an impossibly broad straw hat with a pointed top. A pair of legionaries caligulae that showed off his splayed toes and hairy feet completed his outfit. Krista looked away, stifling a laugh. The old Roman had conceived an abiding love for this image of the patrician farmer on holiday. "Ah, my lad, this is a fine day! We should have taken a holidayearlier- have you ever tried the wine from these parts? Oh, it has a particularly stiff taste- metallic almost:."

Krista rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the old Roman, whose tendency to maunder on about vintages and vinyards and casks and aromas for hours induced an overwhelming urge to sleep. Maxian's eyes were glazing over as well.

"Mylord," Krista interjected in a sharp tone. "Are we stopping for lunch, or taking a nap, or getting wherever it is we're going?"

Maxian's head jerked as he woke up and he nodded, his eyes bleary. Gaius Julius had continued to propound on the waters of the district and their undoubted effect on the vintages derived therefrom.

"Yes," the Prince said, "we turn right here. It is only a mile or so to the house."

"Good," Krista said, giving Gaius Julius a slit-eyed glare. "Let's go."

Krista watched the old Roman swing down off of the wagon step with relief. Gaius Julius had begun wearing a strong lemon pomade of late, and it turned her stomach. At her side, the Prince flipped the reins and the mules shuffled their feet and leaned into the traces. The wagon rolled slowly forward.

A thick overhang of twisted dark brown vines and prickly bushes made a wall on either side of the road that led off the main highway into the old estate. The stoutly built carruca barely fit into the dim green passage. Krista leaned back in the wagon seat, watching the leaves pass by overhead as the wagon rocked back and forth, rumbling up the long, shady road. Her fingers toyed with the amulet around her neck, feeling the smooth bronze links of its chain and the incised symbols on its surface. Maxian was oblivious, staring up at the mountain that slowly grew before them.