"My friends, a delicate struggle lies ahead of us. We have returned to the heartland of our enemy stronger by the addition of Alexandros and the secrets of the Persian magi, but now this great power is focused upon me and it bears down heavily.

"Gaius, we cannot wait until I am strong enough to go about in the world on my own feet. There is too much work to be done. You and Alexandros must be my eyes and hands in the city."

The old Roman bowed slightly at this, though his eyes did not leave Maxian's face. The Prince was recovering, but slowly, and Gaius smiled inwardly, seeing opportunities unfold like the leaves of a spring flower.

"How do we avoid destruction by this curse?" Alexandros' voice showed no concern for his possible annihilation. "If we leave this place and its ward, will it not strike us down?"

Maxian shook his head wearily. "Our enemy is neither wise nor cunning," he said. "It is very strong, but it does not look ahead. If you take an indirect approach and do not cause the weave of the fabric of the Empire, as it were, to change by direct action, it cannot tell that you are a threat. Even if you did, it might take some time for it to react and strike at you. It knows me, though! It knows the taste of my will and is always pressing against me. If you and Gaius and Krista go out and undertake activities that are not obviously a threat, then I believe that you can act without fear."

Alexandros shrugged and looked up at Gaius. The Roman nodded slightly and turned back to the Prince. "My lord, what must we do?"

A brief smile flitted across Maxian's face. "First," he said, "we must track down the exact text of this Oath, which means you or Alex must spend a great deal of time within the Imperial Archives and whichever private libraries you can gain entrance to."

Gaius grinned at Krista at this, his eyes sparkling. She answered him with an icy calm and continued to pet the cat. Maxian did not miss the exchange, however.

"Gaius: no dallying. Time will be short, and we must move quickly."

"How so?" Alexandros stood, brushing his cotton kilt down over his thighs. "If you surmise correctly, we can take our time with a flanking movement and the enemy will not be able to discern our approach."

"The curse is not our only foe," Maxian said, his voice now very weary. "My brother's agents will also be seeking me out if they learn that I have returned to Latium. After our lamentable conversation in Armenia, I fear my dear brother will think me quite mad. An emperor must, by his nature, look poorly on unstable relatives."

Gaius opened his mouth to speak, but a fierce look from Maxian stilled him.

"No, old man, we will not undertake your preferred course of action in this matter. There are other ways to reach my goal. I will not take that one. Go into the city and find out the latest news, seek out this text, get supplies:"

Krista ushered both men out, and then closed the pale green panel behind them.

The City of Makkah, Arabia Felix

Uncle Mohammed!" The young woman, her raven hair tied back behind her head with a scarf, looked up in surprise, bright green eyes visible over a light veil of raw silk. She rose from the stone seat just inside the doorway of the house, smoothing the plaits of her dress, and bowed deeply.

Mohammed returned her bow and shrugged his outer robe, dirty with the grime of a thousand-mile journey, off his shoulders. "Rasana, daughter of my wife's sister, greetings."

The courtyard behind Mohammed was filled with noise: men, camels, horses. The sound of swords and lances rattled against the whitewashed walls of the house. Boots rang on the cobblestones. Mohammed stripped the burnoose from his head, unwinding the length of linen. His face was worn and dark from the sun, showing the strain of weeks of hard travel across the wasteland. The girl stared at him, seeing a jagged new scar starting at his left eye and descending sharply into the thicket of his beard.

Mohammed cocked his head a little to one side, dark brown eyes curious. "Niece, kindly summon my wife to me. I would greet her before I enter our home."

The girl's eyes grew wider, as some surprise or shock registered in her. "Uncle: you did not hear? I thought you had come-"

Mohammed raised a hand, forestalling her, and turned to the crowd of men in the courtyard. They were a grimy and desperate-looking lot, men of the deep desert with long, curved swords and grim, forbidding faces. Many bore the marks of old wounds and hard fighting. Mailed armor glinted under their patched and mended robes. Mohammed gestured to two of them, hawk-visaged men with the blue cords of the northern tribes wound through their kaffiyeh.

"Quiet! Jalal; Shadin- the stables and water are around the side. Take the horses there and see that they are fed and watered. I will send servants with food and drink for the men."

The two men bowed, and Mohammed turned back to the girl in the doorway. She had turned pale, and her soft hands were fluttering at her waist like doves startled from the brush. "Oh, Uncle! I thought you knew! Please, accept my apologies! I am so sorry." The girl bowed again, almost kneeling on the floor.

Mohammed frowned and crossed one leg over the other so that he could take off his boots. "Apologies for what? Where is Khadijah? Where is everyone, for that matter?"

The girl bowed again, placing her head on the floor. "Oh, Uncle, they are in the little house on the side of the hill. The house of white stones! Please, forgive my foolishness, I thought you had come because of the news:"

Mohammed's frown deepened, and a shade of fear flickered across his face. "The house of white stones? Who has died?" He stopped, his heart filled with sudden dreadful certainty. The girl remained prostrate; her face against the floor, but now Mohammed could hear the faint sound of tears dripping. He brushed past her and ran through the dim chambers of the house, forgetting to remove his boots as custom and civility demanded.

Mohammed halted, his right fist poised to rap on the frame of the door. His face remained impassive, though anger was close to breaking the surface of his control. Loud voices, muffled by the door, could be heard. He dropped his hand and consciously opened his fist, flexing his fingers.

":be mine! They are Bani Hashim caravans, our camels, our goods! By what right do they go to him? He is no blood of ours- a hired hand that did too well! He owes his position to his:"

Mohammed grimaced and considered breaking down the door. Behind him, he felt the presence of Jalal close at hand. He raised a hand and gestured for the Tanukh to leave. The Northerner nodded, tucking a knife back into his shirt, and faded away into the dim coolness at the end of the corridor. Mohammed took another moment and mastered himself before knocking.

The door banged open, and a very angry woman of middle age looked out.

Mohammed smiled politely and stepped into the room, ducking his head under the lintel. "Blessings, Taiya, sister of my wife. Blessings, Hala, sister of my wife."

The woman who had answered the door turned her back on him and stalked to a low seat by the window. The other woman, Hala, stood and bowed gravely to Mohammed, then resumed her own seat. The window behind them was tall and narrow, showing a narrow wedge of the innermost garden of the great house. Hala met his gaze with sad eyes. She had been her older sister's favorite and had accompanied her nearly everywhere. Like Khadijah, she was plain featured, with intelligent eyes and a quiet, almost gentle, manner. Mohammed bowed to her and took a chair that had been sitting in the corner of the small room.

It was cool and almost dark, with only a little light coming in from the garden window. Mohammed sat easily, though his heart was still greatly troubled, and waited. The other woman, Taiya, was the youngest surviving daughter of old Khuwaylid and- when he was alive- his favorite. She sat stiffly, looking at the window, fingers picking at the rich brocade of her skirts. Hala glanced at her sister and then turned back to Mohammed, her small hands folded in her lap. Mohammed summoned a smile for her, but he was sure that it seemed false.