"Shhh." Shirin moved a little behind her, her quick fingers undoing the knot at the back of Thyatis' top. "I've some lotion for this. Auntie gave it to me."

Cool liquid dribbled on Thyatis' naked back, and she hissed in surprise.

"Stay still," Shirin commanded, rubbing her hands together. They made slippery sounds.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Thyatis grumbled, trying to look over her shoulder. Shirin moved directly behind her, sliding her long olive legs on either side of the Roman's thighs. Thyatis blushed at the sensation, skin sliding across skin like silk, and hid her face in her hair. Shirin smoothed the oil over her back, cool and tingling. Thyatis sighed happily and relaxed a little.

"Northern barbarians," whispered Shirin in her ear, her breath a cool touch on Thyatis' shoulder, "should stay out of the sun. Indoors, you know, where it is safe and dark. Otherwise, they become lobsters and blister horribly."

"Indoors?" Thyatis said, though she had trouble talking.

"Yes," Shirin purred, sliding closer, her nipples brushing Thyatis' back, hands slick with oil gliding over her shoulders and inner arms. "Someplace comfortable and warm, like a bed."

"A bed?" Thyatis whispered, then she gasped a little as Shirin's warm, slippery hands cupped her breasts. Shirin moved slowly, her palms covering Thyatis' nipples as she worked the oil in slow circles. Thyatis groaned a little and turned her head to Shirin. The Khazar girl's lips were waiting, soft and moist, and her mouth was hot, and Thyatis felt everything disappear but the sensation of Shirin's hands on her breasts and the kiss. She lay back slowly, and Shirin slipped into the curve of her arm, one leg sliding over her thigh. Thyatis' hand tangled in Shirin's hair.

The wind off of the sea ruffled the canopy of the pavilion, making a slow, rhythmic creaking sound in counterpoint to the muted boom of the surf echoing from the high dark cliffs. The tiny bells on Shirin's ankle bracelet chimed softly as she moved.

Antioch, Roman Syria Magna

A young man, his red hair burned almost white by months under desert skies, jogged along a long line of wagons. They were huge, towering over the running youth; their great slab-sided wheels caked with pasty white dust. Striped canvas awnings had been raised over many of them, shielding their contents- crates, barrels, boxes, pretty young men and women in chains, sheaves of arrows and spears, bolts of cloth, statues of marble and bronze and porphyry, wicker baskets filled with plates and bowls wrapped in straw, amphorae of wine and oil in wicker carriers, thousands of wooden crates marked with the sign of the Imperial Persian Mint- all this protected from the rain, wind, and sun that afflicted travelers in northern Mesopotamia. Yoked to each wagon were teams of oxen or mules. The beasts lowed mournfully at the young man as he ran past, his military-issue sandals slapping rhythmically on the hard-packed dirt of the road. In the meager shade of the wagons- for the sun was high and the heat of the day was becoming intense- thousands of soldiers in worn red cloaks and battered armor sat or sprawled, their sunburned faces streaked with road dust.

The young man jogged along, passing the last of the cargo wagons, and found the road crowded with long lines of horses standing in the heat, their heads low. Their riders, Eastern Empire-armored tagmata, squatted at the side of the road in clumps. Some had servants holding parasols of dirty orange silk or linen for shade. Most were sleeping by their horses with a blanket for a pillow or talking in low tones. Everyone the young man passed seemed weary and worn from the long march. Beyond the horsemen the road turned and ran down a long slope to the banks of a broad river. The man smiled, seeing the cluster of wagons and pennons that marked his own unit, parked by the side of the road like everyone else. He slowed his pace; the long slope down the hill was marked by cracks in the stone paving and uneven footing. Now he was passing cohort after cohort of infantry- most of them sunburned Goths and Germans muttering in their half-familiar tongues- sprawled in a great mass along the sides of the road. Their officers watched the young man as he passed, but none tried to halt him.

The caduceus and lightning-bolt brooch pinned to his cloak lent him gravity, at least, despite his youth. The Emperor gave members of the Imperial Thaumaturgic Corps a great deal of leeway. Even the Germans and other barbarians who filled out the ranks of the Legions acceded to their prerogatives. Angering a wizard was thought to be bad luckand, well, it was.

The young man swerved off to the side of the road and stopped, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, breathing hard. A wagon rumbled up the hill, drawn by straining oxen, carrying six great oaken barrels bound with copper staves. The gurgle of the water in the barrels was the sound of sweet relief for the thousands of men lining the road. The boy smiled at the wagon master as he drove past and flashed a cheery salute. This was the third water wagon he had passed since he had left the city gates. He jogged on, closing his nose and mouth against the trail of dust rising behind the wagon. He felt good, running like this, feeling his body exert itself. He ran on down the hill.

A thicket of broad-shouldered men in armor of wired iron rings parted, allowing a grime-covered courier to enter the field tent. The man doffed his leather hat and batted at the thick yellow dust, knocking it to the ground. Two more guards, these hard-bitten-looking Latins with narrow eyes, checked the rider's weapons and cloak. Satisfied, they nodded him in.

Sitting at a folding camp desk, a thin, dark-haired man looked up at the intrusion. The courier knelt on one knee, making the half proskynesis that was the rule here in the East.

"Hail, Emperor and God, Galen."

"Greetings, lad." Martius Galen Atreus, Emperor of the Western Empire, put aside his quill pen and rubbed ink from his hands. His was a narrow face, with a cap of lank black hair crowning his head. His eyes were bright and filled with a fierce intellect. "What news do you bring?"

The messenger stood and pulled a scroll case from the carry bag at his waist. He was very young, perhaps not sixteen, with close-cut hair and a determined expression. "A letter, Caesar, from the Empress."

Galen's hand, reaching for the copper tube, paused for just an instant, but then he took it and placed it on the desk. The Emperor summoned a smile and motioned for one of his servants. "Well done, lad. You need a bath and a shave and someaught to drink. Timos, see that this fellow is looked after."

The elderly Greek nodded, smiling at the courier, and escorted him away. The Emperor stared at the message tube on his desk with trepidation. Poking at it with a tentative finger, he rolled it over and saw that it bore the sign and seal of his wife, Helena, Empress of the West. He sighed. He had last seen her in Catania, at their villa on the island of Sicily. There had been words exchanged between themheated words he had since regretted. She had sent him letters; he kept them in a chest with his personal items, unopened.

In Rome, and even before, when he had been stationed at Colonia Agrippina in lower Germania with the Legio First Minerva, Helena had gained herself a towering reputation as a poet, writer, and sly-handed wit. Her sharp tongue had laid low many a city. Her volume of correspondence was legendary. In the course of one week at Agrippina, while it rained constantly and steadily, he had watched her write seventy-three letters. He valued her mind above all else. The thought that he had found a mate of equal or greater intelligence still filled him with hidden wonder.