Maxian grunted a little, lifting a cylinder of carved marble from the floor up onto the tabletop. The Persian slaves had found an old burial urn for the stolen ashes. It seemed almost new, save for its archaic design and corrosion still clinging stubbornly to the bronze fittings.

"Here is what will be our keystone," Maxian said, turning the cylinder about. "These are the mortal remains of the first EmperorGaius Octavian- now better known as Augustus. It was he who first commanded the changes to the soldiers' Oath that gave rise to this curse. It is he, now, who will help us break it. Gaius Julius has been adamant in his belief that we cannot break the Oath without involving the current Emperor, my brother."

Gaius Julius leaned back on his couch, a half smile lurking on his thin lips.

Maxian nodded to him and raised up the cylinder. "Our dear Gaius believes," Maxian continued, "that only the death of my brother will free the Empire. He has a cruel and bloody mind, our Gaius, but he is not a sorcerer. I have, I believe, found another way to take the key from the lock, to bring down the Oath, without this murder:."

Krista pulled back the ears of the little black cat, making its yellow eyes into narrow slits and showing its fangs. The little cat shook its head, freeing its ears from her light touch. It yawned up at her, showing sharp white teeth. Despite this byplay with the little scamp, she was listening intently to Maxian's voice. There was hope in it, and certainty, and her heart veered toward believing in him again. Duty warred with the remnant of affection in her heart- once, she had believed in Maxian, perhaps even loved him as much as a common woman may love a prince. She knew he believed that he loved her, though that was such a fickle thing, she had put no credence in it. Many men had said they loved her- some had even said they would buy her from her mistress, the Duchess, and free her. They had lied.

Would they have made the offer, she wondered, if they had known she was in truth no slave?

Only this man, this Prince, had made her a real offer of freedom, though it had been in extremis at the edge of the world, preparing for battle against the Persian magi in their old, dead city. Then, that had counted heavily for her, that he would make the gesture when he desperately needed her at his back. But now? With Gaius Julius and the golden youth filling his ears with their thoughts, their desire, their plans, and schemes? She saw him less and less, His mind and mood had turned away from her and down darker paths. The inevitability of some action against the Emperor seemed to grow stronger and stronger.

And now duty wars against my heart, and the heart loses.

"My brother, friend Gaius," Maxian said, "is currently the keystone we seek. But he need not remain so. Here is an ancient law of the sorcerer's realm- that thing that owns the seeming of another thing may become that thing. A hair, taken from the head of a man, can be used- by this law of similarity- to affect the man himself. At this instant, the Augustus Galen is the crux of the Oath, but with this" he rubbed his hands over the top of the cylinder- "we can bring forth an older precedent. We can bring forth Augustus himself, and through him, strike at the Oath without touching my brother."

Alexandros made a sound, more than a snort of disbelief and less than outright laughter. Maxian turned his head, glaring at the youth, but Alexandros shook his head and showed his palms.

"Mummery! If you say it will work, perhaps it will, but what will you do if this substitution does not work? What will you do if, in the throes of battle, you find your knife at your brother's throat?"

Maxian's face darkened, and Krista tensed, seeing the imminent dissolution of the golden youth at hand. Her right hand clenched into a fist, and the smooth, cold tube of the spring-gun filled her palm. She rummaged the little cat with her left hand, making it squeak. Gaius Julius turned a little at the noise, and she caught his eye. She shook her head minutely, pinning his gaze, and the spring-gun eased out of her sleeve, focusing on him under the cover of the table. The old Roman raised his eyebrows and put a blank look on his face.

"Noble Macedonian," Maxian hissed, "I will not murder my brother. I know it was the common sport of your youth, but here, in my Rome, we will sustain the family that I love. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes." Alexandros smirked, standing away from the table, his blue eyes hard with old knowledge, dearly bought in a bitter childhood. " You will send tens of thousands to their deaths to salve your conscience, where the death of one- even a dearly beloved one- would suffice. It is good you are not Emperor, for you have not the stomach for it."

"I will never be Emperor," Maxian grated, his left eyelid twitching in barely repressed fury. "My brother and his sons will found that line. What we do is for the Senate and the people, not for personal gain."

Alexandros shook his head, disbelief plain upon his noble face. His thought was clear to Krista, who had relaxed a little. The youth knew in his heart of hearts that the only prize, the only goal, was to rule and to command the world. The Macedonian bowed insolently and then stalked out of the room. The Prince stared after him, then turned to Gaius Julius. "Ensure that he is ready for the ceremony tonight. We are prepared. We will make the throw."

The storm crawled down over the hills, sending rain and wind in front of it. On the hillside above the old, decaying villa, the trees shook and bent under the force of the wind, creaking and groaning. Icy rain spilled down between the trunks, spattering on the thick loam under the limbs. In the near darkness, now that the storm had covered the sun, two men crouched in the lee of a snag. Even here, where they were out of the wind, they could feel the temperature dropping rapidly. Thick woolen cloaks and padded hauberks kept them warm for the moment, but one of them was pulling on thick gloves to keep some feeling in his fingers.

"This is a storm like on the grasslands north of the Azov," the taller man shouted over the whistling roar of the wind. "Comes up out of nowhere and leaves frozen men and horses behind."

The other, shorter man nodded and peered between the thick trunks of the trees down at the villa in the clearing below. He had a weathered tan face, with a short stubble of beard, a bald pate, and a stubby nose. He was stocky and thick-wristed, with a wrestler's arms. Under the cloak he wore a shirt of thick iron rings over a heavy woolen undershirt. A legionary's short sword was strapped to his belt along with knives and pouches of well-worn leather. The taller man at his side had long, curly hair tied behind his head, an aquiline nose, and liquid brown eyes. Unlike his companion, he was well armed with a long cavalry sword- the spatha of the Eastern Empire- and a bow, enclosed in a gorytos or bow case of stiff leather, was strapped to his back along with a wooden case for black-fletched arrows. Their horses were hidden behind them, deeper in the hazel and witchberry bush that covered the hill.

"Can you see anything?" The taller man was still shouting, trying to make himself heard over the din of the trees being lashed by the storm. The rain began to fall heavily, and sight of the villa disappeared into a dark mist of falling water and blowing leaves. " Nikos?"

The shorter man shook his head, and his fingers made signs in the air. The taller man frowned, trying to follow the quick succession of signs. After a moment, and after Nikos repeated them, he made out:

The lights have gone out. And then, If the others do not arrive quickly, we will go in ourselves.