In Rome, the sun was bright, and the Italian air felt liquid to men used to the milder climes of Gaul. Everywhere lingered the immense stenches of the city: of fires, of cooking, and, above all, of sewage.

When Honorius led him into the Forum, Athalaric tried not to be overwhelmed.

Gaunt old Honorius stumbled forward, his threadbare toga wrapped around him. “I had not expected the strength of this sun. The light must have molded my ancestors, filled them with vigor. Oh! How I have longed to see this place. This is the Sacred Way, of course. There is the Temple of Castor and Pollux, there the Temple of the Deified Caesar with the Arch of Augustus beside it.” He made his way to the shade of a statue — a horseback hero done in bronze, whose plinth alone towered ten to twelve times Athalaric’s height — and he leaned against the marble, wheezing. “Augustus said he found Rome a city of brick and left it one of marble. The white marble, you see, comes from Luna, to the north, and the colored marbles from northern Africa, Greece, and Asia Minor — not so exotic destinations as they are today—”

Athalaric listened to his mentor, keeping his face expressionless.

This was the heart of Rome. It was here that the business of the city had been done even in Republican times. Since then, leaders and emperors as far back as Julius Caesar and Pompey had sought prestige by embellishing this ancient place, and the area had become a maze of temples, processional ways, triumphal arches, basilicas, council halls, rostra, and open spaces. The imperial residences on Palatine Hill still loomed over it all, a symbol of brooding power.

But now, of course, the emperors, like the Republicans before them, had gone.

Today Athalaric had chosen to wear his best metalwork, his belt buckle of bronze with fine lines of silver and gold hammered into its engraved pattern and the bow brooch of gold with silver filigree and garnets that held his cloak in place. His barbarian jewelry, so sneered at by the Romans, caught the light of the fierce Italian sun, even here in the ancient heart of their capital. And to remind himself of where he had come from, around his neck Athalaric wore the tag of beaten tin that had marked his father out as a slave.

He was proud of who he was, and who he might become. And yet, and yet…

And yet the sheer scale of it all, to eyes accustomed only to the small towns of Gaul, was astonishing.

Much of Rome was a city of mud brick, timber, and rubble-work; its predominant color was the bright red of the roofing tiles that covered so many of the residential buildings. The population had long overflowed the fortifications of the ancient city, and even the more extensive walls erected under the threat of barbarian invasion two centuries ago. It was said that at one time a million people had lived in this city, which had ruled an empire of a hundred million. Well, those days were gone — the burned-out and abandoned outer suburbs attested to that — but even in these straitened times, the sheer numbers of the place were stunning. There were two circuses, two amphitheaters, eleven public baths, thirty-six arches, nearly two thousand palaces, and a thousand pools and fountains fed with Tiber water by no less than nineteen aqueducts.

And at the heart of this sea of red tile and swarming people, here he was in an immense island of marble: marble used not just for columns and statues, but for the veneers of the walls, even for paving.

But, though the great spaces of the Forum were thronged with market stalls, Athalaric thought he sensed a great sadness here. Today the city was no longer even under Roman rule. Italy was now governed by a Scirian German called Odoacer, placed there by rebellious German troops, and Odoacer used Ravenna, a northern city lost in marshland, as his capital. Rome itself had been sacked twice.

Athalaric, motivated by a mild cruelty that puzzled him, began to point out evidence of damage. “See where the plinths are empty; the statues have been stolen. Those columns have tumbled, never to be repaired. Even some of the marble from the temples’ walls has been taken! Rome is decaying, Honorius.”

“Of course it is decaying,” Honorius snapped. He shifted to stay in the shade of the plinth. “Of course the city decays. I decay.” He held up his liver-spotted hand. “As do you, young Athalaric, despite your arrogance. And yet I am still strong. I am here, am I not?”

“Yes, you are here,” Athalaric said more kindly. “And so is Rome.”

“Do you believe that nature is running down, Athalaric? That all life-forms are diminishing with successive generations?” Honorius shook his head. “Surely this mighty place could only have been constructed by men with the most tremendous hearts and minds, men one will not find in the present world of squabbling and fracture, men who have evidently, tragically, become extinct. And if so it behooves us to conduct ourselves as did those who came before — those who built this place, rather than those who would tear it down.”

Athalaric was moved by these words. But they subtly excluded him. Athalaric knew he was a good student, that Honorius respected him for his mind. Athalaric had reason to feel protective of the old man, even fond, of course; else he would not have accompanied him on this hazardous jaunt across Europe in search of ancient bones. And yet Athalaric was aware, too, that there were barriers in Honorius’s heart every bit as solid and enduring as these great walls of white marble around him.

It was Honorius’s ancestors who had built this mighty place, not Athalaric’s. To Honorius, whatever he did, Athalaric would always be the son of a slave — and a barbarian at that.

A man approached them. He was dressed in a toga every bit as grand as Honorius’s was threadbare, but his skin was as dark as an olive’s.

Honorius pushed himself away from the plinth and stood up. Athalaric shifted his robe so that the weapon at his waist was visible.

His hands hidden in a fold of his toga, the man appraised them coolly. In clear but highly accented Latin, he said, “I have been waiting for you.”

“But you do not know us,” Honorius said.

The newcomer raised his eyebrows and glanced at Honorius’s travel-stained toga, Athalaric’s gaudy jewelry. “This is still Rome, sir. Travelers from the provinces are usually easily recognized. Honorius, I am the one you seek. You may call me Papak.”

“A Sassanian name — a famous name.”

Papak smiled. “You are learned.”

As Papak smoothly questioned Honorius about the difficulty of their journey, Athalaric appraised him. The name alone told him much: Papak was evidently a Persian, from that great and powerful state beyond the borders of the remnant empire in the east. And yet he was in fully Roman attire, with not a trace of his origin save for the color of his skin and the name he bore.

Almost certainly he was a criminal, Athalaric thought. In these times of disintegrating order, those who worked in the shadows thrived, trading on greed and misery and fear.

He interrupted Papak’s easy conversation. “Forgive my poor education,” he said silkily. “If I remember my Persian history, Papak was a bandit who stole the crown from his sworn ruler.”

Papak turned to him smoothly. “Not a bandit, sir. A rebel priest, yes. A man of principle, yes. Papak’s life was not easy; his choices were difficult; his career was honorable. His is an honored name I am proud to bear. Would you like to compare the integrity of our lineages? Your German forebears chased pigs through the northern forests—”

Honorius said, “Gentlemen, perhaps we should cut to the heart of the matter.”