Anastasia paused, pulling her hair back and binding it in a loose fillet of dark blue silk. In the dim light of the lanterns, and now the moon peeking through the gauze drapes, she seemed burdened by a great weight. Her hair tied, she | lay back among the cushions.

“If this is the will of the gods, there is nothing that a mortal can do. But if this is the doing of men, of their ego, of their vanity, then there is much that a mortal woman can do. There is much that I can do. There are things that you can do.” Anastasia’s voice was a low burr, echoing from the peaked roof of the little room.

“I serve the Emperor, though I have no office. All those who serve me serve him, and through him the Empire itself. We operate outside of the strictures of the law, as you did so recently in the dyers’ district. I have known the Emperor for a long time, and he has my complete loyalty. Yet…”

She stopped and sat up. Thyatis put down the cup of wine, meeting her gaze.

“What do you know of the Emperor and his brothers?” Anastasia asked.

Thyatis shrugged. “What anyone knows. Galen is Emperor and God. His younger brothers, Aurelian and Maxian, are his left and right arms, extending his reach to all corners of the Empire. In time, when Galen dies,- Aurelian will take his place on the Purple and will become a god himself. One presumes that Maxian will serve him as well.“

The older woman sighed, shaking her head. “To be expected, I suppose. Let me tell you of them:

“Primus, Martius Galen Atreus is our Emperor and God. He is the Emperor of the West, as decreed by the Divine Diocletian in the separation of the greater Empire into two halves. I do not know if your studies covered history, but this was done to resolve problems of rule that the old Empire experienced due to its sheer size. Galen is the son of a regional governor, Sextus Varius Atreus, who was long the administrator of the region of Gallia Narbonensis in southern Gaul. During the most recent civil war, Galen and his brothers were successful in leading the Spanish and African legions against the other pretenders, Vatrix and Lucius Niger, to capture Rome and drive out the Franks and Goths.

Anastasia paused and sighed.

“Even dreadful events can bear good tidings with them. The plague that took so many Romans slaughtered the Frankish and Gothic tribes. Too, the principalities beyond the Rhine frontier have grown strong enough to halt the advance of the tribes farther east. Galen was very lucky in battle to win the Purple. He is, to my experience, wise and cunning. He seems to understand the mechanisms of rule as well as any Emperor in the last two centuries. That he has two capable siblings who have not, yet, conspired against him, bodes well.

“Secondus, the next younger brother, Aurelian Octavian Atreus. A brave fellow, though well nigh heedless in battle-some would say the perfect commander of the equites. Well loved of his elder brother. By all accounts and experience, he is utterly loyal to Galen and to the Empire. It is he who will be our next Emperor, for Galen has yet to have any children. Aurelian, on the other hand, has a thriv ing brood of yelling brats, all as strong as horses and as much like their father as peas in a pod.“

Anastasia paused again, her look grim, and she took a long drink from her own cup. A light breeze came up, parting the curtains, and she rose. Pinning the curtains back, she savored the clean night air. From the distance, the sound of bells and gongs echoed from the nearest temple.

“Look,” she said, “the priestesses of Astarte are rising to meet the moon.”

Thyatis looked out, kneeling next to her patron on the cushions. Far away and below, in the swale at the northeastern end of the Forum Romanum, the domes of the temple of the goddess of the moon were lit by hundreds of candles. All else in that district was quiet and dark, but now the moon had risen high above the Latin hills and the pinpoints of light rose as well, one by one, into the dark sky.

“Ah,” Anastasia said, “as pretty as ever.” She laid her hand possessively on Thyatis’ shoulder. The younger woman trembled a little under the light pressure. Idly, Anastasia stroked her hair. Thyatis grimly kept from leaping to her feet or lashing out with the edge of her hand.

The matron continued, “Aurelian is all that the popular troubadours would have an Emperor be-brave, handsome, kind to children and women in distress. Possessed of a noble bearing and a clear voice. Sadly, he is not the best Emperor for us, for the State, for the Senate and the People. Do you know why, child?”

Thyatis, mute, shook her head no. Anastasia slid the drape of the younger woman’s dress off her shoulder. Her long fingers ran over Thyatis’ smooth flesh, raising hundreds of tiny goosebumps. Part of Thyatis’ hidden mind began to gibber in fear at the intimacy of the delicate fingers. Still, she remained still, though her left hand slid quietly between her thighs.

“Because he has not the sense of one of his beloved horses.” The older woman sighed. “He would doubtless ignore the business of the Offices-, or hand those paltry details such -as the shipment of grain, or the state of the coinage, off to advisors and seek out adventures, glory in battle. He would be slain on some muddy field by a chance-shot arrow, or thrown by a tiring horse, or vomiting his life away in encampment around some Frankish hill-town. Stand, my dear.“

Anastasia rose, Thyatis’ hand in hers, so that both stood. Thyatis’ robe, undipped, fell away in a dark puddle at her feet. Anastasia smiled again, her face mostly in shadow. The breeze had snuffed the candles and lamps, leaving only the moonlight to wash over the younger woman’s naked body.

“No,” the matron continued, “Aurelian will not do. But, tertius, Maxian Julius Atreus, now, he is a young man with potential. The potential to be a very fine Emperor. And he is a young man, with a young man’s preferences… you will please him greatly, I think.”

Thyatis flinched at last, as if struck. The Duchess, seeing her fear, laughed softly.

Dwyrin woke to semidarkness again, but now there was no crane-headed man looming at the foot of his bed. Instead there was cool dimness and long slats of light falling across the sheets. As he woke, coils of shimmering red and blue light flared quietly around the door frame, ran along the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling, and slithered down the ridges of the cotton quilt. He blinked and they were gone, the stones and beams of the room solid and distinct, even clear in the subdued light.

Dwyrin rose up, expecting to wince at the movement, but there was no pain. He felt oddly calm, like a deep well had opened in him and its strong waters carried through his limbs to his ringers. The room was small, with a low writing table and two chests of burnished dark wood, bound with bronze. Scrolls of the writings of the teachers hung along the walls, revealing portraits Of the stars, of diverse animals, of cabalistic signs.

A master’s room, he thought. None of the apprentices or students rated a room to themselves. What has happened to me? The stones were cold under his bare feet. He tested his arms, his stomach. He remembered flames, being consumed in fire. There were no marks upon him, nothing to indicate the things he half remembered. His stomach growled suddenly and he realized that he was famished.

His tunic and belt were under the low bed, and thus attired he ventured out into the corridor. How am I going to get breakfast! he thought. By the height of Ra it’s too late for the students or masters to be eating. The cooks have their eye on me, and no one will have thought to smuggle me food.

Dwyrin stood in the shadow of the hall, distressed to realize that there was no friend among his fellows that he could truly call upon at tkis time. Patroclus had been sort of a friend, but the prank with the bees had ended that. He shook his head, trying to clear away the dark thoughts. / could just wait, he mused, but no, I’m too hungry.