Maxian pursed his lips, considering the issue. Gregorius had a valid point. At last he said, “Each man may seek his own way into the service of the Empire and thence to citizenship. Such has it been for a long time.”

Gregorius nodded in acknowledgment but replied, “So it has always been, but that is no longer«a suitable response. What of the carpenter who labors for the statd? What of the matron whose husband has died, yet she struggles on, raising ten children by herself? The children in turn may serve the state and become citizens, yet she cannot. Is there justice in this? When the Romans were a strong people, it made good sense; now it does not. I know that I cannot convince your brother of this, and rest easy, I shall give him the ships, the money, the supplies that he needs. I agree that the Eastern Empire must be aided. There will always be disagreements, even among friends.”

The tractator arrived and Maxian signaled to him. Turn ing to the Senator, he said: “Thank you for your words, and thank you for supporting our family in the past. It means a great deal to me, as it did to my father. So that you understand clearly, I do not always agree with my brother, but I will always support him. Good day, sir.”

Gregorious nodded, with a little smile on his face, resting his hands on the head of his walking stick.

“A good day to you as well, young Maxian. Oh, one thing before you go. A client of mine, a Briton named Mor-dius Arthyrrson, came to see me yesterday. He said that he was returning home arid giving up his share of his family’s business here in the city. This was troubling to me, though I wished him well. He was a fellow of good promise. He also said that he had talked to you about what had happened. I did not press him about it, for other of my men had told me the tale already. I think that you should know that this is not the first time that this sort of thing has happened.”

Maxian stared at the old man for a moment, then nodded and went out.

The staccato of drums echoed off the brick buildings facing the great harbor of Trajan. Thyatis turned, shading her eyes against the late-afternoon sun as it slanted in golden beams through the remains of the rainclouds. Hundreds of ships, riding at anchor in the mile-wide hexagon of the Imperial Harbor, lit up, their colored sails gleaming in the perfect light. Seagulls circled overhead in the cool rain-washed air, cawing. Apollo and his chariot were preparing to descend beyond the western rim of the world in glorious display. The rainclouds were lit with purple and gold and reds in a thousand hues. A fresh breeze had sprung up, carrying the deep smell of the sea to her. The funk of the harbor was blown away, and with it the stinks of the city behind her.

“A beautiful sunset,” Anastasia said from the comfort of her litter.

“It is,” Thyatis said as she knelt on the pier next to her patron. She fingered the hilt of her sword, thinking of the endless leagues that would soon be between her and her patron. Beyond the handful of men that she was taking with her, she would be entirely alone in the East. She looked up, seeing the calm violet eyes of her mistress. Only confidence and strength were reflected there. Thyatis’ spirits rose and a core of determination began to accrete within her.

“Your supplies are already loaded?” the Duchess asked.

“Yes, milady, everything that Nikos and I could think of, plus more besides. The men are already aboard, most sleeping or reading.”

Anastasia smiled. “They are soldiers, after all.”

Gently she took the hand of the young woman. Seeing her now, clad in dull raiment, a heavy cloak, and worn boots, with her hair tied back and with no makeup, Anastasia realized that she had begun to grow attached to her ward. This troubled her greatly, for she had long considered the last daughter of the Clodians to be only a possibly useful tool. The remnants of her anger over the failure of her stratagem to ensnare the youngest Atrean Prince passed away. Laughing a little, she let go of Thyatis’ hand.

“Go with good fortune,” she said, making the sign of Artemis to bid her well.

Thyatis rose, bowing. “And you, my Lady.” Then she turned, her hair glittering in the last rays of the sun, and went aboard the ship. Anastasia watched her ascend the gangplank and go forward to speak to the captain. The sail ors began to untie the mooring ropes and unfurl the sail. The tide was beginning to run out.

At last, with the purple of night spilling over the harbor, the Duchess tapped on the top of the litter, indicating it was time to go.

Krista blinked and stirred beside her. “Time to go home, mistress?” Her voice was sleepy.

“Yes, dear, time to go home.”

The slaves had roused themselves as well and picked up the litter poles with well-practiced ease, sliding it easily aloft. Then they trotted off down the street. The western horizon was a long smear of deep rose and streaks of gold. In the litter, Anastasia leaned against the frame, staring out at the dark houses as they jogged past on the road to the city. One long finger folded the corner of her shawl over and over, running the sharp edge against her thumb.

/ hope she comes home alive, she thought, letting a dram of the sadness that filled her seep out.

It was full dark when Maxian returned from the Forum. He was tired and his temper had not improved with a long afternoon spent listening to Senators droning on about the will of the gods and the assurances of the oracles that the Emperor’s campaign in the East would go well. Of late, he had been sleeping badly, with strange dreams troubling his few hours of rest. Despite his eldest brother’s admonitions to take up the burden previously carried by de’Orelio, he had not done so.

As he had planned, he had visited the Offices provided him by Temrys twice, smiled at their ostentatious decor and then left. The official staff and their careful watchfulness made the rooms useless for his task. He knew that Aure?an expected his aid and assistance, but instead his thought returned again and again to the dead craftsmen. He fingered the little lead slug in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to his apartments. He was accustomed to leaning heavily on the undefined “feelings” that were the tool-in-trade of the healer and the sorcerer. The feel of the matter of the scribes reminded him too much of both that dreadful night in Ostia and the experience in the temple at Cumae.

There were forces at work beyond normal sight. He could almost discern them, walking in these ancient hallways. When the palace was almost deserted, as it was now with the Emperor and much of his court gone to Ostia and the great fleet, with only the sputter of the lanterns and the occasional sight of a slave, dusting or mopping the floors, Maxian could feel the weight of the years and the tragedies that had occurred here. From the corner of his eye, if he was careful not to look, the shades of those that had lived here and died here could almost be seen. When he had been younger and had first come here, they had been welcome; the dim outlines of old men, clean-shaven, fierce and proud. Those were the strongest, those who had ruled here in the long centuries of the Empire. Now, with his skills grown and matured, he could sometimes see the others-those who had died in violence, those who had died in childbirth, those who had wept, or laughed, or loved here. Even the stones whispered, trying to tell their stories.

He stopped at the entrance to his apartments; a thin slat of pale-yellow light showed under the door. He had left with the dawn to accompany his brothers to the Forum; no taper or lantern had been lit then. He calmed himself, reaching inside to find the Opening of Hermes. Once he had done so, he drew the power of the nearest lamps to him, causing them to sputter and die. He placed a hand on the wall, feeling the room beyond. Three people waited within, none near the door. The room beyond was watchful, but not filled with anger or hostility. He tilted his head to one side, willing the sight away. It receded and he opened the door.