“But without respect, without the filial duty of his children-his subjects-the Emperor cannot govern. The father who does not have the respect of his children is weak and the family divided. The sons fight among themselves and the daughters are their prizes. There is civil disorder in the cities and mutiny in the countryside. In this matter of faith, the Empire has always been a loving father-forgiving and accepting-allowing each race of peoples under its protection to worship their own gods in their own way. But for ‘ the health and the prosperity of the family, each man and woman must also pay their respects-in the temple or the home-to their father, the Emperor.

“These men,” he said, his free hand indicating the ruined citadel, “though all judge them goodly men, refused this. They refused to respect and honor the Emperor. They refused, even when put to terrible pain, to venerate his name. They met in secret and urged others to follow their path. In them, in all seeming piety, was worse faithlessness than in any man. In their temples there was no respect, only the slighting of the Emperor’s name. This cannot be countenanced. You see their end. One that will only be whispered of in time to come. A final judgment upon them and their Persian creed.”

Maxian could not stop crying and burrowed deeper into the warm shelter of his father. The old man stood on the parapet for a long time, holding his son. The limestone walls and pillars of the ruined temple hissed with green flame and the pyre of black smoke rose higher and higher, into the darkening sky.

Krista knelt on muddy ground among the high bushes of the side garden. The day was cold and gusty, so she had tied her hair back with a scarf and wore a pair of knit breeches she had stolen from the old man. They were made of wool, dyed a dark green, and they stopped the wind far better than some flimsy tunic. She had cut an oblong hole five or six hands long out of the ground with a sharp-bladed shovel and carefully placed the turf aside. Into the little muddy hole she placed a bundle wrapped in cotton batting and string. Then she unscrewed the top of a heavy ceramic jar she had borrowed from the basement and carefully sprinkled the gray-green dust inside over the top of the bundle. There was a very sharp smell and she turned her face away while she finished. She closed the top of the jar and put it aside, then she covered the bundle with rocks.

The turf went back on over the rocks and she tamped the grass back down. Still crouching over the hole, she cleaned up the rest of her mess and put the shovel and jar back into her carrying bag. She sighed and leaned over the hidden place.

“Rest easy, little brother,” she said, and made the sign of farewell and blessing. Though the grass would soon grow back over the cut turf, she sprinkled wine and wheat grains over the grave. She hoped that the little boy’s spirit would find its way to the green fields beyond the Lethe. Then she slipped off through the bushes, heading for the front of the house. This time no one saw her.

“I fear that I am a poor commander for this desperate venture,” Maxian said, his voice still hoarse. He sat in a wooden chair with upswept arms, covered with a quilt. His face was still pale, though he had nearly recovered all of his strength. While he still looked young, there was some shadow around his eyes that made him look far older than he had the week before. Krista sat behind him, on the edge of the bed, with the little black cat on her lap. The dead man and the Persian sat in the other chairs, but only Abdmachus seemed comfortable in them. He was sitting cross-legged after the fashion of his people.

“I have put us all at risk with a very ill-considered approach at dealing with this problem. I was thinking of this… thing… as a contagion, a disease. It is not, it is a curse, a construction of forms and patterns in the unseen world. It must be dealt with as such.” Maxian raised his hand to stop Abdmachus, who started to speak.

“I know, my friend, that many other sorcerers have gnawed at the edges and come away empty-handed or dead, but this thing operates within boundaries and rules of its own. It is not a disease and I do not believe that it can be treated like one, a single patient at a time. Everything that this is fits together, like a puzzle, or the stones of a bridge. If the one keystone can be removed, properly removed, the entire edifice will come apart. I believe that if we can effect that, the entire curse will be lifted.”

Abdmachus stirred, his white eyebrows perking up. “What, Lord Prince, is the keystone?”

Maxian smiled, but he did not answer. His face twisted a little then, becoming grimmer. “I also know that regardless of how much you might praise my current powers, they are wholly insignificant in the face of what will be required. I must have access to a vast reservoir of power, far more than is contained within mere rocks and stones, or even in the three of us. Where can I get it?”

The Persian quailed at the hard stare he received from the Prince. He looked to Gaius Julius, but the dead man was smiling genially and only raised an eyebrow in question. Krista was ignoring the men entirely, for the little black cat had rolled on its back and was batting at her braids with its paws. It caught one and bit at the end of the hairs.

Abdmachus turned back to face the Prince, who was still staring at him with an almost hungry gaze. “O Prince, I… I do not know of such a power! The exhumed dead are repositories of strength, as you have seen from your experiences in the tomb. You see the pool of necromantic energy that Gaius here provides. I do not know! Perhaps another Emperor, as well loved as he? Perhaps we could‘ find the body of Augustus Octavian and…”

“Bah!” Gaius Julius’ voice was harsh in the close room. “No one makes a pilgrimage to his temple! There are no parades on the day of his birth. Do I ken you, Prince, that you need the very power of the gods? That you need enough strength to topple a mountain by pulling out the single stone at its heart?”

“Yes,” Maxian whispered, his eyes still fixed on the Persian, who was beginning to tremble a little. The Easterner raised a hand to his mouth and wiped sweat from his lip. “Yes, Gaius, I need the power of a god.”

“Well, then,” the dead man said, rising from his chair and circling behind Abdmachus, who looked up at him fearfully, “barring that we storm the gates of Olympus and drag Jupiter out by his short hairs to serve us, we must find the next best thing. Persian, you do know what that is, don’t you? And I’ll wager from the palsy in your hands that you know where it is as well.”

“What do you mean?” Abdmachus’ voice was a strangled whisper. A terrible fear had begun to blossom on his face.

“I mean,” Gaius Julius said, gently placing his hands on either side of the little Persian’s neck, “that I have read the Histories. I know that the Tomb is empty, that it has been empty since the disaster of the Emperor Valerian’s capture by Shapur of Persia three hundred and sixty years ago. I know what price Rome paid for his ransom. What I don’t know is, where is the Sarcophagus? Can you tell me that?

Can you tell me where the King of Kings, this Shapur the Young, hid it?“

“No, no! I do not know such things! They are forbidden! The mobehedan are the only ones who know such secrets! I am only a low moghan, not one of the great ones!”

Gaius Julius’ fingers, ancient and weathered like the roots of oaks, dug into the little Persian’s neck. Abdmachus squirmed as the nails cut into the nerves, but he did not have the breath to scream. The dead man leaned close, his mouth close to the little Persian’s ear. “They trusted you enough to send you here, to the heart of the enemy. They trusted you to carry their plan into the house of the enemy. You are strong enough to build the ward that holds this house safe from what must be the strongest power in the world, save the gods themselves.”