Swindapa had led the Fieman Bohulugi service last night, she being the senior of the Star Blood on the island at present. Which makes her, technically, a Grandmother. And wasn't that an odd thought. Alston had attended that, it being in the family and she being an adoptive Fiernan of sorts-nobody cared if she actually believed in it, they didn't think that way.

"War is an evil," Gomez was saying. "But in this fallen world, we are often forced to a choice between a lesser evil and a greater. Our citizens and their Meeting have determined that the interests of our Republic demand that Walker be brought down before his power grows too great, and that is a just decision. He has shown himself to be utterly without scruple.

"To protect our people, our children, our nation, from such a threat justifies this war. But there is another and greater reason for it. Walker is one of ours. When he spreads death, suffering, slavery, among the peoples here in our exile home, we bear part of the responsibility."

Alston winced inwardly. She'd suspected Walker had something up his sleeve, but there hadn't been any proof… and he'd struck without warning, taking the Yare and heading out. Cunningly, too, using Pamela Lisketter as a decoy to give himself time.

"And since Walker is at least partially our sin, so we must pay the price of his suppression. Let us pray to Almighty God, God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, that He does not require a payment more than we can bear. For whatever the price may be, bear it we must."

And on that cheerful note, she thought, bowing her head. Alston hadn't prayed since she was about fourteen, but whatever your opinion of his beliefs, Gomez was a man to respect. They weren't exactly friends-several reasons for that-but they worked together well enough.

The silent moment ended with a trumpet and bugle call. The crowds cleared the street, and the men and women of the Marines and the crews formed up to march down to the docks.

Alston picked up her cap and drew a deep breath. "Let's go," she said.

"Yeah, boss, this is more like it," Bill Cuddy said, holding out his wine cup for a refill.

A slave girl in a filmy kilt of Egyptian linen knelt gracefully and poured from a long-stemmed glass jar.

William Walker leaned back in the great terra-cotta hot tub set in the floor of the bathing suite and smiled at his machinist, enjoying the sensation of steaming water soaking the knots out of his muscles.

"What did I promise you back in Nantucket, Cuddy-my-main-man?" he chuckled. Master of Engineers, technically. "Gold, girls, all the comforts of home, within reason."

The new house-palace, in fact- was almost finished. He'd built it not far from the site of classical Sparta, on a rise overlooking the Eurotas valley. The basic materials were the ones the locals were used to working in, but he'd made some modifications. Pitched roofs of baked-clay tile, for instance; the local flattops leaked like a bastard in the winter. Floors of glazed tile, the way he had this area set up, or polished marble; he looked around with satisfaction at the mural frescoes, mostly battle scenes from the conquest of Sicily last year. Running water wasn't a completely unknown concept here, but the sort of full-suite setup he'd put in was, and that went double for the flush toilets with S-curve pipes. Central heating, too, with underfloor ducts, and furnaces and tanks for hot water on tap in the master's quarters.

"Yeah, you came through, all right, boss," Cuddy said. "Funny how much easier this was than Alba."

"Lot more organization to start with," Walker pointed out.

Although that has its drawbacks, he thought. His glance went to the tall French doors. He couldn't see much out of them, the best they could do for window glass still being sort of wavy and opaque, and it was raining outside on the terrace anyway. If it had been clear and he'd gone outside, he could have seen down the valley to the palace of the underking of Sparta, whose sons had all conveniently died in the Sicilian campaign.

He really shouldn't have tried to have me offed back in Mycenae, he thought. Of course, the guy was sick these days himself… courtesy of dear, dear Alice Hong. God, but it pays to have a doctor on your staff. And once Wannax Menelaos was gone, Walker knew exactly who the high king was going to appoint in his place. Odd. I expected them to be brothers. More like third cousins once removed.

But on the whole, operating in civilization of a sort was a hell of a lot easier than cobbling together a kingdom out of the tribes up in Alba. There was a lot the Achaeans didn't know, but at least he didn't have to teach them everything. He smiled at the vista beyond the windows; he'd left plenty of room for expansion later.

Something imposing, but not ostentatious, he thought. Something along the lines of San Simeon.

"Easy to get used to this sort of thing," Cuddy said, raising his cup in toast. He looked aside at the girl, who was kneeling, sitting back on her heels with eyes cast down. "Like, getting laid whenever you want, for example."

Walker nodded, although he wasn't the sort of three-ball man that some of his American followers were. Rodriguez, for instance, and even he'd slowed down a bit now that it was not longer a big deal.

"You deserve it," Walker said sincerely. "You've got the machine shops working fine now."

Cuddy shrugged and beckoned. The girl came over and knelt behind him, kneading his shoulders.

"The first part was the hardest," he said, tilting his head back against her breasts. "Like, one makes two, two makes four, you know? Lathes make lathes. Look though, boss-these guys I've trained, they don't really understand any of this stuff. Well, maybe one or two. It's all monkey-see, monkey-do for the rest."

"It's the results that matter."

"Surprised you sent Danny Rodriguez off to Sicily all on his lonesome," Cuddy went on.

"Oh, I put the fear of God into him well enough," Walker said. "Besides, Odikweos will keep him in line… and I can rely on Odikweos to see that our great good friend and liege-lord Agamemnon doesn't hear about exactly how many musketeers we're training over there. Christ, but these people don't have much idea of spook-work. Odikweos, he's the exception."

"Yeah, well, you got Odi the viceroy's job," Cuddy said. "He owes you-it's a fucking gold mine."

"Gratitude is strong; the bottom line's even stronger." Walker chuckled and finished his own wine. "He's raising a regiment of musketeers himself-most of these wog VIPs, you'd think getting out of their chariots was like cutting off their own balls. Odikweos doesn't think that way."

"He's keeping the sulfur and asphalt coming, too," Cuddy said with satisfaction. "And the other stuff."

Sulfur for gunpowder, of course. Sicily was rich in brimstone ores. The asphalt wells near Ragusa-that-wasn't were extremely handy too; you could distill something roughly like kerosene out of it without much trouble, and the residue had a dozen uses, like waterproofing these baths so the adobe brick didn't turn to mudpie. They were even paving some crucial stretches of road with it. Plus the slaves, timber, and grain that kept other projects going.

"Yeah, that's going pretty well," Walker said. "Pretty soon we'll be ready to start whipping on the neighbors again."

Cuddy looked at him. "Why bother, boss? Shit, we're practically running this place-will be, in a couple of years. Why bust our ass taking over more territory?"

"Two reasons, Cuddy. First, because I say so." He met the other man's eyes until they dropped. "Second," he went on more genially, "we've got to hit while the hitting's easy. We're not exactly building tanks and helicopter gunships here. Anything we're doing, the locals can learn, and we give them time, they will start picking up tricks- my buddy Isketerol already has, of course. So we've got to conquer as much as we can while we're ahead. That way, we'll have numbers on our side too. Quantity has a quality all its own."