SAINT-GERMAIN finished reading the document the young Praetorian tribune had given him. "Thank you," he said quietly as he refolded the fine Egyptian paper. "Thank you. Tell your Prefect Titus for me that I am...eternally grateful." Perhaps, he thought, all those days of pestering half the officials of Rome had been worthwhile. It was not the outcome he had hoped for, but was better than he had feared. "I will claim the bodies as soon as they go out through the Gates of Death."

The young tribune gave Saint-Germain a long, measuring look. "They are slaves. Why is it so important that you have their bodies?"

Saint-Germain hesitated, then said, "Among my people it is believed that the slaves that predecease you must be buried with you or they will rob and plunder your treasures and your tomb in the afterlife." It was true that he had known those who subscribed to that idea when he had been young.

"Oh," said the tribune, relieved. "It's a matter of religion." He knew that all sorts of outlandish customs were part of religious practices, particularly among foreigners. "The prefect was curious," he explained hastily.

"Rome has her customs, we have ours," Saint-Germain said calmly, glad for Rome's tolerant attitudes toward foreign religions.

"Of course," the tribune agreed without understanding.

For courtesy's sake, Saint-Germain asked, "Would you like wine or food to refresh yourself? I will be honored to send for them." He gestured to his blue-and-silver reception room. "You may be served here or in the garden, which is just coming into flower."

The tribune waved his hand politely. "No, no, Franciscus. I can't spare the time, but I appreciate the offer. The prefect said that you're a most obliging man. It's quite true." He gave a stiff nod and turned toward the door. "Impressive villa you've got," he added as an afterthought.

"I hope so," Saint-Germain said dryly as he followed the tribune to the colonnaded front of Villa Ragoczy, where the tribune's horse was being held by one of Saint-Germain's grooms. He stood while the young Praetorian vaulted into his saddle, then nodded and turned back to his villa, the official release from Titus still held firmly in his hands. Only when he had heard the Praetorian's horse clatter away from the villa did he hasten to the private north wing of his villa, shouting, "Rogerian! Rogerian!"

The man who answered the summons had almost recovered from the terrible wounds that had been inflicted upon him. He moved as if his bones were brittle and his pleasant middle-aged face was set into somber lines. "Yes, my master?" he asked as he approached. His accent was that of his native Gades.

Saint-Germain closed the outer door with a bang and strode rapidly down the inner hall. "We must work quickly. There isn't much time."

"Time for what?" Rogerian asked, keeping up with Saint-Germain as best he could.

"Titus has finally sent an official release. When the slaves are executed, I will be allowed to claim the bodies of Aumtehoutep, Kosrozd and Tishtry. Then we must move swiftly, to get them away from Rome as quickly as possible." He burst into his library, going at once to his desk. "I will need the reports on my ships. You know where they are. I know I have one docked at Pisae that will be leaving soon for Corsica and Utica. She's getting some minor repairs just now. I will need to notify the captain at once to delay his departure." He sat as he spoke and drew a fine papyrus sheet toward him. "One of the charioteers must leave for the north tonight. I'll give him authorization and money to change horses as often as necessary. I want this message delivered within six days."

Rogerian nodded, and while Saint-Germain began to write his instructions to his captain, went into the side room where Saint-Germain kept his commercial records. He could not read the ancient and foreign script in which they were written, so he took the whole stack of fan-folded scrolls and carried them back to the library.

A second sheet lay beside the first now, and Saint-Germain was writing identical messages on two sheets at once. Rogerian had never seen him do this, and he stopped to watch, amazed.

Saint-Germain signed both messages, then looked up. "Good. You're back. One of these is for Tishtry, the other is for the person in Utica where I'm sending her. He's an old sorcerer and will be happy to add her to his household. He knows about her...requirements and will be able to deal with them." He started to say something more, but changed his mind and pulled another sheet of papyrus forward and began writing, this time in Greek. "Once Tishtry is out of danger," he went on rather remotely, "she need only be sensibly cautious and there will be little to fear. She is not foolish, and Sbratius will be there to guide her."

"Is he like you, this Sbratius?" Rogerian asked, not entirely comfortably.

"Certainly not." Saint-Germain laughed softly. "He is like you."

Rogerian looked at his master in consternation. "Like me? How many of us are there?"

Saint-Germain did not answer at once; his attention was on the letter he wrote. Finally he looked up once more. "I personally know of six of you, that is, six who were truly restored. There were many other failures. I have heard that there are others, but I don't know where they are or who they are." He folded the papyrus and sealed it with wax impressed with his signet, the eclipse. "This is for Kosrozd."

But Rogerian was not willing to abandon the matter of Sbratius so casually. "Why was he brought back to life?" He was afraid to ask why he had been.

"Because he had certain special knowledge, and because the priests of Imhotep had said they would try. We succeeded that time." Suddenly he turned the full force of his penetrating dark eyes on Rogerian. "Why don't you ask about yourself? That's what you wish to know, isn't it?"

Numbly Rogerian nodded. "Yes. I want to know," he blurted out as he felt his courage failing.

"If you had seen yourself as I first saw you, you would have done the same thing." He stopped. "No, that isn't the whole of it. I had to do something of worth for somebody, and you...You were being systematically excoriated by those vermin. Given enough time, they would have had the skin off you." The depth of his feeling surprised him. "I couldn't leave you there. There may be no reason more than that-I couldn't leave you there."

Rogerian was silent. "When I was still a bondsman in Baetica, I remember how I felt when my son died," he said quietly after some little time. "He had a little wound, a very little, little wound, but it was deadly all the same. He bent like a bow before it was over, and all of us were helpless." He turned to stare out the window. "Shall I have Raides harness a team and select a charioteer to drive north?"

"Yes," Saint-Germain said crisply. "I'll write out orders for the charioteer, whoever he is, so that none of the legion garrisons along the way can detain him. I will want him to be ready to leave within the hour. Have him carry a change of clothes."

"I'll see to it, and to the purse. It should not take long. Raides knows which of the charioteers are best-suited to work like this." He inclined his head to his master as he left the library.

Saint-Germain smiled sadly. Kosrozd would be the best for the long, grueling drive north, but that, of course, was not possible. He was reasonably certain that Raides would select one of the charioteers Kosrozd had trained. He took his shipping records and began to read them, looking for other vessels to carry his three slaves away from Rome and Roman garrisons.

By the time Rogerian returned, Saint-Germain had found the proper ships for Aumtehoutep and Kosrozd. "Here's the Storm Spray, due at Sipontum bound for Carthago Novo. The captain is planning to come to Rome to attend his brother's wedding, and it will be a simple matter to have him return to Sipontum with Aumtehoutep. There is a dealer in art and antiquities in Carthago Novo who will be delighted to have Aumtehoutep as his bondsman." He saw the sharp, closed look in Rogerian's face. "Not all bond-holders abuse their bondsmen, Rogerian. I would not send Aumtehoutep to this man if I thought he would misuse him in any way."

"But you don't know that," Rogerian said in deadly quiet.

"I know that if there is one word of complaint from Aumtehoutep, the man to whom I'm sending Aumtehoutep will find his jewel collection foreclosed. I don't take foolish chances, Rogerian, not even with honorable men. Does that meet with your approval?" He regarded Rogerian sardonically.

"It isn't my place to approve or disapprove," he said, standing as if his back had petrified.

"Indeed." Saint-Germain pointed to another stack of folded and sealed papyrus sheets. "Those are for Kosrozd. His route is more difficult, but he must get away from the limits of the empire, at least for a time. Not only for his fame here in the arena, but because there have been attempts from some of his former connections in Persia who wish to get their hands on him for their own political purposes." He gave a short sound that might have been a laugh. "I think they would get much more than they anticipate if they seized him now, but we can't safely put that to the test."

"Where will he go?" Rogerian asked, unaware that it was remarkable that he was so much in Saint-Germain's confidence.

"At Rhegium, he will go on the Trident to Pola in Histria, then overland into Pannonia, along the Tisia and into the mountains to Alba Lulia. It's a miserable little outpost, but he will be able to stay there for a time, undisturbed."

"How can you be certain?" Rogerian demanded.

"I was born in those mountains, Rogerian, and though it was a very long time ago, I know that the people there remember those of my blood. We are legends to them, but they respect their legends." His eyes had a distant look. With an effort he brought his attention back to Rogerian. "After a time, if he decides that he misses cities, there are those in Sinope in Bithynia who will welcome him on my behalf." He rose suddenly. "At least I have found a way to save them. For a time I feared..." He could not finish the words.

"Is it so necessary that you save them?" Rogerian asked gently, watching his master.

It was almost as if Saint-Germain had not heard him, for he gave no indication of it, just stood looking down at the three stacks of letters on his desk. "For those of my blood, there is a tie. I cannot entirely forget them. We are bound by the blood."

"And Aumtehoutep?" He wanted to know for himself.

"Aumtehoutep is bound by an oath of the flesh. It is a different matter." He looked at Rogerian, and relented. "Very well. You are not inexorably tied to me. If that were the case, I would have Sbratius here, and would not be able to send Aumtehoutep away. There is a bond, but it is not so strong that it robs you of your will or choice. Should you stay with me, Rogerian, it will be because that is what you wish to do, not because I have compelled you. Whether you stay or go, I will keep my word. Your bond-holder will be punished for his abuse of you."

Rogerian stood quite still. "For a time, then, I will stay."

"Thank you." Saint-Germain gathered up the letters. "Come with me. I want to see the charioteer Raides has selected and be sure he gets away in good time." He moved with that fluid grace that was deceptively swift. Rogerian hurried after him.

Raides was standing at the head of the chariot calming the four restive horses. "They're fresh," he assured Saint-Germain as his master came into the stableyard.

"I can see that. Who is driving?" He ran an expert eye over the team. "The bay is sweating."

"It's not a problem. He'd been out in the sun most of the afternoon. He's rested and eager." Raides patted the second horse in the rig. "This fellow is the one I was worried about, but I checked his hooves myself, and he'll be fine."

"I'm counting on it," Saint-Germain said sternly.

As he spoke, a young Cymric charioteer came striding across the stableyard. He was tall and loose-limbed and there was a confidence in him that reminded Saint-Germain of Kosrozd. "My master," he called his greeting as he approached. "I'll be in Pisae five days from now or you may throw me to the sharks at Tiberius' villa."

"If you are in Pisae in five days, you may have your freedom and five brood mares," Saint-Germain said promptly as he watched the Cymric charioteer lash the bundle he carried into place in the chariot.

"Five brood mares and my freedom?" He turned to stare at Saint-Germain. "For that I'd drive to Britannia, over the ocean." He stepped into the chariot and nodded toward Raides. "I'll take their heads now." He had already begun to gather the reins into his hands. "This new harness of yours, master," he said as he steadied the team, "it's better than the old one. I didn't like it at first, but Kosrozd taught me its tricks. It helps to have so much control of each horse. If you know what you're doing." His grin plainly indicated that he did.

Saint-Germain put a restraining hand on the rail of the chariot. "You are not to be reckless. What is important is that the message is delivered, in time, intact, and that you do not bring unnecessary attention to yourself. In your authorization from me it says that you are bearing a message from me to my captain and that there is a side wager on your speed. That is all you should need to know. If you are detained on the road, it could go very badly for us all." There was no levity and no mockery in what he said, and some of the jauntiness of the Cymric charioteer was lost.

"I will remember, my master," he said, his young face quite serious.

"Yes. I think you will." Saint-Germain stood back from the chariot and gave a quick gesture of permission. Raides stood back, the charioteer let the reins run as the horses sprang forward out of the stableyard and toward the road a fair distance down the gentle slope.

"He'll do," Raides assured Saint-Germain. "He's young and he's eager, but he has sense. He'll let the team shake the fidgets out of their legs and then hold them to a long trot. That's the best plan, I told him. Horses like that can trot a long way."

"If their hooves hold out," Saint-Germain reminded him, a crease showing between his fine brows. "That's what concerns me." He shook his head and said in another, more rueful voice, "That's my worry talking, Raides. It's been such a long battle that I can't believe that we've won through."

Raides shrugged. "Well, when your slaves are taken, it's not every master who would care to fight for them as you have. Oh, it's talked about in the quarters, never doubt it." He brushed the sleeve of his tunica and dust puffed around his hand. "We know what's been happening."

"Slaves always know," Saint-Germain said with amusement.

"We know more than most," Raides informed his master with a great show of dignity. "That's what I wanted to tell you. We know, and we're grateful. If more masters would do half of what you've done for those three, there'd be few runaways turning bandit in the hills." He folded his arms and thrust out his jaw. "That's all."

Saint-Germain was silent as he thought that his slaves did not fully understand what he had done, and why. Kosrozd, Tishtry and Aumtehoutep were not common slaves to him. If the ones in prison were Raides or the Cymric charioteer who had rushed away to the north, or three of the bestiarii, would he have tried so much? he asked himself. He doubted it. Perhaps if he had known the slaves, it would have been different, and he would have fought for them though there was no deeper tie between them. "Perhaps," he doubted, aloud.

Raides stared at him. "Perhaps?" he repeated.

"Nothing, Raides. More worry." He looked about and saw Rogerian standing nearby. "Come. I have a message packet to prepare. It will go by messenger in the morning." He paced back toward his private wing, Rogerian beside him. His face was closed in thought, his eyes looked inward. As he neared his side entrance and the black guard that waited there, he said to Rogerian in a low voice, "I tell myself that it is a matter of time now, that we are prepared." He stopped walking and looked toward the fountain in the central garden.

"My master?" Rogerian asked. His feelings to his new, foreign master were still confused. Though he felt increasing gratitude for the return of his life, he was distressed at some of the changes he had perceived in himself. It was true that he was not like Saint-Germain, but he was no longer like other men, either. He responded with circumspection to Saint-Germain's kindness while his respect grew hourly. At the back of his mind was the feeling that this erudite man was more dangerous than the most brutal overseer he had ever known. Standing beside him in the garden of Villa Ragoczy in the cool violet shadows of late afternoon, he found it difficult to accept all the things Saint-Germain had told him about himself. That was, he found it difficult until Saint-Germain turned his dark, compelling eyes on him. Then all the rational doubts vanished before their penetrating brightness.

Saint-Germain gave an impatient jerk to his head. "I can't convince myself that it's settled." He had had that strange sensation many times before, over the centuries, and always it had been a warning. As he went into the north wing of his villa, the pervading apprehension closed around him, darker and more inexorable than the lengthening shadows in the garden.

TEXT OF A NOTE FROM THE SLAVE MONOSTADES TO HIS MASTER, CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS.

Master:

They have met again, at her father's house. He arrived quite late in the night and entered by climbing over the kitchen sheds, onto the roof and then, apparently, going into the atrium. None of the slaves raised a cry against him, so it may be true that he has bribed them. He did not go until the hour before dawn, when he left by the slaves' door in the garden. Everything that the Armenian said would appear to be true. There was no way I could approach her bedroom, and so I did not, in fact, see them in the act itself, but the hour, the locations, the previous circumstances make it obvious that this visit was not one of courtesy.

I have spoken to one of the kitchen slaves (there are only three) and she said that her mistress has been completely alone, that no one has visited her and that no slaves have come with messages to her. However she and Franciscus arrange to meet, I cannot discover who in the household assists her. You have said yourself that your wife is not regarded sympathetically by your staff. It might be wise to examine a few of them and find out if this has changed. You would have little control of her in this house if she has found allies among her slaves.

Let me suggest that you do not confront her yet. You have said that you wish incontrovertible proof that she is adulterous, and that is proof I have yet to obtain. I have asked the slave who does the washing if there has been any evidence of lust on the sheets, but the slave claims that she has seen nothing, and she is very much the sort who would find such spillings if there were any. Perhaps Franciscus is cleverer than we know, and takes your wife on the floor, or puts his clothing over the bed so that we will have nothing to offer in court. Since it is obvious that he does not come to her often, it may take a little time to observe them properly, but with your other plan going forth, if you arrange to have another attack of poisoning after a meal with your wife, and if I have been able to observe her lying with this foreigner, your way will be clear. There will be no defense she can make against your accusations and you will have no blame coming to you. It will be a simple matter to have your divorce, with scandal attaching only to your wife. If there are those who have lain with her before who would be willing to testify in court that they have taken their pleasure of her, it will be so much the better, as she cannot then rely on countertestimony from this Franciscus.

I have decided that of the rewards you've offered me, I would like best to have a tavern and inn at Ostia. I don't know enough about crops and livestock to do well on an estate, even a small one, but a tavern would please me very well. I look forward to my freedom, master. You will always be the most welcome guest at Ostia, and I will be thankful for the rest of my life.

You may be certain, with this reward awaiting me, that I will be diligent in my work, and nothing will stop me from getting the necessary evidence and testimony to condemn your wife.

From my own hand, written and sealed on the morning of the ninth day of April, the 824th Year of the City, with all duty and fidelity,

Monostades