KOSROZD SHADED his eyes so that he would not be dazzled by sunlight. He had just emerged from the dark stables of the Circus Maximus into the full noon glare. It was hot, and would be hotter tomorrow when he was scheduled to race.

"Persian!" called another charioteer, a flamboyant young man from Burdigala in Aquitania. "Come drink with us!" He waved his arm toward a group of other charioteers.

Kosrozd returned the wave. "Sorry! Maybe after we race."

"That's tomorrow," the Burdigalan objected. "A cup of wine won't fuddle you." He laughed his encouragement.

"After the race, perhaps," Kosrozd called again. "I'm not sixteen like you, but an old man of twenty-five." Among charioteers he was, in fact, at a fairly advanced age. His body, aside from the white seams of scars in his shoulder, had not changed since the night when he had tasted his master's blood and had become like him. He had not believed at first that his body would always be that of a nineteen-year-old, but it had been nearly six years since he made the change, and he had learned that it was true.

"Leave him alone, Havius," one of the others said. "The Persian doesn't drink." He added something under his breath that Kosrozd did not quite hear. The other charioteers chuckled and one of them gave Kosrozd an inquisitive stare.

Kosrozd knew that he had become an oddity among the charioteers, but his annoyance had worn off, just as Saint-Germain had said it would. Two years before, he had got into a fistfight because he had refused to have a meal with Salamis, a famous charioteer who had won his freedom and a fortune in one afternoon. At the time, Kosrozd's honor was stung, and he had, he realized, acted very foolishly. "Have one for me," he called after Havius.

"Two!" came the prompt answer.

With a shrug Kosrozd turned away from them and found the Master of the Bestiarii facing him. "Good day, Necredes," he said with a minimum of cordiality.

"Kosrozd," Necredes answered with unsettling satisfaction. "I saw the woman here, as well." He folded his arms over his chest.

"It's her last appearance," Kosrozd remarked, feeling a touch of sadness. "She's going to be a trainer now. Our master has assigned four young charioteers to her already, and they're preparing to perform in the arena in two years or so." He was aware that Necredes knew this, but saying it gave him an excuse to study the Master of the Bestiarii closely. He was disquieted by what he saw. Necredes was smug.

"It certainly is her last appearance," Necredes agreed, "though she may be persuaded to one more presentation." He gave Kosrozd a curt nod and turned toward the corridor that ran under the stands. "We're getting new beasts today. Be careful of your horses. It wouldn't do to lose them."

"I appreciate your concern," Kosrozd said with heavy sarcasm. He shook his head and started across the stableyard to inspect his chariot and harness. The new rig that Saint-Germain had developed was working well, but many of the slaves did not know how to handle and clean them properly.

"Persian!" Necredes shouted suddenly.

Kosrozd stopped. "What?"

"I have not forgotten!" Even at this distance, his rage was easy to see.

"Neither have I, Necredes," Kosrozd replied, and continued toward the quadrigium.

"Tell your master!" Necredes screamed, though Kosrozd gave no response. "Tell him!"

For an instant Kosrozd wanted to turn on Necredes, though Saint-Germain had forbade such outbursts. He stifled his dislike and went on toward the long, low building where the chariots were stored.

Somewhat later, when the other charioteers had returned to the Circus Maximus bringing two skins of wine with them, and the new shipment of leopards had at last been unloaded into their holding cages, Kosrozd was sitting on the shady side of the stableyard watching three pairs of essedarii practice passes in their high-fronted chariots. His eyes narrowed critically as one of the pair completed a successful throw of the lasso on the target post.

Havius, his hand around the top of one of the wineskins, reeled toward the two-man chariots. "Catch me!" he cried out in challenge.

The other charioteers whooped their approval as the nearest of the essedarii shouted, "Right!" The driver pulled the two horses around and the roper began to spin his lasso. Havius let out a happy yell and sprinted across the stableyard. A second essedari chariot joined the chase.

A Greek charioteer shouted a wager on the impromptu contest and moments later there were bets being made on all sides.

"What's this?" Tishtry had come up beside Kosrozd. Her face was flushed and her rough tunica had a tear near the shoulder.

"Havius is playing tag with the essedarii," Kosrozd said rather obviously. "What happened?" He touched the flap of torn cloth, waiting for an explanation.

"It's Kalon. He mistimed a jump, and came close to getting his brains kicked out. He would have deserved it, too," she added with narrowed eyes. "He's learned to do one trick, and he thinks he knows everything it took me a lifetime to learn. If he keeps it up, he'll get killed." She sat down beside Kosrozd, her eyes bright with fresh indignation.

The third essedari chariot was after Havius now, who was running in an irregular zigzag pattern to avoid the spinning ropes that snaked toward him. The charioteers on the sidelines shouted derision or encouragement, depending on their bets.

"Seen enough?" Kosrozd asked when Havius made his second escape. "Aumtehoutep is probably waiting for us. I'll call the others." He got to his feet.

Tishtry pulled at the hem of his tunica. "No, wait. I want to watch this. It shouldn't take much longer." There was the beginning of a smile in her eyes as the three chariots with their ropers pursued Havius. "They're doing better, the essedarii. They were getting in each other's way, but no more. Look."

Resigning himself to seeing the contest through to the last, Kosrozd leaned back against the stable wall, doing his best to duplicate his master's sardonic smile. "It won't be much longer."

Havius ran toward the target post, caught it with his outstretched arm and pulled himself around as one of the lassos dropped, narrowly missing him and snagging on the post. "Not good enough!" the charioteer mocked, and darted away again.

There were more spectators now. Other arena fighters as well as some of the denizens of that dark world under the stands, attracted by the shouting, had gathered to watch. They screamed their rowdy enthusiasm as Havius sprinted between two of the essedarii chariots so that the high vehicles almost collided. Hoots of derision as well as cries of approval greeted this.

"He's doing fairly well," Tishtry said with a quick glance at Kosrozd.

He shrugged. "If the essedarii weren't playing, they'd have dragged him until the skin was off him on the first pass." Still, he thought, it was pleasant to watch the sport. He had lost his taste for betting, but the contest intrigued him.

The crowd was growing larger. A squad of gladiators had come from their practice area, and seeing the lassos, pushed their way through to the front of the crowd. No one refused these strong, ruthless fighters, whose only skill was killing.

In a moment of supreme defiance, Havius paused to drink from the wineskin he still carried, and very nearly was snagged by the roper in the nearest chariot. His bravado brought a wild reaction from the crowd around him, and he waved as he made a sudden leap away, and an essedari rumbled over the place he had been. An Egyptian bestiarius yelled something incomprehensible as the wheels of one of the chariots struck him a glancing blow.

Then Kosrozd noticed something beyond the crowd, and he pushed away from the wall, suddenly very tense. His knee-length black tunica brushed Tishtry's shoulder where she sat beside him, and she looked up. "What is it?"

Kosrozd shook his head and motioned her to silence, moving a few steps farther into the shadows. The essedarii raced past him, but he ignored them. He snapped his fingers. "Tishtry. Get up."

Puzzled, she turned toward him. "What is it?" The sharpness of his command startled her. "What-?"

"Get up," he hissed, and held out an imperious hand.

Frowning, she got to her feet. "But what-?"

She was cut off by another shout as one of the ropers miscast his lasso and caught the driver of one of the other chariots. Before the essedarii could disengage from each other, one of the chariots was over on its side and Havius, winded, jumped to the fallen chariot and raised his arms in victory, letting wine spill on his upturned face.

With his eyes fixed on something beyond the gathered crowd, Kosrozd began to move toward the stable door. He had grabbed Tishtry's wrist, and pulled her after him.

"What is it?" she demanded just as Havius tumbled from his place on the overturned chariot.

"Soldiers," was the terse answer. "There's a century of them out there. Armed."

"They heard the shouts," Tishtry said impatiently, and tried to free herself from Kosrozd's grasp.

"I said armed," he told her. "They're bringing weapons inside the gates of Rome. It's no accident they're here."

"But what...? Why...?" She felt his urgency in his fingers. "Kosrozd, what's happening?"

"I don't want to stay to find out," he snapped as they stepped into the nearest stable door. Near them a horse whickered nervously, pawing at the sawdust-strewn earthen floor. "Where's your team?" he demanded. "Quickly!"

There was still no fear in Tishtry's eyes, but she was beginning to realize that Kosrozd was serious. "The next block of stalls."

"Good." Kosrozd nodded, releasing her wrist. "What about your chariot? Mine's in the quadrigium. I can't get to it."

"Why? What are we going to do?" Though the shouts from outside were undiminished, she had begun to whisper.

"We're going to get out of here, I hope. If those soldiers were sent here, for us..." He broke off, listening. There had been a crash and an answering roar from the crowd.

"That's crazy," she said, trying to reason with herself as much as with Kosrozd. "We're arena slaves. We're foreigners. Almost everyone out there is a foreigner. Why would anyone think there was any risk from us?" Her wide, high-cheeked face was earnest and she argued wth intensity, punctuating each statement with a gesture.

"Spartacus made an army of arena slaves," Kosrozd reminded her.

"That was...years ago," she said, not very sure of how long ago that rebellion had been.

"About a hundred, I think," Kosrozd agreed. "They still remember, these Romans. They should remember." He looked down the row of stalls. Ordinarily there would be grooms to guard the horses, but as Kosrozd had hoped, they were out watching the contest in the stableyard. "No one around. Let's go. We'll get your horses. If there's time, we can try to go down to the south exercise ring. It's empty this time of day. We can go out through the side gate." He was planning aloud, thinking that his idea might work, if they had enough time.

"Do you think it will be unguarded?" she asked, trying to be practical. "It might be worse, if we try to leave."

The shouts outside turned to dismayed screams.

Kosrozd's expression changed. He grabbed Tishtry's arm and ran down the long corridor between the stalls. The noise from the stableyard grew louder, more intense.

"Hurry!" Kosrozd panted as they neared the stalls where her horses were housed.

As the sounds increased, the horses became restless, moving uneasily, whickering and snorting, one or two kicking nervously at the stall gates. Bred for speed in the arena, most of the Roman racehorses had skittish temperaments. Unpredictable at all times, when frightened they were apt to attack or bolt without warning. Kosrozd had driven enough of them to know that he would have to rely on Tishtry's team if he wanted to ride through the developing chaos on a horse that would not panic.

There were a few figures in the far door now, and the cries made strange, muffled echoes through the stable.

Seeing the figures silhouetted in the door, Tishtry brightened. "We could let the horses out." A dun stallion in a nearby stall was lunging repeatedly at the bars of his gate. "If they were turned loose, they would-"

"Go after us first," Kosrozd said as he struggled with the latch on the first of her horses' stall gate. "If the horses get out, it will bring the soldiers even faster."

She sighed. "What do they want? Why are they here? You don't think that-"

A long, agony-filled scream sliced above the other garbled sounds. Kosrozd stopped his work a moment, feeling himself go cold.

"The essedarii caught Havius," Tishtry suggested, not believing it for a moment.

"You don't think that," Kosrozd said through clenched teeth as he pulled on the latch and broke it open. "How is he in tight situations?" he asked, nodding toward the liver-chestnut waiting expectantly in the stall.

"Fine," she said, pride in her tone. "He's been doing tricks in the arena for five years, and I haven't had any trouble with him at all. I can wrap my legs around him and hang under his belly while he's at full gallop. He won't bolt." She reached out and stroked the dark, velvety nose.

"I hope not," Kosrozd said fervently. "What about the others?"

"The black, on the other side. He's very steady." Her face softened. The black was the first of the offspring of the stallion Saint-Germain had given her six years before. He had the strength and steadiness of his sire, but a lighter, faster frame. "He will carry you as long as you need."

"Get mounted, then. Can I control the black by voice, or will I need reins?"

There were other figures running down the long central corridor of the stable, and more crowded the doorway. The clamor from outside had increased so that it was almost impossible to be heard when shouting. Kosrozd did not hear Tishtry's answer as he rushed to the stall she had indicated.

Tishtry pulled herself onto her horse's back, grabbing the mane in one hand and gripping with her legs. She shouted a terse command in her native language, and the horse sprang forward, out of the stall, loping toward the closed door at the far end away from the large mob that was forcing its way into the stables. She could hear wood splinter as horses fought their way out of their stalls, and their frenzied neighing added to the terrible sounds that flowed around her. She could feel her horse grow frightened and she spoke to him to calm him, not realizing that over the noise he could not possibly hear.

Kosrozd had just vaulted onto the black horse and was about to follow Tishtry when there was a groan of rending wood, and in a moment the door at the far end of the stables, the place he had thought offered safety, splintered inward, the huge braces bending as the soldiers forced their way in. As Kosrozd watched in horror, Tishtry rode into them, unable to pull up her fear-crazed horse. Long javelins struck out and the horse went down, hooves flying, as Tishtry fell under her wounded mount.

Unthinking, Kosrozd drove his heels into the black's flanks, determined to get to Tishtry before she could be hurt. The horse sidled under him, snorting in distress, his ears lying back. He moved forward in a mincing trot, perilously near bucking. Other horses were milling around in the wide corridor now, rearing and striking out with their hooves when the crowd from the stableyard got too near.

Tishtry's horse was still flailing his hooves weakly, but this was clearly a dying reaction. The horse was bleeding from many wounds, and somewhere under him, Tishtry was pinned. The soldiers were forcing themselves around the horse so that they could get into formation.

The black carried Kosrozd within range of the soldiers' javelins, then balked, whinnying loudly and tossing his head. "Go on," Kosrozd ordered as he once again slapped his heels into the horse's sides.

"You!" called out the nearest soldier. "Stop and dismount!"

"Get away from my companion!" Kosrozd shouted back.

An officer with a fan-crested centurion's helmet broke through to the front of the line and raised his baton to Kosrozd. "Get off that horse and give yourself up to my second in command." He nodded toward this individual. "And get out of the way."

Kosrozd scrambled off the black and moved quickly out of the way as the horse rose on his hind legs, wheeling away from the troops, back toward the confusion of horses and men at the other end of the stable. Ignoring the centurion's orders, he pushed between the soldiers to where Tishtry's horse lay still. He could see her head and shoulder protruding from under the horse's neck, immobile, eyes closed. He took the horse's head in his hands and pulled.

"Leave off," one of the soldiers said rather kindly. "We'll come back for her later. There's no rush for her."

Brusquely Kosrozd shook off the soldier's restraining hand and resumed his work, dragging at the inert body of the fallen horse with all his strength.

The soldier who had tried to restrain him stared as Kosrozd at last moved the horse's body just far enough to free Tishtry from his weight. "By both Twins!" he said, awed.

Hearing this, Kosrozd knew he had erred. Saint-Germain had often warned him about showing too much of his strength, or any of those other characteristics that marked those of his blood. "He was not that hard to move," Kosrozd improvised. "Aside from the neck, he was badly balanced." He knew this was not true, but hoped that the soldier had not been paying enough attention to realize this. Then he dropped to his knee beside Tishtry, putting one hand to her forehead. "Tishtry?"

There was no response. She lay still, limp, and though one leg was still trapped under the body of her horse, he was certain it was broken.

"You've got to move," the centurion's second in command told Kosrozd, taking him firmly by the shoulder.

It took a considerable effort of will for Kosrozd not to turn on him with all the weight of his wrath, but he knew that would be greater folly than everything he had done until now. "This woman is alive," he said in a soft, angry voice. "She must be helped. My master would not want me to abandon another of his slaves." He folded his arms in the manner he had learned as a boy, when his uncles had taught him to be a leader of soldiers.

He had not lost his skill. The second in command glanced down at Tishtry, then looked at Kosrozd once again. "If you will stay here with one soldier to guard the both of you, then I will try to find the physician. If you attempt to escape, the soldier will kill her first, and then you." He turned on his heel and strode off into the sunlight.

In the stable, the troops advanced on the arena slaves and horses, pressing them back toward the far end of the corridor. The noise was continuous, demented, more horrible than the sound of blood-maddened leopards. Kosrozd turned his back on the battle and knelt beside Tishtry to guard her, thinking that his one hope was Aumtehoutep-if the Egyptian had seen the soldiers, he would carry the news to their master immediately.

Then he was aware that Tishtry's hand had closed on his, and he breathed his relief while he watched the first eager flies settle on her horse's drying blood.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM THE SLAVE JADDEUS TO HIS BROTHER NAHUM.

In the name of Jesus, who was the Christ, greetings, my brother:

It may be some time before this reaches you, for it will be difficult to smuggle it out of our barracks at night, which is the only time it will be safe to make the attempt. Do not be distressed if there is a delay, as this is the way it must be, and we should not question the Great Will in this.

The great lake is drained now, and the worst of the insects have disappeared since it became dry, though many of the slaves have fever and before the summer is gone, there will be need to replace those who have died. There are a great number of Jews here, of all persuasions and disciplines, though the number of Christians is rather few. That must be because so few of us joined the revolt in Jerusalem. Those of us who did, perhaps we deserve this condemnation for seeking worldly justice instead of heavenly salvation. This is a message I hope to preach to those who are prisoners with me. They have so little hope and I have so much that it would be wrong of me to deny them the comforts of our faith and its promise.

The first of the foundation stones has been laid, and though there is very little of the structure yet above ground, yet already there are beggars and old whores and those who practice forbidden arts living in the crannies of this place. Most of them are proud to be living in what they already call the Flavian Circus, though it will be years before Games can be held here. I have wished I could go among these people and tell them how grave their errors are and tell them the joys that await them when they embrace the faith of Our Lord. Sadly, we slaves are not supposed to talk to these poor wretches, and for that reason, it will be dangerous to make the attempt. In a month or so, when the guards are less careful in their watching, I will make an attempt to reach a few of them. They may even be willing to aid in our correspondence. That is for the future, and as God wills it.

I have thought often of you and of our Brothers and Sisters in the name of the Risen Christ. When last I came to worship with all of you, there was such pleasure between us. You must tell Sister Philomena that her food would have satisfied Our Lord beyond any other on this earth, and the love that we gave each other afterward is still fresh in my mind. It is wrong, of course, to prefer one of our number to any other, for it is contrary to the teaching of Our Lord, but Sister Philomena delights me as none of the others do. Sister Jeremia chided me for it, and said that Our Lord would not approve of this in me. She was right. If we are to obtain His Grace, there must be no limitations in our love for each other, and all who desire it must have it freely. Think of the great love shared by Our Lord and His apostles, each of whom He embraced with the same holy passion that was known by the Greek philosophers long ago. Surely if ever I escape this pestilential hole, I will ask pardon of Sister Jeremia and lie by her side all one night. Brother Adrianus is here, but with another working crew and we do not often see each other or get to speak, but that may change with time.

I was appalled to meet one of those benighted followers of Paul and Timothy who call themselves Christians but who practice the most stringent and hateful austerity in complete contradiction of the rules of Our Lord. This man, Cephas, has told me that what we do is sinful, and despicable. He insists that the love Our Lord spoke of was the kind removed from the love of the body, which is not true. I tried to correct him in his error, and showed him how the words used by Our Lord to indicate love were those words that relate to the love in the body that exalts the soul, and that to deny this was to deny all the teachings of Our Lord and pervert their intent so that the very thing He most despised would be done in His Name. This poor Paulist sincerely believes that he must fast and deny the body and turn away from life so that all his mind is bent on the life that is to come. He calls women a snare. A snare! And insists that Jesus never embraced his apostles with love. He's most adamant in his error, and declares that only Paul has correctly interpreted the words of Our Lord. I hope that I may reason with him and persuade him that all he has come to believe is unfortunate error. Pray for me in this endeavor.

How I long to be with you once again and to join with you in the joys of worship. For now, this is not possible, but I must not despair, for that is the denial of the Holy Spirit, and it cannot enter where such inner darkness holds sway. In my prayers I remember you all, and give thanks that you are safe. Time will deliver me, either from the chains I wear or from the body. Be it soon or late, we will meet again. Say my name at your next Wedding Supper, and remember me to all those who have been my brides in the Name of Our Lord.

In the Name and the Sign,

Jaddeus

the second day of July

in the 823rd Year of the City,

and the 71st Year of Our Lord