A JANUARY STORM blustered over the hills of Rome. Rain fell in what seemed like handfuls, drenching everything, making the world appear entirely one color, a uniform sandy gray. The stone-flagged streets were awash in the low places between the hills, and in those narrow alleys where there was no paving, carts and men alike sank deep in mud. Over the rattle of the rain there could be heard the occasional shouts and oaths of those who had been trapped by the mud or cut off by water standing too deep in the road. Few people ventured abroad, though the city still reeled under the latest change of government, and a few were grateful to the weather for the relief it brought, and the excuse to stay indoors.

In the house of Cornelius Justus Silius there was water on the floor of the atrium and several household slaves worked to mop it up as it fell. In a few places little wraiths of steam rose, formed by the hot air that circulated just below the marble flooring, heating the house from the great furnace that warmed the small baths as well as serving the ducts that gave access to the spaces between marble floor and brick foundation. Though the rooms were tolerably warm, they were drafty, and the shutters rattled on the windows. For that reason, if no other, Justus was supervising the hanging of heavy Eastern-style draperies in the smaller of the two dining rooms on the east side of the house. This little chamber was in the lee of the wind as well as being painted with particularly attractive murals, and furnished in magnificent style. It was an impressive room, which is precisely what Justus needed this rainy afternoon.

"There, you incompetent idiot!" Justus shouted as he indicated for the third time where the Asian slave should hammer the bracket.

"But, master, there isn't enough-" the slave started to object reasonably.

"I will accept no arguments from you," Justus informed him quietly. "The bracket must go there, or the hangings won't cover both windows and there'll be cold drafts down both our backs."

"Master, forgive me, but we must move the bracket either more to the left or the right or there won't be enough wood under the plaster to hold it. That's what I was trying to explain...." He held out his hand to demonstrate.

"Arguments with me are settled with rod-stripes," Justus warned the Asian slave. "I bought you because I was told you were a carpenter. Now it turns out you don't know how to drive a nail. The last slave who defied me lived long enough to regret it, but no longer."

The Asian turned pale. "I will drive the nail as you wish," he muttered. "But it will not hold."

"Hope for your own sake that it does," Justus said firmly. "This room must be perfect. I will not hesitate to mete out punishment to those responsible, should anything go wrong."

With a drooping of his head, the Asian carpenter turned once again to the impossible site on the wall. Very carefully he moved the nail up a handbreadth and set to work putting in the bracket.

Justus watched from below, holding the leather-braided rod behind his back and flicking it occasionally.

Monostades came into the dining room and stood at a respectful distance behind his master. "The dinner..." he said quietly, to attract Justus' attention.

"The dinner?" Justus turned around and stared at the slave. "Is there some difficulty?" he demanded, almost as if he wanted an affirmative answer.

"No," Monostades promised him. "No difficulty at all. There was only the question of the wine, and you told me I should come to you for instructions...." Three years with this master had taught Monostades a great deal, and he had assumed a manner that was at once subservient and arrogant.

"Of course," Justus said, and moved across the room toward his Greek slave. "We will want to warm it, I think, on a day like this. There's no reason to serve cold wine to so distinguished a visitor."

Monostades achieved a sour smile. "The cook has made a few recommendations you may want to consider."

Ordinarily Justus might have let this pass, but not now. He wanted the entire guiding of the meal, since it would mean so much to him in future. "The cook oversteps himself," he snapped as he strode from the room, glancing once at the water on the floor of the atrium.

"Your wife is in her chambers," Monostades said, anticipating Justus' inquiry. "Sibinus is keeping watch on her."

"Good," Justus said tersely as he entered the corridor that led to the kitchen. "I don't want any untoward interruptions tonight."

"She has much to do. You need not be concerned." He shivered and thought it was because the hall was chilly.

"You've arranged for the staffing of her father's house as I ordered it?" Plainly he would accept no answer but his desired affirmative.

"As you've instructed," Monostades agreed. "She may be sent there in a few more days, and Sibinus has already prepared the various guardian stations. There is no chance that anyone will visit her at any time without your permission and full knowledge. Three of the slaves will be set to watch her day and night, and one of them will always be no more than a room away. One will sleep during the day so that he can keep watch at night, and that way it will do no good for her to hope for a visitor to come late in the night so that you will know nothing about it." He was rather breathless as he followed his master into the cavernous kitchen.

Triges, the cook, raised his eyes from the slowly turning spit. "My master," he said, not diverting his attention from the young wild boar that was being basted with oil and honey.

"I understand you wish to advise me on the matter of wines," Justus said, drawing himself up.

The cook had heard that tone before-every one of his household slaves had. "I ventured a suggestion," he said cautiously. "I thought you might not want to be concerned with such a minor matter-"

"Wine," Justus interrupted him sweetly, "is not a minor matter, particularly when my guest is the son of the new Emperor."

The cook's shrug suggested that there had been four emperors in the past year, and one more could have little effect on them. He knew his master's temper, however, and so tried to mitigate his offense. "It is important to serve the best food-it is as important to my reputation as to yours, master, and I would not allow a wine that would disgrace you or the meal to be served. Two of the sauces I have prepared for the first time have a special savor and would be at their best with certain wines. I did not mean to overstep my authority."

Ordinarily this would have brought grudging approval from Justus, but he had gambled too much on this day to be forgiving. "You will learn, slave, that there is no will here but mine, and that all you do is for my use. The new sauces are a good idea, though Domitianus is not noted for his love of food. The wine must be the best, and I will select it."

Triges sighed. "Very well, master, but may I suggest that when the thrushes stuffed with pomegranates are served that there be a sweetish, light wine served with them? I have used mace and cinnamon and pepper cooked in garlic oil to baste them, and the sauce will be less flavorful if you do not serve a sweet, straw-colored wine. The spices were brought all the way from Hind and cost more than the rest of the food combined. It would be a shame to overwhelm them with too robust a wine." When all else failed, Triges had learned to appeal to his master's greed and love of luxury.

"From Hind? When did you buy them?" Justus was at once fascinated and affronted that such a purchase had been made without his approval.

"Six days ago," Triges lied with a quelling glance at his underlings, "there came a merchant from a ship anchored at Ostia. He had rare spices from Hind and the lands of the Silk Road. They were more valuable than jewels, he said, and gave me a sniff of the best. Knowing that you would have a distinguished guest, I decided that this would be the best time to buy new spices so you might serve a meal that would be remarkable in every way. It is impossible that the Emperor's son should have such a dinner from any other host." He waited, half-expecting the leather-braided rod that Justus carried to be slammed down on his shoulders.

"How much did it cost?" Justus asked, intrigued in spite of himself. The cook was right-it would be a triumph to serve Domitianus a dish he had never had.

"A great deal, master," Triges admitted. The amount had been more than Justus had paid to buy his cook six years before. "Sixteen gold denarii."

"Sixteen gold denarii?" Justus repeated. "The spices are worth more than a racehorse?"

Triges thought of a number of retorts, but kept them unsaid. "They are rarer than racehorses, certainly," he ventured.

"All right, slave," Justus said grandly. "If this meal is all that you have promised, then I will give you your freedom and sixteen gold denarii. If it is not, you will get one kiss of the flagellum for each of those gold denarii. If that does not spoil your uses, I will have you on the auction block afterward, or you will be set to hard labor on one of my estates." From his satisfied smile, it was plain that Justus had no intention of freeing his cook.

"As you wish," Triges muttered. He knew as well as every other slave in the kitchen that he had been given his death warrant, whether it came quickly from the lash, or slowly from torturous labor. It was so tempting to poison the meal. He wished now that he had taken the little packet the foreigner had offered him-who had not come ten days ago and was not off a ship at Ostia, but was the slave of one of his master's distant relatives. Triges thought he had been a fool to refuse the offer.

"Are you satisfied, slave?" Justus asked.

"I am satisfied to obey your will, master." Perhaps, he thought, he could open his veins when the last of the meal had been served. There were knives enough and it could be very quick.

Monostades made a deferential sound in his throat. "It is very nearly the hour when the Emperor's son is to arrive. You have yet to be shaved and perfumed, master."

This reminder got Justus' attention. "Yes. It grows late. While I am being shaved, I will order the wines, and you will send one of the household slaves to the kitchen with my instructions. And you"-he leveled a finger at Triges-"will do as I tell you and serve my choices...unwatered."

"As you command me, master," Triges answered, his face and voice both hard.

"See that you remember that," Justus said as he turned on his heel and walked away from the kitchen, oblivious of the panic he left behind him.

His body slave had wiped away the last of the lemon-scented water from Justus' face and was applying a perfume of rose, sandalwood and hyacinth when word was brought that the Emperor's son had arrived.

Justus turned in his chair. "Very good. I will be with him in a moment. See that his train is made comfortable in the slaves' wing and offer him a dry cloak. Make it the golden silk one, so that I may present it to him as a gift."

The slave Ixion had been given the task of serving young Titus Flavius Domitianus, and he accepted this order eagerly, hoping that among the other things that Justus was sure to give his guest, he would be included. The giving of slaves was not uncommon and Ixion wanted to be out of the Silius household more than he wanted his freedom.

Justus entered the atrium a short while later. He was resplendent in a toga virilis of rose linen with a border of gold eagles. He wore a profusion of rings and one wide bracelet, though at the last minute he had decided against painting his face. It had been the fashion for Nero and Otho, but there was no way of knowing what the styles of the new court would be. He made a rather grand gesture of welcome. "Domitianus! My house is much honored, and in this time of victory and grief, it is particularly gratifying that you are willing to visit me. And in such weather."

Titus Flavius Domitianus resembled his father, having the same wide brow and set mouth, though his lips had a dissatisfied turn to them and his large eyes were fretful, and there was already the start of a permanent crease above them. Unlike his older brother, Domitianus was not a handsome man, and at eighteen lacked any definite stamp of character on his face. He had contented himself with a pale green toga with a discreet border of dark red, and a single gold ring. "It was gracious of you to invite me, but it's my understanding that you have always been in the forefront of those sharing interests with my family."

Justus clapped him on the shoulder. "As well I should be, lad, for the good of Rome. I can tell you that I was much shocked at the death of your uncle. Sabinus was a good man, and one to be valued. I ordered an offering be made at the Temple of Jupiter the Biggest and Best on his behalf." It had been a very public gesture, one that he was certain would be reported to the new Emperor and place him in even higher esteem.

"I heard something of that," Domitianus said. He looked toward the opening in the atrium ceiling where the rain clouds were visible, and the water that streamed from them in bright, pale waves, like the bending of wheat in a high wind. "The storm has caused a great many problems."

"Yes, I'm certain it must have," Justus agreed promptly as he waved his hand toward the smaller dining room. "Come in, be comfortable. I'd love to hear what your plans are, but you will probably prefer to have a little spiced wine, served hot, and an opportunity to take your mind off your work." He preceded his guest to the door of the smaller dining room and flung it open.

The effect was all he could have wished. The Asian slave had worked hard, and now the room was one of Eastern splendor. There were worked hangings on three walls, and braziers as well as hanging lamps gave the chamber a rich light. Lamp oil and brazier charcoal had been scented, so that the room was redolent of cloves and lilac. The two couches had been moved close together, and each had large, down-filled pillows piled up artlessly, promising warmth and relaxation. There was only one table between the couches, a wide one of fancy inlaid woods. Golden and silver goblets stood on the table, and two small dishes filled with warmed rosewater.

Domitianus was still easily impressed, and this was the grandest reception he had yet been given in Rome, and it seemed all the more so for its intimacy. The other dinners he had attended, he had been overwhelmed by the number of important guests, all of whom crowded around him seeking his good opinion, and through him the approval of his father, who was still in Egypt.

As the young man reclined, Justus clapped his hands, and Ixion appeared. He had been dressed in a Doric chiton of fine wool, and he waited, rather shyly, three paces back from the table between the couches. The sound of Justus' hands brought him forward to kneel to Domitianus.

"Pour the spiced wine," Justus ordered, then turned to the other slave in the room, a frightened young man from the north, in whose yellow hair silver grape leaves were twined in a wreath. "We will have the pickled fish now," he ordered, having learned that Domitianus had a weakness for pickled fish.

When Ixion had poured the wine, he stepped back as he had been told to do. He felt very awkward now, wishing that he had had more time to learn what was expected of him. The Emperor's son, he told himself, would be willing to overlook his inexperience.

"Tell me, Domitianus," Justus began as he sank onto the couch opposite his guest, "are you looking forward to wearing the toga picta?" This garment was reserved for victors and Emperors: Justus would have been willing to give away half his wealth to have the right to wear it.

"It's only cloth," Domitianus said as he dipped his fingers in the rosewater and wiped them on a square of linen set out for that purpose. "My father will have to show more durability than his predecessors if mine is going to be anything more than a shroud."

Justus forced himself to laugh heartily at this. "At the worst, you could go back to Egypt and join your father."

"Nothing!" Domitianus said with vehemence surprising in someone who had appeared so self-effacing. "Nothing in the world would get me back to Egypt. All of that part of the empire is worse than an open grave. The people are contemptible, their manners are appalling, their conduct bestial, their leaders are criminals and degenerates, and their religions are farcical!" He waved his wine cup rather wildly in the air and a few drops fell on his toga. When he slammed down his other hand for emphasis, the little bowls of rosewater were overturned. Domitianus looked down, chagrined. He had been warned by his father's general, Licinius Mucianus, that he would have to behave in a circumspect manner, at least at first.

"Don't be bothered," Justus said indulgently. "A little matter, my lad, easily remedied," he assured the Emperor's son, and clapped for the blond slave. "Ferrado, see to this. At once."

The handsome blond youth obeyed immediately, almost clumsily, clearing away the bowls and finger cloths.

"After each course, bring us fresh rosewater," Justus reiterated for Domitianus' benefit. "The finger cloths are an idea I've picked up from the Parthians. They're worthy enemies, in their way, and have a few things to teach us. If we can continue the peace for a while, it might be profitable." He had his freedmen investigating the possibility of buying Parthian jewels, and as long as the two huge countries maintained their uneasy truce, there could be trade between them. It would take nothing more than two or three years for Justus to make enormous profits as well as establish some trade agreements which would guarantee that he continue to get jewels, whether Rome and Parthia were at peace or not.

"They're sending spies here all the time," Domitianus said petulantly. "Parthia and Persia both. Sometimes they do it through Armenia, and sometimes through Jerusalem."

"Now that the government will be stable again, that will stop," Justus said with a show of complacence. "I have great faith in your father, in your whole family. I was very pleased when Mucianus presented you to the Praetorian Guard as Caesar. It will do a great deal for Rome to have the Praetorians again. Vitellius' private Guard was not popular."

Ixion stepped forward carrying a platter of pickled fish. He put this down before Domitianus as a temple priest might offer sacrifice to his god.

"This is good, very good," Domitianus said when he had eaten two of the little fish.

"I have them sent from Britannia. Nothing south of there is as tasty, I've found." He picked up one of the fish by the tail and dropped it into his mouth. Actually, he disliked the salty northern fish, but that would not win the approval of the Emperor's son.

"They're very good," Domitianus said mechanically as he reached for more. "Is your wife away?" he asked between bites.

"My wife?" Justus said with distaste. "No, I fear that she is reluctant to join us tonight. Since that sad day when her father and brothers were condemned for political intrigue-that was during Nero's time, you wouldn't remember-she has been uninterested in political things, and I have ceased trying to persuade her. She is an odd woman, though I shouldn't say it. You may have heard something about her tastes in men. There has been some gossip. I know that having an old man for a husband can be difficult for a young woman, and so I cannot bring myself to criticize her for what she may do. Not that I favor adultery, but a man must make allowances." He let himself sigh heavily, and then showed a tolerant smile. "Women. What creatures they are."

Domitianus had another fish in his mouth and could not answer at once. When he did, he said, "It sounds to me as if you might consider divorce."

"What? You forget that I've been divorced once already, and it would not look well for me to do so a second time." He reached for the wine jug and refilled his guest's cup.

"Why not? There are plenty of others who've had any number of spouses in their lives. A wife like that," he went on, assuming the manner of a sage, "she's no credit to a man like you, Justus. I can understand why you wish to be loyal. No one would like others to think that he had put a wife away, because of folly in her family, but you must consider your position and your future. There are women who would be a greater credit to you and who would not have the cloud of suspicion hanging over them."

This was precisely what Justus wanted to hear, and from someone as powerful and naive as Titus Flavius Domitianus. "I had hoped that in time she might come to regard the matter differently. She is generally not unreasonable." The platter of pickled fish was empty except for a thin film of brine. Justus motioned for this to be taken away.

The next dish was stewed sows' udders stuffed with honeyed dormice. Dishes of tart and sweet sauces were set on the table along with little buns. A second jug of wine had been broached.

Justus was deep in conversation with Domitianus when he noticed that Ixion was hovering near their table. He stopped his conversation and looked up. "Why are you standing there?"

Ixion pointed to himself, turning scarlet. "You said I was to-"

"I said you were to serve us, not breathe on us!" He was feeling the effects of the wine as well as pleasure at the way the evening was going. "You're listening to us."

"I'm not!" Ixion protested, moving back and almost tripping over the end of Domitianus' couch.

A measuring, crafty look came into Justus' face. "You're still new in my house," he said as he glared at Ixion. "I got you last autumn. You came cheap."

"My master was bankrupt," Ixion said, feeling very frightened. There was something in his master's eyes that filled him with horror. "You said it was fortunate that he was bankrupt. You bought fifteen of his slaves."

"Sixtus Murens was a supporter of Otho," Justus said suddenly.

Ixion nodded, hoping to escape the wrath he could see gathering in Justus' face. "Because of Otho, master, he lost all his fortune, in defending that false Emperor. Vitellius would not honor the various pledges that Otho had given my master. There was nothing else he could do but sell off his slaves and land. It was all that he had." His voice had risen.

"Or perhaps he wants to buy favor. Perhaps someone has made him an offer, and in exchange for a few services will restore his fortune." Justus knew it was what he would do in the same circumstances, and he found it difficult to believe that anyone else would not behave as he would.

"No!" Ixion protested.

"No? How do you know that, slave?" Justus was on his feet now, coming toward Ixion with an expression of dreadful anticipation in his eyes.

Belatedly Domitianus looked up from his plate. "Have your houseman take him away, Justus. You can examine him at leisure."

Justus refused to be robbed of his pleasure when it was so close. "Pardon me, young Caesar. If there were any other guest but you in my house, I would, of course, do that. But you are too precious, and too high above me for me to expose you to any more threats. Gaius Sixtus Murens was a traitor, yet he lives. It would be like him to plant one of his creatures here where he might spy upon you, and gather information that would be used by your enemies."

"No," Ixion whispered as he took another step backward. "No. I never would..."

Now Domitianus was interested. It was little more than a month ago that he had been in danger of his life and his uncle had been killed. He paled as he regarded the slave. "Tell me, you, is there any truth in what your master says?"

Ixion dropped to his knees and crawled toward the young man on the couch. "No truth, Caesar. None. I have never been a spy. There is no reason. I should be one. My master is...wrong. I would not-"

"Make a liar of me, would you?" Justus thundered. "Monostades!" he yelled as he reached down and dragged Ixion to his feet by the hair. "Monostades, bring the rods, quickly!"

"Master," Ixion protested, almost inaudibly. "Master, no. I swear to you that I never did anything contrary to your orders and interests...."

Monostades opened the door, three long leather-and-wire-wrapped rods in his hand. "What do you wish, master?"

"This one!" With a shove, Justus sent Ixion sprawling. "He has been spying on the young Caesar, who has honored me as my guest, and he will not admit it. See that he does." He stood straddling the slave. "Ixion. An appropriate name. He suffered, and you will, too."

While Justus and Titus Flavius Domitianus dined on the special pomegranate-stuffed thrushes dipped in the secret sauce that Triges had made, Ixion was dragged to the stableyard and tied between two tall posts. As the rain fell and darkness came on, Monostades beat him until the required confession was obtained. Satisfied, he tossed the bloody rods away and went back into the house to report, leaving Ixion hanging in the rain while his life ran out of him.

TEXT OF A LETTER WRITTEN IN CODE BY LED ARASHNUR TO AN UNNAMED PERSON, DELIVERED SEALED INTO THE HANDS OF A TRAVERLER FROM SELEUCIA IN MESOPOTAMIA SHORTLY BEFORE HE BOARDED A SHIP BOUND FOR ANTIOCH.

To my superiors:

I regret that I can report no progress in the matter of the Prince Kosrozd Kaivan. Not only was I unsuccessful in purchasing him from his owner, the Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus we learned of in Egypt, but Kaivan himself is reluctant to return to Persia again. Two of the charioteers have told me that Kaivan has expressed himself on the question of his heritage with a degree of scorn, which is most unfortunate. We may have to resort to less subtle measures. I realize that it is essential that he not live out the year, but I will have to find a way to kill him here in Rome.

It may be possible to discredit this Franciscus, who is not Roman. He is said to be from Dacia and yet not a Daci. Although at first I doubted much of what that old priest said before he died, it seems there is something to it, and if only we can find proof, then the Senate will deal with him. I have been attempting to get that proof, but so far with little success. He is very careful and has many friends in high places. I have heard that one of the old Senators, a man of very ancient house and fortune, has expressed himself as being against Franciscus, though I have yet to learn why. This Senator, a Cornelius Justus Silius, has a great deal of political power, and if I can find a way to persuade him to exercise it upon our behalf, then the road to Kaivan is clear and he will be delivered into our hands.

Your message of three months ago has just reached me, and I was pleased to learn that two more of the heirs to the throne have gone their way into the black Mansion of Death. It would be a great mistake to have them left alive. There is too much to be lost if we allow them to live.

It would not be appropriate to send more soldiers, even Armenian ones, because I am currently living in a very poor district of Rome, not far from the Temple of Minerva. The building is old, no one dares to light the holocaust for fear the entire building will burn down. There are rats on the ground floor, but they rarely come higher because there are no cooking facilities in the apartments, and most of us buy our food from the little shops on the street below. The cheapest food is a thick wheat bun filled with cooked pork in a heavy pepper sauce. These are very popular. Everyone eats them. In such a setting, any soldiers would be noticed, and at the moment, I wish to be invisible. Should it seem desirable to find another place to live, or to establish myself in a grander setting, I will inform you, and would then welcome the soldiers you offer.

The Emperor is yet to arrive in Rome, though spring is well-advanced. He is still represented by his younger son, who has shown himself to be very popular with the reestablished Praetorian Guard. Though very young, Titus Flavius Domitianus demonstrates a good grasp of politics and his intellect is acute. His severity may lessen with age. If you can find a clever Greek who might be willing to do the work of a library slave or secretary, he could be very useful near Domitianus. Of the older son, who has the same name as his father, but who is called Titus to avoid confusion, I know no more now than I did two years ago. There is a degree of gossip about him, but I put little stock in any of it. Perhaps you might find someone close to him with an unguarded tongue.

If our plan is to succeed, then we must be very cautious. Kosrozd Kaivan is one of the more important of the princes, but only one. Should any of them be alive when our brotherhood makes its move to power, then we will have done it all for nothing.

Ours is a holy cause, and our course is clear. I will not fail in my task, I vow it with my blood and my life. It would be better that he die on Persian soil, but Rome will do. See that your dedication is as firm as mine, for though you are my military and religious superiors, you have chosen me to accomplish these important missions. When many of you would have faltered in Egypt, I carried on. I found the priest and had the truth out of him before his death. I will accept any reprimand you give me if it is warranted, but otherwise I must be allowed to act in the manner I think best.

You will have word from me again before the summer solstice. For the honor of the gods and the righteousness of our goals!

Led Arashnur

the fourth day of April

in the 822nd Year of the City,

as it is styled in Rome