BETWEEN THE Tiber and the Via Appia was a long row of tombs, stretching from the city walls to a wide bend in the river, some two thousand paces farther south. There were large mausoleums looking like small temples; there were low tombs like stone cushions; there were tombs with crenellated towers and battlements as if the dead expected to have to defend themselves against the living; there were tombs in the shape of pyramids, and boxes, and beehives, and cylinders.

The moon was bright, four days short of full, and it lit the high curdled clouds with a soft light that made them glow. It was a beautiful and silent night, as no Roman liked to be among the tombs after sunset, for fear of the ghosts that lingered around their earthly remains.

Mounted on his blue roan, Saint-Germain came along the Via Appia, his dark eyes piercing the night with intensity. Among these thousands of tombs, there was one he sought, the one where Olivia waited for him.

Three days before, on orders of the Senate, she had been entombed alive, and a guard of two soldiers set to watch her. At sunset the guards had at last been dismissed from their duty. Now there was no one to hamper Saint-Germain's work, and he felt profoundly relieved, for after three days Olivia would be very frightened, for three days walled into a tomb, as he had learned, was a prolonged and unique torture.

There were three tombs for the Silius family, two of which were large and handsome, containing urns of the most distinguished ashes of their family. Eighteen generations were represented on the plaques and inscriptions, from a minor tribune in the Republic to the high-ranking members of the staff of Divus Julius, to the Gaius Silius who had been foolish enough to love Claudius' wife, Messalina.

Somewhat behind the first two was a third mausoleum, this one little more than a large stone box, with the name of Silius appearing over the entrance, an entrance that was now bricked up. This was where the disgraced Silii were sent to lie after death, where they could be forgotten by the more illustrious members of the family. Four days ago there had been an iron door to the tomb. The closely laid bricks were new. No laudatory verses were pasted to the wall of the tomb, no flowers or fruit lay on the threshold of the bricked-up door.

Saint-Germain dismounted and led his blue roan behind the elaborate tomb of the Marco family, tethering the horse and taking a long iron pry-bar from the lashings that held it to the saddle before pulling the saddle off the roan and concealing it. He had wanted to bring an iron mallet, also, but he had not wanted to carry too many articles with him that might arouse suspicion in an officer of the Watch. With a pry-bar he could claim he was going to lever a chariot out of a ditch, but with a mallet as well, other possibilities arose.

The grass was high around the tomb except where the guards had trampled it. There was a cold, neglected air about it, and the little stone building seemed aware of this disapprobation, for it kept to the shadows behind the grander, more acceptable tombs. Saint-Germain approached it, touching the bricks with his outstretched hand, fingering the mortar in the hope it might be damp enough to make his job easier. Roman workmen mixed their mortar with whole crushed eggs and the stuff that resulted was the most tenacious mortar Saint-Germain had ever encountered. He wanted to call out to Olivia, but knew that she could not hear him, and that his voice might bring soldiers to investigate. Not far from him, the bulk of the slaves' prison rose up, and Saint-Germain could see the occasional smudges of brightness that revealed that the guards there were still awake.

He reached under his woolen dalmatica and found the bandages around his side. He untied and unwound these, fingering the deep grooves that remained along his ribs. The grooves would be there forever, he knew. There would be grooves, but no scar.

The bandage was made of close-woven linen, a strong, rather thick cloth that could take rough treatment. Saint-Germain bent down to grab handfuls of dry grass, which he tied to the end of his pry-bar with the linen. This would muffle the sound of his work. He tapped the bricks with the bound end of the bar and was rewarded with a sound less noisy than horses' hooves on sand. Somewhat reassured, he began to test the bricks, going systematically from the top of the doorway to the bottom, pressing each one to see if it was loose. None of them were. The tomb was sealed tight. Though Saint-Germain was not surprised, he had been hoping that he might find such a brick, so that his task would be quicker and easier.

Rogerian was waiting even now at an inn seven thousand paces to the south. A traveling chariot was waiting, four strong matched horses to pull it, their route set from Rome to Terracina, where one of Saint-Germain's merchant ships, the Capricorn, was waiting, bound for Crete, Ephesus and Byzantium.

He chose one of the bricks and began to work on it, tapping and scraping with the unmuffled end of the pry-bar, tapping and scraping, working patiently and persistently, resolutely determined not to notice the too-rapid passage of the moon through the night sky.

The clouds were growing denser, blotting out the moonlight. It was early for rain, but perhaps, thought Saint-Germain as he paused in his work, the autumn would come early to Rome this year. He leaned on the pry-bar, inspecting the linen and straw to be sure the metal had not yet poked through.

A little while later, Saint-Germain heard the sound of approaching horses, and he dropped back into the shadows by the tomb, keeping very still, his eyes alert in the darkness.

The hoofbeats drew nearer, and then three riders swung into view, one of them carrying a lantern that caught the molten colors of the capes and loricae worn by the soldiers. One of them carried a short brass baton with a Roman eagle mounted on it, a sign that designated them imperial messengers.

They had almost gone past the Silius tombs when Saint-Germain's blue roan whinnied.

The soldiers faltered, one of them drawing up sharply.

"Don't bother about that. It's probably lovers. They like their privacy," called the one with the lantern.

"It might be someone wishing to intercept this message. Those are the Silii tombs there," the one who had reined in objected.

"You don't think that any man would wait near his wife's tomb at night, do you?" scoffed the third. "If he was going to stop us, he wouldn't let his horse give us warning."

The first officer had ridden his mount closer to where Saint-Germain was hidden in the shadows. "If you're going to attack us," he called out, "do it now!"

Saint-Germain was still.

"Brutus, I've been in the saddle for most of today. I'm tired, I'm sore and I haven't had a decent meal since sunup. Come on," protested the one with the lantern.

Brutus rode between the two big tombs and squinted at the third one. "Looks all right," he said suspiciously.

"When we get back to the barracks, you can tell the tribune to send troops out to check it, if you think there's any real danger that someone might be desecrating the place," the third said, and yawned. "By Venus' tits, I'm tired."

"You don't suppose," said the one with the lantern, "that she's still alive, do you?"

"After three days? No food, no water, no air?" the other mocked. "She's dead; no doubt of it."

Brutus pulled his horse back. "Let's go on. But someone should come back and have a look at this. Silius could be attempting to deceive us again...."

"Brutus," complained the one with the lantern. "Tell the tribune. Come on."

"All right." He wheeled his horse about and rejoined the messengers on the road. "The tribune better get men back here before dawn, or whatever is going on will be over." He kicked his horse into a run, and the three were soon gone into the night toward the walls of Rome.

Saint-Germain leaned against the wall of the tomb, his arms quite suddenly tired. He had thought there would be more time, but he was very much afraid that Brutus' report would bring soldiers to the tomb before first light. Grimly he picked up the pry-bar and set to work on the brick again.

It was more than an hour later that he was able to knock the brick through the wall into the tomb. It made an eerie, drumlike echo as it fell. Immediately Saint-Germain spoke into the small opening. "Olivia!"

There was a sound, soft and scraping, and Saint-Germain feared that perhaps she had been chained within the tomb, or mutilated in some way, so that she could not come to the hole. He raised his voice a little. "Olivia!"

This was met with strange silence, and then he heard a few faltering steps. "Saint-Germain?" Olivia said, as if afraid of the answer.

"Yes. Are you all right?" It was a foolish question, he knew. She had been entombed three days.

"I think so. Yesterday...was it yesterday? I felt very faint, and I think I must have been delirious, or unconscious, or sick, but I'm all right now." Her voice grew stronger. "I am all right, Saint-Germain."

"Good." There was just room enough for him to stretch his hand through, and he felt her fingers close on his own. They were strong and vital. "Listen to me, Olivia," he said when he had withdrawn his hand again. "It's very late, and there are some soldiers coming here at first light. We will have to work very quickly, or we will be discovered. Neither Justus nor Vespasianus would be pleased to find us here." Something one of the soldiers had said claimed his attention then. Something about Silius deceiving them. For a moment he wondered what the messengers had meant by that, but then the more urgent matter was on his mind. "We can't make too much noise, but we've got to be quick. As soon as we have a big enough hole for you to climb through, we'll be fine. I'm going to put the end of the pry-bar in this hole, and I want you to push it against the bricks from your side while I do the same on mine. When I tell you, push." As he spoke, he carefully put the end of the pry-bar through the hole. "Can you see that?"

There was a tug on the end of the pry-bar. "Yes," she said, sounding quite confident.

"We've got to be as quiet as possible," he reminded her, working with his end of the pry-bar to get it into position.

"I'll remember," she whispered through the hole left by the missing brick.

The first time he lined the tool up and gave his command to press on it, nothing happened. The metal thrummed against the brick, there was a steady grating noise as the pry-bar scraped on the bricks, but nothing else occurred.

"What now?" Olivia asked, not letting her disappointment be heard in her voice.

"We try again," Saint-Germain informed her grimly. He realigned the pry-bar and tested it once. "Good. Now, push!" He leaned against the iron bar with all his strength, and this time they were rewarded by a popping sound from the bricks. "Good!" Saint-Germain called out. "Very good. Olivia, are you holding the bar at the very end?"

"No," she said. "Should I?"

"Yes. And put all your weight behind it." He was careful with the pry-bar, placing it with care. "Now!"

Two more bricks broke under the impact and Saint-Germain began to feel encouraged.

"There's another brick loose, I think," Olivia called from inside the tomb. "To your left. There's mortar scattering around it." She sounded very pleased.

"Fine. Good." This time he took his stance so that he could swing more of his weight against the bricks. At the end of this attempt, two more bricks had been dislodged. "Olivia," he called to her softly, "I'm going to change the angle of the bar. I know it will be awkward for you to reach it, but do what you can. If I don't do it this way, the bricks might fall inside the tomb rather than outside. I don't want you to get hurt."

"But if it would be easier another way-" she began.

"I have much more room out here," he said, cutting her objections short. "Do what you can." This time, his end of the pry-bar was pointing downward and it was an easy thing to put all his weight on it, pressing down on the bar until the metal seemed to hum with his effort.

"There're a few bricks loosening," Olivia cried, by way of encouragement. "I can see the mortar starting to crumble."

Saint-Germain redoubled his efforts. This time the masonry groaned as the pry-bar began to bend. He refused to let up.

A breeze had sprung up at moonset and there were the first gentle rustlings that were the precursors of dawn. The soldiers would be back soon, Saint-Germain thought, prepared to investigate the disturbance that the messenger Brutus had observed. That could mean imprisonment for them both. Saint-Germain bore down on the pry-bar with all his might, and the iron bent.

"How are the bricks?" he asked, disheartened.

"Holding," she said unhappily.

"Turn the pry-bar around, so that the part that's curving down is curving into the bricks." It was a last chance, he knew, for he could not dare to remain here at the Silius tomb much longer. He had to get Olivia out. He took the bar in both hands, lifted it, then came down on it with all his might.

There was a strange sound, like distant thunder or the tearing of thick silk. Bricks fell around him, one knocking him on the shoulder as the top part of the bricked-up tomb gave way.

Saint-Germain moved quickly, reaching in through the gaping hole. He felt Olivia's hands slip into his own. "Climb!" he whispered fiercely. "Hurry!"

In the distance he could hear a bird singing in the sky, and the rustlings in the long grass around the tombs got louder as the nocturnal animals sought their nests and dens and hiding places. There was a distant sound of trumpets, the changing of guards at the slaves' prison, in very little time there would be people on the Via Appia, coming to Rome for market and pleasure.

"It's awfully high," Olivia said, disquieted. "I don't know if I can-"

"Climb!" The word was quiet, but there was no mistaking the order. He held out his hands to her, and a moment later she took them.

Though it took her no more than a quarter of an hour to struggle out of the tomb, to Saint-Germain it seemed as if days had passed and that this was the culmination of the effort of months of work.

Olivia's face was scraped, her funereal garments were soiled and her hair hung about her face in lank strings. As she pulled herself through the gaping and ragged hole in the bricks, Saint-Germain opened his arms to her and caught her as she fell.

Their embrace was long and tender. He held her tightly until she had stopped shaking.

"I thought you weren't coming," she said shamefacedly.

"What? Didn't you know I wouldn't desert you?" He shook her by the shoulders in kindly ire. "When I cherish you so, you can believe that?"

"I know," she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. "But after my trial, when there was no word from you..."

"No word?" he repeated, incredulous. "Rogerian left you a basket of fruit. There was a small scrap of paper in the bottom of the basket, and there was a message on it. I was sure that...What is it?" he asked, breaking off.

"I was never given the basket of fruit. I was told that no one had left anything for me." She nuzzled her head into the curve of his neck. "Oh, Saint-Germain, I was frightened. All that time alone in the dark, with the air more and more foul and the walls closing in. It was like being dead."

"Was it?" he asked ironically.

There were more bird calls now, and a second trumpet call sounded from the slaves' prison.

Saint-Germain broke away from Olivia. "Come. It's nearly morning, and we must be gone. Rogerian is waiting, and there is a ship ready to take us away from here." His hand closed around one of Olivia's. "Did you truly believe I would abandon you?"

She shook her head. "You said you wouldn't. But alone in the dark like that..." Her voice almost broke. Her free hand came up to her eyes. "It was so long, and I was frightened," she said, by way of apology.

He kissed her brow. "Well, never mind. You're free now. That's all that counts." He stepped back, tugging at her hand. "You must come with me. There are soldiers not far away, and by the time they arrive, we must be gone."

She accepted this, following him through the tall dry grass toward the Marco tomb, where he had tethered the blue roan.

"Can you ride?" he asked as he steadied the horse.

"I haven't before, but I can learn." She looked at the roan with some apprehension.

"There's no saddle. I've hidden it-it won't seat two, so...," he pointed out. "You'll have to sit astride behind me and hang on. Are you willing?" He had no idea how he would get her away if she said no.

"Of course." The answer was brisk, almost amused. She stood back while Saint-Germain gathered the reins at the base of the neck and vaulted onto the horse. The roan minced eagerly as Saint-Germain got his seat. Then he steadied the horse and reached down his hand. "Here. Come up behind me and put your arms around my waist. We have a way to go."

Without a word she took his hand and came up behind him. Her arms went around his waist, her legs dangled behind his. He touched the roan with his booted heels and the horse sprang away toward the Via Appia.

As they reached the first crest of the southward hill, Saint-Germain glanced back once to see the first pale light catch the bright articulated loricae of a line of mounted soldiers riding out from the Praetorian camp on the east side of Rome. He watched them a moment, checking the roan. Then the horse lengthened his stride and the ridge cut off the sight. Olivia's arms tightened around him as he turned his face toward the south and the inn where Rogerian waited.

TEXT OF AUTHORIZATION FROM RAGOCZY SAINT-GERMAIN FRANCISCUS.

To the Senate and the procurator of the Praetorian Guard:

It has pleased the Emperor to lift the sentence against me and to remove any and all claims against me. He has also asked that I absent myself from Rome, and this I am very willing to do. I have arranged passage for myself, my body slave and a companion, and will depart with haste.

Because there is little time to make formal arrangements, I cannot make full provision for my property. I therefore place my estate under the administration of Constantinus Modestinus Datus, and give him full rights and powers to be exercised at his discretion. A copy of his annual accounting will suffice me and his decisions are to be regarded as my own. I will provide this man with a record of my whereabouts in the unlikely event that my formal agreement is needed in any matter concerning my estate.

I have three requests to make of the state and Constantinus Modestinus Datus. First, that those slaves who have been in my household for more than ten years, upon their request, be given their freedom and be provided with land plots of their own. Deeds to such plots on my own holdings are to be found in my records and C. M. Datus is at liberty to award them as he chooses. At the time of freeing, the slave is to be given two mules and three pigs and the sum of one hundred sesterces. Second, that my private wing of Villa Ragoczy be sealed until such time as I or one bearing my authorization endorsed by my sigil, the eclipse, return to occupy it. Third, that my ships be regularly inspected and maintained at the highest possible level, and that the captains be given a portion of all moneys in trade, not to exceed fifteen percent of the profit they bring me. All reasonable requests for improvements upon a ship should be granted.

Until such time as I set foot in Rome again, I commend myself to the justice and the wisdom of the Emperor and the Senate.

By my own hand, under seal, in the trust of the Emperor's messenger.

Ragoczy Saint-Germain Franciscus