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master. “We do not live long, who race here."
    "The cruelty is new,” Saint-Germain said reflectively. “There was a time, only a few years ago, when Nero forbade the wanton killing of animals and contestants in the arena, and only made an exception of political criminals. Now...” His face grew somber and he walked in silence, Kosrozd beside him.
    They had almost reached the charioteers’ rooms when Kosrozd grabbed his master's arm. Saint-Germain stopped and looked unspeaking at the wide, long-fingered hand that crushed the cloth just above his elbow.
    "I...I must talk with you.” The words were desperate, spoken in an urgent whisper.
    At last Saint-Germain met his eyes. “Yes?"
    "Do you...will you take Tishtry to your bed again?” He blurted out the question and waited for his answer.
    Saint-Germain had been a slave himself and was not surprised at how much they knew. He pulled his arm away. “Not immediately, no. She's badly hurt."
    "Will you sleep alone?” He knew that he had no right to ask such a question, and half-expected a curt dismissal or a blow.
    "Sleep?” There was an ironic tinge to the word.
    "Is there anyone else you desire more?” He was risking too much, he thought, but could not stop himself now.
    A strange, remote look of anguish crossed Saint-Germain's face, and for one suspended instant his penetrating eyes were fixed on a great distance. “No. No, I no longer desire anyone else more."
    Kosrozd felt a chill as he stood beside, Saint-Germain and he almost faltered in his purpose. “Then...will you...would you...want me?” He knew that he might be sold for this impertinence, or sent to Treviri or Divodurum or Poetovio to race in the provinces, far away from Saint-Germain in Rome.
    "I am very old, Kosrozd, far older than you think,” Saint-Germain said kindly. “The price of caring is the pain of loss, and I have lost...much."
    "You are alone,” Kosrozd murmured. “And I am alone."
    There was mockery ‘ Saint-Germain s expression now. “More alone than you, though we are both sons of princes whose kingdoms are lost to us. Kosrozd Kaivan,” he said, using his slave's full name and seeing the young man start. “Oh, yes, I know who you are. It is a pity your uncles could not find more trustworthy conspirators. You're fortunate to have been sold into slavery. Another king might have dealt more harshly."
    "He roasted my father on a spit!” Kosrozd burst out.
    "But spared his children. And left you a whole man. Remember that. Persia is growing gentler with age."
    An aurigatore spotted Kosrozd and came into the hallway. “It is almost time. I've got your chariot ready."
    "A moment, Bricus.” He watched his master with intent young eyes. “Will you sell me? Or send me away?"
    Saint-Germain considered this. “I suppose I should, but I won't. I'm...touched by your...interest.” Then abruptly his tone changed. “Come, you must prepare for the race."
    Kosrozd made one last attempt. “Tishtry told me once that you did not behave as she expected."
    "Very likely,” he said dryly.
    "It would not matter,” Kosrozd insisted.
    "Wouldn't it?” He was interrupted by another prolonged shout from sixty thousand voices. When the sound had subsided, he said, “For some there is death in what I do.” The coldness of this statement was directed inward, filled with old bitterness.
    Kosrozd laughed bleakly as his glance turned toward his waiting chariot. “Death. There is death in what I do.” Without looking at Saint-Germain again, he went through the door, walking quickly to his aurigatore, who had just begun to lead four high-strung horses from the stable on the far side of the Gate of Life.
    TEXT OF A LETTER TO THE EMPEROR NERO.
    To Nero, who is Caesar, lord of the world, hail!
    As a citizen of Rome, no matter how lowly, I approach your august presence on behalf of those who are my brothers and who are unjustly condemned to vile and glorious deaths for their religion.
    You have said that Rome