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tribunal was the city prefect, J. Tullius Varus.”
    “...thee and all thy children,” repeated Quindarvis softly.
    “That’s what he said.”
    “And were they executed?”
    The centurion nodded. “They were smeared with pitch and torched. That was at the games of Ceres in April of that year. Varus was up for reappointment to the prefect’s office. He was out to win friends. Maybe he took advantage of the situation and condemned them to death for the sake of the show—but he’s still city prefect.”
    “Now, that I do remember,” smiled Quindarvis reminiscently. “He must have laid out three hundred talents in gold, enough to support his entire household and all his slaves for three years, on three days’ worth of games. An enormous investment,” he added, with a wry grin, “as I have call to know—but worth every sesterce of it.” His brow darkened suddenly. “But I see your meaning.”
    Marcus straightened up, though the effort made him sick and giddy. “But we’ve got to do something,” he groaned. “Close the roads out of the city... ”
    “We’ve had men watching them since last night,” said Arrius, “for all the good it’s likely to do us. There’s too many places for them to be keeping her in Rome itself. We’ve alerted all the watches of all the city wards, but they’re untrained men.”
    “But what can be done?” cried Marcus. “They’re fanatics—lunatics! We don’t know what they’ll do.”
    “No,” agreed Arrius equably. “But we can make some guesses. They didn’t kill her on the spot. If revenge is their game, it’s unlikely they’ll do anything before Varus returns to town. Did you send for him?”
    “Last night,” said Quindarvis. “He’s in Sicily, on his estates. He should be back within ten days.”
    Arrius nodded. “Good. As city prefect, he’ll have the authority to undertake a major search; but with luck we’ll have her back before then. If we can get just one Christian... ” He mimed the turning of a screw.
    Marcus lowered his head to his hands again, feeling as though his skull would split open if not held tightly together. He fought to retain a philosophic calm— Remember that anything that can happen, he told himself, can happen to you. He groped feebly for Timoleon’s precepts. It is not the event that is evil, but only my opinion of the event... I’m not the first person in the world to suffer grief and loss. It must be a thousand times worse for her mother than for myself. I should be comforting her...
    But the thought of speaking to anyone, much less offering comfort out of the crying blackness of his soul, was physically nauseating to him. Around him, the blurred voices went on.
    “What about the mother?”
    “Nicanor’s given her poppy. I have business down at the treasury, not to mention all the arrangements that must be made for the games tomorrow. But I shall return this evening. I can’t simply leave her with the slaves.”
    Marcus opened his eyes to see the centurion raise his head. Through the parti-colored green of me arbor leaves a maidservant was visible, flirting in the shadows of the columned breezeway with a handsome Spanish boy whose chief duty it was to carve game birds at Varus’ feasts. “Don’t,” said the soldier quietly. “Don’t leave her alone, and make sure there’s someone you can trust with her. What about you, boy?”
    Marcus looked up, blinking and startled, to find the centurion’s remote lynx eyes resting thoughtfully upon him.
    “You’re looking pretty seedy. Where do you live?”
    “In the Subura, near the Neptune shrine. But I’ll be fine, I—”
    “I’m going back that way myself,” said Arrius brusquely. “I’ll see you home.”
    Marcus felt too ill to protest. He somehow got to his feet and stumbled after them to the atrium. The Syrian underbutler brought the centurion his crimson cloak and deftly draped Marcus in his rather soiled toga. After the cool of the arbor, the atrium already