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sins of his past. It certainly explained
     the exhibition’s scale—it must have taken years to design. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Constantine’s own money
     was funding it—he knew the modest Musée could never afford an installation so state-of-the-art. But MacLeod said nothing about
     it, noting with wry sadness instead, “I don’t think Nefertiri will need it back. And I think she’d be pleased that her people
     were being remembered.”
    Constantine seemed a bit relieved that MacLeod approved. “Recognize this one?” he asked, pointing to one of the artifacts
     “floating” in the case on hidden wires.
    A Celtic torque gleamed in the case’s spotlight, the golden terminals at the ends of the elaborate neckpiece clasped together
     to form a delicate ring, finely wrought and crafted by artisans whose skills had rarely been equaled. “Ceirdwyn’s?”
    “How’d you guess? She rarely lets it out. I nearly had to pry it off of her. You should have seen the look she gave me when
     I asked if I might borrow her sword, as well.”
    “She brought it out when her husband Steven was killed.”
    Constantine looked grim. “Sad business, that.” He was silent for a moment, then went on. “The Celts were such an amazing people,
     Duncan. You should have seen them—they were passionate, they were spontaneous. They loved life with a gusto I’d never thought
     was possible. And then the Romans came through and we made them…” Constantine seemed at a loss for the right words.
    “English?” MacLeod ventured with a wicked grin, and they both laughed. He looked at the next item in the case. The footlong
     piece of iron was flat black next to the gleaming torque, maybe an inch in diameter, and marked only with a ring of rusty
     oxidation about halfway up the shaft. “What’s that?”
    “Slave boy from the northern provinces was crucified by his Roman master because the master’s wife tried to seduce him.”
    MacLeod looked more closely at the nail and shuddered. “Nasty way to die, even for one of us.”
    “You should have seen the master’s wife.” Now it was Constantine’s turn to shudder. “Personally, I think crucifixion was the
     better part of the deal. The slave kept one of the nails as a souvenir. Sick sense of humor, if you ask me.”
    MacLeod pointed out the empty section of the case. “So what goes here? A piece of the One True Cross?”
    “Actually, that’s why I asked you to come by.”
    Ah, here it comes
, MacLeod thought. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t make a lunch date just because you enjoyed the company, Marcus.”
    Constantine, a little embarrassed, asked, “That transparent, am I?”
    MacLeod smiled. “Whatever I have is yours. You know that.” He looked around the room. “But I don’t know what I have that would
     fit in with all of this.”
    “Paul Karros’s sword?”
    “Karros?” MacLeod was intrigued.
    “I tried to locate him and found out you had…taken care of him, as it were. I thought you might have kept the sword. It was
     a
gladius
, an iron short sword, beautiful piece of work. He used it during the Spartacan revolt, you know. He was Thracian, like Spartacus,
     trained as a—”
    “I know, trained as a gladiator to fight in the Roman games. He must have told me a thousand times,” MacLeod explained.
    “Really? I didn’t realize you were that close.”
    “We were once,” MacLeod said quietly, and Constantine needed no further explanation. They’d all been there.
    “So you
do
have the sword?” Constantine asked eagerly.
    MacLeod nodded. “I know where I can get my hands on it. Tuesday soon enough?”
    “Perfect. The exhibition opens on Wednesday.” Constantine looked pleased. “Well, that was simple enough—and I didn’t even
     have to spring for lunch,” he added with a devilish look at MacLeod, who thought he could almost detect a small gleam of victory
     in his eyes.
    “Uh-uh, not so fast,” MacLeod said, shaking his head. “You