KOSROZD PAUSED at the door to the private wing of Villa Ragoczy. He had been in the restricted rooms half a dozen times since his master had taken him there from the arena, to tend his wounds and restore him to life. He raised his hand and knocked twice. The slave who guarded the door watched him carefully.

A few moments later, Aumtehoutep opened the door carefully. "Yes?"

"It's Kosrozd. I must see my master." He moved restlessly, black eyes flicking from the face to the door to the slave beside it and back again. "It's important, Aumtehoutep. I wouldn't come here for something trivial. Let me in."

The Egyptian studied the beautiful young Persian. The ravages of his accident more than two years before were gone except for the deep, angry scars on his shoulder. "Follow me, Kosrozd," he said with little inflection.

"Thank you," was the grateful response as Kosrozd stepped inside the door. "Where is my master?"

"In the clock room. I don't believe you've been there. It's on the far side of his bath. Would you like me to take you there?" Aumtehoutep held wax tablets in his hands and had obviously been interrupted at his work.

"The far side of the bath. I'll find it." He started down the long corridor, the tap of the Scythian boots he now wore instead of sandals clicking sharply on the mosaic and marble.

Saint-Germain sat in his clock room, frowning over a fan-folded manuscript. He was dressed in his familiar Persian clothes-a black sleeved tunic over black trousers. The only jewelry he wore was a silver ring engraved with his signet, the eclipse. He was very much preoccupied, and did not look around until Kosrozd called his name. "You."

Kosrozd looked uneasily at all the clocks in the room. There were Roman clocks, carefully designed to run by weights, dividing the day and the night into an equal number of hours, and geared to adjust to the changing lengths of day and night. There were clocks that ran by water and ratchets and sand. Most were silent in their operation, or nearly so, but a few squeaked and hissed as they marked their particular divisions of night and day.

"Kosrozd?" Saint-Germain asked gently.

He gave his attention to his master. "I'm concerned. I came to tell you."

"What concerns you?" He folded the scroll along its ancient creases. "I should have a library slave do this, I suppose, but I'm always afraid that the scrolls will be broken, they're so old and fragile."

Now that he was in Saint-Germain's company, it was hard for Kosrozd to speak. "I've heard things. I thought you should know about them."

"If you mean about Nero's return, I've probably heard every rumor twice, and met a few coming back from other sources." He put the long folded papyrus on his desk and got to his feet. "There's rebellion in the air."

"More than one," Kosrozd warned.

"Of course. Nero was gone too long. If he'd stayed away a few months, there wouldn't have been time to organize an opposition, but it's more than a year now." He looked at the various clocks that stood on tables and shelves, each inexorably recording the passage of time. "He's given his enemies a chance to form an effective resistance to him. It was foolish to order Corbulo's death-the legions would follow him, but now, there's no one to swing them to the Emperor, and they will give their support to the first man strong enough to take Corbulo's place."

"It's worse than that," Kosrozd said emphatically. "There have always been rumors. Since I started racing, I have heard rumors of rebellions and uprisings. The legions were never behind the rebellions, but that's what is said now." His black eyes glittered. "This does not sound the same as the other rumors. This time the whole idea has substance. There is no useless bragging now, and none of the vainglory I've always heard before. There are real men speaking about real leaders, not a few discontented soldiers and gladiators trading dreams. There have been many men coming from the legions in Gallia and Lusitania. They stay here a little while, speak in whispers and meet in shadows, then return to their garrisons, and no one is quite sure why." He held his hands open, wishing that Saint-Germain's expression of polite interest would change.

"And you are suspicious, as you ought to be." Reaching out, he put one hand on Kosrozd's shoulder, covering the scars there with his small fingers. "It's not time to worry yet. Oh, I agree. There's much more than simple discontent in the air. We're likely to get a few attempts on Nero's life before long, and then we'll have another spate of executions. It's a common enough pattern. But there will be no real trouble until the Senate turns against him. When that happens, it will be chaotic in Rome."

"You speak as if you expected it!" Kosrozd shook himself free of Saint-Germain's hand. "Don't you know what could happen to you if there is rebellion?"

"I have some idea," he said dryly. "And I do expect something of the sort to be attempted." He moved away from Kosrozd. "When you are...older, as our kind is older, you'll know why I feel as I do." He opened one of the chests, revealing several cubicles with fan-folded scrolls and an assortment of very old Egyptian timepieces which no longer ran. "These scrolls," Saint-Germain said remotely, "talk about a similar occurrence. It took place more than a thousand years ago. There are countless others. Your family was part of one. Mine fell to one, with the assistance of a neighboring king." He stared rather blankly at the timepieces. "It's an effort to remember. I've often thought that something that important would be fresh in my mind forever."

"But Rome," Kosrozd protested. "Rome is rich, and rules half the world."

"Not quite half." Saint-Germain smiled. "Wealth, plenty and power breed their own particular kind of dissatisfaction, and when it erupts, it becomes rebellion, so that the leaders are cast down. If that fails to cure the ills-and it usually does fail to, because the leaders are often very much alike-then the people turn to religion, the more extreme the better. A hundred years from now, unless Rome is tested by another power as mighty as she, religion will become an obsession with her people. Conquest brings its own invisible chains to the victor." He went to the window and threw open the shutters so that light streamed in, golden with spring. The courtyard revealed was half-atrium, half-peristyle, filled with tubs of flowering plants around a central fountain.

"Don't you want to do something?" Kosrozd demanded, moving closer to Saint-Germain.

"There's nothing I can do. I'm not Roman. I have no real power beyond my wealth. My foreignness is some protection, and it should extend to all of mine. Even if I had political power, I don't know how I would use it." He stopped a moment. "Not long ago, I wouldn't have cared what became of Rome, so long as I could avoid the worst of it." His brow twitched into a frown. "That's no longer the case."

"My master?" Kosrozd still felt Saint-Germain to be alien to him when such moods were on him.

"Forgive me. I'm not quite myself." He turned away from the window. "You're right to tell me what you hear. I need to know if I'm to guard you and the others. I don't make light of what you've said, but by now, rebellion seems so familiar to me that I feel odd at my fear. Oh, yes," he said, seeing the alarm in Kosrozd's black eyes. "I feel fear. Even we are vulnerable. The sword that beheaded Maximus Targuinus Clemens would be as deadly to us as it was to him. Sever our spine and we die. Fire will kill us. We can be broken and crushed as easily as anyone. We have weaknesses. Take off those boots and walk in the sunshine, and you will learn quickly. You will be scalded as if you embraced hot metal. The night, the earth, are our friends, but they can't save us from the true death. For that we need our wits and luck, as does every man."

"But what about all those compliments that Nero gave you before he left? People haven't forgotten that, my master. You could be drawn into the fight whether or not you wish it. I've heard some say that you should be condemned along with the Emperor." Kosrozd moved anxiously nearer the door. "The danger is real. You have enemies."

Saint-Germain folded his hands and stared down at them. "One of them is Necredes, the Master of the Bestiarii." He had no doubt that this was so. "He would like to see me cut in pieces for that day when I stopped him whipping Tishtry. He hasn't excused that humiliation, and he probably never will. So. And, as you say, Nero has shown me public favor. Quite a precarious honor, it seems. There are those other than Necredes who will assume that I am one of his supporters because he has singled me out and because I am foreign." He looked toward Kosrozd, studying the young charioteer, looking for signs of the change in him. There was a slight difference, he told himself. Under the straight black brows, Kosrozd's black eyes were more arresting than they had been three years ago. His movement was lithe and forceful as his new strength emerged, and though his face was unaltered from the time he had become one of Saint-Germain's blood, and would remain unaltered until he died the true death, there was a subtle difference in his expression, a quality that would one day be mastery. "I've thought about leaving, I admit," he went on. "I have other homes, in other places. But that would mean added risk to those who stayed behind." His thoughts turned to Olivia as he spoke. "I can't do that. I can't let...them suffer for me. If you wish, Kosrozd, I will free you, and send you to an estate I own in Parthia. You may live there as long as you like, provided you are careful in your conduct. Or you might return from there to Persia, if you think it worthwhile."

"Leave?" Kosrozd asked incredulously, glaring at Saint-Germain. "I am not a coward."

"I didn't say you were," he answered, not knowing how to tell this very young man what the centuries had taught him. For all the ties that blood gave them, he could not bridge the gulf of years. "Listen to me, my friend. You are valiant and full of courage, which is admirable, but not if it makes you rash. You might think it would be good to throw our luck in with one of the rebels. And, naturally, you assume that we would choose the man who will succeed. It's not so easy." He put his hands on his hips, sighing. "Learn, if you can, to avoid such choices."

"You say that, but you won't leave." It was very nearly a challenge, and Kosrozd shifted his stance as if anticipating a blow, though he had never received one from Saint-Germain.

"I can't. And if I could, I'm not certain I would. Rome has a lot to hold me." He said the last reflectively, looking toward the window and the flowering garden.

"There are others." Kosrozd shrugged.

"You've learned that already?" Saint-Germain asked, feeling saddened. He had believed that once, himself.

"Some are more desirable," Kosrozd admitted after a pause. "One nearly fainted from fear, and another would have opened her body from breast to thigh if only I would continue to give her pleasure." There was a certain embarrassed boastfulness to his words and he could not quite meet Saint-Germain piercing eyes. "Why is it different for you?"

Saint-Germain shook his head, a little motion, almost imperceptible. "I don't know. I don't know."

Kosrozd paced the room, a feeling akin to anger spurring him. "Then are you simply going to wait? It might be too difficult to leave later."

"So it might," Saint-Germain agreed quietly. "I don't insist that you stay. You have my permission to go when you want. I doubt very much that there will be real trouble until summer, and there will have to be a great many more rumors before the real danger appears. If Nero acts quickly, the opposition may not succeed. If he doesn't act quickly, the Senate may delay past the time of change. There are many things that could happen."

One of the clocks clicked loudly and a small gong sounded.

Whatever tension that had flared between Kosrozd and Saint-Germain was broken by that tinny clang.

"You race again soon?" Saint-Germain asked in another voice, as if Kosrozd had just come in.

"Ten days. I'll be racing for the Blues this time, instead of the Reds. That faction would like to buy me so that I would drive for them all the time." He slapped at the dust on his tunica, and rubbed at his bare arms. "I've been out on the practice roads."

"You'll have to tell the Blues that I'm afraid I am not prepared to sell you." As he took his seat again, he added, "May all the forgotten gods protect Rome if the racing factions ever become too political. Then there would be real trouble. You'd have people betting on chariots for political favor, and the races would not be tests of skill, but manipulations for power. It has happened before, on a small scale. It could happen again."

Suddenly Kosrozd grinned, and it had all the force and charm of his youth. "Mithras bleed you, my master. Very well, I will go bathe. But believe me, I came to you honestly."

"I know that," Saint-Germain said ruefully. "I value your concern, truly. By all means, bathe, and later, if you like, we'll talk again. But not about Nero and Rome."

Kosrozd chuckled and went out of the room, starting to whistle as his boots clicked down the hall.

Saint-Germain did not move from his chair. When he was sure that Kosrozd had left the private wing, he called out, "Aumtehoutep!" and a little later, when the Egyptian stepped into the clock room, he said, "The rumors are increasing, according to Kosrozd. I think we may have been lax in our observations." His face was set in hard lines, and there was a bite to his words that had not been there when he talked with Kosrozd.

"The rumors have not seemed serious," Aumtehoutep said with a degree of puzzlement. "With Nero's return, you expected more of them."

"I think this may be more than rumors now. There's gossip of the legions being involved, and that is not usual." He rose suddenly. "I want to know what is being said. I want to know what the Praetorians are saying among themselves. If there's to be real trouble, we'll need time to prepare for it." He had picked up a staff with a small winged bull carved into one end of it, and this he tapped on his open palm. "Kosrozd has heard of messengers from Gallia and Lusitania, and the legions there are very strong. If they are determined to rise against the Emperor, or establish one of their own, there could be battles in the streets before the year is over. I want you to choose a few of the slaves-and be very careful in your choice. Give them to a few key men, and learn as much from them as we can. Those two library slaves, the ones you recommended I buy last winter, they might be willing to help us. There's that groom from the north, and he would be observant. Certainly a young tribune would find him useful. If he should want to talk to Tishtry upon occasion, there would probably be no objection."

"How soon must the slaves be chosen?" Aumtehoutep asked calmly.

"As soon as possible. I'd like a few of them established by the time Nero passes through that new gate they're cutting in the walls for him." He slammed the rod down on one of the tables and the clocks there jumped. "What fools they are! All of them!"

Aumtehoutep's face revealed nothing. "Unlike you, my master."

Saint-Germain raised his brows sardonically. "Oh, I am a fool as well. I have no illusions on that point." Slowly he took hold of the rod again. "At least I know it."

"As you say, my master." The Egyptian was silent while Saint-Germain crossed the room to the window once again.

"How many times have I promised myself to learn from my past errors? Yet Rome is near the brink of civil war, and I cannot leave. So much for my hard-won wisdom."

"There are all sorts of wisdom, my master," Aumtehoutep said quietly.

"So I tell myself, old friend. And sometimes, when I'm not quite honest, I believe it." He shook off this ironic frame of mind. "About the slaves: "I'll want a list of the ones you think most capable of doing what is required, in two days. We'll make a decision then."

Aumtehoutep heard the familiar note of self-mockery in Saint-Germain's voice, but forbore to mention it. "What of Kosrozd? Do you plan to use him in this?"

"By the eternal Styx, no." He gave a rueful, dismayed laugh. "He's obvious enough as it is. If I told him how much I want information, he would rush out and demand it of every slave in the arena. The ones with real information would flee from him and the others would provide him with every fantastic rumor about, and if the time came that the rebellion occurred, we would be in even greater danger, because everyone would remember that it was Kosrozd who asked so many questions. Also, if he's to get any valid news, he must come upon it by accident. Real conspirators don't brag about their plans; they keep them to themselves. Let Kosrozd think I'm being blind, and let him tell me what he hears by chance. We'll learn more that way."

"Very well. In two days I'll provide you with the names of your slaves." He gestured his agreement and set about the task his master had set from him.

TEXT OF A LETTER TO CORNELIUS JUSTUS SILIUS FROM THE CO-COMMANDER OF THE PRAETORIAN GUARD, NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS.

To the distinguished and noble Senator, Cornelius Justus Silius, greetings:

I have been asked by my co-commander, C. Ofonius Tigellinus, to inform you of his retirement from office. His health has forced him to leave Rome and live quitely on his estates in the north, where, it is hoped, the care of his physician and the more restful setting will soon restore him to his former vigor. Certainly you must feel as I do that the Praetorian Guard has lost a respected and able leader at a time of great need. Had it not been for his deteriorating condition, you may be sure that Tigellinus would be here with me now, helping to reorganize our men into a more effective unit.

Since the Emperor has been gone so long, his return has thrown us into something of a quandary. We have new troops who have yet to serve the Emperor in person, and for that reason there are many new demands of the Guard while we prepare to assume the full weight of our responsibilities once again. There is a very high standard of conduct demanded of the Praetorians, and it will be a little time, I am sad to say, before we are once again at the level of that standard. The constructive advice of men such as you will get our fullest attention at this time.

Tigellinus informed me that you have been of service to him in the past, and so I ask that you will be kind enough to have the same regard for me now that the whole burden of command has fallen to my shoulders. How greatly I have come to value those noble and honorable Romans who have taken the interests of the empire to their hearts and have sworn to protect all that we have gained, here and abroad, and are not seduced by the new waves of treason that are lapping at the very gates of Rome. Those subtle enemies who work from within are more dangerous than those who besiege us from without, for they gnaw at the very heart of the empire.

Perhaps you are aware that some of the legions far from Rome, in their discontent, have spoken of rebellion and the raising to power of their various governors and commanders. We have had information here within the last two days, from truly reliable sources, that the legions in Tarraconensis and Baetica, and possibly those in Lusitania as well, are about to hail their governor, Servius Sulpicius Galba, as Emperor of the Roman Empire. It seems incredible that a man of Galba's years-he is close on seventy, as you may know-should embark on so dishonorable and rebellious a venture at this time. It is true that many of the legions do not love Nero, and that the recent prolonged stay in Greece has in part contributed to the unrest abroad, and has helped bring this uncharacteristic action about.

You have long observed the ways of Rome, and Tigellinus has assured me of your deep loyalty. For that reason I would like to request that should you at any time hear from those legions, or others, who have plans to unseat the rightful Caesar and set another in his place, that you will be at pains to inform me of what you have learned so that the Praetorians may fulfill their sworn oath and protect the Emperor.

This on the tenth day of April in the 820th Year of the City, by my own hand and under seal.

Nymphidius Sabinus

Commander, the Praetorian Guard