Dwyrin had shaken his head. He had given old Nephet his word that he would carry out the task set him. His honor depended on it. Nikos and Timur had argued with him for another hour, but it was to no avail. So, the next morning, they had trooped with the boy up to the quartermaster’s billet in the “new” palace.
A door opened in the hallway and a slightly built clerk with a frizz of white hair looked out.
“Dwyrin MacDonald, enlistee?” The man’s voice was devoid of emotion, but it carried to where the three were sitting.
Dwyrin jerked awake and stood up.
Nikos stood as well and tousled his hair. The stocky Illyrian smiled, his stubbly square face lighting for an instant. “Be careful, lad. Don’t take any extra duty and never, ever volunteer. Remember that!”
Timur stood as well, easing up on his bad leg, and fingered his mustaches. He looked down at the boy for a long moment, his face a mask. Then he smiled a little too and pressed a worn leather knife scabbard into the boy’s hand. It was grimy and nicked, and the hilt of the knife was wrapped in leather so black with age and sweat that it seemed like obsidian. Dwyrin smiled back and bowed, taking the leave-present. He turned and entered the room set aside for the oathtaking.
Outside, Nikos glared at the closed door. Timur leaned against the wall at his side.
“We should have convinced him to stay with us,” Nikos said, his voice tight with disappointment. Timur snickered.
“He’s too young for you, optio.” Nikos ignored him.
“The centurion will skin me for letting a fire-caster get away,” he continued. Timur shrugged. The boy was gone. Nikos stalked off down the hallway, ignoring the clerks and bureaucrats who got in his way. Timur followed close after, though his leg was hurting him again.
In the room, there was only a desk with a camp stool behind it. On the stool sat a lean-faced man with dark brown hair. He wore the tunic, short cloak, and leggings of a senior centurion. At his right breast, a small golden eagle was pinned to hold back the folds of his cloak. He had a muster roll open on the desk in front of him. The clerk, having shown Dwyrin in, retreated to the wall by the door. The centurion did not smile and looked the Hibernian up and down, his lips pursed in disapproval.
“Name?” he asked.
“Dwyrin MacDonald, sir.”
The centurion carefully checked through the roll. At last, he shook his head slightly.
“There is no record of your levy, MacDonald,” he said.
Dwyrin nodded, saying, “I was supposed to report to the prefect in Alexandria, sir, but I became sick and was sold to slavers. During that time I lost my travel and assignment papers, sir.”
The centurion continued to regard him, his light-brown eyes cold. “Do you know which unit, or legion, you were assigned to, MacDonald?”
“Yes, sir, the Third Ars Magica.”
An eyelid of the senior centurion flickered. He put the main muster roll aside and unfolded a smaller one. He checked through it, his long fingers rustling through the rolls of papyrus. He looked up. “Here you are. You are to report to a unit that was to muster at Alexandria. Have you taken the oath of enlistment?”
“No, sir.”
The senior centurion sighed and gestured to the servant at the back of the room. The white-haired man crossed to another door and returned with a tall wooden pole surmounted by a bronze eagle with downswept wings. Beneath the eagle were two cross-plates, each inscribed with letters. The servant knelt and held the standard in a firm grip. Another servant entered through the same door, with a smoking copper brazier and a wooden-handled object. The senior centurion and the new servant fussed with the brazier. Finally it was ready. The centurion turned and motioned for Dwyrin to kneel.
“Take off your tunic,” he said, his voice level. Dwyrin obeyed. The centurion stood over hirn. Dwyrin stared at the floor, wondering what the oath entailed.
“You are Dwyrin MacDonald, of the house MacDonald. Son of Aeren.”
“I am,” the boy answered.
“You pledge yourself to the service, in war, of the people and the Senate and the Emperor of the city of Rome?”
“I do,” Dwyrin answered.
“Do you swear to uphold the state with your very life, under the auspices of the gods?”
“I do,” Dwyrin said. Now an odd feeling stole over him, a prickling along his skin. For a moment he was tempted to assume the entrance of Hermes and see if some fey power had entered the room,‘all invisible. But he did not. The centurion continued to speak, his voice rising.
“I so swear,” Dwyrin finished. The centurion pulled the wooden-handled rod out of the fire in the brazier. Before Dwyrin could flinch away, the two servants seized his arms and bent them back. The centurion, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the fire, pressed the white-hot brand against the pale white shoulder of the boy.
At the top of the steps at the far end of the corridor that led away from the quartermaster’s offices, Timur heard the echoing wail of pain. He smoothed his mustaches and his hand slid into the light shirt he wore. His fingers ran lightly over the ritual scarring that decorated his chest and abdomen. He smiled and then made his way down the stairs. They were narrow and steep and well worn by the passage of thousands of feet. llPMOMQMQMQHOHQMQHOMOHOWOHQMOMOWQMOMQMQHQHOMQl^i] THE SUBURA DISTRICT, ROME
Gods, what a pit!“ The dead man sneered, his leathery face twisted into a grimace. He and Abdmachus rode down a narrow way behind the Forum. The alley was choked with garbage, broken furniture, and the rotting corpses of dead animals. The little Persian led, while the dead man had the young Prince thrown over the front of his saddle. A gray cape had been added to the clothes Abdmachus had given him in the tomb. The motheaten hood was pulled forward, shading the man’s extremely pale complexion. The Persian nudged his horse right and they turned into a little courtyard behind the brick edifice of a four-story insula. The dead man looked around carefully, his face a mask, while the Persian swung off his horse and made his way up a flight of broken steps to bang on the door at the back of the block of flats.
A sound rose, echoing from the pale brick faces of the buildings, a great murmur like the sea against a steep shore. The dead man turned around on his horse, looking for the source of the noise. Off to the south he saw a great cliff of marble rising over the red tile roofs. A forest of banners and pennons surmounted it. Smoke rose around it, curdling against the soaring wall and collecting in the arched openings that ringed the top of the edifice. He scratched his nose, then held his hand up in the morning light. It seemed odd for it to be so bleached and pale, very like the belly of a fish.
A man in a dirty yellow smock opened the door and nodded to the Persian. Abdmachus stumbled down the steps and came up to his horse.
“What is that?” The dead man pointed at the building looming over the rooftops.
Abdmachus turned, his fingers busy untying the straps that held the Prince to the horse. He squinted into the sun.
“Oh,” the Persian said, “it’s the Colosseum. There must be games today.”
They had entered the city through the Porta Ostiensis gate, by the river, at dawn. A great throng of merchants and draymen had already clogged the artery leading into the city from the southwest. The Persian had shown his papers to the overworked guards at the gate, and they had entered without incident. The dead man was, by turns, troubled at the- wan pallor evident on the faces of the people and stunned by the vast size of the city and the crumbling monuments therein. Cutting across the city toward the bowl of the Subura, they had passed through ancient gates, triumphal ways, and skirted the palace-clogged magnificence of the Palatine. As they rode through the thronging crowds, the Persian could hear the dead man muttering to himself.