impression was confirmed. The place was run by a skeleton staff. He asked, “Is this the house of Sixtus Julianus? Is he in?”
“Of course,” smiled the scullion, wiping a hand on his apron. “He’s always in.” And he bowed him into the vestibule. “Not been out of these doors in five years—the crazy old coot,” he added affectionately. “Can I tell him who’s here?”
“Uh—C. Marcus Silanus. He doesn’t know me. But if he isn’t busy...”
“Oh, he’s always busy,” said the slave cheerfully, as they emerged into a shadowy atrium whose only light was that which fell through the skylight above the pool and whose floor of old, yellowing marble was thick with dust and scattered with brown leaves. “But take a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here.” And, still wiping his hands on his tunic hem, he trotted off between the slender decorative pillars and down a hall, leaving Marcus alone in the semi-darkness under the ancient, knowing, haughty eyes of the sculptured Egyptian cat in the wall niche.
After a few moments the man returned, puffing and out of breath. He led Marcus down the hallway, past priceless frescoes faded by time, out into the green still jungle-riot of overgrown willows and uncut vines, where the fountain trickled through bulbous cankers of moss and the lichened bricks of the few paths still visible were being relentlessly thrust apart by the weeds. The colonnade around the garden was so badly choked with vines that only a small entrance remained. Through green filtered light he led him down a kind of tunnel of stone and leaves, to a sheltered bay that had once been a workshop looking out into the garden. Marcus had the curious impression that he had wandered into a hill cave, inhabited by a scholarly hermit and stocked with scrolls and tablets and curiosities, strange stones, and a globe of the stars.
Sixtus Julianus rose as Marcus was ushered in. For all the apparent frailness of his build, Marcus’ first impression of him was of a kind of latent toughness, coupled with a kingly dignity. He was an aristocrat of the most ancient traditions of a long-vanished republic, clean as bleached bone, his plain tunic the color of raw wool and his short-clipped hair and beard fine as silk and whiter than sunlit snow. The burning demons of sun and wind, sand and enemy steel had carved his face; from the webwork of lines, blue eyes regarded him, fierce and pure and serene as the desert sky. His hands, resting among the scholarly confusion of the table, were heavy and powerful, the white-furred forearms crisscrossed by old pale scars. A soldier’s hands, thought Marcus, like those of the centurion Arrius.
He said, “Please be seated,” in a voice deep and rich as bronze. Someone brought up a chair, and turning, Marcus met Churaldin’s eyes.
The slave asked, “Is it about the girl?”
Marcus nodded.
Churaldin turned to his master. “Sir, this is the man whom I—tripped—in pursuit of the kidnappers last night. Are you well?”
“No thanks to you,” grinned Marcus wryly.
“Have they found her?” asked Sixtus, reseating himself and clearing aside part of the welter of scrolls that lay between them.
Marcus shook his head. “Not yet.” He fished in his purse. “But they found this.” And he laid the silver amulet of the fish on the table between them like a coin. “It was picked up from the mud near the litter. I must have torn it loose from the neck of one of the attackers in the struggle.”
The old man picked it up carefully, and turned it over in his fingers. His eyes met Marcus’. “Do you know what this is?”
“Yes,” said Marcus quietly. “Yes, I do. We have to rescue her, and rescue her quickly. I need Churaldin’s help to do that. I—I came here to ask your permission to speak with him.”
Sixtus nodded and rose to go. Churaldin, who had also seated himself at the other side of the table, glanced up and met his eyes, and Marcus saw, with a curious sense of
“Of course,” smiled the scullion, wiping a hand on his apron. “He’s always in.” And he bowed him into the vestibule. “Not been out of these doors in five years—the crazy old coot,” he added affectionately. “Can I tell him who’s here?”
“Uh—C. Marcus Silanus. He doesn’t know me. But if he isn’t busy...”
“Oh, he’s always busy,” said the slave cheerfully, as they emerged into a shadowy atrium whose only light was that which fell through the skylight above the pool and whose floor of old, yellowing marble was thick with dust and scattered with brown leaves. “But take a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here.” And, still wiping his hands on his tunic hem, he trotted off between the slender decorative pillars and down a hall, leaving Marcus alone in the semi-darkness under the ancient, knowing, haughty eyes of the sculptured Egyptian cat in the wall niche.
After a few moments the man returned, puffing and out of breath. He led Marcus down the hallway, past priceless frescoes faded by time, out into the green still jungle-riot of overgrown willows and uncut vines, where the fountain trickled through bulbous cankers of moss and the lichened bricks of the few paths still visible were being relentlessly thrust apart by the weeds. The colonnade around the garden was so badly choked with vines that only a small entrance remained. Through green filtered light he led him down a kind of tunnel of stone and leaves, to a sheltered bay that had once been a workshop looking out into the garden. Marcus had the curious impression that he had wandered into a hill cave, inhabited by a scholarly hermit and stocked with scrolls and tablets and curiosities, strange stones, and a globe of the stars.
Sixtus Julianus rose as Marcus was ushered in. For all the apparent frailness of his build, Marcus’ first impression of him was of a kind of latent toughness, coupled with a kingly dignity. He was an aristocrat of the most ancient traditions of a long-vanished republic, clean as bleached bone, his plain tunic the color of raw wool and his short-clipped hair and beard fine as silk and whiter than sunlit snow. The burning demons of sun and wind, sand and enemy steel had carved his face; from the webwork of lines, blue eyes regarded him, fierce and pure and serene as the desert sky. His hands, resting among the scholarly confusion of the table, were heavy and powerful, the white-furred forearms crisscrossed by old pale scars. A soldier’s hands, thought Marcus, like those of the centurion Arrius.
He said, “Please be seated,” in a voice deep and rich as bronze. Someone brought up a chair, and turning, Marcus met Churaldin’s eyes.
The slave asked, “Is it about the girl?”
Marcus nodded.
Churaldin turned to his master. “Sir, this is the man whom I—tripped—in pursuit of the kidnappers last night. Are you well?”
“No thanks to you,” grinned Marcus wryly.
“Have they found her?” asked Sixtus, reseating himself and clearing aside part of the welter of scrolls that lay between them.
Marcus shook his head. “Not yet.” He fished in his purse. “But they found this.” And he laid the silver amulet of the fish on the table between them like a coin. “It was picked up from the mud near the litter. I must have torn it loose from the neck of one of the attackers in the struggle.”
The old man picked it up carefully, and turned it over in his fingers. His eyes met Marcus’. “Do you know what this is?”
“Yes,” said Marcus quietly. “Yes, I do. We have to rescue her, and rescue her quickly. I need Churaldin’s help to do that. I—I came here to ask your permission to speak with him.”
Sixtus nodded and rose to go. Churaldin, who had also seated himself at the other side of the table, glanced up and met his eyes, and Marcus saw, with a curious sense of
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