You were supposed to look under the beds, of course-obvious hiding places. But you were also supposed to use your judgement as a decurion (a centurion-to-be?) and not waste time. There were a lot of houses to be searched before dawn. There had been no ambiguity about the orders given: they wanted the woman found before the ceremony in the Hippodrome tomorrow. Ecodes was willing to assert with confidence that the woman who had been Empress of Sarantium this morning was not under the bed on which these two Bassanids had been engaged.

"As you were, doctor," he said, allowing himself a grin. "Carry on." He went out, closing the door behind him. Priscus was coming down the hallway with two of the men. Ecodes looked at him; he shook his head.

"One room that was occupied, but it isn't any more. A patient of some sort."

"Let's go," Ecodes said. "I’ll tell you about that outside. You won't fucking believe it."

She'd had a filthy mouth, that Bassanid whore, but a nicely curved rump, he thought, going down the stairs ahead of Priscus, remembering that first startling, arousing vision when he'd opened the door. He wondered idly if there'd be any chance of a girl himself, later tonight. Not likely. Not for honest soldiers doing a job.

In the antechamber by the front door he waited for his men to file out and then nodded to the steward. Politely. Even said a thank you. A Senator's house. He'd given them his name when they came in.

"Oh," he said, as a last thought struck him. "When did that Bassanid whore upstairs come here?"

The steward looked genuinely scandalized. "You foul-mouthed man! What a disgusting thought! The Bassanid is a well-known physician and an… an honoured guest of the Senator!" he exclaimed. "Keep your evil thoughts to yourself!"

Ecodes blinked and then laughed aloud. Well, well. Too sensitive by half! Told him something, didn't it? Boys? He made a mental note to ask someone about this Senator Bonosus later. He was about to explain when he saw the woman behind the steward wink at him, holding a finger to her smiling lips.

Ecodes grinned. She was pretty, this one. And it was obvious that the very proper steward didn't know all that was going on in this house.

"Right," he said, looking at the woman meaningfully. Maybe he'd have a chance to come back later. Unlikely, but you never knew. The steward looked quickly over his shoulder at the girl, whose expression immediately became entirely proper, her hands clasped submissively at her waist. Ecodes grinned again. Women. Born to deceive, all of them. But this one was clean, the way Ecodes liked, a bit of class to her, not like the eastern shrew upstairs.

"Never mind," he said to the steward. "Carry on."

The night was passing, swift as chariots; they were to find the woman before sunrise. The announced reward was extravagant. Even if divided among ten (with a double share to the decurion, of course) they could all retire to lives of leisure when their service was up. Have their own clean serving girls, or wives-or both for that matter. Little chance of any of that if they lingered or delayed. His men were waiting impatiently in the street. Ecodes turned and went down the steps "Right, lads. Next house," he said briskly. The steward closed the door behind him, hard.

He had been embarrassed by his own arousal under the sheets as she simulated lovemaking, appearing to be riding him as the door opened. She hadn't let him lock the door, and belatedly he had understood: the room was going to be searched, the whole idea was for the soldiers to find them engaged in the act, outraged at intrusion. Her voice, a low snarl changing swiftly to a nasal whine, speaking Rustem's own tongue with ferociously obscene eloquence, had startled him almost as much as it appeared to disconcert the small soldier in the doorway. Rustem, aware that his life was at risk here, had little trouble assuming a pose of anger and hostility.

Alixana had dismounted from her position upon him, clutching the sheets to herself. She fired another volley of invective at the soldier, and Rustem, inspired by fear as much as anything else, had slapped her face, shocking himself.

Now, as the door closed, he waited an agonizingly long moment, heard conversation outside, then steps on the creaking stairs, and finally murmured, "I am sorry. That blow. I…»

Lying beside him, she didn't even look over. "No. It was well done."

He cleared his throat. "I would lock it now, probably, if this were… real."

"It is real enough," she whispered.

All force seemed drained from her now. He was aware of her naked form beside his own, but not with desire any more. He felt a deep shame about that, and some other emotion that came unexpectedly close to grief. He rose and quickly drew on his tunic, without undergarments. He went over to the door, locking it. When he turned back, she was sitting up in the bed, the sheets wrapped fully around her.

Rustem hesitated, at sea and unmoored, then crossed and sat on the small bench near the fire. He looked at the flames and put a log on, busying himself with trivial activity. He said, not looking at her, "When did you learn Bassanid?"

"Did I do all right?"

He nodded. "I couldn't curse like that."

"I'm sure you could." Her voice was leached of nuance. "I picked up some when I was young, mostly the swearing. Learned more when we dealt with ambassadors, later. Men are flattered when a woman speaks to them in their own tongue."

"And the… voice?" That rancid harridan from some dockside caupona.

"I was an actress, doctor, remember? Much the same as a whore, some say. Was I convincing as one?"

This time he did look at her. Her gaze was vacant, fixed on the door through which the soldier had gone.

Rustem was silent. He felt as if the night had become deep as a stone well, as dark. A day so long it seemed beyond belief. Had started with his patient gone in the morning and his own desire to see the racing in the Hippodrome.

It had started differently for her.

He looked narrowly at the too-still figure on his bed. Shook his head at what he saw. He was a physician, had seen this look before. He said, "My lady, forgive me, but you must weep. You must allow yourself to do that. I say this… professionally."

She didn't even move. "Not yet," she said. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," said Rustem, very deliberately. "The man you loved is dead. Murdered. He is gone. You can, my lady."

She turned finally to look at him. The firelight caught her flawless cheekbones, shadowed the cropped hair, the smears of dirt, could not reach the darkness of those eyes. Rustem had an impulse-rare for him as rain in the desert-to cross to the bed and hold her. He refrained.

He murmured, "We say that when Anahita weeps for her children, pity enters the world, the kingdoms of light and dark."

"I have no children."

So clever. Guarding herself so very hard. "You are her child," he said.

"I will not be pitied."

"Then let yourself mourn, or I must pity the woman who cannot."

Again, she shook her head. "A bad patient, doctor. I am sorry. I owe you obedience if nothing else for what you have just done. But not yet. Not… yet. Perhaps when… everything else is done."

"Where will you go?" he said, after a moment.

A quick, reflexive smile, meaningless, born of nothing but the habit of wit, from a world lost. She said, "Now I am truly wounded. You tire of me in your bed already?"

He shook his head. Stared at her, said nothing. Then he turned deliberately back to the fire and busied himself there with movements old as all hearths, that any man or woman might have done in any age, might be doing even now, somewhere else in the world. He took his time.

And a few moments later he heard a harsh, choking noise, and then another. With a great effort, Rustem continued to gaze into the flames, not looking over at the bed where the Empress of Sarantium was grieving in the night, with broken sounds he had never heard before.