“How much?”

“More than you can pay,” he said lightly, as if it were a joke. “I know that you are a creature of Artorius, with no wealth of your own. There is nothing you own that I could want — your pathetic bits of jewelry are of little value …”

“Then why are we talking?”

“I do have other — ah, needs. Call it an appetite, perhaps.” He lifted his hand to her breast. He pinched her through the layers of her clothes, hard; his hands felt strong despite their pudginess.

She closed her eyes. “So that’s it. You disgust me.”

“That hardly concerns me,” he said.

“How do I know you won’t betray me? Take what you want and—”

“ — and leave you stranded here? Because I would be stranded, too. And you would no doubt go to Artorius, who would no doubt have me killed.” He winked at her. “Of course you could do that now. Oh, you see, you already have the upper hand in our negotiation. I am a poor businessman!”

She nodded. “What now?”

He eyed her with an intensity she hadn’t experienced since Amator. “Perhaps you could grant me a little on account.” He began to pull up his tunic.

So there, in the shadow of the river wall, she knelt before him. His crotch stank of stale urine. As he grew excited he began to thrust, threatening to choke her.

“But it is not you I want,” he said, gasping. “Not a fat old sow like you. Your daughter. That is the bargain, lady Regina. Send me Brica. If not I will risk the wrath of Artorius himself …” He grabbed her head and pushed her face into his crotch. “Aah.”

Artorius faced his council. He was naked, save only for an iron torc around his neck, made for him by Myrddin. He had shaved his body, and the hair on his head was thickened with limewash so it stood up in great spikes from his head. This was how his ancestors had met Julius Caesar, he believed, and how he would challenge the latest holder of the purple.

His council gazed at him, frozen in shock. In the stony expressions of men like Ceawlin, Regina saw veiled amusement, even contempt. Only young Ambrosius Aurelianus stared at this savage, antique figure with something like awe.

You fool, Artorius, she thought.

Artorius said, “Many centuries ago — so the bards say — a great host of those the Romans call barbarians, the Celtae, thrust across Europe and burned down Rome itself. There were British among them — so it is said. What can be done once will be done again …”

He was calling for a great rising of the Celtae — for their culture had been swept aside, he argued, first by the Caesars and now by the Christian popes. It would be a campaign to free Britain and Europe once and for all from the yoke of Rome. And he would do that by taking Rome for himself.

“Some accuse me of seeking the purple,” Artorius said now. “The mantle of the Emperor. But I seek the mantle, not of the Caesars, but of Brutus and Lear and Cymbeline, the forefathers of Britain. And the gods who will protect me are not the Christ and His father, but the older gods, the true gods, Lud and Coventina and Sulis and the triple mothers …”

Ceawlin maneuvered himself close to Regina. There was a faint stink of urine even now.

Regina closed her eyes. His stink made her gorge rise, as it had done that day by the river wall. And yet she must put that aside, and think with the clarity for which she prayed daily to the matres.

Brica would be harmed by her contact with this fat pig. But the family would be harmed more badly if she sat by while Artorius submitted himself to his suicidal venture, and all he had built was cast to the winds, all the protection she had carefully accrued dissipated. Brica was the most precious person in the world to her. But together they were family. And the family, its continuity into the future, was of more importance than any individual.

There was only one choice.

She whispered to Ceawlin, “One condition. Don’t make her pregnant.”

Ceawlin sat back, and the stink of him receded a little.

Artorius had done talking now. His colleagues — those who would follow him across Europe, and those who would betray him before he walked out of this room — cheered and yelled alike.

Chapter 23

Lucia took a bus to the Venezia. From there it was a short walk to the Piazza Navona. She took a seat at an open-air cafй and sipped an iced tea. It was a bright January day.

The Piazza was a long, rectangular space surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. The square was crammed with street painters and vendors selling bags and hats and bits of jewelry from suitcases. There were no less than three fountains here. The one at the center was the Fountain of the Four Rivers, four great statues to represent the Ganges, the Danube, the Plate, and the Nile. When she was small Lucia had wondered why the Nile statue was blindfolded; it was because when the statue was created the source of the Nile had still been a mystery.

This pretty piazza was one of her favorite places in Rome. She wondered how Daniel could have guessed that. Then she decided she was being foolish; it was just coincidence. She glanced at her watch: a quarter past three. She sipped her tea and, masked by her blue glasses, flinched from the speculative stares of the passing boys and men.

Of course she had no right to expect him to be here. It had been three weeks since that chance meeting by the lake, and even that, contaminated by Pina’s hostility, had only lasted a few minutes.

She was pretty sure Pina hadn’t told any of the cupola what had happened before the Temple of Aesculapius. But since then Pina had found a reason to accompany Lucia every time she left the Crypt. For the first few days she had even followed Lucia to the bathroom. On her last trip out, though, Pina, busy with other chores, had let her go alone. Perhaps Pina had relaxed a little. Lucia hadn’t dared do anything that day. Today, however, she had again managed to leave the Crypt’s aboveground offices without Pina seeing her, as far as she could tell. And so Lucia had taken the chance.

But she had wasted her time. Twenty past three. This was stupid. She began to collect together her bag, the magazine she had spread on the table for cover. Maybe it was for the best, she thought. After all, if this boy had turned up, what could she possibly have said to him? And besides -

“Hi.” He was standing before her, no sunglasses this time, that high forehead glistening with sweat. “I’m sorry I’m late. The damn bus broke down and I had to run.”

She was sitting there, foolishly clutching her bag.

He sat down. “But you know what? I wasn’t worried. I told myself that the Law of Sod wouldn’t let me down. Today was the one day in three weeks I am late, so today is the day you would come …” He grinned. “Sorry.”

She put her bag down under her seat, and in doing so nearly knocked over her iced tea. Daniel had to grab it. “Don’t apologize,” she said. Even her voice sounded awkward. “I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s me who hasn’t turned up for three weeks.”

“You had no reason to. You don’t know me.” He looked more serious. “Anyhow, I know you have difficulties. That bulldog of a sister of yours is very protective.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” she said defensively.

He studied her, his blue eyes wide.

A waiter in white shirt and bow tie slid past their table with menus. Daniel quickly ordered more iced tea for them both. The waiter smiled at them, and moved a little bowl of dried flowers from a neighboring table.

“How about that. He thinks we’re on a date.”

“We can’t be on a date,” she said clumsily.

He raised his eyebrows. “We can’t?”