“Out! Out!” she shouted at the two Turks. “Get everybody out of here.”

Behind her, there was a terrible roar and the roof above the garden collapsed in a gout of flame, coming down with a crash. Dust and smoke billowed out of the door, and Thyatis and the remainder of her men fled into the hallway.

Dahak soared through the storm clouds, ringed by thunder and the ghosts of lightning. Power burned in him, his body failing, ravaged by the forces it conducted. The Boar, clutched close in his wiry arms, screamed as the electrical surges that coursed through Dahak’s body tore at his nervous system. Below them the house of the Bygar collapsed in a great pyre of flame. Smoke and soot billowed up hundreds of feet to lick at the low clouds. The streets around the old brick building were swarming with Imperial guardsmen, firemen, and the citizens of the neighborhood. Rain had begun to fall, but bucket brigades were in full force, trying to save the warehouses on either side of the old mansion.

Dahak cared nothing for this, bending all of his will to reaching safety on the far side of the Propontis. They hurtled low over the wavetops of the waterway. The sorcerer could barely make out the far shore. The last spark of static electricity fled him, and for a moment the two of them rushed through the night air, then the dark waters suddenly snatched up at them, catching Dahak’s trailing foot. The water was icy cold and a sharp shock as it smashed into them, then swallowed them up. The sorcerer straggled in the surging water for a moment, then consciousness left him and there was only the weight of the Boar, dragging him down.

Dwyrin sat on a narrow stone bench in a narrow little hallway, fidgeting. He picked at the scabs on the side of his face and his lower arms. The rosebush had torn him up pretty badly when he fell off the decking in the garden room. The Illyrian, Nikos, who was sitting on his left, nudged him to keep still. To his right, Timur, who seemed to be Turkish or Sarmatian, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep. The hallway was hot and filled with clerks, soldiers, and couriers, who pushed past the three sitting on the bench. Dwyrin tugged at the bandage over his right ear. It itched.

The last thing Dwyrin had seen in the house of the Bygar had been the blossoming flame of his own fire-cast raging against the swirling blue-white wall of lightning. The voice of the Eastern sorcerer had been huge, like a thunderstorm filling the sky, but then there had been fire and smoke. Strong arms, wiry and corded with muscle, had scooped him up and dragged him out of the burning building. Dwyrin had passed out, his throat filled with the bite of woodsmoke. He had woken in a crowded barracks, lying on a thin pallet of straw behind a great heap of barrels. Overhead, a series of stone ribs held up a soot-stained brick ceiling. An evil face with sallow skin, pinched eyes, and long, greasy, mustaches had been crouched over him. Dwyrin had stared back in astonishment, but the man had smiled and given him bread, cheese, and weak wine.

Dwyrin gathered that Timur was a soldier, though not a legionnaire. A mercenary drawn to the service of Rome by the smell of gold, doubtless. He and his fellows were a footloose band that was living in a basement of one of the lesser palaces. Their chief seemed to be the Illyrian, Nikos, who had looked the battered Dwyrin over after the boy was strong enough to sit.

“You say you had papers, lad?”

Dwyrin nodded. He remembered the master of the school pressing them into his hands. Where they were now? Who knew? But he did remember his purpose.

“They were orders to report to the prefecture in Alexandria, to enter the Thaumaturgic Legion. To serve the Emperor in the great war.”

Nikos had shaken his head in disgust at the thought of the young boy before him being drawn into the toils of the Imperial military machine. It was bad enough that he had fallen afoul of slavers, but the Legion? Timur, leaning against the nearest wicker crate, had chuckled at the expression on Nikos’ face.

“Are you sure of this, lad? Being a twenty-year man is no light load. You’ll be gray when you get out, mark me.” Nikos jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd of men playing dice at the entrance to the area claimed by the other members of his squad. “Look at these fellows. With your training, you could take up a soft life in the city, become rich. Have servants.”

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.