"I see. Ah, here are the earlier drafts of the treaty, since we no longer have the services of the late Hypatia:"

"Was it really necessary to kill her?" hissed Asiatic Slippers.

"Oh, absolutely," said Greek Sandals. "She was about to sell us all out to the Roman."

"We don't allow treachery," said Military Boots. "Not from an Athenian whore, and not from a Chian philosopher."

"Yes, I suppose the man had to die," said Asiatic Slippers. "Dealing with the kings of Numidia and Armenia might have been overlooked, but not blackmail. Still"-he sighed-"he was a unique resource and we shall miss him."

"I shall read through the treaty clause by clause," Greek Sandals said. "You may then translate into the Parthian tongue. In the absence of your lamented concubine, I fear that you must trust the accuracy of my reading."

"At this stage," Asiatic Slippers said, "I have no fear of double-dealing. However, you must understand that all of this hinges upon Lord Achillas making himself king of Egypt."

"You need have no doubt of that," said Greek Sandals. "We Greeks invented the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Very shortly the god Baal-Ahriman shall prophesy that the Lord Achillas is actually the son of the late King Ptolemy, and is the true heir to the double crown. He shall put aside the usurper, the false Ptolemy. He shall marry the Princess Berenice, and possibly Cleopatra and Arsinoe as well. He will then lead Egypt back to its ancient position of glory."

"As long as he does not move into Parthian territory," Asiatic Slippers said.

"That is what this treaty concerns," said Military Boots. "Let's be about it. I would like to be out of this house by dawn."

And they went over it, clause by clause. It was an alliance of Egypt and Parthia against Rome. Iphicrates and Achillas had convinced Phraates that, with these silly engines, he could defy the Roman legions at will. Far more ominously, it established an Egypt-Parthia axis complete with a war plan. At a time to be agreed upon, Egypt would invade up the Sinai and into Judaea and Syria as far as the Euphrates. Phraates would send his horse-archers (with all those splendid new machines) westward into Pontus, Bithynia and Asia Minor as far as the Hellespont, between them pushing Rome entirely out of all those territories. The plan was incredibly ambitious and would have been unrealistic except for one thing. We were readying for war with Gaul. Since Mithridates had died, we had been lulled into the idea that the East was utterly pacified. They might, I realized, just get away with it.

But I could not allow this. I had heard everything. I was on the spot and had the documents and the conspirators within my grasp. Most of all, I had the most agonizing need to urinate.

Just keeping quiet under a bed for hours is difficult enough, trying not to shift, scratch or sneeze. It is far worse when you've indulged in a bit of Chian beforehand.

"I think that concludes our business," said Military Boots, his voice still oddly strained. "It's getting light outside."

"I shall send the book with the documents enclosed to King Phraates," said Asiatic Slippers.

"And I am for the temple," said Greek Sandals. "A good day and a fine new era to you gentlemen."

"Not so fast!" I said, bursting up from beneath the bed, letting the delicate Egyptian fabrication smash back against the wall as I drew my sword. "I have you all:" The three had backed away, eyes going wide, startled. The first thing I noted was that Military Boots was not Achillas. It was Memnon, and he wore a bandage about his jaw where I had marked him with my caestus. No wonder his voice sounded strained. He had his sword out, too.

Orodes was just who I thought he was, but the other man I did not know, although he seemed decidedly familiar. He was a Greek with a close-trimmed beard and hair that just covered his ears. His hand went into his tunic and came out with an odd axe, its blade deeply curved with a short spike on the opposite side. The handle had been crudely cut to about a foot in length. I grinned at him.

"You look better without the wig and false beard, Ataxas," I said. "But why the axe? Is it what you kill bulls with? I suppose a slave like you never learned to use a freeman's weapons."

"The Roman!" Memnon said, giving me a smile that must have hurt. "I swore I'd avenge the blows you struck me!"

Orodes darted toward the book. It had been rerolled and a small stack of papers stood beside it-undoubtedly the earlier drafts of the treaty. He reached for the book and I flicked out with the point of my gladius, opening his forearm from wrist to elbow. He squawked and jumped back.

"No, no," I said. "That's mine. We're going to see some treason trials and some crucifixions when I present those, first to King Ptolemy and then to the Senate."

Memnon chuckled. "Roman, you're assuming that you're going to get out of here alive. You're wrong." He came toward me in that flat-footed, shuffling crouch that denotes the practiced swordsman. I moved toward him as I had been taught, gladiator-style, balanced on the balls of my feet. I picked up a spindly chair to use as a shield. Memnon whipped his cloak around his left forearm for the same purpose.

Memnon aimed a stab at my face, but his sword was a Greek type, longer than mine, with a swelling point. It was just a bit slow and I sidestepped it, sending a thrust in return. When you thrust with a gladius, your arm becomes a target. That is why gladiators wear armor on the weapon arm. So my arm snapped out and back, quick as a snake's tongue. I meant to put the blade right through Memnon's throat, but he pulled back and ducked his head and I only nicked his chin. I had my arm back so fast that he didn't have an opportunity to cut at it, but he thrust low at my belly. I jerked backward, a little clumsily because of my long stay beneath the bed. I rotated the chair down, caught the sword and swept it aside as I stepped in and thrust at his chest. No Thracian in the amphitheater ever executed the move as neatly.

But Memnon was no mean swordsman. He brought his cloak-wrapped forearm up and across and batted my blade past his left shoulder as he slid in and sent his own blade at my belly. I brought the chair down and made an unexpected catch. His point jammed into one of the legs, split it and lodged there. I yanked the chair aside, sweeping his sword wide and stepping in to thrust my point into his belly, just below the breastbone, and lancing upward into the heart. To make a thorough job of it, I twisted the point before I withdrew it, causing a great effusion of blood to follow my blade.

Memnon crashed across the table, taking the lamps with it. This did not plunge the room into darkness, for the sun was up and light came in through the single window. For the first time since Memnon had come for me, I had a chance to see what the other two were doing.

Orodes had disappeared. I hadn't heard him going down the stairs, but then I had been preoccupied. A fight to the death narrows one's focus considerably. I stuck my head out the window and saw Orodes headed toward the Palace, hugging his wounded arm to his body. Just below me, Ataxas burst out the front door and began sprinting toward the Rakhotis. He carried something bulky. I pulled back in and looked at the smashed table. The book was gone.

I had to give chase, but I had some urgent business to transact. I was tempted to piss on Memnon, but it is inadvisable to abuse the bodies of the dead. I have never been superstitious, but it always pays to be cautious. Look at what happened to Achillas after he dragged Hector behind his chariot. A vase served adequately, and I re-sheathed my sword without bothering to wipe it off. Another job for Hermes.

I was out the door in time to see Ataxas's dwindling form disappear around a corner of the theater. I ran after him, to the great curiosity of the citizens who were beginning to populate the streets.