We sat in the shade, and Zuleika told me her story.

She had been born in a city with an unpronounceable name, in a country unimaginably far away-beyond Nubia, she said, even be-yond the fabled source of the Nile. Her father had been a wealthy trader in ivory, who often traveled and took his family with him. In a desert land, at a tender age, she had seen her father and mother murdered by bandits. Zuleika and her younger brother, Zanziba, were abducted and sold into slavery.

"Our fortunes varied, as did our masters," she said, "but at least we were kept together as a pair; because we were exotic, you see." And beautiful, I thought, assuming that her brother's beauty matched her own. "Eventually we found ourselves in Egypt. Our new owner was the master of a mime troupe. He trained us to be performers."

"You have a particular talent?"

"I dance and sing."

"And your brother?"

"Zanziba excelled at acrobatics-cartwheels, balancing acts, somersaults in midair. The master said that Zanziba must have a pair of wings hidden somewhere between those massive shoulders of his." She smiled, but only briefly. "Our master had once been a slave himself. He was a kind and generous man; he allowed his slaves to earn their own money, with the goal of eventually buying their freedom. When we had earned enough, Zanziba and I, we used the money to purchase Zanziba's freedom, with the intention of putting aside more money until we could do the same for me.

"But then the master fell on hard times. He was forced to disband the troupe and sell his performers piecemeal-a dancer here, a juggler there. I ended up with a new master, a Roman merchant living in Alexandria. He didn't want me for my dancing or my singing. He wanted me for my body." She lowered her eyes. "When Zanziba came to him and said he wanted to buy my freedom, the man named a very steep price. Zanziba vowed to earn it, but he could never hope to do so as an acrobat, performing for coins in the street. He disappeared from Alexandria. Time passed, and more time. For such a long time I heard no word from him that I began to despair, thinking that my brother was dead, or had forgotten about me.

"Then, finally, money arrived-a considerable sum, enough to buy my freedom and more. And with it came a letter-not in Zanziba's hand, because neither of us had ever learned to read or write, but written for him by the banker who transmitted the money."

"What did the letter say?"

"Can you read?"

"Yes."

"Then read it for yourself." Zuleika handed me a worn and tat-tered scrap of parchment.

Beloved Sister, I am in Italy, among the Romans. I have become a gladiator, a man who fights to the death to honor the Roman dead. It is a strange thing to be. The Romans profess to despise our kind, yet all the men want to buy us drinks in the taverns and all the women want to sleep with us. I despise this life, but it is the only way afreedman can earn the sort of money we need. It is a hard, cruel life, not fit for an animal, and it comes to a terrible end. Do not follow or try to find me. Forget me. Find your way back to our homeland, if you can. Live free, sister. I, too, shall live free, and though I may die young, 1 shall die a free man. Your loving brother, Zanziba.

I handed the scrap of parchment back to her. "Your brother told you not to come to Italy."

"How could I not come? Zanziba hadn't forgotten me, after all. I was not going to forget him. As soon as I was able, I booked passage on a ship to Rome."

"Travel is expensive."

"I paid for the fare from the money Zanziba sent me."

"Surely he meant for you to live off that money."

"Here in Rome I make my own living." She raised her chin high. The haughty angle flattered her. She was beautiful; she was exotic; she was obviously eleven I could well imagine that Zuleika was able to demand a high fee for the pleasure of her company.

"You came to Rome. And then?"

"I looked for Zanziba, of course. I started with the banker who'd sent the money. He sent me to a gladiator camp near Neapolis. I talked to the man who owned the camp-the trainer, what you Romans call a lanista. He told me Zanziba had fought with his troupe of gladiators for a while, but had long since moved on. The lanista didn't know where. Most gladiators are captives or slaves, but Zanziba was a free agent; he went where the money was best. I followed his trail by rumor and hearsay. I came to one dead end after another, and each time I had to start all over again. If you're as good as peo-ple say, Gordianus the Finder, I could have used the skills of a man like you to track him down." She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how many gladiator camps there are in Italy?"

"Scores, I should imagine."

"Hundreds, scattered all over the countryside! Over the last few months I've traveled the length and breadth of Italy, looking for Zanziba without luck, until… until a man who knew Zanziba told me that he was fighting for a lanista named Ahala who runs a camp in Ravenna. But the man said I needn't bother going all the way to Ravenna, because Ahala's gladiators would be fighting at funeral games the very next day up in Saturnia."

"At the funeral of Sextus Thorius," I said.

"Yes. I wasn't able to leave Rome until the next morning. I traveled all day. I arrived just when Zanziba's match was beginning-ex-cited, fearful, out of breath. Just in time to see-"

"Are you sure it was him?"

"Of course."

"But he wore a helmet."

She shook her head. "With or without the helmet, I'd have known him. By his limbs and legs. By the way he moved. 'Zanziba must have wings hidden between those massive shoulders,' the mas-ter in Alexandria used to say… " Her voice trembled and her eyes glittered with tears. "After all my travels, all my searching, I arrived just in time to see my brother die!"

I lowered my eyes, remembering the scene: the Nubian flat on his chest, the Gaul with his sword poised to strike, the uncertain magistrate, the raucous crowd, the death blow, the fountain of blood…

"I'm sorry you had to see such a thing, Zuleika. Did you attend to his body afterwards?"

"I wasn't even allowed to see him! I went to the quarters where the gladiators were kept, but the lanista wouldn't let me in."

"Did you tell him who you were?"

"If anything, that made him even more hostile. He told me it didn't matter whose sister I was, that I had no business being there. 'Clear off!' he shouted, and one of the gladiators shook a sword at me, and I ran away, crying. I should have stood up to him, I suppose, but I was so upset…"

Stood up to him? I thought. That would have been impossible. A freedwoman Zuleika might be, but that hardly gave her the privi-leges of a Roman citizen, or the prerogatives of being male. No one in Saturnia that day would have taken her side against the lanista.

I sighed, wondering, now that her story was told, why she had come to see me. "Your brother did an honorable thing when he sent you money to buy your freedom. But perhaps he was right. You shouldn't have followed him here. You shouldn't have tried to find him. A gladiator's life is brutish and short. He chose that life, and he saw it through to the only possible end."

"No!" she whispered, shaking her head, fixing me with a fiery gaze. "It wasn't the end."

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't the end of Zanziba!" "I don't understand."

"Zanziba didn't die that day. I know, because… because I've seen him!"

"Where? When?"

"Yesterday, here in Rome, in the marketplace down by the river. I saw Zanziba!"

Was the glint in her eyes excitement or madness? "Did you speak to him?"

"No. He was on the far side of the market. A cart blocked my way, and before I could reach him, he was gone."

"Perhaps you were mistaken," I said quietly. "It happens to me all the time. I see a face across a crowd, or from the corner of my eye, and I'm sure it's someone I know. But when I take a second look, I realize the familiarity was merely an illusion, a trick of the mind."