IN THE NORTH atrium of Villa Rogoczy lights burned although it was well past midnight. This untypical feature of the villa held not only its owner's personal quarters, but rooms where none but the somber Egyptian Aumtehoutep was allowed to enter. The slaves who lived in the apartmented barracks between the villa and the stables spent many hours in exciting and wildly inaccurate speculation on what those private rooms might contain.

Saint-Germain stood in one of those chambers now, bending over the pallid form of Kosrozd. His face was grave as he inspected the inflamed wounds that gaped on the Persian's body. "Are you certain that all the splinters of bone were removed?" he asked in a low voice.

"All that I could find," Aumtehoutep said stiffly.

"I'm not accusing you, Aumtehoutep. Considering the damage done here, I'm surprised you were able to do so much." He had not looked up from Kosrozd. "His breathing is shallow, his pulse is fast and weak. And though the bleeding is stopped..." His gesture was one of helplessness.

"There is a limit to what art and skill can accomplish," the Egyptian agreed. "You know that better than I."

"If I had Sennistis and all the priests of Imhotep here, I doubt we could save him. Not after two days like this." There was a remote anguish in his dark eyes. "How old is he, do you suppose?"

"Seventeen, eighteen, certainly no more than twenty." Aumtehoutep went to an inlaid chest in the corner. "Do you want your tools?"

"So young," Saint-Germain mused. "I can't remember being seventeen, or eighteen, or twenty. Or ten times those ages." He put one small hand on Kosrozd's forehead. "The fever is worse."

"How much longer, do you think?" Aumtehoutep held the chest open. "We have cordials for the pain."

"If he regains consciousness, I suppose we must use them." At last he stood up and rubbed his eyes. "A pity."

"Yes." Aumtehoutep's voice was colorless and he did not meet his master's eyes.

"You think I should save him?" Saint-Germain asked, a cold smile on his lips. "Aumtehoutep?"

There was uneasy silence between them; then the Egyptian answered, as he stared at the chest. "I think it would be well to set his bones. If you do choose to...heal him, he would be able to race."

"Ah, yes. And precisely how do we explain his recovery?" He shook his head with annoyance. "Why won't you look at me?"

Aumtehoutep did not answer the second question. "There would be scars, and that's expected, but men have lived through worse than this and returned to the arena."

"Not as charioteers," Saint-Germain snapped.

"Perhaps not. But you said that the surgeon never inspected his wounds. They don't know how badly he was hurt, and occasionally superficial hurts look worse than mortal ones." He closed the lid of the chest and turned to face Saint-Germain at last. "He isn't ready to die."

"Neither am I," Saint-Germain responded, but his face was troubled. "Do you think he could accept...changing?"

Aumtehoutep took an impulsive step toward Saint-Germain. "Set his bones. Wake him. Deliver him. He'll acquiesce to the conditions of his change, because you gave it to him. You granted as much to that Assyrian captain..."

The anguish in Saint-Germain's eyes contradicted the smooth sarcasm of his smile. "That was centuries ago. This isn't the same."

"Perhaps this isn't as necessary as that was, but with his adoration"-Saint-Germain winced as Aumtehoutep said the word- "can't you reconsider?"

Saint-Germain studied his somber companion. "You don't usually ask this of me. Why now, old friend?"

"You've been alone for too long." He said it slowly, and the etched lines of his face seemed to deepen in the light from the oil lamps.

"Alone?" Saint-Germain tried to laugh, and failed. "Very well. I'm alone. What alternative is there?"

Aumtehoutep answered with difficulty. "There is the affection of others."

"Affection?" Saint-Germain echoed. "Do you imagine, my kind good friend, that I could reveal my true nature and be treated with anything other than repugnance and detestation?" His voice held more suffering than anger. "That unfortunate young man"-he indicated Kosrozd's still form-"offered himself to me, in ignorance, oh, sincerely, I don't doubt that, but without any comprehension of what I am. Do you think his...adoration would survive learning the truth?"

"When there was plague in Luxor, you took me from the Temple of Thoth, and the plague spared me. Why do you refuse now to spare Kosrozd?" He put his hand on Saint-Germain's shoulder. "You have been a good master to me for more years than I can count, you have treated me with...humanity..."

"Aumtehoutep..."

"Why do you hold yourself aloof?" He was careful not to raise his voice, but the intensity of his feeling made his words seem loud.

"Because," Saint-Germain said slowly and distinctly, "I am afraid. Those good lusty Romans tolerate my foreignness because they don't understand the full extent of it. And while they may wallow in blood for sport in the Great Games, they would not regard my...tastes with the same approbation."

"But you have admitted many times that for you to be truly nourished, there must be emotion as well." He crossed his arms, determined to have an answer from Saint-Germain.

"Of course, but any strong emotion will do. Terror is as strong, though not as durable as love. Gratified desire is as potent as intimacy, and more easily available. Tishtry serves me very well for that, and she has no complaints of me." Under his gentle self-mockery there was abiding pain, but he spoke lightly enough. "Tomorrow night I'm supposed to visit a Roman noblewoman. In her case, I think it must be terror I evoke. She didn't approach me with any apparent fervor."

The compassion Aumtehoutep felt for his master pulled at his body with physical force. "And is it enough?"

Saint-Germain closed his eyes, and answered very softly. "I think I would be willing to give half my years for someone who would know me for what I am-for all I am-and would accept it all without reservation. In almost two thousand years, I haven't found that. I admit," he said in a different tone, "for some of that time I wasn't searching for such a person." He stopped and studied Aumtehoutep's face. "Do we have Persian earth here?"

It was not in Aumtehoutep's nature to smile, but there was a creasing about his eyes. "There is some in your laboratory. You wanted to process certain elements out of it."

"I can order more for that." Now that he had made up his mind, he gave his instructions quickly. "Take that earth and line the couch in my library with it, then make up a bed for Kosrozd. I'll need a soporific cordial for him when I'm through, salts to restore him to his senses, clean linen to bind his shoulder when it's set, the herb paste that dries up infections, tincture of poppies to relieve his pain while I set the bones, and my tools must be boiled with astringent leaves. I will need two changes of robe-make it my priest's robes. I don't want to wake him with his blood all over me." He moved quickly to the door. "I'm going to wash. Expect me back within the hour. For the first, make it the short robe, without sleeves, and be sure there is a pail of water and soap near me."

Aumtehoutep nodded at these familiar requests. He felt a profound relief that his master had agreed to save the young Persian. He set about his tasks quickly, familiarly, stopping occasionally to look at Kosrozd, to touch his brow, to listen to his breathing.

By the time Saint-Germain returned, everything was ready. A brazier was set up near the bed where Kosrozd lay, and a pan of water boiled there. Beside it a small table was placed for easy access, and on it all of his tools were laid out with long strips of clean linen above them.

"My robes?" Saint-Germain inquired after he had given an approving nod to these arrangements.

"In the side room. The short robe without sleeves is white, the other, black. He will feel more comfortable if he sees you in black." Aumtehoutep bent to scrub his own hands in the pail of water he had just brought.

"Of course," Saint-Germain said as he went into the small adjoining room. The garments were set out exactly as Aumtehoutep had indicated. Saint-Germain cast his Persian tunic aside and drew the white Egyptian robe over his head. He secured it at the waist with a wide belt, then turned and returned to the room where Aumtehoutep waited by Kosrozd's couch.

"Should he be secured?" Aumtehoutep asked.

"It's probably a good idea. He's got a great deal of strength in his arms, even now. I don't want to fight him." While Aumtehoutep bound Kosrozd to the couch with leather straps, Saint-Germain made a last check of his instruments. "Where's the cauterizing iron?"

"I thought you were going to bind the wound with linen."

Saint-Germain gave his Eygptian slave an exasperated frown. "If there is more bleeding than I anticipate, I'll need hot irons to stop it. He's lost too much blood already."

Chastened, Aumtehoutep went back to the chest and drew out three thin irons. "I'll set these in the coals of the brazier. Will they be enough?"

"If they aren't, I won't be able to save him anyway." Saint-Germain made a circle of the couch, studying Kosrozd intensely. "I'll need better light. Bring four or five more lamps. Did you give him any herbs for sleeping yet?"

"The compound is in the jar on the nearest shelf. So are the other preparations you requested." He left the room then to get the lamps.

When at last all was ready, Saint-Germain took a moment to withdraw into himself. No matter how many times he worked on battered and maimed bodies, and over the centuries he had done it hundreds more times than he could remember, it was never something he got used to. There was always the realization that the damaged bones and flesh were part of a human being, mortal, unique. He let his breath out slowly. "Very well. I'm ready."

It was more than an hour before he had bound Kosrozd's shoulder and thigh in the meticulous, layered strips of linen as he had been taught to do more than a thousand years before. When at last he was satisfied, he stood back. "It will do, I think. If he accepts his...change, he should have no trouble with the shoulder."

Aumtehoutep had bent to wash his hands in the pail beside the couch. The water was tinged now with blood, and the rough soap that frothed into harsh suds took on the color. "How long do I let him rest?"

"Ideally, for several hours, but it's too late for that. In three hours it will be dawn, and he must have taken my blood by then, or we'll have to wait until nightfall again." He was already untying the knot of his belt. "I must wash before I put on the other robe. Let him have an hour, and then wake him. Be certain he's not in too much pain. Don't use the poppy-that will make him fatigued and disoriented. There's a strong solution of willow bark and pansy that's an effective anodyne. Make sure he has that now, so it will have taken effect when he wakes."

"As you wish, my master." Aumtehoutep had gathered up the bloodied instruments and put them in the pail. "I'll set these to boil with astringent herbs first."

"Fine." He stopped in the door to the side chamber. "I won't be long, but if there is trouble, call me from the bath. He could still begin massive bleeding."

Aumtehoutep nodded and continued his work. The efficiency with which he did his tasks showed the economy of long practice. No movement was wasted, nothing was done abruptly. When he had gathered together all the things that were to be removed from the room, he stopped by the shelves and took down the bottle of anodyne solution. He unstoppered it, wrinkling his nose at the scent, and poured some of it into a cup no larger than the last joint of his thumb. He went back to the couch and stared down at Kosrozd. The charioteer was lividly pale, his breathing unsteady. Aumtehoutep bent and lifted his head with care. The Persian's mouth was slack, and it was with difficulty that Aumtehoutep tipped the anodyne liquid down his throat. Kosrozd coughed once, but neither gagged nor choked.

Before he left the room, the Egyptian loosened the straps that had held Kosrozd to the bed.

Somewhat later, Kosrozd woke, a sharp stinging odor in his nostrils. He tried to shake his head, but found he was too weak. He tried to push the vial that was held to his nose away from his face, but his hands were heavy and light at once, and would not do the bidding of his will. In a distant part of his mind, he knew he was badly hurt, and in terrible pain, but the knowledge was strangely muffled, like screams heard through a pillow. He blinked, and his vision swam.

"Kosrozd." It was Saint-Germain's voice, more compassionate than he had ever heard it before. Kosrozd tried to answer, but his tongue was thick in his mouth, and his voice was barely a whisper. At last he managed to say, "The race?"

"Yes. You were hurt." Now that Kosrozd was responsive, he closed the vial of pungent salts.

"How?" It seemed so strange to him. His weakness must be a part of someone else, someone he stood two or three paces behind and controlled like a puppet. His right shoulder felt huge, as if it had been inflated. He looked at his master, and his bewilderment grew. Saint-Germain was dressed in a black garment of fluted linen. One arm and shoulder were bared, but the rest of him was enveloped in the crisp material. He wore a peculiar, stiff headdress over his dark hair and there were wide bracelets on his uncovered arm.

"The wheel came off your chariot. You were dragged by your horses." He said this gently, without embellishment.

"Dragged." He tried to remember, but found his mind refused to penetrate the blankness surrounding the accident. "I started the race..." he said uncertainly. "The first lap, the Blues' driver..." What had the Blues' driver done? It eluded him.

Saint-Germain read the distress in Kosrozd's face. "No, don't pursue it now. It's not important." He had seen this many times, this closing of the mind that shut away the most dreadful moments and hid them.

"Where am I?" He did not recognize the room, and Saint-Germain appeared to be so different.

"At my villa. This is one of those rooms that the entire household speculates about. As you see, no torture chambers, no debauched maidens, no religious paraphernalia, no cache of arms." These were the most prevalent theories in the slaves' quarters about the closed wing, and Kosrozd was slightly startled that Saint-Germain knew of them. "This is where I study, where I...live. In the room next to this, there is a good deal of equipment that I use in compounding medicines and other things. I also have quite an extensive library, a large bath, my bedchamber, and rooms where I keep various items that are of value to me." He did not add that many of those items would be of value to others, as well, as he numbered large jewels, rare art and experimental alloys among them.

Kosrozd nodded, wondering now why Saint-Germain was telling him so much.

"I want you to understand more before..." He broke off and resumed in a sharper tone, "Because of your father's folly, you are a slave instead of a prince, you are in Rome instead of Persia, and you are an arena charioteer instead of the leader of an army. You have excellent reason to be suspicious of everyone, including me. Yet, Kosrozd, consider very carefully what I tell you."

Though he tried to sort out what his master was saying to him, Kosrozd was increasingly baffled. "My master..."

"When you were dragged around the arena, you were very badly injured. Your right shoulder is broken in three places. You have two serious lacerations in your left thigh. Your skin was badly abraded by the sand. You were bruised all over your body. I've done everything I know to save you, except one. You will have to decide if you want..."

"If you don't do this one thing, will I die?" The possibility of death was not frightening, and he thought that perhaps the fear, like his pain, was hidden deep within him.

"It's likely." He had never found that question easy to answer, but Kosrozd's acceptance bothered him.

"What is it you do?" He had tried to move, but his body once again did not respond, and what little effort he had mustered had almost exhausted him.

"I do very little." Saint-Germain fingered one of the wide bracelets. "I am not quite what you think me."

"You are my master," Kosrozd said, his brown eyes softening.

Saint-Germain made an impatient gesture. "I told you once that there is death for some in what I do. Occasionally there is life, as well."

"Would it harm you?" Kosrozd asked quickly.

"No. It will not harm me." His smile was both sad and wry. From one of the bracelets he pulled a tiny knife. "My blood, and the blood of those like me, has certain...virtues. Those who drink of it acquire those virtues. You will be proof against all but the most ruinous death. You will age very little. You will gain strength and endurance. You will also be shunned if you let this be known. You will find that the sun is harsh and burning. You will have to sleep, though you will sleep very little, on a layer of your native earth. You will not be able to cross running water unless you line your shoes with that earth. Most water will make you uncomfortable unless it is contained in your native earth. You will no longer live as other men. You will be nourished only by blood. You may take it from animals or from humans, but you will come to need...humanity. You will lose the ability to take pleasure as most men do unless you are glutted with blood. You will be very, very lonely." He waited, the little knife glinting in his hand. "Well?"

"Do you regret being what you are?" His dying eyes were luminous with adoration.

"At times. We all do." Memories rushed in on him as he spoke, and he forced them away.

"You offer me this because the alternative is death?" He saw Saint-Germain nod. "If the alternative were life and freedom, I would still take the gift that comes from you."

Saint-Germain looked away. Kosrozd was so touching and so foolish. Then he turned back and lifted the little knife. It was only a small nick. His blood welled up as he bent over the young Persian. Kosrozd's head rested close against his master's shoulder, held there by Saint-Germain's strong, sustaining arm.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM OFONIUS TIGELLINUS TO THE EMPEROR NERO.

To the august Emperor Nero, hail:

In accordance with the powers you have been gracious enough to invest in me, I have followed my intended course of investigation of those who have sought to betray you and bring dishonor to the title of Caesar.

I have heard it said that in my vigilance I have turned Rome into a city of eyes and ears, and if by this they mean to say that villainy may no longer be hidden from official scrutiny, then I gladly accept that designation and regard as beneath contempt the hostility of those men whose duplicity I have discovered.

Great Nero, you are a man of too generous, too forgiving a heart. You refuse to believe ill of those around you. I have many times remarked on the tolerance and leniency of your nature, which stems from laudable traits of loyalty and affection. In this case, it is the more difficult, as my suspicions of a certain man have been confirmed, and the man is one who enjoys your kindness as much as he has earned my enmity. Naturally, you will be reluctant to think anything but good of this man, and it is known that I am too much his rival in social matters to be disposed to regard him with beneficence. In matters of conspiracy, binding proof is often difficult to obtain, particularly when, like this man, imperial favor protects them.

It distresses me much to have to displease you, to be the messenger that brings you word of ingratitude and betrayal. Yet it must be thus, or you will be exposed to more danger. I cannot endure the thought that you might, in your magnanimity, overlook the perfidious conduct of those close to you.

For many years you have shown favor to Titus Petronius Niger, and you have given him the full glory of your patronage. He has often been your companion, and you showed him great distinction by making him the Arbiter of Elegance for your court. His heart should be filled with profound satisfaction and gratitude to you for your recognition. Instead he has allied himself with those who oppose you. First he gave his sympathy to the cause of Gaius Calpurnius Piso, and not content with this treachery, he looks about for new conspirators with whom to plot your ruin.

Not for my personal vengeance, but for your safety, and the safety of the imperial purple, I entreat you to authorize me to arrest and punish this man. How much must he do before you realize the enormity of his malice? Behind the smiles, the pleasures, the grace of the man there is evil lurking. You, in your honor, do not perceive it.

Knowing how cautious you are apt to be, I will await your response as long as is necessary. You may want to ask others of their opinion of this man, or you may wish to find another solution to the problem. I would urge you not to banish him, for who can tell what schemes he may undertake away from the careful observation of Rome? In the provinces, he might find like-minded men who would lend their support and fortunes to just such another plot as Piso spearheaded.

When you have given the matter your thoughtful consideration, send for me, and we will make those arrangements which seem most appropriate to you. It might be wise to leave the Senate out of this conference, for this man has too many friends there who would warn him of your intent, and give him time to gain power and protection elsewhere.

I assure you, O Emperor, that at all times, your interests are foremost in my mind, and that nothing shall keep me from defending you from any threat whatever. It is always an honor to serve you in all things.

With obedient respect,

C. Ofonius Tigellinus,

with Nymphidius Sabinus,

commander The Praetorian Guard

the tenth day of November

in the 817th Year of the City

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