PETRONIUS' VILLA stood high on the cliffs overlooking the sea. It was a magnificent setting: a little promontory with wind-bowed cypresses on one side, and easy access to the beach below on the other. The garden flanked the long colonnaded transitoria and opened onto the unusual three-sided atrium. The building was painted a soft coral and in the evening sun it glowed like red gold.

From his study, Petronius could look out at the indigo ocean. His desk faced a large, unscreened window, and he sat there now, staring out into the smoldering sunset. In one hand he held an iron stylus; and in the other, an official document, the seal broken, dangled from his negligent fingers.

He was roused by a tap at the door. "Yes?"

"Saint-Germain. Your house slave said you wanted to speak to me."

"Come in." He tore his eyes away from the window and rose to greet his guest. "Sit down. I suppose you've heard?"

There was no point in denying it. "About the soldiers? Yes, I saw them leave. The tribune has left six men at the foot of the hill, and one by the cliff." He had gone out to check this not long ago.

Petronius sighed. "I have the order." He held up the document. "Prison, and then death. For all my family. Tigellinus is determined." He put the stylus aside and rubbed his face. "These are my instructions. I've made a copy for you, in case there are any questions later."

Saint-Germain glanced down at the neatly written lines. "It isn't necessary, Petronius."

"But it is. Someone, preferably someone who is disinterested, must have this. Otherwise I leave everything at the mercy of the august Emperor, and Nero, I find," he went on lightly, bitterly, "is not well-disposed toward me."

There was nothing Saint-Germain could say. He held out his hand for the closely written sheets. "What shall I do with them?"

Petronius looked at them, then back out at the sea. The sun was down and a band of tarnished silver lay along the horizon. "Keep them for the moment. They are dated and have my seal. Three of the sheets are grants of freedom for some of my slaves. I want you, if you will, to be certain that the grants are honored. It would not be the first time that Nero seized all the household of such a dangerous criminal as I am." He reached for the stylus again. "I've also prepared a few words for the Emperor. I will send it with the tribune outside. It would please me if you will find out if Nero sees it."

"Your tribute?" Saint-Germain asked, knowing it was proper for a man in Petronius' position to send laudatory verses to the Emperor, exonerating him of blame and praising his rule.

"My tribute, yes." Petronius' smile was more of a sneer. "I want to do one honest thing in my life, Saint-Germain. I fear that Nero will find more bees than honey there, but as that has been my experience of him..." As if he were suddenly tired, Petronius sank into the chair at his desk once more, and motioned Saint-Germain to the long padded couch by the wall. "I am sorry that I have to ask anything of you, but there is no one else here who is as safe as you are. They are Romans, and for that reason, they are at the command of Nero. None of them is free to help me, and so, it must fall to you. I can't ask it of anyone else here, Saint-Germain."

"Yes." He nodded slowly. "Very well. If there is anything else, let me have it before morning. I will want to be away before the soldiers return, or they may ask that I give up your effects, and I would have to." He rolled the documents together and secured them with a ribbon that Petronius held out to him. "What time do you leave?"

"I'm not leaving," Petronius said rather distantly when he was satisfied the roll was properly tied. "Keep that hidden, or there might be difficulties."

"Not leaving?" Saint-Germain looked across the darkening room.

"The Emperor wants to see me beaten to death with the plumbatae. I am going to disappoint him." He rose to strike flint and steel to start the nearest lamp. "I've always loved solitude, but I never found the time for it. I kept thinking that there would be years for it, sometime later. Then I could write something worthwhile. It was so important to take advantage of imperial favor." He lit a second lamp. "How I deceived myself!"

"What about your guests?" Saint-Germain asked softly.

"They are still my guests. I promised them entertainment tonight, and they shall have it. I will enjoy it, too. There are Greek musicians to play for us, and you have brought that enormous Egyptian harp. I've hired some dancers from Sicilia, and that new poet from Mons Veridium to read his verses. A very pleasant evening, really." All six lamps were burning now, and he reached to slide the shutters closed. "You will play for me, won't you?"

Saint-Germain sat very still. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I will play for you."

"Thank you." Petronius turned away to open a box on his desk. "This is my seal." He held out the ring to Saint-Germain. "I want you to compare it to the impression on the things I gave you, and if you are satisfied it's genuine, I want you to break it."

"Break it?" Saint-Germain had seen the seal before, and a quick look assured him that the impressions on the documents he held were correct. They were rolled loosely so that the impression would not be distorted. "It's authentic. Why do you want it broken?"

Petronius looked down at his hands. "Shall we say that I am anxious to avoid imperial caprice? If Nero or his soldiers had the seal, they might use it to do mischief. My freed slaves might find themselves condemned to the galleys. Friends might discover that I had sent them messages implicating them in criminal acts. All my land might be found to be owed for gambling debts. It's happened before, Saint-Germain. I've seen it." Though he spoke easily, his face was serious. His dark blue eyes were oddly clouded. He had been blinded by his own confidence, he thought. He had catered to Nero's pleasures and thought that the affection the Emperor professed for him was genuine. "It may have been, once," he said aloud.

"It may have been once?" Saint-Germain echoed, his fine brows raised.

"It's nothing," Petronius said impatiently. "Well, break that, won't you?"

Saint-Germain held up the carved jewel and studied it. The stone was sardonyx, and the figure in it was of Diana with her stag and bow holding a tower in one hand. The workmanship was excellent. "A pity," Saint-Germain said as he dropped the ring to the floor and brought his heeled boot down on it.

"Good," Petronius said when he had picked up the ring again. The stone was broken and the ring itself cracked and bent. "That much is safe. There are only a few more things to do."

"I'll leave you, then," Saint-Germain said, and started toward the door.

"No." Petronius caught his arm. "No, I must have a witness to all this. Stay. I need your help." When he got no immediate response, he said, "I don't ask you lightly. I trust you to honor your word. I haven't much more to complete. Stay." Much of his courtly polish deserted him, and he stumbled over his words, so great was his urgency.

"All right." Saint-Germain regarded him evenly, trying to imagine what Petronius might have been like in ten years, or twenty. The time was lost now, but if it had turned out otherwise...He shut the thought away. He had learned long ago how useless such speculation was. "Do as you must."

Petronius let his breath out slowly. "I am grateful, Saint-Germain." He went to the door and clapped twice, and waited in silence until his secretary appeared. "Tell my wife that I am ready for her and the children now."

His secretary was one of the slaves who was to be given a grant of freedom. He bowed slightly, sorrow in his eyes. "At once, my master."

"What now?" Saint-Germain asked, feeling deeply weary.

Petronius had gone to a red-and-gilt chest by the wall, and as he opened it, he said, "A necessary precaution. I will leave nothing to chance." He lifted out a chalcedony cup which was carved in the likeness of Atlas holding up the world. For a moment his eyes glowed with pleasure as he looked at the cup. "Do you remember when you gave this to me, Saint-Germain?"

"Yes." It had been shortly after he came to Rome, when Petronius had brought him a copy of a book of verses he had just written. They were not like his other work, which was facile and cynical. These verses were deeply personal, as compelling as some of the poems of Catullus and the Greek Sappho. Saint-Germain had been moved, both by the poems and by the gesture of confidence. In one of his private rooms he had made the cup for Petronius. "I read the poems occasionally. They're quite remarkable."

"So I tell myself," he said sardonically. He had put the cup on his desk, where it caught the lamplight. "Nero covets this, you know. He almost commanded me to give it to him."

Saint-Germain nodded. "Did you tell him who made it?"

"No. He would have insisted you make them for him, as well, and that would have made this one seem...cheapened. I trust you understand." He stared down at the cup. "It's exquisite. It's wholly unique, and I have wanted to keep it that way."

"I'm highly complimented." He said it honestly, and knew that Petronius understood.

"Then I trust you'll forgive the use I make of it?" From a little box on the desk he took a small glass bottle that was heavily stoppered and filled with a thick, dark fluid. He opened the bottle carefully and poured out the contents into the chalcedony cup. To this he added wine from an old Greek amphora that he took from his red-and-gilt chest. As he swirled the mixture in the cup, he said rather slowly, "There was a time, you know, when Nero would have refused to give this order. He wouldn't have been capable of it. Not for love of me"-here he gave one mirthless bark of laughter-"but for dislike of killing. It wasn't that long ago."

"You were expecting banishment, then," Saint-Germain said to fill the silence that followed.

"It seemed likely." Satisfied with the contents of the cup, he set it down on his desk. "He's banished people before, quite irresponsibly. Banishment is so convenient. Killing, this official killing, is new." He ran one hand through his soft brown hair. "He had his mother killed, of course, but that was different. You didn't know Agrippina. I think I might have strangled her myself."

"Why aren't you being banished?" It was a question that had been bothering Saint-Germain since he had learned of the soldiers' arrival that afternoon. "Falling from favor is hardly crime enough to die for."

"That isn't the accusation, oh, no," Petronius said bitterly. "Tigellinus isn't so careless. His spies have claimed to have discovered the amazing extent of my involvement with the Pisoan conspiracy, and my intent to be part of another one. Certainly I'm far too dangerous a man to be kept alive. The proof they've concocted is, I understand, most convincing. With such evidence, I stand utterly condemned. That was one of the reasons I had you break my seal. They might use it for...anything. I can't allow that. No one should have to suffer because of me. Though many will."

Saint-Germain said nothing. He looked around the pleasant room with its tasteful furniture and appointments, and the unfinished pages that lay on the desk, an old metal figure of a dancing grotesque weighting them down. "The little statue..."

"This?" Petronius held up the small figure.

"Yes. It's Etruscan, isn't it?" He liked it, that strange squat little figure that bent as if twirling, an archaic smirk on its outsized lips.

"I believe so. When the Stormwind Legion was camped on the Padus for a month several years ago, one of the centurions found this and I bought it from him the year after. A very elegant bit of art, don't you think?"

"Certainly." He took the dancer from Petronius and held it in his hand. It most surely was Etruscan, from five or six hundred years before, not long after the Etruscans had settled in Italy.

"If you like it so much," Petronius said, cutting into Saint-Germain's contemplation of the statue, "take it with you. There is little enough I can do to thank you."

Saint-Germain held his hand so that the dancer seemed to spin on his palm.

"You love art; you collect it. Keep that to remember me." He gestured in a way that included the whole villa. "Nero's apt to seize all this. It's his right, and he's wanted it for years, and he can claim it now without impediment."

There was a knock at the door, and both Petronius and Saint-Germain were startled.

"It's Myrtale and our children," Petronius said, as if to reassure himself. "Enter!"

Myrtale was subtly and magnificently dressed, her stola of costly luminous green fabric from Hind. Her institia indicated her rank and honors, and over this, a palla of almost invisible linen from Cos was fastened with a fibula of intricately worked gold. Her steady eyes were tranquil as they rested on her husband.

The children were another matter. The older, a girl of about nine, was doing her best to emulate her mother, but she was pale and graceless, looking about her in quick, darting glances. She had been dressed in her finest clothes, which made her even more apprehensive. When Petronius held his hand out to her, she clung to it with both of hers. Her younger brother stood by the door, his small arms folded belligerently over his chest. His silk tunica was askew and its belt almost undone. There were tears in his eyes. When his father gestured to him, he turned away, sobbing.

Without relinquishing his daughter's hands, Petronius crossed the room. "Marcellus," he said as he turned the six-year-old toward him. "It won't last long. It will be over, and you won't have to be frightened. The soldiers won't take you, or Fausta, or your mother or me. We're going to trick them." He stopped; a moment later he had cleared his throat and was able to speak again. "I have something for you to drink. It will make you very sleepy, so you'll have to go to your room and lie down for...a while." He felt Fausta's hands tighten on his and he pulled her closer to him. "Six isn't very old to be grown up, Marcellus, but I want you to do the best you can."

Marcellus turned, crying in earnest, and buried his face against his father's waist. Fausta was determined to do better than her brother, but tears slid down her face, and her lower lip trembled.

At that, Saint-Germain wished fervently he could leave. This was too private for an interloper to see. He turned away as Petronius embraced his family, and put his attention on the little Etruscan statue.

It was Myrtale who broke away first, her face still serene, though her eyes were wet. When she spoke, her voice was slightly thickened, but there was no fear in her. "Where is the drink, my husband? It's useless to delay any longer."

Petronius felt as if a hot fist had closed deep inside him. Numbly he turned toward the desk. "I have it here," he said in a voice that could not possibly have been his own. He took up the chalcedony cup. "A little for each of you."

Myrtale took the cup. "Is it unpleasant?"

"The taste?" Petronius asked, pretending not to understand her. "A little bitter, I'm told, but not undrinkable."

"Petronius," she said solemnly. "Answer my question."

His jaw felt suddenly tight. "I am told that it is not painful. I specified that. You've had pain enough from me without..." He watched as she raised the cup to her lips and drank. There were so many things he had wanted to say to her, and would never have the chance to, now. "Myrtale, we are not the same. You've never been as restless as I am. But I have always valued you, and I regret that my folly has brought you to...this." It was not what he wanted to tell her, but she seemed to understand. She gave him the cup and leaned against him, kissing his cheek.

"It's not important, my husband. Soon or late, death comes for us all. I rejoice that you did not abandon us to the whims of the Emperor."

"Did you think I would ever do that?" Petronius demanded, his face hardening. Her condemnation now filled him with grief.

"No, I did not think that." She looked down at their children. "Come, Fausta, Marcellus, taste the wine your father has prepared for you."

The boy took the cup first and drank quickly. "It's sour," he said as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"That isn't important," Myrtale said gently. "It is good wine." She put her hand on her son's shoulder. "I will take you to your room shortly, and if you like, we will talk awhile, until you are sleepy."

Fausta had taken the cup and looked down into it. "There's not much left, Father."

Petronius touched her fair hair that was just starting to darken. "Don't worry. I'll take care of myself later. You drink that now." He was very calm now, and looking at his family, he felt a distance opening between them that would never again be bridged by their closeness. "I have loved you all," he said as he touched each of them in turn, taking the chalcedony cup from Fausta at last. He dropped on one knee and embraced his son and daughter. By the time his veins were empty, they would be still and cold. There was no going back. He wanted to ask them to understand one day, and realized that was foolish. There would be no more days for understanding. He rose slowly and kissed his wife. Their lips met without passion, their bodies touched without need. Now they were comrades, and Petronius realized that was what they had always been.

"I will leave you, my husband. You have a great deal to do, still, and our remaining can serve no purpose." She gave him a brief courageous smile, then held out her hands to their children. "Come, Fausta, Marcellus. We will walk in the garden and I will tell you a story until it's time to lie down." She went out of the door without looking at her husband again.

When the door closed behind them, Petronius put his hand to his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. Then he mastered himself and picked up the cup. "Saint-Germain," he said as he looked at the cup. "Forgive me for this." In the next instant he had raised his arm and hurled the cup to the floor where it fragmented.

Saint-Germain remained seated, unmoving, while Petronius made one last inspection of his red-and-gilt chest. His heart ached for this man, but he could say nothing. Petronius wanted his reserve, not his affection and friendship, and though Saint-Germain had been content to stay aloof for centuries, it was now one of the most difficult tasks he had ever set himself.

"My wife and children will die tonight," Petronius said quite conversationally as he went to the door again. Already the event was unreal, as if it were something that had happened long ago, to someone else. "That will spare them much." He clapped his hands, and when his houseman appeared, said, "Send Xenophon to me."

Sanct' German had risen from the couch. "Do you still need me? If you want me to sing tonight, I must tune the harp." This was true enough, but it was something he could do quickly. When he had changed, so long ago, he had ceased, among other things, to be able to weep. For him, all pain, all anguish, was inward, and there was no release in tears.

"Not quite yet, Saint-Germain. There is one more thing, and then I'll release you." He managed a sardonic smile. "There was a time not so long ago when Senators and generals came to me to ask favors. You would think that one of them might remember that and intercede, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps they, too, are suspect," Saint-Germain suggested without conviction.

"I'm not a fool, Saint-Germain, and neither are you. I am like a leper whom no one dares to touch for fear of infection. It is unfair of me to demand so much of you, but it must be done." He sank onto his chair again. "In another month, the garden will be in full flower. I'm sorry to have to miss it."

"Yes." Saint-Germain picked up the dancing figure. "I will keep this, Petronius. I will keep it in an honored place."

Petronius was no longer interested. "As you like."

There was a discreet tap at the door. "It is Xenophon, master," said the old voice in a strong Greek accent.

Petronius did not turn. "Enter, Xenophon."

The old slave carried a small wooden box, a basin and long strips of linen. He walked to Petronius' side and stood quite still. "I will do as you wish, my master."

There was a moment's hesitation; then Petronius turned in his chair and held out his arms. "Do it, then, and be quick. Make the bindings tight. I want to enjoy myself."

Saint-Germain watched as the old Greek physician set the box and basin on the desk and lay the bandages beside them.

"It's an honored tradition," Petronius said as Xenophon selected a long, thin knife. "Women are fond of doing this in the bath, so that the blood isn't so noticeable." He winced and his jaw tightened as Xenophon's knife slipped under the tendons of his left wrist. When the knife was withdrawn, blood spurted out. Petronius waited impassively as the wide linen bandages were wrapped over the wound. The pain moved up his arm, aching, giving him a curious weakness, which he accepted for the moment. He could resist it later. "I'm told two of my ancestors died this way. And for similar reasons." Again the little knife moved, this time in his right wrist, and the blood rushed and spattered on the floor, still hot. Petronius shivered as Xenophon wrapped the wrist. "How long, do you think?"

"If you keep the bandages on, most of the night, perhaps. If you loosen the knots, it will be faster. Remove the bandages and it will be fairly fast." The Greek's face revealed little, but his eyes were large and mournful. He dropped the knife into the basin. "One of the slaves will clean the floor."

"Don't bother," Petronius said as he got unsteadily to his feet. He felt active now that the first pain was past, strangely elevated and clear-minded. With one hand he steadied himself; then he extended his arm to Saint-Germain. "I needn't keep you any longer. You've been kind, and for that I am grateful. I won't have the opportunity later to thank you for all you've done." As Saint-Germain held out his hand to clasp Petronius' arm above the bandages, Petronius gave him a swift embrace. "My approbation isn't worth much anymore, but you have it, nonetheless."

Saint-Germain still held one of his host's arms. "It means a great deal to me. I won't mock that gift." He could feel Petronius slip away from him on the first tug of that dark tide that would claim him before morning. There was nothing left to say now but the meaningless phrases that he could not bring himself to utter.

Petronius stepped back, freeing himself from Saint-Germain's grasp. "No, you won't." He made a curt nod of dismissal to Xenophon, and when the Greek had gone, he turned again to Saint-Germain. "It's a foolish waste, all of it."

Inwardly Saint-Germain was stung, but he recognized the intent of the comment and adapted his manner to it. "Indeed. But wise men have been saying that for centuries, and even they have been ignored."

An appreciative flash lit Petronius' dark blue eyes. "And who am I to contradict wise men?" His voice caught, and then he went on with the same smooth manner he had always used. "I will not trouble you with farewells, since they always degenerate into unbecoming pathos. Take the statue, deliver my papers, and do not forget me for a little while."

"And my harp? What would it please you to hear?" He found the pretense difficult to maintain now, and he could not make his tone as light as Petronius'.

"I leave that up to you. By that time, I'll probably be too drunk to care." Abruptly his mood changed. "Dis consume your harp. Take what I've given you and go. Leave tonight. Leave now. If I have to watch you, I'll untie my bandages at once. Let them think what they want of me-that I am a cynical lover of pleasure. I don't want the other known. So go. Go." He almost thrust Saint-Germain from the room.

"If that is your wish," Saint-Germain said from the door.

"Yes. Your things will be sent later. Go. In the name of whatever god protects you, go." His voice had become harsh and his face pale.

Saint-Germain nodded. "I'll be gone within the hour. May it be as you wish it to be." He turned away down the short corridor that led to the guestrooms on the south side of the house.

Only when he had heard Saint-Germain's footsteps fade did Petronius let himself say, "Farewell, my truest friend," before he turned his attention to greeting his guests at dinner.

TEXT OF LETTER FROM THE TRIBUNE DONATUS EGNATIUS BALBO TO HIS FELLOW-OFFICER LUCINIUS URSUS STATILE, STATIONED AT ARIMINUM.

Ursus, you old bear:

Rumor has it that the Cat's Paw Legion is going to Greece in the autumn. Our general has been hearing palace talk, and he is convinced that Nero is intending to participate in the Olympic Games there. The Emperor has long said that he would like to see such a competition, but hasn't indicated that he thought he could take part. That, it seems, has changed.

You've probably heard about Petronius' suicide last month. They say that the banquet was the best he's ever given. One of my cousins was there, and toward the end, Petronius gave him ten silver goblets. He gave gifts to everyone there, and joked with them until he was gone. I know that he's supposed to have plotted against Nero, and Tigellinus condemns him at every turn, but Tigellinus was always envious of Petronius, and I wouldn't trust his motives for a moment.

Suspicion is still on Corbulo, though it has lessened of late. That is why he thinks we may go with the Emperor, after all. And imperial attention is better for advancement than a war or a plague any day, and much less trying. I look forward to those Games. I think that the Emperor may want to acknowledge Corbulo's service at last, and Greece would be an excellent place to do it. The general is less optimistic, but that is to be expected. After the foolish things his son-in-law has done, and the trouble he caused, I can well understand the attitude of caution the general has adopted.

Another rumor making the rounds at the moment concerns the Emperor and Statilia Messalina, who was Vestinus' wife. Of course, with Vestinus dead because of his foolish alliance to Seneca and Piso, Statilia Messalina is free to marry again. I can't recall whether this will be the fourth or fifth time. Though why she should bother to marry the Emperor confounds me. They've been in and out of each other's beds for months. She may want power, and marriage to Caesar is one way to have it, though it's often a little uncertain with Nero.

Zaducchur, the Cappadocian gladiator that Almericus Hilarius Arval owns, has bought his freedom and has become a partner in the Great School. You remember him, don't you? He was the one who killed ninety-seven men in one hour last year. He's a real loss to the Games, but I suppose it was wise. He's not so young anymore, almost twenty-five, and it was to be expected he would retire soon. Upon his purchasing his freedom, the Vestals presented him with an oak wreath. Nero was furious, but that's hardly surprising.

Work on the Golden House continues, and it is quite amazing to see. The main building is simply gigantic, and the gardens grow more fantastic from year to year. There are woodlands and fields, as if you were deep in the country instead of within the walls of Rome. The largest of the lakes, near the Via Sacra, has stopped traffic and new roads have had to be built to get around the latest extension. Three blocks of insulae have been torn down to make way for another branch of the palace. You would be astounded to see all the things that have been gathered into that building, incomplete though it is. The Emperor has commissioned the muralist Fabullus to do the walls and ceilings. I admire his work, but find that man's behavior insufferable. He refuses to work more than two hours a day-and demands a full day's payment for those two hours-and he always wears a toga when he works. Such affectation!

Expect to see me at the end of May. I have promised my father that I would visit his estate outside of Mutina before returning to duty, but that should not take too long. It will be good to see you again. I've missed your lies about the women you've had.

Until the end of May, then, good fortune to you.

Donatus Egnatius Balbo

Tribune, XIV Legion, the Cat's Paw

the nineteenth day of April

in the 818th Year of the City

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