Though leaving the lions behind was a relief.

For the first time, Jess entered the Basilica Julia. They came in on the private side of it, away from the public Serapeum, and as they were led to the area where they were to eat and rest, Jess tried to place the corridor that Wolfe had described during his Mesmer session. Has to be here, he thought. Wolfe could see the Forum from windows as he passed. But instead of windows, they were led along a hallway that held alcoves and Roman statues. The way had to be hidden, he realized. Somewhere, behind one of these statues, there would be an entrance to a concealed hallway. Go left, it would take you to the Translation Chamber. Right, and a sentry automaton and a prison door.

He was so preoccupied with imagining it that it came as a shock when they suddenly arrived in the Basilica Julia’s common hall.

It was teeming with people—Scholars, assistants, librarians. The addition of Santi’s advance guard packed the place to bursting, but as the lieutenant led them toward the back corner, he saw it had been cleared for them. Several long dining tables and a private alcove. He expected to see Santi and his officers inside, but it was occupied by an old, white-haired man with pale European skin, arrayed in the very finest of Scholar robes and a purple sash to show his importance.

The Artifex Magnus.

Jess went cold inside for an instant, seeing him; the last time he’d laid eyes on the man, he’d been hearing him talk about Thomas’s death. The red right hand of the Archivist. The old man, seated in a comfortable chair, conversed with two Scholars he kept standing, and, as Jess watched, one of them—a young Indian woman—bowed respect and moved away. She seemed thrilled to have been in his presence, and as she joined a table of others, he saw how they admired her.

As if she’d accomplished something noteworthy.

That made Jess want to vomit. It was all show. The Artifex was a cruel, power-hungry man who thought nothing of breaking and destroying anyone who threatened his power, but these poor innocents saw him as a mentor, a sponsor, a man of great scholarship.

Something to which they should aspire.

The Artifex looked up as the last Scholar left his presence, and his sharp gaze moved around the room, snagged on Jess, and stopped. He blinked slowly, then turned his attention to a cup an assistant delivered, as if Jess didn’t matter at all. Which, Jess thought, he likely didn’t. But the Artifex had recognized him. No doubt of that.

Jess found a seat with some of his Blue Squad mates, and they ate with typical High Garda speed. Even so, he’d gotten only a few bites before he felt a hand press down on his shoulder.

It was the squad leader, Troll. “Brightwell,” he said. “With me.”

“Sir?” Jess stood up.

“The Artifex wants a report. I want you with me.”