Caesar does not curse, not even under his breath. “Spain, you know Madame only wants this so they can visit the graves of Madame de Pompadour and whatever other famous royal mistresses, and gloat about becoming a real queen.”

Spain’s gentle eyes met MASON’s as he corrected, “Empress.”

“What?”

What should we call the emotion that made His Majesty’s lips tremble so? Apology? “You know the Senate has ordered Europe, as well as the Humanists and Mitsubishi, to present a draft for the correction of our government after O.S.” A weary breath. “Popular support is for an imperial system, based on yours. They will, I expect, choose me.”

“An Emperor? A European Emperor?” So many monarchs would fix the piercing gaze of rivalry on a new peer—instead MASON… relaxed, until he too showed that fatigue I saw on Spain’s face, like charioteers’ fatigue, their arms exhausted from wrestling too-powerful beasts through Ares’s frenzy. Wise men do not envy Emperors.

“It doesn’t matter why Madame wants to marry me,” Spain said at last. “Honor demands it, and the people, my people, approve it.”

“So whatever the public wants is suddenly permissible?” The Emperor crossed his arms. “Isn’t that the logic behind the Wish List?”

The king shook his head. “The will of the public does not make the marriage permissible, merely acceptable. I don’t yet know if we will have permission.”

“Permission?” Caesar repeated. “From what, if you already polled your Spaniards?”

Madame cocked her head. “We’re going to Rome next week. Didn’t Jehovah tell you?”

Martin’s fist, cuffed to mine, clenched, the motion barely palpable through the Cannergel which lined my special cuffs. Something was about to transpire, something Martin had anticipated, planned. Arranged. The middle voice, that is how I often think of Martin. There was a third option in Homer’s Greek between active and passive verbs, the middle voice, a subtle space between the doer who creates or kills and the recipient who is created or is killed. Between these opposites lies he who causes but does not do the deed himself. The patron touches no stone, yet builds the cathedral; the judge wields no sword, yet strikes off the traitor’s head. Martin says nothing, yet this conversation is his creation, born from the conjunction he has carefully assembled: MASON, Spain, Madame. Even when Odysseus planned the horse, he did not saw the boards himself. Martin expected something, something worth making his Emperor come here.

“I trust you mean you’re going to Romanova,” MASON pronounced.

“No, real Rome. The Vatican Reservation.” Sunlight on Madame’s painted face made her smile too bright. “His Catholic Majesty and I have much to arrange.”

Law’s sting made Isabel Carlos II rise at once. “I will not have this conversation without a sensayer present.”

«Majesté…» Madame purred.