“I have Patroclus.”

Achilles’ gaze guided the Emperor’s to his pocket, where Patroclus Aimer leaned out, tiny enough to make a chess piece seem a looming monolith. “This is a beautiful hall, Caesar!” he shouted in his tiny voice. “I’d heard the rumors that Daedalus built this place, and your Masons had it hidden for eons before moving it here. I didn’t believe it before, but seeing it now I’d recognize Daedalus’s handiwork anywhere. You recognize it too, Major?”

“You can use my name in front of people now.” Swift-footed Achilles felt with his toe along a channel in the marble floor, where flowing water reflected the ceiling’s starscape, the beasts and gods of the ancient constellations bright against a field of lapis blue. It was not real sky but diagrams in veins of gold, while the stars were fire, a thousand points of flame, tiny as candles, fueled by hidden channels in the ceiling. “Yes, I recognize Daedalus’s work,” the hero answered. “Do you suppose we recognize it because the Masons did a good job copying ancient sources? Or because our memories are made out of current expectations of what ancient things should look like?”

MASON stepped toward Achilles. I had not seen the Emperor’s eyes alive with wonder in thirteen years. “May I see your companion more closely?” He extended his right hand, cautiously.

“Must be touched to be believed, I know.” Achilles helped tiny Patroclus out into his own palm first, then passed him to MASON. “Careful. Hands are scary places when your world is measured in centimeters, and I don’t think I have to tell you what I’ll do if anything happens to Patroclus.”

MASON took more time than most in his examination, and less care, not that he wasn’t gentle with the tiny figure, but most people handle the little soldiers with paranoia, as if they were butterflies or eggshells. MASON treated the Lieutenant more like a mouse or slim-limbed lizard, testing his weight, offering him fingertips to grasp and lean on. This too was Apollo’s touch, I think. In their tender years, the young Emperor’s beloved had shown him so many wondrous U-beasts that he was used to handling creatures which should not exist.

“Thank you.” Caesar smiled. “Will you break bread with me while we talk?” MASON did not even have to gesture for the throne room wall to open, baring a dining room, a modest summer feast, and a window-wall, where Alexandria’s roofs and thoroughfares stretched out behind tinted glass which made it seem forever dawn.

The ancient hero savored the drifting scents of wine, meat, cheeses, fruit, and oil-rich flatbread. “Gladly, and I appreciate the gesture.”

The Emperor led the way. “My throne is older than your epic, Achilles. You’ll find that many familiar arts and customs survive here.”