a greeting and spoke in a voice that was surprisingly high-pitched.

"Is all in readiness?" he asked.

Venator nodded. "The tally is finished. You can seal off the

entrance."

"Consider it done."

"What is the disturbance in camp?"

Macer glanced at the soldiers, peering through black, cold eyes, and

spat on the ground. "Stupid legionaries became restless and raided a

village five leagues north of here. The massacre was senseless. At

least forty barbarians were killed. Only ten were men, the rest women

and children. And for no good reason. No gold, no booty worth mule

dung. Returned with a few ugly women to gamble over. Little else."

Venator's face tensed. "Were there any other survivors?"

"I was told two of the men escaped into the brush,"

"They will sound the alarm in other villages. I fear Severus has kicked

a hornet's nest."

"Severus!" Macer spat the word in unison with another salvo of saliva.

"That damned centurion and his lot do nothing but steep and drink our

wine supply. A pain in the buttocks to bring the lazy baggage along, in

my judgment."

"They were hired to protect us," Venator reminded him.

"from what?" Macer demanded. "Primitive heathen who eat insects and

reptiles?"

"Gather the slaves and seal off the tunnel quickly. And make a good job

of it. The barbarians must not be able to dig through after we leave."

"Little fear of that. from what I've seen, no one around this cursed

land has mastered the art of metalworking." Macer paused and pointed to

the massive heap of excavated takings poised above the entrance to the

shaft, precariously held in place by a giant crib of logs. "Once that

falls, you can stop worrying about your precious antiquities. No

barbarian will ever get to them. Not by scratching with his bare

hands."

Reassured, Venator dismissed the overseer and strode angrily toward the

tent of Domitius Severus. He passed the personal emblem of the military

detachment, a silver symbol of Taurus the bull atop a lance, and brushed

aside the sentry who attempted to block his passage.

He found the centurion seated in a camp chair, contemplating a naked,

unwashed barbarian woman, who sat on her haunches, uttering a chorus of

strange vowel sounds. She was young, no more than fourteen. Severus

was wearing a brief red tunic clasp over his left shoulder. His bare

arms were ornamented with two bronze bands fastened around his biceps.

They were the muscled arms of a soldier, trained for the sword and

shield. Severus did not bother to look up at Venator's sudden

appearance.

"This is how you pass your time, Domitius?" snapped Venator, his voice

coldly sarcastic. "Scorning God's will by raping a heathen child?"

Severus slowly turned his hard gray eyes to Venator. "The day is too

warm to listen to your Christian tripe. My god is more tolerant than

your god."

"True, but you worship a pagan."

"Purely a matter of preference. Neither of us has met our gods face to