“Put him to death!” Livia hissed. “He’s not even liked in the senate. Nobody will even question your decision.”

Tiberius scowled at her without saying anything.

“He tricked you!” Livia urged. “You know he tricked you. No one in his right mind would pay in these circumstances.” She stopped, wondering if she had gone too far, but Tiberius regarded her impassively. She laid one hand gently on his arm and some of the heat left her voice. “You must not allow a man like that to worry you, Tiberius. There are far greater affairs which merit your attention.”

And still Tiberius said nothing.

“Quo vadis?”

“Octavian Patricianus,” Octavian called quietly. The challenge should have been reassuring, but somehow it was not.

“Sir!” the sentry acknowledged briskly.

Octavian strolled forward, listening to an inner voice which asked him peevishly why he could not stay snugly in his tent. He passed the sentry and stopped. There was nothing to see. The camp was on a natural plateau and he was on the edge of that plateau now, staring out into darkness. In daylight it was possible to see for miles. There were forests out there and a lake to the north and two rivers and some wild plains country.

There were barbarians out there.

He shivered, a sensation which thrilled through the nervous system without producing any physical movement. Why had he not remained in his tent, snug in his bedroll?

Octavian listened. The plateau was a good site for defense, but that did not make it immune from attack.

“All quiet, soldier?” he asked the sentry over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

He felt uneasy.

He turned and strolled back into the camp. The central fires were blazing merrily, but at this hour most of the men were asleep—those who could sleep, that is: those who had no duties to attend to until morning. Only the hard ones and the wild ones stayed awake by choice. There was a group of them by one of the fires now, casting dice. Strange how gambling for money still fascinated men who might tomorrow gamble with their lives.

Octavian frowned. He was beginning to wonder if he could be ill. It had been years since such restlessness had gripped him.

Perhaps he was experiencing a premonition of death?

The men around the dice glanced up a little uncertainly as he approached, dropping their voices. But they did not stop the game. There was nothing against regulations in what they were doing.

“Ah-ha!” one called loudly as the dice brought him a fresh pile of sestertii. He scooped the coins toward him with exaggerated satisfaction, an overreaction to his own discomfort as Octavian approached.

It was, of course, well-known that the gods sometimes sent men warning of their own demise. And it was also true that men would often fail to heed such warnings until it was too late. Was his uneasiness a warning?

The dice rolled over and over and stopped.

“Looks ominous,” Xenophon remarked.

The sentry glanced up at the leaden sky. “Aye.”

“You know what I would say?” Xenophon inquired. “I would say there’s going to be a storm.”

“Aye.”

Xenophon grinned. “With thunderbolts … and rain.”

“I’d say you might be right,” the sentry agreed. He was a huge man, but very placid by nature. He had just enough intelligence to realize Xenophon was trying to bait him and more than enough good humor not to care. His brown eyes turned benignly on the little Greek.

“When Jove frowns, the sky grows black. When Jove is angry, thunderbolts are hurled,” Xenophon said with an air of profundity.

They were standing in Cato’s garden. The sentry had light duty: he guarded a side entrance to the mansion. He was part of a security system which existed only partly to guard a famous citizen in trying times. By far the greater part of its existence was due to Cato’s paranoia. Most people knew the man to be three-quarters mad. Lunacy often walked hand in hand with genius.

“When are you due to be relieved?” Xenophon asked suddenly.

“Not for many hours.”

Xenophon smiled sadly. “Strange, isn’t it, that a citizen of Rome must stand outside in a rainstorm while a poor Greek slave may remain safe and dry inside.”

“The ways of Fate defy explanation,” the sentry quoted blandly.

Xenophon nodded. After a moment he said lightly, “I shall leave you before Jove hurls the first bolt in your direction. It would never do if he missed you and hit me.”

The sentry grinned. “If I am in no worse danger than a stray thunderbolt, I shall stand easy enough.” He watched as the little Greek scurried into the house. Distantly, he thought he heard thunder.

The afternoon had grown sullen, as if a storm was indeed in the offing. The sentry’s eyes flickered upward to the metal rods Cato used to protect his mansion from the devastating ruin of the thunderbolt. He knew men who claimed that Cato had invented this protection, but the system was common enough to the better-class patrician houses. No one quite knew how it worked, only that it did.

Strange how such slim rods could absorb such shattering power. Perhaps they only did so by Jove’s express permission.

It was part of his duty to patrol that section of the garden which ended by the laurel bush. A shade beyond it, the rods traveled down the side of the villa to plunge into the earth of the garden. He walked toward them, drawing his sword.

When he reached the spot, he held the point toward the brief gap left between two rods. It was the one way he knew of foretelling whether Jove would hurl his bolts.

A blue spark crackled to his sword point.

Lightning flickered on the far horizon, but so distant that there was no hint of thunder. It was a still night, so that the movement of the sentries carried through the dim colonnades. The sound, a soft slap of leather on stone, leather on metal, and occasionally, the clink of metal on metal, was curiously restful.

Livia moved quickly through the open corridors.

She found him where he had taken to standing at Right of late, on a balcony overlooking the lake. It was a pleasant spot. On warm, balmy nights, the scent of herbs drifted up from the lakeside garden. “Tiberius!” she said, a trifle sharply.

He turned to face her, a small enough man, but immensely broad. The purple sat well on him.

“It is late, Tiberius,” she said more softly.

“Late, is it?” There was a great coldness in his voice and she could imagine the hardness in his features, although with his face in deep shadow, his exact expression eluded her. “Would you have me in your bed, woman?”

She winced, but merely said, “Is it so strange a place for a wife to wish her husband?”

To her intense annoyance, Tiberius giggled.

Somewhere in the silent depths of the crowd, a man laughed. The sound was so infectious that it was taken up throughout the vast auditorium until a thousand throats were hooting at the contrast presented by the two men in the arena.

There were smiles even in the royal box.

“What a magnificent specimen!” Tiberius breathed. Memory forced a degree of hardness into his eyes as he turned to his wife. “Don’t you think so, darling?”

Livia glanced at him from beneath slightly lowered eyelids, but said nothing.

“What’s his name—the big one?” Senator Marcus, seated to the left of the emperor, murmured,

“Some barbarian monstrosity. Really I forget it. Triton, or some such sound.”

“And he’s from?”

“The West,” Marcus said vaguely. He waved an effete hand. “The West.” His reputation was founded on eccentricity. He was expected to be vague.

“He looks as if he could give us royal entertainment,” Livia remarked, more to the party at large than to her husband.

“We are aware of your tastes in entertainment,” Tiberius said icily. Contrasting with the giant and affording much amusement to the crowd was a tiny, yellow-skinned barbarian. He was much smaller than average height, wiry rather than muscular, and slightly bandy-legged.

As the ill-assorted gladiators walked toward the royal box, Tiberius asked, “The dwarf—from what country does he originate?”

“An island near Cathay. He is Cato’s man. Heaven knows why he should risk such a curio in the arena.”

From the corner of his eye, Tiberius noticed Livia stiffen at the sound of Cato’s name. Perhaps the rumors were true. Perhaps the old fool really had refused her. But the prospect of comedy on the floor of the arena guarded his humor even against reminders of infidelity. “I imagine the noble Cato wishes to afford his emperor some entertainment. And what could be more amusing than a battle royal between a giant and a dwarf?”

“What indeed, sire—especially when the dwarf may win?” Cato was taking his seat behind the emperor, to the right of the first rank as his station permitted him. He looked calm today, like one nursing an intimate secret.

Although the voice was quite distinctive, Livia did not turn.

“You think your dwarf may win?” Marcus asked lightly in bantering tones, one eyebrow raised. He was a shrewd man and the tensions of the situation did not escape him.

“Not only do I think it, my dear boy,” Cato told him with a note almost of, gaiety in his voice, “but I have been prepared to stake a hard-earned aureus or two on my opinion.”

“Faith, Cato, if you’re serious about that, I would give you a wager myself!” Tiberius smiled suddenly. He had no particular love of Cato, but the lunatic was at least entertaining, which was more than could be said for the majority of senators. Besides, his money was as good as any other man’s.

There was no answering smile. “Only a fool would wager with Caesar.”

“But you are serious?” Marcus asked, some of the lightness evaporating from his manner.

“Oh, perfectly,” said Cato easily. “I would be prepared to cover any wager. Within my means, that is.” He smiled. As was commonly known, his means were large.

Tiberius looked down at the men within the ring and chuckled. “If you are serious, then I insist that you permit me to take your money, my dear demented noble.”

The dark eyes sparkled briefly. “Only a fool would argue with Caesar.”

Octavian sat bolt upright in his tent. Outside, men were screaming. Despite his military training, it took him moments to orientate himself in the darkness. Then he reached for his sword and plunged outside.

It was a scene of chaos. Men and animals were milling everywhere. The hoarse shouts of the NCO’s blended with the clank of steel on steel. At first he thought the enemy had actually penetrated the camp, the confusion was so great. But then he realized that while there was much confusion, there did not seem to be any’ actual fighting close at hand.

He gripped a hurrying soldier by the arm, swinging him to an abrupt halt by sheer brute force.

“Here, what the—” the man protested.

But Octavian cut him short. “What’s going on?”

The patrician accents put a stop to further protests. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t recognize you, sir. We’re under attack.”

“From which direction?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir. I think it’s big—pretty big.”

It would have to be big to cause such consternation. “Have they penetrated the camp?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir.”

The man had one of those slightly flattened, faintly stupid faces so common in the legions. He would fight well and die bravely if necessary, but he was unlikely to show much more than a glimmer of intelligence. Besides, he obviously knew no more than he’d told. Octavian let him go and he scurried off into the shadows beyond the firelight.

“Octavian!”

The shout came from somewhere on his right. He turned to face Septimus, in full fighting armor, his eyes flushed and excited.

“By the gods, Octavian, it’s incredible. There are thousands of them out there. Mars alone knows how greatly we’re outnumbered.” He stopped short. “Aren’t you in armor?” he asked desolately. “Didn’t you hear the alarm?”

“You there, sentry. What are you doing?”

The clipped, dry tones were so instantly recognizable that the sentry had snapped to attention even before he started to turn. “Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? Nothing, you say? Nothing, is it? Does a Roman sentry draw his sword in pursuit of nothing?”

“No, sir,” the sentry said. He felt acutely embarrassed.

“Then why, pray, is your sword drawn?”

The sentry took a deep breath. “I wanted to see if there was a storm approaching, sir.”

Cato was a slim man, somewhat stooped. He had feline features and tiny bright black eyes. The eyes were fixed on the sentry as the eyes of a snake fix on the body of a bird. “Look up, man. That’s where storms appear. In the Sky, sentry. Has your sword a voice that it tells you something your eyes do not?”

“No, sir.”

“Speak up!”

“No, sir,” the sentry repeated more loudly.

Cato had a single-minded perseverance. “Why do you seek to detect a storm with a sword? Unless you are hiding something from me, you should be able to answer that question, should you not? Or rather, you should be able to answer the question of how you propose to detect a coming storm with a sword. Do you not agree that you should be able to answer such a question?”

“Yes, sir,” the sentry agreed woodenly. He was still at attention, body and face rigid.

“What a curious man you are,” Cato said. “What a strange individual. What an odd personality. What a weird soldier! Don’t you agree?”

The sentry did not answer, largely out of nervousness. But Cato seemed not to notice. “If you were to study the sky—which does indeed appear to be preparing for a storm—or if you were to study the actions of wild birds, or even if you were to consult an oracle, I would find nothing strange in your predictions of a coming storm, sentry. But to use your sword—which, some might say, could have been better employed in the defense of Cato’s property—to use your sword … that, sentry, is a curious and strange and odd and weird thing to do, don’t you agree?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I wasn’t trying to tell if there’d be a storm—just thunderbolts,” the sentry said a little desperately.

“So,” said Cato.

There was silence in the garden. Distantly, overhead, thunder rolled.

“Your ears would tell you sooner surely, sentry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or perhaps not,” Cato mused. “Perhaps Jove becomes so frightened by your sword that he bends to Earth and whispers in your ear.”

“No, sir.”

The playful note left Cato’s voice and he asked coldly, “How do you detect approaching thunderbolts with a sword, sentry?”

Small beads of sweat had broken on the sentry’s forehead. “It’s sparks, sir—like you get sometimes when you rub fur against your armor.”

“Fur?” echoed Cato. “Armor?” But the sentry was too panic-stricken now to be stopped. “I put the tip of my sword to the gap in your protection rods, sir. If it sparks there will be thunderbolts.”

“And if it does not?”

“There won’t be any, sir,” the sentry said uncomfortably.

After a long moment, Cato said, “Show me.”

Moving like a puppet, the sentry drew his sword again and held it to the gap between the rods. Another blue spark crackled.

Cato left him and walked thoughtfully inside his villa.

Livia leaned across so that only Tiberius could hear. Anger, perhaps coupled with a knowledge of her own power, caused her to forget even her slight degree of customary caution. “Are you mad, Tiberius? The wager is too high! Have you forgotten even emperors have limits to their purses?”

“Hardly, my dear, when you so often drive me near the limit of mine,” Tiberius murmured.

“Then take back the bet! Should Cato win—” She shuddered.

Tiberius kept his eyes on the arena. The giant and the dwarf stood side by side beneath him, saluting. Nos moraturi to salutamus, Caesar! “Look below you, Livia,” Tiberius said quietly; “and tell me if Cato can win such a wager.”

Livia fell silent, although the tension did not leave her face.

Dawn came. The sun crawled out of the distant forests, a sullen red which foretold rain later in the day. It was a falsely peaceful dawn, for the brunt of the night assault had been beaten back, despite the enemy’s advantage of surprise, and now there was a lull.

Octavian stared out over the vast array of barbarian troops, machines and horses, wondering, above all else, how so many had assembled so quickly and with so little warning.

He sighed. Some questions were of more interest to historians. To the soldier, all that mattered was the here and now.

Here and now the Roman forces were surrounded and outnumbered.

“Not a pleasant sight, Octavian my friend.”

He turned his head slowly and smiled. “An understatement, Septimus. Have you information on the commander’s plans?”

Septimus shrugged. “Circumstances dictate plans. Picked men were dispatched under cover of darkness. Should they get through, they are instructed to request relief troops.”

Octavian looked back over the enemy encampments. “Should they get through …”

Septimus said nothing.

After a moment, Octavian murmured, “It is many days’ march should they get through. Many, many days. Can we hold out many days against that?” He gestured.

“Perhaps,” said Septimus. “We are, after all, Romans.” Octavian nodded. “Should Rome ever fall, my friend, it will not be for lack of courage in her soldiers.” A pensive look crossed his features fleetingly. “Although it may be because she cannot communicate with the outskirts of her empire fast enough to send her soldiers where they are most sorely needed.”

Misunderstanding, Septimus said, “Our men may well get through, Octavian.”

Octavian looked at him again and grinned almost cheerfully. “Whether they do or whether they don’t, it is going to be one hell of a fight.”

Yoshisuke Aikawa shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as the abbot had taught him. Without conscious effort, he fell into a regime of rhythmic breathing which stilled the residue of tension in his soul.

As a monk, he was under vows never to carry arms, and had thus laid aside the short sword and dagger the Western Devils had given him. The gesture had created much amusement among the crowd.

He waited, watching his opponent.

The Celt, a huge man, black-haired and muscular, moved gracefully toward him. He carried a sword, but having watched Aikawa leave himself weaponless, had foregone his shield.

The crowd was laughing as he approached, waiting for the little man to break and run, waiting for the comedy to begin.

Aikawa waited.

When he was only a few yards away, the Celt said something in his native tongue, then something in such heavily-accented Latin that Aikawa could not understand it. Out of courtesy, Aikawa smiled and bowed. The Celt looked puzzled and gestured threateningly with his sword.

Aikawa concentrated until he felt the correct measure of his life force flow into his hands. He rubbed them together, feeling the hard ridges on the edges of his palms, the bone-like calluses on his fingers. He waited, half thinking of the years of training. Your hands shall be axes. Your fingers shall be spears. Your feet shall be clubs. For monks sworn never to carry arms, training was the only defense.

The Celt lunged forward with his sword, obviously hoping to make his tiny opponent break and run so that the comedy might begin. But there was no feel of death about him so Aikawa did not move and the sword point stopped short of his chest.

It was a development which did not altogether please the crowd. They were poised for high humor.

The Celt made another lunge and still Aikawa did not move. Somewhere in the auditorium, someone booed. An odd sound, almost reminiscent of a growl, grumbled from the Celt’s throat and he lunged forward again. This time there was the feel of death about him.

Aikawa moved.

He stepped forward two swift paces to take the giant’s sword arm by the wrist. Then he relaxed and allowed the man’s momentum to break the bone. The Celt roared in agony and dropped the sword onto the sand of the arena.

Aikawa released the wrist and lunged a rigid forefinger through the rib-cage. Because the man was so tall he could not reach the heart to kill, but the move paralyzed his opponent long enough to allow Aikawa to reach the other arm and throw him heavily onto the ground.

Since the Celt was not wearing a helmet, he kicked the head sharply with the side of his foot, fracturing the skull and driving a sliver of bone into the brain.

Aikawa left the corpse and walked, as Cato had instructed him, to the emperor’s box where he bowed politely.

The scent of herbs rose sweetly. A crescent moon had risen and now reflected in the stillness of the lake. Whatever threat there had been from the distant storm had passed, for even the silent lightning on the horizon had now stopped.

“The man is a threat,” Livia told him with urgent softness. “He thinks too much. The populace call him a wizard because of his engines. The senate hates him. One day perhaps he will build an engine of war which might be used against Caesar. Who can tell the loyalties of a madman?”

Tiberius looked at her thoughtfully. “Loyalty is a rare enough thing in the Imperium.”

At another time she might have risen to the gibe. As it was, she scented, distantly, a long-awaited victory over an old enemy. “Can you say, Tiberius, that he will not raise an army of dwarves trained to fight without weapons? Can you say that even the legions of Rome could stand against such … such … devilment?”

He turned away from her to hide an involuntary shudder. What had happened in the arena had indeed been more disturbing than he wanted to admit. So fast. So casual. Such power. So inexplicable. What could such men do if they were armed?

She hesitated, then pressed home another point. “Besides, Tiberius, you cannot afford to pay out so large a wager. As you reminded me at the Games, the imperial purse is far from limitless.”

Without inflection, Tiberius asked, “What do you suggest I do?”

In the darkness, Livia smiled.

The sentry smiled. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Master Xenophon? Where’s all your nonsense about thunderbolts today?” A lesser man might well have blamed the Greek for getting him into the trouble he had when last they met. But the sentry’s humor was long and his memory short.

Xenophon stopped, although with the air of one who is impatient to go on. “I am instructed to attend our master, my friend,” he said. “Perhaps he requires my advice on the latest of his engines.”

The sentry grinned. “Perhaps.”

Xenophon lowered his voice. “It is strange you should speak to me of thunderbolts. The rumors have it that Cato’s latest engine can harness their energy.”

“Only Jove can do that,” the sentry remarked piously.

Xenophon’s shoulders lifted in an exaggerated shrug. His right hand gestured toward the rods which traveled down the villa walls. “Was it not Cato’s genius which devised rods to protect his mansion even from the wrath of Jove?”

“I would not speak against our master,” the sentry said carefully, although more from fear than love, “but I have seen such rods on many noble houses.”

“Perhaps, but that’s not to say where they came from. Cato is of poor enough birth, yet he’s the richest man in Rome.” He hesitated. “Well, one of the richest. Where do you think his money came from, my poor soldier? I’ll tell you.” He tapped his head. “From here. From the engines he creates. The great houses have heat in winter in each room from a central furnace because of Cato. His design. And the public baths are his design as well. They say—”

“A mortal with brains may design public baths, but it takes a god to tame a thunderbolt,” the sentry said stiffly.

“We’ll see,” said Xenophon and dodged past him into the house.

“If you don’t wish his blood on your hands, let the gods decide,” Livia urged.

Tiberius turned slowly to look at her. “What sort of talk is that, woman?”

She curbed her impatience for she knew, one way or another, she had him now. Very calmly she said, “Let us return to our quarters and cast lots. Should you win, you may take whatever action you decide against friend Cato. Should I win, then he must be put to death. The gods will decide which of us wins in the casting, and thus the gods will decide whether Cato lives or dies.” After a moment she added, “It is my belief that the gods which protect Rome will not permit so dangerous a man to live.”

“Perhaps he really is dangerous,” Tiberius mused. “I cannot condemn a man for winning a wager, but perhaps he really is a danger to the State.”

“You know he is,” Livia assured him resolutely.

Tiberius took her arm and began to walk with her down the corridor toward their chambers. “But as you say,” he murmured, “that is better left for the gods to decide …”

It was a strange engine, but then all Cato’s engines were strange until one grew accustomed to them. Xenophon stared. There was a smallish treadmill, just about big enough for a man his own size. There were pads of silk and animal fur, pressing against burnished metal. There were rods like the rods Cato used to protect his house against Jove’s thunderbolts.

Perhaps, after all, he was trying to harness the energy of the gods. Xenophon shuddered.

“Ah, Xenophon,” said Cato. “Tardy as usual when there’s work to be done. Come on, man, I’m impatient to test out my engine.”

Xenophon walked forward wondering.

“Into the treadmill,” Cato said. “And don’t look so worried—I won’t work you to death.”

Xenophon climbed gingerly into the wheel.

“Now run,” Cato instructed. Xenophon ran.

For panting minutes nothing happened. Silk and fur rubbed against metal, the wheel spun and spun, Xenophon panted, but nothing happened.

“Faster!” Cato called excitedly. “Faster, man, faster!”

And then, with his reserves of breath almost gone, a thunderbolt arced between two rods with a crack that stopped Xenophon in his tracks, but did not, unfortunately, halt the treadmill which had more than enough momentum to deposit him unceremoniously on the tiled floor. The air smelled of ozone.

“Did you see?” Cato cried. “Did you see that, you uneducated Greek?”

Xenophon picked himself up gingerly. “Yes, sir, I saw.”

“But did you understand?” asked Cato. “This is not an engine like my others. This is a generator of god-power—thunderbolt power! Who knows how that power might be applied. Do you know, Greek?”

“No, sir,” Xenophon said. It seemed the safest thing to say.

“Rome may have new weapons,” Cato said. “Thunderbolts to hurl at our enemies as Jove hurls thunderbolts at his.” His eyes burned. “This power travels along rods and wires so quickly, we do not have time small enough to measure it. Perhaps I can find a way of using it to send out messages. Think of that, Xenophon. Let those implications sink into your tardy mind! Rome could communicate with the farthest outpost of her empire. Communicate so quickly we cannot begin to imagine the benefits.” He paused thoughtfully. “Except one. With such communication and Rome’s legions, the empire would become impregnable. We would hear about revolts in the most distant provinces before they had proper time to get under way. We could reinforce any garrison to deal with trouble. We could send reinforcements when they were needed, not rely on runners who do not reach us until too late.” He laughed. “With Jove’s power behind us, the Roman Empire will endure for ten thousand years!”

He turned, attracted by a slight commotion at the door. He watched, not comprehending, as Caesar’s men marched across the tiled floor to arrest him.

“Have you heard the news, Octavian?” Septimus asked quietly. Octavian shook his head. All news was bad news now.

“Our couriers—the men we sent out seeking reinforcements …”

“What news of them?” Octavian asked.

“A barbarian party under a flag of truce delivered their heads to the commander before dawn this morning.”

Octavian sighed. “Without communications to a source of reinforcements we are doomed. There is nothing we can do.”

“Except die like Romans,” Septimus remarked bravely.

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