Chapter Two

"I think I'm dying," moaned Richie weakly. "I really think I'm dying."

"Anything I can do to help? Strangle you? Break your neck? Put my sword through your heart?"

"Get knotted, Methuselah," snapped Richie, the weakness vanishing instantly. "Hey, Joe! Where's my plop-plop fizz-fizz? I'm dying here!"

Methos gave the young man lying on Joe's couch his most baleful stare, then turned away. The kid had been whining nonstop since they left the bar. The urge to put him out of his misery-and theirs-was overwhelming. Methos longingly contemplated the silence likely to follow Richie's demise, then sighed and returned to darker thoughts.

"Coming! Keep your pants on!"

Methos closed his eyes against the exhaustion in Joe's voice and turned his attention inward again. He pulled his knees more tightly to his chest and sank more deeply into the window seat, leaning his head against the window pane as he listened to the soft clatter of coffee mugs coming from Joe's kitchen.

Lucius is free.

"Here. Shut up and drink it. And don't puke on my sofa, okay?"

"Relax, Joe. There can't be much left in there to heave. Unless the bile starts coming up."

"Thanks for sharing, pal."

"Anytime."

Methos forced his eyes open as he sensed Joe's approach; he turned his head to see his friend hold out a cup of coffee with a rueful smile.

Even with five thousand years of experience, Methos still found Joe Dawson to be something of a wonder. He could count on his hands the people who had known him-really known him-and still called him friend. They had all been Immortals. It usually required the perspective of an Immortal to understand and accept both who Methos had been, and who he was now. And yet, amazingly, unwavering acceptance was at the heart of this mortal's-this relative child's-friendship. This man knew the worst of him, and yet it seemed to make no difference. If anything, Joe had drawn closer, offering his support even as Duncan MacLeod had yanked his away.

Methos forced his mouth into something approximating a smile and accepted the coffee, then watched as Joe settled wearily into his favorite chair, sighing deeply. Methos sipped the liquid in his cup mechanically, taking more pleasure in the warmth of the cup in his cold hands than the taste on his tongue.

Lucius is free.

And Duncan MacLeod. Asleep or awake, there seemed to be no escape from the thought of him. The dreams had begun a couple days after the double quickening, and had become more frequent ever since. Methos was not particularly surprised; he had had similar experiences in the past. Some of Duncan's memories had filtered through the quickening. Most of the resulting dreams had been vivid but pleasant. Nevertheless, dreaming about the man every night made it virtually impossible to dismiss him from his thoughts by day.

Lucius is free. Why am I still here?

In the old days he would have been gone-and gone long before now. Why had he been hanging about? Habit? Stubbornness? Death wish? Or worse, hope? Hadn't he learned anything in the past fifty centuries?

Lucius is free.

We're through.

Why had the thought of disappearing held no appeal for him? Why did Joe's mother hen routine touch him so deeply? He was even starting to think he would miss the annoyance of Amanda's surprise tea and sympathy visits, and the tedium of Richie's excruciating cheerfulness as he tried in vain to make pleasant conversation over their beers. All three of these idiots had been driving him crazy with their exasperating kindness. He was five thousand years old; he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. That they evidently thought otherwise was patently absurd.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He loved them.

Lucius is free.

Methos' knowledge of profanity was profound, and he indulged in it liberally, silently cursing Duncan MacLeod in as many languages as he could. It had all started with that damned boy scout. Methos had been so busy trying to drill the basic concepts of survival into that thick Scottish skull that he hadn't been aware of the toxic backwash until it was far too late to undo the damage. Without Methos realizing it, Duncan had somehow managed to contaminate him with some of his most quixotic notions, among them that friendship, no, clan, was worth any risk.

Any risk. Every time Methos shut his eyes, he could hear himself confirming Cassandra's accusations with all the relish it would take to drive Duncan either to leave him or to challenge him: murder, rape and worse...for pleasure. He could see the searing play of emotions across Duncan's face: hope, shock, disbelief, grief, rage. Methos had fully expected Duncan to try to take his head then and there.

But Duncan had walked away. Methos had known at that moment that their friendship could not survive that shock, although, for some unfathomable reason, some small part of him had hoped. He knew that Duncan's order to Cassandra to let him live had been not so much an act of friendship as the return of a favor, an acknowledgment of Methos' assistance in defeating the Horsemen.

And then Byron, dead at Duncan's hands... Methos stifled the thought; he'd been down that road too many times in the past two weeks. It led nowhere.

Lucius is free.

Methos hadn't laid eyes on Duncan since the night of Byron's death. He could have left after Bordeaux. He hadn't. He could have left after Duncan killed Byron. He hadn't. Why? Duncan had made it very clear that Methos no longer held his respect or his trust. Their friendship was dead. And yet here he sat, unable to summon the will to sever the rest of the ties that held him to this place, even when his continued presence constituted a real and present danger. He shook his head imperceptibly, knowing, even as he considered the danger, that he could no more sever those ties now than he could sever his own arms. Why?

Did it matter? Lucius was free. How? When? Where was he? How had he found Zwirner? How had he-

"So are you guys going to tell me what's going on?"

Methos opened his eyes and sighed, praying to a long-forgotten deity for the gift of silence to be bestowed upon the impossibly dense. He and Joe had a hell of a lot to discuss, and it wasn't going to be easy if they had to stop and explain everything to MacLeod, Junior. His eyes met Joe's, and the wry humor of the mortal's expression quelled his irritation. He snorted and turned back to stare out the window.

"Rich, if we figure that out, you'll be the first to know," said Joe, shifting in his chair.

Richie downed the last of his Alka-Seltzer and sat up straight. "You've figured out enough to tell me why that guy was scared out of what passes for his mind. Why did he want you two to go with him? Who is Lucius?"

Joe hesitated, glancing at Methos. The ancient Immortal sighed and shook his head. "Go ahead and tell him, Joe. He'll have to be told sooner or later, anyway. Besides, it might shut him up for a few minutes."

"Thank you!"

"Don't mention it."

"Guys," said Joe mildly, "It's late, I'm drunk, I'm tired, and I'm scared. Could we put a lid on the bullshit?"

Richie's eyes widened slightly, and Methos drained the last of his coffee, cursing himself this time. How had he managed to wind up in this situation? How had he managed to put Joe in this situation? Not just Joe. Richie. Amanda. Mac. Damn! If Lucius had captured a Watcher, then it was a given that he now knew everything that Watcher had known, and possessed all the records which that Watcher had possessed. Methos knew perfectly well that Zwirner hadn't been simply a historian. He was the European Headquarters' eyes and ears in Jack Shapiro's office. He had been a regional coordinator himself once. He had names, photographs, locations.

"The 'guy' is Étienne Dupré, Jack Shapiro's assistant."

"The guy who tried to whack you. So what does he want with you and Adam?"

Joe shrugged. "When I first joined the Watchers, I was a historian. I did a lot of research on Lucius. I'm probably the closest thing they've got to an expert on the subject. And Adam followed up on my work."

Methos noticed that his knuckles had gone white as he clutched his coffee mug, and he set the empty cup carefully on the window seat beside him.

Richie's gaze traveled from Joe's face to Methos' profile and back again. "Okay. Now who's Lucius? And why does Shapiro think that Lucius killed that Watcher?"

"Lucius..." Joe's voice trailed off as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Okay. Short version. Lucius was born in the fifth century AD, brought up by a noble family in Rome. That's where he was recruited to the Watchers."

"He was a Watcher?"

"Yup." Joe sighed. "This was before his first death. He had no idea what he was. And neither did we." Joe paused a moment, then continued quietly. "When Rome fell, he lost his family, his house, his wealth, everything. A friend recruited him."

Joe hesitated.

"And?" prompted Richie.

"And he was assigned to Darius."

"Darius. Our Darius?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Richie scowled. "What does that mean?"

Joe opened his eyes and gave Richie a sober look. "Just that the Darius you knew bears very little resemblance to the man Lucius was assigned to watch. Darius was a warrior. Some called him a butcher. He led his army from Germany across Gaul, plundering, killing, raping. He had taken a vow that he wouldn't stop until he'd made his way across Europe to the sea. And he probably would have made it, too, if he hadn't made the mistake of stopping at a little town called Lutetia."

Richie shook his head. "I've never heard of it."

Methos laughed shortly. "You're sitting in it, kid." He turned back toward the window, whatever smart-ass rejoinder Richie was making drowned out by the roar of memory.

Methos warily scanned the shoreline of the island before him, vaguely aware of the river gently lapping at the toes of his boots. He was exhausted, filthy and hungry, and he allowed himself to become aware of that now, as he had not done during the long weeks of his journey. After the hunger, the fear, and the pain that he had endured to get here, he felt oddly out of place at the sight of the peaceful town across the river.

The journey from Rome had been more difficult than he had anticipated. The disintegration of the old empire had engendered chaos and tragedy on a scale that shocked Methos. It had been millennia since he had seen anything like it. War was everywhere. The countryside was rife with rumors of moving armies and slaughter. Armies of every conceivable description were on the march: the scattered remnants of Rome, the splintered factions of the Goths, the Gauls, the Franks, and of course the inevitable plethora of private armies, led by men who imagined that within disaster lay opportunity for wealth and power. The roads, such as they were these days, were filled with these armies, and with people fleeing the destruction of their homes. Roving bands of desperate, starving people routinely attacked unwary travelers for whatever they could steal.

Methos had been hard-pressed to see his charges safely to their destination, and had long ago realized that the price to which he had agreed for his services had not been nearly enough. The mercenaries Methos had hired had started to growl about too much danger for too little gold, and only their superstitious fear of the men they were escorting prevented them from drawing compensation from them by breaking open their coffers.

The journey had taken several weeks longer than it should have, not only because of the dangers of the road, but because they had been forced to escort a dignitary who insisted upon moving at a snail's pace. Yet another week's delay, and very little gold offered for the inconvenience. Methos knew he should have refused, but as the years had passed he had found it increasingly difficult to deny Father Sebastian anything.

They had encountered the Archbishop of Rheims and his entourage on the road when they were two weeks' journey from Lutetia. The Archbishop's party were attempting to fend off an attack by a half-dozen bandits, who had promptly taken to their heels at the sight of Methos and his well-armed mercenaries. The Archbishop, in an ecstasy of relief and gratitude, had declared Methos and his mercenaries to be a gift from God. Had Methos been in other company, such a remark would have provoked a suitably blasphemous response, but Sebastian's presence curbed his tongue.

His Grace informed them that he had been asked by Clovis, King of the Franks, to baptize him and his entire army-in, of all places, Lutetia. When the Archbishop learned that this was Sebastian's destination also, he requested that the two groups travel together for protection. Sebastian's gracious acquiescence was a foregone conclusion; what the Archbishop asked for was not to be refused.

Secretly, Methos was glad of the prolongation of their journey. He felt...he knew that their arrival in Lutetia would be the end of another life for him. Rome was dying, her great families fleeing to the East and taking the amassed knowledge of the Empire with them. The libraries were either gone east or plundered. The estates of the families with whom Methos had associated lay abandoned or were occupied by invaders or squatting peasants. And now his closest friend, Sebastian, had been sent into Gaul. There was nothing for him in Rome.

And he doubted that there could be anything for him in Lutetia. A provincial Roman town in the north of Gaul, it possessed nothing of interest to a scholar. Given the current political and military situation, it might possess something of interest to a warrior, but the taste of blood was no longer sweet to Methos; living by the sword was no longer a viable option. He no longer wished to be the man he had been.

Methos squatted by the river, picked up a small pebble, and threw it into the water, watching the concentric ripples as they spread across the surface. Cause: pebble breaking the surface of the water. And effect: a pattern of disturbance in the water. Observation and logic answered many questions, but not all. And it was those unanswered questions, questions of the nature of evil, and of good, of guilt and of innocence, of damnation and of redemption, that he had recently begun to ponder, and to discuss with, of all people, a Christian priest.

For Father Sebastian had an agile intellect, a profound education, and a unique perspective on Methos: he found him to be a good man. Methos had told him everything, of course. It was something Methos did to hurt himself every decade or so: let someone get close, then tell them the truth-a watch the disbelief turn to horror, the affection to disgust, the trust to dust. But Sebastian had simply listened, nodded, and poured Methos another glass of wine. Nothing changed, except that Sebastian had begun what became an ongoing debate between them: Proposed-that Methos is not inherently evil, that Methos is a worthy candidate for redemption, that Methos is deserving of love and happiness.

A preposterous assertion, and one only a lunatic Christian priest would dare to make, Methos had told him, and he had believed it when he'd said it. But that had been ten years ago, and Sebastian's insistence was proving a more powerful influence on Methos' opinion of himself than he would have deemed possible. Redemption...

As if on cue, Methos felt the familiar signature of another Immortal, an Ancient, and he smiled involuntarily.

"Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, my son." Father Sebastian came to stand at Methos' side, pushing back the hood of his cassock and letting the dawn sun touch his silver hair and weathered face. "Still on guard for enemies, Marcus? We are within Clovis' boundaries now."

"Exactly," said Methos drily, standing up.

Sebastian shook his head reprovingly. "The king would not permit harm to come to a delegate of Rome-and certainly not to his Grace the Archbishop of Rheims-on the very eve of his conversion to the faith."

Methos snorted. "Because his faith is so pure and true?"

"Because without the support of the episcopate, his planned conquest of the remainder of Gaul will fail," returned Sebastian.

Methos laughed, delighted. The man never ceased to surprise him. "Sebastian, for shame! Such cynicism. You doubt the existence of faith, then?"

"By no means," said Sebastian softly, with a small smile. "I have faith in faith."

Methos grinned. "Your logic is unsound, Priest. I challenge you: postulate a logical proof of the existence of faith."

Sebastian pursed his lips, staring across the river at the town, then laughed very softly. "Very well. Given: Methos exists. Yes?"

Methos sighed, sensing yet another round of persuasion in the offing. "Occasionally."

"No equivocations, youngster. Does or does not Methos exist?"

"He exists."

"Also given: there have been times in his life when, from pain, and weariness, and self-loathing, he has desired not to exist. Yes?"

Methos turned away in silence. Sebastian knew the answer to that question.

"Yes," said Methos quietly.

"Also given: Methos knew the means to end his existence. Yes?"

"Sebastian-"

"Yes or no?"

"You Christians are so-"

"This was your idea, child."

"Yes, damn you!"

"And yet Methos did not end his existence. Yes?"

"Yes," said Methos wearily. He should have known better than to start this.

"Then I postulate that faith prevented him from doing so."

Methos stared at the priest for a moment, then howled with laughter. "Faith? In what? That's not a proof of faith, Sebastian. It's a proof of cowardice."

Methos' laughter was brought to an abrupt halt as Sebastian slapped his cheek. Not hard-the sort of tap a stern parent would administer to an erring child to get their attention. Methos stared at Sebastian, startled, his hand to his slightly stinging cheek.

Sebastian spoke gently. "It is a proof of faith. Faith in the power of redemption. Faith in those who love you. Faith in yourself. This is your salvation."

"I thought you meant faith in your God," whispered Methos.

"My God is all those things and more," said Sebastian tenderly, laying his hands on Methos' shoulders. "My dear son, I know how difficult this journey has been for you. To leave your studies, to expose yourself to the call of battle again after all these years...and for me..."

Methos opened his mouth to say that he was simply in need of the gold...and stopped, unable to look in the old man's eyes and utter a lie of that magnitude. It hadn't been the gold. When Sebastian had told him that he was being sent to Lutetia, Methos had known it was a death sentence. He couldn't imagine what the old man could have said or done to offend the Bishop of Rome, but Sebastian did have a reputation for treading that fine line between original thought and heresy. To send an old man-Sebastian had been nearly sixty when he had suffered his first death-on such a journey with one acolyte and a half-dozen mercenaries as his only protection would certainly have resulted in capture, torment, perhaps death, if by chance or design his head had been taken.

Methos had found himself unable to let that happen. The old man had beguiled him from the hour of their first meeting in the library of a mutual friend, eleven years ago. Methos had been intrigued by him from the first, not only because Sebastian was a fellow scholar, and the first Immortal he had met who had converted to Christianity, but also because he was the first Immortal he had met who was older than himself. Methos had begun to wonder if he were not the oldest. It was a strange relief to know that he was not. To listen to the stories of one with greater experience than himself, to tell his stories in return, and to receive the sort of understanding that only experience can teach, had been a completely unexpected joy-and yet another kind of healing.

"It wasn't for you," growled Methos with a scowl, unable to give voice to his feelings. "It was for the helpless armies infesting Gaul. Do you imagine I would set a Christian priest at their innocent throats? You'd have them all laying down their arms and worshiping your carpenter God inside a month, and Clovis would have their heads in a day."

"As long as a month?" returned Sebastian with a grin that told Methos that the old man was not deceived in the slightest. "You underestimate me, my friend. I would..."

His words trailed away, and Methos stiffened as the muted signature of a pre-Immortal touched him. He turned to survey the riverbank, upstream and down, but saw nothing.

"Marcus!"

"Methos! Earth to Methos. Come in, Methos!"

Methos realized that he was staring at the empty wall over Richie's head, and he turned his gaze to Joe, who was regarding him gravely.

"You ought to hang something on that wall, Joe," Methos said in a conversational tone. "Maybe a stuffed head of some sort. I'd be glad to hunt one up for you-"

"Nah," said Joe casually, the corners of his mouth twitching. "They are ugly, man."

"What, heads? Well, I suppose some people's are."

"Cute, guys. Very cute," snapped Richie, and leaned back into the couch in a fine MacLeodian sulk.

Joe went on as if Richie hadn't spoken. "Those things give me the creeps, always staring at you with those big, sad glass eyes. Like they're trying to make you feel guilty for whacking 'em, you know?"

"Doesn't bother me," said Methos cheerfully. "If you don't want to look at the eyes, you could always put its motorcycle helmet on it, with the visor down."

Joe looked interested. "Yeah? That's not a bad idea."

"It'd make a great conversation piece."

"Yeah, but wouldn't it, like, attract bugs?"

"No more than it does now."

"How much do you think that'd run me?"

"You guys ought to take this show on the road," cut in Richie impatiently. "Come on, Joe, tell the story. This is the legend Mac told me about, right? When Darius came to the gates of Paris?"

"Most legends have some basis in fact," said Joe, his eyes seeking Methos' inquiringly.

Methos' gaze drifted back to the window. "What did MacLeod tell you about this legend, Richie?"

Richie shrugged. "That Darius came to the gates and fought a priest there, an Immortal-the oldest Immortal of his time. That Darius won, and took the priest's quickening, and it changed him. He disbanded his army and spared the city."

Methos couldn't restrain a bark of acid laughter. "Instant redemption. Just add quickening and stir. And MacLeod believes this tale, does he?"

"Why shouldn't he? Are you saying it's not true?" Richie's tone was almost belligerent.

"Of course it is," said Methos harshly. "Most legends have some basis in fact, right? Tell him the legend of Lucius, Joe."

"I think you have more to tell than I do," said Joe, so wearily that Methos cursed himself again. Whatever had happened or was going to happen wasn't Joe Dawson's doing.

Methos unfolded himself from the window seat and crossed to Joe, taking his empty coffee cup in unspoken apology. "More?"

"Thanks."

Methos withdrew into the kitchen, feeling Joe's eyes on his back, and dreading the man's perceptiveness. This Watcher knew him too damned well. Since when was he such an open book? Methos shook his head as he poured the coffee, listening to Joe's thoughtful silence and Richie's impatient shifting on the sofa.

"So," said Richie after a few seconds of silence. "What's the legend?"

Joe met Methos' eyes as he re-entered the room. Methos managed a smile, handed Joe his cup, and retreated into the window seat again, perfectly aware that Joe was observing his every move. How much did Joe really know about Lucius? Apart from a list of his victims, not much, probably. Methos had seen what was in Lucius' file and in the history Joe had written. Methos' own contribution to that record had been minimal; a couple of facts germane to time and place, nothing more. That was all Joe could know. But he probably suspected a good deal more.

"Lucius is sort of...the Watchers' bogeyman," said Joe quietly.

"A bogeyman?" Richie laughed. "You mean, like the monster under the bed?"

"Mine was always in the closet. But yeah. A monster."

Methos launched himself out of the window seat and paced the length of the room, choking back the ancient anger that threatened to sever his control. He could feel Joe's eyes on him again, and knew that the simple language of his movement had betrayed his emotional state. He continued to pace, not trusting his voice.

Joe spoke softly. "Let's hear it, Adam."

Methos reached the far end of the room and swung toward his friends, knowing he was not yet in control of his reactions and, at that moment, not caring.

"He was not a monster."

Joe, who had been in the act of raising his coffee to his lips, lowered it again with a look of well-measured surprise.

"Come again? You know as well as I do-"

"I know better than you do," said Methos in an uneven tone. "I know all about monsters."

Joe set his coffee cup down on the table beside him, his expression torn between the man's instinctive compassion and an obstinacy born of fear. "Adam-"

"Is this about Lucius or about you?"

Methos turned toward the couch, startled. "What?"

Richie met his gaze squarely, looking to Methos as if he had matured a century in the past two minutes. Richie pointed at the older man. "Lucius, or you?"

"It's about both of us," snapped Methos, feeling confused.

"So you're both monsters."

"No!"

"So you're both not monsters."

Methos stared at the child, straining to see the glow of ancient wisdom past the sparkle of youthful cleverness...expecting, for one fleeting second, to see Sebastian. "I don't know," he stammered, taken aback.

"Why don't you tell us what happened, then?" continued Richie calmly.

Methos shook himself, unnerved. The boy was full of surprises. MacLeod's training? No, somehow it didn't feel like MacLeod. Who else would have had that sort of influence?

Methos received the answer to his question in a flash of comprehension, and turned away sharply to resume his pacing. "No. No. Go ahead, Joe, tell him."

"Are you sure?" Joe sounded uncertain. "Adam, if there's something you need to say-"

"Tell him! Tell him what you need to say. My say has waited nine hundred years, it can wait a few more minutes."

Richie's eyes went to Joe. "Okay. What did he do?"

Joe set his cup on the table beside him, clearly reluctant to speak. Methos could feel the man's gaze, his concern for the impact his words would have. "He killed Watchers, wherever he could find us. As many as he could and as slowly as he could."

Richie picked up his empty glass and fingered it nervously. "A lot of you?"

"Over two thousand of us," said Joe in a bleak tone that grated on Methos' nerves.

"Two thousand?" Richie's eyes widened.

Methos briefly fought a bitter laugh at the shocked look on the boy's face, then succumbed. "Yes. Only two thousand. Lucius never had a true talent or inclination for slaughter. An amateur, really. Now if I had had his opportunities-"

Joe closed his eyes, and Methos cut himself off.

"Methos," said Richie sharply, "Give it a rest, okay?"

"You," snarled Methos, aggravated again, "are not getting it, kid."

"I," snapped Richie, "am getting it just fine. It's you that's not getting it. This is Joe's story, so Death...take a holiday." Richie jerked a thumb in the direction of the window seat.

Joe made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh masked by a cough, then cleared his throat as Methos' narrowed eyes swept him scathingly.

"Fine." Methos ignored Richie's direction, and continued to pace the room, arms folded over his chest, eyes memorizing the pattern of Joe's carpet. "Tell it, Joe."

Richie looked to Joe encouragingly. "Two thousand," he prompted softly.

"Yeah, well, it took him six hundred years," Joe continued in the same strange monotone that had disturbed Methos before. "Starting in 496 A.D. He was as regular as clockwork. Winter, spring, summer, fall. One Watcher each season. Four Watchers each year. They'd go missing, then the bodies would be delivered-in pieces. Some of the pieces were...partially eaten. He had the pieces delivered to the Watchers of Rome on these beautiful little silver platters. We still have the platters. Did you ever see the platters, Adam?"

Methos stopped pacing, the fear in Joe's voice breaking through his anger. "Joe-"

"Did you know him?" Joe's voice was no more than a whisper now.

Methos nodded, turning away from the rest of the anguished questions in his friend's face. "A long time ago."

"Marcus Gaius!"

The bellow came from their camp, a few dozen yards away, and Methos recognized the voice of Rufus, the leader of his Roman mercenaries.

"Now what?" he muttered, glancing at Sebastian. "Come, we'd best see-"

"Marcus Gaius! A rider! A stranger!"

"Coming!"

Swearing under his breath, Methos headed back to camp at a brisk pace, not trusting Rufus to identify the rider before attacking. They had nearly been killed half-a-dozen times because of the man's rashness and stupidity. For all they knew, it was a messenger from Clovis, or from the deans of the Church in Lutetia. Methos quickened his steps, aware that Sebastian was at his heels and probably thinking the same thing.

They strode hastily through the silent camp; not even the Archbishop's servants had stirred yet. Just as well, thought Methos, passing through the last of the tents and wagons to come to a halt beside Rufus and another of his men. Rufus glanced at him warily, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword, and with his other hand pointed to the rider coming towards them at full gallop.

"That's no messenger," murmured Sebastian in Methos' ear, and Methos nodded. The man rode like a Roman soldier. But he was alone, and not attempting to conceal his approach. Methos felt himself tensing nonetheless.

"Get me a horse," he said to Rufus. The man stared at him for a moment, then sprinted away.

"My friend, is this wise?" whispered Sebastian. "We have no idea-"

"Better that we find out before he reaches us," said Methos shortly, then looked at Sebastian and smiled, realizing belatedly that the old man had been speaking out of concern for his safety. "I'll be fine. He's only one man."

"One man is enough to take your head, if he is of the cult of the One."

Methos snorted. Sebastian had some unorthodox views regarding the Game. "I have no intention of slipping away to some secluded spot with an armed stranger, never fear. He will not challenge me before so many eyes."

Sebastian nodded, his eyes traveling to the still-distant rider. "Something about this troubles me, Marcus. Something..."

Methos sighed impatiently, even though he shared the old man's unease. He was in no mood for one of Sebastian's visions at the moment. "Tell me about it later, Sebastian." Rufus appeared with Methos' horse, and Methos swung himself into the saddle. "Don't worry, old friend. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sebastian nodded absently. "Go with God, Marcus."

"Which one?" returned Methos with a provocative grin, and Sebastian shook his head reprovingly, merriment in his eyes.

"I shall convert you yet, heathen child. Be gone!"

Methos laughed aloud and urged his horse forward into a gallop.

It took no more than a few minutes, at that speed, to intercept the incoming rider. When the stranger was within a few yards, he reined in his horse, which came to a halt, trembling with exhaustion.

"I seek His Grace the Archbishop of Rheims," shouted the man, his voice cracking with tension.

Methos halted his horse a few feet away, his gaze sweeping a tall, broad man with a mane of wild blond hair and a pair of brilliant blue eyes. His clothes were well made, but much worn and dirtied with the mud, blood and dust that spoke of many travels and many battles. As the man met Methos' eyes, the Immortal realized with a shock that this stranger was no stranger.

"Lucius?"

Lucius stared at Methos for several seconds, and then his face lit up. "Marcus! God be praised!"

Both men dismounted, and before Methos could offer his hand, he found himself pinioned in the huge man's embrace while Lucius' infectious laughter rolled down his ear.

"Never did I think to see you, of all men, in the wilds of Gaul! What brings you here? Do you know where I can find his Grace? How-"

"Lucius, may I breathe now?" gasped Methos, trying gently to extricate himself from the blond giant's arms.

Lucius relaxed his hold and held Methos at arms' length, surveying him fondly. "Ten years is too long, Marcus." He peered into Methos' face. "By our Lord, man, you've not aged a day! Are you sure you're not one of those we Watch?" The man burst into unrestrained laughter.

Methos managed a weak smile. Someday soon Lucius would have to know the truth. The opportunity had simply never presented itself. Before he could say anything, Lucius continued, "You must tell me everything about yourself, but first, you must help me find His Grace."

"You've found him," said Methos, puzzled. "He's sound asleep a few yards away. Why-"

"Thank God! Marcus, we must warn him."

"Warn him of what? Lucius, what are you doing here? The last I heard of you, you had been assigned to..." The import of his train of thought struck him, and he stiffened. "Have you left the Watchers?" he asked sharply.

Lucius laughed, clearly puzzled. "After all the trouble you took to persuade them to accept me? Of course not."

"Lucius, this is serious! How close is Darius?" snapped Methos. "And what the hell are you doing away from him?"

"He is no more than a day's ride from here. And I am here to warn His Grace. Darius knows of Clovis' plans for his baptism. He knows it is not in his interests to see Gaul united under a Christian prince, with the support of the Church. He comes to take Lutetia. He comes to kill anyone whose death will prevent Clovis' conversion."

"And is Darius aware of your knowledge of his plans?" Methos found his hand on the hilt of his sword without realizing it.

Lucius scowled. "Of course he is. I am one of his closest counselors."

Methos caught his breath in surprise. "His counselor? You are supposed to be his Watcher."

"How could I learn about him without becoming close to him? How could I become close to him without being of value to him?"

Methos shook his head, cursing inwardly. He should never have permitted Lucius to be removed from the protected environment inhabited by the Watchers' scholars. There his impulsiveness and lack of judgment could be controlled, there he could be protected. But the Masters of the Watchers of Rome had felt that a man of Lucius' prestigious upbringing and military training, a man who had lost all he had had in Rome, was perfectly suited to watch Darius. He would be accepted in Darius' army of disenfranchised Roman soldiers, they had argued. He would rise in the ranks; he would be able to observe Darius as no other Watcher had before him.

Well, they had been correct. Not one of Darius' other Watchers had ever proved this foolish.

"Listen to me, Lucius. You must go back to Rome now."

Lucius stared at him. "Why? Methos, you should see my chronicle! I have learned things about Darius that the Watchers have wondered about for centuries! He trusts me! He tells me everything- his past, his plans for the future!"

"And just what do you imagine will be his reaction when he discovers that his trust has been betrayed?" demanded Methos impatiently.

"His trust has not been betrayed," snapped Lucius. "If Clovis has decided that it is in his interests to become a Christian, then that is what he will do. Taking Lutetia will not prevent that, unless Clovis is killed. And if Clovis is killed days before his conversion, the Church and all the Christian princes of Europe will unite against Darius. They will hunt him down and destroy him."

"And you say you have not left the Watchers?" said Methos incredulously.

"You know I have not!"

"No, I do not," snapped Methos. "A Watcher observes and does not interfere. Whether Darius is hunted down or not is not your concern."

Lucius drew himself up indignantly. "It is my concern. In order for my research to continue, Darius must survive."

"Lucius, listen to me! It is your survival that is in jeopardy now. You have been playing too dangerous a game."

"Our Masters would not have assigned me to Darius if they believed I was not equal to the task," returned Lucius. "I have been sending my reports to Rome. If they believed me to be in danger they would have found some way to warn me."

"Gods above and below, man, I am warning you! The Masters had no idea that you would grow this close to Darius. Even if they know now, don't imagine that their silence is due to their confidence in your safety."

Lucius moved toward his horse, obviously angered. "That remark is unworthy of you, Marcus. The Masters deserve better from you. Do you trust no one, then?"

"I trust my common sense," said Methos harshly, grabbing his old friend by the arm. "Do you imagine that Darius hasn't noticed that one of his most senior officers has been missing for the better part of two days on the eve of a major attack?"

"Of course he has. I told him I was going to scout the approaches to Lutetia."

"And when it becomes obvious that warning was given? You were a field commander once. What would your conclusion have been?"

"I am a field commander," said Lucius stiffly, yanking his arm away from Methos' grasp. "I thank you for your concern, Marcus. You will make certain that my warning reaches His Grace?"

Lucius turned to mount his horse, but Methos stepped between animal and rider determinedly. "Don't be a fool! Damn it, Lucius, I'm trying to keep you alive! Even if you manage to fool him this time, eventually your luck will run out."

Lucius sighed and laid his hands on Methos' shoulders affectionately. "Marcus, I understand that you wish me to be safe. But pardon me, my friend-you are a scholar, not a warrior. You do not understand men of war as I do."

Methos exploded into edged laughter, every possible response to Lucius' assertion crowding into his mind. Visions of a thousand years of slaughter and burning, terror and torture, rape and brutal domination paraded past his mind's eye in lurid detail. He could tell this child-warrior tales that would certainly convince him to take his opinion of Darius seriously...if Lucius believed them. But no tale would ever shatter the faith that Lucius held in those who had assigned him to Darius. He was a true Roman soldier; respect for and obedience to those in authority was too deeply ingrained in him for anything Methos might say to dissuade him from his present course. Sooner or later, Lucius would be caught; sooner or later Lucius would be killed. Darius would have no compunction whatsoever about taking the head of a pre-Immortal who did not even know what he was. If Lucius were lucky, Darius would do so without any of the brutal preludes for which he had become legendary.

That thought killed Methos' laughter. He became suddenly aware of the puzzled, slightly hurt expression on his friend's face, and he drew a steadying breath for one last attempt. "Lucius, please believe me. I understand Darius better than you could possibly imagine-enough to know that he would not be able to wield such power without being able to sense when someone close to him threatens it." Methos lay a hand on Lucius' arm, gently this time. "Go back to Rome, Lucius. Please."

Lucius smiled, and Methos' heart sank. "I cannot, Marcus. Watching Darius is my duty. But don't worry. I will be careful."

Methos knew, as soon as he heard the word "duty," that he had lost his friend, and he stood aside silently as Lucius mounted his horse.

"Be well, Marcus," called Lucius over his shoulder as he rode away.

Methos turned toward his own mount, laid his hands on the saddle, then bowed his head. "Go with God, Lucius."

"Go with God."

Methos suddenly realized that he had spoken the words aloud, and his gaze traveled from one uncomprehending face to the other, fighting a sheepish smile. "Ah..."

"Okay," said Richie. "Was that trip really necessary?"

"Rich, can it," growled Joe. He gave Methos one of his most searching looks. "You okay?"

Methos nodded, then realized that he had folded his arms over his chest so tightly that it hurt. He let his arms drop to his sides and stood quietly for a moment, breathing deeply.

"Stretch out for a few minutes," said Joe sternly. "Rich, move it."

"I'm fine," muttered Methos, studying the carpet again as Richie got up, looking as worried as Joe.

"Lie. Down." Richie enunciated each word distinctly, as if speaking to the intellectually impaired, and gestured helpfully to indicate the appropriate piece of furniture.

Methos raised his eyes to scowl at the child, but didn't move. "You know, you two should adopt."

"Lie down!" snapped Joe, gesturing toward the couch with his cane. "Christ Jesus, you're getting as pigheaded as MacLeod!"

"Worse," said Richie drily. "Come on, geezer, age before beauty. See? It won't hurt you. It's a nice couch." The young man patted the cushions invitingly. "Don't be afraid. They can sense that, you know."

Joe cackled, and Methos swore in exasperation, pushing Richie aside to throw himself on the couch.

"There! All right? Are we happy now?"

Richie grinned broadly and folded himself to sit cross-legged on the floor near Methos' feet, obviously well pleased with himself.

Methos settled himself comfortably, allowing the muscles that had been knotting during the past hours to relax slightly, and barreled ahead before the idiots could distract him with any more of their absurdities. "I met him in Rome. I don't remember the year. It'll be in my journal...sometime after 476."

"Fall of Rome," said Joe softly.

Methos snorted. "Rome didn't fall. Rome got itself drunk, staggered, and was pushed off a cliff. But yes, that was when the last of the emperors was deposed by some German or other. The family who had raised and sponsored Lucius fled to Constantinople. The Roman army, where he had made his career, was ostensibly gone. He had nothing and no one. When I met him, he was hiring himself out as a mercenary. He hated it-said it was without honor."

"Was it?" asked Richie seriously.

"Wouldn't know, kid. I don't do honor."

Richie rolled his eyes without comment.

"So where did you meet him?" asked Joe, making a visible effort to remain awake.

"Brothel," said Methos with matter-of-fact succinctness, eyeing their reactions.

Joe perked up. "Say again?"

Richie's eyes widened. "Yeah?" He grinned. "You a regular customer?"

"Who said anything about being a customer?"

Methos howled with silent laughter as Joe's jaw dropped and Richie's face went from pink to a florid shade of magenta. God, it was almost as much fun as teasing MacLeod.

Joe pointed his cane at him, eyebrows raised and voice stern. "We are not going there, pal."

Methos started to laugh aloud, relenting. "I was kidding, Joe...really."

"Don't give me 'really' and don't give me brothels tonight, okay? It's too late and I'm too tired and I don't have my camcorder."

"He is kidding, isn't he?" muttered Richie to Joe.

"Rich, I was kidding. I was not a prostitute in late fifth-century Rome," said Methos with pointed precision, unable to resist one last shot. Let the kid wonder; it would broaden his outlook on life.

Richie sighed, evidently deciding not to go there either, and shook his head. "Okay, fine. You met Lucius in a brothel. And...?"

"And what? We got drunk and whored around. Rome was a great place for getting drunk and whoring around in those days. Not a bad place for it these days, come to think of it." Methos found it easier, somehow, not to meet either of those pairs of blue eyes at the moment, and briefly wished he had gotten drunk at home that night.

"Adam," said Joe gently. "Why don't you just tell us what you're trying so hard not to tell us? It's like having a tooth out-the anticipation's usually worse than the pull."

"I'll take your word for it," sighed Methos, closing his eyes again.

"You can."

"You're not going to like it."

"I'll deal."

Methos took another deep breath, trying not to think about how far Joe might be willing to go to avoid hearing what he had to learn tonight. He opened his eyes and looked at Joe. "I wasn't using the name Methos when I met Lucius. I was using Marcus."

"Marcus." Joe looked at him blankly for one moment, then leaned forward with wide eyes. "Marcus Gaius?"

"Yes."

"Jesus," said Joe in a stunned voice.

"Ahhh...excuse me," cut in Richie, raising a hand.

"I'm sorry, Joe."

"Why the hell didn't you-no, don't answer that. I know why you didn't tell me. Shit! Why didn't I put this together before?"

"Excuse me." Richie raised his voice slightly.

"Come again?" Bewildered by Joe's reaction, Methos swung his long legs off the couch, nearly swiping Richie's nose with his feet. He had expected recrimination, but there was nothing but flabbergasted distress in Joe's manner. "Put what together?"

"You're the Marcus Gaius that recruited Lucius to the Watchers." Joe spoke slowly, as if trying to absorb the fact.

"Yes. I was the one, Joe." Methos searched his friend's face for anger and, to his confusion, found none.

"Oh," said Richie weakly.

"Then you're the Marcus Gaius that took a leave of absence to escort...an old friend to Lutetia?"

Methos gaped at the non sequitur, his mind racing. He had never stated the reason for his leave of absence from Rome. Where the hell did Joe get that information?

"That's not in the Watcher records," said Methos a little sharply, leaning forward. "How do you know that?"

Joe didn't answer, but stared at Methos as if he were seeing him for the first time. Then, as if he couldn't sit still any longer, he pulled himself out of his chair and moved, with a gait that clearly showed his exhaustion, to stare out the window that Methos had abandoned.

Richie's gaze traveled from Joe to Methos with a worried, inquiring expression, but Methos couldn't spare him a glance. He rose from the sofa and moved across the room to stand behind Joe, hesitantly laying a hand on the Watcher's shoulder. The window in front of them mirrored eyes that were very far away, haunted. For the first time that evening, Methos considered the possibility that Joe knew more about Lucius than he had ever let on, more than he had written in his history.

"Joe," said Methos gently. "Talk to me."

Joe turned back to him, and Methos could clearly see the dark circles under the man's eyes, his strangely grieved expression. Methos stood still as Joe searched his face for a few seconds, each passing moment convincing the Immortal that this man knew more than he possibly could.

"So," said Joe finally, breaking eye contact, "You were there when it all started."

"When what all started?" asked Methos pointedly, trying one more time to draw his friend out.

"The rampage." Joe moved away from Methos and sank heavily back into his chair.

Methos briefly considered pressing the matter, then dismissed the thought. If Joe had decided to conceal this from him, then he must have a damn good reason. Did it really make any difference where the information came from? If Joe already knew most of this, so much the better.

"I was there," replied Methos tiredly, resuming his prone status on the sofa.

"Why did he do it?" Richie's voice was very soft, almost tentative. Methos could see that the youngster knew perfectly well that something had passed him by, and that he was willing to let it go...at least for now. Smart kid. Smarter than his teacher.

"Lucius?" Methos drew a breath. "He did it because he felt he'd been betrayed."

"By the Watchers," guessed Richie, looking to Joe. "Was he betrayed?"

Methos looked to Joe, who turned his head enough to meet his gaze. After a few seconds of silence, Joe answered in a strained tone. "When I first joined the Watchers...when I did my first research on Lucius, I didn't think so. I thought he'd crossed the line and paid the price. That he'd trashed his oath and then tried to blame his superiors for sending him to watch Darius in the first place."

"And now?" asked Methos, surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that Joe's opinion of Lucius might have changed since writing that report thirty years ago.

"Now I think he was screwed," said Joe shortly.

"What happened?" asked Richie into the silence following Joe's statement.

Methos closed his eyes, wondering if Joe would answer.

Richie repeated his question, less patiently this time. "What happened?"