Chapter Four
"Didn't go quite according to plan."
Methos snorted; Joe's wry expression steadied him somehow. "Not quite."
"Shit, man." Richie's face was decidedly whiter than it had been. "Shit."
Methos wondered whether it was Darius' capacity for brutality or his own that had shaken him. "The kid's a poet, Joe." Despite his best efforts, he was unable to inject much of his usual acid into his tone.
"How far was Darius' camp from Lutetia?" Joe's voice was sober now.
"Oh, ten miles, give or take. An hour's ride at full gallop. It took me a little longer, though."
"Why's that?"
"I took Darius on a magical mystery tour of the scenic Gallic countryside. It was lovely by moonlight."
"You were buying time for Joanna and Lucius." Richie spoke with unnerving certainty.
"I was keeping my skin on," retorted Methos tartly. "It's a hell of a lot easier to track a man making a bee-line for the nearest settlement than one who's zigzagging from copse to hedgerow and back again."
"Uh-huh."
"Shut up."
"And Joanna was at the bridge?" asked Joe quietly.
Something in Joe's manner told Methos that he already knew the answer, and probably a good deal more. And Joe was bloody well going to explain all that, but now... Methos swallowed around a dry throat and nodded, allowing his eyes to close again. "Yes. She was there."
"What bridge?" Richie sounded almost afraid to ask.
"There was only one bridge onto the Isle de la Cité in those days, Rich," murmured Joe when Methos didn't answer. "The old Roman bridge that led to the gates of Paris."
The gates were open. There was no doubt about it. He was only a few yards from the bridge and riding hard; the breaking dawn clearly illuminated river, bridge and gates. Why in the name of all the gods ever thought of were the gates open? Joanna must have told them that Darius was on his way. The gates should be closed and bolted, and barricades should be erected at the southern end of the bridge. The walls, crude and insubstantial as they were, should be manned with every armed adult to be found in the town. And yet the walls were empty, the gates ajar, the bridge undefended, and ten thousand howling savages led by an Immortal madman were half a mile behind him, their roar rolling across the countryside like the sea Darius had vowed to claim.
Not that Methos objected to an open bridge and gate at this particular juncture; the opportunity to put a river and a wall between himself and the horror at his heels was an unlooked-for blessing. He had prepared himself for a leap into the icy Seine and a desperate swim for what little cover from flying arrows could be found between the riverbank and the wall, until darkness gave him a chance to scale the wall, or gave Joanna a chance to bribe the gatekeepers to open the gate long enough for him to slip inside.
Instead, he found himself driving his exhausted mount at full gallop along the stone bridge that spanned the Seine at its narrowest point, eyes fixed on the slight gap between the wooden gates, praying that whoever had been drunk or mad or stupid enough to leave them open remained so just long enough for Methos to get inside. As he reached the halfway mark in the span, the signature of an ancient Immortal touched him and blew every fevered, superstitious chant out of his mouth and mind. He gasped and instinctively hunched his shoulders about his ears, half-expecting to hear Darius' battle cry and the massed whistle of a hundred arrows. Instead, a familiar figure slipped between the gates to beckon urgently, sword drawn.
Methos dug his heels into his horse's sides mercilessly. At the bridge, she'd said, and she'd kept her word-again and always. That Joanna's word was inviolate was Joanna's one true absurdity; predictability was something an Immortal could ill afford. Something they would speak about later, at length.
With a visible effort, Joanna shoved one side of the gate open wide enough for Methos to ride through, then tried to push it back again, faltering a little behind the burden of the oak timbers. "Where in the name of all holies have you been?" she snapped. "I thought you were right behind me."
"Just showing our guests the way." Methos vaulted from his horse and threw his weight against the gate, glaring at the small group of unarmed men standing nervously to one side. "Give us a hand here, unless you want Darius' sword up your asses!" The mounting roar of voices and hoof beats from beyond the gates forced him to raise his voice.
A half-dozen men hastily joined Methos and Joanna to lift the huge beam into its brace and slide it across the gates. Methos stepped back, breathing hard, staring through the open wicket in the bolted gates before him at the approaching cavalry. They were all exactly where he had told Sebastian they would be if they tarried-trapped inside the city walls, awaiting the slaughter to come. The bridge over the northern arm of the Seine had been washed away in the winter floods. There was no way in or out of the city but by these gates, gates that even now were being trained upon by Darius' archers. They were all dead, unless by the grace of some intervening angel of self-interest Clovis made good on his promise to the Archbishop. It was only a matter of time.
But then Methos was insane, and could have done nothing else. He knew he could no more have abandoned Sebastian than he could have abandoned Lucius, and yet his actions had only served to deliver them all into Darius' hands. Sebastian's three-fold cord had bound them to their inevitable destruction. Growling, Methos slammed the wicket closed and turned toward the other men, intending to order them onto the walls, only to see them running into the heart of the city as if for their lives. "What the-? Where are they going?"
"Back to the church," said Joanna grimly, removing the saddle and harness from Methos' horse and leading it to a half-filled trough of water to the left of the gate. The animal drank greedily, its limbs visibly shaking. "It took all the gold I had with me to lure them here in the first place, and a sword to keep them here long enough for you to grace us with your presence."
"The church? When there's not a man on the walls? Has everyone gone mad? Did you tell them-"
"I told everyone who would listen, including the Dean and Remigius of Rheims-who promptly ordered that every man who could bear arms was to abandon the walls and guard the church and his person-although not necessarily in that order, I fancy. The only men remaining on the walls were the lookout and his runner, who has no doubt reported your arrival to the Archbishop by now." She gestured toward the lone figure leaning anxiously over the top of the wall several yards away.
"Gods!" exploded Methos in a fury, whirling to stride in the direction of the church. "The imbecile! That church is completely indefensible! And what of the people of Lutetia? The walls are their only hope of survival." As if to emphasize the point, the horns of Darius' officers, signaling the common soldiers to deploy, echoed along Lutetia's deserted stone streets.
"I rather imagine the survival of the commoners of Lutetia do not occupy a prominent place in his Grace's thoughts at the moment," returned Joanna, trotting along beside him. "It's been a while since I've seen a man wet himself."
Methos snarled an obscenity. "Where is Lucius?"
"Sebastian is tending him in his quarters. Methos-"
"Good. Go to them and stay there."
"What?" The amazement and exasperation in Joanna's voice almost made Methos smile.
"Lucius cannot fight and Sebastian will not. They need your protection."
"And you will be...?"
Methos growled low in his throat as they approached the main entrance to the Church of Peter and Paul, dismayed by the growing crowd of common folk assembled there; they were no doubt seeking admission to the only place in the city that was to be afforded any protection. By the time the word traveled to the streets beyond the church, Remigius might very well have a riot on his lily-white hands. His eyes inadvertently met those of a little girl clinging to her mother's hand, and he hastily turned away. "Paying my respects to his Grace the Coward of Rheims."
"Kindly do not get yourself killed," snapped Joanna in Persian, leading the way through the crowd and up the worn stone steps.
"I will give the matter all due thought." Methos tossed a gold coin into the palm of the armed man who bristled from lounging inattention to menacing vigilance as they approached the door; the man then nodded and withdrew, clutching his sorry-looking weapon in a thoroughly incompetent manner. A murmur of discontent and building anger rose from the small crowd as they passed. "But his Grace will re-deploy our defenses, or so help me, I will hang him over the walls for the amusement of Darius' archers."
Methos blinked as he passed through the portal into the church, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. Despite Remigius' purported determination to defend the church, the nave was empty of anything resembling supplies and arms; evidently Remigius did not anticipate a lengthy stay.
"His Grace is surrounded by frightened men with little skill at arms," murmured Joanna. "My father taught me that such men are as likely to kill one by accident as the skilled are by design."
"Your father talked too much," muttered Methos, noting the number of frightened, unskilled men wandering the nave.
"He still does," said Joanna drily. "Mind your words, aba. Remember that this man commands the allegiance of Clovis; his arm is long."
"At this moment, his arm is precisely as long as mine; neither reach beyond the gates of Lutetia," retorted Methos acidly. "Siege is a great leveler."
Joanna shot him a stern glance, and Methos snorted.
"Don't be concerned. I have no intention of allowing one of these provincial louts to behead me in the act of scratching his ass."
"Barbarian." Joanna visibly fought a grin and turned toward the north transept, where the entrance to the lower levels lay. "I'll be with Sebastian. Be certain to send me the location of your treasure before they execute you."
Methos restrained an urge, borne of ancient habit, to swat her behind as she disappeared. Grimacing, he peered ahead into the recesses of the church. Somewhere in this absurd monument to delusion was a man set upon jeopardizing every life Methos gave a damn about-most prominently his own. And Methos, despite being resigned to the fact that he'd likely end up fluttering above Darius' banner, was determined to delay for as long as possible ending his days in such a pathetic backwater of what now passed for civilization. There was much to be done if the city and the people in it were to stand a chance of surviving more than a few hours.
"Marcus Gaius!"
Methos turned, startled to hear his name-or anything else-coarsely shouted in what was supposed to be a holy place. A hush fell in the crowded nave as Methos recognized Rufus, the leader of the mercenaries he'd brought from Rome, striding toward him with a determined expression. Methos had thought he and the rest of his comrades had left the city as soon as they'd received their gold. What in the name of all gods was he still doing here?
"Rufus," he returned in a civil tone as the man came to a halt before him.
"You are commanded to the presence of his Grace," continued Rufus in a haughty tone absurdly at odds with his disreputable appearance and lowborn manner.
Methos laughed outright at both the incongruity and the presumption; not six months ago he'd hired Rufus as the man lay drunk on the floor of Rome's seediest tavern. "I was unaware you'd entered his Grace's service. Has the Archbishop's gold led your soul to Christ, Legionary?"
Rufus scowled darkly and offered no answer. "He wants to see you now. He has a task for you. Come with me."
Methos' amusement came to an abrupt halt; his temper took the field. The deliberate offense of summoning him so publicly through the offices of a boorish moron who had formerly been under his command was not lost on Methos. Perhaps Sebastian felt bound by duty and faith to turn the other cheek to the author of such indignities, but Methos felt no such obligation. On the contrary, the humiliating treatment Sebastian had received at Remigius' hands only fueled his indignation and sapped his discretion.
"I'm certain his Grace has more than enough lackeys to fetch his chamber pot and wipe his ass," Methos snapped. "Where is he? There are important matters we must discuss."
"Important matters? With you?" Rufus barked a rude laugh. "You're getting above yourself, Marcus Gaius. You may have gold but I'll bet my eyes you're no better born than I am."
"Don't bet something you can't afford to lose, Legionary," returned Methos coldly. "You may well find those eyes of yours roasting on a stick over Darius' cooking fire."
Rufus paled visibly.
"Take me to his Grace. Now."
Rufus whirled in the direction of the south transept, muttering under his breath.
Methos followed him, seething, and trying to think; not a productive combination at the best of times, and possibly fatal given his situation. What could Remigius want with him? Whatever it was, Methos was certain it would benefit no one but Remigius. The image of the little girl standing outside the church rose before his mind's eye. So like Joanna at that age. So like hundreds of others trapped inside these walls. Methos knew full well what her fate would be when Darius' army breached Lutetia's pathetic defenses. And yet the one man with the power to protect her, to protect them all, had done nothing but endanger them.
Methos shook himself as he passed through the bustle of distraught clerics and grim-faced, panicked men at arms, dismayed at the depths of idiocy to which he had sunk. The girl was a stranger to him. The people of Lutetia were strangers. He was no more responsible for their welfare than they were for his. They were irrelevant. Sebastian might consider them "brothers and sisters," but they were no kin to Methos. None at all.
Methos sighed in resignation, following Rufus down the stairs to the lower chambers. Enough. It was absurd and pointless in the extreme to continue to deny the obvious. He had been hopelessly, thoroughly contaminated by that impossible old man and his mad ideas. The proof was incontrovertible: here he was, about to be impaled, skinned and beheaded by a demented barbarian when he might have been safely on his way to Constantinople-a civilized locale, where he could have lived the life of culture and luxury to which he had become accustomed. At every opportunity to flee impending disaster, he had chosen to remain: for Sebastian, for Lucius, for Joanna, for the little girl whose name he did not know. This form of madness was both virulent and distasteful in the extreme, and Methos wished by everything holy he had never encountered it.
"Marcus Gaius, your Grace," announced Rufus, startling Methos out of his melancholy reverie. The soldier stepped aside to allow Methos to enter a small but richly furnished room, favoring him with a glower in the process. Methos snorted his opinion of Rufus and strode forward to stand before Archbishop Remigius and Dean Eleutherius, who were deep in conversation. Several acolytes stood by, apparently supervising the servants who were packing what appeared to be valuables into several small trunks. After a moment, Remigius turned to look at Methos.
"Ah, Marcus Gaius. Our saving angel." He smiled thinly.
"Your Grace." Methos managed a cool but pleasant tone.
"It seems that God has once again chosen you to deliver us."
Methos raised his eyebrows inquiringly and said nothing.
Remigius' eyes narrowed, and he abruptly changed his idiom from Latin to Greek. "Father Sebastian has told me that you are a man well-versed in the arts of both war and letters."
"Father Sebastian honors me," returned Methos in the same language, noting the confused expressions of the other men in the room.
"Such a man will understand what I am about to say."
Provided I can make allowances for your appalling accent, thought Methos in considerable irritation.
"I have received no reply from Lord Clovis. It is obvious that our messenger has been intercepted."
Either that, or Clovis has no stomach for pitched battle with Darius of Rome, observed Methos sourly.
"Our military situation is untenable. The city is indefensible."
"Your Grace-"
Remigius raised his hand imperiously, and Methos stopped, grinding his teeth in frustration.
"The city is indefensible. My person, my life, is in jeopardy, and thus my sacred mission-a united, Christian Gaul, under a Christian prince-is imperiled. It is imperative that I, and my entourage, escape this place and rendezvous with Lord Clovis. To that end I shall require your services."
Methos managed to restrain his laughter; never had he seen a finer display of raw cowardice overlaid with righteous pomposity. "My services?"
"I hereby empower you to arrange a parley with Darius. You will offer him a ransom for the safe passage of myself, the Dean and my entourage. I have here-"
"You intend to abandon the city to Darius," interrupted Methos softly, wondering why he was sickened; it was a common enough occurrence. It was a rare nobleman or prince of the church who was above bribing an invader to save his wretched hide.
Remigius assumed an appropriately saddened expression. "There is no other option."
"With respect, your Grace, there are a great many options! Darius has not had time to deploy his men to the northern bank; another messenger must be sent to Clovis over the north wall at first dark, and the walls must be manned immediately."
"I will not divert defenses from the church to the walls."
"The walls are defensible; the church is not. If Darius were to mount an assault now-"
"All the more reason for you to initiate a parley immediately."
"He will take your treasure and slaughter your party to the last man," said Methos flatly.
"He would not dare to violate the terms of a parley with the confessor of Clovis," replied Remigius, with more hauteur than certainty.
"Your Grace, Darius has no more regard for the terms of a parley than you have for the lives of your people," snapped Methos, provoked beyond discretion.
"My people?" Remigius gazed at him in blank astonishment.
"Has it escaped your Grace's notice that the city of Lutetia is populated?"
Remigius' expression hardened. "You will not take that tone-"
"These people are helpless. You have stripped them of their only viable line of defense. Even if Darius should honor the terms of parley and allow you and your party to pass, he will storm the gates before they close again. Lutetia will be raped, slaughtered and burned to the ground."
"It will not-"
"But you know this, of course." Methos laughed softly as the truth of his assertion became plain in the sudden discomfort of the Archbishop's expression. "Your ransom consists of far more than the baubles in those chests."
Remigius' face was purple with suppressed wrath. "Marcus Gaius, you presume too much upon my gratitude!"
Methos drew a deep breath and modulated his tone, knowing full well that the cause was lost, yet somehow unable to abandon the field. "Father Sebastian has spoken to me of the brotherhood of mankind through Christ. If you abandon-"
"Father Sebastian is a heretic and an instigator of heresy in others! He will end as all heretics do, dead and damned by the will of God." Remigius' fury drew curious glances from the acolytes and servants. Eleutherius, who had withdrawn to the other side of the room, stared at his Archbishop with a shocked expression; evidently he comprehended enough Greek to follow the gist of the conversation.
Methos felt the feeling drain from him; his hand moved with ease to the hilt of his sword in instinctive response to the threat. "I will not barter these people to the most vicious butcher on the continent to save the miserable hide of a false priest." He spoke in Latin, eliciting gasps from the acolytes and servants. "And if harm should come to Father Sebastian-"
"You will do as I command. For if you do not, Father Sebastian will."
The words hung between them for a long moment.
Remigius meant what he said; Methos could see it in the man's eyes. He would send Sebastian, alone, unarmed, before Darius' blood-drunk army...
Because I am needed.
Methos drew in a sharp breath.
Please, Methos, stay here with me. We have so little time.
No.
I will be ready at dawn.
Sebastian.
Methos whirled, shoved Rufus aside and pelted down the corridor toward the steps as fast as his shaking legs could carry him, ignoring Eleutherius' indignant shouts for him to return. Taking the steps three at a time, he bowled over an unfortunate cleric at the top and sprinted down the aisle toward the door, stumbling over piles of foodstuffs and weapons, pushing servants, soldiers and clerics alike out of his way in a growing panic. He became vaguely aware that someone was tugging at his arm, and he tried to shake them off.
"Aba, listen to me!"
Methos glanced toward the speaker, realized somewhere in his miasma of fear that it was Joanna who had him by the arm, but did not stop moving.
"Where are you going? I can't find Sebastian anywhere. I found a servant taking care of Lucius, and a note for us. It says-"
"I know where he is!" panted Methos wildly. He bolted out the door, down the steps, and ploughed through the crowd, pushing and shoving without regard to the cries and curses of the people surrounding him.
"Where?" shouted Joanna from behind him, barely audible over the noise of the steadily growing mass of agitated, fearful people around them.
"The gate, the gate," breathed Methos, breaking free of the crowd and running again, running toward the roar of the thousands outside the walls. "Damn the fool, damn him, damn him and his visions, did he really think I would-"
"The gate?" Joanna matched his pace, panting hard. "Why the gate? You don't think-"
"Yes!" Rounding the last bend in the crooked street, Methos caught sight of a very young man clambering down the crude, unsteady ladder from the top of the wall. The boy took off running the moment he hit the ground, face white and eyes wide. Methos grabbed him by the arm as he passed; Joanna darted past him to the gate. "What have you seen?"
"Let me go!" The boy squirmed and twisted in Methos' grasp.
"You there!" The lookout bellowed from the top of the wall. "Are you mad? Let go of my runner!"
"What did you see?" shouted Methos into the boy's face.
"The priest, the Roman priest," gasped the boy, still struggling. "He's on the bridge! Let me go!"
"Let him go or I'll beat your head in! Haven't we madmen enough on our hands?"
"Gods," came in a faint voice from the gate; Joanna was peering through the wicket.
Methos flung the boy from him and covered the distance to the gate in a heartbeat to press himself against it, staring with a shrinking soul at the lone cassocked figure standing mid-span on the bridge. Arrayed before him on the far bank was a sea of soldiers; awash in a dozen different war chants and the reverberation of sword upon shield; one tall figure left the mass of shouting warriors to stride to within yards of the Sebastian. He was laughing.
Laughing.
Methos threw both hands under the massive beam in a frantic and futile effort to move it. "No, aba, it's too late." Joanna spoke urgently, quietly, as the splinters from the rough-hewn wood dug into Methos' palms and fingertips; his gaze remained locked upon the two figures on the bridge. The bar wouldn't move. It wouldn't move. Blood was dripping down his wrists and arms, and it wouldn't move. "We can't open the gate now; his army is fully deployed on the south bank."
Methos drew breath to shout through the wicket. "Sebastian!" It was more howl than human voice, and it was subsumed by the thunder of the army on the riverbank.
Darius came to a halt not more than five feet from Sebastian and raised his hand; the thousands of mouths and shields behind him fell silent, as if some otherworldly power had stricken them dumb with a random thought. He examined Sebastian as a man might examine a dying animal lying in his path.
"Darius of Rome." Sebastian's voice was calm and clear; it echoed along the stones of the bridge, and reverberated under Methos' feet. "Return to the East. There is no victory for you here."
Darius' eyes widened, then narrowed. "And who will deny me victory, old man?" He glanced up to the unmanned walls and laughed again. "You?"
"I will deny you victory," said Sebastian steadily.
Darius' laughter rang out loudly. "Is this the best defense Lutetia can offer? One dotard priest?"
Methos broke from the gate, shoving aside Joanna's restraining hands and the press of the growing number of the brave and the stupid who could not resist a glimpse what was happening outside, or who had decided to defend the gate despite the Archbishop's orders to the contrary. Staggering slightly in exhaustion, he sprinted to the flimsy ladder and struggled upward toward the top of the wall.
"It will suffice." Sebastian's serenity hacked at Methos mind like a dull blade.
"God's blood," snarled the lookout as Methos scrambled onto the uneven, narrow perch. "You are a madman!" His amazed expression turned to horror as Methos seized the ladder and began hoisting it up hand over hand, angling the end over the wall and downward. "No!" He grabbed Methos' arm, and Methos dealt the man a closed-fisted blow that nearly sent him toppling from the wall. Holding onto the man by the tunic, Methos hastily hauled him back and laid him along the top of the wall, then lowered the ladder to the ground; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darius take a step toward Sebastian.
"Old man, you are mad."
Another ladder slapped into place a few feet away. "Aba! Wait!"
Damn her. "Go back!" Methos flung his feet over the wall and slid the twenty feet down the rails, ripping both hands and boot leather in the process. He hit the ground running-running toward the bridge, toward the two men who stood upon it within such deadly proximity of each other.
"And you will die."
"Sebastian! Run!" Methos' scream split the new silence, clearly audible now to the men on the bridge and every spectator on both riverbanks. Darius turned to note his approach with a growing, feral smile.
Sebastian did not turn.
"And so will Marcus Gaius," continued Darius.
"You will not harm Marcus Gaius." Sebastian's voice sharpened slightly.
Methos tripped over the rubble littering the slope to the bridge and staggered upright again, struggling to draw his sword. "Don't touch him! I challenge you, Darius of Rome-"
Darius laughed again, drawing his sword. "I will drink your blood and his as Lutetia burns."
Methos gained the top of the slope and stumbled onto the bridge as he managed to pull his sword from its sheath. "You're mine!" A battle-frenzy he'd not felt in centuries infused his limbs with strength, propelling him forward with his sword raised over his head; he perceived with savage delight that Darius' wild, glittering gaze had left Sebastian and rested upon him.
Sebastian appeared to perceive it, too; he lunged forward to seize Darius' sword arm. Darius tossed him aside as if he were made of paper, and with one clean, backhanded stroke, sliced through Sebastian's neck.
Methos started screaming then, and kept screaming as he ran toward the body crumpling to the stones, to the head now rolling toward him down the gentle slope of the bridge. The soldiers on the far bank howled and beat their shields, drowning out the raw-throated keening that threatened to tear Methos apart. Darius kicked Sebastian's body out of his path and ran toward Methos, shrieking like a demon, the priest's blood still dripping from his uplifted sword. "Your skin, your skin, Marcus Gaius!"
Methos swung wildly, blindly at the oncoming juggernaut, his sword parrying Darius' more by accident than design; he stared into Darius' maddened expression over the gleam of their joined blades, screaming into that face with all his rapidly depleting strength. An explosion of brilliant light and a deafening crash of thunder accompanied a violent concussion of air that flung Methos backward to land on his back several feet away. Struggling into a sitting position, he stared in dull incomprehension at the sight of Darius, frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth open, his body bathed in a light that seemed to emanate from within. Darius cried out some words in a tongue Methos had never heard, and dropped his sword. He lifted his arms heavenward.
A violent wind rose, striking both bridge and riverbank with violent fury, whipping the waters of the Seine into frothy peaks as uncounted tendrils of lightning arced downward through the blackened sky to explode on contact with bridge, water, earth, and man. A thousand screams arose from the riverbank as heaven's fire pierced mortal bodies; the sound of those cries was as deafening as the stench of scorched flesh was pervasive. Darius' orderly ranks of soldiers were at once broken and in disarray, a churning mass of frenetically moving humanity, but Methos caught only a glimpse of them before a black, glistening wall rose with a roar to block his view.
"Gods," whispered Methos. He clutched his sword in an absurd defensive reflex; only then realizing what he was seeing. The Seine was rising to defend the city built between her arms, rising to form a rippling, swirling barrier that encircled the bridge and sealed it and the gates of Lutetia from all approach. He was trapped now inside a massive fountain of water that extended far into the ebony sky, the white foam of its upper edge lit, in brief flashes, by the lightning that still crackled around it.
Darius lowered his arms and fixed his gaze upon Methos; Methos stared back in stunned confusion. Not one bolt of the lightning that raged outside the Seine's defensive chamber had struck Darius of Rome; not one scream of pain had escaped him; he had taken Sebastian's quickening as if it were no more to him than sipping a glass of wine.
"Pick up your sword," Methos heard himself saying, amazed that he could hear anything above the roar of the water, the explosions of the lightning, the screams from both sides of the riverbank.
Darius said nothing, but regarded him with a mild, saddened expression that was painfully incongruous with the blood that spattered his face.
"Pick up your sword!" screamed Methos, staggering to his feet. "Or I'll take your damned head where you stand!"
"Methos," murmured Darius. "Son."
Methos froze. Methos? Methos?
"Forgive me."
Methos drew a shaky breath. For an Immortal to assimilate a quickening so quickly was unheard of ... and yet everything before his eyes at this moment was unheard of. And so very like Darius it was, to taunt Methos with his newly acquired memories. So very like the man infamous for drinking the blood of children. Darius now knew everything that Sebastian had known; every cherished moment of his and Methos' friendship was Darius' to use as he would.
It was a profanation.
"You will not mock me when your head is spiked on Lutetia's gate," snarled Methos, his fury once again feeding his strength. "I told you what I would do if you touched me or mine!"
Darius stepped closer with an anguished expression, one hand held out in entreaty. "I am yours, child. 'For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.' Close your eyes and see me with your heart-"
"I will not play your demented games! Pick up your sword!"
"You know I will not do that. Methos, it is I. Can you not try to understand-"
Methos let loose with something between a roar and a scream and launched himself at Darius, but before he had taken two steps the general had knelt upon the bridge stones and bowed his head.
The Seine fell. Thirty foot walls of water thundered into their source in the riverbed, sending great waves washing over the bridge and both banks, consuming anything or anyone unfortunate enough to remain in their path. Methos was struck and pinioned inside a wave before he could prepare himself for the impact. Tumbling head over heels along the paving stones, he slammed into something with such force that it drove the air from his lungs. He clawed wildly for the surface of the water, but he had no idea of which direction to swim; all was dark, wet and churning violence. And then, just as suddenly, he was spitting out water and breathing the cool, humid air, blinking in the brilliant sunshine.
Methos realized in numb horror that the water had driven him all the way back to the gate; he lay among the ruins of the oaken timbers that had protected the city. Smoke was rising from the soaked, blackened wreckage-the destruction of the gate had obviously been the work of lightning and not flood. Methos wiped water and river mud from his face and stared at the far bank. Fleeing, screaming soldiers streamed away from a riverbank strewn with the dead and the dying for as far as he could see. There was no order; men had abandoned their banners, shields and weapons and were running as fast as their legs could carry them, stumbling in the mud and over the bodies of their comrades. Those still on horseback, and they were few, were already in the distance, galloping away at top speed. Many dead horses lay among the human remains. Darius' army was broken.
Darius.
Methos struggled to his feet, gasping in pain as the wounds inflicted by his impact with the gate timbers made themselves known. He scanned the bridge, but there was no sign of Darius of Rome. All that remained was Sebastian's body, soaked and battered, moved near the end of the bridge. His head had rolled into the mud a few feet away.
"Darius!" Methos let loose a howl, grief and rage filling his lungs with air enough to make himself heard; his cry echoed against the blackened, drenched walls of Lutetia, but there was no answer. Stumbling through wreckage, Methos shoved past the frightened, curious people who were beginning to venture through the broken gate, and made his way to the bridge, to Sebastian. Lifting the severed head carefully from the mud, he carried it to Sebastian's body, and fell to his knees.
"Damned. Lunatic. Priest," Methos whispered brokenly, stroking the long, grey hair, wiping away the mud. "You were needed ... for this? For this? There was no one in Lutetia, in all of Gaul, worth your fingertip, and you were needed for this? We would have gone to Constantinople. You would have taught me to cheat at shatranj. You would have taught me..." Methos' voice gave out and the sobs came, came up from his belly to shred his throat and shake his frame; he doubled over, cradling the muddy, bleeding head tenderly as he rested his forehead on Sebastian's twisted body.
"Aba," someone whispered in his ear.
Methos knew that Joanna had an arm about his shoulders, but he could no more stem the tide of the violent grief that had seized him than he could bring Sebastian back from the dead.
"It was his time, aba. He'd lived a long life. He chose to die that others might live."
Methos raised his head. "Damn others!" he spat in rage, coughing, unable to control the terrible spasmodic sobbing that had seized him. "Damn them all! There's not one of them worthy of him, not one! If it would bring Sebastian back, I'd burn this damned place to the ground myself! Where is Darius?"
"Methos-"
"You were on the wall. You must have seen-"
"When the waters fell, all that could be seen was the flood. He must have been washed away downstream."
"Get me a horse. Any horse. I'll find him."
"And be killed yourself?" Joanna's voice sharpened. "You are wounded, exhausted and weaponless. Did Sebastian surrender his life so that you might squander your own?"
Methos drew a trembling breath.
Joanna gentled her tone. "Bury your dead, aba. And live. He wanted so much for you to live."
Methos' rage dispersed like a paper fire in a gust of wind. The image of the frightened child outside the church stabbed his mind's eye, and groaning, Methos knew that he had misjudged his own desires. Rage was not death unless a man made it so. And he was too much the man Sebastian had believed him to be to exact deadly vengeance upon the innocent, or even upon Darius. Even now, Death had no dominion. Especially now.
"He asked in his note that we care for Lucius," murmured Joanna, rising. "We should see that all is well with him."
Nodding brusquely, Methos laid Sebastian's severed head on the body, and with an effort, lifted the body into his arms. Joanna went before him, making a path through the growing crowds of jubilant townspeople. Most drew back in horror as they recognized Methos' burden, crossing themselves and murmuring prayers. A somber silence followed them through the celebrating populace as they made their way through the rapidly filling streets to the church.
The steps to the portals, so recently crowded with desperate and dangerous people, were empty; even the guards had abandoned their posts. Methos staggered up the steps and into the nave, then strode with exhausted determination toward the altar, avoiding with difficulty the clothing, food, pails of water and weapons of every description that lay strewn in his path. The church had obviously been abandoned very quickly.
"Methos, what are you doing?" Joanna was instantly at his elbow. "We should take him to his chamber and see if Lucius-"
"He was a Christian priest," said Methos through gritted teeth. "He will have the Christian funeral rites. See to Lucius, and then find the Dean."
Joanna sighed, and with a light touch to Methos' arm, disappeared in the direction of the south transept.
Methos made his unsteady way up the aisle, all too aware of the eerie silence, the emptiness that reigned in the church that only an hour before had been a cauldron of human activity. Empty. Empty inside. Methos wondered vaguely where the clergy had gone, then snarled involuntarily at the thought that perhaps they were outside among the peasants and soldiers, who had no doubt crossed the bridge by now to celebrate their deliverance by robbing the dead and the dying.
Methos lay Sebastian, with infinite gentleness, before the altar, and arranged his body. Snatching a linen cloth from the altar, he cleaned his friend's face and hands, then closed the blue eyes, smoothed his hair and the folds of his drenched cassock and folded his hands over his chest. He gave way then, still on his knees, sobbing quietly.
Methos knew he was responsible for this. Whatever Sebastian's delusions had been about his destiny, Methos could have prevented him from making this sacrifice of pointless, selfless love. If he had been here, if he had not been dashing about the countryside acting the hero, Sebastian would never have been able to reach the door of his cell, let alone the gates of Lutetia. Darius would never have laid eyes on either of them. He was responsible...
"I'm sorry," Methos whispered, stunned into childish remorse, knowing even as he did so that Sebastian could no longer hear him. His soul was lost, imprisoned and subsumed in that maelstrom of bloodlust that was Darius of Rome. The world at large was diminished by that loss; Methos' world was shattered by it. Of what use was faith now, when love lay dead, its blood still dripping silently upon the stones of Paul of Tarsus' church? "Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love I am nothing." Methos could not even sustain a whisper; the sound broke and gave way to a barely audible sob.
A soft noise, quickly suppressed, brought Methos' head up abruptly, and he instinctively felt for his sword. His scabbard was empty; too late he remembered that the blade was in all likelihood lying under the rubble of the gate or at the bottom of the Seine. Glancing about, he seized one of the discarded swords, and, rising slowly, made his way in silence around the altar toward the source of the sound. Behind the altar, Methos found a lone figure huddling on the floor, clutching the altar cloth convulsively, and unable to restrain himself, he began to laugh bitterly.
"Has your Grace lost something?"
Remigius looked up at him, his face twisted in terror, and said nothing.
"I have lost something also," continued Methos in an ugly tone. Without further preamble he grabbed Remigius by the front of his rich vestments and hauled him up. "Come, see what your cowardice has cost me, false priest."
"The wrath of God," stuttered Remigius incoherently as Methos dragged him forcibly from his hiding place. "The sentry reports that the wrath of God has destroyed the gates and raised the very waters against us!"
"Cease to concern yourself with the wrath of God," snarled Methos, dragging the archbishop to the front of the altar. "And devote yourself to the contemplation of my wrath, charlatan." He threw Remigius onto his knees before Sebastian's body.
Remigius gasped and cringed at the sight.
"Because you abandoned the defense of the city walls, this man was forced to face the most feared army in Europe, alone, unarmed, knowing he would die, to save those he considered his brothers and sisters in Christ." Methos restrained an overwhelming urge to kick the groveling creature to death; his sword hand itched for a blow.
"The soldiers," whined Remigius, still wide-eyed with mindless panic. "The soldiers abandoned the church! The acolytes stripped their vestments and fled. The hordes of Darius will descend upon us. God has forsaken us!" He reached out to clutch Methos' hand; Methos repelled him violently. "You must protect me! I am a prince of the church-"
"You are a worm," said Methos coldly. "God forsook you long ago."
"I have gold, gems! See me safely to King Clovis and I shall reward you beyond your wildest dreams!"
"I should not evoke my wildest dreams, if I were you." Methos managed with difficulty to dispel his instinct to strangle the priest with his bare hands. "Where are the Dean and the priests of this place?"
"I do not know. We each sought our own hiding place. There is no time to find them and take them with us! Darius' army-"
"Is scattered, and Darius has fled. Your sentry quit the wall too soon. Summon the priests!"
Remigius gaped and said nothing.
"I said, summon the priests!" shouted Methos. "Father Sebastian must have the funeral rites of his calling."
Remigius rose to his feet, the hauteur returning to his expression as comprehension dawned. "Almighty God has delivered us?"
Methos barked a contemptuous laugh. "Surely your Grace's faith was not shaken."
Remigius regarded him with narrowed eyes as he smoothed his robes. "My faith is beyond your understanding, Marcus Gaius."
"On the contrary, I understand all too well." Methos took no trouble to conceal his sneer. "Now summon the priests. Father Sebastian's rites must be performed immediately."
Remigius glanced at Sebastian's body, then met Methos' gaze with supercilious expression and a lip curled in distaste. "There shall be no rites of Christian burial for this man."
Methos stepped closer, shocked. "What did you say?"
"He was a heretic, struck down by God himself, as I foretold."
"He was a true priest of your God, and he was struck down by Darius of Rome while defending your miserable hide!" Methos' appalled shout echoed loudly in the nave, but Remigius appeared unmoved.
"Quibus viventibus non communicavimus mortuis communicare non possumus· ," intoned Remigius, crossing himself.
Methos felt something inside him snap like a dry twig. Bounding forward, he seized Remigius by the back of his robes and sliced his sword in a menacing arc toward the archbishop's throat. Remigius cried out in uninhibited terror.
"You hold communion with Death, worm," hissed Methos in Remigius' ear. "You dance on the edge of the abyss. You will give Father Sebastian a funeral worthy of a king, or I shall hack your head from your shoulders and spike it above the church door."
"God's mercy," gasped Remigius, clutching Methos' sword arm.
"Marcus Gaius," gasped a shocked voice.
Methos nearly sliced Remigius' neck in his surprise. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Eleutherius hurrying down the aisle toward him, followed by several priests.
"Please. Marcus Gaius. Release the Archbishop. Father Sebastian shall have a funeral mass."
"Yes, yes, yes, I will conduct the mass myself," babbled Remigius. "A king's mass."
"I swear it shall be done," said Eleutherius unsteadily. "It must be done. I was at the gate."
Methos' laugh twisted into a snarl. "Were you indeed? You amaze me. Did you watch him die for you, priest, this man you treated as slave? Your master in Rome will be greatly pleased; you have truly earned your thirty pieces of silver."
"Enough!" The priest's expression was tortured. "What you speak of is between my God and myself. Father Sebastian shall be accorded every dignity."
"Meaning you grant him in death what you disdained to grant him in life," retorted Methos in a savage tone.
"Exactly so," said Eleutherius evenly, meeting Methos' gaze.
Methos recoiled from the self-loathing in the man's face; he knew that look, that state of mind, all too well to examine it deeply. Drawing a deep, shaking breath, he released Remigius, who staggered, wild-eyed and panting, to the far side of the altar, eyeing Methos as one would an untamed beast. Methos heard the sound of soft voices behind him, but was too weary to turn.
Eleutherius knelt beside Sebastian, crossed himself, and began to pray. "Kyrie, rex genitor ingenite, vera essentia, eleyson."
Lord, King and Father unbegotten, True Essence of the Godhead, have mercy on us.
Methos' vision blurred and his fingers went limp; he heard rather than felt the sword fall from his hand and strike the floor. He was dimly aware that others, the priests and several others he did not recognize, had knelt beside Eleutherius and joined him in prayer. "Kyrie, luminis fons rerumque conditor, eleyson."
Lord, Fount of light and Creator of all things, have mercy on us.
Blinking to clear his vision, Methos raised his gaze to Remigius, who hastily sank to his knees and bowed his head. "Kyrie, qui nos tuæ imaginis signasti specie, eleyson."
Lord, Thou who hast signed us with the seal of Thine image, have mercy on us.
The signature of an Immortal touched him, but still he could not find the strength to turn, or even to stand. He collapsed to his knees and bent over to rest his head upon the rough stone floor. He could hear that many more people had entered the nave; they had joined the priests in prayer. "Christe, Dei forma humana particeps, eleyson."
Christ, True God and True Man, have mercy on us.
Someone knelt beside him, touched his arm, whispered in his ear. "Methos. Lucius is gone."
Methos managed to raise his head enough to look at Joanna, but comprehension eluded him. "Gone? Lucius is gone?" Even his whisper shook with exhaustion.
"Christe, lux oriens per quem sunt omnia, eleyson."
Christ, Rising Sun, through whom are all things, have mercy on us.
Joanna's gaze was fixed upon Sebastian, her whisper strained. "He is not in Sebastian's chamber, and the servant who was tending him is nowhere to be found."
"What ... how ... he could not have left of his own accord. Not so soon." Methos' fogged mind struggled to reason. "He must have had help."
"Very likely the servant helped him to leave the church."
"Christe, qui perfecta es sapientia, eleyson."
Christ, Perfection of Wisdom, have mercy on us.
"The servant?"
"Sebastian bequeathed Lucius his gold. In his letter to us," she added quickly, her eyes never leaving Sebastian. "It is a large fortune; Lucius will never want."
"Kyrie, spiritus vivifice, vitæ vis, eleyson."
Lord, vivifying Spirit and power of life, have mercy on us.
"Where would he go? Why would he go?" whispered Methos, bereft.
Joanna pressed his arm comfortingly. "He is broken in body and spirit, aba. He needs to be free of this place, of everything that reminds him of Darius, so that both may heal. You have known such times."
Methos nodded bleakly. Yes. He had known such times.
"Kyrie, utriqusque vapor in quo cuncta, eleyson."
Lord, Breath of the Father and the Son, in Whom are all things, have mercy on us.
"Don't mourn so," murmured Joanna. Her face was wet. "You will see him again."
Methos nodded again and lowered his head, no more able to endure the thought of Lucius wounded and alone at this moment than he was the sight of Sebastian's blood slowly drying on the stones of Holy Ground.
"And you will heal also. All will be well, Methos." Joanna's voice held the edge of desperation. "You will see."
"Kyrie, expurgator scelerum et largitor gratitæ; quæsumus propter nostrasoffensas noli no relinquere, O consolator dolentis animæ, eleyson."
Lord, Purger of sin and Almoner of grace, we beseech Thee abandon us not because of our Sins, O Consoler of the sorrowing soul, have mercy on us.
"Through a glass, darkly," said Methos dully.
Methos waited, eyes closed, for one of his companions to break the silence. He waited a long time.
"Jesus Christ." Joe's voice was hoarse. "Jesus Christ, Adam. I'm sorry."
Methos nodded in silent gratitude. Platitudes transcended their usual vapidity when they came from Joe Dawson.
"So much for legends." Richie sounded more saddened than bitter. "Sorry about your friend, man. Both your friends."
Methos tried to respond and found his throat uncooperative.
"So ... Lucius and Darius just disappeared into thin air?" Richie's voice was tentative, and Methos realized with considerable irritation that the child was being gentle with him.
"Not quite," he muttered, opening his eyes. The look on Joe's face almost made him wish he hadn't. He cleared his throat and forged ahead. "Lucius evidently had procured an entire retinue of servants by the time he left Lutetia, and he managed to evade me completely while doing it."
"You looked for him," said Joe quietly.
"I looked for both of them."
"You looked for Darius in Lutetia?" Richie sounded surprised. "He must have been miles away by the time you started."
"He was in the church the entire time," said Methos flatly.
"You found him?"
"No. I found out later. Joanna had hidden him in the catacombs."
"You are shitting me!" Richie's eyes went wide. "After everything Darius did to her? After Lucius? After Sebastian? Why, for God's sake?"
"She was deluded." Methos uttered the words with as much clinical detachment as he could muster. "She'd been under Darius' power too long to shake his influence so quickly. He spun some wild tale that convinced her to help him."
"Wild tale?" Joe leaned forward.
Methos forced a laugh from his lungs. "He told her he was Sebastian."
Joe's eyes narrowed. "Come again?"
"He told her he was Sebastian. That the quickening had conveyed not only his power, but his consciousness."
"Uh..." Richie looked from Methos to Joe uncertainly. "That...uh...doesn't happen, does it?"
"Of course it doesn't bloody happen!" snapped Methos.
Joe leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "Two years ago I didn't think dark quickenings happened, either."
"Excuse me." Methos sat upright, containing an inexplicable surge of anger and panic with difficulty. "I have been around a hell of a lot longer than either of you, and I am telling you that it doesn't happen."
"Exactly how old was Sebastian?"
"I don't know! Even he didn't know, not precisely. Older than me."
"Older than you were then, or now?"
"Geez," muttered Richie, evidently appalled at the thought of anyone older than Methos.
Methos glared. "What difference does it make?"
"Because we don't know what really happens when an ancient Immortal is taken," said Joe in an urgent tone. "We've never seen anyone older than a couple millennia lose a challenge. Is there a point where an ancient is so powerful that the personality of the winner is completely overwhelmed by it? Hell, we have no idea!"
"I do," said Methos icily. "It doesn't happen. End of discussion." Methos saw Joe and Richie exchange glances, and threw himself back on the sofa to glare at the ceiling. "I should have known she was lying to me. She wouldn't look me in the eye. She never could do when she was lying. It was Darius' fortune that Lucius inherited, of course. If I'd been thinking I would have realized that. Sebastian had given away the last of his wealth long before I met him."
Richie nodded. "So Darius gives Lucius all his money and Lucius hires some servants and splits. And then-"
"The first dead Watcher was delivered a month later." Joe sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"Bestowing almost unlimited wealth on a lunatic," snarled Methos, unable to restrain himself. "The stars are displaced by the towering wisdom of Darius the Beneficent."
"Maybe Darius didn't know," suggested Richie. "I mean, maybe nobody knew. Maybe Lucius acted completely normal."
"I doubt Darius ever spoke to Lucius," mused Joe. "He would never have wanted Lucius to know that he was there, or where the money was coming from. Lucius would never have accepted it if he'd known."
"Joanna told the servant to tell him that it was from me," said Methos bitterly. "Lucius was very grateful, she said."
"Did you ever see Lucius again?"
Richie's voice faded, lowered, twisted into another.
Do you see, Marcus, how the skin pulls away?
The cloying darkness, the smell of straw and torch oil and blood and human waste, the screams and frantic clanking of chains, and over it all, that familiar voice.
Patience, Marcus. You will take his place soon enough. Will he not, Nathan? Do you hear, Marcus, how your Gabriel's screams weaken? Soon he will be silent forever.
"Methos?" Richie's alarmed voice cut through the wave of memory, but could not dispel it.
Methos sprang from the couch and sprinted toward the bathroom, managing to reach the toilet before the first wave of vomiting seized him.
"Christ Jesus." He could hear Joe's shaking voice clearly over his retching. "Christ Jesus. No, Rich, let him be for a minute."
"What the fuck is going on?"
"He saw Lucius again, okay? Come back here and sit down."
"How do you-?"
"You remember what Étienne said about Gabriel's lost chronicle?"
"Yeah?"
"Gabriel was a Watcher in Constantinople in 1096."
Observe how they beg for each other's lives, Nathan. What do you think? Friends? Brothers? Lovers?
"He and his partner Stephanos had tracked Lucius' most recent kills. They had this theory that Lucius had traveled across Europe with the mob of the First Crusade, which had just arrived in Constantinople, and that his next victim would be right there in the city."
He took far longer to die than I had expected. Do not weep, Marcus. Let it comfort you to know that his suppositions concerning my movements were correct. His work has been vindicated; be joyous, then.
"Constantinople was the center of western civilization. The Watchers had a huge presence there. The Watchers' Council couldn't believe that Lucius would ever dare to strike so close to the heart of their operation."
"But he did."
"Yeah. His goons snatched Gabriel and Stephanos right off the street. He even sent a letter to the Council telling them what he'd done, taunting them about how they'd be next. Every Watcher in the city was assigned to the search. Gabriel's body was delivered on silver platters two days later. It took another day to find Stephanos."
"Nathan, remove this carcass and have it delivered in the appropriate manner. Since Marcus has begged to take his friend's place, let us oblige him."
"And the Watchers got him out of there?"
Methos flushed the toilet and staggered up to douse his face with cool water, leaning heavily on the sink, then stuck his mouth under the faucet to slurp the water greedily.
"No. They had just surrounded the house when all hell broke loose inside. The Watchers heard fighting going on, and the place caught fire, and then there was a quickening. As far as they knew, Lucius was the only Immortal there, so-"
"So they figured he'd bought it. Did Stephanos make it out?"
Joe paused for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in a strained voice. "Yeah. He made it out. He ... he'd been tortured. He was pretty bad, from what the Watchers who found him said. They carried him to a safe house, but he disappeared within hours. He left his final report and his resignation behind. The Watchers never saw him again."
Methos buried his face in one of Joe's soft towels.
"Until about ten years ago."
Methos froze for a moment, then dropped the towel to the floor and staggered back into the living room. Joe looked up quickly as he entered, every contour of his face a study in compassion.
"Come again?" Richie was staring at Joe blankly.
Methos lost his balance, and collapsed heavily onto the couch. "How did you know?" he whispered.
The telephone rang at one of the clock. It was an unreasonable hour for conversation, and he turned from his computer screen toward the relatively unfamiliar instrument with annoyance. Very few knew how to reach him here, and only one would dare to attempt it at this time of night. He activated the speakerphone. "Speak, dog."
There was a pause. "You have an odd way of showing your gratitude."
"You may infer my gratitude from your continued existence. Why do you disturb me at this hour?"
"I have another gift for you. Another pledge of my good faith."
"Indeed."
Obsequious fool. What need had he of gifts? This gleaming silver disk so generously provided by the late Watcher Zwirner contained all that was required to find and destroy each and every one of his God-cursed kind. Still, the dog had no need to know this. It should be humored for the time being. It might yet prove useful.
"You will find my gift waiting outside the apartment building at 351 Rue de la Fontaine. A very young man with fair hair who answers to the name of Étienne Dupré."
"Your assistant." This dog's treachery knew no limits, and yet it had the audacity to speak of good faith. "Why is he there? Whom does he Watch?"
"No one important. I've sent him on a fool's errand."
"I see." The dog seeks to use me as a weapon for his own purposes. His person of no importance is of great importance.
Another pause. "Well? Do you accept the gift?"
"Certainly. Your gift is accepted in precisely the spirit in which it was intended."
Yet another brief silence. The dog was uncertain; fear and the baring of fangs would inevitably result. "I told you my intentions when I freed you. I want to make reparation for what our people did to you. I want to help you in your search for justice." The tone was defensive, strident...fearful.
The craven dog thinks me as simple-minded as it is. "So you did. And my search for justice lives again. Are you not content?"
More silent confusion. It was a very stupid dog. "I'm content. I just want to be sure that we understand each other."
"I understand you very well indeed, Shapiro. How long will your gift remain at this address?"
"All night, I imagine. I told him to stay there as long as it took to complete his errand, and I don't think he'll be able to do that until morning."
"Very well. The matter is in hand." He deactivated the speaker and sat in thought for a moment. Then he called softly over his shoulder. "Nathan."
"Master?"
He smiled involuntarily. In nine hundred years, Nathan had not changed. He was as vigilant and loyal in Paris as he had been in Mainz where they had met; as he had been along the blood-soaked paths of the Crusade; as he had been during the humiliation of his capture; as he had been during the long years of imprisonment. Nathan never changed.
And neither did he himself. "An enemy awaits you at this address." He handed a slip of paper to the seemingly-young man who came forward, head bowed with appropriate deference. "Take him and bring him here."
"At once, Master."
"And let one of your men remain behind. Instruct him to photograph each person who enters or leaves this building for the next twenty-four hours."
"It shall be done, Master." Nathan disappeared instantly at his master's wave of dismissal.
He turned back to the computer. It had taken him surprisingly little time to gain an understanding of the machine, once he had obtained books on the subject. He smiled grimly. Marcus Gaius had told him once that books were the universal key to achieving any goal, and his old friend had been proven correct once again. He slowly typed the address he had been given into the device. A photograph of a man approaching his fiftieth year appeared, and he scanned the accompanying text with interest. An item in the first paragraph caught his surprised attention, and he reread it aloud. "Historian. Specialization: Medieval Europe. Author of 'An Analysis of Lucius Germanicus.' Definitive study."
He sat back in his chair for a moment, nonplused, then began to laugh softly. So. This Watcher had analyzed him. His laughter increased in volume, echoing from the bare walls in eerie counterpoint. Studied him. He stopped laughing and leaned forward to observe the photograph intently.
"And now I shall study you. Let us see what Joseph Dawson has to teach."