Chapter Three

"What happened?"

Methos started out of his reverie, glancing up from the shatranj board in confusion. "What?"

Sebastian smiled, shaking his head. "What happened between you and the rider, Marcus? You've not been yourself since you spoke to him."

Methos snorted. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I am about to defeat you at this pagan game of war you've taught me," returned the priest merrily. "You do not do your Persian masters honor today, my friend."

Methos scanned the board quickly, astonished to find himself cornered on all fronts. "Obviously not," he growled. "My masters would have caught you cheating, priest."

"So should you have, had you been paying attention to the game," laughed Sebastian. He sobered almost instantly, his dark brown eyes searching Methos' face. "You are thinking of Darius?"

Methos looked away and back to the board, searching for a way out of the trap he found himself in, both there--and in Lutetia. "Isn't everyone?" He managed to force a light conversational tone.

"The Archbishop is confident that Clovis will respond to his message with enough men at arms to defend the city."

"The Archbishop's confidence is balm to my troubled spirit," replied Methos acidly. "The fact is that we have no idea where Darius is or how or when he will attack. Staying here for the past five days has been profoundly stupid, Sebastian. Have you seen the streets? Everyone with the means to do so is leaving, and so should we, before Lutetia is cut off. And yet here we sit playing shatranj in this dungeon your precious church has given you to live in--"

"My precious church shelters me as she sees fit," returned Sebastian serenely.

Methos managed to hold his tongue for a moment, seething with resentment. Sebastian's quarters consisted of a miserable little cell in the lower levels of the Church of Peter and Paul. The room was small, dark and damp, another indignity added to a stream of subtle and not-so-subtle insults directed at Sebastian by Archbishop Remigius and Dean Eleutherius, no doubt at the suggestion of the Bishop of Rome.

"Your precious church seeks your death," snapped Methos finally, unable to restrain himself any longer. "If you had not been Immortal, that journey alone might have killed you. Didn't you see the surprise on the Dean's face when you arrived? He and the damned Bishop of Rome had assumed that you wouldn't survive to darken his door--"

"His Grace failed to reckon with you," replied Sebastian with an affectionate smile.

Methos stared at the old man in sudden comprehension, aghast. "You've known what they were up to all along. Why are we staying here? Why won't you let me take you to safety?"

"I am needed here," said Sebastian, a touch of sadness marring his otherwise serene expression.

"Needed for what? To fetch the Archbishop's chamber pot?"

"Marcus!"

"They treat you like a slave! No, worse. Even when I was a slave I occasionally served masters who treated me with more respect."

"I do not serve the Archbishop, nor the Bishop of Rome," said Sebastian evenly. "My service is to my Creator, and to his children, my brothers and sisters."

"And how is that service to be carried on here, with the Archbishop's lackeys foisting their most menial duties on you, with his blessing? How is that service to be carried on if some enterprising soldier of Darius' army hacks off your head to steal your crucifix? Sebastian, tell me. Why are you so determined to stay here?"

"Because I am needed," repeated Sebastian, meeting Methos' frustrated gaze.

Methos uttered an oath that had been ancient when he was born and rose from his chair to pace the cell restlessly for a few moments. He had never known anyone, mortal or Immortal, whose stubbornness had been more highly developed than this impossible old man. A sudden thought struck him, and he turned toward his friend, who was watching him intently. "It's another of those damned visions of yours, isn't it?"

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. "I thought you did not believe in visions, Marcus."

"My beliefs are irrelevant! It's your beliefs that we're discussing. Is that why you won't leave?"

Sebastian regarded him gravely, but did not answer Methos' question. "Do you trust me, Marcus?"

Provoked past the limits of his patience at this apparent non sequitur, five days' worth of Methos' pent-up frustration finally exploded into anger. "This has nothing to do with trust!" he shouted. "It has to do with common sense. There is going to be a great deal of blood shed here in the next few days, Sebastian. In battle, if the people of Lutetia are lucky, and in slaughter if they aren't. In either case, it's no place for anyone to be who values their life."

Sebastian caught Methos' eye and held it. His voice was soft and steady. "Do. You. Trust. Me."

Methos stared at his friend, groping for comprehension, struggling with his frustration. Why couldn't Sebastian understand? His life was in danger here. He could serve neither his God, his people, nor himself by remaining. What was it he could see in these so-called visions that necessitated risking himself in this way?

Methos had no answer to his own question, but he couldn't ignore the need made so apparent by Sebastian's, and his anger was snuffed out as quickly as it had flared. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he swung away from his friend, not wanting the old man to see the anxiety in his face. "You know I do," he said gruffly.

"Then believe me when I say that my staying here will be for the best," said the priest gently. He paused for a moment, then continued in a subdued tone. "But there is no need for you to stay, my son."

Methos shook his head involuntarily. Strange that he had never considered leaving without the old man; that was certainly the most sensible thing to do. But for some reason abandoning Sebastian to the impending sack of Lutetia by Darius' bloodthirsty brigands was not an option. Methos laughed humorlessly, thinking how appealing an option it would have been just a few short centuries ago--perhaps even a few short decades ago. He composed his features and turned back to face Sebastian.

"Of course there is," he growled. "I stay to protect Darius and his hordes. They stand no chance at all against a lunatic Christian priest."

Sebastian smiled faintly, his eyes much brighter than usual. "I see. Your compassion for Darius is commendable, Marcus."

Methos shrugged, avoiding his friend's eyes. "Not compassion. Appreciation. We're two of a kind, after all." He winced inwardly, regretting those last words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Sebastian was certainly not going to let that pass.

"Ah," said Sebastian mildly. Methos could sense the older man examining the significance of the remark, turning it over in his mind to examine it from all perspectives, and he groaned inwardly, foreseeing a particularly exasperating round of persuasion in the offing.

"Is it my move?" asked Methos hurriedly, reseating himself at the table in an effort to deflect the priest's attention. A memory of long afternoons teaching this game to Lucius touched his mind as he did so, and he shoved the image away ruthlessly.

"Yes," said Sebastian with more emphasis than was required. He paused for a moment. "And your friend? Is he of your kind as well?"

Methos stared at the shatranj board determinedly, silently cursing the priest for his perceptiveness. There were times when Sebastian made him feel that his skull was made of glass.

"You do not wish to tell me about your friend?" persisted Sebastian gently.

Methos kept his face impassive. "What friend?" he asked casually, moving a Cavalry piece.

Sebastian effortlessly moved an Infantryman to take Methos' Cavalry, ignoring Methos' glare. "Your Roman friend on the fine white horse."

"What makes you think he's a friend?"

"You stood too close to him for him to be anything else."

Methos said nothing, and Sebastian continued.

"He bore a remarkable resemblance to a young man with whom I saw you coming out of the brothels and taverns for the first three years you were in Rome."

"You didn't know me fifteen years ago."

"You did not know me fifteen years ago," corrected Sebastian mildly. "I have watched you for some time. It is your move."

"I know it's my move! I'm trying to think," snapped Methos, unnerved at the thought that Sebastian could have observed him for years without his being aware of it, but not doubting it for a moment.

"Is your friend very much like you and Darius, Marcus?" asked Sebastian softly.

Damn the man's persistence. "No," said Methos harshly, "And so much the worse for him."

"Why so?"

"Because unless he is, he won't survive this."

"Do you believe that Darius suspects him?"

Methos' head jerked up in surprise. "What?"

Sebastian eyed him calmly. "Do you believe that Darius suspects that Lucius' loyalties lie elsewhere?"

Methos, shocked, groped for words and found none.

"Have you contacted the Watchers here in Lutetia?" continued Sebastian.

"The Watchers?" Methos' voice was strident with surprise. He had, of course, reported the situation to the Master--not that he expected any good to come of it. How in the name of all the gods ever spawned did Sebastian know about the Watchers?

"Your friend has acted unwisely," said Sebastian, his eyes searching Methos' face. "His warning will not prevent bloodshed, and has very likely placed him in an untenable position within Darius' inner circle. He has underestimated the General badly if he believes that the sight of well-manned walls will deter him. Darius has taken cities and towns more strongly defended than Lutetia could ever be, even if Clovis should oblige the Archbishop."

"You old sorcerer," Methos managed to croak. "How can you possibly--"

"Oh, I am very familiar with Darius' tactics," said Sebastian with a smile. "They were something of a study of mine at one time, when such things concerned me more directly than they do now. You have reason to be concerned about your friend."

"How do you know about the Watchers?" demanded Methos, finally finding voice enough for a coherent question.

"How do you know that you and Darius are of a kind?" returned Sebastian, still smiling.

"I asked first," said Methos determinedly, trying not to smile in return.

"True. But I am defeating you soundly at shatranj," replied the priest with mischief in his voice. "I asked second, but should be answered first, so that I might be inclined to show mercy."

"Damned lunatic priest," growled Methos in frustration, finding himself once again completely unable to resist the old fool. "What is it you want to hear?"

"An honest answer to my question."

"You know the answer!"

"I do not," replied Sebastian. "I assure you that the matter puzzles me exceedingly."

"You know who I am," said Methos harshly.

"Who you are? Or who you were?"

"They are the same person, Sebastian."

"And the man you are resembles Darius to the same extent the man you were did?"

"Not at the moment," muttered Methos, dropping his eyes to the shatranj board. "Death can be avoided...for a while. But Death is always there."

"Ah," said Sebastian with a gentle laugh, "But a logical proof has been offered for your possession of faith. Is it possible for Death to have faith, Marcus Gaius?"

Methos raised his eyes to Sebastian's with a faint smile, and shook his head wordlessly, unable to speak. The old fool would never give up. Methos dropped his eyes again, his vision strangely blurred.

Sebastian nodded, and began to idly trace a pattern in the dust on the table with his finger, murmuring something softly in Greek. Methos blinked furiously, scowled and shoved one of his Elephants into what he hoped was an advantageous position. "What are you mumbling about?"

Sebastian dispatched the Elephant with one of his Cavalry. "Just an old piece of verse. I have been considering it a great deal lately. Tell me, how would you translate 'agapé'?"

Methos eyed the priest suspiciously as his Elephant took its sorry place beside his Cavalry. "Charity?"

Sebastian considered his tracing. "Possibly...but the connotation is not quite correct in this context."

"I've seen the word translated as love," said Methos, eyes narrowing. Now what was the old fox up to? "Not passion, but selfless love."

"Ah," said Sebastian in satisfaction. "Now that makes sense. Thank you, my son. It is your move again."

"I know!" Methos considered the board for a moment then looked up and sighed in resignation. "All right. What context?"

"Hmmm?"

"Agapé!"

"Oh, yes. An old letter from Paul of Tarsus to the Christian church in Corinth. It is a long passage, and nothing of interest to an inveterate unbeliever like yourself."

Methos glowered, and Sebastian laughed and quoted softly. "'Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love I am nothing.'"

Methos leaned back slightly, taken by surprise. "I thought you Christians believed that faith was everything."

"Some of us do," said Sebastian in an amused tone. "An argument could be made, however, that faith is impossible without love. What do you think?"

Methos shrugged. "I suppose, in the context of your lunatic beliefs, that that argument could be made. By that logic, though, you must accept the fact a man already proven incapable of love would also be incapable of faith." Methos moved his Prime Minister to what he thought was a safer location on the board.

"And conversely, you must accept the fact that a man already proven capable of faith must be capable of love." Sebastian's Ship took Methos' Prime Minister. "I believe I have won."

Methos stared from the board to Sebastian in disbelief.

"You are a good teacher," said Sebastian with all innocence.

"You," said Methos in a lethal tone, "are a demon straight from that hell of yours."

Sebastian laughed delightedly. "You acknowledge the existence of hell then, Marcus Gaius? I make progress."

Methos observed the old man sourly. "Hell is playing shatranj with you, priest. You probably invented it."

"Hell or shatranj?"

"Stop changing the subject!"

"The subject, as I recall, was love. It was you who changed the subject, my son--to hell, of all things."

"I understand hell," said Methos in an undertone, surprising himself with that truth.

"Having reached that understanding, scholar, move on," said Sebastian evenly. His voice gentled. "Understand love."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Methos impatiently. Enough was enough. It was time for a brief hiatus from Sebastian's interminable and inauspicious campaign in pursuit of his salvation.

"You do," returned Sebastian with gentle firmness. "Why do you remain in Lutetia? It is not safe for you here."

"It's not safe for anyone here," muttered Methos.

"The situation carries unique dangers for you. You have friends who ride with Darius."

"Friends?" said Methos sharply.

"They and you will become powers in this conflict. You will have to stand against them, or with them, to protect yourself and others, to slay or be slain. You know this. Tell me why you stay." Sebastian spoke in the flat monotone of insight, and the light behind his eyes seemed very far away.

Methos shivered despite the warmth of the room, and picked up his fallen Prime Minister, fingering it nervously. He said nothing, his mind groping for both an answer to Sebastian's question and an understanding of his inexplicable knowledge.

Sebastian smiled. "There is only one answer."

Methos stared at the shatranj piece in his hand, refusing to look up...afraid to look up. He knew what the answer was. So did Sebastian. Why was he forcing this now? Why was it so important to speak if they understood each other?

"'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. And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.'" Sebastian's voice was no more than a whisper.

Methos drew a shaky breath. "Paul of Tarsus again?"

"Yes," said Sebastian softly.

"Long-winded, isn't he?" Methos' voice quavered slightly.

"Usually." There was laughter and acceptance in Sebastian's tone.

Methos managed a rough laugh. "Does he ever talk about anything besides love?"

"Oh, he expresses his opinion on many subjects and at great length."

"I can well believe it." Methos was relieved to hear the appropriate level of sarcasm return to his voice.

"Ah," said Sebastian mildly, "I perceive the problem. You prefer brevity in religious verse."

"I prefer the absence of religious verse, but since that seems unlikely at this point, I would appreciate brevity." Methos began setting up the board again, keeping his eyes on the pieces and trying not to let his fingers tremble.

Sebastian chuckled. "You object then to the medium, but not the message. There is hope."

"Of course there is hope," growled Methos, slapping down the pieces with unnecessary force. "It abideth in Corinth with faith, and love, and the imbecilic Paul of Tarsus. It fetcheth faith's chamber pot, and cleaneth love's stables, and wipeth Paul's bum."

Sebastian gave him a sharp, quelling look. "Do not sneer, child," he said sternly. "And do not mock."

Methos met the old man's eyes quickly, realizing in dismay that he had gone too far. "Sebastian, I didn't mean.... I'm not mocking you."

"No," said the priest with quiet anger. "You are mocking yourself. In the face of all you have become, you still think yourself incapable of those three, yes? Faith, hope, and love?"

Methos, aghast at the rare intensity of the old man's ire, struggled for a response, but Sebastian continued as if he had already answered.

"You are wrong. It is against that threefold cord of faith, hope, and love within yourself that you struggle now. That cord is part of our nature, part of your nature, that which binds us all to each other and to our Creator."

The Ship Methos had been holding dropped from his nerveless fingers onto the board. The truth of Sebastian's words vibrated within him, and that truth frightened him far more than the man he had been did. Faith? Hope? Love? It was true; these things were growing within him now, and what had Death to do with them?

But then what could Methos have to do with them? His was a soul riddled with dark places, places from which the unleashed and unfeeling violence of his past whispered temptingly to him while awake, and paraded luridly past him in nightmares while asleep. How could such a soul successfully pursue Sebastian's cord? What could such a pursuit bring but disappointment and pain, not only to himself, but to those who had the misfortune to be close to him? All of Methos' instincts cried out against the folly of cultivating such a vulnerability.

"What if I don't want to be bound?" Methos finally faltered. "What if I cut that cord?"

Sebastian reached over to right the Ship, his expression grim. "Then Death has won."

Methos stared at the Ship as Sebastian's hand left it, barely comprehending, speechless. Sebastian spoke into the silence, his voice tender.

"You must bind yourself to free yourself, Methos. Within the threefold cord, Death has no dominion."

"No dominion?" whispered Methos, shocked and barely audible. "Sebastian...Death is everywhere...for me."

Sebastian smiled faintly, and leaned forward to lay his palm against Methos' chest. "Not here." He moved the hand to his own chest. "And not here. Yes?"

Methos' vision blurred again as he reached out one hand blindly toward Sebastian, feeling the old man's hands engulf it and hold it tightly.

"Yes?" repeated Sebastian softly.

"Yes," whispered Methos brokenly.

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against the clasped hands, feeling the hot sting of tears on his face for the first time in centuries, the touch of Sebastian's lips on his hair in a kiss...and then the strident, ringing sensation of another Immortal.

That awareness tore through Methos' vulnerable consciousness like a knife through flesh, and he bolted out of his chair, looking wildly about for his sword.

"Marcus!" Sebastian still held Methos' sword hand tightly between his own. "You are on holy ground." He paused for a moment as Methos regained his composure. "She is a friend."

Methos relaxed slightly, and Sebastian released his hand. The two men stared at each other for a moment as the signature increased in strength. An Ancient.

"Would you mind telling me who it is you've invited?" asked Methos in an undertone; footsteps were already audible on the stone steps at the end of the corridor.

Sebastian smiled and shook his head. "I issued no invitation. The lady is a friend of yours, not mine, although I knew her once long ago. She has come here of her own volition and at some risk."

"Someday, priest," hissed Methos, quickly wiping the last of the tears from his face. "You will explain to me how you know everything of what you shouldn't and nothing of what you should."

"Perhaps," said Sebastian gently, as the footsteps approached the door.

Methos turned to see a young woman dressed in men's clothing enter the room quietly and stand just inside the door, studying the two men. She appeared to be just past her thirtieth year, a plain, slender woman with deep set blue eyes and light brown hair, some of which had been blown by the wind out of its binding. She was weaponless.

It was a full ten seconds before Methos' mind, engrossed as it had been in matters far removed from pleasant memories, finally communicated to him that this woman was not a stranger. He also realized that his mouth was hanging open. "What...how...?"

The woman looked him over up and down with a dour expression, which did not entirely conceal the humor in her eyes.

"You were more articulate once, Methos." Her eyes traveled to Sebastian as she continued. "But perhaps all the time spent in the company of this constantly prattling old...priest--" She rolled her eyes, "--has rendered you unaccustomed to speaking."

Methos glanced to Sebastian in confusion, only to see the priest smiling. "It is good to see you, Joanna."

"And I to see you...Father." The title seemed, for some reason, to amuse the woman, and she laughed softly. Sebastian's smile broadened, but he said nothing.

"Joanna, what are you doing here?" Methos finally managed. This woman was the last person he had expected to see.

"It speaks," drawled Joanna. "Gods below, Methos. I've not seen you in three centuries. Is this the best you can do?" She held out both her hands, her expression softening, and Methos stepped forward to take them.

That touch immediately reawakened ancient memories, the memories of a man before the specter of Death had claimed him, and Methos suddenly pulled the woman close to embrace her tightly. He saw in his mind's eye the child she had been almost three millennia ago, coming to him with tablet and stylus in her hand for her lessons, blue eyes full of affection and trust. "I'm glad you're here," he managed, gruffly.

Joanna returned the embrace, laughing with soft surprise into his ear, then drew back gently, her eyes searching his face. "You look well. Christianity agrees with you. I congratulate you upon your conversion of this irredeemable savage, Sebastian." She flicked a teasing look over Methos' shoulder to the priest, who chuckled and resumed his seat.

Methos snorted and stepped back, grateful she had perceived that sustaining that moment of greeting was unnecessary. "Your congratulations are premature," he said drily. "I remain irredeemable."

"Good," returned Joanna with a grin. "That is a comfort; the world has too few constants as it is."

Sebastian clucked his tongue and shook his head with an exasperated expression.

"You've been riding hard," observed Methos quickly, before Sebastian could start again. "What are you doing in Gaul...and in a city under threat of attack? They must have told you at the gate that Darius is on his way. This is no place for a poet. It's no place for anyone who has no taste for the sight of blood."

Joanna's face hardened. Her posture stiffened; her back went ramrod straight, her chin tilted upward, and her hands clasped behind her back. Methos once again saw the child she had been standing before him in exactly the same pose, come to confess some fault.

"There are times when circumstances do not reckon with taste," she said evenly. "I ride with Darius."

If she had claimed to have swallowed the moon, Methos could not have been more taken aback. This woman had taken less joy in killing than any Immortal he had ever known, until he had met Sebastian. She had fought only when it could not be avoided. And now she rode with one of the most bloodthirsty killers Methos had heard of in centuries. Why?

"I don't understand," said Methos uncertainly. He glanced back to Sebastian, who was registering no surprise. "You knew this."

"I knew," said Sebastian simply.

Methos turned back to Joanna, fighting anger. "You ride with Darius. After everything you had to say about my riding with the Horsemen--"

"I don't have time to explain this, Methos," cut in Joanna sharply. "And you don't have time to listen to the explanation."

"I will make the time," said Methos in a curt tone. "Explain."

"Methos," murmured Sebastian.

"I do not owe you an explanation, any more than you did me," snapped Joanna.

"If you ride with Darius, then what are you doing here?" A thought occurred to Methos, and he grasped at it hopefully, wondering as he did so why hope was required. "Have you left him? Is that it? The deserters have been flooding into town in the past few days--"

"Oh, so this is where they came," said Joanna, darkly amused. "I wouldn't advise them to stay."

Methos was silenced by the ferocity in the once-gentle eyes.

"The deserters have been telling strange tales," said Sebastian softly into the silence. "They say that Darius has gone mad. They speak of the General killing his officers with his bare hands."

Methos turned toward Sebastian in astonishment. "Why didn't you--"

"They speak the truth, as far as they know it," broke in Joanna in a strained tone. "That is why I am here. Methos, Darius has found out about the Watchers. He has found out about Marcus Gaius. He knows where you are, and what you look like. He will come for you."

Methos stared at her, groping for comprehension for a few seconds, then nodded as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. His stomach turned.

"He discovered Lucius."

Joanna did not meet his eyes. "You must leave at once."

Methos stepped closer, his mind racing, leaping ahead to obvious and sickening conclusions. "Lucius would not have volunteered this information."

"Methos, did you hear me?" Joanna's tone was impatient. "I say that Darius himself has sworn to find the Watcher Marcus Gaius and impale him, along with every other Watcher he can find. Once he senses what you are, he'll not stop at impalement."

"It is fortunate," said Sebastian softly, "that you did not reveal to Lucius what you were, Marcus, or Darius would have even a greater motivation to find you."

Joanna went on as if the priest had not spoken. "The deserters were right; he has gone mad. He sees Watchers everywhere, even among the corps of his most senior officers. He has killed men who have served him faithfully for decades."

Methos turned toward Sebastian in a rage. "Damn him! Damn that Roman fool! I told him not to go back; he would not listen. He had faith in his Masters' judgment," he snarled savagely.

"It would seem his faith in these men was misplaced," said Sebastian in a measured tone.

"Methos, what is wrong with you? I tell you that Darius seeks your death! You must go, now!" Joanna's raised voice echoed against the stone walls of Sebastian's cell.

Methos and Sebastian's eyes locked for a moment; then Sebastian spoke softly. "She is right, child. You must go. There is nothing you can do for Lucius now, or for anyone else in Lutetia. You must leave at once."

"And you will come with me?" Methos asked the question yet again, knowing as he did so that even this news would not shake the old man's determination to stay.

"I am sorry, my son. I cannot," replied Sebastian quietly.

"You would be wise to go, Sebastian," interjected Joanna urgently. "Darius knows that Marcus Gaius escorted you here. He no doubt assumes that you, too, are connected with these Watchers. Your cassock will not protect you should he find you."

"You will come with me," said Methos with finality in his tone and the unshakable conviction that he was as mad as his friend, "or I will not go."

"Methos--" began Sebastian in a pleading tone.

"What lunacy is this?" cried Joanna in exasperation. "Darius will attack within three days. That is barely enough time for you to put enough distance between you and him to ensure your safety. Sebastian, let Methos take you away from here!"

"My child, I cannot. I am needed here." Sebastian's expression and tone were pained.

"Needed!" gasped Joanna in amazement. "For what?"

"Don't bother asking!" snapped Methos angrily. "He won't tell you. He won't tell me!"

"My son--"

"Sebastian, can't you see that it's Methos who needs you?" Joanna's strident tone cut through Sebastian's attempt at mollification. "He won't leave without you! Have you any idea what the consequences of this decision could be?"

"I know precisely what those consequences could be," returned Sebastian with the first hint of anger he had thus far betrayed. "And I ask you, as I have asked Methos, to trust me."

"And if these consequences destroy our trust in you?" demanded Joanna fiercely. "Do you imagine that I will trust or forgive you if Darius kills Methos?"

Sebastian flinched visibly. "That cannot happen...that will not happen. Joanna--"

"Enough! I've said everything I came to say. I must return to Darius."

"Are you insane?" shouted Methos, losing what little was left of his composure as he grabbed the woman's arm. "Has what happened to Lucius taught you nothing? Darius will--"

"Darius will thank me for successfully completing the commission he gave me: gaining admission to Lutetia, assessing its defenses, and locating Marcus Gaius and Sebastian," snarled Joanna, jerking her arm away. "I suggest that you leave." She turned on her heel and stormed out, leaving Methos staring after her, aghast.

He turned to Sebastian, who was gazing at him with tears in his eyes. "My son, don't judge her until you know--"

"I have absolutely no interest in judging her," returned Methos icily. He was vaguely surprised at the numbness that had settled over him. It was disturbingly familiar, but he could not identify it. "I am going to see the Master Watcher again. The Watchers in Lutetia will go with me to Darius' camp and free Lucius...if he still lives. And when we return, you will leave this mud hole with us, if I have to kill you and sling you over my saddle. Is that clear?"

"Methos, my son, don't do this," pleaded Sebastian, rising from his chair to place his hands on Methos' shoulders.

Methos removed Sebastian's hands from his shoulders firmly, but the numbness within him receded at the sight of the tears standing in the old man's eyes. "I recruited Lucius to the Watchers, Sebastian. He's being tortured because he trusted us. I cannot leave him there."

"Child, you cannot help Lucius this way. It will only extend his suffering, and cause the suffering of many others." Sebastian's tears spilled over onto his weathered face. "Please, Methos, stay here with me. We have so little time."

"We'll have plenty of time, Sebastian," said Methos in a gentler tone. "I'll be fine. I will be back with Lucius by dawn tomorrow, and we will leave together. We'll go to Constantinople, and you can teach me how to cheat at shatranj."

Sebastian gazed at him in wordless anguish for a few moments, then nodded and raised a hand to Methos' cheek.

"Take care, child. Go with God."

"Which one?" countered Methos, disconcerted by the priest's apparent emotion and hoping for a smile.

Sebastian gave him one through his tears, and stroked Methos' long hair away from his face gently. "Whichever God will bring you peace, child."

Methos felt his throat tighten, and almost changed his mind...but no. Lucius could not be betrayed twice. He took Sebastian's hand and squeezed it firmly. "I'll be back by dawn. Be ready to go," he said as steadily as he could manage.

"I will be ready at dawn," replied Sebastian quietly.

Methos nodded, then turned, picked up his sword, and stepped through the door. As he turned into the corridor, he heard Sebastian speak again.

"Farewell, my son."

***

"He's gone."

Methos started into awareness again only to find Richie leaning close and passing a hand within annoying proximity of the end of his nose. "Watch it!" he growled, slapping the offending hand away.

"And he's back again," intoned Richie, rubbing his hand. "Remind me to see about getting this guy's temporal passport revoked."

"You okay?" asked Joe.

"I've been worse," muttered Methos.

"Look, if you don't want to talk about this--"

"Of course I don't want to talk about this!" snapped Methos, then saw the look on Joe's face. "Sorry. Look, Joe, there's probably a lot you don't know--"

"Fine," cut in Richie in exasperation. "There's even more I don't know. Will someone please just tell me what happened?"

Methos and Joe looked at each other expectantly.

"Either one of you will do," said Richie with a pained expression.

"Okay, edited highlights," said Joe wearily. "Lucius got very close to Darius. Too close for his own good. But he was able to send the Watchers in Rome more information on Darius in the ten years he Watched him than they'd been able to gather in the previous five hundred. So nobody told him he was too close."

"Couldn't he figure that out for himself?"

"He trusted the Masters in Rome," said Methos, closing his eyes. "He couldn't conceive that they would risk him unnecessarily. He was a Roman soldier, raised to trust and obey those in authority. And he thought he could handle it."

"So...?"

"So Darius began to suspect him. No one knows why," continued Joe. "But the last straw was when Lucius rode out of Darius' camp to Lutetia to warn them of the impending attack. He met Marcus Gaius on his way to--"

Joe trailed off and stared at Methos, then shook his head. "This is going to take some getting used to. You're Marcus Gaius. You wrote the report that--"

"I didn't write a report, Joe," said Methos, unable to censor the harshness from his tone. "Whatever you saw was probably written by the Master Watcher in Lutetia--I've forgotten his name. I didn't give a damn about the Watchers and their reports by that time."

Joe nodded, not asking, and continued. "Darius had Lucius followed. When he got back to camp, and made no mention of speaking with anyone, Darius confronted him. Lucius claimed to be asking a member of the traveling party for some water."

"Pretty lame," said Richie, then added quickly, "No offense, Methos."

"It was lame," said Methos in a strained tone. "Lucius never learned to lie well. No talent for it at all."

"I guess Darius thought it was lame, too?" asked Richie, and Methos could hear the tension in the boy's voice. There was no question that the kid was not going to like this, but could he at least accept it?

"Yeah. He didn't buy it," said Joe softly. "He questioned Lucius for a while, but he wouldn't change his story. So, finally, he tortured him."

There was a very long pause, and finally Methos opened his eyes again. Richie's gaze was focused on the carpet. He was expressionless, and his face was very pale. Damn.

"Rich," said Methos, not quite believing what he heard himself saying, but unable to remain silent, "this was not the man you knew."

"I know," said Richie in a subdued tone. He lifted his head, his expression still somber. "So then what happened?"

"Marcus found...oh, shit, I can't get used to this," growled Joe. "Methos found out-- Adam, are you sure you don't want to tell this?"

"You're doing fine," said Methos, closing his eyes again.

"Thanks a lot, pal," grumbled Joe, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. "Methos found out from a friend that Lucius was being held and tortured in Darius' camp."

"So how long had he been....?" Richie hesitated over the last word.

"Five days," said Methos tonelessly.

"Shit," said Richie softly. "I'm sorry, man."

"It's okay, Rich. Ancient history," lied Methos, trying to keep his tone light, and not succeeding particularly well.

"Not tonight," said Richie soberly, making Methos open his eyes and look at those young/old eyes again, and finding again that impossible understanding.

Methos looked away, unable to endure that intensity for very long, only to find it in Joe's eyes as well. He closed his eyes again, resolving to keep them closed. And to keep his mouth shut; he did not trust his voice.

"So what happened next?" asked Richie after a moment.

"Methos went to the Master Watcher in Lutetia and requested assistance to rescue Lucius."

"And?"

"And his request was declined."

"Declined?" The indignation in Richie's voice was vaguely comforting. "Those bastards. They sent him in there. Are you telling me they knew he was being tortured and they weren't going to do anything about it? They were just going to leave him there? Why, for God's sake?"

"The reason stated in the record," said Joe quietly, "was that they believed that Lucius had compromised his oath, and had interfered in the Game by assisting Darius in his conquests. And that to rescue him would make them as guilty as he was."

"You told me that they knew what he was doing for ten years!"

"Yeah," said Joe heavily. "They sure as hell did."

"And they never warned him, never told him to back off?"

"Nope. Never."

"So where the hell do they get off using that excuse?"

"Yeah, it's pretty lame."

"So what was the real reason?"

"The real reason," cut in Methos sharply, "was that the Master Watcher of Lutetia was a gutless wonder."

***

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

The Master Watcher of Lutetia turned from his window and faced Methos.

"I cannot authorize such a venture."

"A venture?" Methos stood before the mortal, aghast. It had not occurred to him that, given proof of Lucius' imprisonment and torment, that the Watchers would refuse to help him. "A Watcher is being tortured as we speak! Do we abandon our own so easily?"

"Lucius Germanicus has placed himself in this position--"

"With the encouragement and connivance of the Masters in Rome," cut in Methos, his anger pushing him past the limits of discretion.

"You forget yourself, Marcus Gaius!"

"I have forgotten nothing! It is you who have forgotten--forgotten what the Watchers owe this man, who has risked his life every day for the past ten years while you Masters stay safe behind stone walls--"

"Silence!"

"There are seven Watchers under your command here," said Methos, trying desperately to rein in his rage. If he alienated the Master, there would be no hope of gaining any help here for Lucius. "Give me three of them and I can free Lucius without Darius being any the wiser."

"That is out of the question! I cannot command these men to take such a risk for a man who is more than likely already dead."

"He was alive yesterday. And I don't ask you to command them. Explain the situation and allow them to volunteer. Lucius has many friends among the Watchers; I know that some of them will come with me."

"I doubt that any of my subordinates would be so foolish," returned the Master haughtily. "But no one here acts save at my command."

"A man is dying, and all you can think about is your petty authority?"

"I am thinking about the safety of my Watchers," snapped the Master. "If any of them are seen or taken by Darius during this absurd attempt, he would know where to find us all!"

"So that's it," snarled Methos furiously. "This has nothing to do with Lucius' behavior or the Watchers' Oath. All it has to do with is the fact that you are trying to save your miserable hide!"

"That is enough!" choked the Master, red-faced. "You will leave my presence immediately, leave Lutetia, and not return."

"With pleasure," said Methos in his most lethal tone. "And I will be leaving Lutetia by way of Darius' camp. I shall free Lucius, and leave the General a map to your front door. I suggest you be away from home when he arrives."

"I forbid you to do this. You are a Watcher, and under my command."

Methos' response was monosyllabic and obscene, and the Master's eyes widened. Methos paused for a moment, striving to control himself, then in a scathing tone spoke one more word. "Coward."

"Marcus Gaius, you will do nothing. I command you to do nothing!"

Methos turned on his heel and left.

***

Methos opened his eyes again and looked at Joe. "You're not surprised," he observed.

Joe nodded with a resigned expression. "Nope. It's kind of what I suspected."

"He told you to do nothing?" repeated Richie incredulously.

"To be precise, he commanded me to do nothing," said Methos, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. He mimicked the Master's voice savagely. "'Marcus Gaius, you will do nothing!'"

"Uh-huh," said Richie "So what did Marcus Gaius do about it?"

"What makes you think that Marcus Gaius did anything about it?" returned Methos, eyes narrowing.

"Because Marcus Gaius doesn't take anybody's shit, for starters," said Richie with a slow grin.

Joe leaned back in his chair, looking at Methos, his body shaking with long, soft laughter.

Methos' eyes traveled from Richie's face to Joe's, and a grin of his own came unbidden to his face. "Joe, I am beginning to think this kid has potential."

***

Methos crept along the bottom of the gully, hugging the grassy wall nearest Darius' camp, cursing the light of the full moon overhead and the stench of human waste underfoot. The camp had not been difficult to find--a matter of a few gold coins and a few moments' conversation with one of Darius' deserters--but approaching the place undetected had been another matter. The overgrown gully running along the eastern edge of the camp had seemed an ideal approach at the time; it wasn't until the first few buckets of filth were dumped in his path that he realized he was making his way through the camp's communal sewer.

Methos cursed again as something yielded to his booted foot with an unpleasant slurping sound. Why was he doing this? The Master, sniveling worm that he was, had nevertheless been right. Lucius was like as not dead. Once Darius had satisfied himself that Lucius had told him everything he needed to know, he'd have no reason to keep him alive. It was madness to think that Lucius could have kept the General entertained for this long.

A burst of raucous laughter from above froze Methos in his tracks. Damn! He'd allowed his mind to wander; he must have passed through the outer perimeter guard without realizing it. Yet another indication of his madness; a lapse of concentration here, of all places, could cost him his life. What was he doing here? How in the name of all things sacred had this preposterous sentimentality crippled over three thousand years of common sense? Too late he heard the unmistakable and familiar sounds of an armed camp at midnight: the uneasy shifting and snorting of horses; the crackle of dying fires; the muttering of slaves and servants as they went about the last chores of the day; the grunts and coarse laughter of soldiers sharing their women; the cries and pleading of the women as they were taken.

"Is the shit in your bucket funnier than mine, Quintus?" The voice was surly.

Methos composed himself and listened intently, recognizing the peculiar Teutonic-Latin patois of a common Roman too long among barbarians--or a barbarian too long among Romans.

"Very funny--take a look!"

"Gods, get that out of my face! What is that?"

"What does it look like?"

"Is there anything left of the bastards?"

"You want to know? You ask the General."

"I said get it out of my face! Throw it in with the rest--they won't be needing them any more."

Methos pressed himself against the side of the gully, grimacing as a thick rain of urine, feces and several unidentified whitish lumps splattered just past his boot-tips.

"You're a woman, Tulius. Imagine being afraid of--"

"Who's afraid? They stink!"

Methos squinted at the ivory objects glistening with red liquid in the moonlight, then recoiled in recognition. He closed his eyes, his hands clenching the long grass at his back as the voices receded to blend into the background noise of the camp.

"Stink they might, but I got this off one of them. Look. Solid gold."

"Take that off, you fool!"

"All right, all right. Nice ring, though, eh? It'll fetch a good price...." The voices faded into the other night noises as the two men strode away from the ditch and into the heart of the camp.

Methos forced his eyes open and released the breath he'd been holding. He turned and stepped with numbed precision over the scattered, bloody fingers and hands lying in the mud, pursuing his course up the gully toward the heart of the camp. Those twisted appendages had belonged to more than one man. Many more. The General had been busy.

Methos clenched his own fingers convulsively. He, Sebastian and Lucius would be miles from Lutetia before Darius set foot there. He had only to locate the one tent in this camp of a hundred tents where Lucius was being held, free him, guide him--or carry him, if he were too badly injured to walk--through thousands of fully armed German savages undetected, reach the horses he had left a mile away in the copse to the south, and ride back to Lutetia--providing of course that Lucius could stay in his saddle in the first place.

Methos attempted, briefly, to identify the precise moment he had run mad--then snarled softly to himself as the signature of an Immortal seized him. He was getting close. Grabbing an exposed tree root, he hauled himself up the steep slope and peered around the slender bole of the tree to get his bearings.

All was quiet, or as quiet as any place could be when it was occupied by thousands of human beings and animals. The camp was drifting toward slumber, no one stirred; the only people Methos could see were lying around the campfires, apparently asleep. Scanning the nearby tents, he caught his breath. The tattered banner hanging limply across the flap of the tent at the edge of the pool of firelight was unmistakable, but no lamp was lit inside. Darius was either asleep or abroad. Neither was safe; Methos would have preferred to have the man in sight. Still, the deserter had claimed that Lucius' tent was near Darius'. Methos studied the other tents, but they lacked any distinguishing characteristic. Damn. Which--

A high-pierced, inarticulate shriek shattered the silence, followed by another--and another--and another. Methos hunkered down behind the tree, breathing hard, watching as the men sleeping around the fire stirred and groaned in annoyance. The final keen ended abruptly, and a few seconds later a tall, striking-looking man with dark hair and blue eyes strode out of the darkness, drawing his richly decorated cloak about himself as he licked the blade of his knife clean.

Methos felt his small hairs rise at the sight; Darius of Rome, kindred spirit and master in the pursuit of power through slaughter. It could be no other; the man carried himself like an emperor or a god, but Methos' supposition was immediately confirmed.

"Darius."

Methos craned his neck to see Joanna emerging from the General's tent, barefoot and wearing a long shift. She was grim-faced; every line of her body was taut.

"A word, if you please."

Darius slipped his knife into its sheath. "Yes?"

"In private."

Methos stiffened at the leer that twisted the man's face. If any man of Ur had dared to look at Joanna that way, Methos would have run a sword through his belly.

"I was certain you would come to appreciate my company in time," chuckled Darius, reaching for her.

Joanna stepped back; even at a distance of several yards Methos could see the disgust in her face. "Do not delude yourself," she said in a steely tone, changing her idiom from Latin to Greek. Methos was certain that he, Joanna and Darius were probably the only people in the camp who would understand her words; whatever she had to say, it was important. "And do not confuse submission with appreciation."

Darius laughed and yanked her close. "Submission inevitably leads to appreciation. Obviously you require practice in the former, that you may enjoy the latter. Get inside."

"We have an important matter to discuss."

"Get inside, wench! Your important matter will wait until I am satisfied. Do not forget that lives spared may still be taken."

Joanna pulled her arm from Darius' grip. "I have not forgotten! I swore to serve you, and that is what I am doing. This madness must stop, Darius."

"Madness?" Darius' eyes narrowed.

"Your ... entertainment obsesses you. You ignore your duties--"

"You presume--"

"You have slaughtered all of your most experienced officers! No preparations have been made for battle whatsoever. There is no food to be had in camp, little water, and full one-quarter of your soldiers have deserted you in fear of your lunacy. This ... this bizarre fascination with the slicing of flesh--"

"I punish the traitors."

"You are possessed by their punishment! You think of nothing else!"

Darius laughed again, leaning close. "I think of many things. Their punishment exhilarates me. It gives me an appetite I've not known in many a year. I have ridden you harder and more often these past five days than I have in a decade. Why do you complain? Do not pretend that you felt no pleasure."

Methos felt his hand clench convulsively around the hilt of his sword.

"You are mad," snarled Joanna, shoving Darius away. "None of your soldiers know who will be next to feed your ... exhilaration. They will abandon you, or they will kill you. There are whispers, Darius. Come to your senses! You have killed all the others. Either kill Lucius or release him."

"You do not command here." All trace of laughter disappeared from the man's face; his eyes glittered dangerously.

"Neither will you if you do not end this now." Joanna met Darius' gaze without a flinch.

"And who will?" Darius' voice fell to a hoarse whisper that Methos strained to hear. "You? Do you imagine that my soldiers will follow my bed-wench? Undeceive yourself."

"I have no desire to lead your pack of jackals." Joanna's voice was deadly now.

"That is well. You are getting above yourself. Do not imagine that one successful errand makes you anything but what you are."

"I know what I am."

"I think not. Perhaps you need another lesson in humility."

Joanna dropped her gaze from Darius for the first time. "No."

"It's true I have fewer officers than I once did, but there are enough, I think, to reacquaint you with your station here--they have taken great pleasure in doing so in the past. Shall I summon them?"

"Darius." Joanna's voice became uneven. "I brought this matter to your attention to keep you alive."

"At least until you've determined where your lover and his brats are. Yes? Fool. It has been over a decade; they've long forgotten you. You'll not see them again. They survive at my pleasure, as do you. Displease me--"

"I serve you. If I didn't, I would not warn you that your path leads to your destruction. I would simply watch, and wait."

"My path leads to the sea; my soldiers know that. They will follow me wherever I lead."

"They will not follow you to your butcher's knives, Darius."

Darius laughed harshly. "The loyal need have no fear of that. Only a traitor will meet that fate."

"A warrior deserves a clean death," returned Joanna with determination. "Kill him, Darius. Be done with your vengeance and set your mind to the true task at hand."

"I will kill him when it suits me. This conversation is now concluded." Darius shoved Joanna toward the tent. "Inside, wench, and on your back."

"Darius, you must listen--"

Darius whipped back his arm and slapped Joanna across the face hard enough to propel her through the dark opening in the tent. Methos heard her hit the ground with a gasp, heard his own involuntary snarl of rage, felt the uneven terrain under his feet as he ran. He realized, as Darius turned toward him with widened eyes, that he had covered the distance between the gully and the tents before Darius had so much as turned to face him. Sparing no time to draw a weapon, he tackled Darius, who fell inside the tent with Methos' hands around his throat.

"Gods," came in a gasp from Joanna, still huddled on the ground.

"You pig-hearted son of a whore," snarled Methos in Greek, reveling in savage exultation as Darius gagged, struggled to breathe, and fumbled with frantic hands toward his knife. Methos methodically tightened his grip with a soft, ugly laugh, watching in satisfaction as Darius seized his hands and tried, with a now naked desperation, to yank them away from his throat. "We'll see who's on his back."

"What are you doing?" rasped Joanna, staggering to her feet to twitch the tent flap shut.

"Kill ... him," gurgled Darius, struggling to no effect.

Methos laughed in his face, drunk with long-denied violence. "Kill me yourself, coward. If you can."

"Aba, stop," breathed Joanna in his ear. "Please."

Ignoring her, Methos removed one hand from Darius' throat long enough to draw his knife from his belt, then plunged it to the hilt into the man's chest. Darius screamed once, his wide eyes still staring at Methos with something akin to astonishment; then those eyes rolled back in his head and he was limp and still.

Methos twisted the knife savagely, but the signature of an Immortal still sang in his ears. Still alive; he had somehow missed the bastard's heart. Lack of practice was dulling his skills. He sat back on his haunches, breathing hard, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. "He'll be dead soon."

"Gods," repeated Joanna faintly. "Methos. What have you done?"

"What have I done?" Methos kept his voice low with difficulty. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew how you would react," hissed Joanna. "Leave at once! You've only made the situation worse."

"I'll improve it before I leave." Methos swung to his feet and drew his sword; Joanna grabbed his wrist.

"No!"

"Are you insane?"

"I'll never find my husband again if you--"

"He's dead," said Methos harshly. "He's dead and so are his children."

"They're not." Joanna's voice shook. "They're slaves on Darius' land in the east."

"They're dead, Joanna. Or sold. Why do you suppose you haven't been able to find them? Do you really think he'd keep them, to have them rescued? Darius would never incur such a liability."

Joanna stared at him, speechless, and Methos cursed silently as his rage faded. He had obliterated in a heartbeat the only hope that had made her existence bearable for a decade. "Forgive me, bati," he muttered awkwardly, no longer accustomed to the language of gentleness they'd once shared. "But they're gone."

Joanna's gaze slipped down Methos' blade to rest on Darius. "You can't take his head here," she said dully. "The quickening will wake half the camp."

Methos nodded, recovering his composure, and sheathed his sword. "I'm surprised half the camp wasn't woken by the scream," he muttered, taking a quick look outside. Nothing stirred; the soldiers still lay asleep by the campfires.

"Those who ride with Darius are accustomed to screams."

Methos cast her a sharp glance over his shoulder; in all the centuries he'd known Joanna, she'd never sounded or looked so completely at a loss. Their eyes met; Joanna drew a shaky breath as she composed herself. "Even if they heard it, none would dare to enter the general's tent without being summoned."

Methos nodded. She knew as well as he that there was no time for anything now but the task at hand. "Get dressed. Is Lucius fit to walk?"

"I don't know." Methos averted his eyes as Joanna threw off her shift and snatched up her tunic. "I've not seen him since he returned from Lutetia. Even if he is, he won't be able to walk far. Where are your horses?"

"A mile to the south."

"A mile?" Methos heard her snort as she donned her trousers. "You've become an optimist, Methos--the result of consorting with Sebastian, no doubt. Did you really imagine that he would be able to travel such a distance on foot, after five days in Darius' hands?"

"No," snapped Methos, turning to glare at her as she pulled on her boots. "I imagined I'd carry him on my back, be hunted down like the imbecile that I am, and end with my head mounted on Darius' spear for my trouble."

"Your imagination has more sense than you do." Joanna slung her sword-harness across her back and fastened it. "It's an uncannily accurate view of the likely outcome of this venture. Which begs the question--"

"He's a friend," returned Methos curtly, feeling a fool.

Joanna met his gaze with a solemn expression. "Ah," she said, sounding for all the world like Sebastian. "I see. Then I'd best fetch him." Despite the misery and fear in her eyes, Methos detected a hint of pleased amusement. "Stay here and keep an eye on Darius."

"I'll fetch Lucius," growled Methos in gratitude. "Just--"

"Don't be an idiot. What do you intend to do when you find him? Stroll through the camp with him arm-in-arm?"

"I intended to leave the way I came."

"He is injured, Methos, and we don't know how badly. We cannot escape with him on foot. Speed is essential. It is only a matter of minutes before Darius rises; once he does he will set upon us with every resource at his command. We must ride."

"And if Lucius can't ride?"

"Then I will kill him and have Quintus bind his body to my horse."

"And Quintus will remain silent because...?"

"Darius never returns a hostage alive after ransom has been paid, but he is scrupulous about returning the corpse. I will tell him ransom was received. He will not question it."

Methos swore softly in frustration; he had not foreseen this possibility, had no contingency for this turn of events. He certainly had never intended to risk Joanna, of all people, in his ridiculous exercise in rampant sentimentalism.

The impatience in Joanna's face softened to understanding. "This will work, aba. So long as you keep Darius from rising before we're ready to leave, I'll be quite safe. No one will think anything of seeing me about the camp. Now let me go, or we shall lose the darkness."

The plan was sound enough, and there was no time to waste. Methos hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped back to let her pass. "Kindly do not get yourself killed."

"I'll give the matter all due thought," returned Joanna in a wry tone. "Put on Darius' cape and wait for my signal." She passed through the opening in the tent and flipped the flap closed behind her. "Quintus! The general's horse and mine, now!"

Methos froze in horror at her brazenness. Gods! Couldn't she have saddled the horses herself? He heard Quintus' groggily obscene acknowledgement of the order and relaxed slightly. Obviously such a command was not unusual--which was all to the good; no one would think of challenging the general if he chose to ride through the camp perimeter with his ... bed wench.

Methos' loathing gaze settled on Darius' still form for a moment. In the old days.... But these were not the old days, and he had business elsewhere. Let Sebastian's divine justice deal with Darius of Rome. Nevertheless, the least the bastard could do was speed his guests on their way, and his cloak would go a long way toward convincing any sentries that this was indeed Darius riding past. Methos squatted beside Darius, pulled his knife from the body and began to unhook the clasp of the cloak.

Bloody hands seized his throat, pressing thumbs into his Adam's apple with shocking strength, yanking him down until his face was no more than an inch from Darius. Darius' face twisted with pain and hatred, his eyes wild and feral as he laughed, frothy blood staining his lips. "Marcus ... Gaius ... fool."

Methos gagged and dropped his knife to drive his own thumbs deeply into the inside of Darius' wrists, to no avail; the grip on his throat only tightened. In desperation, Methos swung his leg over Darius' body and rammed his knee into the man's groin with all his strength. Darius' howl of pain was cut off as Methos slapped a hand over his mouth, groping with the other for his knife, which he held to Darius' throat. Darius froze, then slowly relaxed his grip, and Methos jerked his neck out of the lethal grasp.

"One sound," he hissed, riveting his gaze to Darius'. "Just one, and by all that's unholy, I'll saw your head off an inch at a time."

Darius' eyes narrowed; Methos saw the speculation in his eyes.

"I will saw it off and feed your brains to your dogs." Methos barely recognized his own voice.

Darius laughed into Methos' hand as Methos glanced about in search of something to use as a gag. Darius spoke in a soft voice, and Methos lifted his hand cautiously. "My dogs will be devouring someone else entirely this night."

"I think not," said Methos grimly.

"You dare not take my head here. My quickening would draw my soldiers by the thousands. You would be alone amidst an army thirsty for your blood." Darius' soft, contemptuous laughter rose. "I will kill you, Watcher. I will impale you. I will geld you. I will burn your entrails before your eyes and skin you alive before I hack off your head with my dullest blade and feed your carcass to my dogs. Your empty skin will flutter in the wind atop my banner as I sack Lutetia."

Methos felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rise; the chant was all too familiar, and the possibility all too likely. "Sack Lutetia," he snarled. "Burn it to the ground for all I care. But touch me or mine again and you'll not live to see another sunrise." Without further preamble, Methos slapped his hand over Darius' mouth, yanked Darius' knife from his belt and rammed it into his chest, knowing as he did so that this time it had struck the heart. Darius screamed into Methos' hand, spitting a hot stream of blood that spurted blue-red between Methos' fingers. He went limp as his eyes glassed over; he stared sightlessly into Methos' face.

Methos stared back, feeling Darius' blood cool on his hands, waiting for the pleasure of the kill, the euphoria that had always followed the shedding of blood, but it did not come. He waited for what seemed a lifetime, and still it did not come. There had been a time when taking a life had been like taking a lover, but he felt nothing. Danger had never dulled that experience before; nor had the knowledge that an Immortal would rise again. And yet he felt nothing. Nothing. Methos lifted his hands, studying them minutely, as if the blood of Darius were in some way different from all others, as if this difference could explain...feeling nothing. But he knew he would find no difference. There was no difference. Because Sebastian had been right.

"No dominion," whispered Methos in stunned belief. "No dominion."

Methos stared, transfixed, at his hands, unable to measure the passing of time, until a low, sharp whistle from outside the tent brought him to the here and now. He started and swore under his breath. Joanna. He hastily wiped his hands clean on Darius' tunic, then unhooked the cloak and yanked it off Darius' body. Wrapping the cloak around him, he pulled the large hood low over his face, returned his knife to his belt, and slipped outside.

Joanna was astride her horse, but there was no sign of Lucius; instead, a large bulky object wrapped in tapestries and furs lay across her saddle before her. Quintus stood by, holding the reins of Darius' horse. He stiffened to respectful attention as Methos approached.

"Hurry," Joanna murmured in Persian, her voice barely audible.

Methos swung into his saddle, eyes riveted to the bundle. Not a twinge of a signature. She'd killed him; he was injured too badly to ride. Damn. Quintus handed up the reins, his eyes fearfully averted. Methos snatched them out of the soldier's hand, grateful that Darius inspired such terror. A sharp-eyed man could tell with one long look that the man in the cloak was not Darius of Rome. The sooner they were out of here....

Something between a scream and a howl from within Darius' tent shattered the silence and startled both horses, sending them shying and whinnying in fear. Methos gasped and kept to his saddle with an effort. Gods! The man should have been dead for an hour. He understood now the wild tales whispered in the countryside; demons had been made of far less formidable men.

"Arms!" came in a gurgling shriek. "Arms! Spies, traitors! Arms!"

Quintus snarled and threw himself forward, drawing his knife; Methos could see sudden comprehension in the man's dull features. Methos kicked the knife out of the man's hand and urged his horse forward. Quintus seized the bridle and yanked on it, causing the horse to rear slightly, neighing in protest. "Go, go!" he shouted to Joanna, drawing his sword.

Joanna grimaced and dug her heels into the sides of her mount. She drew her sword and clutched the bundle before her as her horse surged forward, dodging a disorganized group of poorly armed, groggy soldiers to vault over the nearest campfire. "At the bridge," she shouted over her shoulder in Persian. She disappeared among the tents, the sound of her horse's hooves drowned out by the sound of alarm gongs and horns from the waking officers and the shouts of the common soldiers as they scrambled to respond.

"Arms!" Darius staggered from his tent, bloodied from neck to crotch, eyes fey with a strange light, sword clutched in his gory fist. A thousand years of calculated carnage could not and did not lessen the impact of that sight; Methos kicked savagely at the hand holding his bridle to no avail. "Marcus Gaius! A thousand pieces of gold to the man who takes Marcus Gaius alive!" Darius lunged forward, sword raised, howling.

Snarling in fear and frustration, Methos arced his sword downward toward the hand that held his bridle, severing it cleanly at the wrist before Quintus could react. The man's screams reverberated in his ears as the horse beneath him leapt forward, barely evading a wild sword thrust from Darius. Methos propelled the animal onward, urging him to a full gallop around, and occasionally through, both fire and foe as confused, sleep-fogged men threw themselves in his path in a vain effort to impede his progress. By the time Methos had made his way to the northern perimeter, hacked off the head of one of the perimeter guards and galloped to freedom, Darius of Rome's entire army was but minutes behind him.