'Hieronymous is fatally weakened by the choices that he makes, particularly those with regard to the gentile woman,'

Phasaei noted. 'For, is it not written...?'

'Probably,' interrupted t.i.tus before Phasaei had the chance to trot out another of his stock cliches. 'He is weakened, certainly, although whether it shall prove to be his downfall, I myself have doubts upon this matter. I like not this woman, so clever and wily in her ways. Nevertheless, Hieronymous has made his choice. And he must live by it. Or otherwise' t.i.tus turned to face out across the city and shielded his eyes from the harsh reflection of the sun. He looked across the central market square, and towards the city limits and beyond. 'This is a unique place and a unique time, Phasaei,' he noted absent-mindedly. 'Hieronymous once asked me whether I could live within any of history's pages, whence would it be? I ask you the same question.'

'In the olden days of yore,' said Phasaei instinctively. 'The time of Moses and Aaron and Joshua. When the law was the law, and there was no pet.i.tioning of the Lord with prayer. And you, my good brother, whence shall be your time?'

'My time is now,' t.i.tus said simply 'And it shall be, hereafter.'

Down within the forum, the bustle and rush of the day was beginning to drain the energies of those exposed to the ravages of the afternoon heat.

Even the hyperactive juggler who spent each and every day nimbly dancing in a perpetual motion seemed to have surrendered to the sun and gone for a nice lie-down.

Nikos, the bread-stall owner, sat on an upturned log behind his table of breads, his legs sticking out from the stump and keeping it upright with a feat of balancing that would have been impressive to anyone watching. If it were not so abominably hot.

He removed a piece of cloth from his toga and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

Business was slow on a day that gave slothfulness a good name.

'Thirteen loaves, good patron,' said a voice from under the shadow of the stall's canopy. Nikos leaned forward and then stood up, excitedly, as Daniel allowed a handful of battered coins to fall onto the stall.

'Thirteen, say you?' asked Nikos, calculating that such a purchase would almost double his sales for the day. 'You have many mouths to feed, stranger?'

Daniel said nothing, looking casually around him as crowds briefly mingled and then dispersed in an ebb and flow like the turning of the tide. 'I come from a very large family,'

Daniel noted, finally. 'And it is growing all the time.'

'Wait a moment,' Nikos said as he began to wrap the loaves. 'I know you. Your mother had cause to name you Daniel, yes? You are a friend of James, the Christian?'

'No, I am not,' said Daniel flatly.

'Yes, you are,' replied a convinced Nikos.

'No, I am not,' repeated Daniel.

'I am sure of it.'

'You are mistaken,' Daniel said, denying his allegiances for the third time before breakfast. Then he hissed, 'What are you saying?' at the Greek.

Nikos looked nervously around, although he wasn't certain why. 'I know what you are, impatient youth, but I fail to understand your fear in everyone else knowing of it. Your faith is perfectly legal, is it not?'

'The law of man is corrupt and open to barter,' Daniel said in a harsh whisper. 'We are persecuted for what we are and what we believe, and no law can put asunder such persecutions,' he continued, hurriedly picking up the bread and turning away from the stall-owner.

'Wait,' called Nikos. For a moment, he thought that Daniel would break into a sprint away from the stall, as though he had the devil at his heels. Then, almost as an afterthought, the young man turned back to the stall, wearily.

'Yes?'

'In your haste you neglected to take the coinage to which you are due.'

Daniel s.n.a.t.c.hed up a drachma that Nikos offered to him and, again, began to move away. 'You are so so paranoid, my friend,' Nikos shouted after him. 'Who would wish to persecute you?' paranoid, my friend,' Nikos shouted after him. 'Who would wish to persecute you?'

As he said this, both his eyes, and those of Daniel, moved to the trio of Roman soldiers sitting in the shade of the temple, a dozen paces to the right of Nikos's stall. One of the Roman legionnaires raised his head at the sound of heightened voices but, after a second of seeking out the source of the brief commotion, he lowered it again and returned his attention to his wine and his comrades. Too tired, and too hot, to be bothered with such trivialities.

Run, Nikos silently mouthed under his breath, as he looked back towards Daniel, only to find the young man rooted to the spot in sheer terror. 'Run like the wind, Christian,' he whispered, knowing that his words would not be heard by anyone, least of all those for whom they were intended.

For a second, there was complete and awesome silence within the market-place. An unnatural calm as though time itself had become trapped in amber. The three legionnaires were all staring into the half-distance, their thoughts on good wine and cheap women to bed. Nikos looked at them and, for an instant, he seemed to leave his own body, looking down on the market-place from above as if he were a bird. Or an angel.

And it was in this curious and unnatural state that he saw, clearly, the young man with the sicarii sicarii knife slip into position behind Luke Panathaikos, the knife slip into position behind Luke Panathaikos, the publicani publicani tax collector of great infamy who was pausing as he crossed the square to straighten his robes. tax collector of great infamy who was pausing as he crossed the square to straighten his robes.

Despite the contemptuous reputation that Panathaikos had acquired amongst his own people, Nikos quite liked the publicani publicani and certainly didn't wish to see any harm come to him. 'No,' he cried in a disembodied wail and, in the blinking of an eye, he was back staring across the square from his own vantage point as the knife sank between Panathaikos's ribs and was then removed, cleaned and pocketed in one slick and rapid movement. and certainly didn't wish to see any harm come to him. 'No,' he cried in a disembodied wail and, in the blinking of an eye, he was back staring across the square from his own vantage point as the knife sank between Panathaikos's ribs and was then removed, cleaned and pocketed in one slick and rapid movement.

'Stop! Murder!' he cried, pointing an accusing finger at the Jewish youth of seemingly no more than sixteen years, who turned, startled, and with hatred in his eyes stared at Nikos as, behind him, Luke Panathaikos slumped to the ground.

'Murder! Murder!' shrieked Nikos. From the corner of his eye, he could see Daniel, still glued to the ground, looking at the fallen body of the tax collector with horror on his face. But then any attention to the Christian was lost as the square erupted in blur of noise and movement.

Somewhere, a woman screamed and, at exactly the same time, a small clay jar was dropped at the pottery stall next to Nikos and smashed on the mosaic tiles of the forum floor.

The murderer was turning and running, pushing those too slow to move out of his way. Someone made a grab for him and the thick-bladed knife flashed through the air again.

A second later, there was much blood and a cry of pain.

As this occurred, all across the square, those in authority began to react. The three legionnaires sprang to their feet and were sprinting across the forum like Olympian runners.

Other Romans and citizens were joining in the pursuit. Nikos, in a moment of madness, found himself leaping over his bread-stall and taking a couple of half-hearted paces in the direction in which the a.s.sa.s.sin had fled.

Then he looked at the slain body of Luke Panathaikos, encircled in a rapidly widening pool of red, and came to his senses, turned around and went back to his stall, his thoughts of heroics rudely shattered by a sudden vision of his own mortality.

The chase was on, the quarry scampering towards the mazy labyrinth of the Jewish quarter and, if he was lucky, sanctuary. Behind him closed running, shouting, armed men, their breathless cries gibberish to the a.s.sa.s.sin's ears. A pilum pilum, the short-armed spear of the Roman infantryman, flew past the a.s.sa.s.sin's head and thudded into a wooden door where it shuddered with a satisfying burr of vibration. Another followed, again narrowly missing the young man.

Benjamin, the Zealot, his hatred of Romans undimmed by time or experience, almost turned and gloated at his pursuers' poor marksmanship. He wished that he could; wished that he could stop to taunt the murderous and draconian dictators at his back. To leave them purple-faced and hopping mad at the fleet-footed a.s.sa.s.sin who had crept into the heart of their citadel and slain their collaborating ally.

Many of the Zealots objected to the Roman descriptions of them as terrorists terrorists. They were freedom-fighters, they argued, a resistance movement dedicated to the freedom of their people and their adopted city from the oppression of any occupying force.

Benjamin, on the other hand, admired the term. If the terror being felt was by Romans, then he was proud to be the instrument of that terror.

He spun quickly around the next corner, his feet slipping on a patch of half-dried mud. His arms pin-wheeled as he fought to maintain his balance and, with the grace of Jehovah, he staggered on for five or ten paces and was then back running again at his fastest.

The chasing group was led by the three Roman legionnaires from the forum, Cecius Corvectionious, Octavius Hamhabisu and Marinus Topignius, all veteran members of the elite, premier-division squad of captain Drusus Felinistius. The heart-bursting chase left many trailing in its wake, but not these three. For they could run all day and all night, up and down mountains with backpacks full of rocks, if it was required of them by their captain, or their general, or their emperor.

These were hard men who had seen service and wars across the empire. In Judaea. In Britain. In Germanicus.

Different colours, different shades, in each land mistakes were made, but not by them. As each new dawn faded, they fought the indigenous tribes with their primitive weapons and tactics, never fearing for one second that they, or their legions could lose.

Romans didn't didn't lose. lose.

At the corner, as the Jewish boy almost came crashing to the ground, Marinus, leading the pursuers, came within inches of the a.s.sa.s.sin's back. But then with lightning speed, the boy slipped away again from the Roman's grasping hands, increasing his lead by three yards, four, five, six...

Leather-soled sandals created a rapid pitter-patter on the bare, impacted dirt of the twisting streets. More of the chasing group were dropped until there were only Roman soldiers, and fewer of them than before, left running.

Roman soldiers, and the boy.

And then, from the shadows of yet another corner, a shape emerged and collided with Benjamin, sending him spinning and sprawling to the ground. The impact was bone-crunching and, for a second, everyone chasing stopped dead in their tracks. Then, despite the ache in his side, Benjamin the Zealot raised himself from the ground and held out his knife before him.

'Come ye, and taste this mighty weapon, Roman dogs.

You sons of mother-wh.o.r.es. Whom shall be first to feel her bittersweet kiss?'

Marinus Topignius held out his arms to stop any of his offended colleagues from rushing past him and tackling the child-a.s.sa.s.sin alone. 'Be not foolish now, lad, we mean you no harm,' he said feeling idiotic at talking to the boy in such a hackneyed way. The Jew had killed in plain sight. His life was done and he knew that. The only alternative now to a date with the stauros stauros and the javelin on Beylerbey hill, was to be hacked to pieces here and now by Marinus and his brother warriors, at least one or two of whom he would, in all probability take with him. and the javelin on Beylerbey hill, was to be hacked to pieces here and now by Marinus and his brother warriors, at least one or two of whom he would, in all probability take with him.

Marinus didn't particularly like the idea of that and, judging from the lack of those rushing to get past him, neither did many of his fellow legionnaires.

The stand-off was broken suddenly, and with little ceremony.

Marinus felt a pressure behind him and turned his head to find the bear-like figure of Erastus, the cadet trainer, moving through the crowd of static soldiers.

'Leave this child to me,' he grunted as he moved towards Benjamin.

'I shall slay you,' shouted the Zealot, juggling his knife from hand to hand.

'You shall try. Of that I have no possible doubt,' Erastus noted, sadly. One life ends here, Jew, and it shall not be mine.'

A heavily-booted foot lashed out and caught Benjamin on the point of his elbow, throwing the knife from his hand as he tried to bring it down on Erastus's trunk-like thigh.

With the speed and grace of a panther, the trainer was behind Benjamin and a thick length of cord was wrapped around the boy's neck.

Expertly, Erastus held the two ends of the cord in one giant hand and tightened them, as the boy's eyes bulged large and white in their sockets and his tongue drooped from his mouth, gagging and flapping like a stranded bird.

With his other hand Erastus grasped the back of Benjamin's head and, with a minimum of fuss, snapped his neck at the top of the vertebrae, killing him instantly before the garrotte could tighten and strangle the boy to a slow and painful death.

'I made it quick,' Erastus told the corpse as it dropped to the ground. 'Just as you made it quick for your victim. Be thankful that he did not linger or you a.s.suredly, would still be suffering.'

Marinus Topignius approached the dead boy 'He is a Zealot,' he told Erastus. 'He is known to us, as are his affiliations with the criminal Basellas.'

Erastus nodded, still staring at the body.

'Give him a decent burial,' he noted. 'And tell his mother that he died quickly and well.'

In the market-place rumour quickly reached Nikos that the killer had been dealt with before the body of the tax collector had even been removed and the blood cleaned up.

It was a relief to the little stall owner, for he did not appreciate the thought of the murderer returning in the night to silence the loudest witness to his crimes.

He looked again at young Daniel, still staring with a terrified fascination at the corpse of Luke Panathaikos which was even at this moment being picked up by a number of Roman auxiliaries and carried from the square. Nikos followed their progress, reflecting that Luke was now free of all earthly worries. Was he happier now, or in Hades suffering the opening stages of an eternity of torments? Or, as some believe, was Luke now merely dead and gone, his body to be food for worms, with no better (or worse) place awaiting his spirit?

Nikos would like to have debated the philosophical questions concerned with such matters, particularly as, to everyone still around, buying bread seemed to be the furthest thing from their minds. But, when he looked back to the place where Daniel had stood seconds before, the young Christian was gone, having slipped into the forum crowd like a thief into the night.

And thus life and death in Byzantium, to the neutral observer, continued much as it had always done.

People lived, slaves were treated as slaves and accepted their lot accordingly, the Romans ruled to the disgust of some and the acceptance of others. Some people got rich, some people remained poor. And life went on.

Until death ended it.

In the Greek quarter, as the savage heat of the day finally began to exhaust itself, Crispia.n.u.s Dolavia arrived at the home of the potter, Damien, and his wife, Dorothea, with a view to paying them further for information rendered.

He had been pleased with the last morsel that they had given him the revelation about the young Briton girl whose presence in the Greek quarter had been a mystery. Last evening, the home of the family with whom she was living had been raided and the girl was now under the protectorate of the forces of Rome.

Soon they would know who she was and from whence she came. And, more importantly, what she was doing in Byzantium.

So Damien and his wife had proved useful, as they had on many occasions past. And Crispia.n.u.s was grateful to them.