The sedan-chair weaved through alleys, was hurried across a broad thoroughfare, then came swaying downhill. They smelt the river.

"But you are not coming with me," she said.

"No."

The sedan-chair bumped as it was set down. He blew out the candle and they sat in the dark.

Then he got out. He paid the runners with gold. Volusia stood up. "Nothing like her at all?"

He shook his head.

She kissed his lips. "Goodbye. And thank you."

Omba helped her down to the boat. He watched with tears in his eyes. Volusia looked back from the deck, moonlight glowing on her pale robes.

Omba returned as the sail was hoisted. "What's wrong, Master?"

"Nothing's wrong, Omba. You could not have known." He watched the moonlit sail shrinking on the moonlit waters. "They are the clothes Marcia wore on her wedding day."

He stared until he could no longer see Volusia's sail, only moonlight.

"Redivivus," he said.

Heads You Lose by Simon Scarrow After Nero's death came the turbulent year of the Four Emperors in AD 69, from which Vespasian emerged victorious, establishing a new, albeit shortlived, dynasty. Vespasian came to glory because he was a superb general and he set his sights on Rome while on campaign in Palestine. He left his eldest son, Titus, in command, and Titus successfully completed the siege of Jerusalem in AD 70. This story is set during that siege. Simon Scarrow shot into the front rank of historical novelists with Under the Eagle (2000), the first in a series that charts the Roman conquest of Britain under Emperor Claudius.

Soon after sunrise the morning hate began. The heavy thud of catapult arms striking home against their packed leather buffers was accompanied by the sharper thwack of the bolt throwers. Overhead the sky was laced with the smudged black arcs of incendiary pots and punctuated with the dots of stones and the dashes of the heavy iron tipped spears flashing in much lower trajectories towards the old city.

Jerusalem would fall before the month was out. That was certain. Both sides knew it. The four legions of General Titus Flavius had battered their way into the city, taken the fortress of Antonia and had, at last, forced their way into the temple complex. But every stage had cost far too many lives, and now the exhausted legionaries were bracing themselves for the final assault on the old city; the rebels' last line of defence. Once that was breached, as it would be, then - Titus had promised his men - they could do as they wished when they burst in upon the starving remnants of Jerusalem's population. According to the intelligence gathered from those Jews who had managed to escape from the old city, conditions inside were appalling. Faction had turned on faction, and all had turned on anyone who even mentioned negotiating a surrender. The huge grain stores that had been gathered to see the defenders through the siege had gone up in smoke; deliberately fired by the leader of one sect to deprive his rivals of rations. Now, it was said, the long suffering bystanders were reduced to eating the bodies of their own children. The Romans sat outside this horror, biding their time, waiting for the day when they would enter and lay waste a city of walking skeletons.

Even this chance to slake their bloodlust and taste for booty had failed to rally the legions. They knew that they would pay a high price before this siege was over. The surviving factions of the Judaean rebels were a game lot, and knew that they could expect no mercy from the Romans. They would fight with the grim desperation of the already dead, each one determined to take as many legionaries as possible with them to whatever afterlife the Jews believed in.

No wonder the men were quiet, chief centurion Figulus reflected, as he gazed towards the thin pall of smoke hanging over the old city. His legion, the Tenth, was quartered amid the ruined streets surrounding the Antonia, most of which had been razed to form the artillery platform. The task of guarding the temple complex had been trusted to the First Cohort of the legion, Figulus's cohort. Each watch eighty men trailed up through the breach in the temple wall to replace their tired comrades who struggled down the rubble slope and collapsed in exhaustion in their goatskin tents. Under normal conditions those on night watch suffered from the most strained nerves as they struggled to hear what their eyes could not detect. But conditions were not normal. Far from it.

For three nights now something had been killing those men posted on the blackened walls of the inner court of the temple, which sheltered the sanctum of the most holy of holies. It was a large chamber, perhaps thirty feet square, which no man had entered since its construction. Until the legions arrived. Many had passed through the space with the usual soldierly indifference. In truth it was bare and smelled musty and the only thing inside it was a plain dark wooden chest sealed from the outside world. Despite the intense heat of the fire that had consumed much of the temple complex, the chamber in which the chest rested had been spared. One of his centurions, Quintus Marius, had forced the top but had only discovered a few dusty scrolls inside after he had hacked through the glassy sheen of the centuries' old wood. Marius had found an old priest guarding the chamber, and once the man had been disarmed, with contemptuous ease, the centurion had tried to force him to reveal what was in the chest.

"Bunch of sacred scripts, my arse!" Marius had snorted as he looked around the temple complex. "Place like this has to be worth a few denarii."

He looked at his interpreter, a weasily prisoner who had quickly volunteered his services to the Romans. "Josephus! Tell the old man to cough it up, now, or he's dog meat."

The Judaeans exchanged a few words in their gutteral tongue before the interpreter turned back. "He says there's nothing in there but scrolls. And no treasure. There's no treasure anywhere."

"We'll see about that!"

Marius had seized the old man and dragged him inside the chamber. For a while Figulus only heard the odd cry of pain, and then there was a short thin scream and it was all over. Marius came out, wiping the blood from his dagger on the old priest's head cloth.

"Any luck?"

"No, sir. Stubborn bastard just kept shaking his head, like, and uttering his gibberish. Got tired of it and knocked him on the head."

"Very well."

That had been several days ago, and any euphoria the men might have had about finding something valuable in the temple had long since dried up, like everything else in this dusty arid husk of a province. And now, to add to the chief centurion's problems, something was murdering his men. Figulus watched as the first legionaries from the night watch appeared in the breach, silhouetted against the dawn sky, as they began to pick their way down the slope towards the Cohort's tent lines. One of the figures was hurriedly picking his way down the rubble slope, making towards the chief centurion. Figulus felt his heart sink like a rock; there could only be one explanation for the man's hurry. He turned towards one of his orderlies.

"Send for Centurion Marius. Tell him to meet me up there. In the inner temple."

The body of the sentry, like all the others killed that night, and the previous two days, was missing its head. The man was lying forwards in a pool of his own blood. Most of it had dried to a dark, dim purple but patches still glistened and had drawn a noisy droning cloud of flies. Figulus knelt down by the man's shoulders and cocked his head to look at the ugly mass of muscle, artery and bone where the neck had been cut through.

"What the hell did that?" Marius asked, squatting beside his superior, but slightly further away from the body.

"Looks like a sword blow. Maybe several sword blows. Look there." Figulus pointed to a cut in the flesh that angled away from the edge of the skin. "Took our man a few attempts to get the head off."

"Our man?" Marius looked at him with raised eyebrows. "What makes you think a man did this? And all the others?" "What else would it be?"

Marius looked at him silently for a moment before speaking. "So how did he get past the sentries on the outer wall? How'd he get inside the inner walls, sir? It's not possible."

"Of course it's possible. It's a certainty. Some of those bloody sicarii must have found a way back into the temple," Figulus said quietly. "They're picking off our sentries."

"Then why take the heads, sir? What's the point of that?"

"Trophies," Figulus suggested, remembering when he had served as a raw recruit in the Second legion during the early years of the invasion of Britain. The Celtic warriors built their reputations on the number of enemy heads they managed to accumulate. "Or maybe there's some kind of bounty on offer."

"Or maybe it's just the work of some demon . . ." Marius muttered, casting a wary glance towards the chief centurion, a man who had little time for petty superstitions.

"Demon?"

"It's just what the lads are saying, sir."

"Is that right? A demon . . . What kind of bollocks is that?"

"What do you expect them to think, when we lose men night after night? And every one of them has lost his head?"

"Seems to be catching," Figulus sniffed with contempt. "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, especially from you, Marius. I've never had you down as being gullible. This is the work of a man. A flesh and blood man. There are no spooks involved. Got that? Make sure that the rest of our lads get the message. There'll be no more talk about demons."

"Yes, sir."

Despite his order, Figulus was well aware that the rumour of a demon preying on the sentries of the First Cohort was spreading through the rest of the legion like the plague. Everywhere he went the men fell silent and sullen at his approach and only continued talking in muted whispers after he had passed. Nor was the rumour any respecter of rank. As the sun dipped into the haze of smoke hanging over the city at the end of the day Figulus arrived at the legion's headquarters for the evening briefing. The legate, Flavius Silva, had occupied a wealthy merchant's house, abandoned long before the siege when its owner had been condemned to the galleys for an attempt on the life of a Roman official. Silva had made himself quite at home in the faded opulence and now conferred with his senior officers in a shuttered dining room overlooking the dead plants of the roof garden. Beyond the crumbling parapet of the garden, the house had a magnificent view towards the old town. In a more peaceful time the vista would have been fascinating and relaxing. But now Silva's staff used the roof garden as an observation point to signal the fall of shot to the prefect of artillery on the huge earthworks close to the Antonia. As the briefing started the observers signalled the last fall of shot, and then tied the signalling arms down for the night and returned to the camp, leaving the roof garden to the legate and his officers. Once the usual strength returns, supply levels and intelligence reports had been discussed the senior centurions and tribunes were dismissed. With a scraping of chairs, the officers eased themselves back from the trestle table and rose to leave.

"Figulus," the legate called out. "A word in private, if you please."

"Of course, sir."

Conscious that they were no longer wanted the other men hurried their departure and then the door to the stairway closed behind the last man, leaving Legate Silva and his chief centurion alone. The dying glow of the sun diffused the air with a faint red glow, burnishing the polished medallions on Figulus's harness.

"Sit yourself back down," the legate waved him to a chair on the opposite side of the table to his own. "Figulus, what's the situation up in the temple?"

"Situation?" Figulus shrugged. "We've no problems there. The walls are in good nick; no chance of any breakout through the temple complex."

Silva smiled. "That's not quite what I meant. One of my tribunes says he heard some of your men talking about a spate of bizarre killings up there."

"It's true, sir," Figulus nodded. "We've lost a number of sentries the last few nights."

"Lost? That's putting it mildly from what I'm told." "The circumstances are unusual," Figulus admitted. "But it's nothing more than a handful of the enemy trying to put the frighteners on my lads. Playing on their fears, like." "And you're not afraid?"

Figulus tightened his lips in an expression of contempt.

"I see," continued the legate with a smile. "You're not worried then. Trouble is, the men evidently are. Unless we put a stop to these deaths, and the unfortunate rumours, the men won't be able to press home the next assault with full hearts. That'll cost even more lives."

"Yes, sir."

Silva paused to look out over the city, slowly sinking into shadows as only the tallest roofs and towers glowed in the last rays of the setting sun.

"I want this matter resolved as soon as possible, Centurion. General Titus has ordered our legion to lead the assault on the old city. We will be successful. I will not tolerate any failure and I will not have my men going into battle with their heads filled with ridiculous fears about demons fighting on the enemy side. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, I want you to find out how the rebels are getting into the temple. Find their tunnel, or whatever it is, and seal it." "I've already looked, sir. Thoroughly."

"Then look again, thoroughly, and keep looking until you find it. Because if there is no way into the temple complex then it can only lend credence to these stories about a demon."

An unpleasant thought struck Figulus. "If there is no way in, and no demon, then whoever is killing my men might be on our side, sir."

"Maybe." Silva shrugged. "Just deal with it."

"I'll deal with it, sir," Figulus said firmly. "Tonight."

The smoke from the fires still burning in the old city obscured the stars and even though the moon had risen it only appeared as a wan yellow disc in the gloom. Figulus, wrapped in a black cloak, set out to make a stealthy inspection of the sentries posted on the walls of the inner court of the temple. He had considered taking a few good men with him, but more men meant more noise. The chief centurion wanted to avoid drawing any attention to himself as he observed his sentries. For the same reason he had not told anyone where he was going when he had slipped out of his tent earlier. Beneath the cloak he wore only his tunic, and sword belt, so that he could move easily and silently through the ruins. There was always the chance that he might be mistaken for the enemy in the darkness by one of the more alert of his men, but Figulus was counting on his experience and guile to remain invisible.

Picking his way up the rubble-strewn ramp Figulus looked up at the dark mass of the temple walls towering over him and a cool breath of air made him shiver. He wondered, for an instant, if there might be some supernatural forces at work after all. Then, chiding himself angrily for being such a weak-minded fool, Figulus pulled the wool folds of his cloak more tightly about him and crept forwards. The loose masonry and shattered tiles made tough going and he had to pick his way carefully to avoid slipping or turning his ankle. At length he reached the wide breach in the wall and entered the remains of the temple enclosure. Beyond the breach the vast outer courtyard stretched out in the darkness. The inner court lay ahead, and beyond, dimly visible, was the massive wall that looked down on the old town. Figulus stayed close to the wall, making good use of the shadows there as he crept towards the midpoint, directly opposite the walls of the inner court, where his men had been murdered.

The chief centurion waited a while until the moon was obscured by a thick pall of smoke, slowly billowing across the night sky. Then he ran across to the wall and entered through one of the small fissures that had been left as a result of the fire a few days earlier. The opening still carried the bitter reek of charred timber as Figulus crept through, carefully avoiding any of the wooden beams and their load of precariously balanced blackened stone. He paused a moment, heart beating quickly against his chest, but no one seemed to have noticed him so far. That was not a good sign, and tomorrow there would be a few harsh words to be said to those on the night watch. But, with the murders of their comrades firmly on their minds, they would be spending as much time looking into the shadows immediately around them as they did watching the approaches to the inner court. On the other hand, Figulus smiled, they would be less likely to be suborned by the usual monotony of guard duty. Sleeping on duty, according to the harsh laws of the legions, was punishable by death. Death meted out by wooden clubs in the hands of the soldier's mess mates. Thought of which made Figulus wonder about his earlier suspicion about the killer.

Slowly he made his way along the inside of the wall, watching the walkway for sign of his men, and whoever, or whatever, seemed to be stalking them. It was hard to spot most of the sentries, even though he had chosen their stations. Usually the men on duty would be moving around to keep themselves wide awake, but this night they were keeping to the shadows, motionless and alert as they no longer had the luxury of knowing the direction from which any danger would emerge. Even so, the chief centurion was only challenged once, and the exchange of challenge and password was carried out in low voices that would not carry far. After a few hours his eyes were aching from the strain and he decided to find somewhere to rest a while.

As the trumpets down in the camp sounded the middle of the watch, Figulus sat down in the remains of a small portico in the centre of the inner court. Around him, in the darkness, were the four sentries tasked with keeping watch. For the moment they were still alive. Figulus wondered if he had been wasting his time, and yearned for the basic comfort of his camp bed and a decent blanket. His cloak provided poor shelter from the cold night and a numbing chill was slowly working its way into his joints. Ten years ago this would not have bothered him and Figulus smiled grimly at yet another sign of his aging. But he dare not get up and walk the stiffness off.

A sharp cry snapped him out of his self-absorption. Though the sound was gone in an instant, Figulus was sure that it had been human, and close at hand. Throwing back his cape he quickly drew his sword and ran in the direction the sound had come from. There was a flight of blackened stairs, almost invisible in the darkness, and he sprinted up them, leaping three steps at a time, until he reached the parapet. Immediately to his left the walkway had collapsed and Figulus turned to run in the other direction. Thick clouds obscured the moon and only the faintest silvery shimmer showed that it was there at all. Ahead, in the gloom, he saw a darker mass; a man sprawled on the ground and a figure looming over.

Man or demon, there was no sense in taking it on alone. "To me!" Figulus shouted. "Sentries, to me!"

The figure snapped upright at the sound of his voice. Figulus saw the dim line of a legionary short sword and then the man dropped a small bundle, turned and ran off into the darkness. The chief centurion ran after him, but stumbled over the body and crashed down on his knee. A red-hot stab of pain shot up his leg. He tried to rise, but the joint gave out and with a shouted curse of agony and frustration he slumped down beside the body. The sentry was quite dead, and his head, dropped by the fleeing attacker, lay on one ear, eyes wide open in shock as blood dribbled from contorted lips. There were shouts in the darkness as the other sentries hurried towards Figulus. The chief centurion was struck by a sudden fear that they might miss him in the darkness, and that the killer might return.

"Get up here! Up here! Smartly does it, lads!"

Close by there was the grating crunch of iron studded boots as the sentries clambered up the stairs and ran along the parapet. Dim forms thickened into the substantial shapes of legionaries and Figulus at last let himself relax the grip on his sword handle.

"Shit . . ." muttered one of the sentries when they reached the chief centurion and their dead comrade. "What the fuck's happened here?"

The three sentries were young, nervous and horrified. Their chests heaved with the exertion of sprinting from their posts, and they darted anxious glances into the darkness that wrapped itself about them.

"Did you see it, sir?"

"It?" Figulus looked up.

"The demon, sir. Did you see it?"

"At least we know it's not some kind of devil," Figulus said to Legate Silva, gritting his teeth as the legion's surgeon tightened the dressing around his knee. With neat movements of his fingers the surgeon tied the two ends of cloth together, and then eased himself back on his heels and stood up.

"Nasty gash, that. Keep your weight off the knee for a few days and get the dressing changed dawn and dusk. Should mend soon enough, sir."

"Keep my weight off it?" Figulus frowned. "Are you mad? I'm a bloody chief centurion, not some pampered tax-collector."

"I'm sure the empire will survive a few days without your support, sir," the surgeon smiled humourlessly.

"Look here . . ."

"He's right, Figulus," the legate intervened. "I need you in a fit state when we launch the final assault on the old town."

"What about the killer?"

"You've probably scared him off. We'll double the sentries. That should be the end of it, now we know what we're dealing with. We can have an investigation after the city falls. Now, at least, we know it's one of our own. The Jews haven't found a way through our lines. That's a comfort."

"Not to those lads of mine who died," Figulus replied quietly. "It'd be bad enough if they'd been killed by the enemy. It's a shitty way to die, murdered by someone on your own side. Murdered and mutilated. And what for? That's what I want to know . . . What I need to know."

"We'll catch him." The legate nodded sympathetically. "As soon as there's time."

"Unless he covers his tracks in the time that we allow him."

"Maybe. But that can't be helped," Silva concluded firmly. "Now, you rest that knee, Centurion. That's an order."

Figulus nodded reluctantly, and the legate, satisfied that he had made his point, turned and left the dressing station. Silva marched down the edge of the parade-ground, a former market square that had been cleared of rubble, and Figulus watched him until the legate turned up a side street and disappeared from view. Then he swung his legs over the side of the trestle bed and flexed his knee. It was painful, but would not prevent him walking. He had endured worse. The surgeon eyed him warily.

"Hope you're going to obey orders."

"I'll do what I must," Figulus replied through clenched teeth as a jet of pain seared up his thigh. "Now mind your bloody business."

The surgeon shrugged. "Suit yourself, sir."

"I will. Now piss off."

"Yes, sir!"

Figulus stayed seated and watched a century drilling on the parade ground. No matter what duty the legion was engaged with, whether building roads or assaulting enemy fortresses, there was always drilling. Endless repetition of barked commands and instant responses. The men became as cogs in a giant machine, each one interlocked with his companions as they all worked in smooth harmony. There was nothing quite like it on this earth, Figulus decided. A legionary obeyed without thought, instinctively and absolutely, with no regard to the danger. That was the real secret of the legions' success. The enemy might have a bigger build, like those bloody Britons Figulus had fought so many years ago. The enemy might even be more fearless and adept with weapons, but the iron efficiency of the legions was a rock on which the greatest of Neptune's waves would only be dashed.

The chief centurion smiled at the bathetic turn of thought, then his mind quickly turned back to recent events. There was little doubt that the killer was Roman. But that knowledge only released a torrent of further questions. Why would a Roman kill his comrades? Why would he take their heads? What would he do with them? Above all, how could he achieve this? One sentry might be surprised, but four each night? Such a killer would have to possess superhuman stealth.

A screaming tirade of abuse from the parade ground drew the chief centurion's mind away from such troubled thoughts. He looked over the dusty ground to where the men of the century stood to attention as their commander tore into a hapless legionary.

"You disgusting little turd!" the centurion screamed into the man's face. "You make me puke! You dare come onto my parade ground with one of your fucking boots undone? You worthless piece of shit, drop your kit and get it tied up before I rip your dick off and beat you to death with it!"