Marcus suddenly realized that despite the weight of Hallbjorn's Northern accent, his Latin was flawlessly polished. The Roman's dry throat swallowed hard, then he sipped. The wine was as smooth and sweet and cool as anything he'd tasted from Gallia.

"I prefer mead. You like it?" Hallbjorn's gaze was a lion over a wounded antelope.

Marcus refused to answer, but realized he was taking a long draught when it was halfway down. The Northman laughed and drank his own goblet in one short swig.

"Best vintner in Terra Ambrosia," Hallbjorn told him. "The Monastery of Saint Acacius. Fussy monks the lot of them, but they craft Loki's own magic with grapes."

Marcus choked.

Hallbjorn grunted. "I've never met a Roman who couldn't handle his wine."

"Where did you say this came from?"

"The fussy monks at SaintÑ"

"No, you said . . . Terra Ambrosia?"

Hallbjorn studied the commander through a crimson brow. "I thought you were looking for Terra Ambrosia, Roman. The Emperor knew you were coming andÑasked us, with some incentives, to bring you directly to him."

"Maxentius Caesar would—"

The Northman spit on the planks. "Not that decrepit pissbag! The emperor of Terra Ambrosia. Gaius Julius Quintillius. If not for his request, we would have slaughtered all you Romans when you attacked my ships."

A lifetime of wondering washed away in a flash of anger. "The traitor is still alive . . . !"

Hallbjorn slammed down his goblet and rose. The top of his head brushed the ceiling. Marcus hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud, and it took all his strength to not cower.

"Sleep here, Trogia of the Fifteenth Legion"Ñhe sneeredÑ "the Legion Apollinaris. Walk about the decks and visit with your men if you choose. If you try escaping or retaking your weapons, though, the sharks will feast on your menÑafter I cut them open to madden the sharks with blood-hungerÑand then I'll drink wine from your skull and sup the blood of what remains." He slammed the door behind him.

Marcus took to the deck to gulp down much needed air. The salty wind made him thirsty, but his captors never withheld fresh water. Nor wine, nor food. During the next week he was atop more than with confused men, whom he reassured with fighting platitudes he was certain were lies. He said nothing about the cabin filled with Roman luxuries.

The Dragon ships sailedÑand sailed, and sailed. But not toward the sunrise and Rome, or north to skirt the icy islands on their way back to Scandia. South.

The coastline gradually changed from high cliffs topped with pine to gentler slopes crowned by magnificent oaks, to flat bright beaches rivaling the beauty of anything on the Mediterranean coast of Iberia, where stood Marcus' family villa before the Northmen burned it. The land turned incredibly green and the air so humid it held nearly as much water as the sea. The sky was a gorgeous, piercingly bright summer blue that hosted almost no clouds.

One day, Marcus saw natives suddenly line the shore and wave at Hallbjorn's Dragon sail. They were copper-skinned and scarcely clad and carrying long-barrelled Roman projectii with pouches at their hips to carry powder and iron balls, Marcus noticed with alarm. Hallbjorn beached the ships to resupply. Marcus was forbidden to go ashore but caught enough of the natives' speech to realize they spoke Latin with a touch of Swede. His captors called them Skraelings. Their name for themselves sounded like Al-gone-kee-in. Then the ships continued their trek south, leaving Marcus even more unsettled than before.

A few more days, and he finally saw what was left of the Roman colony.

Marcus was on deck when the coastline suddenly cleaved in two. Hallbjorn's flagship rounded the peninsula and swung due north, past more beaches and swamps, more cheerfully waving Skraelings, and finally settling on the remains of an old but obvious disaster.

The rigidly straight lines of a Roman camp were apparent even as little more than charcoal, their eastern end now washing out into the tide of this bay that mimicked the ocean. One could still trace the outlines of the via prima straight up the center, flanked by the castra's barracks and hospital. Outside the stumps of palisades were burned stone foundations that may have been houses.

The Northmen ordered a handful of Marcus' men ashore. The sand broiled though his thick sandals and a swarming cloud of bugs intent on draining his blood bite by bite engulfed him. He forced himself to not swat at them to hide, at least a little, how truly uncomfortable he was.

Marcus was no seamanÑhis life was built on the foundations of the infantry. His family had produced infantry commanders since the earliest days of the Caesars, even after his grandfather became Caesar himself. A few weeks on a Roman galleon was not enough to get his sea legs, and certainly not a week on a Dragon ship. Back on land, though, he felt stronger, more in control, more the Roman commander. "What about the rest of my men?" he demanded of Hallbjorn.

"That depends on the Emperor's word, Trogia. This is his land by treaty. He paid us well to give you safe passage, but also mentioned to kill you if you give back any trouble. I may anyway, to pay for the blood of my men you Romans killed. Now move that way"ÑHallbjorn pointed beyond the beach edgeÑ"and think about sharks eating your men and your skull being my next goblet."

He shoved Marcus into a tiny path threading into the forest that barely allowed the movement of animals, much less one- hundred chain-mailed Northmen and a dozen Romans. Marcus stepped forward without another word, blinking against the unending waves of bugs trying to invade his eyes.

Marcus would later discover that he had only trudged twenty- two miles through a forest that dripped sweat all around him, but he might have sworn he'd marched half a continent.

The hike was windless, almost airless, eating the day all the way through into night. Exhausted, constantly stumbling farther into the dark forest tunnel, Marcus ultimately saw a great light ahead until it was all he saw, all he followed. Its halo glowed above the treetops and his wild thoughts were certain it announced his approaching martyrdom. A beheading at the hands of the NorthmenÑwho laughed and made obscene jokes and never showed a sign of fatigue all the way up the sodden, treacherous trailÑawaited him at the end, Marcus knew.

At the opening of a vast clearing the City of God appeared, so glowingly bright and beautiful Marcus wanted to surrender to his tears. Figures moved silently about the great Gate in the center andÑthe Gate creaked open.

An Archangel approached in flowing white withÑMarcus noticed in a haze of confusionÑnot gold trim as depicted in the frescoes of the great churches but the imperial purple stripe. His thoughts collapsed into a jumble of real and imaginary visions dating to childhood and yesterday. Gaius Quintillius, beloved friend, the traitor. Lucifer, the Adversary. Sinners and the saved. Gates of Heaven, Gates of Hell. In my house there are many mansions, their golden houses smashing the mansions and palaces clustered for centuries across the Palatine Hill in Rome, crumbling the Empire under the weight of eternity. All transformed clumsily into a single great mosaic, broken and brittle pieces in Marcus' mind slapped together across a cold stone floor, only to be washed clean by ocean surf and crunched under high laced boots.

"Bring him straight to my house," a voice slipped deftly into his dream. "Along with bottles of the monks' masterpieces. He won't put up any resistance tonight." Sweet manna filled Marcus' mouth . . . ambrosia, he thought distantly, the honeyed wine of the old gods . . . and he fell into a dreamless slumber while Lucifer carried him through the gate and the stars jarred back and forth overhead, unable to decide which way to fly.