The young, lean, sinister face of his youthful dreams faded into a visage older and lined, tanned and leathered, but still lean and angular with fire-filled eyes. Those eyes studied him carefully, soothed only by the salve lathered on Marcus' wounds.

"Can you hear me, Marcus?" his watcher asked.

Marcus pretended grogginess while he studied the room. There was little opulence—a fine oak Roman desk, another round red carpet, a long couch facing the desk. But otherwise the stone walls were bleak even though painted white. The few windows were shuttered. Filling one corner was a dark wooden statue nearly touching the ceiling, but whose head was a bison while everything below was a man. Somewhere nearby was a deep, slowly rhythmic pumping sound.

Marcus realized too late he asked out loud, "What is this place?"

"My office." Quintillius waved away the ointment-bearing slaves. "I don't normally keep a bed here, but it offers the most privacy of anywhere in the town. It's also a little cooler, thanks to the stonework, and some other modifications we've made." He opened his hand to reveal Marcus' pocket watch. "Beautiful. We have clocks here, of course, but nothing quite this—small. I will have it back to you tonight."

The older man poured Saint Acacius wine for the younger; Marcus refused the goblet, so Quintillius simply set it down at the bedside table. "Maxentius must have been desperate," he told Marcus. "The Northmen raiding deeper inland, uprisings fueled by Constantinopolis even in Italia, Persia making noises on the borders again, and Caesar sends seven ships and one of his best commanders on this fool's errand. I always guessed we would drink as peers someday, Marcus, if one of us didn't fall first. But I never imagined it would be—quite like this."

"Your Northmen bring you all the news of the war, I see." Marcus forced his concentration on Quintillius' face. Older, yes; just shy of seventy years but still strong, self- possessed . . . intense. Just as he remembered from his childhood. The face of a hero and a traitor.

And he took stock of himself: His wounds burned but would heal. He felt incredibly tired, sluggish. Perhaps he was dehydrated; not difficult in this moisture-sucking heat.

Marcus looked away. "Where are my men?"

"Held in the barracks. They've received adequate food and water, and medical care. Our doctors here are as good as any in Rome. They had to become so, after some of the diseases we carried here to the natives nearly destroyed . . ." He shook his head. "I apologize for the way Hallbjorn's men forced them through the forest, but it was necessary to exhaust you—"

"So I didn't kill you once I saw you? Once I found out that one betrayal of the Empire wasn't enough for you, Quintillius? That now you've declared yourself Emperor— with Caesar's mortal enemies and bands of these barbarian Skraelings as your subjects?"

"They are no one's subjects, least of all mine." The Germanic chair leaned back with a slow, high-pitched creak. "Nor am I theirs. There is something about this land that makes you burn to be free." The chair thunked down to the plank floor. "This land, Marcus. Terra Ambrosia. You have heard the name before, haven't you? Your galleons didn't just happen to find themselves on the wrong side of the world by accident, did they?"

"I have heard," Marcus began carefully, "that the ships bound for Icelandia after the last Scandian truce did not perish in the sea or on the shores of Hibernia as we were told, but continued sailing west until they found another land. That the survivors were prisoners of the Northmen in a savage land beyond the ken of the Empire." He finally swung a glare at Quintillius. "Are there any Roman prisoners here, general? Are they Scandian prisoners, or yours? Or did you leave any Romans alive at all?"

Quintillius' eyes narrowed. "There are, in truth, few Romans here. But there are many survivors from the Icelandia expedition."

Marcus shifted his whole body toward Quintillius and his wounds seared him. The salve did its job well, but not quite well enough—yet—to attempt escape.

The younger Roman scowled with revelation and to hide his pain. "I see. It isn't enough for the great Gaius Julius Quintillius, commander of the Legion Apollinaris, to turn traitor. Everyone else you lead must be as well. How did you do it, general? Through promises of riches, or promises to butcher their families?"

"Butcher? I once loved a promising boy who wished to be a great commander. Now the Germans call him 'the Butcher of Vetera.' The Jews call him 'the Butcher of Aelia Capitolina.' I can only assume he believed these actions necessary to save Roman citizens and his men. Perhaps he was right. But in other circumstances, Marcus Varrus, to other eyes, you may be considered you a traitor as well."

"How dare you." Marcus glowered. Bad enough for a traitor to call him a betrayer; even worse for such a man to remind him of the most shameful sieges of his life, perhaps in recent Roman history. "I am nothing like you."

"That much is obvious." Quintillius shuffled toward the door as if literally advancing toward old age.

"How long am I to be your prisoner?"

"Whatever you choose to do here, I've ordered your men to remain unharmed. They are free to stay in Terra Ambrosia. If they decide otherwise, they may return with the Northmen for a prisoner exchange. But I will tell you now, Marcus, in case you have not already guessed—you yourself may never leave this place."

Marcus stiffened. "I expected as much."

"Hallbjorn's men will kill you if you attempt to board a Dragon ship. But you may walk about the town and the outlying province at your leisure—in truth I encourage you to do so. You'll learn much about us that way."

"A fine offer, Quintillius, when I can barely walk. When will your slaves return to rub more salve into the wounds your beloved Northmen gave me?"

Quintillius shook his head. "They are not slaves. There are no slaves in Terra Ambrosia." The door shut lightly behind him.