Timonides froze, and his breakfast of eggplant and garlic rose to the back of his throat.
Not again ...
He wanted to cry out against the injustice of life. Destined forever to read the stars for other people, Timonides the astrologer, who had been abandoned on a trash heap as an infant, had hoped that someday the gods would reveal to their humble servant the stars of his own birth. To this end Timonides had tried to keep his astrological practice pure.
But the gods were perverse. They toyed with him, tormented him. Gave him glimmers of hope only to dash them.
The girl was in Babylon.
There was no doubt about it. Sebastianus's horoscope had changed. The two lovers were about to cross paths again.
And so once more, despite oaths to the contrary, Timonides must falsify another reading. He could not allow Ulrika to join the caravan. Nestor had behaved himself during the journey from Antioch and during their stay in Babylon. But with Ulrika in his company once again, the boy would certainly commit another crime to please her.
Even if it meant sending his own immortal soul to Hell, Timonides had to protect his son.
"Master," he called, rising from his table. "I have found her at last. The stars have revealed Ulrika's location."
Sebastianus turned such a hopeful smile to him that Timonides feared the eggplant was going to come all the way up. Swallowing back his bile, he said, "She is in Jerusalem. She is with her mother and family."
The smile turned to a frown. "Are you sure?"
"The stars do not lie, master. Even if the girl were to leave Jerusalem today, she would not reach Babylon for weeks. But master, a journey does not lie in her future. She is staying in Jerusalem."
It pierced the old man's heart to see such disappointment on Sebastianus's face. He loved young Gallus almost as much as he loved Nestor. Cursing his life, cursing the parents who had abandoned him on a trash heap, cursing Babylon and the gods and even the stars, Timonides said, "There is something else. The comet last night, and the falling star against Mars, indicate that we must leave at once. We cannot stay another day in this city. It is crucial, master."
"But the Summer Solstice is days away!"
"Master, the worst calamity will befall this caravan if we delay. Today is the most propitious day for departure. The gods have made themselves clear."
With a scowl, Sebastianus weighed his decision.
He had spent his time in Babylon collecting as much information as he could about China. Precious little was to be had. Goods from that distant land never came directly to this part of the world, but passed through a series of middlemen. A bolt of Chinese silk might cross the hands of twenty traders before it reached the Babylonian market. It was the same with information. Place names, in particular, did not travel well, and so each man he spoke to, every map he consulted, had different names for cities and geographical features.
One, however, seemed more consistent. The city where China's emperor was throned. Sebastianus had a name at last, an identifiable goal to set before himself each dawn and sunset, keeping it in his mind like a fixed star.
"Very well," he said reluctantly. "Where is Primo? Timonides, send someone into the city to find him."
"Yes yes, master," Timonides said with relief. Later, in the next city or valley or mountain, when they were far enough away from the threat of Ulrika's presence, he would make sacrifice to as many gods as he could, offer penance and self-denial, dedicate himself to fasting and celibacy if he must—Timonides would do everything in his power to get himself back into the good graces of the Divine.
"Make certain Primo comes back at once," Sebastianus said, and then he turned and strode into his tent, his mind already composing the letter he was going to write to Ulrika and leave in the care of the Caravan Master.
ACROSS THE RIVER IN the Western City, in the shadow of the Temple of Shamash, Primo the retired legionary, Chief Steward of the Gallus villa in Rome but now second in command of his master's caravan to China, lay back as a whore massaged his thick penis. His thoughts were not upon the woman and her carnal ministrations but upon the long journey he and his specially trained men were about to take. And he mentally reviewed the things he was to see to that day: provisions, weapons, the duties roster.
The prostitute straddled him without a word. Those were always his instructions: "Don't speak." Primo could only enjoy a woman if she was nameless—and even then it wasn't really enjoyment, more of a need.
Letting the prostitute do all the work, the veteran of military campaigns and a hard life decided that his crack archer, a Bithynian named Zipoites, would be best for gathering intelligence along the journey—he was solidly built enough to look fat under merchant's robes, no one would suspect his strength or that he was a trained fighter. Yes, Zipoites would be the one to send ahead to settlements along the road, to visit taverns and talk with the local men. Zipoites could hold his wine where other men's tongues loosened. He was adept at getting information out of—
"Ungh." Primo gave a cry as he climaxed, and then he lay motionless for a few moments while the whore wordlessly removed herself from the bed and slipped into a robe to cover her nakedness. Outside, the city of Babylon bustled beneath its usual din as citizens hurried to and fro in the narrow streets, their minds concentrated upon their own immediate worries, fears, hopes, and yearnings. They were preparing for the coming week of summer solstice celebrations, which also meant they were preparing for a season of heat and dust. Many were unemployed, and so their thoughts were on food and the gods.
But Primo didn't care about this city or its people. His job was to see that his master, Sebastianus Gallus, reached China safely and that their diplomatic missions to the East were a success.
And there was the secret job, commanded by Nero Caesar himself ...
As he slipped back into his clothes—the old soldier's costume of white tunic, leather breastplate, military sandals laced to the knee—Primo spat on the floor. He wished he had not been recruited into Nero's spy-ring. He would obey, of course. His loyalty might be to his employer and the man who had saved him from a life of begging in the streets, but a greater duty compelled him, as a soldier, to uphold his allegiance to Emperor and Empire. Even if it meant betraying the man he loved.
As he left, he reached into the leather pouch at his waist in which he carried money and his lucky talisman—a bronze arrowhead that had been dug out of his chest by a military surgeon who had declared Primo the luckiest man on earth, as the German arrow had missed his heart by a breath. Primo pulled out a coin and threw it down. It had a Caesar on it, so the whore knew it was good. Primo didn't look at her face. They never looked at his.
As Primo walked along the Street of Harlots, he realized that, more and more of late, he was coming away from his paid women with diminished feelings of satisfaction. Physically, they satisfied him. Primo had no difficulty getting erect or coming to orgasm. But, increasingly, he was leaving whorehouses with little gratification.
And he found himself thinking of a woman he had met long ago, the one woman in his life to whom he had given his heart.