Cold winter wind whipped the hair across Cassandra's face as she followed the old track through the glen. Ice rimmed the pool at the base of the chattering waterfall, and more ice crunched under her boots. She stopped at the pile of jumbled stones at the top of the small hill.
     Ramirez was buried here.
     Cassandra crouched by one of the larger stones and took a candle from her coat pocket, then set it on the ground and lit it. "For you," she said, cupping her hands around the flame as she started on the litany of his names, "Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Lucius Gartoni, Xanthos, Tak-Ne."
     He had had many other names, but those were the ones she remembered him by. Of course, when she had first met him twenty-five centuries ago, she had not called him by any of those names.
     She had called him Kyrios--Master.
 
 
 

     "I want my ship to sail tomorrow morning," Xanthos said to Zarex the harbor-master. "The pottery is expected in Syracuse soon."
     "Business is good for you, eh?" Zarex asked.
     "Very good," Xanthos said. "The best I've seen in years." Xanthos had seen a lot of years. He had been born in Egypt over four centuries ago.
     "It's the new fashion that does it," Zarex commented. "The red figures on black, instead of black on red. Good for you, I know, but to me, a pot's a pot." He grinned, revealing a few brown teeth. "And it's only worth something if it has wine in it."
     Xanthos laughed and nodded. "True enough."
     Zarex waved to the slave-driver to begin, and the two men watched as the ship was readied for the trip.
     "Hoya!" the slave-driver called, and with creaks from the ship and groans from the long lines of harnessed slaves, the ship moved slowly from the water and onto the log rollers on the stone-paved road. The slaves started walking, dragging the ship behind them on the half-day journey across the isthmus to Corinth's second port of Kenchrea.
     "It's too bad Periander's idea for a canal didn't work," Xanthos said. "It would be faster to just pull the boat through water." It was his turn to grin at the harbor-master. "And cheaper."
     Zarex shook his head and waggled his finger. "Then business wouldn't be so good for me. You know you could have your ship sail around the Peloponnesian peninsula instead."
     "And add ten days to the trip?" Xanthos shook his head. "No, the fee is worth it. I'll make it up in profits in Syracuse. Good day to you!" he called, then walked through the narrow cobble-stoned streets of the small port of Lechaion, heading for his home in the city of Corinth. The streets were nearly deserted now in the heat of the day; most people were inside eating their midday meal. Not a bad idea, he was hungry himself.
     He slowed as he passed the Dancing Goat tavern at the edge of town, but not for food. He knew by the tightness in his gut that another Immortal was nearby. Today was the festival of Ceres, the goddess of grain, as well as a regular market-day. Several slave-merchants had set up their tents in the field in anticipation of the increased activity. Xanthos strolled over, and the sense of an Immortal grew stronger as he neared the second set of pens.
     The slave-merchant hurried over and bowed low. "My name is Chremes, sir. I have a fine selection today. Two boys, young and biddable. Two strong men."
     "Are the men potters?" Xanthos asked. He had thirty-two men in his workshops now, some his own slaves, some rented slaves, a few freedmen, but he could use more.
     "No, I am sorry, sir, they are unskilled. Good for field work, or the quarries." Chremes hurried on, anxious not to lose a sale. "But the women are skilled. The tall one is a weaver, and the other three are musicians, suitable for an evening's entertainment at a symposium or party."
     Xanthos nodded to him absently and continued to scrutinize the slaves. They all stood silently, naked and dusty, heads down, but one of them was an Immortal, and Xanthos was going to find out which one. "I will be in the tent," Xanthos told the merchant. "Bring the slaves to me there, one by one."
     Chremes blinked. "One by one? All of them?"
     "Yes," Xanthos said impatiently, wondering if the man were deaf.
     "But ... do you have no preference? I mean ..." At Xanthos's glare, Chremes bowed again. "Of course, sir. Would you prefer one of the boys first? Or a woman?"
     Xanthos's irritation turned to amusement, and he laughed and clapped Chremes on the back. "I'm not going to use them all, merchant! I'm just tired and hot, and I want to sit in the shade while I examine them."
     Chremes laughed in nervous relief and bowed again, then escorted him to the tent and saw him seated comfortably on a folding stool. Xanthos laid his katana across his lap. His father-in-law Masamune-sama had given him the sword over seventy years ago, when he had lived in Ni-Hon, the island-nation far to the east, a land of shimmering rice paddies and towering mountains.
     Chremes brought the boys and the men first, but Xanthos waved them all away. Then the tall woman came into the tent, and Xanthos sat up straighter on the stool, resting his hand near the hilt of his katana. He had found the Immortal.
     Xanthos caught one flashing glance from her before she dropped her gaze and came to stand in front of him. Her skin was clean, probably scrubbed this morning to make her presentable for the customers, but he caught whiffs of sweat and onion from her, and the definite odor of sex. She had been in this tent earlier today, then, used by a prospective buyer and found wanting. She stood passively, her hands at her sides, staring at the floor, to all appearances well-trained and docile. Xanthos knew better.
     "Leave," he ordered Chremes, and the slave-merchant backed away, then shut the tent flap behind him.
     Xanthos took his time and looked her over, evaluating her as a possible opponent. Or as a possible bedpartner. Her auburn hair had been cropped close around her head, the tell-tale sign of a female slave, and her pubic area shaved. The woman was thin, but with a long leanness and strength to her that reminded him of a racing horse. She was too healthy and muscular to have been in the slave-pens very long. The curves of her haunches were well-defined, but padded in a pleasing, feminine way. Her breasts were definitely feminine, too, full and nicely rounded, large nipples. Her skin gleamed in the dim light of the tent. Xanthos didn't want to have to use his weapon on this one. Not his katana, that is.
     "What is your name?" he asked.
     "Cassia."
     A Hellenistic name, but probably not her real one. She didn't look like a Hellene anyway; she was too tall. She looked more like a Thracian or a Kelta, but then all Immortals were foundlings. She could have been raised anywhere. Her voice was low and a little throaty, and Xanthos wanted to hear it again. "How long have you been a slave?"
     "One month. Phoenicians captured the ship I was on."
     He nodded; Phoenicians were known for that sort of thing. "You were traveling by yourself?" he inquired.
     "I had no brother, or father, or husband, or son to protect me," she answered evenly. "As you know."
     Of course he knew. Immortals could not have children, and they outlived their families. "No servants?"
     Her gaze started at his gilded leather sandals, went to the embroidery on the hem of his tunic, flicked over the rings on his hands, and ended at his carefully arranged and pomaded hair. "Not all Immortals are rich."
     Xanthos knew that, too. He had become wealthy again only recently; a war had destroyed his holdings in Babylon one hundred seventy-five years ago. He had been left with nothing, and he had been left alone. En-thalat, his second wife, had been killed in that war, after she had been captured and raped. Probably much like this woman.
     "Look at me," he commanded, and she raised her head a trifle and glanced at him briefly. "Look at me," he said more softly, and this time she lifted her head and stared. Her green eyes were cool and assessing, watchful and mocking over high cheekbones. Xanthos stared back, reminded of his boyhood in Egypt, when a sacred cat at the Temple of Maat had stared at him in just this way. He blinked and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. Her eyes went to the weapon, then back to his face.
     "How much do you cost?" Xanthos asked.
     "He's asking five minae, but he'll go down to four. Three and three-quarters if you push him. He paid two and a half for me."
     Xanthos studied her again. She had obviously been a slave before, to be so calm about it. She looked to be about thirty, but that meant nothing. He had been forty-eight when a cart had run him down and killed him, and he would always look forty-eight. "Do you want me to buy you?" he asked. Cassia shrugged. "I could be buying you for your head," Xanthos said, probing for some reaction. "Or for your body."
     She actually smiled at him. "If you wanted my head, you would have bought me by now. As for my body ..." She tilted her head to one side and considered him. "You are a man who prefers willing and enthusiastic bedpartners."
     She was right about that. He had never forced a woman. He did not need to. "And you would not be willing," he observed. "Or enthusiastic."
     The mocking eyes went cold. "No."
     Xanthos hid his smile from her. There were ways to entice a woman into bed, and he knew them all. And he had time. She would come to him eventually.
     Cassia added, "Besides, you already have a willing and enthusiastic bedpartner in your home. Or two." She smiled again, a knowing smile. "Or even three."
     His inner smile disappeared. He kept two slave-girls for that, and he had been thinking of buying a third. No, Cassia definitely wasn't a young one. She knew too much. "How old are you?" he demanded.
     "Old enough not to answer that question."
     A good answer, but he knew other ways to find out. "Chremes said you were a skilled weaver. What else are you skilled at?"
     Another small shrug, and a small smile. "Many things."
     "Spinning? Cooking?"
     She nodded.
     "Healing? Gardening?"
     Another nod.
     "Painting? Singing? Dancing?"
     She nodded yes to them all.
     Xanthos leaned back slightly on the stool. Almost all women could cook, garden, spin, and weave, to some extent. Many learned either painting, or music and dance, and quite a few women were healers. But to be skilled in all those areas, she must be at least two centuries old. If she were telling the truth, that is, and he could determine that easily enough. There was still one area he had not yet mentioned. "Fighting?"
     Cassia glanced once at the katana, still on his lap, then looked him in the eyes. "I'm still alive," she said simply.
     "But you are weaponless," he pointed out, then allowed his gaze to linger on her naked body. "And a slave."
     She did not seem to care. "Have you never been a slave?"
     "Once," Xanthos said. The army he had been in had been defeated, and Xanthos had spent ten years on a farm, chained to a log he had to drag or carry with him everywhere. He had not enjoyed the experience.
     "Only once," she murmured, then looked him up and down in the same way he had just done to her. "You are either very young, or very lucky."
     Xanthos increased his estimate of her age by another century and decided she wasn't a Hellene, even with a Hellenistic name and no accent. No Hellene woman would be so bold, except maybe a Spartan. He stood abruptly, his katana in his hand, and she backed away, not hastily or in fear, but in simple precaution.
     "I ask you again, do you want me to buy you?" he said. He had met very few female Immortals, and he didn't want her killed by the next Immortal who happened on her when she was weaponless. That would be a waste. "You could work in my house."
     "Doing what?" she asked.
     "Why, all the things you are skilled at," Xanthos said, smiling. "Except fighting, of course."
     "You're not worried that I'll take your head?"
     This time, Xanthos tilted his head and considered her. "You are a woman who prefers not to take heads," he stated. He was almost positive that was true, and he wasn't afraid of her. The longest blade she would be able to get was the sheep-shearing knife, and nothing could withstand his katana. And she was only a woman.
     Cassia had one more question. "Do you have a wife?"
     "No." He would never marry again.
     "Then yes, I want you to buy me." She bowed her head once more, becoming the perfect image of the submissive slave, then murmured, "Kyrios."
     Xanthos suddenly realized she had never even asked him his name.

~~~~~

     Cassandra kept her head down as she walked behind her new master up the hill to the city of Corinth. She was pleased with the arrangement. She could live and work in this man's household, hidden from other Immortals. If she were wounded somehow, she would not have to explain to her new master why she healed, and he would not force her to his bed. This man had too much pride in his own abilities to resort to that. But she knew he would eventually suggest she join him. They always did.
     She would deal with that when it happened. She might even be able to use the Voice, the hypnotic power of persuasion she had learned when she had been a priestess at the Temple of Artemis seven centuries ago. Cassandra almost never used the Voice; it was too dangerous. She could not use it in public; people asked questions. It was not much use in escaping slavery, either, for too many people noticed missing slaves, and even if she did get away from her master, no one would help an escaped slave, and her recently-cropped hair made her status obvious. If she were caught, the punishment for escape almost always involved beatings-or branding or crucifixion or worse-and healing in public was bound to bring charges of sorcery or demonic possession.
     And if she were not a slave, what could she be? She was a woman with no money, a foreigner with no kin or tribe. She had lived among the Hellenes before; their women did not even go to the markets to buy food. A woman needed to have a male employee or relative to conduct business for her. Or a pimp. Cassandra did not want to do that. Not again. Thankfully, the whore-master who had tried her out earlier today at the slave-market had decided she was too expensive to be one of his pornai, the whores who walked the streets and catered to sailors.
     At least this master was not physically repulsive. As they climbed the hill to the city of Corinth, she looked him over more carefully, seeing the broadness of shoulders, the outlines of firm muscles in his calves. He was strong and healthy, even though he looked to be nearly fifty, with gray streaks in his dark hair and clipped beard, and fine crinkling lines about his brown eyes. His frame was tall and solid, even with the extra flesh around his middle. She suspected he enjoyed the pleasures of the table as much as he enjoyed the pleasures of the bed. A lusty man, this one, who laughed easily and often, and probably angered easily, too. She would be careful.
     Dust from the road floated about them, coating their legs and feet. At least she wasn't naked anymore. He had bought her sandals and a peplos, a simple brown tunic that came halfway down her thighs. Nudity was a casual thing among these people, and slaves often went naked in the homes, but men didn't like others to look at their property.
     Finally, they reached his home, a two-story dwelling of white stone. The porter, an elderly man with a short gray beard, came out from a small cubicle when they reached the entrance. "Greetings, Lord Xanthos." The old man looked at her, but said nothing more.
     Cassandra stared at the brightly colored tiles on the floor of the stoa, the outside porch of the house. Women did not look at men.
     "Theron," Xanthos said in return. "Any business today?"
     "The ship-builder Prolox came by this morning, to discuss your new ship, and the painters' Guild Master would like to see you tomorrow," Theron said, and at his master's nod, the old man returned to the cubicle.
     In the central courtyard, three slaves waited for their master underneath the shade of a fig tree: a short older woman dressed in a long gray wool chiton, obviously the housekeeper, and a pair of younger dark-haired women in revealing gauze peplos, just as obviously the two willing bedpartners. All three slaves were staring at her-the housekeeper evaluating, the bedpartners suspicious.
     "Kyrios," the older woman said, bowing low. "Welcome to your home."
     "Doria," Xanthos acknowledged with a smile, then said, "This one is called Cassia. She is a weaver. See that she is cleaned and fed, then bring her to me in the hall."
     "Yes, lord," Doria said, bowing again as Xanthos went through the columned porch and into the hall. Doria spoke briskly to the bedpartners. "Iola, Clesthes, the master is hungry and thirsty. Attend him."
     Iola, the shorter plumper one, flashed a small smile of vindictive triumph at Cassandra, then picked up a jar of wine and sauntered after her master, her hips swinging. Clesthes followed more sedately, carrying a plate of figs, goatmilk cheese, and bread.
     Cassandra kept her head down, already planning. She might have to get rid of Iola. For now, she followed Doria into the kitchen, eager to clean herself, and to eat.

     One month later, Cassandra made her move. Xanthos called her into the hall after his evening meal, as he sometimes did when no guests were present, and he wished for conversation or music. He lay on his side on the dining couch, while Cassandra sat on a small stool and played for him on the seven-stringed lyre.
     She was retuning the lyre when she casually remarked, "The women in the household are excited about the festival of Hera, but saddened, too."
     "How so?" asked Xanthos, leaning on one elbow as he set his goblet of wine on the three-legged table in front of him.
     "Hera is the goddess of marriage, and children." Cassandra plucked a string, then bent industriously to her task. "Doria was speaking of how quiet this household is, with no children in it. Iola has said she will make a special sacrifice to Hera, asking the goddess to make her fruitful." She strummed again, a discordant note among a minor chord, then looked at Xanthos. "She wishes to bear a child." Cassandra spoke with a completely clear conscience; this was all true.
     Xanthos smiled slightly. "You do not like Iola." He did not sound surprised.
     "She is not content here," Cassandra replied. Iola would probably not be content anywhere. "Her unhappiness disturbs the household." Iola flirted with Buphelis the kennel-keeper, tormented the three younger slave-girls, and constantly quarreled with Clesthes. Cassandra spoke the truth again. "Iola has often mentioned her longing to hold a baby in her arms."
     Cassandra felt that longing, too, but she knew better than to care about a child when she was a slave. Or even when she was free. No woman--rich or poor, slave or free--had any right to her children. Children could be taken from you at any time: exposed as infants, left to starve or to provide food for the dogs; sold as five-year-old slaves and dragged screaming from your arms, while you could do nothing.
     Cassandra strummed another chord on the lyre, a harsher sound this time. "Iola has been here nine years," she reminded Xanthos. "She is twenty-five."
     He said nothing, merely sipped at his wine.
     Arrogant selfish man! Even Iola deserved a chance to have a life of her own, and at least one child. Cassandra asked pointedly, "Will you keep her for your own pleasure until she is too old to have children?"
     Xanthos's dark eyebrows drew together at that, and he frowned.
     Cassandra immediately slipped off the stool and knelt on the floor, her head bowed. Masters had the power of life and death over slaves, and this master was an Immortal. She should never make him angry. "Your pardon, Kyrios," she said softly. "It is not my place to speak."
     "No," he agreed coldly. "It is not."
     Cassandra placed her hands on the floor and crouched there, submitting to him, the back of her bare neck tingling, cursing her lack of control. What was the matter with her? She knew she had no right to be angry.
     "Leave," he commanded.
     Cassandra bowed once more, touching her head to the floor, then hung the lyre from its hook on the wall and left the room.

~~~~~

     In the early days of summer, Simonides the cobbler paid Xanthos three minae for Iola, while Xanthos generously paid the fee due the State for her manumission. Simonides made the customary gift of fifty drachmae to the temple for her freedom, and he and his new bride were married during the festival of Hera. It was an auspicious time for a wedding, and Iola was soon expecting her first child. A tanner bought Clesthes a few months later, and Xanthos also freed her.
     He had forgotten how quickly the years went by.
     He told Cassia to pick out his new slaves, and she found him two young woman: a fair one called Amesthestes, and a dark one from the south called Zidar. They were biddable and pretty, both enthusiastic bedpartners. They had no great intelligence, but they were good at spinning and weaving. The household ran more quietly and smoothly, and Xanthos was satisfied.
     Cassia had not been lying about her skills. She nursed Doria back to health when the older woman took ill that winter, and took over the management of the household until the housekeeper was better. She wove excellent cloth, sewed and embroidered clothes, painted the vases he brought home for her, and knew how to cook his favorite Egyptian dishes. In the spring, Cassia asked for permission to teach music to girls, both slave and free. Xanthos consented, and graciously allowed her to keep a third of the tuition the girls' families or owners paid.
     She was worth a great deal more than the four minae he had paid for her.
     He decided to see if she were skilled at fighting as well. "Would you like to spar?" he asked her in the courtyard one morning, as he came back from the gymnasium, his practice sword at his side. He did not use his katana for sparring; it shattered the other blades, and he did not like others to know of it.
     She balanced the basket of bread against her hip and spoke quietly. "It is ... unseemly, Kyrios."
     "We can practice here in the courtyard." Women were not permitted in the gymnasium, of course. "No one will see."
     She glanced at the three girls spinning in the shade of the porch and at Theron in the cubicle near the entrance, then looked toward the kitchen, where muffled voices could be heard. "No one?"
     He shrugged. "They are just slaves."
     "As am I," she reminded him. But she didn't say it as a slave. She was looking straight at him with a challenge in her eyes, direct and unafraid.
     Xanthos had always liked a challenge. "Do you want me to free you?"
     "I would rather free myself," she answered, lowering her eyes once more. "I do not have the full price of manumission saved."
     "Yet." He had no doubt she soon would; she had asked him to invest her money in various ventures and businesses. She heard the gossip in the kitchens of the other households, and with her information added to his own knowledge, the two of them made a good team. They were both making excellent profits.
     She inclined her head gracefully. "Yet. If you will permit it, I would like to buy my freedom."
     He bowed back to her in the same way. "I will permit it." Then he grinned at her. "Will you spar with me then?"
     "It would still not be seemly, for a woman to use a sword. There would be talk."
     "You should practice," he said, wondering if she even knew how to fight at all.
     She stared at the paving stones of the courtyard. "I do not like to draw attention to myself; we are different enough."
     "And just how long do you think you will survive that way?"
     Her lips curved in a smile, but she did not look at him. "I am older than you, Kyrios." She looked up at him, that quick flashing glance he had seen in the slave-merchant's tent, cool and mocking as before. "And I am still alive."
     "How old do you think I am?" he asked. He had not told her.
     "Between four and five centuries." At his quick blink of surprise, she explained, "It is in your speaking, Kyrios. Your Hellene is flawless, but when you speak your birth-language Egyptian, you use old words, old phrases."
     "I could be older," he pointed out, nettled that she had determined his age and origin, while he still had no idea of hers.
     "But you are not." She gave him another cool smile, another flashing glance. "And I am." She bowed her head again and waited, seemingly submissive once again.
     He nodded a dismissal and watched her walk to the kitchen, graceful and unhurried, back straight, head high, confident yet demure. What had she been, this woman, besides a slave?

     When she had been in his house for a year, Xanthos decided to ask her to share his bed. He had been biding his time, building trust between them, encouraging friendship. It was a delicate business between a master and a slave, and an especially delicate business between Immortals. But he had succeeded, and he knew she would be worth the wait.
     He could tell she was a passionate woman; he had seen the way her hand lingered in the softness of the finely woven cloth she made, and the pleasure she took in gardening, crumbling the earth between her fingers. Once, very early in the morning, he had watched her from his window as she had danced joyously in the rain in the courtyard, thinking herself unobserved. No woman could dance that way and not like sex.
     Their friendship had laid the groundwork; now he could build on that. He started smiling at her more, listening, giving her his full attention, letting her know that he found her intriguing. And he did. She was usually reserved and solemn, but this morning he had seen her playing with one of the puppies from the latest litter. He had knelt down beside her to let the puppy chew on his fingers, and Cassia had laughed at the faces he had made. Then she had smiled at him, the first real smile he had ever seen from her.
     Xanthos had been struck by that smile, the brilliance of her eyes, the open and eager happiness in her face. He wanted to see her smile that way again.
     That night after dinner, Cassia played the lyre for him. When she rose to leave, he stood with her. "You do not need to go upstairs," he said, then added an obvious invitation to his bed. "You could stay with me." She stood there, hesitating, and Xanthos deliberately deepened and softened his voice. "It would be most enjoyable," he said. "For both of us."
     Cassia did not respond to him at all. Her hair had grown long enough to fall forward and hide her face from him, as she stood there with her head down.
     Xanthos understood her reluctance. "It is an invitation, Cassia, not a command. You will be a freedwoman soon enough, and we are friends now." He looked her over in appreciation, his gaze traveling the long graceful lines of her, tantalizingly hinted at under the soft folds of her sea-green chiton. He ended at her face and waited until she looked at him. "We could be more than friends."
     "Kyrios ...," she began, standing more rigidly now, the grace gone to stiffness.
     Xanthos waved his hand in impatience. "You do not need to call me that."
     "Lord Xanthos," she amended, then dropped her gaze. "You do me honor, but it is not an honor to which I aspire." She looked at him again, straight-forward and earnest, then added, "With any man."
     Xanthos nodded slowly and sat back down, remembering now the way she had laughed with the other women in the weaving room, the kindness she showed the young slave-girls. "Sit," he said gently, and she did so. Xanthos knew Cassia had been forced by men, probably many men, and women lovers were safer, less threatening. Perhaps, long ago, she had liked men, but no more. He shrugged at the waste of it, then poured them each a goblet of wine.
     She murmured surprised thanks when he offered a goblet to her, then sipped at it carefully.
     "You have my permission to find a partner among the household, if you wish," he said.
     "They are more to your taste than to mine, Lord Xanthos."
     Xanthos nodded again. The chattering young women who shared his bed were pleasant diversions, nothing more, and Cassia was a woman of deep passions. He had hoped to learn how deep, for he was lonely, too. A pity. Well, they could remain friends. "Perhaps you might find someone in the slave market," he suggested.
     "Affection such as that is not something to be bought," she answered, her voice tight.
     "No," he agreed quietly, then swirled the wine in his cup. "It is not." He leaned back on the couch and studied her. "It is just that you seem ... so alone. I thought you might want a companion."
     Cassia met his eyes for an instant, and he was not surprised at the vulnerability and loneliness he saw in her, or by the gleam of tears she tried to hide by staring once more at the floor. Xanthos sighed and drained his cup, knowing that loneliness very well. "If you and one of your students form an attachment for each other, let me know. If she is in another household, I might be able to buy her from her master, and then you and she could be together." He decided to permit her to leave, even though he would miss her. "Or you could go to be with her."
     "Thank you, Lord Xanthos," she said softly, then she stood and left the room. Her walk was not confident now.

~~~~~

     Cassandra fled to her tiny bed-chamber at the top of the stairs, desperate to escape from his sympathetic and all-too-perceptive eyes. He had believed her lies for now, but she knew she could not have pretended much longer. Xanthos had always been kind, talking with her, allowing her to buy her freedom, permitting her to have this small private room, but the compassion and understanding he had shown tonight had almost undone her.
     She needed the privacy of her room now, as she sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, for she could not escape from the memory of his voice. "It would be most enjoyable," he had said, the dark strands of his voice warm and inviting, compelling. His words had curled around her and in her, waves on the shore, urging her to go deeper, to plunge into the comfort and pleasure he offered. "Enjoyable for both of us."
     Cassandra knew that. She had heard seen the satisfied smiles on the faces of the slave-women in the morning, listened to their happy chatter and giggled confidences as they discussed their master's prowess in bed. And she had known this was coming; Xanthos had been very attentive of late.
     She had responded to that attention. Cassandra respected Xanthos and enjoyed his company, and she desired him. It had been decades since she had willingly given herself to a man, and she ached to feel his arms about her, to make love to him, and to have him make love to her. Xanthos was a man of strength and gentleness; she knew she could grow to love him. It would be wonderful.
     It was unthinkable. Xanthos was an Immortal, and he was her master. Even when she had bought her freedom, he would still have power over her. He would be her patron instead of her master, and she would owe him obedience and a portion of her earnings. Besides, she was just another bedpartner to him, just another romp among the cushions. She meant nothing to him. No. She would never let a master have that kind of power over her. Never again.
     Cassandra undressed and placed her chiton in the small chest against the wall, then lay down in her bed, staring out the small high window at the stars. It was best this way. She could not take such a risk.
     A short time later, she could not help but hear the sounds of love-making coming from his room on the ground floor, soft laughter, whispered indistinguishable words, urgent and hurried and strong. Finally, there was silence, then some time later quiet footsteps as the slave-woman Zidar came up the stairs and went to the chamber she shared with the other women.
     Cassandra rolled over and pulled her blanket close about her. There was no reason for her to be unhappy. She had a place to live and food to eat, and no one beat her or used her. She was teaching again and even making money. Xanthos permitted her to leave the house to teach and to visit the temple or to attend the festivals. He was a kind master, and a good friend. Soon she would be free. She should expect nothing more. She should want nothing more.
     Cassandra went to sleep alone, her face wet with tears.

     Six years passed, and Cassandra and Xanthos remained friends. Xanthos left from time to time to visit his new pottery workshop in the young colony of Potidaea, and the slave-girls came and went, married off after a year or two. When Cassandra had been his slave for two years, she paid him back the four minae for her purchase price and the one mina for the taxes and licensing fees. She paid the manumission fee to the State and gave the expected gifts to the temples. Xanthos registered her freedom with the priests.
     She stayed in his household, for her new status changed little in her life. Part of her income was paid in taxes to the State, while some still went to Xanthos. Even so, her investments and her weaving business were flourishing, and she had to turn away music students. In ten years she might have enough money to open her own school. For now, she was busy and satisfied. She did not look for a companion.
     They were good years. She almost forgot about the Game, and about ancient enemies.

     "Let us in!" a man's harsh voice called over the pounding on the gate. "The Watch of Corinth demands entrance!"
     In the weaving room, Bithyra dropped her spindle. The thread trailed along behind on the floor as the spindle rolled, and the other four women stopped their work and stared at each other. "The Watch?" young Chraxes asked, her voice thin with worry. "They come for criminals and escaped slaves."
     "Stay here," Cassandra ordered, and she left her loom and headed for the courtyard. Before she got there, the latest bedpartner Zitra started keening, her high wail rising over the deeper voices of the men.
     Cassandra reached the doorway, but in no great hurry now. She knew why they had come. The four guardsmen carried a burden between them, a dead body wrapped in a blood-stained cloak--Xanthos's favorite blue cloak. She had watched him put it on only a few hours before, for the air clung dank and chill on this winter day.
     "He is dead!" Zitra wailed, falling to her knees and clutching at her veil. "Our master is dead!"
     And, of course, the women in the weaving room came out when they heard that, and they started to wail, too. Chraxes and Bithyra were clinging to each other and weeping. Then Dion, Xanthos's favorite dog, started to bark. The porter Theron was just standing there, tears running down his cheeks, and the men of the Watch waited in the courtyard with the body between them.
     "He's dead!" Zitra wailed again, and the other women took up the cry, their shrill voices echoing off the stones.
     He was dead, but he wouldn't be for long. Cassandra had to get the body out of the courtyard and away from prying eyes. "Hush now!" she said to the women, using the Voice to keep them quiet for a minute, and they were mercifully silent. Dion was still barking. "Follow me," she told the guardsmen, and they carried the body through the portico into the hall, then laid him gently on the dining couch.
     Theron followed close behind, with tall, gangly Buphelis at his side. The women started wailing again from their place on the porch, and Cassandra moved to the corner of the room, keeping an eye on the body. There was a lot of blood; with luck the wound had been severe, and Xanthos would stay dead for at least another hour.
     "How did it happen?" Theron asked the Watch. He was pale, but composed enough to ask questions.
     "We were patrolling the fields just outside the walls," said the captain of the guardsmen, a stocky man with a scar across his cheek. "Lord Xanthos was fighting a huge man, very tall, with swords. We called out to them to stop, but the other man ran him through."
     "And the tall man?" Theron said.
     "That one's dead!" piped up the youngest of the four, pushing brown hair back from his eyes, still excited by the novelty of the situation. "Lord Xanthos gutted the barbarian, he did, just as the other fellow stabbed, pulled out all his insides!"
     The stocky man shot him a stern glance, and the young one subsided, shuffling his feet. The captain turned back to Theron. "The murderer was taken to the quarry pit and dumped there, buried under stones." He gestured to the body. "Unfortunately, Lord Xanthos died on the field." He reached inside his cloak and pulled out the katana. "This was in his hand."
     Theron bowed and accepted his master's blade, then laid it next to the body. The women of the household started to enter the hall, their veils thrown over their faces, their sobs mercifully muffled. They stood about the walls of the chamber and watched while Theron unwrapped the cloak from Xanthos's face with trembling hands.
     The women burst into renewed wailing at the sight, and Dion crept over to the body and started to howl. Cassandra considered Xanthos's death grimace. She had seen worse. At least his eyes were shut.
     Cassandra and Doria exchanged glances. There was much to be done.

     A short time later, the body had been dressed and properly laid out. Cassandra had volunteered to wash the body, not wanting anyone else to see the already-healing wounds. Theron took an obol from his pouch and placed the small coin on Xanthos's tongue, payment for the ferry ride across the River Styx to the land of the dead. Doria set the honey cakes and flask of oil at his head, and told Bithyra to set the jar of spring water at the door so that guests might purify their hands. The guardsmen left, and some of the women began preparing food for the expected visitors. The rest kept up the steady weeping and wailing that was customary on such occasions. Buphelis had been sent to hire professional mourners to come to the house and keen.
     Cassandra used the Voice to order everyone to leave the hall, saying she wanted a chance to mourn in private. She was just in time. Xanthos revived with a great shuddering gasp which immediately set him to gagging, for he had all but swallowed the coin. "I forgot about that," Cassandra said briskly, smacking him on the back to help him cough it up.
     Xanthos spit the obol out into his palm. "Thank you," he said dryly. "I can breathe now." He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood, then looked down at his new clean clothes in satisfaction and slapped himself on the belly with both hands. "Even with the coin, this is better than waking up stripped naked on a battlefield. Or buried underground."
     "Yes," Cassandra agreed, her own voice dry, remembering much worse ways to revive. Much worse. "But you need to leave now." She handed him a heavy veil and a long chiton. "Put these on. We can get you up the stairs to my room if you're quick about it, and you can hide there until dark." Cassandra locked the doors to the hall, then they made their way to her room without incident. Dion followed, his tail wagging.
     "Well, this life is over," he commented, taking off the veil, then pulling the chiton over his head.
     "Dying in public does tend to have that effect," Cassandra agreed. Men's voices sounded in the courtyard, and Cassandra sighed. "I'll try to get rid of them. There's food under the bed for you." As she shut the door behind her, she caught a glimpse of Xanthos lying at his ease on her bed, tossing a grape in the air and catching it in his mouth, while his dog lay on the floor close by.
     Cassandra pulled her veil over her face and went down the stairs. Five of Xanthos's business associates were standing in the courtyard, eating the food which two slave-women were offering on trays. Theron was anxiously waving his hands about, standing in front of the locked doors of the hall.
     "But why can't we go into the hall?" Protox demanded. "We came to pay our respects." The other four men nodded and murmured in anxious agreement. "Why can't we go in?" he demanded again, his voice going strident.
     Theron tried to answer, but his quavering voice did not persuade them. Cassandra stepped forward, pitching her Voice to soothe and convince. "Please, lords. This is a house of mourning."
     The men were silent at that, and keening wails of the women in the kitchen echoed in the courtyard.
     Cassandra spread her hands in a plea for help and understanding, then said softly and hesitantly, as befitted a woman in the company of strangers, "My Lord Xanthos was enamored of the ways of the Egyptians, as you know."
     There were more nods. All of these men had come to some of the "Egyptian banquets" Xanthos had held from time to time, complete with pickled sparrow and haq, the Egyptian beer.
     Cassandra continued with the excuses. "It is their custom not to display the body before the cremation."
     "Seems an odd custom, if you ask me," grumbled an overweight man with gray hair. "How are you to know a man is dead if you haven't seen his body?"
     "The Watch saw the murder done, and carried the body here," Cassandra replied, letting her voice grow strong with conviction, slipping into the cadences of prophecy. "His heart's blood stains the blade of the sword that lies in the hall." The wailing of the women grew louder, and Cassandra cried with them, "He is dead, he is dead! Our lord and master is dead!" She burst out weeping and covered her face with her hands.
     The men shuffled uneasily at this display of unrestrained feminine emotion, then headed for the door. Cassandra sank to her knees, wailing and crying until the last of them were gone. She stopped her weeping when the door shut, then rose, wondering where she was going to find a body to cremate tomorrow.
     Dying in public was really most exasperating.

~~~~~

     Xanthos awoke from his nap late in the evening, then sighed and put his hands behind his head. He had been planning to leave Corinth this summer, but he hadn't been quite ready to go. Certainly not this way. Dying in public was annoying.
     Cassia came upstairs a short time later, carrying a large bundle and looking very tired. He got up and went to sit on the clothes-chest, absently fondling Dion's ears. She nodded to him and sank onto her bed, laying the bundle on the floor beside her feet.
     Xanthos decided a joke was in order. "Well, I finally got to sleep in your bed."
     Her reply was sharp, yet amused. "Was it worth dying for?"
     He pretended to consider it. "No." He could not resist adding, "Not without you there."
     Cassia shook her head in exasperation, but a faint smile touched her lips as she slowly took off her veil.
     "What did you tell them about the missing body?" he asked.
     "I told your business associates that it is an Egyptian custom that the body not be displayed before cremation. Tomorrow ... well, tomorrow there will be great commotion when they discover the body and the sword have been stolen. And the shutters to your chamber broken, and your money and clothes taken." She glanced at Dion, who was panting happily, and said, "You should take the dog with you, so they won't wonder why he didn't wake the household."
     Xanthos nodded. It was a good plan.
     She gestured to the bundle on the floor. "Your sword is in there, and money and some of your clothes." She sighed and stretched her arms before asking, "Who were you fighting?"
     "We have never introduced ourselves," Xanthos replied, "but he is a Kurgan."
     Cassia nodded, and a flicker of distaste twisted her mouth.
     Xanthos knew she needed no further explanation. Everyone had heard of the Kurgans, the bloodthirsty tribe that lived far to the north, beyond the Black Sea. The Kurgans were said to throw children and hungry dogs into pits and watch them fight over scraps of food.
     "So you've met him before," she observed, bending to unlace the straps of her sandals.
     "I killed his horse about two hundred years ago," he said.
     "And he is still angry at you?"
     Xanthos shrugged. "Perhaps. It was a very large horse, very rare."
     She paused, one lace in her hand, and looked at him more closely. "You are angry at him."
     He was not surprised that it showed. "He killed my wife," he said shortly. The Kurgan had raped her first, then left her to burn to death inside their house while Xanthos lay dead with the other defenders of Babylon. A servant had told him the tale when he had made his way home.
     Cassia sighed, then said simply, "I'm sorry."
     He nodded, then stood and walked over to the tiny space at the end of her bed. There were no stars out tonight; the sky was dark with clouds. The sky had been dark that day in Babylon, too, but with smoke, black billows that reeked of burning flesh. King Sennacherib's troops had left nothing alive, then they had diverted the river to flood into the city. The mud brick buildings had collapsed, and Babylon had drowned in water and blood, while the skins of its inhabitants adorned the broken walls.
     Xanthos would look for the Kurgan tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. And maybe the next. He wasn't going to spend his entire life hunting that slime, but as long as he knew the butcher was nearby, he would hunt.
     "I should be going," he said to Cassia, turning from the window. "I've freed all my household slaves in my will, given them money." She nodded, for they had spoken of this, but he knew this next part would surprise her. "And I've given you both of my factories here, and the factory in Potidaea."
     "Lord Xanthos...," she protested.
     "Xanthos is dead," he answered. "And your master is dead." He sat down on the edge of the bed, close to her, but not touching. "I would like it if you called me by my birth name: Tak-Ne."
     "Tak-Ne," she repeated, and she smiled at him, that brilliant smile he had seen only rarely on her face.
     "And your name?" he asked, wondering how far he dared push her.
     "Cassandra," she answered, with another smile.
     "Are you a Trojan?" he asked, curious to know where she came from. Troy had fallen three centuries before he had been born, but everyone in the Hellenic lands had heard the stories of the ill-fated prophetess named Cassandra who had lived in that city.
     "No," she said. "I do not know the name of the place of my birth. I was raised in a desert, somewhere south of Babylon, I think. But Cassandra is my name, given to me by my first teacher, the Lady of the Temple of Artemis on Lesbos. She was of the Minoan culture, as was Troy."
     Tak-Ne shook his head. "I know of no such temple there."
     "It was burned," she answered shortly, "right before the Hellenes laid siege to Troy." Her gaze went inward, dark and haunted. "The Hellenes burned Troy, too. The streets ran with our blood; our screams echoed in the courtyards. And then, nothing. Only silence, save the flapping of birds' wings, and the wind."
     The sounds of death. He knew them well. "Like Babylon."
     She blinked, banishing the memories, and turned to him again. "Yes," she said, shrugging a little. "We've seen it before. We'll see it again."
     Probably. "Did you know the other Cassandra?" he asked.
     "Yes." Her eyes darkened again. "Her mother Hecuba and I were friends, and she named her daughter after me. An unlucky choice, I think."
     Tak-Ne decided to change the subject. "So you are ... eight hundred?"
     "Nine, I think," she answered.
     He nodded in satisfaction, for he had guessed her age to be close to one thousand. "And you already know how old I am, and where I am from."
     "Yes," she agreed, with a smile deep enough to give her dimples. "But Xanthos--Tak-Ne--I cannot take your factories."
     "I'm giving them to you," he said, with an impatient wave of his hand. "We both knew it was time to leave Corinth, and I've already made arrangements for myself in the city of Sybaris. I have factories there and investments in many places. Besides," he said enticingly, "now you can start your school."
     "Yes," she murmured, then said again more strongly, "Yes."
     "Good!" Now to say farewell. "I've enjoyed our time together, Cassandra. I'll miss you."
     "And I will miss you." Her gaze wandered to the small flame of the oil lamp hanging on the wall, then back to him. "But we will see each other again."
     "Will we?" he asked, wondering why she sounded so sure.
     Her eyes were dark and wide in the flickering light, the shadows outlining the curve of her cheek. "Yes."
     He took her hands in his, and gently kissed her lips. "I'll look for you, then."
     She kissed him on the forehead, a light warm touch. "And I will look for you."
 
 

     Cassandra was looking for her lawyer Justinius. She walked gracefully and sedately through the crowds at the governor's mansion, followed by her retinue of two slave-girls and an impressively muscled Nubian who wore only a loincloth and a turban. Rich widows had to keep up appearances.
     They were passing through the gardens when her head began to ache with the presence of an Immortal, and Senator Tullo's peevish voice came from a small high window in the guest quarters. "You are like an ass at the lyre, fool! Do you know nothing of how to arrange the toga?"
     Cassandra was still walking calmly, hoping to leave before being discovered, when a softer, deeper voice replied. "Your pardon, Most Illustrious. I am entirely clumsy."
     She recognized that voice immediately, even though she had not heard it for almost eight centuries. The goddess Fortuna had turned the wheel; Tak-Ne was the slave this time, and Cassandra was in a position to buy him, if the senator were agreeable to the sale. Cassandra smiled to herself and kept walking. He would be. She would see to that.

     A short time later at the banquet, she asked the governor to introduce her to the senator.
     "Most Illustrious, this is Callista Macedo, one of the largest landowners in the area," the governor said as he bowed to Senator Tullo, a tall man with thinning gray hair. The senator bowed back minutely, and the governor left them alone.
     "Is this your first time to the province of Gaul?" she asked, smiling at the senator.
     Senator Tullo sniffed and refolded a pleat in his toga. "Our Divine Emperor Diocletian has decreed that Gaul is not a province, but a diocese, under the rule of Caesar Constantius."
     "Of course," she murmured, bowing her head. "Thank you for correcting me. I am unaccustomed to thinking of such matters, unlike an important man such as yourself."
     He sniffed again. "You are a woman. You have no need to know of such things."
     "As you say, Senator," she agreed. "I am a widow, with no husband to guide me." She put on her most innocent, helpless expression. "I am in need of advice, and I had hoped that I might ask you?" She glanced around the crowded banquet hall, then said, "But perhaps, in private? It is ... a personal matter." She laid her hand appealingly on his arm.
     "Of course," said the senator, with a wintry smile and a lustful appraisal. "I would be glad to help you, in a personal matter." The gongs were struck to call the diners to the tables, and he said, "I will look for you, after the banquet."
     Cassandra smiled and bowed her head again.

     The next morning, Cassandra left the governor's mansion with a signed bill of sale in her hand, granting her ownership of one Lucius--a male slave, age fifty years, no scars, fluent in Greek, Latin, and Egyptian, able to read and write. Tak-Ne was hers.
     But not for long. "Should I free you now," she asked after they had gone through the city's gate, and headed on the North Road to her estate, "or do you want to work it off?"
     "Before I decide that, I want to know much I cost," he said, walking beside her litter. A male slave could not ride with his mistress, not without arousing indignation and gossip, and the roads were crowded with people on their way to and from the city.
     "Not very much," she said, then laughed at his affronted expression. "It's no matter. I want to repay you for those factories you gave me back in Corinth. You'll be free in a few days. My lawyer is already drawing up the papers."
     "Thank you," he said, with a slight bow. "I didn't enjoy catering to that pompous idiot."
     "No," she murmured. "I didn't think you did." She didn't enjoy catering to masters, either. "How did you come to be a slave?"
     "Taxes," he said in disgust. "I had a comfortable little farm in Sardinia, then one day it was confiscated by the tax officials, and me along with it. The other farmers and I were sold to pay off the tax bill." He shook his head. "These taxes are going to destroy the empire. There won't be anybody left to pay them if they enslave everyone."
     "It is getting bad," Cassandra agreed. "And the new edict against raising prices has confused things even more. People are hoarding food, bartering for goods, hiding what little money they do have."
     "At least we're done with those interminable wars of succession. Four emperors in one year, armies tramping everywhere--bah!" He glanced at the richly appointed litter and the escort of slaves and bodyguards walking alongside. "You're doing well for yourself," he commented.
     She smiled thinly. "I am a rich landowner. I am exempt from paying taxes." That was the tax policy which would destroy the Empire. She had seen it happen before. But this culture wasn't ready to collapse completely, not yet. She would stay for a few more decades. It was nice to be rich, for a change.
     His gaze had come to rest on her, starting at her high-heeled sandals, up the silken folds of her turquoise gown, to the jeweled belt around her waist, then more slowly along the curves of her bodice until he met her eyes. "You look ... exquisite," he said, his brown eyes glinting in the sunshine, his voice as she remembered: warm, deep, and inviting.
     "Thank you," she said, then leaned over and opened the curtain wider to let in a cooling breeze. It was much too hot inside the litter. "So, what of your sword?" she asked briskly.
     "I hid it, right before they came for me." His mouth twisted, firm lips thinning behind the short-clipped beard. "I hope it's still there."
     "I'll give you a travel pass to go get it, after you're freed."
     "Good." He picked at the rough weave of his simple brown tunic disdainfully. "I'll need new clothes, too, before I travel." Tak-Ne grinned at her. "Can I borrow some money from you?"
     "Yes," she said, amused by his audacity.
     "Did you start a school with the money from the factories?" he asked.
     She nodded. "In Potidaea. I lived there off and on, for about seventy years, until Athens lay siege to the city." She had been captured during that war and sold into slavery. Again. It got tedious.
     "And since then?"
     "Teaching, of course. I started four other schools, and I was at the library in Alexandria most of the last century. I've traveled quite a bit." Sometimes she had hidden, sometimes she had run, occasionally she had fought, but she had survived. "And you?"
     "Traveling, as you say. Seeing what the world has to offer." He smiled at her, offering a great deal.
     Cassandra nodded pleasantly, then leaned back on the cushions and covered a yawn with her hand. "We'll talk more later. I'm going to take a nap now."
     Tak-Ne bowed his head in a show of obedience, then moved back to walk with the other slaves.
     She dozed off easily, lulled by the swaying motion as her bearers walked along the straight stone-paved Roman road. She had not gotten much sleep last night.

     They stopped for the mid-day meal near a bend in the river. Tak-Ne stood next to her while she ate under the shade of the trees. Appearances must be maintained. The other slaves sat a short distance away, eating their food, save for young Marcia, Cassandra's personal servant.
     "How much longer until we reach your estate?" Tak-Ne asked.
     "We're on it," Cassandra answered, then motioned to the fields of grape vines, and the cattle pastures in the hills. "This is all mine."
     "Really?" Tak-Ne shot her a look, more appraising than appreciative, more respectful than familiar. "You are doing well for yourself."
     Marcia poured a cup of wine, then offered it to her mistress. Cassandra sipped at it, smiling up at Tak-Ne. The wheel of fortune had indeed turned.

~~~~~

     Tak-Ne left six days later to retrieve his sword, then he came back to her estate to work for her. Cassandra had mentioned that she needed a farm manager, and Tak-Ne was more than qualified for the job. Besides, he enjoyed her company, and it was good to be able to talk freely with another Immortal. And to practice with their swords.
     "A rich widow can be more eccentric than a slave," she told him, facing him with her sword in her hand.
     She was no match for him in strength, of course, but she was very fast, and she knew some tricks he had never seen before. He had tricks of his own. Over the next three years, they learned a great deal from each other.

     Tak-Ne was whistling as he walked past the pool in the atrium and headed toward Cassandra's office. She was expecting him, of course; they had sensed each other before he had come through the entry hall. She stood facing the doorway, relaxed yet ready, her hands partially hidden in the pleats of her green-striped gown. Her sword was concealed in her desk, but Tak-Ne knew it was there. His katana, as always, was by his side.
     "Salve, Mistress Callista," he greeted her formally, mindful of the slave-woman Marcia standing against the wall, and the three farmers who stood ill-at-ease in the center of the room.
     "Salve, Lucius," she answered, motioning him toward the wooden stool in the corner, while she seated herself on the wicker chair behind the desk. Cassandra turned her attention back to the farmers, speaking to the shortest. "So, Garix, you wish me to collect on your loans by buying your farms from you. Then you will continue to work on them, and pay me rent?"
     "Yes, Mistress," Garix said. "We're already in debt to you, and we cannot pay our taxes." He motioned to his black-bearded companion, who ducked his head in embarrassment. "Rinton here has already sold his oxen and his plow. He's kept his barley seed, but he won't be able to get it planted next season anyway."
     The third farmer, a burly fellow with graying wisps of hair on a bald scalp, spoke up. "My neighbor just sold two of his daughters to the brothels. The younger one was eight." He planted his feet firmly apart and hooked his thumbs into his plain leather belt. "I'll not sell my daughter to the brothels. Not now, not next year, nor the year after that. I'd rather see her dead."
     Cassandra nodded, her face expressionless, then looked at each of them intently. "You realize that if you sell me your land, you will be tenant farmers. The law of origo forbids you--or your sons, or their sons--to leave the farms. You will be bound here, not slaves who can be sold at auction, but serfs nonetheless."
     Garix shrugged. "We'll be slaves soon enough anyway, if we don't pay our taxes. And I'd rather be a serf here--on land I've lived all my life and with my family about me--than sold to some far-off land, and see my wife and children sold away."
     Tak-Ne stretched and eased out his legs, remembering the day the slavers had come for him. Hard times, hard choices. The Celts of Gaul had been such a proud tribe once, greeting each other as "free people." Now they were reduced to serfs, begging for the chance to farm the land their ancestors had owned, while the rich landowners of the region became like little kings. And queens, he acknowledged, glancing at Cassandra.
     Rinton spoke now, his voice squeaky with uneasiness. "We'd rather be bound to you, Mistress, than to Publius Breticio."
     Tak-Ne couldn't blame him. Breticio was the other local magnate, and the man was a lamprey--all sharp teeth and slimy skin, with cold water in his veins instead of blood, and a voracious appetite in his soul.
     "I will not always be mistress here," Cassandra said.
     The farmers shuffled their feet and looked at each other, then Garix spoke for them all. "We can't worry about that, Mistress. The tax-collectors are coming in three days."
     She sighed and nodded. "I'll have my lawyer draw up the deeds of sale. You may sign the papers when he is done." She turned to her slave-woman. "Marcia, show them to the kitchen and see that they are fed."
     When they had left the room, she shoved the scrolls on the desk away from her and stared at the polished wood. "I don't like owning people."
     "You're a good mistress," he said, coming to stand near the desk.
     She snorted. "That's because I know what it's like to be on the other side."
     So did he. "Cassandra...," he began, touching her on the shoulder.
     She froze under his hand, and he pulled it away immediately. She did not look at him as she went to stare out the latticed window into the garden. Her auburn hair was coiled in a crown of intricate braids on top of her head, and loose tendrils curled on the nape of her neck. His fingers itched to replace those wayward curls.
     He stayed where he was, knowing she would flee if he pursued. "Why do you always pull away?"
     She crossed her arms in front of her, and her back went stiff. "So I can be the first to leave."
     A common pattern for Immortals, always leaving, always moving. Always alone. "Cassandra, I know it shatters us to watch them die, but you and I are Immortal. It doesn't have to be that way with us."
     Her hands tightened on her arms, the fingers digging into the flesh, and she shook her head in bitter denial. "Dying isn't the only way to leave, and mortals aren't the only ones to go."
     Ah. He had stopped giving his heart to mortals after Shakiko had died, but there were other ways to be left alone. "What happened?" he asked, very gently, very softly.
     Her lips twisted in a pathetic attempt at a smile. "My first master, the first man who ever..."
     The first? Nearly two thousand years ago? This hurt went deep in her. "He sold you?"
     "No." The word came out soft and strangled. "Not even that. He gave me away. I thought I had pleased him well, kept him happy, and he just ... handed me over one day, gave me to another man. When the other man started to..." She stopped and took a slow breath, then continued, "I called for my master, begged him to help me, but he never came." She shrugged. "I was nothing to him."
     Cassandra turned from the window, and her voice was coldly determined. "I was very young then, very foolish. I'm not anymore."
     Neither of them were, but there was still a time for happiness in their lives. There was always time for that. "You lied to me in Corinth, didn't you?" he asked, seeing now why she had refused him. "You don't prefer women."
     "I prefer love," she answered. "And I need trust. Finding both together is hard."
     He walked over to her and gently wiped away the tear on her cheek with his thumb. "Not so hard," he said. "Not for us."
     "Tak-Ne...," she whispered, shaking her head, but she did not move away from him this time.
     "I am not your master now, Cassandra. And," he said with a grin, "you are no longer mine. We have no power over each other, except the power we choose to give." She was still hesitating, still poised to flee, and he added, very softly, "The power of faith, and the power of love."
     The darks of her eyes grew larger, and she trembled, but with a mixture of desire and fear.
     He grinned again and repeated what he had said to her long ago, breaking some of that tension. "It would be most enjoyable. For both of us."
     An answering smile flitted across her face, then disappeared. "I can't ..."
     "You can, if you want to. Do you want to, Cassandra?" He knew she did, and he also knew she was terrified of that want, that need. "I can't promise never to leave you, but I will never betray you."
     "I know," she said softly.
     "We can be more than friends," he offered, taking her hands in his, not grasping, just holding them on his palms, so she could pull away if she chose. He had offered her reassurance, now he appealed to her strength and her pride. "Don't let what he did to you then control you now, Cassandra. We can trust each other, and maybe together we can find love."
     She nodded slowly, and the determination came back, but it was not cold this time. "Yes," she said, and held tight to his hands. "Yes," she said again, then stepped forward and kissed him with a deep hungry longing that seared them both with its ache of loneliness.
     Tak-Ne finally broke from the kiss, then chuckled and kissed her on the forehead as he held her comfortably within his arms. "I was right about you, all those years ago," he said. "You are a woman of deep passions."
     "And I was right about you," she said, smiling back up at him with that joyous smile he had seen only a few times, but still remembered. "You prefer willing--" She slid her hands up to his shoulders and urged him closer.
     "Very willing," Tak-Ne agreed, finally allowing his fingers to wander to those tempting curls at the back of her neck.
     "--and enthusiastic--," she murmured against his lips, her hands moving lower down his back.
     "Very enthusiastic." He kissed her this time, the passion overcoming the loneliness, but still searing both of them with need.
     "--bedpartners!" she concluded triumphantly, her eyes sparkling, her face flushed.
     "Yes, you were right about me," he said, smiling. "So, where's the bed?"

~~~~~

     The next day, they went to a small village near the sea, away from gossip and prying eyes. Mistresses and their former slaves were not supposed to consort with one another. But they consorted, frequently--on the beach, in the water, at night when the sky was black silk scattered with stars, in the morning when the fresh breeze came from the sea, in the heat of the day in their hut.
     "It's good that I'm Immortal," he said, lying on his back, holding her close while she twined her fingers in his chest hair. "I could never keep up with you otherwise."
     Cassandra laughed and kissed him. "I have a lot of catching up to do." She kissed him again, then kissed the tip of his nose. "And you're the perfect man to do it with."
     He smiled at that and ran his hand down to her backside, casually following the curves there. "How long has it been for you?"
     "Some years," she answered, not answering at all. She had been sold to the brothels in Rome during Nero's reign over two centuries ago, and she hadn't wanted any man to touch her since then, until now. But Tak-Ne didn't need to know that, and she didn't want to think about that. "Let's go swimming," she said suddenly, and he laughed and came with her to the beach.
     They swam in the blue-green waves, then made love again under the shade of the trees. "Have you ever married a mortal?" he asked, holding her close again.
     "Three times," she answered, then decided she could trust him with more. "My first husband was Taleer, before I was a century old. He was a musician in the Temple where I was a priestess. We were together nearly forty years, raised three children." She closed her eyes, but the memory of his face was blurred. She could still see his hands, though--beautiful hands the color of mahogany; long, elegant fingers; calluses on the sides of his fingertips from the strings of the lyre.
     "A good man for you," Tak-Ne observed.
     "Yes," she agreed, remembering clearly Taleer's gentleness, his patience, and his love. "A good man." She smiled at the man she was with now. "As are you." Tak-Ne was not prone to jealousy, but talking about old lovers was still awkward, and some reassurance was called for.
     "Your other husbands?" he asked, still curious.
     "Mal-tek died of a fever after we had been together about ten years. Garon was my third husband, when I about five hundred. He and our children were killed in a raid on our village." The leader of that raid had been an Immortal named Roland. He was immune to the Voice, and he had his own way of playing the Game. He had tortured her family to death in front of her, made her watch from a cage while her husband and her children screamed for her to help them. She didn't want to talk about that, either.
     "After that ..." She shrugged. After that, she had avoided becoming involved with mortals. She had had friends and taken lovers from time to time, been fond of them, cared about them, but she had never dared to love them. Mortals you loved were valuable--and unwitting--pawns in the Game. "And you?" she asked, turning the conversation to him.
     "My first wife was Nipik, in Egypt before I became Immortal, then En-thalat in Babylon." He paused, and Cassandra squeezed his hand lightly, remembering what he told her about the Kurgan. He returned the pressure, then continued. "My third wife was Shakiko, a princess in Ni-Hon. She died nearly eight centuries ago. And after that ..." He smiled at her and shook his head. "It's not an easy life, sometimes."
     "No."
     "But it is life," he said, stretching luxuriously and happily. "And there's so much to see, so much to do."
     She knew that, and being with Tak-Ne made it easier to keep believing it.
     "I think that's why the Fates made me Immortal," Tak-Ne continued. "They knew I wouldn't be happy until I had experienced all that life has to offer."
     "Oh?" she asked. "And what haven't you experienced yet?"
     "I don't know," he answered grinning. "Why don't you show me things, and then I'll tell you if I've done them before or not."
     "This could be most enjoyable," she said, her fingertips trailing a delicate path down from his chest.
     "For both of us," he agreed, his own hands wandering here and there.

     Cassandra sold her estate after another ten years, knowing it was time to move on. People were beginning to talk about the widow who did not age. She gave final gifts of lands and funds to the two schools she had established in the region, then she and Tak-Ne moved to Africa, then Egypt, then Greece once again. They stayed together for another seventy years, parting from time to time, meeting again after a year or two. When Theodosius was Emperor, Cassandra went to Hispania to meet Tak-Ne, as they had agreed.
     He was not alone. "This is Roderigo Rubio, my student," Tak-Ne said, performing the introductions in the courtyard, under the shade of the flowering lemon tree. "Rubio, this is Callista, a friend of mine."
     The tall thin Immortal stood stiffly at attention. "Salve, Callista," he said, locks of his graying blond hair falling over his eyes as he bowed his head. He tossed them back and looked her over thoroughly, then stared directly at her with pale-blue eyes.
     She stared back and smiled, just a little. A challenge from such a young one was more amusing than annoying. "Salve, Rubio," she said in return. "You are a native of this land?" she asked, though it was obvious enough from his accent, and from his appearance. The tribes in Hispania were part of the Celtic people, and Celts were known for their height and their manes of light-colored hair. She had lived among them several times, since they matched her own physical appearance, but their tradition of taking heads made her uncomfortable, and she never stayed long.
     "Yes," he said. "From the mountains in the north."
     "Rubio and I have been together since last summer," Tak-Ne said. "He's learning very fast."
     He needed to. Immortals might live forever, but they had no time to waste in learning to play the Game. She nodded again and smiled at Rubio pleasantly.
     He nodded back, then turned to his teacher. "We were going to spar after the mid-day meal."
     "Tomorrow," Tak-Ne said, with casual wave of his hand. "Callista has just arrived." He bowed slightly, then offered his arm to her.
     Cassandra smiled and took it, then they walked together into the dining room. Rubio did not follow.

~~~~~

     That night in bed, after Tak-Ne and Cassandra had gotten reacquainted, Cassandra asked him about his new student.
     "I bought him from another Immortal, a Roman named Tarcinus." Tak-Ne shook his head in disgust. "He kept Rubio as a slave, and crucified him whenever Rubio tried to escape. Tarcinus pretended he was a god, bringing Rubio back to life. He never even told Rubio what he was."
     "Hardly uncommon," Cassandra said, her voice calm and remote as she adjusted the wool blanket over her shoulders. "My first master killed me many times, and he never told me anything about immortality. It's easier to control people when they're ignorant, when they think you're a god."
     She had spoken of her first master only that one time before, and Tak-Ne sensed the pain behind her enforced control now and her long silence over the past eighty years. Her master had been the first man ever to touch her, and he had probably been the first to kill her as well. Tak-Ne pulled Cassandra closer to him and held her, and she nestled against him, accepting the comfort he offered. Tak-Ne had been a slave many times, and he had kept slaves of his own. He knew how slaves were broken, how they were controlled.
     Brutality at the beginning broke a slave's spirit, and most masters stopped there, relying on pain and fear to keep control. But pleasure and affection were much more effective; bonds of love were stronger than any chains. The master need only offer comfort, present himself as a safe haven in an ugly life, pretend to care. It might take a few months or a few years, but eventually the slave would respond, becoming obedient and compliant, even eager to please.
     Cassandra had responded thus to her first master, Tak-Ne knew, tried to "please him well." That man should have been her teacher, her guide. Instead, he had kept her ignorant of immortality, broken her spirit by raping and killing her repeatedly, then offered her pretended affection. She had been young and inexperienced, and she had believed him. She had loved and trusted her master, even worshipped him as a god. Then he had abandoned her.
     Tak-Ne kissed the top of her head and tightened his arms around her. No wonder Cassandra found it difficult to trust. If he ever found the cold-blooded murdering swine who had brutalized her so, he would do more than just take his head. "What's his name?"
     "It doesn't matter," she said. "He's dead."
     "Did you take his head?"
     "No," she answered. "One of his students did. He hadn't told that one the truth about immortality, either."
     "Good," Tak-Ne said with grim satisfaction. "Then neither he nor Tarcinus will be keeping any more Immortals ignorant." He had taken the Roman's head while Rubio had watched. It had been a good first lesson for the lad.
     Cassandra lifted her head from the curve of his shoulder to look at him. "I know you are an excellent teacher for Rubio." She smiled, a mischievous, teasing grin that made her eyes dance in the flickers of light from the small oil lamp on the table. "I know you can be an excellent teacher for me, too."
     "Can I?" he asked, grinning in return, ready to stop this talk of students and former masters.
     "It is important to practice everyday," she said seriously. "And I fear that you and I have woefully neglected our duties."
     "Duty calls," he agreed, then applied himself eagerly to the task. Tak-Ne had always been a conscientious man.

~~~~~

     A few days later, as the petals of the lemon blossoms floated down slowly in the hot still air, Cassandra watched while student and teacher sparred in the courtyard. Tak-Ne was better, of course, but Rubio knew the basics and was eager to learn more. Too eager.
     The two men joined her in the shade of the colonnade, for the sun was fierce. "You are doing well, Rubio," Tak-Ne said to his student, and the young Immortal beamed. They discussed the finer points of the lesson while Cassandra listened and embroidered a new gown, then Tak-Ne suggested, "You should spar with Callista soon."
     "Her?" Rubio exclaimed, not even glancing at her. "But, she's--"
     "A woman," Cassandra finished for him acidly, then fixed Tak-Ne with a steady gaze. He had no right to suggest such a thing without asking her first.
     "It would be good practice," Tak-Ne said, as he reached for one of the small pastries stuffed with raisins and almond paste. Then he leaned back in his chair and added, "For both of you."
     Her gaze became a glare, but Tak-Ne ignored it--and her--for Rubio was talking again.
     "Are there many female Immortals?"
     "A few," Tak-Ne said. "They usually don't last long."
     Cassandra took another stitch in her sewing and said nothing. Most Immortals didn't last long, male or female. Rubio probably wouldn't, either. He was too ready to fight, especially for a man of his physical age.
     Tak-Ne added, "Callista is one of the oldest female Immortals I've met."
     Rubio looked at her now, curious--even avid. Cassandra gave him her most bland meaningless smile, then turned to Tak-Ne, still smiling, even though she was seething inside. Tak-Ne had no right to tell his student how old she was! But she should not correct him in front of his student, or show her anger. Cassandra suggested smoothly, "Lucius, I was hoping we could go riding today?" He glanced at his student, so Cassandra quickly changed her smile to a more seductive one and added, "To the river."
     Tak-Ne grinned, for they had spent a pleasant afternoon by the river the day before. "Indeed. I think that's enough swordwork for today, don't you, Rubio?"
     Rubio stood, bowed stiffly, and left. Cassandra watched him walk away.

     At the river, she waited until she and Tak-Ne had gone swimming and enjoyed themselves on the river bank before she spoke of her concerns.
     Tak-Ne did not share them. "Rubio is my student, Cassandra, and he's a good man."
     "Have you never had a student turn on you?"
     "No," he said, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his hand to look at her intently. "But it sounds as if you have."
     Cassandra did not respond to that. "You've told him of the Game and the Prize. Do you think he doesn't want to win it? At any cost?"
     "Rubio wouldn't come after me."
     "Maybe not now," she admitted, though she knew Rubio would come after her easily enough, if he thought he could win. "Maybe not a hundred years from now. But there can be Only One."
     "Eventually, yes," he agreed, sitting up and folding his arms around his knees. "But the Gathering may be centuries away. We can't live our entire lives distrusting everyone."
     Cassandra had lived almost her entire life that way, and with good reason.

     During the evening meal, Rubio and Tak-Ne discussed siege weapons and the defense of cities. Cassandra had lived in many besieged cities-she had died in them, too--but the men did not ask her for her opinion, did not even speak to her.
     Tak-Ne was most attentive in bed that night, but he did not want to talk to her then, either. When she woke the next morning, she was not surprised to see that he had already left to go spar with Rubio. Cassandra knew the demands of teaching a new Immortal. The bond between teacher and student was much like the bond between brothers, and she had no place in it. Cassandra packed her things.
     When Tak-Ne returned, he asked in surprise, "You're leaving?"
     Had he thought she would stay simply to service him in bed while he spent the rest of his time with his student? But she should not be jealous, and she should not be angry. "Your student needs all of your attention now," she told him. "Rubio should not have to share you."
     Tak-Ne nodded slowly. "It is best." He smiled at her and suggested, "I will be done in a decade or two. Should we plan to meet?"
     Cassandra put aside her irritation with him, remembering the happy times they had had. "Yes, we should. Aqua Sulis in twenty years?"
     "I haven't been to Britain in some time," he said. "That would be good."
     "Travel may not be easy, Tak-Ne. The world is changing again."
     "The edges of the Empire are crumbling," he agreed, sitting down near the table and leaning back in his chair. "The legions are pulling back. In a century, maybe less, the tribes will take over again." He  shrugged. "Well, it was their land to begin with."
     "Yes," she said, remembering the way it used to be, the way it would never be again. She joined him at the table. "How many cultures have you seen fall?"
     "Egypt, once or twice. Babylon, of course. The Greeks had their time, then the Persians, then Alexander. Rome has lasted longer than I thought she would." He swatted away a passing fly. "And you?"
     "Those you mentioned, and earlier ones: Troy, Phoenicia, Carthage, the Hebrews. Others that don't even have names anymore." Her own people were gone forever, vanished beneath the shifting sands. She couldn't even remember the language anymore, only snatches of a lullaby, fleeting glimpses of her father's face. It was all gone.
     Time to start again, to build again. Time to go somewhere new. "We should say farewell, Tak-Ne, though we will meet again--someday."
     "You said that last time, and you were right." He looked at her curiously. "Do you tell the future, Cassandra? Are a prophetess, like your namesake in Troy?"
     "I see things," she admitted reluctantly, "in dreams. In the fire, sometimes. But I can change nothing, and sometimes, what I think I see is not what happens."
     "That's always the way of prophecies, is it not?" he asked, seemingly unconcerned. Then his eyes darkened, serious and intent, and he leaned forward to take her hands in his. "I'm glad we've had this time together, Cassandra."
     "Yes," she said fiercely, holding tight to his hands. "So am I. You've been ... very good for me, in many ways." She kissed him gently on the lips, a ceremonial farewell. "I'll miss you, Tak-Ne, but we will see each other again."
     "I'll look for you," he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead in a benediction, and a promise.
 
 
 

     Tak-Ne dodged his way through the costumed throngs in the streets and bridges of Venice, as the people danced and fornicated their way through this last night of festival before the solemnity of Lent began. In Roman times, the festival at this time of year had been called Lupercalia, and priests of the god Pan had run through the streets, striking half-naked women with goatskin thongs to help make them fertile. The Catholic Church had changed the name and some of the customs, but the Christians still knew how to celebrate it.
     A plump woodland nymph gave him an eager kiss that tasted of wine, but he pulled away from the wench as the sense of another Immortal roiled in his stomach. He moved cautiously to a narrow dark street, then turned toward a flutter of cloth. "Stand forth!" he demanded.
     The Immortal stepped from the shadows of a doorway with sword in hand, but the blade was merely held at the ready, not raised to attack.
     "Cassia?" he asked in delighted surprise, taking a step back, lowering his own sword. A thousand years earlier, he had missed the rendezvous with her in Britain, a small matter of a rebellion. He had gone anyway, five years later, but she had not waited for him.
     "Xanthos," she replied, smiling a little. "Or should I say, Lucius?"
     He swept off his hat and bowed, being careful not to take his eyes from her. He didn't think she would attack him, but best to be careful. "Actually, of late I have been known as Luciano Antonio Calaveri." He clapped his hat back on his head. "However, that name no longer appeals to me, and I am thinking of choosing another. And you are called ...?"
     "Isadora Caboto," she answered, smiling more now. Her cloak hung open, and her long Grecian-style gown revealed the curve of her thighs as she took a step closer to him.
     "The name suits you," he said, then looked about him at the filthy alley. "Shall we find a more congenial spot to talk?"
     "Yes, I think we should," Cassandra replied.
     They both sheathed their swords, then he bowed again and offered her his arm. They made their way through the crowds and finally arrived at a small tavern, marked by a sign of a howling wolf over the door.
     They chatted of the festival, of the fashions of the time. He was in modern dress--knee-high boots, woolen hose and puffed out breeches, a red velvet doublet slashed through with cream silk. She had been to a costume ball and wore the ancient Greek chiton. It looked as good on her now as it had two thousand years ago. Better.
     He poured her a glass of wine and cut her a slice of bread, then leaned back in his chair and simply enjoyed looking at her. But he was also watching--wondering what had changed, wondering if there could still be trust between them. And maybe something more.
     They talked of countries, of places to go, and he chose the new name Juan Sanchez Ramirez. Cassandra suggested he add Villa-Lobos to it, in honor of the sign of the wolf over the door. Some more conversation, a bit of flirtation, and soon they agreed to travel together to Spain and live there as husband and wife, in deference to the local laws about cohabitation. It was good to know the trust--and more--was still between them.
     But upstairs, in the private room he had rented for the night, he soon realized otherwise. She smiled at him and came into his arms eagerly enough, but her kisses lacked the depth of passion he knew her capable of. When he stood behind her and lifted the silken strands of her hair from her neck, she froze. Only for an instant, but he knew what he had seen. Another man would not have noticed, but he had lived with this woman for nearly a century, and he knew her.
     He removed his hands from her and sat down on the edge of the canopied bed. "Have you forgotten, Cassandra?" he asked gently. "I am a man who prefers willing and enthusiastic bedpartners."
     "I am willing, Tak-Ne," she said, coming to stand before him, but her smile was forced.
     "But you are not enthusiastic." Something flickered in her eyes, but in the light of the single candle from the sconce on the wall, he could not tell what it was. Fear? Despair? Hope? "Cassandra," he said softly, "you don't have to pretend with me."
     She looked away at that then whispered, "I'm sorry. I just need ... a little time."
     "We're Immortal," he said. "We have time."
     "I didn't mean to mislead you, Tak-Ne," she said, sitting beside him, but not touching him. Her hands lay loosely clasped in her lap, not moving at all. "I truly did not think it would be this difficult."
     "A thousand years is a long time to be apart."
     She stared at the pleats in her gown. "I can still ... do things for you, give you--"
     "Cassandra," he broke in, "stop. You don't owe me anything."
     "You've fed me and given me a place to sleep, and I don't owe you?" Her eyes were dark and knowing, cynical. Bitter.
     "No," he said, disturbed that she would continue to offer herself to him this way, wondering how many times over the last three thousand years she had sold her body for food and protection. "Not that."
     The bitterness in her eyes wavered and cracked, revealing the vulnerability and loneliness he remembered. "You are a good man," she said, with a wisp of a smile. "I've forgotten what that's like."
     A very long thousand years. He offered her his hand palm up, and waited until she had laid her hand within his. "We have time," he said again, then coaxed a smile from her as he added, "and I know you're worth the wait."

     They left Venice the next morning and went to Genoa, then four weeks later they sailed to Barcelona on the ship Persephone. The ship's master married them two days into the voyage, and Cassandra came to him then. It was a wedding night worth waiting for.
     Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez and his wife, the Senora Maria Caterina Rohas y Ramirez, settled on an estate near the small seaside town of Mataro. He kept busy with the farm and his business ventures in textiles, while Cassandra taught music and healing to the sisters at the convent, and started a hospice in town for the poor. But after sixteen years, it was time to move on, as Immortals always moved on.
     They traveled north to Ireland and spent a year there, then sailed for the west coast of Scotland, to the Highlands, at Cassandra's suggestion. She befriended a local healer near the shores of Loch Sheil, and when the old woman died that summer, Cassandra and Tak-Ne moved into her small cottage near an ancient hot spring, a place sacred to the spirits of the forest, holy ground. The cottage was small and lacked windows and a fireplace, so they hauled rocks from the nearby river and rebuilt it into a more comfortable home.
     Cassandra seemed content to stay in the forest, handing out healing remedies to the clansfolk, but within a year the restlessness came on him again.
     "You should go," she said, kneeling back on her heels in the garden, her hands stained green with plant juice and brown with dirt. "You don't belong here."
     He leaned on his shovel, taking a well-earned rest from digging. "And you do?"
     She looked about her at the stone cottage, the small shed they had built for the sheep and the chickens, the garden. Then she stared upward into the canopy of green leaves from the ancient oaks and beeches, and the bright blue of the sky beyond. "Yes," she said. "I do." She rose smoothly to her feet and wiped her hands off on her apron as she came to him. "I need a time of peace, I think. Of quietness."
     He nodded, for he had seen the change in her since they had come to the forest, the contentment, as though she had finally found something she had sought long and far.
     "Go," she said again, as they took each other's hands. "But come back to me."
     "You'll be here?"
     "Oh, yes," she said. "I'll be here in Donan Woods for quite some time."
     "Then I'll know where to find you," he said, and he kissed her lightly in farewell.

~~~~~

     Cassandra set down the wool she had been carding and reached for her sword. An Immortal was approaching. She peered out the crack between the shutters on the window, then left her sword on the table and went running out the door.
     "Tak-Ne!" she called, as he swung himself down from his horse.
     He laughed and twirled her around in his arms, then slowed as they kissed. "This is certainly an enthusiastic greeting," he said, holding tight to her with one arm, while he settled his white-plumed hat more firmly on his head with the other hand.
     "Enthusiastic--and willing," Cassandra agreed. He smelled of sweat and horse, and his green velvet doublet was covered with dust. He looked and felt and tasted wonderful, and her hands roved up and down his back as she relished the solid strength of him. "It's been fifteen years."
     They kissed again, enthusiastically, until he finally pulled back and said, "I need at least to unsaddle my horse. It was a long ride."
     "I hope that ride hasn't tired you out for another," she said, as she reluctantly let go of him.
     He grinned at her as he took off the saddlebags. "Immortals don't stay saddlesore for long."
     She grinned back. "No matter what kind of riding they're doing." He laughed at that, and she took his bags into the cottage while he unsaddled his horse. Cassandra undressed quickly, then donned sandals and the blue silk robe he had bought for her when they had lived in Spain. She left the garment unfastened, then went back outside, a cup of wine in her hand.
     He stopped in his tracks when he saw her, then came to take the wine from her hand, the darks of his eyes very wide, very warm.
     "Would you care to bathe?" she asked, and at his nod, she led him to the pool, down the short path between the pair of enormous oak trees, the guardians of the spring. She slipped out of her own gown first, then helped him to disrobe, and saw him seated comfortably on the rock under the surface of the water. She rinsed away the dust of his journey, the warm water pouring from her cupped hands, then she washed him, his skin smooth under her fingertips, under her lips and her tongue. He still tasted wonderful.
     "I think you washed that part of me already," he said, half-floating in the water with his eyes closed.
     "So I did," she agreed, pausing in her ministrations. "Should I stop?"
     "No."

     Over the evening meal of barley and chicken stew, he told her of his adventures. "I've been traveling with King Charles. He made me his Chief Metallurgist, advisor on weapons of war."
     "That's wonderful," she congratulated him. "Is that Charles I of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella's grandson?" she asked, knowing how quickly crowns could change, how easily countries could disappear.
     "Yes, that's the one," he said, pouring them both more wine. "Though he's also held the title of Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire for nearly fourteen years now. He's been fighting the Turks, the French, and even the Pope. His armies sacked Rome about seven years ago."
     "That's nothing new," she commented dryly. Rome was always being sacked.
     "True," he agreed. "But it wasn't as bad as other times, and it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Martin Luther wanted Charles to string the Pope and the cardinals up from the gallows, skin them alive, and then burn them. Of course, that's what the Pope will do to Luther if he catches him."
     "Who's Martin Luther?" Cassandra asked, as she finished the last bite of her stew.
     "A German fellow, used to be a monk. He started out trying to reform the Church, now he's trying to replace it with his own. The Pope declared him a heretic, and he turned around and declared the Pope a wretched, accursed monster." Tak-Ne sipped at his wine. "There's been a lot of fighting about religion lately."
     "That's nothing new, either," she said, disgusted with the entire mess of it. Crusades, inquisitions, persecutions, religious wars--it never stopped. Jesus of Nazareth would not recognize his own words anymore. Cassandra shrugged and stacked the bowls. There was nothing she could do about it.
     Tak-Ne shook his head. "This is different. Entire countries are involved now, not just small groups of people here and there. I don't think the next century or so is going to be pleasant for Christians, no matter which church they belong to."
     Cassandra couldn't do anything about that, either. "So, should we play chess, or should we go to bed?"

     Tak-Ne stayed with her for almost a month, then went back to King Charles. Seven years later, in the spring of 1541, he returned, hunting for the Kurgan.
     "I heard he was in the Highlands," Tak-Ne said, as he huddled in front of the fire, trying to get warm after his long ride in the rain. "He might have been looking for me."
     "Maybe he was," she said, bringing him a mug of steaming tea, "but I think he found someone else." At his sharp look, she sat beside him on the narrow wooden bench and explained. "One of the village girls told me the story last month. Five years ago, a young warrior of the clan MacLeod was killed in battle by a very tall knight, but the warrior did not stay dead."
     "I've heard the Kurgan likes to hunt pre-Immortals," Tak-Ne said grimly.
     "Has he been searching for you through the years?" she asked, knowing what it was to be hunted.
     He sipped at his tea, then shook his head. "I don't think so, and I don't hunt him, unless I hear he's nearby. I have better things to do with my life."
     Cassandra stood and went to the fire, wishing Roland felt the same way, wishing she could live the same way. She tried to--tried to keep teaching, keep learning, keep living--but Roland was always waiting for her, somewhere.
     Tak-Ne stretched out his feet to the fire, wiggling his toes. "It's been a long time since I had a student. Maybe I'll take on this fellow."
     Roland had been her student once. She had taught him too much, and she was still paying for that mistake. She had helped him become the Voice of Death, and he loved to kill. He had killed her, many times, and the people she loved, but she could not kill him. A Prophecy had been made in the Temple of Artemis, almost three thousand years ago, a prophecy of a child, a Highland Foundling, born on the Winter Solstice, who would travel through darkness into light, and defeat the Voice of Death.
     Cassandra wanted the Voice of Death dead, but she had to wait for the Highland Foundling to kill him. She had waited for three thousand years, and she was still waiting.
     She hated waiting.
     "What happened to your other student?" Cassandra asked, turning to Tak-Ne with a show of cheerful interest, trying to wipe all thoughts of Roland from her mind, not wanting Tak-Ne to know about her failure as a teacher. "The one from Hispania?"
     "Ah, Rubio. We fought together against the Moors in Spain, and I saw him a few years ago at the royal court. He's doing well."
     Cassandra nodded, not wishing to hear it. "How often have you met the Kurgan?" she asked, changing the subject again and joining him on the bench.
     "We've met only three times: Babylon and Corinth, then some centuries ago, in China." He grimaced, a quick lift of eyebrows, a tightening of lips. "That last time I was lucky to get away with my head." He took another drink of tea, then asked, "What happened to the clansman who revived?"
     "Just what you would expect," Cassandra said. "His tribe banished him as a witch. He was lucky he wasn't burnt at the stake."
     Tak-Ne nodded. "Do you know his name?"
     "Connor MacLeod."

     Cassandra bought a horse for herself, and she and Tak-Ne hunted for the young Immortal all that spring, visiting the villages, traveling around the lochs and up the glens.
     "You go along the north side of this loch," Tak-Ne suggested, one fine summer day, "and I'll go along the south. We'll meet at the other end."
     They parted company with a kiss and a wave, and Cassandra rode to the village. The new Immortal was not there, and Cassandra went on. She was tired of looking, but the time of the Prophecy was near. She spurred her horse and rode on to the next village. The new Immortal was not there, either.
     She traveled along the loch, with many detours to visit every small hamlet and every remote croft. Harvest-time was just beginning when she finally found him, on the south side of Loch Leven, in the glen of the River Coe. It was an open place, cleared of trees, and a tower of darkened stones stood stark and lonely at the top of a small rise. Tak-Ne was sitting in the shadow of the tower, sharpening his sword.
     Cassandra sat and watched him for several moments, then finally rode down the hill. Tak-Ne came over to greet her, resplendent as always, dressed now in red velvet with a cape of peacock feathers about his shoulders. The clansman joined them, a young man with shoulder-length brown hair, braided away from his face. He was dressed in the sark and breacan common to the Highlands, the garb which reminded her of the Roman tunic and toga, though more brightly colored. His breacan was blues and greens, faded mostly to gray, with a pink stripe in the weave that might once have been red, and his sword was at his side.
     A young woman in a blue gown came down the tower stairs, balancing a basket on her hip. Her head was bare, and the slight breeze tossed her blonde curls in front of her face. She stopped at the sight of Cassandra, and looked to the clansman for guidance.
     "Cassandra," Tak-Ne called in greeting, and Cassandra carefully did not show her annoyance at his use of her true name. He turned to the Highland couple and made a low sweeping bow, his plumed hat held off to one side. "May I present the Witch of Donan Woods?"
     That name was not much better. The young woman gaped, and the new Immortal stepped back, his eyes flicking nervously from her to Tak-Ne.
     Tak-Ne straightened and replaced his hat, then finished the introductions. "This is Connor MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod."
     Connor MacLeod nodded, his gray eyes still wary, and Cassandra nodded in return, scrutinizing him closely. A Highland Foundling, an Immortal. He could be the one. She controlled her impatience and turned to the woman, whom Tak-Ne was introducing as "Connor's wife, Heather."
     Cassandra smiled warmly at the young woman, then took a pair of rabbits from her saddle horn and held them out to her. "I went hunting this morning, Dame MacLeod, and had good fortune. Shall I prepare them for us to eat?"
     Heather nodded, reassured by the normality of the gesture, and the two women went to cook the evening meal, while the men headed off to spar. Cassandra used the persuasive power of the Voice to put Heather at her ease, and soon the two women were chatting like old friends.
     "Ramirez is rather odd, but very charming," Heather confided as she kneaded the bread dough. "He's been here near a week now. He says he's going to teach Connor how to fight." She sighed and brushed her hair from her eyes, leaving a smear of flour across her forehead. "I hope it does not take too long. Connor's not been keeping up with the orders from the forge, he's been so busy swordfighting."
     Cassandra merely nodded as she took the skin off a rabbit with her knife. The Game interfered with life in many ways. She chatted for a bit, then turned the discussion to birthdays.
     "Connor's birthday?" Heather asked, as she shaped the dough into a round loaf. "Why, 'tis the day after Hogmanay, the first of January. He always says he can be assured of getting a drink somewhere on that day. My birthday is in the spring, soon after Lady's Day."
     Cassandra kept the smile on her face as she whacked off the head of the second rabbit. Connor was not the one. She would have to wait. Again. She took off the feet with more sharp blows, then set about skinning the carcass.
     The bread was rising near the fire and the rabbit stew was simmering in the pot when Cassandra and Heather went back outside. Connor and Tak-Ne turned at their approach and nodded, then resumed their conversation.
     With a grin and a whispered, "Hush," in Cassandra's direction, Heather picked up a bucket of water, took a few steps closer to the men, then tossed the contents at her husband's back.
     Tak-Ne stepped back with a curse, for some of the water had splashed on him, and Cassandra and Heather both laughed aloud.
     Connor's reaction was silent, but much more vigorous. He whirled and charged at his wife, and she fled shrieking and laughing, trying--not very hard--to escape. Connor grabbed the bucket and filled it from the rain barrel, then cornered Heather at the bottom of the stairs. She made to dart past him, and he blocked her path and upended the entire bucket of water over her head. They were both laughing as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, then the two of them started up the stairs.
     "We're going to go get dry," Heather called over her shoulder with a triumphant grin, then squealed as Connor clapped his hand to her backside and hurried her inside.
     "I don't think they'll be out for a while," Tak-Ne commented.
     "No," Cassandra agreed, and then she smiled at him. "There's a waterfall just down the hill," she said. "Should we go get wet?
     "As long as I can take my clothes off first," he said, flicking at the water spots on his velvet sleeve.
     "I think that is an excellent idea."

     They lay naked in the grass, late summer sunshine warm on their skin. "What do you think of your new student?" she asked him.
     Tak-Ne snorted, then rolled over on his back and closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun. "He's arrogant and impatient. He has the manners of a goat, and he's stupendously ignorant."
     "A typical savage Highland barbarian," she said, propping her head up on one hand so she could look at him more easily. She liked looking at him, the strength in him, the powerful muscles in thighs and arms, the thick curling mat of gray hairs on his chest that felt so good to touch.
     "Exactly," he agreed. "And he's stubborn and thick-headed, as well."
     She smiled. "You like him."
     Tak-Ne laughed. "That I do. He'll learn. He's brave and determined, and he's a good man."
     She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. "And so are you." He laughed again, a contented chuckle, and his arm pulled her closer. She relaxed against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her leg between his, their hands clasped together. Butterflies veered about them, and the scent of the wildflowers floated heavy and sweet in the air. Cassandra lay quietly, just enjoying the sunshine and being with Tak-Ne.
     For now.
     "I'm glad we've had this time together, Tak-Ne," she told him. "This time of trust between us." He opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she dared to continue, very softly, "This time of love."
     He rolled over, taking her with him, then kissed her gently as she lay beneath him. "I told you we could find love, if we looked for it together."
     "And you were right," she said, then drew him to her once again.

     Cassandra stayed with Tak-Ne and the MacLeods for four days; then she said good-bye. "I'll leave you to your student," she said, as she and Tak-Ne stood outside in the rain, holding hands.
     "You know where to find me," he said, kissing her forehead in farewell.
     "Yes," she said, forcing herself to smile, hoping the visions were wrong. "I'll look for you here."
     It was a few days ride back to Donan Woods, but Cassandra sold her horse and walked most of the way. She settled in her cottage and began waiting again, waiting for the Highland Foundling to be born.
     She was not waiting for Tak-Ne to come back to her this time.

     Night had fallen, and the air was cold. The tall figure of a man stood dark against the sky, blocking out the stars, while another man knelt at his feet. A sword swung down, and there was lightning and blood. Great black rocks tumbled, falling to earth, and flames soared high.
     Silence and darkness came again.

     Cassandra's eyes flew open, but she stayed where she was, curled on her side in bed. The fire had burned low. She stared at the flames and saw only death.
     She let the tears come then, endless silent tears, alone in her bed, alone throughout the coming years, alone without her friend.
     Tak-Ne was dead.
 
 

     Four and half centuries had passed since that night, and Cassandra still remembered that dream. A few months later, Connor had come to her in Donan Woods, and he had told her that the Kurgan had taken Tak-Ne's head.  The tower had been destroyed by the Quickening, and Tak-Ne had been buried under the stones.
     Cassandra lay her hand on one of those stones and watched as the flame flickered in the wind. The candle was almost gone. "The Kurgan is dead now, Tak-Ne," Cassandra said. "Your student avenged you; Connor took the Kurgan's head ten years ago. You were right about Connor; he is stubborn and arrogant." Very stubborn. "But he's a good man."
     The tears came, and she welcomed them, tears of grief, tears of tribute, tears of love. "As were you. You were a man worthy of trust, and I wish I had let myself trust in you more.
     "I miss you, Tak-Ne." She waited until the flame died, then stood and placed a rock on the cairn over his grave.
     "I miss you still."
 

     Many thanks to Bridget Mintz Testa, Vi Moreau, Tanja Kinkel, Cathy Butterfield, and Robin Tennenbaum-excellent beta readers and very good friends. Special thanks to Liz Silver for proofreading.

About Ramirez
     Ramirez was played by Sean Connery in the first two Highlander movies. He was born in 896 BCE in Egypt, with the name Tak-Ne, and was killed for the first time by being crushed by a runaway cart. He had three wives, the last being Shakiko, a Japanese princess, daughter of Masamune the sword-master. Masamune gave him the dragon-headed katana in 593 BCE. Ramirez met the Kurgan in Babylon, Greece, and China. (This line was filmed but cut from the movie.) Ramirez was chief metallurgist to King Charles of Spain (somewhere between 1520-1540), and he was beheaded by the Kurgan in the winter of 1542 at Connor and Heather's home in Glen Coe, Scotland.
     Nowhere is it stated that the Kurgan raped and killed Ramirez's second wife, however, Ramirez and the Kurgan obviously didn't like each other, and I thought I would make it personal.
 

About Methos
     Methos is Cassandra's unnamed first master, and he is, of course, not dead. However, for many years Cassandra believed that all of the Horsemen had been killed.

Historical Notes
- The canal across the Corinthian Isthmus was finally completed in the 1890s.
- Unwanted children were often abandoned, in many cultures and in many times. The midwife mentioned in the HL:TS episode Family Tree suggested the infant Duncan be "cast out for the dogs."
- King Sennacherib's Assyrian troops destroyed Babylon in 689 BCE.
- There really was a Temple of Artemis on Lesbos that was burned c. 1200 BCE.
- The Roman town of Massalia was first founded as a Greek colony, and eventually became Marseilles.
- The manorial system of feudalism (lords of the manor, serfs being bound to the land) got its start at the end of the Roman Empire.

References:
* Bradley, K. R., Slave and Masters in the Roman Empire, Oxford University Press, 1987.
* Garlon, Yvon, Slavery in Ancient Greece, Cornell University Press, 1988.
* Lacey, W. K., The Family in Classical Greece, Cornell University Press, 1968.
* Pomeroy, Sarah B., Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves - Women in Classical Antiquity, Shocken Books, 1975.
* Wiedemann, Thomas, Greek and Roman Slavery, Croom Helm Ltd., 1981.