“Tell me, Uncle,” the emperor said one day, pretending to yawn with boredom, “what do you think of this new sect that calls itself the Nazarenes, or whatever it is?”

Claudius’ mouth sometimes worked and twitched a few times before anything came out. “I—I don’t think anything about them. After all, they worship another god instead of those of Rome and your Divine Maj—majesty. It is wise to ignore them and most likely the whole thing will die out eventu—ally.”

Caligula rose from his marble, cushioned bench and strode to the edge of the palace balcony where he struck his habitual pose, bending a knee, grasping the finely embroidered edge of his toga. He cocked his head and rolled his eyes thoughtfully.

“I don’t know about that. Look at the Jews. They worship another god and we have very graciously allowed them to do so. Perhaps that has been a mistake. I can only imagine what they would do if I required them to bow down to me. In fact, I decided some time ago I would put a statue of myself in their Temple over in Jerusalem.”

Claudius tried to conceal his horror. “It wouldn’t be worth the consequences, your Majesty. You know they would fight to the death before allowing such a sac—that is, what they consider a sacrilege, my Lord Emp—orer.”

“That’s just the problem, Uncle,” Caligula said softly, with small pouches puffing out on either side of his mouth. “And the Nazarenes are just as stubborn. They worship the same god, I hear, but somehow this dead Jew is mixed into it and they think he is on equal footing with their god. I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. It would be better all the way round if everybody stopped this twaddle, and admitted there is only one Lord, one King!”

“One Lord, One King,” Claudius intoned. It was Caligula’s favorite appellation for himself.

Caligula turned and strode toward his uncle, who sat beside a small potted tree and seemed to be trying to hide behind it. “I am going to call for an assembly. Rulers and chieftains from all over the empire. We shall see how widespread this problem is and decide how to deal with it. Well, actually, I have other reasons for this gathering, but that one will do well enough. And now for that other matter that concerns me. You remember Paulus Valerius, do you not?”

“We met several times, years ago. He was always k—kind to me.”

“Kindness is weakness, Uncle! Paulus Valerius Maximus is not weak. It was pity for your wretchedness you saw. Tiberius was most anxious to find him, before his—death. And I have often wondered what became of Valerius. He has recently been seen here in Rome! Someone reported it to me. But we can’t find him. When we do, you can be sure we will have some questions for him to answer.”

“Questions?” Claudius repeated, reluctantly.

“Yes, questions!” The emperor’s eyes became fixed; his tone softened again. “Such as, why did he abandon his appointment and leave Jerusalem? Why has he remained hidden these seven years? And where is that woman he supposedly rescued, the one who killed Magnus Eustacius?”

“Why such an interest in Valerius?” Claudius was afraid to ask but knew his nephew expected it.

“I liked him,” Caligula almost whispered. “He reminds me of—someone. Why is his statue not in the Forum of Augustus?”

“He never p—permitted it, your Majesty. It seemed he lacked the pa-patience for such things.”

 “I want him as head of my bodyguard. Flavius will have to take second place.”

Claudius didn’t think that was a good idea. “Even though he helped the woman escape? Even considering he has broken his oath and is no longer a soldier?”

“We shall see about that. As for the woman—well, who cares about Eustacius! He was a bumbling sot, like his father. But he was an aristocrat, after all—therefore, she must die.”

Caligula jerked his head around as if listening, then turned back to his uncle who now sat with alarm bells ringing in his own head. “Jupiter has spoken,” the emperor declared, with a familiar, wide-eyed expression that Claudius could never decide was comical, or one from which to flee as speedily as possible.

“We will start a search for the woman. We have a description; she is quite a beauty, I’ve heard. Indigo eyes, hair like a black waterfall. Whoever said that is a poet! She’s Greek, an aristocrat herself, before her father was executed and she was sent off as a slave. I am certain that when we find her, we will find Valerius as well. And both of their fates will be up to me—not to the dead Nazarene, not to the unknown God, and not even to Jupiter. Don’t tell Jupiter I said that, Uncle. One Lord, One King!”

The faintest hint of red glowed in the western sky as Metellus approached the spot of land to which Daphne had directed him. He had to cross a large field, step over rocks and in and out of small gullies, until he came near to where he thought Rachel would be. Just before pushing through a thicket of shrubbery, he heard a sound that made him stop and stand perfectly still.

She was singing. She had a clear and lyrical voice—but its tone was sad and haunting, as was the melody she strummed on a lyre. Beginning to push through the tall shrubs, he could see her sitting on a rock, the lyre on her lap, and she was looking up at the village that crowned the opposite hill. There were a few sheep scattered here and there, and two lambs lying next to each other near the edge of the copse in which she sat.

Before he could move she stopped abruptly, and barely seeming to stir, set the lyre on the ground next to her. At the same time she grabbed something with her hand. Reaching behind with her other hand she drew something forward, and he saw with astonishment that she held a bow and arrow. His eyes moved swiftly over the landscape near her and he saw the wolf, low in the bushes, its glowing eyes on the two resting lambs.

His hand went to his side and he swore silently—he had left his sword behind. He made a move forward, but when he saw Rachel, instinct made him stop and stand motionless.

She had risen, one foot on a smaller rock before her, and with a perfect stance that astonished him still further, took careful aim. The sheep had begun to move restlessly, sensing danger, and just when Metellus thought the wolf was about to pounce, Rachel released her arrow. It pierced the animal’s neck, causing it to spasm and almost leap in the air before it dropped in an ungainly heap upon the ground.

She reached swiftly for another arrow and stood poised to let it fly should the wolf get back on its feet. He waited a moment, and the word escaped him before he thought: “Diana!”

He had spoken under his breath, but she heard him. She whirled to face him as he stepped through the bushes, the arrow now aimed at his heart. As recognition dawned, she lowered the bow slightly and glared at him.

“Do not ever call me that name again!”

“I’m sorry.” He half-raised his arms at his sides. “Please forgive my pagan ways, damsel. You looked exactly like her—goddess of the hunt.”

He was close to her now, and smiling. She noticed that the indentations on either side of his face deepened when he smiled, making it almost impossible not to return it, but she frowned instead.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, when she did not move.

Grudgingly, she let down her bow and arrow. “Not yet. I suppose you’ve come to collect me, and I’m not leaving until the shepherd returns.”

“Then I’ll wait with you. Shall we sit?” He took a seat on a ledge jutting off the crag, opposite her own rock. It was almost dark. The sheep, momentarily alarmed by the brief appearance of the wolf, had already forgotten and were beginning to flock together as if also waiting for the return of the shepherd.

“I thought abandoning sheep was punishable by death,” he said, watching as she settled herself, keeping the bow and her quiver of arrows within reach.

“I don’t know about that,” she answered, “but it is very strange that Reuben hasn’t come for them by now.”

“Should we go and look for him? You don’t suppose the wolf—”

Rachel shook her head. “Oh, no. He will be here.”

Metellus crossed his arms. He could barely see her now but he sensed her uneasiness. He didn’t know if it was because of him, or the wolf. Probably, to her, one was as bad as the other.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, gesturing toward her weapon.

She looked down at them. It was a long time before she answered in a small voice, “My father taught me.”

“He taught you well. You must have been practicing a great deal.”

She gave a little shrug. “You see, I don’t need your protection. I can take care of myself.”

“Nevertheless, you shall have me. Maybe you will see fit to save my hide should the occasion arise.”

She had to smile at so unlikely an occurrence. “Or put an arrow in your hide—should the occasion arise.”

“I assure you, I have the greatest respect for a marksman of your prowess. I promise not to give you the opportunity to display it.”

Rachel said nothing. Metellus uncrossed his arms, placed his hands on either side of the ledge, and leaned slightly forward.

“You really need have no fear of me,” he said quietly. “I give you my word. Even your guardians trust me.”

“And what have you done to earn it, except talk?”

“I was prepared to wrestle that wolf to the ground, at risk of grievous injury to myself, to save you! For what more can you ask?”

“I suppose the emperor would put you to death if something should happen to me.”

“Claudius is no Caligula. But I do take my duties seriously.”

He thought that she turned her face toward him, but then her voice sounded distant and muffled. “As you say.”

Something moved among the distant trees, and they both stood—it came crashing through the undergrowth and resolved itself into the missing shepherd.

He wore a short robe and carried a staff in his hands. He was panting heavily. “I’m sorry, Rachel. You know how close my house is—I was to be gone only a moment, but my mother is ill.”

“Then you should go to her. I’ll stay here, until Simon can get someone else.”

“My sister is with her now. Is everything all right?”

“Yes—but watch out for wolves.”

“Have you seen one? We don’t get many around here.”

“He’s over there,” Metellus told him, gesturing. “With an arrow in his throat.”

Reuben glanced at Rachel’s bow. “Good for you! Thank God you were here.”

“Goodnight, Reuben.”

Rachel reached for the quiver of arrows as Metellus picked up the lyre. She waited for him to precede her, but he said, “After you. Please.”

Hitching up the edge of her gown, she began to make her way over the uneven and rocky ground. She stumbled once and the Roman was instantly beside her, his hand on her elbow.

She shook it off and hurried away from him. He let her go but kept her in sight until they came to the house, whereupon he heard her skitter inside and the sound of a door slamming. He noticed Daphne standing in the shadowed hallway, watching…and there was a faint smile on her lips.

Outside, thunder rumbled ominously in the darkened sky as she dressed to go down to supper. She deliberately chose her most becoming gown, a deep blue muslin edged with silvery ruffles. The front of the dress was artfully draped to resemble an overskirt, and was pulled tight over the bust and abdomen. She did have an attractive figure, and if that would impress the old codger she certainly would not be averse to making the most of it.

 Sometimes she thought uneasily of what her parents would say if they knew what she had done…that she was entirely on her own and living as a boarder in the home of an unmarried physician. Of course, as she’d already told herself, the war had changed the way society looked at things…necessity had been the mother of many of those changes, and now situations that might have caused scandal and outrage now hardly did more than raise a few eyebrows.

 But Genny knew in her heart that her father would not approve.

She drew her blonde curls away from her face to accentuate her high cheekbones, noting in the mirror they were flushed and rosy. For some reason her heart beat unusually fast. She heard the sudden deluge of rain as it dashed against the roof, and a crack of thunder made her jump. Shaking off her feelings of guilt, she crossed the bedroom and was walking down the hall to the stairs when she heard the front door open with a loud whooshing sound. Thinking it had been blown by the wind, she hurried down the stairs and then stopped with a jerk, staring in utter surprise.

The tall man hanging up a coat and removing his gray slouch hat stared up at her, poised on the staircase, with the same surprise. A moment passed with neither of them saying anything, though he finally nodded a greeting, which she was too flustered to acknowledge. Then Agnes rushed into the hall, drawing the man’s attention, and took his coat as he placed his hat on the rack behind the door.

“Agnes, how have you been?” His voice was deep with a pleasant resonance.

“Foin, and it’s good to have ye home, Doctor,” Agnes answered merrily. “And just in time for supper, ye are.”

“Of course he is,” came a voice from down the corridor. “Have you ever known him to miss a meal?” Geoff appeared with his crutches, and Genny saw that his right leg was gone just above the knee. The sight shocked her a little, for she hadn’t imagined his “impediment” to be so serious.

Valerie stood behind her father, smiling. “Hello, Ethan.”

The doctor kissed Valerie on the cheek and said amiably, “I see you’ve both managed to stay healthy in my absence.” Then his eyes turned back to the stairway, meeting Genny’s again. Geoff followed his gaze.

 “Ah, Genny, come down. Ethan, this is your new assistant, Genny Stuart. Genny, this is Dr. Carey.”

This man was not elderly. Nor was he thin and hunched, with weak, squinty eyes behind a pair of spectacles. He appeared to be in his mid to late thirties, and must be at least two inches over six feet tall. Lean and well-defined muscles showed through the damp cloth of his shirt. The lighted hallway revealed his eyes to be a vivid bluish-gray in color, the lashes thick and dark brown, as were his brows and hair; their expression, as they surveyed Genny, was direct and appraising.

He was certainly more handsome than he had any right to be, but he seemed entirely unself-conscious, nor did he have the popular air of exaggerated gallantry. His face glistened with raindrops, and in its clean-cut lines was etched an impression of heavy responsibility, of danger faced, of determination…yet there was humor, too, especially in the fine creases around his eyes. He stood straight and alert like a soldier, though it seemed to come naturally to him for he was at the same time relaxed and at ease.

This was not at all what she had expected. It took her a moment to regain her composure. Then, annoyed at herself, she managed to say calmly, “How do you do, Doctor. I hope I shall prove an able assistant for you.”

An almost imperceptible frown had come into his face and she knew that he was doubting her capabilities

It seemed impossible that as the country stood on the brink of war, she’d married a man she barely knew. The clash and roar of battle had been raging from Virginia to New Orleans for more than a year now, and she’d not seen her husband since the morning after their wedding, when he had ridden off to join the army—but that would change very soon.

Catherine heard the train before she saw it, heard the hiss of its engine and the rumble of tracks as it slowly crossed the trestle high over the James River. Her green bonnet shielded her from the faint drizzle of rain—and from the sympathetic look she knew was on the face of her uncle, Martin; not that she didn’t want his sympathy, or need it.

“No doubt his wounds are serious,” Martin said. “I think you’d better prepare yourself, my dear.”

Catherine felt her stomach tighten. A whiff of cold wind stirred a few strands of russet hair from beneath her bonnet and brought a flush of pink across the high cheekbones and slim nose. The green fabric of her bonnet and cloak deepened the grayish-green shade of her eyes to emerald, but they were troubled in expression, almost fearful. She closed them for a moment, trying not to remember things she’d read in the newspapers, things she’d heard whispered during social gatherings, things she’d seen herself in the city’s hospitals.

Cannon balls, exploding shells, flying bullets—all had horrific effects upon the human body. It was bad enough to observe these effects on strangers, but one’s husband—Catherine stopped in mid-thought as the realization struck her again that the man who would soon accompany her home was practically a stranger.

With a screech of brakes, the train rolled into the station and stopped. Passengers, mostly women and children, began climbing down the steps. They must be refugees, she thought, the most recent victims of the war. She’d heard nearby Fredericksburg had been evacuated in anticipation of yet another attempt by the Union Army to capture Richmond.

She knew they ought to at least offer someone a ride, but somehow she couldn’t move, could hardly think.

A woman disembarked, very thin in a gray dress and white apron, with dark hair pulled severely back beneath a black bonnet. She turned to await someone else, extending her hand. A man’s gloved hand descended upon her arm.

Catherine heard her own involuntary gasp of surprise as she watched the man lean heavily on the woman in gray. She saw that his other hand grasped a slender black cane. As her gaze moved upward, she stifled another gasp, only vaguely aware of Martin taking her arm.

There could be no doubt he was her husband, though his frock coat hung more loosely about his tall frame. It was the same pale yellow coat he’d worn as he rode away to war, before he’d acquired his uniform. Beneath it he wore a black shirt and black trousers. Around his entire head was a black hood or scarf, covering even his eyes. Though he leaned on the woman, he held the cane out before him, as if—

 “He’s blind,” she heard Martin say, his voice reflecting her own awed sense of disbelief.

The two advanced slowly. The woman held a large black umbrella over their heads. Perhaps forty or more years of age, she was plain and unsmiling, with an air of steely determination. Her owlish, slate-gray eyes swept Catherine grimly from head to toe.

Catherine stared at her husband. He seemed taller than she remembered, perhaps because a certain heaviness had fallen away; he looked lean and fit but for his obvious weakness. The black scarf completely enshrouded his head and neck. Two small holes had been cut where his nostrils must be. Black gloves made of soft leather concealed both hands.

The pair stopped. Catherine stood speechless, finally turning toward her uncle with a look of helplessness.

“Hello, Andrew,” Martin said, too loudly, too cheerfully. He reached out to shake the man’s hand, realized his mistake, and let his own hand fall.

“It’s Martin,” her uncle went on, less enthusiastically. “Catherine is here.”

“Hello, Catherine,” Andrew said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming, Martin. Is Sallie with you?”

“No, I’m afraid…that is, I regret to say she was unable to come.”

“This is my nurse, Mrs. Shirley.”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Shirley extended her free hand in an almost mannish fashion. Catherine took the proffered hand, noting absently its firm, almost painful grip.

“If you don’t mind,” Andrew said, whispering, “I’m tired. I’d like to go home.”

She had just begun to pump water for the coffee when something struck her, some cold little tap at her consciousness telling her she was not alone in the room.

She froze, the coffeepot in her hand. Had anyone thought to lock the doors? They must have been locked; Logan always saw to it. No one had bothered locking doors before the war but things had changed since then.

Instinct told her not to betray her knowledge. Quietly she set down the coffeepot and opened a drawer as though looking for a spoon. Her hand closed over a paring knife and again she froze, listening hard, trying to decide whether she was having a wild flight of imagination or if there was someone there, standing on the other side of the pantry where the stairs began.

That was the only place where anyone could be, watching and waiting…

In a moment she would be gibbering with terror. Should she simply walk out of the room? Should she, even for an instant, place herself with her back to that shadowed alcove? There had been no sound and then she heard the faintest rustle, like clothes against a body that had made a slight move.

The kitchen was quite far removed from the rest of the house. If she screamed no one would hear her.

Clutching the small knife against the side of her right leg, she made herself turn. She could see the stairs; she could see the closed door of the pantry. But she could not see on the other side of it.

In the dim, wavering light she noticed the towel she had used earlier draped over the back of a chair and she moved toward it slowly, as though she were made of wood. If someone gave chase she would turn and throw the towel in his face and then she would run and scream until her lungs burst.

Mallory began to walk toward the opening to the long corridor. She had to turn slightly to reach with her left hand for the towel, and as she did so someone stepped from the alcove in front of her. She dropped the towel and almost dropped the knife…

Suddenly I didn’t like being alone in the vast, shining kitchen. I hurried out into the corridor, and all but ran past the dining room and the other adjoining rooms. My bare feet pattered on the hardwood floors, softened when I hit carpet, then pattered again. It was so quiet— where was everybody?

I had reached the foyer and was standing uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs when I got a very strange feeling, and almost felt my hair stand on end. Someone was standing nearby.

Someone was watching me.

I’d no sooner realized that than all the lights went out. I clutched at the banister as though it were a life preserver on the Titanic. I tried saying to myself, “Be calm—you’re in no danger, nobody wants to kill you!” But it’s hard to be reasonable in the pitch black where a near murder just occurred, and somebody is close to you and isn’t saying anything.

I heard a whisper of movement. It was enough to send me bolting in a blind panic down the hall. I felt my way along the walls until I came behind the stairs. There was a doorknob. I twisted it, thinking I’d found a closet, and tried to squeeze myself inside. My hand encountered a large, wobbly object, and I realized the room was too small to accommodate even my slight frame—slight as opposed to skinny, which is what certain people call me. Leaving the door open, I fled further down the hallway and darted into one of the larger rooms. I recognized a solid, black object as a big desk, and knew I was in the study. The window seat!

I could barely make out the curtains at the windows. Soundlessly, I scurried toward the window seat, opened it, and got inside. I had to lie on my side and bring my knees up almost to my chest. My heart was hammering so hard I couldn’t hear anything. I brought the heavy top down as softly as I could.

You’re being ridiculous, I told myself, but that didn’t stop my teeth from chattering. Again I thought, Nobody wants to kill me. I don’t know anything about what happened to Brianna, so nobody has any reason to want to hurt me.

My heartbeat began to slow a little. I thought I heard a quick rush of footsteps go down the hall, and my heart quickened again. But a long time went by and I heard nothing else. Then a little beam of light shining through a crack in the wood told me the electricity had come back on.

Still, I waited. I remembered a poem I’d read in one of the books I was always checking out of the school library, about a young bride of long, long ago who had teasingly hidden from her husband in an old chest. “And Lovell, be sure thou art first to trace, The clue to my secret lurking place”. The impulsive young woman hadn’t been able to get it open—and it was in a huge castle or something and the groom couldn’t find her, even though he had everybody in the place searching. Many years later, the brideless groom—or somebody—had opened the old trunk to find a skeleton wearing a wedding dress.

A cheery story for a kid’s book, I thought at the time.

What if I couldn’t open the window seat? Only the prospect of suffocating gave me the courage to raise the lid, barely enough to peek out.

Something scuttled across the road in front of me, vanishing into the snow-covered trees. Shapeless, hunched, almost as large as a person. I hit the brakes too hard and swung in a half-circle before sliding to a stop. I straightened the car and sat for a moment, listening to the reassuring sound of the wipers across the windshield. Through a veil of white, the headlights illuminated two stone walls flanking a long, meandering driveway, both walls engraved with a giant ‘V.’

I passed Chateau Valkenburg every day on my way to the clinic and was often tempted to turn down the driveway for a closer look. Barely visible from the road, the domed tower and narrow chimneys stood tall over naked treetops. Locals believed it was riddled with the ghosts of Valkenburg ancestors. Of course they’d say that.

But no closer look tonight. Not when some shadowy thing had crossed in front of me and might be standing or crouching among the trees, watching me. Watching secretly, furtively… I must be exhausted to even think such things! It was past midnight and I’d just delivered two babies in two hours, one of them an emergency C-section. That’s an emotional time for me. I always cry when babies are born. But emotional isn’t the same as fanciful. That, I have never been.