If that bothered Varus, he didn't show it. Corylus suspected it did bother him, simply from the fact that his friend never referred to the comments when the two of them were alone.

Tardus was the subject of similar comments, however. He was Saxa's elder by fifteen years and had a become a Commissioner of the Sacred Rites through a combination of seniority and interest. Unlike Pandareus' friend Atilius Priscus, however, Tardus was known for credulity rather than scholarship.

Saxa had shouted at Tardus in the aftermath of the chaos at the Temple of Jupiter, blaming him for what had happened. At the time, Corylus had thought that was a clever ploy: it had prevented others, particularly Commissioner Tardus, from looking closely at the role Saxa's own family had played in those events.

Now Corylus found himself wondering what Tardus remembered of that night. He wondered also who the strangers accompanying Tardus were, and why they stared so intently at Saxa and his family in the Tribunal. There might, of course, be no connection.

On stage, the "suppliant tribesmen" were kneeling, and the various sprites and spirits had frozen in their dance. Mercury faced the audience, one arm pointing back toward the gleaming pomp of Hercules.

For an instant the only things moving in the scene were the twisting heads of the three metal snakes which protruded from the boss of Hercules' shield. According to Hesiod, Vulcan's genius gave the serpents the semblance of life. Here in Carce, a clever midget hidden in the belly of the shield moved them.

"All hail our ruler, the master of Lusitania under the majesty of the gods!" Mercury boomed, a neatly turned compliment for Saxa framed in a fashion that would not offend the emperor. The latter had by reputation been paranoid when he was young and in good health; the rigors of age had not mellowed him.