Her skin glowed like a pearl; it was fair and yet rosy luminous. He caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes that tended toward the violet end of the spectrum. They were outlined by dark lashes that made it appear as if she wore liner, as the Egyptians had to emphasize their eyes. But for her, it was a natural occurrence, and such artifice would be unnecessary.

And her face… Her features were incredibly perfect, magnificent really, with a lush, dark pink mouth and a straight, delicately formed nose.

If her face was exquisite, one could hardly expect that her figure would match it with such perfection…but it did. And the clothing she wore, unusual garb that clung to every curve, including her bound breasts, displayed the fact that Narcise Moldavi was this millennia’s Helen of Troy: the face and figure that could launch a thousand ships.

The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.

So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn’t listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.

But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.

He turned to his host, intending to ask—and demand, if necessary—not to observe such an unmatched battle, but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. “Watch,” he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, “To the death.”

Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.