Another Way

All this rebirth in spring's festivity and spring's power bids us to rejoice; it shows us paths we know well, and in your springtime it is true and right to keep what is yours.

Love me faithfully! See how I am faithful: With all my heart and with all my soul, I am with you even when I am far away. Whosoever loves this much turns on the wheel [of Fortune].

Carmina Burana, "Primo Vere: Omnia Sol Temperat"

Via Appia, the Appian Way. A road ringing with history and military glory, cutting a sharp line across the Italian peninsula, from Rome to the sprawling port-city of Brundisium in the south. It was ironic, Livia reflected, that a road leading away from Rome should be bringing her closer to it with every step – closer to her goals with every click of her horse's hooves, with every beat of the drums. Livia, Empress of Rome. It had a music all its own.

She glanced up, taking in the familiar countryside – green meadows bright with morning dew, tall lines of trees, and between them, the dusty arrow of the Via Appia. Her legates rode a little way behind her, and the column of legionaries snaked after them, tapering into the distance.

Only one thing was missing: Ares. Of course, Ares wouldn't normally concern himself with these early stages of a campaign; he'd wait for battles, for blood. He had that luxury. He was obviously not going to turn up just for her. Livia found it thoroughly irritating that he had lost any interest he'd had in her as a woman ever since Semra's arrival... But on the other hand, she had no intention of becoming a notch on his immortal scoreboard. She was Livia, Champion of Rome, not a pretty toy to be used and discarded. He couldn't humiliate her.

In fact, Livia decided that there was a great deal of pleasure in the knowledge that she controlled what Ares so obviously desired: Semra. And, to add to the fun, it was equally obvious that Semra had absolutely no interest in him, beyond using him for her own purposes – and Livia was using them both! This campaign was shaping up wonderfully.

"Semra," Livia called over her shoulder. "Ride with me."

One set of hoofbeats became louder and quicker, and then Semra appeared at her right hand side, foreign-looking despite the Roman armour and the white horse.

"We'll be in Brundisium by nightfall," Livia said with some satisfaction. "We're making good time."

No reply was required, and Semra made none, simply acknowledging the news. Livia smiled, pleased. Over the two weeks of the march she had developed a grudging admiration for the woman. She'd proved herself both capable and experienced in the needs of an army – a boon, freeing Livia from the tedium of minor problems. She never wasted words, and the sharp mind behind those piercing eyes caught the essence of any plan almost before Livia could voice it. A pity she had to be handed back to the Amazons.

Livia squinted and pointed to a rocky hillock in the distance. "See that oak? The one with the split trunk, where lightning struck it."

"If you climbed it, you'd see all the way to the sea."

Livia turned, surprised. "Have you been here before?"

A slight smile touched Semra's eyes. "No. But I've always been good at reading the terrain." She took a slow breath. "And there's salt in the air. We're getting close."

Livia fell silent, remembering the holiday her family had dragged her on, and how the one relief from the endless dinner parties was Marcus's unexpected arrival. He had taken her up to the hill and she had climbed the tree and stared out to sea, listening to his old soldier's stories of foreign lands and barbaric tribes...

Aloud, she said, "We sail for Dyrrachium tomorrow, with the First legion. The others will follow, and then we march." She scrutinised Semra's drawn face, the wind flicking stray locks of black hair into her eyes. "Are you sure you're up to this, Amazon? Fighting for Rome?"

Semra's hands tightened on the reins, and Livia thrilled at the convulsive gesture. It was like taming an exotic and dangerous animal: never turn your back, stay in control. Oh, she was enjoying this immensely!

"It's not too late to back down," Livia said solicitously. "Of course, you understand I'd have to kill the child when she's found; she's part of our bargain. But you could always have another."

Fire flashed in Semra's eyes. "I will get my daughter back." Her low growl was barely audible against the hoofbeats. "Whatever the cost."

Livia turned a triumphant grin to the distant hill, with its pathetic broken tree, then looked back at Semra, rigid in the saddle.

"Vengeance, Semra. Remember what Rome is giving you, a chance to have your revenge on the people who took her away from you. Never lose sight of what you're fighting for."

Semra's posture eased marginally. "No," she said, "I'm fighting for a future."

"Your daughter's future with Rome."

Semra looked away. "My daughter's future."

* * *

She had known from the first that convincing the Amazons of her identity would be a struggle against the combined forces of common sense and superstition. Common sense said she could not be Gabrielle and look so young. Superstition said that she could, did, and had probably sold her soul to the appropriate deity for the privilege. Someone had even accused her of stealing their ritual ambrosia. Luckily, a few of the older women remembered her and believed her story, as close to the truth as she dared to tell them. Eve was dead, and she and Xena had been asleep for twenty-five years, saved by the power of Lao Ma back on that beach.

Well, 'believed' wasn't quite the word for it. More like were forced to accept it. And that, only after Gabrielle had subjected herself to a purification ritual to ward off evil spirits, and had then gone up against two Amazon warriors in hand-to-hand combat, proving beyond all doubt that she was only mortal. The bruises still hurt, and there was a barely-healed gash on her forehead, but at least she'd managed to convince them. She'd just had no idea that that would be the easy part.

She had been expecting to see her tribe, a generation older, but unchanged in every way that mattered. Now, that expectation seemed silly – why should the Amazons not change along with the rest of the world? And change they had.

Gabrielle looked about, still not quite able to believe it. Around her, on the circle of low stools set in a spacious, torch-lit meeting hut, sat about twenty other women. They looked as different from each other as was humanly possible while still remaining the same in essence: Amazon queens. Queens of distant Northern tribes in their tunics of embroidered deerskin; tribes from further South, with their traditional markings and beaded ornaments; tribes from the banks of the Herbrus, the Thermodon and the shores of the Euxine Sea; others Gabrielle had never even seen before... And her.

"Queen Gabrielle?" Marga's calm eyes rested on Gabrielle; she tried not to fidget.

"In attendance," she said, relieved at the even tone of her voice. Marga was one of the few who did remember her, though she had been only a child the last time Gabrielle had seen her. It was beyond strange to see her as a woman older and probably far wiser than herself. There was a serenity in Marga's deep brown eyes that Gabrielle could not help but envy.

"Queen Cyane?"

A blonde woman on her left, with gentle blue eyes and a button-small nose replied, "I'm here."

"Queen Prothoë?"

And so it went on, around the circle. Gabrielle clenched her hands in her lap, feeling a thousand times an impostor. Who was she to represent a tribe she barely knew? It was true that the law was on her side. She was their rightful queen; Marga had handed her the Mask of Queenhood by her own decision, and seemingly without rancour. But Marga's age meant that she had been nearing the end of her term as queen in any case. It was her protégé, Varia, who was suddenly deprived of the certainty of succeeding Marga as queen. Gabrielle could hardly blame Varia for not taking the news well. She sent a brief apologetic glance over her shoulder to the young dark-haired woman, seated behind her, outside the circle of chairs allotted to members of the Council. Varia's acknowledgement gave away nothing. Gabrielle turned back into the circle, sighing. Well, at least they'd let her attend.

Satisfied with the roll-call, Marga spoke. "Before we begin this meeting, I would like to caution you – sisters, this is not a war council." Gabrielle felt the others' curious eyes on her, but only nodded at Marga.

"Nor," Marga went on, "Is this the time and place to discuss tribal disputes." This time, her caution was directed past Gabrielle, at Varia. "My tribe has accepted Gabrielle as our rightful queen, having received her right of caste from Terreis, as confirmed by the late Regent-Queen Ephiny at the time of the coronation. With Gabrielle's consent, our former Queen-in-Waiting, Varia, retains the command of our warriors."

"We know all that," said a red-haired woman whom Gabrielle had heard addressed as Prothoë. She was too tall to sit comfortably on the stool, her long legs were crossed at the ankles in front of her, revealing winding patterns of henna on her calves and shins. "We have already welcomed Gabrielle as your queen," she said impatiently, "What we want to know is why you have called this council so soon after the last eclipse."

"And why not Gabrielle herself?" added Cyane, queen of one of the Northern tribes. She had an air of integrity that the others seemed to admire; certainly the other two Northern queens appeared to defer to her despite her youth.

Marga raised a hand for silence. "I've called this meeting on behalf of Queen Gabrielle, who is still familiarising herself with our new customs. She claims to have some important information which concerns not just our tribe, but every Amazon." Marga turned to her. "Gabrielle?"

There were murmurs of interest, and Gabrielle felt her mouth go dry. She had to get this right. She stood up, trying to make the motion appear fluid and dignified.

"Sisters," she began, "I am honoured to be given voice at this council, and to be accepted again as an Amazon queen. You already know how I come to be here, looking like this." She waved a hand over herself, smiling a little. "But I haven't come here to reclaim my title."

A surprised voice from one of the Thracians: "Why are you here, then?"

Gabrielle turned so that she could see the speaker: a middle-aged queen, black-haired and wiry. "I accepted this position in order to call this council. A great danger approaches, a danger to the whole Amazon nation."

Prothoë rolled her eyes. "Speak plainly, Gabrielle. We have no time for the poetic version."

"I'm speaking as plainly as I can," said Gabrielle pleasantly, irked by the woman's tone. "I come here from Rome." That bought her total silence. Gabrielle studied each stunned look. "Not just from Rome – but from the Roman army."

"An army?" breathed Prothoë, all insolence gone from her voice.

"Four legions of veteran troops, blooded in Gaul and Germania. Marching across Italy even as we speak, in our direction."

Someone cursed. Others just shook their heads. "If it is as you say," said one of the women finally, "They can be here less than two eclipses from now."

"Exactly." Gabrielle exhaled in relief – they were taking it seriously. Truthfully, she added, "There were rumours in Rome about an attack on the Amazons." She hoped it sounded like a good enough reason for her supposed spying efforts. "Xena and I saw the preparations and enlisted. Xena is trying to turn them back, but it's not an easy task: she needs time – time we have to give her. If we help her, she can succeed."

"How certain are you that their goal is the Amazon territories?" asked Cyane with a frown. "They may be on the move to replace the garrisons on the eastern borders of the Empire."

"Which are getting a little too close for comfort these days," Marga lamented, sitting down on her stool on Gabrielle's right. "I say there is every chance that Gabrielle is correct. The Romans are coming."

Gabrielle shot her a grateful look, before continuing her speech. "I swear to you on my right of caste that I'm speaking the truth. I came here as soon as I knew..." Her knees were weak, she sat down.

Why hadn't she finished the words she'd prepared? She was supposed to ask them to retreat into the forests, to safety! If Xena could not stop the attack before the Romans reached the Amazon territories, the plan was to persuade Livia that a drawn-out campaign in the forests was against her interests. But if they wouldn't retreat... Gabrielle stole a glance at Varia behind her. The woman remained silent. A torch behind her turned her glossy dark hair bronze, hiding her eyes. When they wouldn't retreat, Gabrielle amended to herself.

"We must decide on a course of action," said Marga when the exclamations had subsided into a low anxious hum. "But whatever the decision, it has to be made for the entire nation. If we are to face Rome, we must do so as one."

"How much do you know of their strategy?" Cyane asked Gabrielle, and others nodded, pleased by the question. "Were you able to copy any battle plans?"

Gabrielle shook her head, "No. But I saw... enough. Their maps are out of date, the Romans haven't heard about the tribes uniting." And if they had, she thought, her and Xena's plan might have been different... Should have been different. It was no longer the might of the Romans against a few scattered tribes. This was a nation, a warlike nation that probably commanded a combined army no smaller than the four legions marching towards it – and in all likelihood, much larger.

And now that the shock was wearing off, they were getting angry.

Gabrielle gulped, wishing she'd had a way to send a message to Xena before calling the council. Asking these women to retreat from their land suddenly seemed about as clever as politely asking the Romans to go home, and about as likely to succeed.

"I'm not a queen, but I do lead the warriors of my tribe."

Varia spoke up for the first time; all eyes turned to her. Gabrielle moved her seat out of the way as Varia strode past her and into the centre of the circle. Was that what she was supposed to have done? Too late now.

Varia turned slowly, looking at each woman in turn.

"I'm not afraid," she said, "And neither should be any of you." Her voice rose, gathering strength, and a hard glint appeared in her dark eyes. "What are four Roman legions against the might of the Amazon nation? The great Roman Empire fears us enough to try to bring us to our knees." She shot Marga a jubilant look and her voice soared. "We knew it would happen sooner or later! So let's show them that they are right to fear us. Are we going to meekly wait for them to come to us? For Xena to rescue us, like a bunch of helpless villagers? No! No Roman will set foot on our lands. If we combine our forces, Rome will fall before us. Against the Amazon nation, Rome is nothing!" She raised her fists – "Strength to the Amazon nation!"

There was a pause, then – "Strength to the Amazon nation!" someone shouted, and within moments, the chant had engulfed the tent. Gabrielle looked around the beaming faces in the red torchlight, frantically trying to work out how to stop this, how to prevent a war, but it was too late – even Marga had joined in the battle call now – "Strength to the Amazon nation! Death to Rome!" – and Gabrielle knew she had lost. They would never contend themselves with fortifications and strategic retreats. No war of defence was going to satisfy them now.

She looked at Varia, and was surprised by how calm the Amazon seemed underneath the shouts. She'd been waiting for this, Gabrielle realised. This was her chance at glory. She wanted to defeat this Roman army – but what then? How far would Varia go?

Gabrielle summoned all her strength and stood up. She took a breath and pitched her voice to carry over the shouts. "I'd like to speak!"

She waited for something approximating silence, trembling in the charged atmosphere. Careful now... "I agree with Varia," she said slowly, "We must join forces – every tribe's warriors, formed into a combined army." She weighed up the nods of approval, then plunged in. "Sisters, I ask you for command of our army. I know Rome. I can lead us to victory."

Almost before the words were out, Varia was shouting over her – "As do I! Are you going to give command of this war to a newcomer, a woman who knows nothing of our customs? I can win this war for all our sisters!"

"Silence!" snapped Marga, also rising from her seat.

All noise ceased. The tension in the air thickened until Gabrielle was fighting for each breath. If she could not prevent this war, she had to control it, it was her one and only chance. Varia's fists were clenched, but she did not move from her spot in the centre. Gabrielle met her gaze and remained where she was.

Marga said, "Varia is a fine war-leader. But she is not a queen, nor is she familiar with the Romans and their ways – indeed, none of us are. To win this war, we must think like the enemy." Apologetically, she added to Gabrielle, "We can't rely on Xena to save us. We must fight our own battles."

"Tradition says that a queen must lead us in war," said the red-haired Prothoë. Gabrielle tensed under her scrutiny, but did not flinch. There was no way back now.

Prothoë continued, "It's your tribe's turn to lead the Council, Marga, so by law it is your Queen's command. But if your warriors" – she nodded at Varia – "don't think Gabrielle is up to the task, you could always forfeit to another tribe." The other Amazons muttered agreements, heads bent to whisper together, appraising eyes on Gabrielle. Prothoë gestured around the circle. "Any of us would be pleased to assume command."

Gabrielle returned the woman's probing stare with steel she had not realised she possessed. "I may not have spent my life in the Amazon lands, Prothoë, but I am a true Amazon. I'm an outsider, not a foreigner – but I understand foreigners; Romans. I came here ready to do anything I had to do to save my tribe, and my people." She spoke over the lump in her throat. "I still am."

The pressure eased visibly; Prothoë backed down and the others looked at Gabrielle with a new respect. Gabrielle allowed herself a slow breath. "Varia has experience with leading Amazon warriors," she said. Varia looked up sharply at the mention of her name. Gabrielle smiled a little and went on, "And she was instrumental in uniting the tribes with Marga. I can think of no one better to share my command. If, that is, she'll accept the post."

Varia's scowl softened into disbelief at first – then something like appreciation. Gabrielle looked at her in a hopeful question, and Varia nodded fractionally, the corners of her mouth tight. "I accept," she said.

Gabrielle stepped forward and clasped hands with Varia, raising their arms in salute. "Strength to the Amazon nation!" she shouted – and then everyone was on their feet, taking down torches from the walls, cheering with them. "Strength to the Amazon nation! Death to Rome!"

* * *

Ares was beginning to feel invisible. Oh, he was invisible, but he'd never really felt it before, not around Xena. She rode with Livia at the head of the largest army this side of the Adriatic, staring dead ahead as though she could already see the docks of Brundisium over the horizon. Behind the horses, the column marched through bright spring countryside, raising thick clouds of white dust that shone in the noon sunlight. The clouds made Xena look like a Valkyrie; a stern-faced warrior riding across the sky, splendid and cold in the thunder of hoofbeats. Ares didn't know how she managed to look so distant when he was right there beside her, close enough to lead her horse by the reins. The infuriating thing was that she did sense his presence, he could tell from the careful way she avoided so much as a glance in his direction. She'd been doing it since the night he took Gabrielle to the Amazons. Perhaps he had been a tad overzealous in trying to get her to reconsider the one-night deal, he thought grudgingly – but what was he supposed to do? Wait until she died again?

He drove himself crazy just watching Xena ignore him. He'd heard of the poor sucker in Hades who was doomed to spend eternity tormented by hunger and thirst, standing in a stream that would recede the moment he bent to drink, surrounded by fruit trees that would raise their branches the moment he reached up for an apple. This was worse. Much worse. He had the memories of Xena in his arms; the hot sweetness of her mouth and the tickle of her hair falling against his cheek, the sparkle in her eyes as she drew back to let him watch her – so beautiful she took away his breath. He recalled her sigh when she'd slept beside him afterwards and he stroked her hair, filled with the delicious fear that she could wake and catch him at it. With a pang, he recalled the moment he first saw her at the bacchanalia, when the veil fell from her face and their eyes met, and he knew with dizzying certainty that it was no fantasy, that it was real: Xena was back.

Not that it made any difference. She kept looking right through him.

Ares fell back to walk alongside the Roman horse, then lifted his hand to touch the back of Xena's leg. His fingers skimmed her warm bare skin, from the edge of the saddle to her boot. Xena did not move. He could have been a ghost.

He'd kept his promise to back up her story, he even took Gabrielle to the Amazons as an added bonus. And this was the thanks he got? Ares moved away and let the horses pass him. To Tartarus with it! If Xena wanted to ignore him, that was fine by him; two could play that game. Besides, he had an advantage. Xena wanted to see Gabrielle. He didn't – but he could.

Irritably, the God of War transported himself to the Amazon lands.

When she was certain he was gone, Xena loosened her grip on the reins, cautiously letting down the barriers in her mind, trying to relax. She took a deep breath. Ares was doing a damn good job of trying to wear her down: staying beside her, filling her awareness, forcing her thoughts to return to him again and again. She could not ignore him.

She had a wild impulse to call him back. To ask how Gabrielle was doing. Not for the first time, Xena decided against it.

* * *

The Amazon village was alive. That was Ares' overriding impression the moment he found himself there. When he'd seen it last, the place had been little more than collection of dusty brown huts, a crudely dug well, and a couple of practice rings where Amazons like Varia could pummel each other to their hearts' content. Now, it looked more like the headquarters of an army. Amazons scuttled back and forth, looking invariably busy and preoccupied. The meeting hut had been dismantled; in its place stood a large five-sided tent, cured hides stretched over a wooden framework. The walls tapered up to a peak at the centre of the roof, where a red-and-green banner was raised. It was probably supposed to sail in the wind heroically instead of flapping weakly in the midday warmth like it did, but the idea was definitely there. The Amazon nation had become a reality. And, judging from the aggressively temporary structures peppering the former village, it would not be long before this reality was on the move.

To one side of the command tent, a few dozen Amazons wearing plain brown armour were sparring in a fenced-off clearing strewn with sawdust. Some fought with staffs or blunted swords, others practiced hand-to-hand. Ares watched them for a moment, then stepped into the ring.

He walked unseen among the sparring women, only half-listening to the sounds of wood connecting with flesh, the jeers, and the grunts of effort. The urgency of purpose in their movements was like a tantalising scent, reminding him of the power of battles. He watched a tall middle-aged Amazon with hard eyes parry the sloppier strikes of two younger women. Their staffs collided, creaking and shuddering briefly before flying apart again. "Again!" the elder Amazon ordered, and lunged. Ares wondered what Xena would do if he showed her this.

"Sisters!"

Ares glanced up along with the Amazons to the source of the voice. It took him another moment to convince himself that the woman he saw was Gabrielle, framed by the doorway of the command tent. She wore close-fitting armour of fine reddish leather, beaded and ornamented Amazon-style. Blood-dark lines angled along her cheekbones, two on each side of her face – war signs. Her hair was tied back in a multitude of short thin braids that sat close to her scalp, a few criss-crossed with leather twine and beads. She held what Ares at first thought looked suspiciously like a turkey driven over by a cart, with inky feathers sticking out in all directions. When Gabrielle came closer, Ares realised it was the Mask of Queenhood.

The training ceased, staffs clattering, backs straightening up.

"Sisters." Gabrielle jumped over the barrier into the ring, landing lightly in the trampled sawdust. "I need scouts to go south, to check the way to Themiscyra."

"I'll go," several voices came at once, and others joined them. There were quick exchanged queries, scouting parties forming spontaneously. Gabrielle walked around, selecting volunteers, thanking them. Under the war-paint, her face was pinched and pale.

Ares left her to it. He felt unaccountably annoyed, given that this war was going better than he could have dreamed. Once in the white-hot vortex of aether, he floated for a moment, gritting his teeth against the swirling tug of it on his body, eyes shut to its brightness. The aether fought his indecision, wanting to take him somewhere, to dislodge the intruder. Where did he want to be?

He could go to Xena. Ares steadied himself when that thought nearly landed him there. He could go to Xena. If she wanted to see Gabrielle, he'd show her Gabrielle – and the Amazons, the united tribes, the unmistakable signs of a nation readying for war instead of the planned retreat?..

No. He couldn't show her Gabrielle.

Besides, Ares decided, he had other things to do. Like Xena had said – this wasn't part of the deal.

He snapped his hold on the aether, and opened his eyes.

* * *

The brightness faded, leaving him in the dim interior of a large, dusty tower room. The walls were of massive grey stones set close-seamed in the old way, and hung with thick, moth-eaten tapestries of ancient battles. Sunlight slanted in through narrow high windows, smoke and ash particles swirling visibly where they passed through the light. There were muffled sounds coming from outside; far below, someone was screaming, and fire-arrows hissed and thudded into wood and flesh. The windows were too high for observation, but Ares didn't need them. He felt the battle inside him, the awareness of it a familiar weight in his body. Someone was taking the city.

He was about to go down to check out the action, when the tapestries caught his eye. Those things took serious liberties with history, he thought, coming closer to peer at the stylised, angular depictions of amber-on-black warriors in various stages of undress. He did not recall the Battle of Corinth being fought in the buff. Why did artists always do that, anyway? He made a mental note to rib Athena about it someday – weaving was, after all, her thing.

One of the figures made him pause. There was something familiar in the turn of the woman's woven face as she raised a spear, and in her dark, flowing hair. Xena? Ares felt his heart speed up, an unaccustomed burning in his face. He realised with astonishment that it angered him, thinking that others could see this tapestry and assume that they knew her, that she had been just some barbarian, riding into battle naked. He'd have to set it straight. But how many other tapestries were there? And how many more would be there after she was gone – really gone? The time would come when he'd be the only one left who could remember her the way she really was...

Ares pointed at the tapestry and torched it. It left a smoking black circle on the wall. Around it, the last few singed threads fluttered in confusion and drifted slowly to the floor, before being flung upwards in a sudden draught.

He turned just in time to see the heavy wooden door swing open.

"Mavican," he greeted the blonde armed woman who halted on the threshold in surprise. "Long time, no see."

In fact, he had no idea how many years had passed since their first and last meeting. Probably four or five, though she hadn't had her own army then – just a band of thugs with nothing to do and no combat skills to speak of. They hadn't exactly been a memorable experience, and with her wild hair, painted eyes and near-constant sneer, neither had Mavican. From what Ares could see, she hadn't changed a bit.

But at least Mavican didn't dare ignore him.

Her grey eyes darted to the charred wall behind him. Nonchalantly, Ares plucked a burnt thread from his vest and flicked it to the floor. "I've been ... appreciating your newly acquired art collection. I trust you don't object to losing the Battle of Corinth."

Mavican's uncertainty turned into a knowing smirk; she sauntered towards him, hips swinging in her short tunic of black leather. "Object to it?" She was practically purring. "Not at all; Ares – I'm flattered! When years ago the legendary Xena lost that battle, she won your alliance. I knew you'd want history to repeat itself one day. That tapestry's been on its way out from the moment I saw it. It's time the Warrior Princess made way for the new generation."

"I wouldn't write her off yet."

Mavican shot him a startled glance. "Xena's been dead for years."

Ares cursed himself – of course, she could not know! Well, he wasn't going to enlighten her. "Xena lives on in the pages of history," he said smoothly, looking solemn.

"History is written by the victors. That is why I'm writing my own." Mavican's sneer grew a shade more obvious, "Even Xena didn't think of that."

Ares eyed her impassively as she eased herself closer. "No, Xena relied on her bard."

"And I'll only rely on you," Mavican promised huskily, taking another step forward. "Xena didn't have the guts to reach out and take everything you offered her. I do."

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

"Hardly. This," she flicked a hand at the bare room, "this is just a start. Next, I'm marching on Athens. Then Corinth, Sparta, Mycenae... I'm not just going to surpass Xena, I'm going to destroy her. She did some good work, but..." Mavican looked him in the eye, a direct invitation. "I'm not Xena."

He wanted her suddenly, badly, wanted to crush her and mark her and make her scream. "You're right," he said, and pushed her back against the charred wall, smudging her coarse blonde hair black. He picked a blackened strand and stroked it, so that Mavican shuddered in delight. Then he entangled his fingers in her hair and yanked it down, raising her face to his.

"You're not Xena," he said – and kissed her.

But it didn't help.

Neither Mavican with her ambitions of ruling Greece, nor any of the hundreds of minor wars around the Aegean and Asia Minor could keep him occupied. He gave up on Mavican after two nights; her pale soft curves only served to remind him acutely of Xena's lithe body and honey-warm skin, and bedding her was a sophisticated torture of comparisons. When he went to check on other warlords and other wars, the awareness of Rome and the Amazons became a constant pressure in his mind, like a humming noise that would not cease, and he found he could not keep his attention on the field.

Only once did he manage to forget all about Xena. Ironically, it happened because of her – or rather, because of Mavican's unrelenting obsession with her destiny to take Xena's place at his side. At first, Ares was only aware of a new battle starting, somewhere in the vicinity of Athens. It was not particularly promising, and he probably would not have paid it any more attention if he had not heard a woman's shrill cry, proclaiming herself as his chosen warrior.

Irritated by her presumption, Ares transported himself to the battlefield, choosing a barren outcrop of red stone as his vantage point – and found Mavican, sporting the colours of a general and busy giving orders to an army larger by far than anything he remembered her commanding. Clearly, their failed interlude had only fuelled her determination. To Ares' surprise, she was actually doing well; better than well – she was winning. The battle had turned in her favour, and while she did not have the style or the grace of a superb commander, she was more than holding her own against the Athenian troops. It was near noon; the sun beat down mercilessly, drenching every man in sticky sweat and slicking sword-hilts, but Mavican's army advanced and advanced, while the Athenians continued to lose ground, leaving behind arrow-pierced corpses, like debris from a retreating tide.

Ares was so engrossed in this unexpected turn of events that the arrival of reinforcements surprised him alsmost as much as it surprised Mavican. The Mycenean army attacked her troops from the rear, striking unerringly at the weakest sections of her defences, spreading panic. Peering into the glare of steel, Ares saw that they were led by Ilainus. He sighed. Of course, how could Athena's Champion let her goddess's city be threatened? And just as things promised to get interesting!

The Myceneans wrapped up Mavican with apparent ease; her battle-weary men were no match for Ilainus' fresh troops, and the Athenians' fighting ability seemed to have lifted with their spirits. Squeezed between two aggressively advancing fronts, Mavican's men simply threw down their weapons and ran, trampling each other in the haste. It was a rout. But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part came after that, when the Myceneans and the Athenians had joined in triumph and Ares saw the telltale gold flash that left Athena standing beside Ilainus. He realised only a moment later that his sister remained invisible to all other eyes. The goddess and her Champion talked like equals among thousands of oblivious mortals, and Ares felt he could not look away. What was between them excluded all others. Then Athena lifted her hand to stroke Ilainus' face, and the mortal caught her hand and kissed it with such obvious, unfeigned hunger that Ares fled to Olympus and threw himself into his throne, feeling sour and lonely and angry with all the world. And the worst part was that he missed Xena, worse than ever before.

That night, the first of the Roman fleet reached the port of Dyrrachium.

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