For The Good Of The Nation

Thou, though, O Roman, consider as thy task the ruling of nations,
This be thine art: to found and to foster a law that is peaceful,
Sparing the vanquished and vanquishing any who dare oppose thee.

Virgil, "Aeneid"

Xena and Livia stood together on the terrace of a nobleman's villa, its white marble a brilliant contrast to the blue sea that opened before it, and the endlessly clear sky above. A stiff breeze blew salt into Xena's face, but she had no wish to go indoors and face the nobleman's gaggle of curious guests. There was too much to think about.

The sea passage had been short and uneventful, just as Livia had predicted. The Adriatic was calm this time of year, and the transports sailing from Brundisium had deposited the first legion of Roman troops in Dyrrachium harbour without any difficulties. Now all Livia had to do was wait for the remainder of the army to be ferried across, and she had spared no effort in commanding all the available ships to this end. When Brundisium could not yield enough transports, extra ships had been brought around from the port of Tarentum, and a number of merchant vessels in port had been borrowed for the use of the army.

It was this 'borrowing' that currently occupied Xena's mind. She turned to look at her daughter. Livia had shaded her eyes with a hand, watching the sails on the horizon. She was unarmed, dressed in pale flowing robes and sandals, just as Xena herself was – here, in this house, they were simply guests. Armour belonged on the field. The other officers lodged with less prominent nobles, and the bulk of the legion contended itself with inns. Sure, it was nothing out of the ordinary – an army stationed in a city, the high command lodging with a Roman citizen... No more extraordinary than, say, taking a merchant's ship and using it to transport soldiers, without regard for how it might disrupt his trade. But of course, 'Semra' had no reason to object. Not for the first time, Xena wondered if she could have found a different role.

Livia sensed Xena's eyes on her and turned, blinking quickly to dispel the glare of the sea. "Is something wrong?"

Xena realised she had been frowning and smiled ruefully. "No."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a really bad liar?"

"Yes," Xena replied, straight-faced, "Constantly." If she only knew...

Livia laughed, briefly, before the slight frown of impatience returned to her face. She indicated the horizon – "I hate waiting. Almost as much as I hate villas. Do you like villas, Semra?"

"Can't say I'm all that familiar with them," Xena shrugged. She looked around the marble balcony, and pretended she could not recall the villas of Rome. "I prefer the tents of an army."

"You and me both." Livia leaned on the parapet, staring out to sea. "I was brought up in one, you know. A huge sprawling mansion. I imagined storming it as a child."

"You've always wanted to be a warrior?"

"Of course."

Xena felt like she was walking on shifting sand whenever their conversations drifted in this direction – always, there was the fear that Livia would snap back from the offered friendship, would close up again. Every step was tiny, rare, and so slow that Xena was starting to despair.

"Do you miss it?" she asked tentatively. "Home?"

A crooked smile changed Livia's profile. "No." She looked back at Xena from behind wind-tousled hair with birdlike curiosity. "Do you?"

Xena decided to take a risk. "Some things," she said, sifting through her memory of Amazon lands to find the things that would appeal to Livia. Livia had lived her life in what Rome called 'civilisation' – and apparently hated it. So...

"The smell of fires," Xena said, "the dances. The forest at night – it has a life of its own, and you learn to listen to it. Bird calls, the sounds of burrowing animals, the faces of the moon. How to run through dry undergrowth without making a noise. How to catch a rabbit with nothing but your hands."

She saw the change in Livia's expression – a tiny hint of envy – but in the next instant, her daughter smirked, "And how to wage war in the forests, with ambushes and traps."

"That's right." Xena hid her disappointment. "Every Amazon knows her tribe's land. I know them all."

"Excellent," Livia turned around and leaned back on her elbows, lifting her face to the sun. "I'm counting on you, Semra. You won't let me down?" The question was a little too pleasant.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Provided I know my daughter is safe before we attack."

"Naturally." Livia did not move. "You have so much potential, Amazon – but you're too sentimental. Your child is your weakness."

Xena did not hesitate. "My child is my strength."

Livia smiled slowly at the sky. "Or mine. Because you'll never fight for Rome, for all your tough talk. You're fighting for Eve."

"I won't deny it."

"Don't. I wouldn't believe you." The smile on Livia's face did not change, but it faded from her voice. "I pity you, Semra. But I envy your daughter."

Xena lost her breath and the world flashed into brightness – not tears. She cradled the fluttering hope inside her and forced herself back into her role. There was only Semra and her child. "Have you had any news of her?"

Livia closed her eyes to the sun's warmth. "Last I heard, your friend – Jana? – was still looking." She opened her eyes reluctantly and turned to Xena. "I'm sure Ares will let me know as soon as she's found."

"I ... thank you."

So Ares was keeping his word, playing along. Somehow, that was unnerving. Xena wondered if perhaps she should have talked to him during the march across Italy after all – but then, what would've been the point? He'd just keep trying to use Gabrielle as a pawn, knowing how badly Xena longed for news of her. Besides, there was nothing to say. Even if Ares had not set out to corrupt Eve, but he'd been there, for twenty-five years. He'd been there. He could have seen her grow up, if only he'd wanted to. She could not.

"He loves you, you know."

Xena jumped. Livia was grinning at her as though she had just won a particularly funny bet. Xena hoped she looked relaxed. "Who?"

Livia's grin broadened. "Don't play a fool, Semra, it doesn't suit you." She took the ends of her scarf and busied her hands with draping it over her shoulders. "Every time I mention you, Ares gets this eager look in his eyes." She flicked the scarf back; the wind snatched it up. "I make sure I've always got something to say about you. It's the most fun I've had in years."

Xena had no time to wonder what the mocking tone hid – there was a noise like crashing waves inside the house, and then a storm of shouting rising in volume, coming upstairs. Without needing to exchange a glance, she and Livia sprinted for the door to the terrace, no longer a nobleman's guests but the commanders of an army.

Someone wrenched open the door just as they got to it – Rufus, a young tribune. He saluted Livia hastily, his face flushed under a scattering of freckles.

"General," he gasped, "You must come, at once!"

Livia squeezed past him into the house, Xena followed. Inside, the airy room was full of well-dressed people, their flustered host trying in vain to propel them out of his house, waving pudgy hands.

"All right, what is going on here?"

The crowd stilled.

Xena marvelled at the transformation in Livia. The catlike game of fanning and retracting claws was gone completely, what remained was iron efficiency and the presence of a born commander. Xena wished it didn't make her feel so damn proud.

Livia nodded at Rufus in the ringing silence of the room. "Report."

Rufus gulped. "The townsfolk... There was a fight, a – brawl, I guess, with some of our men." The next words came out in a rush – "They've stabbed a centurion from the Second... Marcus Sergius."

Livia's face turned to chalk. Xena looked from the silently flinching Rufus to her daughter's frightening, emotionless features. Whatever this was about was more than just a tavern brawl.

"He's the only one hurt," Rufus added hopefully, "And we've caught them all, they didn't run far. It wasn't his fault... They were shouting things about us – you know how folk get after a drink too many."

Livia's lips moved. "Bring him in."

Someone from the back of the room spoke up. "He's downstairs, in the atrium."

Livia elbowed her way through the crowd, Xena following with Rufus, who looked thoroughly miserable. Xena caught his shoulder, "What's going on?"

He shook his head. "Gonna be blood," was all he'd say.

Livia took the stairs two at a time, the silk of her dress flying behind her. The humming crowd descended the stairs in their wake and dispersed through the giant frescoed atrium. There was a red velvet couch in the centre, the hulk of a man in Roman armour sprawled awkwardly on it.

"Everyone out," Livia ordered, turning around. She was no longer pale, but her eyes looked empty. "Rufus, fetch a physician. Semra! Open the doors to the garden, this place is stuffier than a Cornelian crypt."

Grateful for the intervention, the owner of the villa finally managed to usher his guests out of the house; Rufus slipped outside in their midst. The atrium grew silent very quickly. Xena flung open the doors to the peristyle garden, letting in flower-scented air. She turned back to where the stricken man was laid out on the couch – and knew the physician would be too late.

The man – Marcus – looked stocky and hardened, tanned in the way leather could be; he was probably in his fifties, though with the sharpened, waxy features, it was becoming hard to tell. Livia was kneeling beside him, fingernails digging into the edge of the couch.

Xena crouched at the man's feet, mentally tallying wounds. A knife – a blunt one – had gone into his side and stomach; dark, foul-smelling blood welled, but did not flow. Something else, wide and heavy, had smashed his left knee into a useless red mass, white bone shards jutting out at sickening angles. Nothing she could do. He had – an hour, two... But the dismay Xena felt was nothing compared to the restrained horror on Livia's face. Not a lover, surely?

"Li... Livilla," Marcus whispered harshly, every sound a visible effort.

Livia nodded quickly, taking his hands, rubbing them as though trying to warm him. "It's all right," she said a little awkwardly, "I've sent for a physician."

The whites of Marcus' eyes were bloodshot, the eyes losing focus, but Xena thought they must have held laughter before this. "Silly girl..." he said with a grimace that tried to be a smile, "You know I ... hate ph... physicians."

Livia made a sound partway between a laugh and a sob. Marcus shut his eyes. For a few moments there was nothing save the hiss of his laboured breathing. Then – "They say things about you, Livilla..." He winced and Livia's hands tightened on his. "Bitch of Rome," he muttered, "Br... Brutal... Ruthless..."

Livia made no response.

"Lies!" Marcus barked suddenly, so unexpectedly that both Xena and Livia flinched. "Lies..." he repeated in whisper, his yellowish face contorted with pain. He opened his eyes, and a tear spilled across his craggy cheek, following the white line of a scar. "I told them," he said urgently, "I did... But you tell them ... your... yourself..."

Only then did he seem to notice Xena. "Amazon...?"

"Semra," Livia confirmed, motioning for Xena to come closer, where he could see her easier. "My senior legate."

Life flooded back into Marcus, he tried to move, then groaned. "Another... Another Amazon... Blonde, kind eyes..."

Her heart beating in her throat, Xena said, "Yes; my friend." What could he know of Gabrielle? Had he met her while they were preparing to march from Rome?

"Tell her," he whispered, "Say, Marcus said... No hard feelings."

"I will." Xena returned Livia's blank look. "I promise."

"Good. Livilla – here..." Marcus raised a trembling hand to his forehead. Livia leaned over and kissed his head. Xena could barely make out the next words, they drifted like breaths. "No hard feelings?"

Livia shook her head, leaning against his forehead.

They remained like that for a long time: Livia leaning against Marcus, Xena kneeling beside them, knowing there was nothing she could do for either. Marcus's breaths remained shallow and harsh. Finally, Livia looked up. Her eyes widened slightly, then she scowled, "Why are you still here?"

In response, Xena saluted and turned to go, aware that she had witnessed something never meant for her eyes. She got no further than three steps; the front door swung open and Rufus returned with a frail, dark-robed man in tow.

"The physician?" he said.

Livia turned to the two of them stiffly, as though her joints had frozen solid. "Tend to him." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the couch. The physician scuttled in the direction indicated. Ignoring Xena's look, Livia turned a hard stare at Rufus. She did not raise her voice; when she spoke, it was gentle and almost kind.

"Bring me the men who did this."

* * *

They did not look like murderers. One dark-haired and muscular, in his late twenties or early thirties, with the look of a farmer about him; another who also looked like a farmer, but was taller and broader than the first, with wide-set eyes and a crop of blonde hair. Judging by his clothes and neat haircut, the third man was a local – elderly and stooped, certainly not the type Xena would imagine as the star of a drunken brawl in a cheap inn.

The men stood a little unsteadily in front of a large fountain, their hands tied behind their backs. The washerwomen who usually swarmed around it had been chased off, and the sculpted satyrs chasing water-nymphs had a desolate look, as though they wished they could turn away, but were tied to the spot by the gurgling water. Each of the accused was flanked by two Roman guards, who watched them with wary eyes. The crowd in the crossroads and the adjoining streets buzzed, appreciating the tableau, more curious than sympathetic.

From her place at the front with the other officers, Xena watched Livia approach the three prisoners, blazing red in her cloak and armour against the white-grey street. She turned her back to them.

"People of Dyrrachium!" she cried in a clear, modulated voice. The noise died down marginally as people listened. "Rome has given your city life; Rome has made your city prosperous and secure. She gave you wealth from trade and legionaries to protect it! What answer do you have for these three, who consider themselves above such things as peace and prosperity?" The crowd began to buzz again, louder now, intrigued. Livia continued. "Ingrates! They dared to speak treason against Rome – and killed a Roman centurion!"

Xena looked over her shoulder: the people were getting visibly agitated, nudging each other, looking at the three men by the fountain as something peculiar – the way, Xena realised, they looked at gladiators in the arena. Admiring, involved, and completely indifferent.

"The murder of a Roman soldier is a hideous crime," Livia cried, "It is more than the murder of a man! It is an attack on Rome herself. These men attacked Rome in your city – Rome the protector, Rome who has given you life! So I want to know, people of Dyrrachium – do they have your support?"

"No!" called out someone from the crowd, and the voice was joined by others, some frightened of the soldiers in their midst, others only thrilled that this show called for audience participation. "No!"

Livia waited for a few moments, scanning the crowd. "Then the city of Dyrrachium remains loyal to Rome?"

"Yes!" cried the crowd, enjoying itself immensely. "Long live Augustus Caesar! Long live Livia, Fortuna's champion!"

Unexpectedly, Xena recalled something Caesar had once said, in that laughing, condescending tone of his, when she had asked him, naively, how he planned to control the empire of his dreams. I'll give them bread and circuses.

"Cowards!" The thickset blonde prisoner barked the word, loud enough to snap through the air. The other two men on either side of him looked terrified, but he went on. "Cowards, all of you!" The guards glanced at Livia for orders, but her eyes were turned to the prisoner, her face expressionless. The crowd fell utterly silent, all ears straining to catch the man's words over the sound of the fountain.

"You're hailing this monster as your saviour!" he screamed, his face turning red with the effort, his blonde hair almost invisible on his pink scalp. "I say, Rome is no saviour at all, and neither is its army! Who'll protect us from Rome? Who'll protect us when the legions come and take our livelihood? No one! Remember Caesar and Pompey? Remember? Rome never changes, it can't change! It will always fights its wars on our soil, it will always be our people's heads on the stakes and our children in the graves! The legions marched through my village, took our crops and left us to starve – so that Rome the protector could eat! So the Rome the benevolent could worship its Champion!"

He lurched forward, but the guards held him back. Xena saw a coldness welling in Livia's face, setting it into the terrible beauty of anger – a look Xena knew so well that an answering pain hit her. She knew what was coming.

"So go on, oh people of Dyrrachium," screamed the prisoner mockingly, harshly, "surrender to the Bitch of Rome!"

Livia backhanded him, casually. He slumped back against his guards, dark blood trickling from his nose onto his tunic. The crowd grew very still. The man looked up at Livia from under his brows, stubborn hatred ignited into fury by the pain.

"What about the two of you?" Livia asked the other prisoners affably. "Do you agree with your friend?"

The young dark-haired man turned his face aside. The elderly man trembled, looking from one to the other of his companions. "I didn't..." he began, then tried again – "I tried to stop them!"

"Did you really?" Livia said. "I do regret your failure, then, old man. I'm sure your two friends regret it even more."

The dark-haired man looked up at that, and said – "I regret nothing."

Livia smiled. "Not yet."

To Xena's surprise, the young man's face cleared, as though he no longer had anything to lose. "No," he said, "I do regret something. I regret that your blood will never avenge the wife or mother your army murdered – and I'll never have the chance to hear you squeal like a pig under my knife, the way your old centurion squealed!"

There was a pause so silent that even the fountain seemed to have stopped. Then, Livia clicked her fingers, and a guard handed her a whip. The old prisoner cried out, and the blonde man tried to spit in Livia's direction – long red-tinged drool that hung from his mouth instead of reaching its target.

"Hold him down!" Livia commanded, and the guards grabbed handfuls of the young prisoner's dark hair and forced him to his knees, ripping back his tunic. The crowed roared – or maybe it was the blood in Xena's temples, it was becoming hard to tell the difference... Maybe there was none.

The whip came down in rhythmic cracks against the exposed flesh of the man's back, licking away shreds of skin, until his curses became shrieks and Xena could see nothing more – not the other two prisoners, not the guards, not the crowd – only the horrifying repetition of her daughter's shape – now standing upright, the whip sailing overhand – now bending, the whip coming down, dragging back... over and over and over again, and there was nothing, nothing Xena could do. She smelled blood and tasted blood – and then realised she had bit through the skin of her cheeks, and still, the flogging continued, spinning into endless horror...

Sometime much later, there was a voice that sounded like her daughter's; it said, "Enough."

Xena blinked. There was no man where there had been a man before – only meat with a face turned down, eyes rolled back into whites. She felt the ground sway under her feet; when she regained balance, she was stumbling away, through the crowd, bile and blood in her dry mouth. Far away, the same voice said: "Prepare the crosses."

As if through fog, Xena felt someone grab her arm – one of the other legates. She couldn't make herself comprehend his words, but his expression was plain. She wrenched her arm away, said something about having to relieve herself – she didn't care if he heard her, she'd shake him off if she had to – but he let go, and she was free, pushing between sweaty packed bodies, needing to breathe somewhere else, away from this.

* * *

She stopped when she reached the sea. Behind her were narrow streets, the shanties and shops of the cheapest part of Dyrrachium, abandoned this afternoon for a spectacle. A good show. People said that. Xena raised a hand to her mouth, dropped it. Looked around. The cove was nothing more than a rocky beach, surrounded by cliffs on each side. Upturned fishing boats stretched in a line of keels on the grey shale, dragged out past the darker grey tide marks. Seagulls circled over the water, screeching. The wind was stronger here than inside the city, chilling the sweat on Xena's skin and raising goosebumps. She rubbed her arms. What was she doing here?

The sea. The waves kept smashing against small rounded stones. The foaming water stank of iodine and seaweed, but those were clean smells, better by far than the stench of human suffering she had fled. A wave fell back, tugging at gravel. Xena tried not to feel the tug of the whip in Livia's hands, the splitting of the man's back underneath it.

Most of all, she tried not to feel him. Finally, she could stand it no longer.

"Ares!"

Nothing.

Xena looked over at the spot where she could sense him, between her and the sea, like a charge in the air before a storm. So he was back then. For the first time since Italy. She knew suddenly that he had been there in the street, too, that he had watched Livia take hold of the whip. Watching the flogging from the comfort of aether. He had returned for the first time since Italy – for this!

Xena drew her sword, for the welcome weight of it.

"Proud of your daughter, God of War?"

Ares flashed into view in front of her, dark against the leaden sea; the same form, the same face, the same everything, everything. He stood still for a moment, not looking at her, then raised his eyes. Xena felt a stab of needle-hot anger at the half-smirk on his face – or at herself, for expecting anything else.

"So now she's my daughter?"

He came closer as he said it, stood a pace away. "When she was your blue-eyed little doll, she was yours and Gabrielle's."

"When she makes a show of playing judge, jury and executioner, I know whose daughter she is."

Ares nodded as if to himself, "Oh, I get it. It's in her blood, right? The bloodlust, the rage, she gets that from me. So what does she get from her mother? The milk of human kindness?"

The accusation cracked across Xena's face like a whip; she scowled automatically. "I wouldn't know. I spent most of her life in deep freeze, thanks to you!"

"I mourned you! Do you understand? A god mourned for you, Xena!"

"And I should be grateful?"

Ares clenched his teeth, breathing hard. "You should be grateful it wasn't a funeral pyre."

Xena gave a harsh laugh, twirled the sword in her hand and threw it away. It landed with a short clank on the pebbles. She wanted this so badly, needed to fight now, to wound, to draw his blood, her blood. Any reason now. "You couldn't have burned my body, anyway. Not when you finally had it. You wanted to keep me."

"Sure," he said flatly, "you and your little blonde, too."

Xena tried not to let the flash of discomfort show, but knew he'd already seen it. It was true, he had buried Gabrielle beside her... But what did that change? Ares leaned back slightly, an angry challenge in his eyes. She wouldn't let him have it.

"You should've lit that pyre," she said with a short, ugly smile. "You should've let me die."

Her words did something unexpected. Anger fell from his face. Before Xena could stop him, Ares' hands were gripping her waist, and he was looking at her with – what? Fear?

"You don't mean that."

She looked back at him and said nothing.

"Xena..." Ares' voice lost its edge, became smaller somehow. "I was trying to honour..." His mouth tightened defiantly. "I couldn't accept it."

"Neither can I. And I'm not going to accept it." It was no longer about her 'death', it was about Livia again, and both of them knew it.

Xena broke away from him and picked up her sword. She saw Ares glance at it nervously, but she was in no mood for theatrics – if she was going to fall on her sword, she'd do it without him watching. She returned it to its scabbard. It struck her that she'd become careless after the long sleep. Always, she had been on her guard around Ares, constantly alert. Now, she felt too worn out to bother. There was nothing he could do that would be worse than Livia.

"I'm going back there. There are crucifixions to oversee."

She didn't wait for Ares to respond, turned around and walked back towards the city, trying to listen to the gravel crunching under her boots instead of the sound of the aether closing over him.

She missed Gabrielle.

* * *

The soldiers' hammers slammed down fast, a drum-roll without rhythm, ear-splittingly loud at the darkening roadside. When the last wedge was beaten into the trunk of the last cross, Livia nodded her satisfaction. The soldiers saluted and moved away, and Livia stepped back critically. The crowd had grown bored and dispersed; no doubt they'd be back later to gawk at the result. Livia didn't think that they'd be disappointed. The three posts were set along the Via Egnatia, the largest and best-travelled road leading from Dyrrachium southeast to Macedonia and Thrace. A much-needed reminder to the eastern provinces that Rome's gifts had to be earned.

"The prisoners are ready, General."

Livia turned to find the three men slumped beside the guards, the two conscious ones trying to support the crossbeams tied to their arms. The flogged man was held by two soldiers, all but hanging from his crossbeam, dark hair matted with blood. The blonde prisoner coughed wetly.

"Get on with it," Livia said, and scowled at the centurion in charge. "And don't break their legs – they can take their time dying."

It was done with exemplary efficiency. Prisoners hoisted up, crossbeams secured, guard posted. The sun was setting, and the crosses became black against the reddening, fire-edged sky, stretching their long shadows towards Livia. She turned away and paced back along the road, as if she could outwalk her own shadow and the strange restlessness which had taken over her body.

Odd. There had been so much rage and satisfaction in her when she'd flogged Marcus's murderer; she'd only stopped when her arm had turned numb with the effort, and she could feel the sticky spray of his blood over her face and hands. And now? Now, they were three limp carcasses strung up for the birds, and there was no calm in her, no contentment.

It had always worked before. It was an end – a dramatic, terrifying, powerful end. Caesar had been right – crucifixion was Rome, the indelible stamp of its power. These crucifixions were Rome, and they were also her, Rome's Champion. They were all she could do for Marcus. And they weren't enough.

Damn him for enlisting in her army, anyway! He was too old to campaign, someone should have told her – she'd have stopped him. Livia paused, turned to look back at the sun. Its light, now more scarlet than gold, made her eyes water. She squinted, but did not permit herself to look away. Damn him for dying.

There was a moan above her; Livia looked up. The old man. In the twilight, with his face so far above her own, he almost reminded her of Marcus... Livia shook herself – nonsense. He did not remind her of anyone. She'd spent too long brooding about this. Marcus, old fool that he'd been, had chosen his own end.

"Lady..." The man's feeble voice drifted down to her. "Have mercy...."

Livia narrowed her eyes, looking up. "What do you want, old man?"

"Death," he said – and started crying. Disgusted, Livia turned away.

The tall silhouette of an armed woman appeared over the curve of the road, approaching with the purposeful long strides Livia had come to recognise.

"Semra."

The Amazon saluted when she was near enough for the two of them to see each other. Livia noticed she avoided looking at the crosses.

"The funeral pyre is ready. They're waiting for your signal to light it."

There was an unfamiliar softness in the woman's voice; it took Livia a moment to place it: sympathy. She wanted to slap it away from that blue-eyed face; only barely managed to control her rage. How dare she! How dare she feel sorry for the Champion of Rome?

"Go to Tartarus!" she snarled – then winced at the woman's reaction: surprise, then yet more of her damned sympathy. Livia cursed herself. Making her voice businesslike, she said, "Tell them to go ahead. I have more important concerns."

Semra frowned. "Marcus's pyre—"

"I don't want to see it."

"You should. It might make this ... end."

"Amazon." There was quiet danger in Livia's voice. "You forget yourself."

Wisely, Semra backed off. "As you wish."

She saluted and marched back along the road. Livia watched her go, then snapped her fingers at the nearest guard. "You there." The man scrambled to attention, fixing his helmet which had come askew.

"Commander?"

Livia glanced up at the crosses – the prisoners with their unbroken legs. It would take days for them to die this way: reaching up for air, fighting the inevitable. Slow agony, every minute of it repaying for Marcus's last breaths. Livia looked back to the waiting guard.

"Break their legs."

Above her, the old man stopped crying.

* * *

Ares paced the deserted beach in the last of the twilight, trying to tell himself that he was waiting for Xena to return. It was no use. He'd spent too many years doing exactly that not to know that it was pointless. She was obviously intent on remaining beside the old soldier's funeral pyre until even the guards fell asleep. He didn't have any idea what she found so fascinating about it. Maybe she was thinking about the pyre he never lit for her. Maybe she wasn't regretting it.

He sighed and made himself visible, even though there were no here mortals to see him. It was a nasty habit he'd picked up in the years after Xena was gone. He thought he was rid of it after a week of visiting battlefields and the disaster with Mavican, but – here he was again. He had to admit that it actually felt good. Really good. There were distractions in the mortal world. He could taste the sea spray and hear the birds squawking and the rustle of waves. And it smelled. A beach was a beach, after all, not so different to the one where he'd found Xena's lifeless body on the sand, twenty-five years ago... Since then, he always thought mortality smelled like the sea.

He kicked at a pebble with the toe of his boot, watching a wave swallow it with a splash. It was true, about the pyre. He could not have burned her. It hadn't even crossed his mind, and whatever Xena said, he was profoundly glad it hadn't. How could it, after he'd seen Eve's body burnt to ashes? Ares flinched involuntarily, remembering the hot oily ash in his hands, the flames that couldn't touch him... He'd finally worked out Xena's scheme now, the whole insane plot to fake all their deaths. Only back then none of it had made any sense. Just grimy ash and white-hot fire around a screaming child – and dammit, he'd thought it was Eve!

His daughter.

She'd been so young, scarcely even a person, but holding her had made him feel something Ares couldn't quite understand. A longing of sorts, a vague sense that what he held was fragile and important, and that whatever those bright little eyes searched for within him, he wanted them to find it.

He realised that he wasn't looking at the beach anymore, but far beyond it. The crosses. In the moonlight, that part of the road was visible from here even to human eyes; to the eyes of the God of War, it was a little too close for comfort. Eve had done this.

Proud of your daughter, God of War?

And why not? Livia certainly had the right idea about road signs: practical warnings were always the most effective kind. She'd grow into quite an Empress, given half a chance, and the worshippers her rule would bring him would fill countless temples. Hordes, multitudes like he'd never seen! Sure, Livia did him proud.

Except... if he was so proud of Livia, why didn't he like to think of Eve doing all those things?

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