(put title here)  
 M/M, Drama/Fixit, rated RR (Real Ray). Spoiler: This is set after the end
of Season 3, following "The Call of the Wild." Warning: Those who are
annoyed by the idea that Fraser's background includes the occasional
practice of Pagan rituals (as we saw in the Season 2 episode, "The Mask"),
and even more annoyed by the fact that Ray occasionally goes along with
this, just for kicks (as we also saw in "The Mask"), should not read this
story. Those who are annoyed by the idea that Fraser and Ray were lovers
(and Pagan at that) in a previous lifetime should not read this story. But
for those who just want A Good Time--read away and warnings be damned! :)
  
 The End of the Season
 
 
 by 
 
 Rupert Rouge
 
 
 To everything there is a season,
 And a time to every purpose under heaven:
 A time to be born, and a time to die;
 
 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; 
 A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
 
 A time to get, and a time to lose; 
 A time to keep, and a time to cast away...
 
 
                        Ecclesiastes 3	  
 
 Ray Vecchio smiled with satisfaction as the big jet landed smoothly on
the runway at O'Hare and with a final scream of its engines, cruised to a
full stop. He was home again, back in Chicago after two months in Florida,
and impatient to get on with his life...now that he was back on track
again.
 
 Which he hadn't been, for a while. The night that Fraser had
inadvertently blown his cover Ray had thought for one awful moment that he
would have only seconds to live: but quick thinking on his part had pulled
himself, Fraser, and Ray Kowalski out of the fire.
 
 And then came the excitement of tangling with Holloway Muldoon, who
eluded the law, but not before putting a bullet into Vecchio. After that,
Ray was forced to sweat it out in a hospital bed while Fraser and Kowalski
went north to capture both Muldoon and Cyrus Bolt, who were now spending
the rest of their lives in very poor accommodations, courtesy of Uncle
Sam.
 
 Yes, Fraser and Kowalski had gone north--and stayed there. He'd heard
through the 27th District grapevine, meaning his own sister, Frannie, that
the two had gone looking for adventure, searching for the Hand of
Franklin. The whereabouts of the remains of Sir John Franklin, lost in the
Arctic on that ill-fated expedition more than a century ago, remained a
mystery, but it was rumored that he was buried under the snow somewhere.
 
 Did they find Franklin's grave? Vecchio wondered as he left the plane and
headed for Baggage Claim. He retrieved his suitcases from the carousel,
stood in line for transportation into town, and got into a taxi, all on
automatic pilot. His mind retraced the sequence of events that had led to
his journey back here.
 
 When Fraser had blown his cover like that, the forced transition had been
so sudden he'd felt blown out of the sky. In normal circumstances, there
would have been a decompression period, during which the personality of
Armando Langostini would have been deconstructed in several debriefings.
And at the end he would have emerged like a mythical phoenix from ashes,
Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago cop, once more. 
 
 But it hadn't been like that. He had been suddenly, even brutally thrown
back into himself and found that he was unable to become Vecchio, a
regular guy, again, instead of a Mafia heavyweight who lived like a king
in the Nevada desert.
 
 Stella Kowalski saved his sanity. She was the most sympathetic woman he'd
met in years---the difference between her and her predecessor, Louise St.
Laurent, was so profound as to be almost laughable. He could pour out his
problems, unabridged, to Stella, who not only listened, but advised. The
same capacity for analysis that made her so effective at her job enabled
her to help Ray sort himself out. Ray told her everything: his difficulty
in reclaiming his own personality after most of a year under deep cover,
his uncertainty as to where to pick up his life again, and most of all,
the barrier that seemed to have arisen between him and Fraser. Not that it
existed on Fraser's part: he'd seemed gratifyingly eager to pick up where
they'd left off, all those months ago, before Ray disappeared. But to Ray
there seemed to be some kind of wall between himself and his former lover:
a glass wall, through which he could see Fraser, and Fraser could see him,
which kept them from connecting. 
 

 In Florida, all through the arrangements for buying the bowling alley
that was to be her ticket out of the rat race, Stella listened...and in
the end, pointed him back to Chicago.
 

 "Go back to work," she advised. "Now that you've been promoted because of
the success of your deep cover operation, you can start back knowing you
have the respect of everyone at the 27th. You have a reputation to live up
to, and you need go on back and make it up with Fraser. And junk the
inferiority complex," she added. "You don't need it any more."
 
 It was true. Freed, finally, of Carmine Vecchio's ghost--had it ever been
a ghost at all, he wondered, or merely the manifestation of his own
feelings of inadequacy?--Ray had at last acquired a sense of his place in
the world. He continued with his train of thought as he paid off the taxi,
hoisted his suitcases out of the trunk, and started up the path to the
front porch of his house.
 
 For most of his life, Ray had felt like a failure. First and foremost, of
course, he'd failed to win his father's approval while Carmine Vecchio was
alive. He'd failed as a cop to win the respect of his peers, and failed
again when his marriage to Ange broke up. But now he'd proved himself: to
his peers, to his superiors, to Frank Zuko, the neighborhood thug, and
yes, to Fraser, the man he admired most in the world. His deep cover
operation, which resulted in the wholesale arrest of several Mafia
kingpins, proved that Ray was no longer a run-of-the-mill cop. He was a
man who could make things happen.
 
 Stella was right, as usual. He no longer needed the protective cover the
inferiority complex gave him. Painful as they had been to live with, his
feelings of inferiority had served as armor, fed the in-your-face,
like-it-or-lump-it persona that had been Ray until he met Fraser: Fraser,
who had picked him up, dusted him off, and given him partnership,
friendship, and finally, love.
 
 And Fraser was back in town. When he'd called Frannie yesterday to let
her know that he was coming back, she said the adventure in Canada was
over and that both Fraser and Kowalski were back at work.
 
 I'll be seeing him in a couple of hours, maybe even less. I'll tell him,
Ray thought, and felt the sudden rush of joy in his heart. Fraser. I'm
back, Benny, and it's going to be like old times.
 
 
      * * * * * * * * * * *   
 It was strange to be back in Chicago again, even though he knew it was
only for a month or so. Searching for the Hand of Franklin with Ray
Kowalski had been an excellent adventure, one that had helped to erase the
pain of the Muldoon-Bolt affair.
 
 Fraser paused in the act of sorting through the papers in his files at
his office in the Canadian Consulate in Chicago to stare into space. The
six weeks he'd spent slogging through the snows of his native land with
Ray Kowalski had blotted out the bitter memories...temporarily. He'd
already been back in Chicago for two weeks, and for every day of that time
the memories came back, as fresh as if everything had happened yesterday.
 
 Too many things had happened, in fact. For one thing, he'd found out that
his mother had been murdered; she hadn't simply died of an accident or
disease, as he'd always assumed. Bob Fraser wouldn't talk about his late
wife, Caroline, Benton's mother, and young Ben had been too intimidated by
the uncommunicative grandparents who brought him up to ask questions.
 
 Finding out when he was thirty-six years old that his mother had been
murdered--by Holloway Muldoon--had shaken him to the point where he felt
he could no longer trust any of the assumptions by which he'd previously
lived his life. 
 
 But with Ray Kowalski's help, and that of Buck Frobisher, Inspector
Thatcher, and a whole detachment of Royal Canadian Mounted Police,
Holloway Muldoon and Cyrus Bolt had been foiled in their attempt to sell
chemical weapons to the Russians. With Muldoon's arrest and the family
secret out in the open, Bob Fraser's troubled spirit finally achieved the
closure it sought. His ghost bade Benton Fraser goodbye, and went back to
the realm of shades where it belonged.
 
 And Ray: Fraser still felt consumed by guilt when he remembered that he'd
blown Ray's cover, just opened his mouth like a rookie and blundered. Ray
had been justifiably furious, of course; and even though he seemed to get
over it, Fraser was aware of the new constraint between them. Somehow,
they simply could not get back on the old footing. For most of a year
Fraser had felt disturbed that Ray would go undercover without telling
him--moreover, without even letting him know that he was contemplating
such a venture. After Ray resumed his place at the 27th District Police
Station in Chicago, Fraser hoped they would regain their friendship--their
more than friendship--but it hadn't worked out that way. After Muldoon's
bullet put Ray Vecchio in a hospital bed, Fraser and Kowalski chased
Muldoon to Canada; and after it was all over, the two of them went off in
search of adventure.
 
 Ray, meanwhile, took off for Florida with Stella Kowalski. That still
hurt. 
 
 He was thinking too much, and his thoughts were so painful he wanted to
scream. He'd nearly finished tidying up the files, anyway. The documents
to be retained, he would transfer to Turnbull's keeping: the rest would go
into the Consulate shredder. Fraser put the papers to be destroyed into a
bag, and rose to leave the room.
 
 "Come on, Diefenbaker," he said to the wolf who lay sprawled on the floor
in the corner of the office. "After I dispose of these, I'll take you for
a walk and we'll get some dinner. Are you in the mood for Chinese this
evening?"
 
 "How about Italian instead? That used to be your favorite."
 
 Fraser dropped the bag he was holding and stared at the man who had just
loomed into view and now lounged--elegant in Armani, as always--in the
doorway.
 
 "Ray!"
 
 "That's me."
 
 Fraser gaped. "But--but--I thought--"
 
 "I got back from Florida a couple of hours ago. I dumped everything at
the house, then went by the station. They told me you'd be here."
 
 Fraser was beginning to regain his composure. He picked up the shred-bag
off the floor again, unable to stop staring at Ray.
 
 He looked good. Better than good, fantastic. It wasn't just the nearness,
even the dearness of him: it wasn't just that Ray was physically present,
making his heart beat faster, speeding up his pulse rate, filling his soul
with delight. This was Ray as he used to be, the Ray he loved, who loved
him in return. It was the warmth in his eyes and the fond half-smile on
his lips that told Fraser that Ray had forgiven him everything, once
again; and once again, as after the Victoria affair, was ready to start
over.
 
 "I-I- I'm so glad to see you." For all he wanted to jump on top of his
desk and declaim something passionate, like Elizabeth Barrett's sonnet
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways," all Fraser could manage to
stammer was a simple sentence.
 
 Ray moved forward. "Come on, Benny," he said. "Wake up that mangy mutt
and let's go out for some real Chicago Italian food. I'm starving after
flying on that peanut airline."
 
 "Give me ten minutes to change out of this uniform into civvies, and
we'll be off," Fraser promised.
 
 Half an hour later at the restaurant, Fraser brought up the question that
had to be answered.
 
 "I don't wish to intrude," he began, stirring his iced tea, looking at
the glass and not at Ray, "but I would very much like to know what you're
doing in Chicago without Stella. Is she following you here?"
 
 Ray shook his head. "The thing with Stella was never anything but a
business venture. It's true that we hit it off right away, for some weird
reason. I've never in my life met a woman who understands the way Stella
does. But we were never anything but friends, Benny." He looked Fraser in
the eyes. "You do believe me, don't you?"
 
 Fraser melted. "Of course, Ray. It's just that it looked like an
elopement."
 
 "Yeah, well..." Ray shrugged. "My head was somewhere in outer space when
all that business broke. And I didn't feel too good there for a while--"
he wriggled his shoulders, and Fraser remembered the bullet Ray had
taken--"it was nice to kind of take it easy in the sun, when we weren't
doing business. But although Stella told me what it is that I want, she
doesn't really know what she wants. Guy-wise, I mean. She knows she's sick
of the rat race here, sick of dealing with perps and low-lifes--she wants
to run a business of her own. So I invested in the bowling alley with her.
I think she'll do very well. She's got drive, determination, and a lot of
energy."
 
 "H'mm. So what is it that you want, Ray?"
 
 "You. My old job back. Life here in Chicago. The way it was before I
left, the way it could be again."
 
 Their eyes met over the flickering candle in the straw-covered empty
Chianti bottle on the table. There was even a red-checked tablecloth,
Fraser noticed. Ray had spared no cliché in his quest to win back his
lover.
 
 "There's one problem with that, Ray," Fraser said, as gently as he could.
"I'm leaving. I've only got two weeks left in Chicago."
 
 "What!" Ray's eyes widened.
 
 "It's true, I'm afraid. You see, both Inspector Thatcher and I were
offered promotions and transfers back to Canada for our work on the
Bolt-Muldoon case. Canada, Ray!" Fraser leaned forward, eager to share his
good news. "This is what I've been dreaming about for years. This is the
end of the season of exile for me. Now I can go home!"
 
 "Ah, Benny," Ray said. He smiled slightly, but even in the half-light
Fraser could see the pain in his eyes. "I didn't realize you were so
homesick. Didn't you get enough of the snow when you were up there with
Kowalski?"
 
 "No, but I did realize how happy I was to be back. It's bred in me, Ray.
I loved being back in the snow, the air so cold, so clean, not like the
air here..."
 
 "Yeah, I hear you. So you're taking the transfer?"
 
 "Yes, Ray. I've been offered the opportunity to do real police work
again, field work, instead of being a glorified errand boy at the
Consulate. Working with you saved my sanity while I've been assigned here.
And frankly, Ray," Fraser hesitated. "At the risk of sounding crass, I
could use the extra money that the promotion would bring. For years I've
wanted to rebuild my father's cabin. I'd like to retire there when the
time comes. That area holds a great many memories for me, as you know."
 
 "I know. Some of them pretty exciting, too, huh? Remember?"
 
 Both men smiled as they thought of the danger they'd survived at Fraser's
cabin in the Yukon Territory. But then Ray's face grew pensive.
 
 Fraser watched him for a minute. "What about your plans, Ray? What will
you do now?"
 
 "Oh, I'm coming back to work at the 27th, I've already talked to Welsh.
With my promotion I'll be getting more money, too. Benny, we can look for
a place of our own, and try to get back what we had before."
 
 Fraser shook his head. "It would have been wonderful, if this opportunity
hadn't arisen. I need this transfer, Ray. I didn't think I'd ever see you
again, thought you'd gone off with Stella to make a new life for yourself.
And I discovered that I was even more homesick than I thought. I loved it
up there, Ray. It's where I belong. And besides," he added, "Dief's
homesick too."
 
 "Ah, well." Ray shrugged, then turned to watch the waiter approaching.
"Here's our dinner."
 
 Ray hadn't been kidding when he said he was starving. He'd ordered
spaghetti bolognese for starters, followed by zuppa di zucchini and osso
buco, with tiramisu for dessert, all washed down with a dry Italian red
wine for him and iced tea for Fraser.
 
 "Coffee, Ray?" Fraser asked when they'd finished.
 
 "Tell you what. We'll go back to the Consulate and have Turnbull make us
some coffee. It'll give him something to do."
 
 "He already has something to do, Ray, he's safeguarding Canadian
interests from eleven p.m. until--"
 
 "Benny, I'm kidding! I'll make the damn coffee myself."
 
 
          * * * * * * * * *   
 
 The tray containing coffee carafe, sugar bowl, and cream jug reposed on
Fraser's desk at the Consulate. Turnbull, blushing and stammering in his
eagerness to be of service, had brought the coffee and then gone back to
his duties. Fraser set his empty cup down on the table; Ray followed suit.
 

 Ray studied Fraser as the Mountie leaned back in his chair. Fraser was
wearing the henley shirt again, the heather-blue one that emphasized the
color of his eyes, under his well-worn leather jacket. In repose Benny's
face was serious, but Ray's gaze came to rest on the curving lines on each
side of Fraser's mouth, the lines that hollowed into dimples when Fraser
smiled. He sighed as he remembered how often he had kissed them, in other,
happier days.
 
 Under Ray's scrutiny, Fraser began to blush. "Is something wrong, Ray?"
 
 "Yes, Benny, something's very wrong." In two swift strides, Ray crossed
the room, pulled the Mountie to his feet, and took him in his arms. "What
can I do to convince you to stay in Chicago?"
 
 "Isn't it too late for that, Ray?"
 

 "Is it?" Ray's gaze lingered on his former lover's mouth, now beginning
to curve into one of Benny's irresistible smiles. "Well, there's only one
way to find out..."
 
 The blue depths of Fraser's eyes held all the turbulence of a summer
storm at sea. Confusion, apprehension, and something else.
 
 "....isn't there?"
 
 He could feel the beating of Fraser's heart, hear the ragged intake of
his breath.
 
 "We shouldn't," Fraser said, protesting as Ray slid his hands under the
thin fabric of Fraser's shirt.
 
 "Yes, we should."
 
 Oh, the hot satin of Fraser's skin, the smoothness of it, as Ray's hands
roamed over his lover's chest and back, and he tasted the sweetness of
Benny's lips again. With a groan, Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray,
pressing against him. Beside himself with love and longing, Ray whispered
into Fraser's ear.
 
 "The magic is still there, Benny. For me, anyway. How about you?"
 
 Fraser's eyes were closed. "Yes, oh, yes. I'd forgotten how good it
feels..."
 
 Ray laughed, low in his throat. "I have ways to make you remember."
 
 Half an hour later, disheveled and panting, Ray disengaged himself from
Fraser's arms and rolled away to lie on his back. "My God, Benny, to think
I used to complain about the bed in your apartment on West Racine! Making
love on a bedroll laid out on the floor is ten times worse."
 

 "I'm sorry if you were uncomfortable, Ray. I'm so used to sleeping on the
floor that it doesn't bother me."
 
 "Well, hell, Benny." Ray turned his head to look at him and Fraser,
flushed with sexual satisfaction, smiled. "If we could get an apartment
together, if you'd change your mind and stay here..."
 
 The Mountie was silent for a moment. Then, "Ray, why can't you come with
me? Come with me to Canada. Then we don't have to part. You could apply
for landed immigrant status and get a job. And we could have a little
house of our own just outside the city, with plenty of wide open spaces
for me and Dief, but plenty of conveniences for you..."
 
 Ray felt as if he'd had the very breath knocked out of him. "Ah, but
Benny..." He searched for a tactful way to say what was on his mind. He
didn't want to leave Chicago, not now. Not when he finally had the respect
of his peers, not when Lieutenant Welsh himself nodded politely to him in
acknowledgment of Ray's new status and solicited his opinion in staff
meetings. And besides, Chicago was home. 
 
 But there--to Benny, Canada was home. And the man was homesick, had
finally admitted it after three years. So homesick that his eyes lit up
when he mentioned the cold, clean air of the snow-covered land that had
been his territory as a Mountie in the field. How could he ask Benny to
stay here in Chicago with him, when the man so obviously longed to go back
to his native land? And how mean-spirited it would be to deprive Fraser of
his chance for promotion, for reinstatement in the good graces of the RCMP
as it were, and the extra money that would help rebuild the cabin. With an
indoor toilet this time, Ray thought before he could catch himself.
 
 But then, what would life be like in Chicago without Benny? Nothing. Zip.
Zero. Life would have no meaning without Fraser to share it.
 
 Fraser was looking at him with troubled eyes. "Well, Ray, I take it that
you don't want to go with me."
 
 "Benny! Don't think that. Give me a minute to get used to the idea. I
just--well, I'm just thinking..."
 
 Fraser's face relaxed into a smile, and he slipped one arm around Ray's
neck to bring him near for another kiss.
 
 "Take your time, I know it would involve a certain amount of culture
shock for you." His voice sounded teasing, Ray was thankful to notice. He
began to breathe more easily, but doubt still assailed him. How could he
leave Chicago? How could he possibly leave everything he'd built up and
start over again, somewhere else? He groaned and covered his face with his
hands.
 
 "I wish I knew what the hell to do. I wish there was some easy answer. I
want to go with you, and yet, I don't want to leave Chicago. If only I
knew what to do!"
 
 "You don't want to leave Chicago...that means I would have to stay. I'm
sure I could keep my job here, but I was so looking forward...Ray, I want
to do real police work again while I'm still physically able."
 
 "I know, and I don't blame you for wanting that. God..." Ray sighed. He
sat up. "What a problem! Stay, go, I don't know. What it boils down to,
Benny, is that one of us will have to give up something if we want to stay
together. And we do, don't we?"
 
 "Yes, Ray, we do." 
 
 As Ray sat, brooding over the dilemma, he felt a light kiss at the back
of his neck and shivered with the thrill of it. He sighed. "Other people
must have had this same problem...wonder how they dealt with it."
 
 "We might have had this problem before, in fact."
 

 Ray turned to look at his lover. "What're you talking about, Benny?"
 
 "I'm talking about ourselves in a previous lifetime. Remember? You were a
military tribune in the army of Imperial Rome, and I was a Celtic
barbarian, captured by your soldiers and brought to Cilurnum, the Roman
fort at Hadrian's Wall."
 
 "Yeah, you're talking about that time we trance-journeyed and found we'd
been friends and lovers almost two thousand years ago. You think we might
have had this problem when you were Beinne Fothudain and I was Remus
Marcellus Varro?"
 
 "Well..." Fraser's eyebrows popped up in the delightful way that Ray
remembered. "We could go into another trance, travel back in time, and ask
ourselves if the same problem arose for us then. Want to try it?"
 
 "Hell, yeah. I'll try anything, but--" Ray looked at Fraser. "--you go
first, okay?"
 
 It took only a few minutes for Fraser to make the necessary arrangements.
"I'll lie down on the bedroll, and you sit beside me, Ray. Is there enough
light from the desk lamp for you to read from the book?"
 
 "Yes." Ray held the book, flipping through the pages to scan the text.
"Okay. So all I have to do is read this part to you in a soft, soothing
voice, and you'll go into the trance."
 
 "That's the way it's supposed to work. Go ahead."
 

 In the darkened room Ray's voice sounded low but distinct, like heavy
raindrops splashing one by one into a pond in the stillness before a
storm.
 
 "Close your eyes, Benny, and imagine yourself walking along a path. The
path winds downward, deeper and deeper. Now the way before you is shrouded
in mist...red mist, swirling and whirling in front of you, forming itself
into clouds and curlicues, constantly shifting. And still you walk, down,
down, going deeper and deeper. The color of the mist changes to orange,
and it twirls before you, constantly forming and reforming itself into
different shapes. And still you follow the path down, down, going ever
deeper. Then yellow mist swirls around you, thick and shifting. Now the
mist changes to green as you walk down, down, ever deeper along the path.
The mist swirls around you in wreaths and swags, and changes to blue mist.
You walk down through the blue mist...you are very comfortable now, very
relaxed. Your mind is receptive to spirits from other times and other
places. You walk down along the path and now the blue mist changes to
violet mist. The violet mist swirls around you and parts to reveal the
gates in front of you....you are now standing at the mist-gates, ready to
enter. At the touch of your finger, the gates open silently to let you
pass. You are very....deep now...very relaxed..
 
 "Now you pass through the gates to find yourself in a circular room,
looking into a mirror. You step into the mirror, feeling amazingly light
and free. You see yourself as you are now...relaxed, at peace. Mist swirls
around the image of yourself and now the mist parts to reveal you as you
were 5 years ago. How did you look then? Did you look different from the
way you do now? Were you more harried then or more relaxed? Was your hair
different? Did you have more energy or less energy then?
 
 "Now mist swirls over the image of yourself as you were 5 years ago and
you see yourself as you were 15 years ago. How did you look then? Look at
the image of yourself in the mirror. Were you carefree or troubled? Were
you busy or relaxed? Were you heavier or lighter then? You see yourself as
you were 15 years ago. Say goodbye to that self as the mist swirls once
more, thick and fast, obscuring the image. And now you're going back
beyond your lifetime...the mist is swirling through the mirror....the mist
is different colors....a vague image begins to form out of the swirling
colors and you know that this image is distant...you know that this memory
is not from your present life....you watch as the image crystallizes. You
put your hand to your cheek and the image before you does the same...you
realize this image is you, but it is a you from the past.
Slowly...softly...the image forms before you. The man you see looking back
at you is Beinne Fothudain, of the Brigantes tribe. The year is A.D. 138;
the place is Northumbria, in a province of the Roman Empire called
Britannia....
 
 
          * * * * * * * *   
 
 The momentous news and the letter from Rome arrived at the same time.
Beinne stood beside Remus Marcellus Varro, the 23-year-old military
tribune stationed at the Roman Army fort of Cilurnum, watching in
excitement like everyone else as the cloud of dust on the horizon grew
larger. After some minutes, the watchers in the tower could make out a
small cavalcade of horsemen galloping toward them, their red horsehair
plumes nodding in the stiff breeze blowing across the moors surrounding
Hadrian's Wall. Beinne followed Remus as the latter hurried down the
steep, narrow staircase to meet the strangers. As the Commandant of the
fort happened to be visiting the Sixth Legion in Eboracum, the duty of
welcoming the new arrivals devolved upon the highest-ranking officer
present--in this case, Remus.
 
 "Salve, centurion," Remus shouted, as the horsemen drew near. "What news
of Rome?"
 
 The centurion dismounted, removed his helmet, bowed to every officer in
the assembly, then straightened up. "I bring unfortunate news, tribune.
The Emperor Hadrian is dead."
 
 A murmur rose at once from the assembly. Remus looked shocked, but
managed to say, "When?"
 
 "July tenth, sir."
 
 A month ago. "May the gods take him for their own," Remus murmured. "And
who rules Rome now?"
 
 "The Emperor Antoninus Pius, Hadrian's heir, sir."
 

 There was a moment of silence. Then Remus lifted his head. "Centurion,
bring your men into the fort for rest and refreshment. I'll send a
messenger at once to Eboracum. Tonight we'll hold a ritual of remembrance
to honor the great Hadrian and salute the new Emperor." 
 
 "Thank you, tribune. But there's more." The centurion turned to his horse
and reached inside his saddlebag. "I bring letters from Rome, sir, and one
of them is addressed to you."
 
 Remus took the scroll from the centurion's outstretched hand. "Beinne,
this is from my father! I recognize the seal. Come, let's go to my
quarters and read it."
 
 Beinne's feeling of unease, present ever since they'd sighted the
soldiers half an hour ago, intensified as he accompanied Remus to the
latter's room. The long summer daylight still prevailed, so Remus was able
to unroll the scroll and read it without lighting a lamp. 
 

 Beinne watched him as he read, reflecting on the course of his life since
being captured by the Romans three months ago.
 
 When the soldiers had found him up a tree, spying on the military post,
and forced him down, he resisted with all the considerable strength of his
twenty-three years; and when they dragged him up the hill into the fort
and into the principia to confront the military tribune, Beinne fought so
hard that it took four legionaries to subdue him. He knew his fate was
sealed, and was even contemplating suicide--if escape proved
impossible--as soon as they left him alone. That is, until he saw Remus.
 
 He couldn't understand what was passing between the young tribune and his
commanding officer, but he knew from the way the two kept glancing at him
that it concerned himself. The look of disgust on the tribune's face when
he contemplated his captive roused all of Beinne's Celtic temper. And yet,
as he stared at his jailer, Beinne was conscious that two emotions were
raging in him, and only one was ire: the other was simple lust.
 
 He wanted that tribune. Wanted him in bed or against a wall: face up,
upside down, sideways, whatever. The Roman looked so clean, so utterly
sure of himself, so arrogant. The polished metal of his cuirass and
greaves, standard officers' armor of the best-equipped, best-trained
fighting force the world had ever seen, glinted in the dull light of the
overcast May afternoon. Rome ruled the civilized world and this snotty
young man was Rome's representative--and a damned attractive one he was,
too, with that hooked Roman nose. The fact that his dark hair was already
thinning at the temples did nothing to detract from his looks. He was as
tall as Beinne, with green eyes that studied the Celt as if he were a
lower form of life. 
 
 If I could have you to myself for half an hour, I'd soon have you begging
for what I could give you, Beinne thought with barely suppressed fury.
From the increasingly respectful attitude of the soldiers who surrounded
him he gathered that his future treatment was to be hospitable. You just
wait, you Roman dog, I'll show you a thing or two. How this was to be
accomplished he did not know, but the hope of it made him stop struggling
and let the soldiers lead him away to do with him as they would. He
allowed his captors to cut his hair, shave off his beard and moustache,
scrub him from head to foot, and dress him in strange clothes. He even
submitted patiently to the tutelage of old Cassius, the tribune's servant,
in basic Roman hygiene--including a lesson in how to wipe his ass clean
with a wetted sponge on a long stick, instead of the handful of dried
leaves he had been accustomed to using. When he and Remus met again the
next morning and he saw the complete capitulation in the young tribune's
eyes, it was all he could do not to fall down laughing.
 
 But annoyingly enough, over the course of the next two weeks Remus seemed
unable to read any of the signals Beinne sent. That he would one day win
Remus' heart Beinne did not doubt; knew too, that when they finally went
to bed he would be the one to yield control. He didn't mind: Remus was a
Roman, and for him taking the submissive role would be anathema. Beinne
didn't care who fucked whom, as long as it happened--and the sooner, the
better.
 
 And then the day came when the two of them just missed seeing each other
at the baths, until finally, emerging from the cold pool, Beinne caught
sight of Remus dodging around a corner. Out of sheer desperation Beinne
followed Remus around the corner and kissed him, not yet having sufficient
Latin to come right out and tell the tribune how he felt about him.
 
 What began as simple lust turned into love on both sides, and the
Commandant's original intention of demanding ransom for the son of the
Brigantian chief was soon abandoned. Beinne stayed at Cilurnum because he
wanted to; even the return of the chief from his raiding forays along the
coast could not prise Beinne from Remus' side. Beinne begged to be allowed
to stay and complete his education in Roman ways at the fort, and Liam
Fothudain--who, being no fool, well knew that Beinne's knowledge of Roman
customs and language might prove an asset to the tribe in the event of a
future war--had reluctantly agreed.
 
 "Mithras!" Remus' jaw dropped as he stared at the scroll. "Beinne, my
brother is dead."
 
 So that was why the feeling of unease had been so strong, Beinne thought.
He'd somehow known that the letter from home boded no good. "By the gods,
I'm sorry to hear it, Re. How did it happen?"
 
 "A chariot accident, on the way home from a banquet." Remus sighed and
stared into space. "Poor Caius. If I told him once, I told him a thousand
times not to drive home drunk. Ah, well. I suppose I'd better see what
else Pater has to say..."
 
 A moment later he said, "Wings of Mithras, this is heavy news. Beinne..."

 
 Remus looked so white that Beinne feared he might collapse. He took a
step toward him, but Remus held up a hand to stop his progress.
 
 "Father says I have to go home and take Caius' place. It means I won't
finish my tour of duty here, but he's cleared my compassionate leave with
the next governor of Britannia--Lollius Urbicus is our neighbor in Rome,
you see. And I have to get married."
 
 Remus stared out the window at the summer evening. "This is the end of
the season of youth for me, Beinne. Father wants me to stand for election
as quaestor, so I can enter the Senate one day. Caius was in the Senate."
 
 Beinne felt as if someone had dealt him a death blow. Remus was leaving?
Going home to Rome, the place he'd yearned for from the minute he set foot
in cold, misty Britannia? And worst of all, entering into matrimony? For
Remus it might be the end of the season of youth, but for Beinne, it was
the end of the season of love, the end of the greatest happiness he'd ever
known. Still, he managed to answer with dignity. "Congratulations, Re.
This is what you always wanted, isn't it? I'll miss you like Hades, of
course. When do you leave?"
 
 Remus held out the scroll, pointing to the final lines. "Read that,
Beinne."
 
 Beinne took the scroll, unable to repress a slight shiver as he did so.
Of all the things he'd done to make himself more acceptable, less of a
barbarian in Remus' eyes, learning to read was the most frightening. The
Druids adhered to an oral tradition and strictly forbade the encoding of
knowledge in written form. It took twenty years of unremitting study for
an aspirant to absorb the traditional knowledge and attain the rank of
Druid or bard. 
 
 If it became known within the Brigantes tribe that he had violated the
edict against learning how to read and write, Beinne would be marked for
sacrifice in a year when the crops failed or war threatened. In that event
he would be taken away by the Druids, dressed in a robe of rough white
wool, fed a final meal of hearth-baked bread and well water, and drugged
with an infusion of mistletoe. And then, as daylight faded in the west, he
would be led, blindfolded, to the edge of the fen. The cudgel that
descended on the back of his head would blot consciousness from his brain,
sparing him pain as well as the knowledge that he was being garroted,
stabbed, and thrown into the cold waters of the marsh to finish dying.
 
 Reluctantly, he read aloud the final lines written on the scroll. "My
son, you must start for Rome the next dawn after this letter reaches you.
A ship awaits you at the harbor, and you will sail with the first fair
wind. Your mother sends you her love, and your betrothed asks that you
bring her some of the red woolen cloth for which Britannia is renowned.
The blessing of Mercury, god of travelers, be upon you, Remus, my son.
Your affectionate father, Aurelius Caius Varro."
 
 "So," Beinne said, amused. "Your mother sends her love and your betrothed
wants you to bring her a present. Tell me about her."
 
 "Her name is Octavia, she's sixteen, and I've known her all her life.
She's a real little firebrand, but I'll soon put a stop to that after
we're married." Remus shrugged. "Don't think this is going to come between
us, Beinne. You're going with me, of course."
 
 "Me? Going with you to Rome?" Beinne's eyes widened. In his whole life,
he'd never thought of doing anything so exciting. War was dangerous and
thrilling, but in a different category altogether. Even boar-hunting could
hardly compare in excitement with a journey to Rome.
 
 "Certainly. After all the trouble my soldiers had capturing you, do you
think I'm going to let you go?" Remus was irresistible when he started
teasing, but Beinne wasn't going to let him get away with that one.
 
 "What if I refuse to go with you?" 
 
 "Do you want me to die of a broken heart?" Remus crossed the room swiftly
and took Beinne in his arms. "Rome captured you, but you've captured me,
my beautiful Beinne. I'm not letting you out of my sight, ever."
 
 He nuzzled Beinne's neck, then sought his mouth. After a time dusk fell,
but no lamp was lit in Remus Marcellus Varro's quarters, and sounds were
made, but not with words.
 
 
        * * * * * * * * * *   
 Rome was the aroma of hot food from the bakeshops that lined every
street, and those streets so filthy he and Remus had to use
stepping-stones, thoughtfully provided by the city's public works office,
to traverse them. Rome was block after block of insulae, apartment
buildings seven stories high, that housed the poor. 
 
 Rome was the Forum Romanum, the large public meeting place where speeches
were made, where the temples of Saturn, Vespasian, and Concord soared
grandly into the air, vying for attention with the Basilica Julia and the
temple of the Vestal Virgins. Clouds of blue, perfumed smoke from incense
burned to please the gods wafted from the temples, causing people to choke
or cough as they walked past.
 
 Rome was streets overflowing with people, jostling each other as they
went about their business: ragged slaves, humble plebeians, richly dressed
merchants, stately patricians draped in the white togas that proclaimed
both their citizenship and their class. Rome buzzed with the sounds of
Latin, Greek, Aramaic, and other languages as citizens from all parts of
the Empire converged on the city. The shouts of the street vendors, the
groans of the slaves as they stumbled under the weight of the litters they
carried, the cries of children at play, the neighing of horses, the sounds
of hammer and chisel made by the workers on a hundred different public
construction projects, all blended into a background of incessant noise.
 
 Rome was morning after morning of warm yellow sunlight that turned into
white-hot days as the marble of Rome's buildings started giving back all
the heat they had absorbed before midday. In the early afternoons Rome
stood still for siesta, and it was then that Remus, throbbing with heat
and desire, would seek refuge in Beinne's cool arms. With the shutters
drawn tight against the hot bright day outside, they would make love in
the dimness of Beinne's room at the Villa Varro.
 
 Rome was the Flavian Ampitheatre, where the voices of 45,000 thousand
people could be heard roaring their approval at the sight of a heavily
armed secutor, armed with helmet, shield, sword, fighting a retiarius,
armed only with net and trident, to the death in gladatorial combat. 
 
 Rome was the metallic tang of blood congealing on hot sand as the losers
in gladitorial contests died in wave after wave of carnage. Beinne felt
revolted by the spectacle. The sight of blood was as familiar to him as
that of sudden death: a lifetime of hunting, occasional battles, and the
inevitable accidents of life had accustomed him to that. It wasn't even
the cruelty that disturbed him so much, for he had observed it in both war
and nature. What made him flinch was the idea that Romans found such
manifestations of cruelty entertaining. 
 
 Rome was grandeur on a scale that he had never imagined, and decadence he
had never before experienced.
 
 "Beinne, help me out," Remus said two weeks after their arrival in the
city. "For my bachelor party, should I entertain the guys at the Circus
Maximus or take them to the Flavian Ampitheatre to watch the new
bestiarius? Apparently they've imported twenty lions and tigers from
Africa for him to fight."
 
 "The Circus," Beinne said quickly. The chariot races in the huge round
sports arena were always worth watching, and he enjoyed cheering for his
favorite team, the Blues. Watching captive animals goaded into frenzy and
then brutally killed was, in his opinion, no sport at all.
 
 "All right," Remus said, smiling at him fondly. He shifted a little on
the couch on which he and Beinne reclined, waiting for cena, the midday
meal, to begin. "How do you like Rome, Beinne?"
 
 "It's everything you said, Re, and more. It's most impressive." He could
be honest about that, at least. 
 
 "Isn't it?" Remus looked gratified. "No wonder a man's proudest boast is
civis Romanus sum." 
 
 Voices could be heard outside the triclinium, the dining room in which
Beinne and Remus were waiting, and in a moment, Aurelius Caius Varro and
his wife Flavia entered, followed by slaves bearing the first course of
shrimp, raw vegetables, and boiled eggs.
 
 Flavia Varro nodded to the young men as she reclined on the couch next to
her husband. "Beinne, Octavia sent word this morning that she is very
pleased with the red cloth you brought her from Britannia."
 
 "I'm glad she liked it," Beinne said, acknowledging the compliment.
 
 "Your father the chieftain was most generous in his gifts to our house,"
Aurelius Varro added. "The hunting dogs alone are worth a villa on Capri!
I sent them to our farm in Tuscany. They'll do well there, and we'll all
go hunting in a couple of weeks, right after the wine harvest."
 
 Beinne smiled modestly. Liam Fothudain, determined to show that his son
and by extension himself, were people of some consequence, had sent not
only red cloth and hunting dogs, but also pearl necklaces, silver drinking
cups, lead roof tiles, tin, salt, and household pottery. He would even
have included a pair of bears, had not Beinne dissuaded him. Remus' father
could not know that the gifts that so delighted him were the result of two
months' raiding along the coast, and Beinne would not be the one to tell
him.
 
 "It's unfortunate that you have to have such a hurry-up wedding, Remus,"
Flavia remarked as she peeled an egg. "June is the traditional month for
brides, but in view of the circumstances..."
 
 She sighed and looked away. Beinne knew she was thinking of Caius. He
nudged Remus, who said, "Well, mater, September is just as warm, and as
long as Octavia is satisfied with the wedding arrangements, we don't have
to worry about tradition."
 
 The wedding took place a week later. Remus, Beinne, and a slew of Remus'
childhood friends got drunk at the Circus Maximus two days before the
wedding and lost so much money betting against Diocles, the champion
driver, they had to hit up their respective fathers to pay the I.O.U.'s.
 
 "What in the name of Jupiter possessed you to bet against him, of all
people?" Aurelius Varro grumbled the next morning.
 
 Remus shrugged. "He's thirty, father. Most racing drivers get killed in
their early twenties."
 
 Octavia reportedly was furious about the incident and when she learned
that it had been Beinne who suggested going to the Circus Maximus in the
first place, picked a quarrel with Remus in the atrium of the Varros'
house the day before the wedding.
 
 Beinne, who was being shaved by one of the household slaves in a room off
the atrium, was unable to escape and therefore forced to hear every word
uttered by the loving couple.
 
 "You gambled away our honeymoon funds, you creep!" Octavia's voice,
devoid of its usual sweetness, grated like millstones grinding wheat. "Now
we won't be able to go to Capri, and it's your fault. Yours and that
barbarian's!"
 
 "Watch that tongue, young lady," Remus said, in a tone more furious than
Beinne had ever heard him use.
 
 "My tongue's not long enough for me to stick it out and watch it, thank
you very much. And while we're on the subject of that barbarian, I hope
you plan to dismiss him the minute we're married."
 
 "Dismiss him? What are you talking about? He's not mine to dismiss. He's
a guest here."
 
 Octavia's voice became even more scornful. "A guest, my foot! We all know
exactly what he's doing here. He's your concubinus, and I want him out of
this house!"
 
 Remus' voice cut like a whip. "He is not my concubinus, he's the son of a
chieftain and a guest of my father. In his own country his rank is equal
to ours."
 

 Beinne had learned enough about Roman customs to know that a concubinus
was a male slave employed for the sole purpose of assuaging the sexual
appetites of the young master of the house until his marriage; in fact,
dismissing him from this particular post was often part of the marriage
ceremony itself. He writhed at the thought that this was how at least one
person perceived him, but reflected that it didn't really matter: there
was only one person in Rome whose opinion was important. The others whose
opinions mattered were far away in Britannia.
 
 Octavia uttered a peal of derisive laughter. "Don't try to pull the wool
over my eyes, Remus. I've seen the way you look at him. You never look at
me like that."
 
 "Beinne is my friend," Remus said, enunciating each word slowly. "As
such, he lives in my house with me. He will continue to do so after you
and I are married. You are only a woman, and therefore unable to
understand the meaning of the word 'friendship.'"
 
 There was a loud gasp. Then, "You haven't heard the last on this subject,
Remus Marcellus Varro! I bid you good day."
 
 From the light sound of Octavia's sandals tapping the marble floor of the
atrium and the ensuing silence, Beinne gathered that Remus was alone once
more. 
 
 "Damn bloody woman," Remus could be heard muttering. "Well, she'll learn
soon enough. I intend to be the master in my own house, by Mithras'
wings!"
 
 The next day Beinne, along with Aurelius and Flavia Varro and most of the
household, accompanied Remus to Octavia's parents' villa. The bride,
dressed in a special tunic and belt, and covered by a large, flame-colored
veil, the flammeum, waited there with the priest who would preside over
the ceremony.
 
 Beinne felt a peculiar pain in his heart as the pronuba, the matron of
honor, joined Octavia's right hand with Remus' right. Octavia and Remus
were being connected in a way that he and Remus could never be, and the
newly formed union was further cemented when both signed the contract.
 
 All through the rest of the ceremony, which involved sacrificing a pair
of geese to Juno, the patron goddess of marriage and motherhood, and
partaking of the wedding banquet, which involved no fewer than three full
courses, Beinne resigned himself to the fact that he would inevitably be
seeing much less of Remus. Perhaps Remus wouldn't even want him as a lover
any more; it was hard to tell how a young man like Remus might be affected
by such an important milestone as marriage.
 
 After the banquet, Remus, Beinne, and the rest of the Varro household,
went back to the Varros' house for the next part of the ceremony.
 
 "I have to meet her at the door and carry her over the threshold when she
arrives," Remus informed Beinne in a tone of resignation. "Then we're
supposed to lock ourselves in the bridal chamber and Do It, while you and
the others are singing your heads off outside."
 
 Beinne, not knowing quite where to look, said, "Ah."
 
 "But tomorrow night I won't be sleeping there," Remus went on. "I went
ahead with this marriage to please pater and mater, but my heart's not in
it. My heart is with you, Beinne."
 
 In the flickering light cast by the torches in front of the house, Beinne
looked closely at his friend and lover. He would have liked to kiss Remus,
but there were too many people around.
 
 "Tomorrow," Remus promised.
 
 Surprisingly enough, the new routine of the household fell into place as
smoothly as beads on a string. One day, a week after the bride had taken
up residence in the Villa Varro, Remus and Aurelius returned home after a
hard day's campaigning. Remus was seeking election to the office of
quaestor as his entry into Roman politics. As a treasury official he would
come into contact with Rome's most powerful citizens almost every day.
 
 Beinne had stayed at the villa that day because the drawing-master was
coming to give him a lesson. With neither soldiering nor boar-hunting to
occupy his time, Beinne was studying drawing, painting, and sculpture.
 
 Flavia, Beinne, Octavia, and assorted slaves moved into the atrium to
welcome the returned paterfamilias and his heir. Remus looked tired and
careworn. He sighed heavily as he stood with arms outstretched to let the
butler remove the woolen toga which, besides being a symbol of Roman
citizenship, was hell to wear on a suffocatingly hot autumn day. But as he
caught sight of Beinne, Remus' whole expression changed. 
 
 His face lit up as he walked through the perfumed mist spraying from the
fountain in the atrium, and he smiled as he said, voice low, "And how was
your day?"
 
 "Not bad, thank you, but you look as if you could use a drink. Let's go
to my room for a cup of wine, and I'll show you my new drawing."
 
 "Lead the way," Remus said, turning. Then, as if noticing her for the
first time, he said, "Good afternoon, Octavia. How are you?"
 
 "Very well, sir, and awaiting your presence," Octavia replied sweetly.
But her black ringlets quivered and sheer hatred flashed from her slanting
black eyes as she shot a look at Beinne. Translated into words, that look
would have said, I'm going to get rid of you if it's the last thing I ever
do.
 
 
        * * * * * * * * * *   
 "The image blurs and you find yourself standing before your own
modern-day reflection...."
 
 Ray's voice penetrated Fraser's trance and he felt himself beginning to
rise to surface consciousness once more. His eyes remained closed as he
listened to Ray's soft voice.
 
 "You're breathing deeply, relaxed and comfortable...now I am going to
count from one to three so that by the time I say number three, you will
be able to open your eyes and feel wide awake. You will remember all that
you have experienced...you will be rejuvenated and rested, as though you
had taken a long peaceful nap.
 
 "We'll begin...one you are feeling very rested...you have this ability to
awaken past life memories.
 
 "Two...you begin to feel energy and life flowing to every part of your
body now...you begin to feel full of energy and vigor...you remember all
that you have experienced...
 
 "Three....your entire body and soul feel refreshed...now open your
eyes...you are feeling good."
 
 Fraser opened his eyes, held out his hand toward Ray. Ray took it and
pulled him up to a sitting position.
 
 "Well!" Ray said. 
 
 "Well," Fraser echoed. "I feel--I'm not sure how I feel. That was quite
an action-packed past life."
 
 "That was one hell of a regression, Benny," Ray said. "And," he added in
a tone of deep satisfaction, "it looks like the country boy went to the
big city. So we stay in Chicago."
 
 "Yes, Ray, that's the way it seems. We stay in Chicago." 
 
 
 
      * * * * * * * * * *    
 
 So it was to be Chicago, after all. Fraser's heart was heavy the next
morning as he contemplated his future. He loved Ray, of course he did, and
he wanted to live with him. But in the eight hours a day he and Ray were
apart, how was he, Fraser, going to cope with the deadly pointlessness of
his work at the Consulate? Ray would let Fraser act as his unofficial
partner after his day's duties were finished, of course, and that would
help. But in the meantime there would be more than forty hours of dull
tasks to occupy his time, work that neither taxed his keen brain nor drew
on his tracking skills. And there was, of course, the question of the
promotion, which he would now have to turn down. Fraser sighed. He would
have enjoyed the prestige of that promotion and welcomed the extra pay.
The work he did as Ray's unofficial partner was, of course, unpaid.
 
 Ah well, love demands sacrifice. He must accept this new reality with
grace and never by word or look betray how much it had cost him. Although
his heart might yearn for the cold whiteness of the Yukon, although he
might long for the silence of a winter forest or the small, awakening
sounds of the woods in spring, he would not let Ray know, because then Ray
would feel guilty.
 
 But perhaps...perhaps in the summers Ray would consent to go to the cabin
with him for a couple of weeks. Perhaps, with the two of them combining
their salaries, there would be enough extra to bring the cabin up to a
reasonable standard of comfort for two men and a wolf. And
perhaps--perhaps Ray could be persuaded to spend the week between
Christmas and New Year in Canada, too, so that Fraser could go into wild
country again, into Manitoba or Alberta or Saskatchewan, somewhere with
clean, cold air and snow shining silver-white under a winter moon.
 
 But no sooner had he made up his mind to stay in Chicago than Fate
intervened once more, in the form of a pale tan envelope, stamped
"Confidential" and bearing the return address of RCMP Headquarters in
Ottawa, delivered to his desk the next day. Puzzled, Fraser opened it. His
cases at the moment were routine; none of them contained anything of a
sensitive nature. But after he removed the letter from the envelope and
read it, he sat staring in front of him, his mind whirling with questions.
 
 The letter informed him that a memorial plaque was planned for the RCMP
chapel at the Training Depot in Regina. It was to be a metal plaque
containing the names of all members slain in the course of duty in the one
hundred and twenty-five years of the RCMP's proud history. Each name would
be engraved in large, elegant script, and one of the names would be that
of Robert Fraser...
 
 ...except that a cloud hung over Robert Fraser's legend. Had he or had he
not accepted bribes to keep quiet about Phase I of the East Bay Power
Project? The Territorial Trust bank showed deposits to an account bearing
Robert Fraser's name. Of course, Chief Superintendent Underhill had
assured Fraser years ago that no one had ever seen Bob Fraser make the
deposits in person, and there was no record of any withdrawals, whether in
person or by mail.
 
 However, the money was still in the Territorial Trust account. As long as
it existed, a shadow hung over the reputation of the late Robert Fraser,
and therefore his name could not be included in the honor roll of those
who had given their lives for justice.
 
 A cold, wet nose butted against Fraser's left hand. Absently, he reached
out to pat its owner on the head. "Hello, Dief. Where have you been all
morning? Oh, Dief!" Fraser looked at his wolf in exasperation as he
noticed the beads of sugar frosting the wolf's whiskers. "How many times
have I told you not to go into the Consulate snack room and make a
nuisance of yourself? People will begin to think you have no manners
a-tall."
 
 Dief uttered a little growl that could have been back-talk.
 
 "Don't take that attitude, Diefenbaker. Just sit still and listen. I've
had a letter this morning that changes everything."
 
 After hearing what Fraser had to say, Dief yelped his agreement with the
decision. 
 
 "I'll have to tell Ray right away," Fraser said. He stood up, reached for
his Stetson. "And I'll have to tell him in person. This kind of news can't
be given over the telephone. Come on, Dief,I need you for moral support.
Ray isn't going to like this."
 
 
      * *  * * * * * * * * *	
 
 Ray didn't.
 
 "Hell, Benny, I thought it was all settled! You were going to stay here,
and we'd look for a h---how long will all of this take?"
 
 "I don't know," Fraser said. "I'll have to conduct the investigation
during my spare time, of course. The last time I talked to Headquarters,
before we decided to stay in Chicago, they indicated there were several
jobs open in the field. One of them was in the Yukon."
 
 "That's the place where your cabin is? And the Territorial Trust Bank?"
 
 "Yes."
 
 Ray sighed, closed the file folder in front of him. "Does this have to be
a permanent move? I mean, you couldn't just go up there, do what you gotta
do, and then come back?"
 
 Patiently, Fraser explained that he had already used up his accumulated
leave time adventuring in the far north with Kowalski; that to conduct the
investigation he would need to be on the spot, in the Yukon; and that once
he accepted a full-time position there, he would be obliged to remain for
at least two years.
 
 "Okay. Well..." Ray looked up, shrugged. "I guess this means I give
notice to Welsh tomorrow morning. I need to tell Ma and the rest of the
family first. You think I could get a job up there?"
 
 "Of course, Ray! With your qualifications you can get a job anywhere."
Fraser smiled in relief and delight; for a few breathless moments he had
seriously doubted that Ray would be willing to leave his life in Chicago
and follow him to Canada. "In fact, I'm in a prime position to help you
with that. I can start the paperwork immediately and check the job
vacancies list in Whitehorse for you."
 
 "Great! All right, Benny." Ray stood up. "Well, it's quitting time
anyway, so let me drop you off at the Consulate and then go home and break
the news to Ma."
 
 
 * * * * * * * * * *
 
 The telephone ringing in Fraser's office woke him half an hour before his
normal rising time the next morning. Groggily, he reached for the
receiver, wondering if it was a wrong number. He glanced at the heavy RCMP
watch on his wrist as he put the receiver to his ear. Five-thirty.
 
 "Canadian Consulate, Deputy Liaison Officer Fraser speaking."
 
 "Benny..." the voice at the other end of the line was raspy,
desperate-sounding.
 
 "Ray!" Fraser sat up, fully awake now. "Ray, what's wrong?"
 
 "Benny...I'm at the hospital. Ma had a heart attack during the night.
She's in the Intensive Care Unit right now. Benny..."
 
 "Ray, I'll be right over. Okay? I'll come right over in a taxi. Where
will you be?"
 
 "I'll be waiting for you on the ground floor, where everyone comes in to
be admitted."
 
 Forty-five minutes later, Fraser was sitting at a table with Ray in the
hospital cafeteria, drinking the dishwater that passed for coffee in that
establishment. Ray pushed his cup away.
 
 "So Mrs. Vecchio is out of danger," Fraser said. "Thank God."
 
 "Yeah," Ray echoed. "Thank God. But Benny, this changes everything. I
can't leave Chicago, not now. Ma needs me."
 
 Fraser put his hand over Ray's, not caring whether anyone noticed or not.
"Of course, Ray. You must stay here."
 
 Ray looked straight at him. "But you're still going to go, aren't you?"
 
 Fraser pressed his lips together. He didn't want to hurt Ray, but going
north to clear his father's name was something he had to do: Bob Fraser
would have wanted his son to perform that last filial duty. I loved my
father more than he loved me, he thought. There's nothing I wouldn't do
for him. But perhaps he did love me, in his own way: he just put duty
first.
 
 For a moment it crossed Fraser's mind that his half-sister Maggie
MacKenzie might be able to take on the investigation; she'd been
reinstated with full seniority in the RCMP and presumably had few claims
on her spare time now that she'd brought her late husband's murderers to
justice. But almost immediately he rejected the idea; first of all, it was
up to him and no one else to settle this affair for once and all.
Secondly, Maggie had only just discovered that Bob Fraser was her father:
it would be kinder to let her keep thinking of him as the legend he was,
untainted by even this false suggestion of scandal. There was no need to
involve her, an innocent party, in this business.
 
 But now he said, "Yes, Ray. I'm sorry."
 
 Ray sighed. "Well, then...it looks like this is it, for us, huh?" His
voice broke on the last words and he turned his head away.
 
 Fraser blinked back the tears that instantly pricked his eyes. He didn't
want to lose control, especially in public, but the stillborn tears seemed
to retreat into him, scalding his soul instead of his face. "I'm afraid
so. Of course, we'll write, we'll phone--"
 
 "Oh, yeah," Ray said. He attempted a smile, but the expression in his
eyes almost broke Fraser's heart. "Sure we will. Every day. And then it'll
be every couple of days. And then it'll be a week, two weeks. And before
you know it, we'll be two guys who shared a lot of adventures for three
years, and then went their separate ways."
 
 Fraser said nothing; he couldn't. He looked down at the table, not
wanting Ray to see the anguish in his eyes.
 
 When he was composed enough to look up again, he found Ray staring at him
as if trying to memorize every feature of his face.
 
 "Oh, God, it's going to hurt to lose you, Benny." He shut his eyes for a
moment, opened them again. "Come on." He stood up. "Let's get out of here
before I disgrace myself. If you look at me with that big-eyed Mountie
look, I'm going to lose it. I mean it, Fraser."
 
 "Very well, Ray."
 
 
 * * * * * * * * * * *
 
 On Saturday, the day before Fraser was due to fly to Whitehorse, Ray
called to report that Mrs. Vecchio was much better. "Ma's going to recover
just fine!" Ray sounded jubilant. "She's already home. She'll have to take
it easy for a while, follow a special diet and exercise program, but
she'll be fine. And guess what, Fraser?"
 
 "What, Ray? That's wonderful news. I'm so glad to hear she's better." 
 
 Ray laughed. "Ma's going to turn into a Nethead! I bought her a laptop
with a modem, so she can get on line and find a cardiac support group, not
to mention chat rooms about all the hobbies she has. There's even an
Italian grandma chat room, believe it or not."
 
 "She'll surpass us both in no time," Fraser predicted. The thought of
Mrs. Vecchio surfing the Internet made him smile.
 
 "Oh, Fraser, I almost forgot, she said to thank you for the flowers.
She's having a little nap right now, or she'd thank you herself."
 
 "That's fine, Ray. When she wakes up, tell her I said hello, will you?"
 
 "Sure. Hey, Benny, what do you say to a farewell dinner tonight? I know
the station gave you that little going-away party, but I'd like to say
goodbye when it's just the two of us."
 
 "I'd like that very much, Ray."
 
 "Pick you up at seven-thirty tonight, then."
 
 
 * * * * * * * * * * *
 
 After an excellent meal, this time at a steak restaurant near the
Magnificent Mile, Fraser and Ray returned to the Consulate. "I can't stay
up too late, Ray," Fraser said as he led the way into his office and
turned on the light. "My plane leaves at eight tomorrow morning."
 
 They stood looking at each other. Fraser took a step toward Ray,
intending to take him in his arms, when suddenly the awful knowledge that
this would be the last time they would ever make love struck him with full
force.
 
 Ray was watching him, not saying anything. Then, as if someone had
flipped a switch, his mercurial face changed. "Hey, Benny, you know what?
I never did a past-life regression of my own. We ought to do that just to
square things up, don't you think? "
 
 "Of course, Ray." The relief of postponing the inevitable was so welcome
that Fraser refrained from pointing out that doing another past-life
regression wouldn't make any difference one way or the other. "I'll find
the book while you get comfortable on the floor."
 
 "The floor's damn hard," Ray grumbled, but he laid out the bedroll and
sank down on it.
 
 "So you've remarked before, Ray. How far back do you want to go? The same
year, or after that, or...?"
 
 "Let's just pick up where we left off when you did yours."
 
 "Very well. Ready? Now close your eyes and imagine yourself walking along
a path. The path winds downward, deeper and deeper..." Fraser's soft, deep
voice went on for some minutes, putting Ray into deep trance. He glanced
at his lover. Ray's breathing was slow and regular; he appeared perfectly
relaxed.
 
 "Slowly...softly...the image forms before you," Fraser said, in quiet,
measured tones. "The man you see before you is Remus Marcellus Varro,
formerly a military tribune, recently elected quaestor of Rome. The time
is October of the year A.D. 138..."
 
 
 * * * * * * * * * * *
 
 
 The sight of the Varro country estate, nestled at the foot of the brown
Tuscan hills and bathed in the mellow-gold light of autumn, gladdened
Remus' heart and he knew his father felt the same way. Although he now
preferred city life, Remus had spent a great deal of time at the farm as a
child, even helping with the wine and olive harvests when he was old
enough. Life was pleasant at the farm; the men hunted during the day and
spent the evenings telling stories over their wine, while the women
gossiped and ordered the slaves around. Beinne quickly endeared himself to
the children on the estate by whittling toys for them and teaching them
the Brigantian battle cry--which, Remus remarked, would fry the brains of
anyone not congenitally deaf, drunk, or already dead. 
 
 For his own part, Remus realized that it was time he took an interest in
farm matters: after all, the estate would be his one day. "How did we do
with the wine harvest this year, father?" he asked during cena on the
fourth day of their stay in Tuscany. The family was eating a dinner of
wild game in the old part of the farmhouse; the olivewood logs burning in
the old-fashioned fireplace built into the wall cast a pleasant fragrance
into the room. The first course of roast pheasant had just finished, and
now they were beginning on the venison, braised in a mouth-watering
wine-and-honey sauce. 
 
 "This is the best year we've ever had, so Marcus tells me," Aurelius
Varro said. "We've laid down enough barrels of wine to last not only this
year, but the next."
 
 Flavia wrinkled her fastidious nose. "What a mess wine-making makes,
though. Thank goodness it's nowhere near the house."
 
 "This is delicious venison," Aurelius Varro remarked. "Thanks entirely to
the hunting dogs your father very kindly gave us, Beinne. I'll never
forget the sight of Castor and Pollux, bringing down that stag. Here,
Castor!"
 
 Castor crept forward, wagging his tail, and accepted the titbit from
Aurelius Varro's hand; Pollux, half-asleep in another corner of the room,
thumped his tail on the floor.
 
 "More wine, Vitellius," Remus said, beckoning the slave boy who stood,
ready to pour from the wine jar. 
 
 "We'll all have some," Octavia said.
 
 Remus glanced at her: she had been uncharacteristically silent throughout
the meal.
 
 "Here, Vitellius, I'll hand you the cups one by one to fill them."
Octavia stood up and stretched, giving the impression of one glad of
activity after sitting still for so long.
 
 The conversation resumed as the cups were filled and handed back to their
owners; as it happened, Beinne's was the last one to be handed back. Now
considered to be one of the family, he no longer had the "first serving"
that was due a guest.
 
 Beinne was about to raise the cup to his lips when Vitellius lurched
against him sharply, causing the cup to fall out of his grasp onto the
floor. Octavia and Flavia uttered shrieks of dismay.
 
 "What a mess!"
 
 "You clumsy little fool, Vitellius!"
 
 Remus caught sight of the dog creeping forward again. "Hey, Castor, stop
lapping that up, you stupid beast! Wine's not good for y--"
 
 But it was too late. In the midst of lapping up the spilled wine with
every appearance of enjoyment, Castor, suddenly whined and shuddered. His
eyes became glassy, his gaze fixed: then he collapsed on the floor,
shuddered once more, and was still.
 
 "By all the gods!" Horrified, Remus sprang to his feet. "He's
dead--poisoned! Wings of Mithras, Beinne, that cup was meant for you!"
 
 Screams from the women, curses from the men. "Who did it?" Aurelius
demanded. "Vitellius, what is the meaning of this? Come here, boy!"
 
 The boy cowered in a corner of the room, covering his face with his
hands. Remus crossed the room and shook the boy's shoulder violently. "Did
you poison that wine?"
 
 Aurelius Varro said, "In the name of Jupiter, what's going on? It must
have only been one cup, because I've drunk from mine and I feel all right.
Who else drank?"
 
 There was a chorus of "I did" from everyone present except Beinne.
 
 "How did you know that cup was poisoned? You knocked it from his hand
deliberately, I saw you!" Remus, almost distraught by now, had the boy in
a cruel grip. "Speak, Vitellius!"
 
 The boy looked up, tears streaming down his face. "I swear, sir, I didn't
know the wine was poisoned. It was an accident, sir."
 
 "You little gutter rat," Remus said through clenched teeth. "You come
with me, slave. I'll beat the truth out of you or my name's not Varro!"
 
 He dragged the boy out of the room, with Beinne following hard on his
heels.
 
 "Bring me the whip, Marcus!" Remus shouted at the butler. 
 
 In the stable yard, a white-faced Marcus handed Remus the whip, and
bowed.
 
 "Tie his hands to the posts," Remus directed.
 
 Marcus tied Vitellius' hands to the two wooden posts, supported by a
crossbar, where normally fish were hung to smoke over a fire. The boy
trembled in every limb as Marcus ripped his tunic from his shoulders.
 
 "I'll give you one last chance," Remus bellowed. "Who poisoned the wine?"
 
 Between Vitellius' sobs they could just make out the words,
"I-don't-know-sir."
 
 "All right, then," Remus said. He tightened his grip on the rawhide whip,
raised his right arm.
 
 "Remus! Don't!"
 
 Beinne stepped between Remus and the slave.
 
 "Out of the way, Beinne! This boy is going to tell me the truth."
 
 "Don't beat him, Remus! He's a child."
 
 "Beinne, this is Rome. In Rome we discipline our slaves. Just get out of
the way, please, and let me get on with it."
 
 "No. I won't."
 
 Beinne looked full into Remus' eyes and in his face Remus saw the same
defiant look Beinne wore when he'd been captured, all those months ago.
 
 "Remus, if you want to beat someone, beat me. Don't beat him."
 
 "Don't be ridiculous, Beinne! You haven't done anything wrong. Get out of
the way, I tell you!" Once again Remus raised his arm.
 
 "Please, Re."
 
 Remus and Beinne locked stares for a long moment. The tension between
them was almost palpable.
 
 "Re, I'll take the whipping for him," Beinne urged. "I'm a man, I can
take it. This child can't."
 
 Beinne was offering him a way to save face. Remus could not afford to
lose authority in front of the household slaves by abandoning the whole
idea of the whipping. "All right," Remus said curtly. "But not here. In my
room."
 
 To Marcus he said, "Cut him down. Keep him in the kitchen until I send
for him. Come, Beinne, let's get this over with."
 
 In Remus' room, Beinne whipped off his tunic and stood naked. Turning his
back to Remus, he said, "All right, Re. Do what you have to."
 
 The sight of his barbarian lover in the raw made Remus catch his breath.
How could he flay that perfectly proportioned back, those adorable
buttocks that had cushioned him so often as he covered Beinne while he lay
on his stomach? Remus spun his lover around to face him. "Do you want me
to do this?"
 
 Beinne took a deep breath, lifted his chin. "If you feel you must beat
someone, do what you will."
 
 "Would you enjoy it?"
 
 "Are you crazy?" Beinne seemed bewildered by the question. "No."
 
 "Would I enjoy it?" Remus said, as if to himself.
 
 Beinne's level gaze met his. "That's for you to say."
 
 "What if I said I would enjoy it--would you let me beat you?" Somehow,
the idea of whipping Beinne, of raising welts along that alabaster-smooth
back, watching them turn bright red with his blood, was turning him on. He
could feel his breath growing short as his heart beat faster with
excitement. 
 
 "Yes."
 
 "You must really love me," Remus said, not taking his eyes from his
lover's face, "if you would put yourself in my power so completely."
 
 "But I wouldn't be in your power, Re." Beinne looked calmly back at him.
"You would be in mine."
 
 Remus paused with his arm in mid-air, still holding the whip, as he
worked out Beinne's labyrinthine thought processes. Finally he recognized
that Beinne understood a central fact about his lover: that Remus, in
common with most Romans, carried a streak of cruelty in his nature. By
letting Remus indulge his taste for inflicting punishment, Beinne would be
the stronger of the two, because he himself possessed no such weakness.
 
 And then Remus realized that he couldn't do it. Suddenly, he was
disgusted with himself: he was no better than the idle, useless mob that
demanded circuses along with its bread and watched in blood-lustful bliss
as lions tore Christians apart and gladiators fought to the death in the
arena.
 
 He lowered his arm. "All right, Beinne, get dressed. On second thought,
stay as you are--no,damn it, we don't have time for that right now. We
need to find out who poisoned that wine."
 
 "I know one thing." Beinne's voice sounded muffled as he pulled the tunic
over his head. "It wasn't the slave boy. He's innocent."
 
 "How do you know that?"
 
 "Common sense, Remus. He has no reason to poison me--he never saw me
until four days ago. Besides, he's a slave. He knows full well what the
punishment would be for murdering a guest of his master."
 
 "Lucky for him that he lives in this day and age, and not twenty years
ago," Remus remarked in a sour tone. "It was Emperor Hadrian who changed
the old law that if a slave murdered his master, all the slaves in the
house were executed, even if most of them were completely innocent."
 
 "Well, he didn't murder me. I think the best thing to do is question him
gently. He's obviously very frightened."
 
 In the end, Remus allowed Beinne to interrogate Vitellius. The boy
replied to Beinne's questions that his parents were dead, that he was a
foundling, now aged thirteen, and had been a slave at the Varro farm since
he was six. He was very happy living there, and enjoyed helping with the
wine harvest.
 
 "You saved my life," Beinne said. "You should be rewarded for that. You
knew the wine I was about to drink was poisoned, didn't you?"
 
 The boy looked down at his bare feet. "You're a good man, sir. I didn't
want you to die."
 
 "Who did want me to die, Vitellius?"
 
 "I'll be killed if I tell you."
 
 "No, you won't. I'll protect you, even if you have to stay by my side
night and day."
 
 The boy looked up, eyes brimming. "It was the young lady, sir. She knew I
helped with the wine-making and asked me for sugar of lead to put in your
wine."
 
 "Mithras!" Remus sprang forward. "This was Octavia's doing?" 
 
 Sugar of lead, used in very small amounts in wine-making as a sweetener,
naturally had no bitter taste to warn potential victims of danger. Beinne
would have noticed nothing unusual if he had drunk the wine and very 
 soon would have ceased to notice anything at all.
 
 "Just wait until I get my hands on her!" Remus was swept by a fury that
had never before
 possessed him. Everything he saw seemed tinged with a red glow as he left
the room in search of
 Octavia. He knew Octavia was jealous of Beinne and had reason to be, but
he had never
 imagined she would stoop to this. And yet, it would have been a clever
plan if it had worked:
 only Beinne would have been affected. It might have been supposed that he
had died suddenly of 
 a seizure or some kind of disease.
 
 And even with Vitellius there to foil Octavia's plot, she still might
have escaped suspicion if it
 hadn't been for the unfortunate Castor, who'd evidently believed that
anything left on the floor
 was a bonus for hard-working hunting dogs.
 
 At the door of Octavia's bedroom, he elbowed the serving-women out of the
way and strode in to
 face her. 
 
 "You slut. You vicious, evil, scheming bitch! I know it was you who tried
to poison Beinne."
 
 His voice, low but filled with contempt, made Octavia shrink back against
the wall. "I don't
 know what you're talking about."
 
 "You're the one who deserves the whip, not that slave boy." Remus
advanced toward her, and
 although he was empty-handed, Octavia burst into tears.
 
 "I would be perfectly entitled to whip you instead of Vitellius. Or to
divorce you. Or even kill
 you."
 
 Octavia shrieked. "I'm pregnant! I'm carrying your son! Oh, how I hate
you, Remus, coming in
 here and upsetting me with your lies!"
 
 Remus regarded her in silence for a minute. Then he spoke, in a tone as
cold as if he were
 passing sentence on a criminal. "You'd better hope you're safely
delivered of a son and heir. 
 That's the only thing keeping you alive right now." He turned to go, then
half-turned back.
 "Since I seem to have done my duty toward the house of Varro, nothing
more is required of me. 
 I'll never share your bed again, Octavia."
 
 That night, in Remus' room, Beinne spoke the words Remus dreaded to hear.
 
 "Re, I'm going home."
 
 "Ah, Beinne..."
 
 "I hate to leave you, but it'll make things too awkward if I stay."
Beinne dropped a kiss on
 Remus' jaw, just below his ear.
 
 Remus sighed. "You're right, but by all the gods, how am I going to live
without you?"
 
 "You have responsibilities. You'll find a way, Remus. But," Beinne drew
Remus into his arms
 and whispered, "I'll love you all the rest of my life. I've never loved
anyone the way I love you,
 Re. Think of me, sometimes, when the winter winds blow cold across the
Forum."
 
 Three days later the Varro household returned to Rome and the day after
that Beinne departed for
 Britannia, taking Vitellius with him.
 
 
 * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
 
 The Roman road ran straight and true through the undulating Northumbrian
countryside. His
 horses' hooves struck sparks from its smooth stone surface, and the
wheels of his chariot and 
 those of the vehicles behind him creaked in protest at the speed of their
passage. It was a frosty
 morning in late October, with a red sun glittering behind the leafless
silhouettes of the trees that dotted
 the bare hills. Remus turned his head to check the speed of the wagons
and the formation
 of the troops marching behind him. Yes, everyone was present and
accounted for. He enjoyed
 driving, and every clop of hoof against stone, every lurch of the chariot
and creak of the
 wagon-wheels, was bringing him closer to Cilurnum.
 
 From there he would set out to find his true love, and would not rest
until he did so.
 
 Beinne, beautiful Beinne, as tall and fair as the gods themselves. Beinne
with the blue eyes that
 seemed to look into you and even through you, as if he saw more than
existed in this world;
 Beinne, whose ears were so keen he could hear a leaf fall in the forest,
whose stamina was so
 great that he could track a boar for hours without stopping to rest;
whose hands could throw a
 spear, or shape a mass of wet clay into a likeness of his lover, or
caress said lover's cock until
 that gentleman yelled his delight in three different languages.
 
 Beinne, Remus thought as his eyes scanned the moorland ahead of him.
Beinne, my love, I'm
 coming back to you.
 
 His life in Rome, the life he'd so longed for during his tour of duty in
Britannia, turned to dust in
 his mouth after Beinne's departure. He seemed to be looking at the city
through new eyes--
 Beinne's eyes--and finding it lacking. Britannia might be chilly, but the
air was sweet and
 breathable, not polluted with dust and smoke and perfume like the air of
Rome. The terrain
 might be wild, devoid of civilized habitation, but it was innocent, in a
way that Rome hadn't
 been for five centuries. The tribes might be savage, but they killed to
defend themselves, not for
 the sheer joy of it. And most important of all, Rome did not contain
Beinne Fothudain.
 
 Remus suddenly strained forward. What was up ahead on the road? It looked
like--yes, a battle
 going on. He laid about the horses with his whip to make them gallop
faster. Yes, now he could
 see that the fight appeared to be between a band of tribesmen--Parisii,
by the colors of the
 checked cloaks they wore--and three Brigantians, in cloaks of their own
tribal colors. The air
 rang with the clank of broadsword against broadsword and the unearthly
yells of the antagonists. 
 
 Remus frowned. The fact that the British tribes could not get along with
each other certainly
 worked to Rome's advantage--if they ever did unite, the Empire would lose
the province that was
 its biggest cash cow--but ten against three wasn't fair. Especially when
one of the three valiant
 Brigantian fighters looked so like his lover. In fact...Remus urged the
horses forward, unable to
 believe his eyes...by Mithras, it was Beinne, fighting for his life!
 
 And beginning to tire, by the looks of it. It was the Celtic warrior's
mission to fight until he
 dropped: the Celts had no fear of death. Was he to lose Beinne now, after
enduring a wretched
 year without him, after bidding farewell to his old life and coming to
Britannia to look for him? 
 Not bloody likely.
 
 Turning his head to address the men behind him, Remus yelled "Battle
formation!" He pulled
 up the horses, seized his shield and pilum, and jumped down from the
chariot. 
 
 Immediately, the soldiers hoisted the banner depicting the Roman eagle,
detached themselves
 from the convoy, and marched toward the skirmish.
 
 On sighting this new enemy, the larger group of barbarians began to hurl
spears toward them . 
 Remus, leading the assault, ducked as a spear sailed over his head and
yelled back at his men.
 "Testudo!"
 
 The column of soldiers formed into a square: those on the outside turned
their shields outward,
 those on the inside lifted their shields above their heads, end to end,
to form a living tortoise that
 advanced inexorably on the barbarians, who appeared flummoxed as their
spears bounced
 uselessly off the testudo's metal shell.
 
 At Remus' signal, the formation fanned out into a single column that
surrounded the barbarians. 
 The Parisii fought bravely, but proved no match for the well-disciplined
Roman troops; by the
 time the battle was over, six of the group lay dead on the ground, four
had been taken into
 Roman custody, and the three Brigantians were standing at attention to
pay their respects to their
 Roman rescuers.
 
 Remus took off his helmet, pulled up a corner of his cloak to wipe the
sweat off his face, and
 walked up to Beinne, who was staring at him as if he couldn't believe his
eyes.
 
 "Remus! What in the name of Brigantia are you doing here?"
 
 "I'm on my way to my duty station," Remus said, feasting his eyes on his
friend. Beinne was
 wearing the traditional British bracae, shirt, and cloak, made of
checkered wool cloth--well,
 that was natural enough, he could hardly be expected to run around in
nothing but a tunic in this
 climate. He was clean-shaven, his hair a little longer than he had worn
it in Rome, but not much;
 he looked clean and well fed, so life must be going well for him.
 
 "What's going on, Beinne? Was this just your unlucky day, or what?"
 
 "It started out that way," Beinne said, still devouring Remus with his
eyes. "That man over
 there--" he indicated one of the survivors with a jerk of his head, "--is
Zukolius, chief of the
 Parisii."
 
 Remus turned to look at the barbarian chief, a dark-haired man of medium
height with full,
 sensual lips and heavy-lidded eyes. Zukolius' unwavering gaze never left
Beinne. "What's his
 problem?"
 
 Beinne looked embarrassed. "He was trying to kidnap me. That's why he
ambushed our hunting
 party."
 
 "Why does he want to kidnap you? Ransom?"
 
 "Not exactly," Beinne said, and blushed. "He, ah, wants me to go to bed
with him. He's been
 after me on and off for years."
 
 "I'll kill him!" Remus drew his sword and began to advance on Zukolius,
who promptly spat at
 him.
 
 "Remus, don't kill him. He didn't touch me. Just tell him to take himself
off, and good
 riddance."
 
 "No problem, but he'll be given a warning first," Remus said. He gave the
order, then turned
 back to Beinne, who was eyeing the soldiers and wagons. 
 
 "Remus? What's all this? Not your luggage, surely."
 
 "Well, yes. The troops are to relieve some of the personnel currently
stationed at Cilurnum
 who're due to retire. The rest of the stuff is for the villa I'm going to
build. I've brought pipes
 for the hypocausts that are going to heat the floors, and marble for the
bathroom. You can soak
 in my bath any time you want, Beinne." 
 
 Beinne's shout of laughter was so loud that the ravens perching on a
nearby tree limb flapped off,
 cawing their disgust. When he was able to speak again, he gasped out the
words, "You haven't
 changed, Re." 
 
 "Oh, I've changed in one way--but then, in another way I haven't."
 
 Beinne's eyebrows rose and he gazed at his friend with that innocent look
that Remus loved. He
 always had the feeling that Beinne knew more than he let on. "What does
that mean, Re?"
 
 "I've decided to make my career in Britannia. Military intelligence, you
understand. I'll travel
 the length of the Wall, observing the activities of the tribes and
writing reports to send back to
 Rome. I'll be based at Cilurnum, of course."
 
 "But you hate it here! There's nothing about this country that you like,
Re."
 
 "Wrong. There's one thing I like--no, that I love. Beinne," Remus said,
"In one way I haven't
 changed at all. I still love you. I want to spend the rest of my life in
this godforsaken place with
 you."
 
 The look of joy in Beinne's eyes made Remus feel bathed in love, light,
warmth.
 
 Then the Brigantian frowned. "But Remus, what about Octavia?"
 
 "Divorced her. Mater is bringing up young Caius Remus Varro, and having
the time of her life."
 
 "Congratulations! You must feel proud to be the father of a son."
 
 "Oh, well. I'll send for him when he's old enough to join me here. But
what about you, Beinne? 
 Are you still a bachelor?"
 
 "Well, no, as a matter of fact. My mother married me off to a woman named
Brenna. She's a
 terrific horsewoman." Beinne added, "We're expecting a baby ourselves,
soon."
 
 If Beinne had punched him in the stomach it could not have hurt more, or
been more unexpected. 
 "Oh."
 
 Beinne smiled. "Don't worry, Re." He tucked his arm through Remus' and
began walking
 toward the chariot with him. "Our marriages aren't like yours. Brenna
lives with her mother,
 and so will our child. And even though I'll be seeing a lot of them, I'll
still have plenty of time
 to spend with you, soaking in your bath."
 
 
 * * * * * * * * *
 
 "The image blurs and you find yourself standing before your own
modern-day reflection...."
 
 Ray felt himself traveling back through the mists of time. He didn't want
to: he'd have liked to stay in Britannia, feeling Beinne's hard, warm body
pressing against his in the chariot as they galloped toward Cilurnum, and
getting a hard-on at the thought of being able to screw his Brigantian
lover's brains out in the very near future.
 
 But as Fraser's soft voice went on through the steps of the recall, Ray
obediently followed the instructions.
 
 "Three....your entire body and soul feel refreshed...now open your
eyes...you are feeling good."
 
 He opened his eyes, sat up, stretched, noticing that the hard-on had
traveled back to the present with him. "Well, who would have thought it
would end like that? But it doesn't change anything for us, Benny. You
still have to go, and I still have to stay."
 
 "Yes, Ray."
 
 He wanted to remember Fraser at this moment, in the small pool of light
cast by the desk lamp: red plaid shirt stretched across broad shoulders,
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, looking as desirable in this life as he
had in the other, but with a sadness in his eyes that Ray wanted to
banish. He reached for him. "Come here, Benny. In that other life I was
just about to make love to you like never before. And there's no time like
the present."
 
 Fraser's mouth quirked in a smile. "Who am I to argue with the might of
Rome?" 
 
        * * * * * * * * *   
 Ray was right, Fraser decided. He'd said that in the beginning, they'd
call each other every day. And then every couple of days. And then it
would become a week between calls, then two.
 
 He hadn't heard from Ray for a week now, and it was only a month ago that
they'd parted. Only four weeks for Ray to forget him? Had he found someone
else?
 
 His mind told him that if Ray had found a new love it was a matter for
rejoicing, but his heart refused to listen. He went on folding the clothes
he had just brought back from the laundromat, wondering how he was going
to blot out the emotional pain that threatened to engulf him. It was too
bad that today was Saturday and he had no duties to occupy him. Later,
he'd take Dief for a run in the woods, but for now the rooming-house where
he was staying until he could find an apartment in Whitehorse offered no
distractions beyond the television set in the lounge.
 
 Well, there was always the public library. As he laid away the last of
the underwear and closed the drawer, there was a knock on the door. Dief
sprang down off the bed and faced the door expectantly, his tail waving so
fast it created a current of air in the room.
 
 Wondering who it could be--his colleagues at the detachment office were
all married men and presumably busy on the weekends--he reached for the
door, opened it, and stood dumbfounded.
 
 "Ray!"
 
 "Yep. Had a helluva time getting here, what with changing planes and all,
but it's over now."
 
 Ray grinned as he came into the room. Fraser shut the door behind him,
still unable to believe his eyes. "I had no idea you were coming up. Why
didn't you tell me? I'm delighted to see you, of course." 
 
 "Yeah, well--" Ray pulled off the wool muffler around his neck, started
unbuttoning his coat. "I wanted to surprise you. And to show you these."
He pulled a sheaf of forms from his jacket and handed them to Fraser, who
immediately recognized them as the application forms for landed immigrant
status in Canada.
 
 Stunned, he raised his eyes from the papers to Ray. "You're going to live
here?"
 
 "That's the idea. Benny, not only did I miss you like hell, I just
couldn't hack it in Chicago anymore. Sure, I was getting treated better
than I ever did before at the station, but all the fun was gone. It just
wasn't the same without you. And," Ray slid out of his coat, tossed it on
the armchair next the window, "you know, I got to thinking about what I
did in that other life. I said goodbye to the family, left the city
behind, and went to another country to find you again."
 
 Fraser nodded, not wanting to interrupt. He was beginning to feel
unbelievably happy--as happy as he'd been sad just a few short minutes
ago.
 
 "And you know something? I have it a lot easier in this life. I can
E-mail Ma every day and call her every night. If anything happens I can
get on a plane and be back in Chicago in a matter of hours. She's got a
part-time home help coming in every day, courtesy of Medicare, and the
rest of the family there at night. That house always felt more like hers
than mine anyway."
 
 Ray moved closer. "And you know what else? It occurred to me--what if
Ange and I were still married, and she got a hotshot job in another city?
She'd move, and she'd expect me to move with her, even if it meant leaving
Ma. You and I can't get married, but we can live together as if we were.
If it wouldn't create a problem for you, that is."
 
 "No, it won't be a problem," Fraser said. He pulled Ray to him, unable to
believe that he was holding him in his arms again. "We'll find you a job,
we'll get an apartment or a house, we'll--"
 
 Ray stopped him with a long kiss. 
 
 When it ended, Fraser's voice shook slightly as he said, "So it isn't the
end of the season for us after all."
 
 "No, Benny. It's the beginning of a whole new one."
 
 
 The End
 
 
 
  Glossary
 
 
 Antoninus Pius--Known as one of the five “good” emperors, Antoninus was
chosen by Hadrian to succeed him (A.D. 138-161), as Hadrian had no
children with his nominal wife, Sabina. He also built a wall in Britannia,
although it is less well known than Hadrian’s.
 Bracae--Woolen trousers worn by barbarian men.
 Brenna--No more in love with him than he was with her (although she liked
him as a friend and respected him as a comrade in arms), beautiful,
red-haired Brenna married Beinne because it was time for her to have a
child or two. Beinne’s relationship with Remus fazed her not at all, as it
left her with plenty of time to pursue her own interests--serving on the
tribal council in the morning and racing around the countryside on her
favorite horse in the afternoon.
 Brigantes--The tribe to which Beinne belonged, named for the Goddess
Brigantia. They mostly lived, fought, and traveled in the area around
Eboracum, although they were known to range further north and west from
time to time. Their history was as checkered as their clothes, since a
former queen, Cartimandua (circa A.D. 60) betrayed her own people to the
Romans.
 Civis Romanus sum--I am a Roman citizen.
 Diocles--The champion racing driver of Rome, Diocles retired in A.D. 150
at the age of 42, after 3,000 wins.
 Eboracum--Known to the Romans as Eboracum and to later Viking invaders as
Jarvik, the city of York began its existence as a Roman military
installation at the junction of the Rivers Ouse and Foss. Eboracum housed
the Ninth Legion (Hispana), which departed about A.D. 120. The Sixth
Legion then took over the military post.
 Flavian Ampitheatre--The name the ancient inhabitants of Rome gave to the
huge arena we now call the Colosseum.
 Friend--To the ancients, “friendship” meant that two men were friends in
every way, including sexually. Only men could be friends, because only men
were considered to have sufficient intelligence to understand such a
concept. A man had only one friend of this kind at a time, however.
 Hadrian--Often called one of the five “good” emperors, this able warrior,
statesman, and philosopher gave Rome the best government it had ever
experienced (A.D. 117-138). A trendsetter (he was the first emperor to
wear a beard), he was also openly gay. When his young lover Antinoüs
drowned in a boating accident, Hadrian was said to have “wept like a
woman.”
 Hadrian’s Wall--Hadrian visited Britannia in A.D. 122 and decreed the
building of the wall to mark the northernmost border of the Roman Empire.
Stretching from the Tyne to Solway Firth, it was intended to contain the
barbarian tribes that inhabited the northern part of the island of Albion.
Building the wall kept the Roman frontier troops occupied for a good 20
years.
 Lollius Urbicus--Despite his frivolous-sounding name, Lollius Urbicus,
first Antonine governor of Britain, must have been quite a guy.  Born
around A.D. 100, he helped Hadrian put down the Jewish rebellion,
commanded a legion on the Danube, and served as governor of Lower Germany.
His reward was the highest honor of the imperial career ladder: the
governorship of Britannia (A.D. 139-142).
 Marked for sacrifice--The fate that might have befallen Beinne actually
did fall on the unfortunate individual known to modern scholars as Lindow
Man, whose corpse was discovered at Lindow Moss, Cheshire, in 1984. He had
been ritually murdered in the first century A.D. and thrown into the fen,
which preserved him to the present day.
 Mithras--Winged Persian deity, associated with bull sacrifice, worshipped
by Roman soldiers of the officer class. Mithraism, which excluded women,
was a mystery cult with rites known only to initiates. Services were
conducted in underground temples, the ruins of which have been found at
numerous sites, including Carrowburgh, near Hadrian’s Wall, and the
financial district known as “The City,” in the heart of London. 
 No fear of death--The Druids taught that existence was an endless cycle
of birth, death, and rebirth. The Celts believed that after the physical
body died, the soul passed into another body. Death in their view was
merely a point of transformation.
 Past-life regression--The book Fraser and Ray used was How to Uncover
Your Past Lives, by Ted Andrews, Llewellyn Publications, copyright 1992.
The techniques in the story are based on chapter 7.
 Paterfamilias--The father of the family, head of the Roman household.
 Patrician--In ancient Rome, a person of high birth, an aristocrat.
 Pilum--The heavy javelin used by Roman legionaries in battle.
 Plebeian--One of the common people of ancient Rome.
 Principia--The headquarters building in which Roman army officers had
their offices.
 Stanley Ray Kowalski--On learning the true state of affairs between
Vecchio and Stella, Kowalski wangled a few days’ leave and went to Florida
to see his ex-wife. He scarcely recognized the woman who opened her
apartment door to him, wearing a gardenia in her hair and a
flower-patterned sarong that looked great against her tan. He soon
discovered there was nothing underneath the sarong. As Stella had
apparently left her inhibitions, as well as her ambition, in Chicago,
Kowalski saw no need to return there either.
 Sugar of Lead--The Romans added sugar of lead (lead acetate) to their
wine to correct the sometimes bitter taste. Ingested in larger amounts, it
tastes sweet and is fatal.
 Vitellius--When Vitellius arrived in Beinne’s home territory, the tribal
council declared him a free man and adopted him. He grew up to become a
skilled metalworker who specialized in making weapons for the tribe.
 Zukolius--During their life together in Britannia, Beinne and Remus
encountered Zukolius twice more, and on the second occasion chased him
across the sea to Gaul, where he stayed. His descendants became known as
the Franks.
 The End--Since it appears that “Call of the Wild” was the end of the
season for due South (permanently, alas), Rupert Rouge is declaring this
story to be the end of his season, too. (You can check out his DS stories
and his biography on his home page, when He Finally Gets It Up.) Rupert
plans to change his name, dye his hair, and starting writing gay novels.
He hopes you’ve had as much fun reading his due South stories as he’s had
writing them. 
 
 Copyright January 1999 by Rupert Rouge on all original story content. Not
meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any
other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for
anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the
author. Comments welcome at RupertR@hotmail.com.