He stood unnoticed as the barbarians streamed around him. From all quarters

came random crashes and the crackling of uncontrollable fires; above it all

the women's screams rose to the heavens. A city being sacked was a noisy

thing, and the sacking of this, the city of all cities, was a cataclysm.

One stinking brute nearly ran into him as he staggered by, drunk and

clutching his sack of looted gold. By the time he'd passed, Lucius was on

the other side of the street. He supposed he should go, but instead he

moved like a pale wraith along the streets he knew by heart, analyzing his

feelings. Anger? Surprisingly, not much: Rome had grown weak, and the weak

succumb to the strong. That was a lesson Rome herself had dealt out--how

many times?--over the millennium of her existence. Grief? Indeed. Unlike

the Greeks, who thought only their own ideas were worth anything, Rome had

had the cleverness to borrow and improve upon any worthy thing it had come

across. By doing so, it had become the world's greatest empire.

The Empire had survived as long as it had because it never gave much weight

to the ephemeral. Rome concentrated on building roads and cities, navies

and armies. Let the people--Roman and conquered alike--think what they

wanted. As long as they didn't get in Rome's way, Rome didn't care.

With a quirk of an eyebrow and a slight shrug, Lucius blamed the fall of

Rome on Constantine, who had put the ideas of a crucified Jewish carpenter

over the importance of roads and armies. He turned his steps toward the

Tullianum. At least nobody was looking for loot in the bowels of the old

prison.

He awoke the next evening in blessed darkness and quiet; it lasted until he

reached the outermost passage. The chorus tonight was not screams of

terror, but wails of grief, punctuated now and again by drunken laughter.

Making his way along the edge of the Forum he came to the Golden Milestone.

The gold had of course been stripped off, but he traced the names of the

farflung cities of the Empire with his cool fingers. All roads lead to

Rome, he mused, and now all roads lead away.

The acrid smell of smoke and ash was in his nostrils as he left.

He did not look back.

All roads led away from Rome, and he wandered them as he chose. The wars

and political intrigues he dabbled in were nothing to him, just games for

mortals such as he had been and was no longer. What stirred his senses and

fired his imagination was the sheer vitality and complexity of the world,

natural and mortal alike. Why did this flowering shrub grow here and not

there? What accounted for the differences between Mongol and Celt, Ethiope

and Egyptian? Why did the Greeks shiver in their chitons and the Bedouin

cover themselves in woollen robes?

The fledglings he made were few, and fewer still survived. It was difficult

to judge how the conversion would change the ones he chose to bring across.

Some went mad and had to be destroyed, some he lost interest in and they

passed from each other's lives.

One night he followed a princess. At least, she ought to have been a

princess, by the way she carried herself. He would have taken the whore,

but there was something in that carriage. . .he followed her for many

nights. This time he had chosen well. She was charming and lovely and a

perfectly ruthless killer. For a hundred years they travelled in a

companionship that warmed his heart as nothing had before.

Then the lightning struck his heart, and nothing would ever be the same

again.

The young man was beautiful, yes. Ah, but more, so much more than that!

He *was* fire, golden and glowing. And as this Nicholas listened to what

Lucien told him about what he was and what Nicholas could be, those sensuous

lips parted in wonder and the celestial blue eyes fixed on him with the rapt

attention of a child.

Lucien damned near drained him, his blood was so fine. Like the best wine,

complex yet clear in its tones, with dark subtleties somewhere just beyond

reach. He was glad he stopped in time to bring him across.

His ensuing Conversion Days were never dull. Sometimes they were sweet,

sharing with his two favorite children the vampire equivalent of cozy

domesticity. Sometimes he was alone but peaceful, knowing they would always

come back to him. And sometimes he was arguing with Nicholas, not speaking

with Nicholas, having knock-down-drag-out fights with Nicholas . . .

Toronto, 1998 CE

LaCroix smiled gently at the memories as he affixed the sword pin to his

shirt collar--a past present from Nicholas--and shrugged on his jacket. His

son's golden head poked in the door.

"Are you ready yet? What's taking you so long?"

"As I've been trying to tell you for centuries, mon fils, *I* have all the

time in the world."

"That may be true. But if they have to start the party without you, Janette

will be in a sulk for weeks."

"I would never disappoint the lovely Janette in such a grave matter as

this," but he smiled as he said it, and walked out the door ahead of his

son. At the foot of the stairs he paused and looked back.

"I am very glad you are *both* here to celebrate with me, Nicholas."

Nick took his hand and met his eyes. "I am too," he said.

FIN