Who groans beneath the Punic Curse
And strangles in the strings of purse
Before she mends must sicken worse.

Her living mouth shall breed blue flies
And maggots creep about her eyes
No man shall mark the day she dies.
[translation of Sibylline verse from "I, Claudius" by Robert Graves]

03:00 25 May 2002
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

The glass doors of The Hyperion swung open and a diminutive figure stepped in. She carried a flashlight, but did not use it at first, picking her way through the room with ease, despite the darkness.

In the hotel's main office, she quickly located the main cache of books and manuscripts, locked in a glass-fronted cupboard. Tucking the flashlight under one arm, she gripped the small padlock that served as security for the library, and twisted it sharply. It fell apart in her fingers, the flimsy metal no match for her strength. She yanked the door open, and then illuminated the cupboard's contents.

Quickly finding what she wanted, she drew two items from the store. The first, a cylindrical, leather-bound tube, might have been used in times gone by to carry a map. The second was a scruffy, insignificant-looking book, bound in black canvas (although half the cover was missing) with yellowing, curled pages.

These she took to a nearby desk. The tube popped open to reveal a parchment scroll, which, when laid out flat, covered less than a quarter of the wooden surface. She scanned it eagerly, and her eyes danced when she found the location of a certain passage.

Next, she thumbed through the pages of the book, and left it open on the desk. From her coat pocket she took a large ring; a carved piece of jade set in silver, and placed it precisely on the book's pages.

Upstairs, the owner of the hotel slumbered and dreamed. In the light of a beautiful morning, a fortified sea port came into his vision. Vast, gleaming walls of marble had been raised to protect the populace from inland marauders. In contrast, a harbour stretched away into the calm, blue waters, welcoming visitors from the sea. Around the port lay acres of green, cultivated land, and in the distance, the arid desert shimmered.

As the sleeper approached the citadel, this beauty was exposed as a sham: the walls were stained with blood and scorched as if some god had succeeded in burning the very stone; the harbour was overgrown with weed and bereft of boats and merchants; the farmlands were abandoned, their grasses had sprouted and remained unharvested, and all was rack and ruin.

Some ancient knowledge, understanding, or inspiration told the sleeper the name of the city.

Angel woke in a sweat and mouthed the word: "Carthage."

He rubbed his eyes and tried to banish the dream. Finding this impossible, and the time close to dawn, he rose and went downstairs to make coffee.

The intruder heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs, and allowed herself a secretive smile. She touched each of the objects she had placed on the desk once more, reverently, and waited for him to find her.

"You're stealing from me now?"

She turned towards him, but said nothing in reply. As he advanced on her, she skirted around the desk, and moved to keep it between them as he looked at the pilfered collection. "What do you want, Darla?"

She said nothing in reply, smiling at him while he cast his eyes over her arrangements. Suddenly, she snatched something from the desk and was gone.

11:20 25 May 2002
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

"This was what she was taking?" Wesley screwed his forehead into a concertina.

Angel frowned. "Well, yes. And she actually did get away with something. I think it was a paperweight."

"A real paperweight, or an orb of something-or-other?"

"A genuine paperweight. Maybe she thought it was valuable. But she left this." Angel picked up the heavy silver ring and handed it to Wesley. "What do you think it is?"

Wesley hummed for a moment, and then fished in the desk drawers for a magnifying glass. "I'd say, Roman. Or a very good fake."

"Roman?"

"This design," Wesley indicated the carved jade, "is very like some imperial seals I've seen in the British Museum. You know, for making an impression in wax, ratifying orders, sealing letters and so on."

Angel took the ring back, and studied it, with a worried look on his face. "Roman."

"Angel? Is something wrong? I mean, I know, we thought she'd gone for good, and now she's back, but..." Wesley sighed, "What I mean to say is... our jobs aren't in danger again, are they? Should I call Cordelia and Gunn and ask them to fly back early?"

The image of the beautiful city rose again in his mind, and this time he could see Darla standing on the battlements, and all around her blood was pouring from the stone.