“Why?” I put my hand out from under the atrium roof into the rain. The storms this month had ruined the Lupercalia festivals. “Domitian needs an heir, so why order her to kill his child? She may be his niece, but Emperors have married their nieces before. He could make the Senate accept both her and the child, if he wanted.”

“So he didn’t want to,” the lyre player shrugged. “Emperors are funny.”

So they were.

ROME

THERE will be some loss of dexterity.” The doctor unwound the bandages on Arius’s hand. “Especially in the last two fingers. Too much wear and tear over the years. How many times have you broken those fingers of yours?”

“I don’t know.” Arius flexed his hand experimentally.

“What was it this time? Sword hilt?”

“Shield boss.”

“My sympathies.” The doctor frowned. “Mind you rest them for a few weeks. Or they’ll just snap again like dry twigs.”

“No fear.” Arius curled the injured hand inside the strong one. “I’m on break.”

“Yes, that’s right. Imperial moratorium on all festivals and games, was that it?”

“Mmm.”

“For the Emperor’s niece. She was in Cremona, you know, and with all the heat up there the funeral rites had to be carried out immediately. Oh yes, the Emperor was quite wild when his niece came back to Rome in an urn.”

Arius had a sudden inner picture of Domitian knocking the funeral urn flying with one sweep of his arm, mouth opening in a silent scream, and then falling to his knees to sweep up the greasy white ashes with frantic hands. Arius blinked the image away.

“Done yet?”

“Oh, yes, quite done. Well, I’d best be getting along.” The doctor paused a moment, flushing. “My wife—she’s a great fan of yours. Would it be possible . . .”

“Talk to my lanista.” Gallus charged enormous sums for little wooden medallions bearing a portrait on one side and a lock of hair on the other. Not his own hair; the barber’s or the pageboy’s or even Hercules’, clipped and dyed reddish. “Anyone who’s willing to fork money over for mementoes of you, dear boy, deserves to be fleeced.” Arius was for once in complete agreement.

“—She’ll be so pleased,” the doctor enthused. “She’s so excited whenever I get a call to patch you up. Dines on it for weeks. Well, rest that hand! We want you fit for the next games, whenever the Emperor comes out of this black mood of his.”

Arius turned away as the doctor bustled out. He flexed his fingers. No, they weren’t all they once were—they wouldn’t straighten fully anymore. But he could still curl his hand around a sword, and that was what counted. He could pick up a sword tomorrow if he had to. He didn’t need any rest to win.

I don’t need anything to win, you son of a bitch. It wasn’t the doctor he was talking to.

The Emperor crawled into his head again. The cool look on his face at Arius’s last fight, when he’d ordered his guards to tie Arius’s left arm up behind him.