“Cheerful,” I observed. The conversational hum was subdued, the lamps flickered fitfully, and even the bright silks and jewels of the guests seemed muted by the black gloom.

“At least you’ll match.” Cleopatra twitched a fold of my black dress, then craned her pretty neck past the folds of the curtain. “Is that the Emperor? On the first couch there, in the breastplate?”

“No, that’s Prefect Norbanus.” Paulinus looked fit and healthy, wearing the signet ring and chain of his new office with ease. Power sat well on him—I couldn’t imagine that his new position had changed him from the sweet boy I’d known. I hadn’t seen him since he’d left so suddenly for Germania, in the campaign that had made his career.

“So that’s the Emperor next to him? In the black tunic?” Cleopatra patted her curls. “Well, I’ll lift his eyes out of that wine cup!” She burst into the triclinium on cue, a phoenix flash of color and music in the blackness, arching and rippling and twisting. The Emperor’s dark eyes held only a flicker of interest as she fell at last into a graceful heap before his couch, but a flicker was enough.

“You’re next,” the steward called me.

I’d be a dull stick after Cleopatra’s antics—the Emperor barely looked up as I glided in with my lyre. But Paulinus gave me a friendly smile of recognition, and I remembered what pleasant company he’d always been. I gave a little extra bow to him and stepped up onto my pedestal, waiting until the slaves were done serving the next course. Even the food was black: blue-black oysters from Britannia, black bread studded with olives, purple-black plums heaped in onyx bowls . . .

I got a ripple of applause and started on my first song. Lively mindless music Larcius scorned, but this black party needed a little cheer. I sang for Paulinus, who liked a good tune, but he looked up at me only now and then. His brows were furrowed, and he bent all his attention on Domitian, talking in coaxing murmurs. Could they possibly be friends? Emperors didn’t have friends, especially not Domitian—even as far south as Brundisium we heard of his increasing conspiracy sweeps, the frequency of his treason trials. Of course, any intelligent ruler of Rome feared assassination: At least half of the previous ten Emperors had been murdered.

The Emperor was heavier than when I’d first seen him up close, at his niece Julia’s wedding. His hair was thinning across the top, but his cheeks still had a ruddy flush. His black synthesis was unembroidered; he wore only a seal ring for jewelry. His black plate was untouched and his goblet three quarters full. Not just an austere man; gloomy. But some whispered comment of Paulinus’s got a smile out of him, and his smile had charm.

I finished my song, and there was a halfhearted little ripple of applause. Not a lively crowd, but I could hardly blame them. I adjusted the tuning of my lyre, and one of the senators addressed himself valiantly across the black plates at his Emperor.