“Lord and God, we’ve heard a good many rumors from Judaea lately. More rebels in Jerusalem?”

“Easy enough to crush, if there are.” The Emperor gave an indifferent shrug. “A limp-spirited people, Jews.”

I’d heard worse than that in my life, certainly. But a demon seized me.

“In your honor, Lord and God,” I said sweetly, bowing, and struck up the opening chords of a Hebrew song I’d learned in childhood.

From the corner of my eye I saw the Emperor’s chin jerk, and I sang on. I caressed every word of Hebrew, letting the rich tones linger around this overheated black room as they had once lingered around the stones of Masada.

Applause rippled out as the last note faded. I smiled right into the Emperor’s eyes.

“Singer.” His voice cut suddenly through the applause.

I bowed. “Lord and God.”

“Your name?”

“Athena, Caesar.”

He looked at me long and hard, as a man of power can afford to look at a slave. He looked so long and hard that people began to whisper.

I wondered if I’d signed my own death warrant.

He extended his hand. “Come.”

I came.

“Sit.”

I sat. On the couch of honor right beside him. Whispers rose to ripples.

He sat back, eyes fixed on me unreadably. Black eyes, as black as the walls. “Talk.”

And I talked.

YOU sing well.” “Thank you, Caesar.”

“I’m not praising you. I’m praising the voice the gods placed in your throat. ‘Athena’—why a Greek stage name for a Jew?”

“My master felt that ‘Athena’ suited me. Serious, dignified.”

“Yes, you are that.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t like Jews.”

“Hardly original, Caesar. No one does.”

“My brother did. Titus. He had a Jewish mistress, Queen Berenice of Judaea.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Titus the Golden and his Jewish whore.’ Or as the Jews see it, ‘Queen Berenice and her foreign gigolo.’ We always looked down on her for it.”

“The Jews looked down on Titus?”

“Of course. We, after all, are the Chosen People. He was only an Emperor.”

“He was always the golden one.”

“You were jealous of him?”

“You presume too much. Wine?” He offered me his own cup.

“Thank you, Caesar.”

By midnight, the guests were staring openly. The Emperor hadn’t addressed a word to anyone but me in more than an hour. His voice was bland, unfathomable. My own came out in cool counterpoint. I hardly knew what I was saying. Over the conversation our eyes locked, unblinking.

“ ‘Athena’—the Greek Minerva. Minerva is my household goddess.”

“The goddess of wisdom? Very wise. War might always be around the corner for an Emperor, but wisdom’s harder to come by, Caesar.”

“You should address me as ‘Lord and God.’ ”

“Does everyone call you that?”

“My niece Julia did not. She was an exception. Not you.”

“I’ll call you ‘Lord and God’ if you want. But don’t you think it slows down the conversation?”

“An Emperor is never in a hurry.”

“As you wish. Lord and God.”