“I despise telling stories.”

“That’s a change. Most men love to bore me with their tales of valor.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized my mistake. He didn’t like being reminded about the other men I’d entertained before him. That was one reason why I hadn’t told him about Vix.

His black eyes looked at me consideringly, as if my skull were made of glass and he could see through it to the little russet-haired boy in my head. A fly buzzed, and his hand snapped out casually, trapping the fly on the pen’s sharp tip. He never missed. The courtiers liked to joke about his kills, laying bets on how many flies could stack up on his pen by the end of a long summer afternoon . . . but the jokes had fear behind them. Perhaps just because he was Emperor. But perhaps not. I was never entirely easy with him despite my frankness of speech. And I hadn’t told him about Vix . . .

I changed the subject.

“Will you be going back to Rome soon, Caesar?”

“No. To Tivoli for the summer.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“Why?” He sharpened his pen. “Looking to be rid of me?”

“Maybe I’m looking to be rid of all the sycophants in my drawing room.” A flood of them every morning now, begging for a word with me. Senators murmuring tactful words about governorships for themselves and posts for their sons, poets writing me verses for patronage, old soldiers hoping for a place in the palace guard—even young men stupid enough to think stealing the Emperor’s mistress the ultimate coup. You’d think it would be exciting to be the hub of all that attention, but it was surprisingly dull. A little sad. All those greedy eyes.

“Don’t worry,” said Domitian, breaking my thoughts. “As soon as I’m tired of you, the sycophants will be gone. I suppose you’ll be sad when the day arrives?”

“No.”

“I used to value honesty in women. I’m beginning to reevaluate that opinion.”

“Shall I go, Caesar?”

“No.” He drew the sharp tip of his pen down over my forehead, my nose, my lips. “Come here.”

As a lover, he was brisk and unsentimental. So far he hadn’t exhibited any strange needs or unusual demands; in fact his only stated request was “Refrain, please, from pretending ecstasy. I find it distracting.” He was thick-bodied but agile, with a sprinkle of graying hairs curling crisply on his chest: a vigorous forty years of age. In bed most men look like fools to me, but Domitian was no fool.

When he was done I reached for my robe. “It’s near dawn,” I said. “I should go.”

He lay against the pillow, his eyes unreadable. “You should.”

I was a singer and I knew how to read an audience. I’d been a whore, and I knew how to read men. But I looked at Domitian and I never knew what he was thinking. I’d seen him sign death warrants with a casual flourish, I’d seen him throw his head back and shout laughter at some unexpected joke, I’d shared his bed and looked into his black eyes across a pillow—and I did not know him at all.