My head ached.

I kept seeing Larcius, as I’d last seen him. A fond kiss good-bye, as I left for Tivoli. Never dreaming the Emperor would swat him aside like a fly, simply to get possession of me. Why? He certainly didn’t need to; could have bought me outright—but a man like Domitian would always rather swat than buy. I wrote to another praetor in Brundisium who had once been fond of my singing, begging for details of Larcius’s death, and he replied in a brief stilted letter. Larcius had been convicted of treason in a mockery of a trial—but as Domitian said, he had been allowed to commit suicide. He’d hosted a final dinner party for all those friends not afraid to be tainted by his association, but really it would have been a farewell to his musicians. I could see it easily: Larcius in the place of honor with Penelope at his side, listening to his choirboys, his lute players, his singers perform one last time. He would have given each performance its due, stopping afterward for a final kind word, a few coins, perhaps a last criticism. Behind the curtain the slaves would all have been weeping wrecks, but they would have performed their best for him. Bidding his guests farewell, he had apparently retired into his bedroom, where he had climbed into a perfumed bath and cut his wrists.

I had not a shred of doubt that Penelope had held his hand till the end, then taken the knife and joined him.

What will happen to the household? I wrote the praetor, frantic for Vix.

“Traitors’ wills are nullified, and their possessions forfeit to the Imperium,” came the reply. “Praetor Larcius’s brother purchased the bulk of his estate back from the Imperial auctioneers, except the musicians. Please don’t write to me again, Lady Athena.”

So much for the pleasant household that had turned me from a prostitute to an artist, given me and my son happiness. Larcius’s brusque brother did not care for music, but he would surely have bought Vix along with the rest of the household slaves. Big strong boys were valuable; stable hands until they grew, and then guards or litter-bearers. At least my son was safe . . . until he began making trouble.

Which meant he wouldn’t be safe for long.

Oh God, who knew when I would see him again?

“Lady Athena.” The guard repeated himself, impatient. The litter had stopped; curtains swept aside. Incense. Priests. More trumpets. More cheering. I got down—and saw the Colosseum. A vast charnel house, blocking the sun.

When I stumbled, Ganymede leaped forward, steadying me. Dear Ganymede. My appointed body slave now . . . and Nessus somewhere behind us in the crowd of freedmen, following wherever Ganymede went.

“All right,” I murmured, and stepped out. Up the marble steps, never mind the headache—walk. Right behind Lady Flavia, no doubt planning herself a headache before the main show. The two boys behind, hopping with excitement. Then Paulinus with a girl in red on his arm. Behind the Emperor with the wife he hated at his side—the Empress, tall and dark and all emeralds, gazing through me. Up through a marble hall to the Imperial box. Didn’t think. Didn’t think. Especially not about Vix, who might now be yowling under a beating from his new owner, not understanding that he could be sold on the slave market in a heartbeat.