“What?”

“Thea. And the Emperor. He—I wasn’t watching, but he—there were some things he . . . it was probably just the drug! Who knows what I saw? I saw snakes winding down from the ceiling and I saw the mosaics come to life and I saw Thea’s blood turn green; who’s to say what really happened?”

“Did you go to see her afterward? That would prove things.”

He avoided Justina’s eyes. “The Emperor would never hurt Thea. He loves her.”

“Perhaps he does. Do you think that for all men love is kisses in the moonlight? For some men, love is pain.”

“Justina”—very carefully—“I didn’t come here to listen to you blacken my Emperor’s name.”

“What did you come here for, then?”

“I—I don’t know. Confession? I need someone to know—what I am. The world looks at me and they see a hero. The Emperor’s right arm. But it’s all lies. I’m as stupid as my father is brilliant, I’m as fearful as my friend Trajan is brave, and I—am—a—fake.”

“So you’ve confessed. What do you want now? Forgiveness?” He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Paulinus. No one can give you that but the gods.”

It was the first time she had ever used his name.

“Comfort, then?” His tongue felt thick, and he looked at her humbly.

“Comfort I can give you.”

Her hand was cool, calming his confused blood.

Twenty-five

THEA

A. D. 95

ANOTHER new year, Athena. We’ll drink to that.” “As you please, Caesar.” I sipped my wine, sitting where Domitian liked me to sit: at his feet, where he could stroke my head or strike it as the mood took him.

“To a new year.” He drank, cheerful for now. “How long has it been for us?”

“Nearly four years.” I felt I could hardly remember the whole last year—just a long continuous dream of pain.

“Four years. I hear the plebs call you the mistress of Rome . . .” A faint frown, and his hand stilled in my hair. “I suppose it’s true enough, since I am Rome and you are my mistress, but I still dislike it. It’s been four years, after all, and I know you no better than I did at the beginning.” His hand began its stroking again. “You know what the new year heralds, Athena?”

“What?”

“The telling of secrets.”

“I have no secrets.”

“Oh, I think you have many. Tell me one.”

“All right. Yes, all right. I’ll tell you one. Just don’t—all right!” Drawing in a sharp breath. “I was—I was taking a walk a month or so ago, past the Temple of Vesta, and a Vestal looked at me.”

“And?”

“. . . She pitied me.”

“This is a secret?”

“It seemed important somehow.” Her eyes had been enormous, a ll-knowing.

“The gaping of a dried-up old virgin? She was probably jealous. Tell me another secret.”

“I have nothing to tell, Caesar.”

“Shall I tell one for you, then? Shall I tell you about the gladiators you serviced at the age of fifteen? Oh yes, I know about that.”