“Likewise.”

“I don’t suppose Lady Flavia’ll take me to Rome with her, now.”

“I don’t suppose she will.”

“She’s going to a dinner party at the palace, she said. Next month, when the Emperor announces the kids as heirs. Said she’d take me, so I could see Mother afterward.” Vix shrugged. “Who cares about seeing the Emperor anyway.”

“You ever seen the Emperor before?” Arius ripped a loaf of rough bread in half.

“Once.”

“What’d you think?”

“I hated him,” said Vix. “Pass the bread.”

Arius guessed the stern lecture part of the night was done. He passed Vix the bread, wishing he could ask Thea if he’d done it right. They chewed; Vix painfully, Arius quietly.

“You heard from your mother?”

“Not much. She sends a word to Lady Flavia now and then. She says somebody probably reads her letters.”

They leaned their heads back against the wall, closing their eyes. They linked identical sword-callused hands around identical scarred brown knees.

“Don’t listen to that voice,” Arius said, eyes still closed. “The one in your head. And you’re still leaving yourself too wide on that underhand swing.”

Maybe he wouldn’t cut off Vix’s lessons just yet.

THEA

SO, Athena.” Domitian stroked my head as I sat at his feet. “Shall I tell you what I found out today?”

“Will I be able to stop you, Caesar?”

“Oh, Athena. Still so shrewish. I thought you would have learned better by now.”

“All right. All right! I’ve learned.”

“Then be quiet like a good girl, then, and listen. I have a certain spy out in Judaea. He must be quite industrious, because he’s managed to find something that slipped past all my other spies.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your origins. My dear, you’re looking pale. Some wine? It’s an excellent vintage. Confiscated from the estate of Lucius Aesernia . . . who may have been a traitor, but he certainly knew his wines.”

“What did he say?”

“Lucius Aesernia?”

“Your spy!”

“Oh, him. You know, I already uncovered most of your history—that Athenian merchant who taught you Greek and deflowered you, Quintus Pollio, your taste for gladiators. But the early years? A blank. Until a rather interesting report from a man of mine in Judaea. A cliff-top fortress, a hot night, a city full of dead Jews . . . and a few who survived. Need I go on?”

“No.”

“Did you know that there were six other survivors besides you, Athena? Two old women and four other children, all of them boys. I had them traced, out of curiosity. Do you know where they are now, your brother and sister survivors?”

“. . . Where?”

“Dead! Every one of them. Mostly killed for bringing bad luck to the families who bought them. The last Jews of Masada, spreading ill fortune to any they touched. You, it seems, are the only one left. And you’ve never brought me bad luck, have you?”

“Apparently not.”

“I remember Masada, you know. Titus the Golden wept—he had a fondness for Jews—but I laughed.”