“Oh, Uncle,” Julia said rather sadly. “I don’t think there is anything in this world that would truly please you.”

Paulinus blinked. Flavia’s son opened his mouth in a silent scream.

“You’re quite right,” Domitian admitted. “You always did understand me better than anyone, Julia.”

Paulinus was still surprised. Even with his hackles prickling, he was still surprised when Domitian drew his dagger and gutted Flavia’s son.

The boy’s mouth opened soundlessly. He fell—slowly, it seemed to Paulinus. So slowly.

For a terrible moment all was frozen. Paulinus, his hands half out to stop the fatal blow. The boy clutching his torn belly on the floor, blood pooling over the mosaics. The Emperor, wiping his hands aimlessly down his tunic, leaving red smears. Vix, stopped midlunge from his corner. Julia, still as a statue of her goddess. Then the goddess turned from marble back to flesh and spoke.

“Paulinus,” Julia said quite calmly. “Take the boy out. Vix, you will help him.”

Prefect and slave boy found themselves moving as one.

“Yes,” said Domitian to no one in particular. He dropped the dagger. “Yes, that’s it—Julia—” He fell on his niece, wrenching the veil from her shoulders.

Paulinus half-turned, but Julia caught his eyes again over her uncle’s shoulder, and her gaze was so stern that he turned back, hauling Flavia’s moaning son out into the anteroom of the Emperor’s bedchamber.

“She can take care of herself,” Vix snapped. “Help me!” He had something wadded up in his hand, trying to close the gaping slash in the prince’s belly. Julia’s veil—he had Julia’s veil.

From the bedroom Paulinus heard guttural sounds. Nothing from Julia—nothing. He rose, shoving back toward the bedchamber, but the guards pushed him away.

“You want to die, Prefect?” the optio snarled. “Let him at it!”

Somehow Paulinus found himself kneeling, looking for a pulse in the dying prince. Blood pulsed thickly, almost black. Vix’s fingers were gloved in it. “He’s dying,” Paulinus said numbly. “Surely he’s dying—”

“You gonna help me, Prefect?” Vix was sweating, swearing, but he kept the wadded veil sunk over the wound.

Low anguished grunts from the bedroom, more like a rutting animal than an Emperor. Not a sound from Justina. Paulinus felt a sob catch like a splinter of ice in his throat. The thought came, small and terrible: Maybe if he takes her, he’ll spare her life.

A moan sounded from Lady Flavia’s son. Frantically Vix leaned his whole weight on the veil, his tunic and knees tacky with blood. A clammy eyelid flickered. Slaves were starting to gather, wide-eyed, and Paulinus spat curses at them. They scattered.

Flavia’s son cried out, his hands coming up weakly to clutch at his belly. Vix leaned harder.

A pair of young Flavian eyes opened and stared into Vix’s, alive with pain.

Kneeling in a puddle of blood, Paulinus found his skin crawling.

“Bitch,” he heard indistinctly from the bedchamber. The Emperor’s voice, thick and slurred. “You unmanning bitch—get out—”

The guards outside exchanged glances. “You heard him!” Paulinus snapped, scrambling to his feet and half-falling into the bedchamber. He took it all in, in one glance; the Emperor collapsed half off the couch, Julia quietly pulling her white robes around her.