“Take her,” the Emperor said, and his whole body shook. “Oh, gods, just take her.”

Paulinus raised Julia with trembling hands, but her own steps as she left the bedchamber were rock-steady. He led her through the blood, past Vix, who was now helping Flavia’s son to sit up.

“The guards will take me,” she said. “Help Vix with my nephew, Paulinus. He needs your help getting out of the palace.”

“He won’t live—he was gutted, ripped in half—”

“Was he?”

Vix was slinging an arm under his friend’s shoulders and hauling him upright. He looked up, wary, and Julia gave him a cordial little nod. Her eyes, catching a glow from the lamps, didn’t look quite . . . human.

“Give my regards to your mother, Vercingetorix,” she said, and then the guards were hauling her away. They held her by the sleeve rather than her bare wrists, though, as if she might burn them. She left small bloody footprints behind her on the mosaics.

“We’ve gotta get him out.” Vix had Flavia’s son on his feet, moaning but unmistakably not dying. He still clutched Julia’s veil against his stomach, now red rather than white.

“I imagined it,” Paulinus muttered. “I didn’t really see the Emperor gut him—couldn’t have—”

“You’re gonna faint,” Vix said in disgust.

Paulinus felt laughter welling, huge hysterical bursts of laughter. He wanted to laugh until he died. But more guards were approaching at a trot, and curious courtiers, and gawking slaves. He took off his red Praetorian cloak, fingers moving stupidly, and dropped it around Flavia’s son. Vix hauled a fold over his face.

“Tend to the Emperor,” Paulinus ordered the guards. “Send for his physician. I’ll see to the boy myself.”

“Prefect, where are you taking him?”

“Emperor’s orders,” Paulinus said coldly. “Private orders.” The guard’s eyes dropped at once.

“How’s it feel?” Vix whispered at the young prince as they hauled him away from the hall and its rapidly growing audience.

“It’s—it’s strange—it feels—I don’t know.” The boy was near tears.

Under the cloak, Paulinus peeled back Julia’s veil. Underneath there was—a long shallow cut, oozing a little. Not the bloody wound Paulinus had expected.

“Guess the freak missed,” Vix shrugged. “You’re a lucky one.”

Luck? Paulinus didn’t want to think about that.

Vix was turned back at the outer gate, and Paulinus took Lady Flavia’s son on himself. “What will you do with me?” the young prince gasped.

Tell the Emperor you died of your wound, thought Paulinus. And that I disposed of your body quietly. “Keep still,” he snapped, and he kicked his horse forward with Flavia’s son bent weakly over the saddle before him.

A quick canter to his father’s house in the falling dark, marshaling desperate explanations, but his father required surprisingly few words. “Good lad,” was all he said, and in half a moment he had the slaves dismissed and the fainting boy whisked inside.

“The Emperor—” Paulinus spoke around a leaden tongue. “The Emperor can’t know you ever—”