He yanked the door open. “GALLUS!”

“Yes, dear boy?” His lanista appeared in the hall, groomed and jeweled for a party, a pretty slave boy holding his pomander.

“Don’t let her back in here again. Ever.”

He slammed the door, and the demon laughed.

Four

THEA

CAREFUL with those bracelets, stupid!” The festival of Volturnalia was past, and my mistress was back.

“What a summer!” She stretched like a cat, impossibly pale and smooth and lovely. “Tivoli is so beautiful in August; not a bit hot. Too bad you had to miss it. Goodness, Thea, you do look brown. All dry and baked like a saddle. Anyway, you’ll never guess what the Emperor’s done! Marcus had the news before anyone. He’s divorced his wife! Emperor Domitian, that is. Packed her off to Brundisium or Toscana or somewhere. Can you imagine? She probably had a lover—they’re talking about that actor, the one named Paris who plays at the Theatre of Marcellus. I can’t see an Empress with an actor, so it’s probably just talk, but they say Domitian had him killed anyway. He’s a very jealous husband.”

“Shall I unpack now, my lady?”

“Yes. Marcus is coming to dinner tonight, so leave out the yellow silk. Don’t bother with jewels; no need to look beautiful for Marcus.” She regarded her betrothal ring impatiently, then her gaze flicked up to me. “So, Thea—”

“The jasmine perfume, my lady?”

“Don’t change the subject, Thea. How did your little summer errand go?”

“He didn’t get the last three letters.”

Her fine black brows drew together. “If you lost them—”

“No.” I busied myself with her perfume bottles. “He wouldn’t see me.”

“What do you mean, wouldn’t see you?”

“I went to deliver a letter.” I spoke tonelessly. “He told me to get out.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You idiot, you’ve ruined everything!” Lepida hauled back and slapped me across the cheek. “I should have known you’d mess it up somehow! How dare you!”

She whirled away from me, storming up and down the room in her bright silks. “And how dare he! He’s nothing; he’s just a gladiator. Doesn’t he know who I am? I’ll tell Father to throw him to the lions, I’ll—” Her eyes shot back to me. “He has someone, doesn’t he? Who is she? Some patrician whore? Some boy tribune?”

“No. He just—doesn’t like people.”

“Oh.” She paused a moment in her pacing. “Perhaps he’s just—shy?”

“Well . . .”

“Who would have thought it? The Barbarian is shy. I suppose it stands to reason. I mean, he can’t have had anyone like me before. Maybe something can still be done.” She flung herself down elegantly on the couch, piercing me with a needle-sharp glance. “Not that I’ll be asking you to run any more messages, the way you’ve botched things.”

As soon as I bowed out I sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. The God of the Jews is hard, merciless, a joker—but occasionally He relents. Yes, Lepida Pollia was back and there would be no more singing for me in taverns—but I wouldn’t have to see Arius anymore. And surely when I didn’t have to see him—swinging a sword two-handed across the training courtyard, with his gray eyes meeting mine over the blade as he saluted me . . .