“Slave driver broke my elbow with a club.”

“And this?”

“Knife fight in the Subura.”

“And this?”

“The tattoo for Gallus’s fighters. Supposed to be crossed swords.” Thea peered at it. “Looks like crossed carrots.” She fingered the scars and the tattoo, smoothing them gently so he felt clean and young and not too bitter to be happy.

“Don’t fancy her myself,” a Thracian told Arius, watching Thea swing out into the street. “Not enough hip on her. That mistress of hers; the Pollia girl—now there’s a sweet mouthful.”

Arius knocked the Thracian’s head against the wall, but not with the black fervor of the past. The demon whined on its leash but seemed very far away.

THEA

YOU’VE got a lover, haven’t you?” Lepida asked suddenly one evening as I stood behind her combing her hair.

My pulse leaped, but I kept the silver comb moving. “Pardon, my lady?”

“A lover, Thea. A man. You do know what those are?” Oh, she was foul-tempered this winter. “Who is he?”

“He?”

“Oh, don’t give me that blank look. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I saw her blue eyes narrow in the mirror. “No secrets between maid and mistress. Tell me.”

You’ll have to give her something. “How did you know?” I asked, lo w-voiced.

“It’s obvious, really. Dreaming through your errands, smiling into the soup. And you were gone far too long at noon today for a simple shopping trip. So—who is he?”

“Um. He’s—” Damn her sharp eyes. I pulled the comb through her long black hair again, wishing I could yank it all right out. “He has a tavern. In the Subura.”

“A tavernkeeper in the slums? Oh, Thea, what a prize. What else?”

“He has, um, black hair. He’s from Brundisium. He has a scar over his knuckles. From when a drunk pulled a knife.”

Lepida laughed. “And does he want to marry you? No, let me guess: He’s married already!”

I took my cue, muttering, “Well, she’s gone most of the time. They don’t get on.”

“I’m sure they don’t. From gladiator to tavernkeeper, Thea—I always knew you had low tastes. In fact—” She twisted, eyeing me. “Lift your hair off your neck. Goodness, a bruise of passion?”

“He loves me hard,” I murmured in Greek, and hid a smile of foolish happiness.

She caught it, and something in her face soured. “Run along back to your slums, then!” she snapped, and whirled back to her mirror.

Too close, I thought as I put down the comb. But to Arius that night, I just laughed. “Don’t worry, I put her off the scent. Maybe it’s a good idea she noticed. From now on whenever I run off to you, she’ll think I’m running off to the tavernkeeper.”

“So who’s this tavernkeeper?” He bit my earlobe. “Can I kill him?”

He fought in the Colosseum a fortnight later. An enormous Trinovantian; a close and grueling fight. They slashed and battled across the sand for twenty minutes. I couldn’t have moved to save my life, but Lepida was too busy sulking to notice my frozen figure.