THEA

GRAY gown, silver bracelets, braided hair: my armor. “Thea?” Penelope poked her head of gray curls into my neat little chamber. “You know you’re to sing at the faction party before Senator Abractus’s dinner?”

“Yes, I’m all ready,” I answered, twisting a last bracelet into place and looking for my lyre.

“Larcius is lending you a big slave for an escort. Those charioteers can get rowdy.”

“Dear Larcius,” I smiled. My master. How I loved him.

After Lepida Pollia discarded me like a stained dress, I’d gritted my way through three months in a waterfront brothel. Three months of sweating grunting men: endured until they finished, forgotten as soon as they left me. My growing belly saved me; my pimp forced potions into me to make the child slip, but I vomited them up. When my belly made me too unwieldy for whoring, my pimp clouted me over the ear and looked about for someone who might take me off his hands. I was bundled off to a rather lovely little villa overlooking Brundisium’s busy forum and was soon gazing at my plump and pink-faced new master. Just another pimp, I assumed.

But: “My steward tells me you have a lovely voice, child.” The pleasant patrician voice surprised me, and so did the kindness of the eyes that assessed me. “He heard you singing on the windowsill of some deplorable waterfront establishment. What he was doing down in that quarter of town I shan’t ask, but whatever his recreational tastes, his musical judgment is almost as good as mine. Tell me, can you sing ‘Cythera’s Eyes’?”

After an hour’s recital in the sunny little atrium, my delighted new master—not, apparently, a pimp—called for the plain freedwoman who was more or less his wife. “Penelope, wait until you hear the newest acquisition. What’s your name, child? Thea? She’s marvelous! Who would have thought? She’ll have to have lessons right away. A voice like that has got to be trained, nurtured, polished—can you play the lyre? Lessons for that, too. We’ll launch you as a singer. Think of it!”

“Oh, shut up, Larcius,” Penelope laughed. “You’re confusing the poor girl.”

She explained it all as she helped me move into a little room so airy and clean that I felt every bit the dirty whore in it. “Larcius buys musicians, you see. It’s his hobby—‘Larcius’s Stable.’ This house is stuffed full of flutists, drummers, lute players, a boy choir. Don’t give me that look, dear, the choirboys are for singing in this house. Nothing but the best for Larcius; he’s got a very good eye for talent.”

“What’s in it for him?” I said cautiously.

“The pleasure of hearing you sing.” She patted my hand. “And you needn’t worry about any of that, my dear. He doesn’t bother the slaves. He’s got a stuck-up wife in Rome, not that he ever goes to the city, and here he’s got me. Now, when is the baby due? A few months? You just put your feet up—”