I extended my fingertips. The hand that clasped mine was as white and pampered as ever.

“Such an interesting performance,” she drawled. “Athena—a Greek name? Surely you aren’t from Greece.”

I unreeled a fluid line of my finest Greek, and saw her flush. She still couldn’t speak Greek. I would have bet she still couldn’t spell, either. In any language.

“Athena’s Greek is far better than mine,” Paulinus was saying, oblivious. “She’s from a noble family in Athens.”

“I would have guessed the slum quarter of Jerusalem,” Lepida murmured. “How long have you been singing in Brundisium . . . Athena?”

“Oh, five years or so.”

“Before that?”

“Here and there.” I sketched an airy professional gesture. “Enjoying myself.”

“Indeed. A great pity Brundisium has no arena, so you can’t enjoy yourself at the games. I hear you have a great passion for gladiators.”

“I prefer music to blood, Domina.”

“But the games are so thrilling.” She stretched a languid hand for a cluster of grapes. “Why, just last week in the arena Arius the Barbarian lost a hand to a Turk. That must have been a sight. Grapes?”

“No, thank you.” I kept my face still. Oh, God, she was lying, she had to be. I listened for all the news from the Colosseum; I would have heard if Arius had lost a hand. She had to be lying. I’d have to make inquiries among the grooms and the litter-bearers, just to make sure—they always followed the games . . .

A little smile flicked her mouth, and I blindly turned toward Paulinus, smoothing a stray fold of his white lawn synthesis. “Still coming to dinner tomorrow night?”

“I thought we agreed next week?”

“I have a cancellation tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid he can’t come tomorrow,” Lepida broke in smoothly, insinuating a hand into Paulinus’s elbow. “He’s promised to take me to the last play of the season.”

He looked down at her. “I did?”

“You did.” Her eyes never shifted from mine.

“All right. Next week then, Athena?”

“Next week might be tight, too . . .” Lepida traced one finger along Paulinus’s hard shoulder.

“Then perhaps at the barracks party next month.” I drew my arm from Paulinus’s, giving his hand a last small squeeze. “If you wish to hire me for any little entertainments of your own, Lady Lepida, then talk to Praetor Larcius. The great music patron; you’ve heard of him? Well, perhaps music isn’t quite your forte. He handles my career. Be sure to book at least three weeks in advance. I’m in great demand these days.”

“You always were. Among a certain set.”

I smiled. She smiled. I strolled away.

“Do you know Athena?” I heard Paulinus ask his stepmother.

“No,” she said easily. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

My breath came short as if I’d dashed a mile. But I had another party to sing at, and no time to think about Lepida Pollia. Even if I was a singer and a success, I was still a slave—and I couldn’t go home and grind my teeth and weep into my pillow the way I wanted to. I had to make music and smile prettily for whatever guests had hired me from Larcius . . . and sometimes that sat as heavily as the slaps and jabs of my days as Lepida’s shadow.