A lovely evening, Paulinus,” Lepida yawned as they climbed out of the litter. “Have a drink before you head back to your barracks.”

“I’ll just look in on Sabina.”

“As you like.”

Sabina was fast asleep, curled around a straw-stuffed horse, eyes tight shut. Smiling, Paulinus smoothed the hair out of her eyes and then slipped back into the hall.

The house was dark and quiet, the slaves long gone to bed. The smell of jasmine drifted up from the atrium on the hot summer night. Paulinus felt his way down the back stairs, down the hall, past the library. And as he passed the last room—his stepmother’s room—the door eased open. He reached out to close it, and stopped.

His stepmother stood by the bed, her back to the door. A pile of discarded sapphires gleamed on the bedside table, and her hair was a loose black sheet down her back. He hadn’t realized what beautiful hair she had.

She stretched languidly, and the light from the single lamp played over her white arms. Her blue silk robe had slipped off one shoulder, and as she gave a little ripple of her back it slipped off the other and drifted down to settle over the floor.

Paulinus closed the door. And his eyes. He took a step back, stumbled into a vase, grabbed it hastily to keep it from falling, and knocked over a statue of a bathing Aphrodite. The crash was appallingly loud. He took off down the hall.

He went to see her the next day. Only the proper thing to do. Hadn’t his father asked him to look after her? He was just following orders.

“Paulinus!” She stretched out a soft hand. “To what do I owe the honor?” She wore Nile-green silk with a single massive pearl at her forehead and another on her hand.

He found himself stuttering.

“Nervous?” She led him into the atrium, sinking down into the cushions of her couch. “Why? Going to visit that singer, maybe?”

He reddened. “No—I—well, that is—”

“Really, I don’t know what you see in her.” Gesturing him to sit. “Years ago she used to be my personal slave.”

“But—you said that you’d never met her.”

“I lied.” Lepida rang for wine and refreshments. “She’s cleaned up since those days, but she’s still the same little whore. Wine?”

“Um. Thank you.” He looked at his stepmother as she leaned forward to pour him a goblet. He had never imagined Lepida’s soft mouth saying words like that.

“Oh, yes,” Lepida continued casually, stretching a pale arm along the cushions. “She serviced every man in the house, including my father. Including your father. Sweetmeats,” she added to the slave who appeared in the doorway.

“My father?” Paulinus choked on his wine. “But—he never—he doesn’t—not slaves. It’s not his way. He wouldn’t think it was fair.” How had he gotten himself into this conversation? It wasn’t fitting.

“Oh, I imagine it was her idea. A few smiles, a few sidelong glances—the same way she hooked you, I imagine.” Lepida dropped her pointed little chin into the palm of her hand. “ Just think, Paulinus. You and your father have shared the same girl . . .”