It was then he heard a groan. Hoarse gasps. A cry inside the veiled curtains.

For a moment he thought of attackers—burglars through the window. He took a limping step forward, drawing breath to raise the alarm, and saw more.

A soft white body. A hard brown one. Intertwined limbs. A sweep of blue-black hair across the pillow. A Roman-nosed profile arching toward the ceiling, mouth open in a silent rictus of agony, or release. Pale hands clenched around straight young shoulders. The couch vibrating under the rocking bodies.

Paulinus.

Lepida.

As he gazed numbly, the intertwined bodies rolled and it was his wife on top, his wife raking her nails down his son’s chest—his wife who tossed her black hair out of her eyes and looked calmly over her shoulder at the doorway.

Lepida.

Paulinus.

That was when Paulinus opened his eyes. Dark eyes, a Caesar’s eyes, dull and stupid with lust. Then his gaze fell on the door, and his face snapped open with an almost comic shock.

“Father!” Jerking away from Lepida, he tumbled off the edge of the bed to the marble floor, scrabbling too late for a sheet to cover his nakedness. Lepida did not scrabble. She leaned back on her elbows with a little cat’s smile.

“Father, I—”

Quietly Marcus closed the door. There was no fury, no betrayal—only stone crumbling into dust.

Twelve

FATHER, please—” Paulinus tumbled through the door of the chamber into the hall, still tying the cord of his tunic. “Let me explain—” His face felt stiff, a marble mask. Slaves were gathering, blurs in his eyes, but his father’s figure was razor-sharp. “If you’ll just let me—”

“It can wait.” He felt his father’s eyes, but couldn’t meet them. “I promised your sister a bedtime story.”

“Father, you have to believe me.” His voice felt too high, but he couldn’t stop it rising. “I never meant—I never planned—”

“Oh, I believe you.” Marcus gave a flick of his fingers, and the slaves scattered. Behind him, still visible through the half-open door, Lepida had retrieved her robe and sat down humming at her dressing table to brush her hair. Marcus ignored her utterly.

“I’m not trying to—” Paulinus wrenched a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I’m not saying it isn’t my fault, but—”

“Please.”

“Please what—”

“I don’t want details.”

“But I have to—”

“No.”

Paulinus knew that “no.” He’d not heard it since he was fourteen years old and whining to go to Baiae for a festival. It was his father’s Senate voice, the one that cut like an edge of steel. Paulinus’s voice stopped at once, chopped off in his throat.

“Your cousin Lappius is in Agrippinensis by now. In Germania.” Marcus’s voice was low and even. He stood quite still; no different than ever in his tunic and sandals, but something had happened to the corners of his mouth. “A change of scene might do you good. Lappius thinks I am an old fool, but he likes you. He’ll be glad to have you for a month or two.”