Agrippinensis. Not much of a city. A bout with a German, then a banquet at the crude new palace of Governor Lappius Norbanus. The walls might be wooden instead of marble, and the lamps might smoke from rough German oil, but there were oysters in wine sauces, lark tongues braised in herb butter, pastries stuffed with olives and cheeses . . . and mead from Britannia, cold and frothing and lethal. Arius swallowed it down, remembering his brothers getting roaring drunk on cold mead, and watched a great many young tribunes get roaring drunk on it, too, at the governor’s banquet. The governor’s young cousin, he saw with grim amusement, was drunkest of all. A Praetorian—those soft palace guards could never hold their wine.

“I saw you fight today,” the Praetorian challenged. His face was flushed, his white lawn synthesis already wine-stained, eyes bright with hostility. “Left it a bit late, didn’t you?”

“Still won.” Arius didn’t look up from his plate.

“I wagered a hundred denarii on you. If you’d lost—”

“By Jove, Paulinus.” Governor Lappius descended on his young cousin, all beaming smiles and false ringlets. “Don’t terrorize our guest. He’ll rip you to bits with his bare hands, and there’s not one of us who could stop him.” A wink at Arius. “Don’t mind my young cousin, Barbarian. Broken heart, you know.”

“She could have written me,” Paulinus was muttering, swaying as the slaves helped him back to his own couch. “Not a bloody word—faithless cow—”

“Poor Paulinus,” said the governor, amused. “I’d best send him to bed before Saturninus pounces on him. That’s Saturninus there”—importantly—“governor of Upper Germania, you know. He fancies boys, especially drunken pretty ones like Paulinus. He’ll be gone in another year anyway. Saturninus, that is.” Lappius adjusted his wig, chest swelling as his noble guests watched him chatting so cozily with Rome’s greatest gladiator. “Here’s a tidbit you won’t hear back in Rome, Barbarian. Saturninus will be dunned out of the governorship by year’s end! Domitian doesn’t like boy-fanciers, you see. Imagine that! A pretty youth’s better for buggering than any girl, and you’ll not find more than a handful of men in Rome who don’t agree with me, but for once our Emperor’s one of them. When I think of Emperor Nero and his boys! Well, it’s a new era, and men like Saturninus are certainly out in the cold.” Lappius pointed to a tall, balding, militarily erect patrician who sat frowning over his wine. “All he’s got to drown his sorrows in now are drunken young men like Paulinus! When he’s dunned out of the governorship and it’s all the news in Rome, Barbarian, tell them you heard it first from me—”

“You think I care,” said Arius, “who governs any of your wretched provinces?”

Lappius’s smile slipped, but he hitched it back into place. “Excellent,” he said brightly. “The dancers are ready. Lovely, aren’t they? Any of them are yours, of course, if you want them.”

Arius returned to his mead, indifferently watching the lithe brown bodies writhing nude across the mosaics. From Agrippinensis to Taunus on the morrow. A Dumnonian champion awaited him, having publicly sworn he would send the Barbarian screaming to his gods. Arius half hoped he would.