Belas did not want to be there and he had told Servilia as much, saying that Pompeia could not very well shame Caesar on that night, above all others. She had been firm and he had taken his place in the high room that overlooked the street, with nothing but a little cheese and bread for companionship. It would be a long night on such a lonely vigil.

As the moon rose, there were tantalizing glimpses of flesh in the street below, as all inhibitions were shed. Belas fidgeted as he waited through the hours, tormented by his own imagination. He could hear a woman snoring somewhere nearby, perhaps in the very doorway to his refuge. Sweat clung to his skin as he squinted through the glow of torches and tried not to picture the wine they would be pouring down each other’s skins, dark red on gold.

Lost in his reverie, he did not at first notice anything unusual about the swaying figure that came up the hill. Her hair was long and bound tightly in a club on her neck. She wore a cloak that fluttered in the breeze, revealing a stola as black as night underneath. Belas heard her footsteps patter on the stones below, pausing as they reached the house he watched.

He could not help but look again, his heart hammering as he edged closer to the window and peered down. His hands gripped the sill with sudden tension, his mouth opening to whisper a curse. What he saw was surely impossible.

The figure carried a limp wineskin like the scrotum of an old man. Belas watched as she tilted up her head so that the light from the torches caught the line of her throat. It was not a woman. The painted face was skillfully done and even the gait was female, despite the apparent drunkenness. But Belas had played women in the great theaters and he was certain. In the shadows, he applauded the man’s daring and wondered how long it would be before he was discovered. They would not be gentle. Midnight had come and gone and no man had the right to walk the city in those hours. If the vestals caught the interloper, he would be lucky not to be held down and castrated. Belas shuddered at the thought and considered offering the stranger sanctuary until dawn. He was taking a breath to do so when he saw the man’s movements become subtly sharper as he looked into the garden.

The drunkenness too was feigned, Belas realized. The stranger was no young fool on a dare for his friends then, but someone more dangerous. Could he be an assassin? Belas cursed to himself that he had no way to contact Servilia during the Bona Dea. No matter what happened, he did not dare leave the sanctuary of his little room.