felt like a black-souled bastard for doing it. You know how many I’ve killed? Men, unarmed prisoners, boys young enough to count as children. Women—there was one dressed like an Amazon. I still think about her. I’ve taken more lives than you, I’ll wager. They called me the Barbarian, and I earned it. But I didn’t
stay
the Barbarian, and you won’t stay anybody’s dog.”
I looked down at the wooded hills, seeing Hadrian’s bearded face. “Sometimes I think about killing him.”
“I don’t recommend it,” my father said, reflective. “It’s a lot of trouble, killing emperors.” He should know.
“Mirah wants us to leave Rome. I reckon I could, get far enough away from Hadrian to make it not worth the chase, but . . .”
“But you’ve never liked running.”
“No.”
“So what’s your plan? Keep taking everything he dishes out; smile and say ‘Thank you, Caesar’? I know you, boy. You’ll slip your leash someday, and then you’ll crack him open like an egg, and that’ll be the end of you.”
“I have ways of keeping my temper.” I smiled a little. “You see, I slept with his wife—”
My father nearly fell off the hilltop.
“What?”
“Empress Sabina. Five years ago, in Selinus after Emperor Trajan died. I had her right under Hadrian’s nose, and he never knew.” That’s what I thought of, every time he maddened me with his pompous jests or his whispered threats. It should have been the noble thought of Mirah and the children that held my temper in check, but I wasn’t so noble as all that. It was the thought of the Emperor’s supple wife lying under me that kept my jaw locked, no matter what the Emperor himself might be saying.
Your wife laced her arms around my neck and said, “Shut up and take me,”
I’d thought silently to Hadrian, so many times.
How does that feel, you bloodless bastard?
I’d never say it—it would be death to say it. But I
could
say it if I wanted to. And that helped.
“You always had more balls than brains, boy,” my father observed. “The Empress of
Rome
?”
“At least it helps me keep my temper, that memory.” Which was something, because otherwise I wasn’t proud of it: the one time I’d betrayed my wife. It had been from grief, not any great passion—Sabina and I had both been so ravaged by Trajan’s death, we hardly knew what we were doing—but I’d still done it. With a woman who had ignored me ever since.
“My foolish Roman son,” my father said, shaking his head, and we trailed down the flowered hill with the dogs loping between our feet.
ANNIA
Rome
Of all Annia’s cousins, Marcus Catilius Severus had to be the worst. He was about her age, maybe younger; he had curly dark hair; and he was more boring than a white-washed wall.
“What’s it made of?” he was asking, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up at the huge dome of the half-completed Pantheon.
“Poured concrete,” said Annia’s father, looking down at them both. “Coffered inside, with a central oculus. Do you know what an oculus is?”
Marcus nodded. “I study famous buildings,” he said, and sounded so pompous, Annia wanted to smack him.
Show-off.
The building site for the great temple was deserted: all scaffolding and marble dust, littered stone-cutting tools and stray boards, drapes flapping in a wind that had gone cool now that summer was done. “I saw to it the workmen had a day’s rest, as hard as they worked to finish the dome’s exterior,” Annia’s father said as they approached the scaffolded portico—which took quite a long time, because everyone in Rome seemed to have a respectful greeting for her father as he passed by. “See the roof? If it were a bright day, you’d see the gilding flash. I told the Emperor I would finance all that gilding, Annia, so I reckoned you should see it. If just so you know why I can no longer afford to dower you.” A fond tweak to her ear.
“Thank you for inviting me along, sir.” Marcus
stay
the Barbarian, and you won’t stay anybody’s dog.”
I looked down at the wooded hills, seeing Hadrian’s bearded face. “Sometimes I think about killing him.”
“I don’t recommend it,” my father said, reflective. “It’s a lot of trouble, killing emperors.” He should know.
“Mirah wants us to leave Rome. I reckon I could, get far enough away from Hadrian to make it not worth the chase, but . . .”
“But you’ve never liked running.”
“No.”
“So what’s your plan? Keep taking everything he dishes out; smile and say ‘Thank you, Caesar’? I know you, boy. You’ll slip your leash someday, and then you’ll crack him open like an egg, and that’ll be the end of you.”
“I have ways of keeping my temper.” I smiled a little. “You see, I slept with his wife—”
My father nearly fell off the hilltop.
“What?”
“Empress Sabina. Five years ago, in Selinus after Emperor Trajan died. I had her right under Hadrian’s nose, and he never knew.” That’s what I thought of, every time he maddened me with his pompous jests or his whispered threats. It should have been the noble thought of Mirah and the children that held my temper in check, but I wasn’t so noble as all that. It was the thought of the Emperor’s supple wife lying under me that kept my jaw locked, no matter what the Emperor himself might be saying.
Your wife laced her arms around my neck and said, “Shut up and take me,”
I’d thought silently to Hadrian, so many times.
How does that feel, you bloodless bastard?
I’d never say it—it would be death to say it. But I
could
say it if I wanted to. And that helped.
“You always had more balls than brains, boy,” my father observed. “The Empress of
Rome
?”
“At least it helps me keep my temper, that memory.” Which was something, because otherwise I wasn’t proud of it: the one time I’d betrayed my wife. It had been from grief, not any great passion—Sabina and I had both been so ravaged by Trajan’s death, we hardly knew what we were doing—but I’d still done it. With a woman who had ignored me ever since.
“My foolish Roman son,” my father said, shaking his head, and we trailed down the flowered hill with the dogs loping between our feet.
ANNIA
Rome
Of all Annia’s cousins, Marcus Catilius Severus had to be the worst. He was about her age, maybe younger; he had curly dark hair; and he was more boring than a white-washed wall.
“What’s it made of?” he was asking, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up at the huge dome of the half-completed Pantheon.
“Poured concrete,” said Annia’s father, looking down at them both. “Coffered inside, with a central oculus. Do you know what an oculus is?”
Marcus nodded. “I study famous buildings,” he said, and sounded so pompous, Annia wanted to smack him.
Show-off.
The building site for the great temple was deserted: all scaffolding and marble dust, littered stone-cutting tools and stray boards, drapes flapping in a wind that had gone cool now that summer was done. “I saw to it the workmen had a day’s rest, as hard as they worked to finish the dome’s exterior,” Annia’s father said as they approached the scaffolded portico—which took quite a long time, because everyone in Rome seemed to have a respectful greeting for her father as he passed by. “See the roof? If it were a bright day, you’d see the gilding flash. I told the Emperor I would finance all that gilding, Annia, so I reckoned you should see it. If just so you know why I can no longer afford to dower you.” A fond tweak to her ear.
“Thank you for inviting me along, sir.” Marcus
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