Mistress of Rome by Kate Quinn Page B

decided to take Iris instead. She can do my hair and bring me my breakfast, and you can stay here to run one or two little errands for me. Let’s just say I want to make sure Arius doesn’t forget about me.” I smiled sweetly. Thea’s long horse face was impassive. I’d have that face cracked, too, someday. “You won’t mind seeing him again, will you, Thea? Not at all, I think. And you can walk behind me now.”
     
     
     
    I ’M expensive,” she said by way of introduction. “But I’ll do you for free.”
    He recognized the blond curls, the soft painted face, the transparent lemon-yellow dress. Laelia, one of the city’s most exclusive courtesans. “How’d you get here?”
    “Your lanista showed me in.” She perched beside him on the bed and favored him with a glittering smile. “I like gladiators.”
    He edged back along the bed as she ran a soft hand down his arm. “Madam—”
    “Call me Laelia.” She leaned against him, one hand tracing a circle on his knee. “I believe you’re nervous, Barbarian. Never had a woman like me before?”
    Never had any woman before. To another pair of eyes—darker eyes, maybe; quieter eyes—he could have said it. Not to these blue eyes, flickering with excitement.
    “So tell me.” She hooked one knee over his and rubbed her foot along his leg. “How do barbarians make love?”
    Make love. How would he know, hauling rocks in Roman mines since he was thirteen? He’d seen how the Romans did it, laughing and panting and thrusting, with their friends cheering encouragement and their knives at the woman’s throat. He’d seen it often enough. He knew how the Romans did it, all right.
    Just once, he’d tried with a woman. A prostitute at the mines, when he was fifteen. He’d hurt her. He hadn’t meant to—but she bolted. He hadn’t tried again.
    His every muscle coiled tight as a perfumed, painted mouth closed on his.
    Stop , he told himself. But his hands clenched on her shoulders.
    “You’ve bruised me.” She looked up at him with a smile of parted lips and gleaming teeth. “Like it rough, do you?”
    He rose, so fast he spilled her on the floor. Caught her by both wrists, heaved her up.
    Hurt her , whispered the demon. That’s how the men do it.
    He flung her out the door before she could protest, kicking it shut with his foot. He sank down against the wall, raking his hands through his hair. On the other side of the door he heard a stream of shrill curses. He closed his eyes, pushing his head down into his folded arms. Waited for his muscles to stop trembling. Waited for his blood to stop roaring. Waited for the demon whispers to die down to simple, straightforward, uncomplicated murder.
    Killing he could handle. Killing was easy.

THEA
    M Y mistress and her father left the next morning in a welter of wagons and slaves and silver litters, and I was free. Free! The July sun baked me golden brown, the dust rose off the streets and choked my lungs, the sweltering nights gave me my usual nightmares, but I was free. No Lepida to trail with a fan and a handkerchief, no bee-sting jabs from her tongue. No Pollio with his moist hands in dark hallways. No work to do, since the exacting steward ceased tracking our comings and goings and retired to the circus to watch the chariot races all day. The male slaves slipped off to the taverns, the maids tripped out to meet their lovers, and no one cared a jot.
    I went walking in the evenings when purple twilight cooled the air, sitting on hot corner stones listening to street musicians and parting with my few coins to pay for the pleasure they gave me. I even sneaked into the Theatre of Marcellus to hear a famous actress sing a round of Greek songs, memorizing her every graceful gesture to practice for myself in the heat-shriveled Pollio gardens. In my mind I could see my mother smile as she said, “What a pretty voice you’ll have when you’re grown.” And then I’d fall silent and perhaps creep back inside to my