The beggar repeated his seated bow, eyes bright. "And thus in abjuring temptation, I am tempted thrice over. My thanks, young sir! I will seek to ascertain the meaning of this lesson."
"I wish you luck," I said, turning to the gate.
"Wait!" He beckoned to me. "I have a gift for you in turn." Ducking into his barrel, he scrabbled in the darkness, emerging with a rude clay medallion strung on a leather thong. "Here!"
I shook my head. "My thanks, but it is unnecessary."
"A kindness must be returned," he said stubbornly, thrusting out the medallion in one grimy hand. "Besides, everyone in Tiberium knows 'tis ill luck to refuse a beggar's gift."
I hesitated, then thought about Eamonn's words. I didn't want to further perpetuate the myth of D'Angeline arrogance, which was not entirely a myth. I accepted the beggar's gift with a bow. "My thanks," I said, placing it around my neck. "I, too, am seeking wisdom."
"I wish you the finding of it," the beggar said.
In the courtyard, I found Gilot sitting on the stoop of our apartment, conversing with a pleasant-faced young woman. She sprang up at my approach, blushing.
"Imri!" Gilot got to his feet. For the first time since our arrival, he looked glad, his handsome features alight. "This is the widow Anna Marzoni, who lives on the second floor of the insula. She has agreed to assist us with some small chores. We're going to the marketplace tomorrow," he added smugly. "To buy a few things so we don't have to live in squalor. Anna's promised to show me the best places."
"Oh, indeed?" I gave her a courtly bow. "Well met, Anna Marzoni."
She blushed more furiously and essayed an awkward curtsy. "Thank you, my lord!"
I smiled at her. "Imriel," I said. "Call me Imriel."
Whatever bargain Gilot had negotiated with Anna, it proved its worth within the hour. Upon seeing state of the clothing we unpacked, she clucked her tongue in despair. I held up the sleeveless doublet of blue-and-silver brocade, eyeing its multitude of wrinkles and creases.
"It's not that bad," I said.
"Do you have a flatiron, my lord? And charcoal for the brazier?" Anna asked. When I shook my head, she snatched the doublet. "Give me the linen shirt, too," she said, holding out her hand. "Yes, and the breeches." I obeyed, and she nodded approval. "I'll be back in a trice." Arms laden, she paused in the doorway. "Polish his boots," she said to Gilot. "They're a disgrace."
Gilot rolled his eyes.
"I'll do it," I said hastily to him.
"Men!" Anna said in disgust, marching away.
By the time she returned, with my clothing neatly pressed, Gilot and I had concurred that whether or not it was a failing of our gender, we were woefully inadequate housekeepers. From a goatherd and a slave, I had vaulted into the D'Angeline peerage. I had given little thought, in this venture, to how those in between the two lived.
I dressed inside while Anna Marzoni waited outside the apartment. On the stoop, she fussed with the collar of my shirt, straightening it until the lace points lay just so. Disdain for our inadequacy had given her the ease of familiarity.
"Very nice, my lord," she said, stepping back.
On impulse, I kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Anna."
She blushed. "Go on, then! You've a meeting to keep." Her gaze slid sideways toward Gilot, shy and hopeful. "Will you be back?" she asked.
"He will," I said firmly. "There is no need for him to dance attendance on me while I'm in the company of a prominent senator's family. And I do not believe the invitation was extended to the both of us."
Gilot and I exchanged glances and a test of wills. He sighed. "I'll be back."
"Good," said the widow Anna, still blushing. "I mean… well, good."
Chapter Thirty-Four
Outside the Marcellan Theatre, I met Up With Lucius Tadius, his sister, and her husband, the senator Deccus Fulvius. The theatre was easy to find, being the largest structure alongside the TiberRiver in the vicinity of the butchers' market. It was a vast marble circle, rising in tiers, glowing amber in the late-afternoon sunlight. Lucius' company was easy to spot, too. They were surrounded by servants carrying cushions and baskets of foodstuffs, keeping the crowds at bay. I wondered if they were slaves. Although the practice was not so prevalent as it had been during the height of Tiberium's empire, it persisted. I didn't like to think about it, having been one myself. "Montrève!" Lucius lifted one arm, hailing me. "Join us."
"Go on," I murmured to Gilot. "I'll be fine, and Anna's waiting." He scowled at me. "You don't make this easy, Imri." I gave him a little shove. "Who asked you to come? Go, the widow awaits!
He went, grumbling. I joined my new companions. Lucius looked better than he had earlier, his eyes clear. "I'm glad you came," he said. "Imriel nó Montrève, this is my sister's husband, Deccus Fulvius. I believe you've met."
Deccus Fulvius chuckled, thrusting out one hand. He was a solid figure of a man, silver-haired and affable. I recognized him from before, although he looked more substantial in formal attire. "In the baths, wasn't it? Well indeed, well met once more, young Montrève. I'm pleased you found yourself a Master to study with. We need more D'Angelines in Tiberium."
I clasped his hand. "My thanks, messire."
"And my sister," Lucius said. "Claudia Fulvia."
"Well met, Imriel nó Montrève," she said. Her voice was low and vibrant, the kind of voice made for uttering words of passion.
I took one look at her and felt the pit of desire open beneath my feet.
It was in the way she carried herself and the way she met my eyes, at once intimate and challenging. Claudia Fulvia had a look of her brother, but on her, his sharp satyr's features were softened to an earthy, feminine sensuality. Her dark auburn hair was arranged in an elaborate coif, curls descending to spill artfully over her shoulders. They had the same mouth, wide and mobile. Even in Terre d'Ange, she would have been reckoned striking, if not exactly beautiful.
I bowed, kissing her hand. "The honor is mine, my lady."
She laughed as I straightened. It made her breasts move beneath the bronze silk of her gown. She was tall for a woman and abundantly curved. I found myself trying hard not to gaze at the deep cleft of her cleavage. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and I wondered what it would taste like. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it.
"Come, my friends," Deccus Fulvius said in a good-natured tone. "Let us take our seats and enjoy the pantomime."
Surrounded by a coterie of servants, we traipsed into the theatre. A box large enough to seat a dozen spectators was reserved for Deccus Fulvius and his family. The servants bustled efficiently, setting cushions on the stone seats and plumping them, bringing out tidbits of food and flasks of wine. All around us, the theatre filled with less fortunate folk, noisy and chattering.
Seated at her husband's right hand, Claudia Fulvia patted the marble bench beside her. "Sit next to me, won't you, Imriel?" She paused. "Do you mind if I call you Imriel?"
"Please do," I said, sitting. Our shoulders brushed.
"Call me Claudia." She smiled at me and lowered her voice, pitching it beneath the surrounding clamor. "Are you one of Lucius' playmates?"
"No, my lady." I held her gaze, shaking my head slowly. "I'm no one's playmate."
"Pity," she murmured.
Soon the pantomime began, though for the life of me, I couldn't recount it if asked. It was a comical farce based on an episode of ancient Tiberian history, about two quarreling generals and the Menekhetan Queen who outwitted them. The generals sported enormous leather phalluses laced to their breeches. They acted the part of buffoons while the Queen led them a merry chase. In the end, they battered one another with their phalluses, staggering about the stage until they collapsed. The hero of the piece appeared to be a wise old senator, who was aided by his prying servant.
Although the Tiberians laughed until they wept, doubling over in the stands at the antics of the dueling generals, I had the idea that there was somewhat subversive about the play. Betimes, when the sage senator spoke, Deccus Fulvius nodded his head in approval.
For the most part, I found it hard to pay attention.
It was not that the comedy was rude and absurd by D'Angeline standards, though it was. It was the pressure of Claudia's thigh against mine, and my own acute awareness of it. My resolve to be good began to seem distant and childish.
A short way into the play, the shifting sun put us in shadow. Claudia turned, beckoning to one of the servants. "A blanket, please." She spread it over her lap, solicitously extending a fold to me. "We wouldn't want you to take a chill."
Precious little chance of that, I thought.
It was not long before I felt her hand beneath the blanket. She was a woman grown—I guessed her age to be in her late twenties—and there was no uncertainty in her movements, no girlish groping or fumbling. Her palm slid over my tensed thigh, slow and firm, savoring the contact. Doing nothing to dissuade her, I glanced at her strong profile. Her gaze was fixed on the stage below, and she was laughing at the players. It looked for all the world as though she'd no other thought on her mind.
Meanwhile, her hand continued unerringly.
I twitched when she reached my phallus, hard and rigid beneath my breeches. On my other side, Lucius gave me an odd look.
"Are you all right, Montrève?" he asked.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth.
Smiling at the stage, his sister stroked my phallus, filling her palm with it, her long fingers skillfully stroking its trapped length. For a terrifying moment, I thought I might climax beneath her hand, right there in the theatre. I took slow, deep breaths, thinking about maintaining Elua's vigil; the cold ground beneath my knees, the icy stars above.
It got me through the performance. Mercifully, Claudia released me ere the end. I muttered a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua, and set about regaining my composure. By the time the pantomime ended, I was able to rise without embarrassment.
Afterward, we went behind the stage to the players' rooms. Deccus Fulvius, it seemed, was the patron of this particular play. He greeted the players, congratulating them on a job well done, rewarding them with coin.
Lucius seemed to know them well. He mingled with them, laughing and jesting. I smiled to see him looking merry, although it left me standing with Claudia, which was a trifle unnerving.
"You're fond of my brother," she observed.
"We've only just met," I said. "But yes, I believe I am."
"I'm pleased to hear it." She sounded sincere. "He needs friends." Her voice shifted, low and amused. "And you seem to be a young man of singular will."
I looked her in the eyes. "I try, my lady."
I found myself regarding the pending meal with equal parts dread and eagerness. In Terre d'Ange, I might have enjoyed the game Claudia Fulvia played. But as Eamonn had reminded me, Tiberium was not Terre d'Ange. Noblewomen were not free to take lovers as they were at home. What the consequences might be, I wasn't sure, but I was fairly certain the wealthy and powerful Deccus Fulvius would not approve. And I didn't want to be in this position. After Valerian House and what had transpired afterward, I needed time to reflect.
I wanted her, though.
I wanted her badly.
After what had passed between us in the theatre, Claudia was the very model of a circumspect Tiberian wife. She excused herself as we entered their townhouse, or domus, as the Tiberians call it, going to check on proceedings in the kitchen. I gazed around the vast atrium, admiring the intricate mosaic on the floor. When a servant knelt to remove my boots, I startled, and wondered again about slavery.
"A little taste of luxury, eh, Montrève?" Deccus Fulvius chuckled. "I thought a poor scholar might enjoy it."
I slid my bare feet into the soft sandals proferred and smiled at him, feeling guilt-ridden as I never would have at home. "You're very kind, my lord."
Deccus shrugged. "Not at all." He eyed Lucius, who was gazing into the open doorway of a small room to the right with a queasy look. "Come, Lucius, the lares of the Fulvii mean you no harm. Let's take some refreshment."
I glanced into the room as we strolled past it toward the peristyle. The light was dimming, but from what I would see, it held only a small altar laden with masks and bronze figurines.
"The dead?" I asked softly.
Lucius gave me a tight smile. "Always."
It was pleasant in the peristyle garden, with dusk falling over the city; though not so pleasant as Phèdre's courtyard at home. I sipped wine and found myself missing her, missing Joscelin, missing Terre d'Ange. Deccus Fulvius teased Lucius and me for our adherence to Master Piero, citing numerous examples of his erratic behavior.
"Oh, let the lads be, Deccus!" Claudia appeared in the doorway, her figure silhouetted in the lamplight behind her. "Come and dine."
We adjourned to the spacious dining room, which was set about with couches. There, Claudia joined us as a hostess in her own right.
I must own, after playing at being the impoverished scholar, it was a pleasure to indulge in luxury. Servants circulated with bowls of scented water. Reclining on couches, we dipped our hands and held them out to be wiped on soft linens. And then the food arrived; course after course, all of it washed down with good wine.