I hadn't realized the extent of my own hunger. Forgetting politics, forgetting Claudia's hand on my phallus, I ate until my belly was groaning: oil-cured olives, salty oysters, tender mussels, a capon so tender the meat fell from the bone, spicy fish stew. The taste of garum pervaded everything. I found myself growing fond of it.
"My!" Claudia smiled at me. "You do have a prodigious appetite, Imriel nó Montrève."
"What do you expect at his age, my dear?" Deccus Fulvius asked cheerfully.
I read the answer in the slight flicker of her eyelids and felt warm. I coughed to cover my embarrassment, loosening my collar and leaning forward to select a pear from the tray of desserts. The beggar's medallion still strung about my neck fell forward.
"What's that you have there?" Claudia asked, amused. "A luck-charm?"
"Oh, this?" I plucked at the pendant, removing it. I examined it for the first time, realizing it had the crude semblance of a lamp stamped on both sides. "Nothing, my lady. A beggar gave it to me. He said it was ill luck to refuse his gift."
She laughed. "Oh, he did, did he? It's a clever trick. He's bought your guilt, hasn't he? I'll wager you feel obliged to toss him a coin every time you see him."
Lucius frowned. "May I see?"
I passed him the medallion.
He looked at it and grinned. "He's a Cynic," he said, tapping the fired clay. "The lamp, that's their symbol." At her request, he passed the pendant to Claudia, who examined it with mild interest before returning it to me. "Your beggar's a philosopher, Montrève. Might as well keep it, it might be lucky."
"A Cynic, eh?" I shrugged and strung it back around my neck. "All right, then."
Deccus Fulvius clapped his hands. "Enough of philosophy!" he said. "Tell me, young Montrève, what you thought of the pantomime?"
I opened my mouth to reply, but Claudia interrupted.
"Montrève," she said thoughtfully, tilting her head to regard me. She had light brown eyes like a fox, and the lamplight gave them an amber cast. "Something about that name's been plaguing me all night." I felt a stab of alarm in my belly. "Wasn't that the name of a D'Angeline poet you admired?" Claudia asked Lucius. "I seem to remember you were quite taken with his work some years ago."
Lucius snapped his fingers. "I knew I recognized it! Are you related?"
I heaved an inward sigh of relief. "After a fashion," I said. "I was adopted into his heir's household."
"What poet?" Deccus Fulvius asked his wife. He sounded disgruntled.
"No one you would know, my love." She smiled sweetly at him. "He wrote poems in the old Hellene style, lauding the noble virtues of manly love."
The senator gave a dismissive grunt.
Lucius leaned back on his couch, folding his arms beneath his head and gazing at the ceiling. " 'O, dear my lord, let this breast on which you have leant, serve now as your shield,'" he quoted in a soft voice. He turned his head. "Did you know him? Is it true he was once a prince's lover?"
"Oh yes, it's true," I said. "But no, I'm afraid I never knew him. He died before my birth. He studied here in Tiberium," I added. "They both did."
"Time was when all the best D'Angeline nobility sent their sons to the University," Deccus Fulvius said in an accusing tone. "In the last generation, it's changed." He pointed at me. "Your folk have forgotten where they come from. We civilized you."
Because I was his guest, and there was a grain of truth to it, I didn't argue. "Yes, my lord," I said. "That's why I wanted to follow in Anafiel… de Montrève's footsteps." I caught myself stumbling over the name, though I don't think they noticed. It was a piece of irony, that. During his lifetime, Anafiel Delaunay was disowned by his father and took on his mother's surname. It was only after his death that he reclaimed the name that was his birthright, Anafiel de Montrève. His poetry, declared anathema in his lifetime, was released after his death under his given name. For a time, it had been quite the fashion.
But it was Phèdre who made the name he had borne in his lifetime famous.
And I had no intention of uttering it here. As Master Piero had said, they were not all hidebound. The name Delaunay might well ring a different chord than that of Montrève.
"There is a story," I said, shirting the topic, "that Anafiel de Montrève learned the arts of covertcy when he studied here in Tiberium, the better to serve his lordship, Prince Rolande. I asked Master Piero, but he'd never heard of such a thing."
All three of them looked blankly at me.
"Covertcy?" Lucius mused. "That would be useful."
"Bah!" Deccus scowled. "What's to teach a spy? Mind your loyalty doesn't stray, keep your ears open and your mouth closed." He shifted on the couch. "Now, back to important matters. Tell me, Imriel nó Montrève, what you thought of the pantomime."
I answered in diplomatic terms, which didn't entirely suit Deccus Fulvius. He pressed me for my deeper impressions.
"But what about the plot?" he insisted. "Did you grasp its relevance?"
I spread my hands, helpless. I couldn't very well tell the man I'd only grasped one word in three because his wife was fondling my groin. "Forgive me, my lord. I'm not well-versed in Tiberian politics."
"Deccus!" Claudia said with asperity. "The lad's only been here a few days. Let him get acquainted with the city before you try to drag him into your political snares."
"Forgive me, my dear," he apologized to her. "You're right, of course. But I wanted the impression of fresh eyes, untainted by bias."
She rose gracefully from her couch, bronze silks shimmering. "Well, why don't you settle for Lucius' tainted gaze and submit him to your inquisition. I'm sure he'd be happy to share his thoughts with you." She beckoned to me. "Come, let's give them their moment of intrigue. Have you seen our frescoes?"
"No, my lady," I said. "I haven't."
I could hear then behind us as Claudia led me away, talking pantomime and politics. My skin felt too tight, prickling with danger. I knew, without a doubt, that what I was doing was folly. And I knew I was going to pursue it anyway.
Lighting a taper at a lampstand, Claudia led me past the entrance to the peristyle. The servants who had attended us so solicitously stayed out of our way. We trod a corridor, entering a smaller room that lay off it. There she raised her taper, illuminating the darkness.
"You see?" she said. "Very fine, aren't they?"
There were two frescoes on the wall, both of them depicting a man and woman joined in the act of love. In one, she straddled him; in the other, he rode between her thighs. I had seen finer work in the Houses of the Night Court, but they were not poorly rendered.
I looked at them for a long moment, the blood beating hard in my veins. "What is this room, my lady?"
Claudia Fulvia smiled at me. "My husband's private salon."
"I see," I said.
"Good," she said, and blew out the taper.
In the darkness, it was she who found me; her hands lifting to cup my face. Her lips on mine, her tongue slipping between them to probe my mouth. I held her against me, sliding my hands down her waist, pulling her hips hard against mine to let her feel my stiffness. She groaned into my mouth. I could smell her musk.
The last remnants of my resolve crumbled. There was no good or bad, only unadorned carnal desire, banishing everything else. It sparked a deep craving in me, a yearning for escape. I wanted to take her, then and there, hard and ungentle. I wanted to sink both hands into her elaborate coif and turn it into disarray. I wanted to tear away the bodice of her gown and bare her abundant breasts, shove up her skirts, and lose myself in her.
Claudia tore herself away. "Not here."
Her voice was breathless with urgency, but there was a thread of amusement there, too. The senator's wife liked to play dangerous games. I was eighteen, but I was D'Angeline, and descended from a long line of Kushiel's scions. I could be patient. I waited in the darkness for my blood to ebb and my pulse to slow.
"Where?" I said. "When?"
"I'll send word." Her fingers touched my cheek. "Where do you live?"
"In the students' quarter," I said. "Behind the incense-maker's shop."
"Beside the philosopher-beggar." I could hear her smile. Her fingertips trailed over my lips, down my throat, catching briefly on the thong of my medallion before they brushed lower, making me grit my teeth. "I'll find it."
In the corridor outside her husband's salon, Claudia drew a silk kerchief from her sleeve and reached up to wipe my lips. Her pupils were wide with darkness and desire. I wondered if she was haunted like her brother. If so, they were ghosts of a different nature.
"Carmine," she murmured.
I nodded. "My thanks."
We returned to the dining room. I felt horribly conspicuous and sure it must show; her mark, her scent upon me. But Deccus and Lucius were deep in conversation and neither noticed aught amiss. The remainder of the evening could not pass swiftly enough for me. I was grateful when Claudia excused herself. And after another polite cup of wine, I did the same, begging fatigue.
A generous host to the end, Deccus Fulvius sent a servant with me to light my way. He led me through the streets of Tiberium. It was late enough that the city had grown quiet, though a few taverns were still doing business. I thanked him outside the insula gate, giving him a coin for his trouble.
The incense-maker's shop was dark, but by the light of the servant's torch as he departed, I could make out the beggar's barrel, situated in the same place. The sound of snoring emanated from it and a pair of legs protruded into the street, grimy feet shod in worn, mended sandals.
I fingered the medallion around my neck and shook my head. Wisdom.
"You're better suited to the quest than I, my friend," I said softly.
In response, the barrel gave a hearty snore.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Days passed without word from Claudia Fulvia.
On the first day, I was tense and fretful. Master Piero noticed it in the Temple of All Gods, though he said nothing. Although it was a misnomer, for it honored only the gods of Tiberium, it was an impressive structure, reminding me of the great Temple of Naamah in the City of Elua; perfectly round, with an oculus at the top. It was divided in quadrants in accordance with the four seasons. Listening to Master Piero speak about whether the pantheon of the gods represent a true multiplicity or a multitude of aspects, I found myself pacing its interior, thinking about the Cassiline spheres of defense and offense.
Without thinking, I traced the steps of the first hours, my empty hands moving as though I held the sword that hung untouched at my belt.
The Skaldic woman, Brigitta, wrinkled her nose at me. "Stop that," she said irritably. "I'm trying to listen."
I made myself halt. "My apologies, lady."
"Do you even know how to use that blade?" It was Aulus who drawled the question, one of Lucius' comrades. There had been a falling-out between them, and I sensed he held me to blame.
"Oh, he does!" Eamonn came behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. "We fought a mighty duel once, didn't we, Imri?" He looked at Brigitta with interest. "Would you like to see us try it again?"
She sniffed with disdain and turned away.
Master Piero dismissed us early that day. I apologized to him, knowing I had behaved badly. He gave me a long, level look.
"Do not give me cause to regret my choice, Imriel nó Montrève," he said.
I tried not to. Sensing my mood, if not its cause, Eamonn suggested we go to a brothel as we used to do back in Night's Doorstep. Having already abandoned my resolution, I agreed, but the contrast was dispiriting. They were not Servants of Naamah, and there was nothing sacred in their calling. The girl I chose wept, turning over her hand-mirror in private, averting her face from me. She had never been with a D'Angeline before. I had chosen her for the way her face glowed when she looked at me, but once we were alone, she grew shy and timid.
"No," she whispered. "Don't look at me."
When I offered to choose another, she wept all the harder and begged me not to. So I stayed, though it was in my heart to go. I thought about what I had learned at Balm House, and I was gentle with her; unwontedly gentle. I aroused her as Emmeline had taught me, coaxing her with soft words and touches. She cried out at the end, hiding her face against my shoulder.
My own pleasure felt furtive and fleeting. It eased my body and troubled my soul. I reclined on my pallet, watching her perform her ablutions, feeling the black wings of melancholy descend upon me. I wished I hadn't come. In another room, I could hear Eamonn's laugh booming, echoed by feminine giggles. I still envied him.
I wished Claudia Fulvia would send word to me.
I hoped she wouldn't.
At the insula, Gilot had flung himself headlong into a romance with Anna Marzoni. She was a young widow with a two-year-old daughter, and she blossomed under Gilot's attention. They made a pretty picture, the three of them. Remembering his grief at the loss of Katherine and their stillborn child, I was happy for him. Envious, but happy.
Days passed, and no message came. Indeed, the nearest thing to a messenger to visit the vicinity was a pair of thieves bent on robbing the incense-maker's shop. I woke from a sound sleep to hear shouting and the slap of sandaled feet running over the cobbled street. Gilot and I both rolled from our pallets, alarmed.
