At that moment, Eamonn returned with a winejug in either hand, and I forgot all about Lucius Tadius da Lucca. We sat for long hours, drinking and talking. Eamonn told me in greater detail about the year he had spent in Tiberium. He had begun studying with a different Master, dull and conventional, who set him on an intensive course of Caerdicci grammar, reading and translating and performing endless recitations.

"I needed it," Eamonn acknowledged; and indeed, his Caerdicci had improved to the point where it was almost better than mine. "But Dagda Mor! It was boring!"

He had heard rumors about Master Piero, who was a controversial figure at the University. Unlike the other Masters, he refused to be confined to a lecture hall, venturing often into the city with his students. His methods were eclectic and his curriculum indeterminate.

Curious, Eamonn had sought him out.

"He's brilliant, Imri!" he said, glowing. "You saw him today, didn't you? The way he cuts through to the heart of the matter," he added, chopping his hand for emphasis. "Virtue! Envy! That's what I want to know!"

I smiled at him. "Well, I saw him try. The Skaldi girl wasn't having it."

"Brigitta." Eamonn looked pensive. "She struggles with the language. I've told her to study with Master Donato, my old Master. But she won't do it, she only has six months here. And Master Piero won't tell anyone what to do. He insists we must discover it for ourselves."

"There's sense in that, although I'm not sure it's a kindness in this instance." I refilled my winecup. "So why is a young Skaldi woman—"

"Where is the kindness in imposing our thoughts upon others?" Eamonn interrupted, lifting a finger. "Is common sense a virtue, Imri? We have agreed that it is. And yet it is one that cannot be taught, save by example. It must be discovered and admired on its own merits, even as one might see the foundations of a mighty building in a crude chunk of stone."

"—why is a young Skaldi woman studying in Tiberium?" I finished.

Gilot, bored witless, rolled his eyes.

"Sorry." Eamonn laughed. "I'm new to Master Piero's ways, and I get excited." He lowered his voice. "Truth is, I don't know. She's very serious, Brigitta. She keeps to herself. I tell you, Imri, make no mistake. She'll draw a dagger on you just for flirting. But Master Piero sees merit in her, so it must be there."

"No doubt," I said diplomatically. I nodded at Lucius Tadius. "What about him?"

"Lucius?" Eamonn dropped his voice another octave. "He's bright, very bright," he said. "But he is too lazy, and does not always try." He looked troubled. "I'm not sure. There is some problem with his family. He is meant to be his father's heir, the Prince of Lucca, but there is some problem there. I think it involves buggery," he added in a whisper.

I choked on a sip of wine.

"They don't like it here, you know; or at least not exactly," Eamonn said in a serious tone. "They're very funny about such matters in Tiberium."

Gilot took interest. "How so, my lord?"

"Oh!" Eamonn took a deep breath. "They're very strange. Anything a man might do with his shaft they reckon is right and fine. But to pleasure a woman with lips and tongue…" He shook his head. "That, they reckon debasing."

"Idiots," Gilot commented.

"Yes." Eamonn nodded. "And it is the same for a woman to take a man into her mouth, although I have never heard any man complain of it. And worse for a man who does it to another, and worst of all for a man who lets himself get buggered. They've no respect for it, or anyone who suffers it."

I glanced over at Lucius, seated farther down the table. He raised his winecup in mocking salute. "But that's just… silly," I said. Even to my own ears, I sounded as plaintive as Alais complaining at my nicknaming her.

Eamonn shrugged. "It's Tiberium, Imri, not Terre d'Ange."

"Nor Alba, either," I said sharply.

"No." He grinned. "That's why you'll find a good many Tiberian women interested in what you might offer them. I suggest you make the most of it."

Gilot lifted his winecup. "I'm for that!"

We drank to it, the three of us.

Day wore on into evening and Master Piero's disciples peeled away at last, making their farewells and leaving us alone. Once we were surrounded by nameless strangers, I felt myself relax, tense muscles easing.

"So," Eamonn said softly. "You do not wish anyone to know who you are, Imri?"

"It's not that, exactly." I met his gaze. "I'm not ashamed. I just want a chance to be myself, and not my history."

He understood, nodding. "I won't tell anyone," he promised, then paused. "How are my lady Phèdre and my lord Joscelin? I miss them."

"They're fine." I swallowed. "Worried. I miss them, too."

We blinked at one another, drunk and damp-eyed.

"No tears!" Gilot said adamantly. He wagged a finger at me. "You said, no more tears." Leaning forward, he proposed a toast. "To her ladyship," he murmured. "Let us three salute them. To Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, and her consort, Messire Joscelin Verreuil, heroes of the fair realm of Terre d'Ange." He raised his winecup. "May we aspire to be no less than them!"

We cheered while the other patrons watched, bemused and indifferent.

I set my lips to the rim of the winecup. The memory of my encounter with Phèdre the morning after Valerian House surfaced, abrupt and vivid. I felt again the startled leap of her pulse, the dark ache of yearning. The shock of desire, the bile rising.

I pushed the memory away. Here in Tiberium, everything would be different. I would seek to master my own desires. I would study what it meant to be good, until I could live at ease in my own skin.

"May we aspire to no less," I whispered, and drank.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The following day, I met with Master Piero and his students at the foot of the Capitoline Hill beneath the shadow of Tarquin Rock.

It was an inhospitable place, for the southern face of the hill was a sheer cliff. One could see nothing of the hill's summit, where the famous temple to the triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva was perched; only barren ground broken into boulders and stony outcroppings. There was no shade, and in the late-morning sunlight it was already unbearably hot. Despite the blazing sun, there was a dark sense about the place that made me ill at ease.

We all disported ourselves and listened to Master Piero speak.

"There is blood on these rocks," he began. One of Lucius Tadius' companions sprang up with a curse, glancing at the boulder on which he'd been sitting, then sitting sheepishly when he found it clean and dry. "Ancient blood," the Master continued, then pointed toward the summit. "And there is blood above them."

He went on to tell the tale of how many centuries ago, one of Tiberium's Sacred Virgins, a priestess of Vesta, betrayed the city and opened its gates to the conquering Sabinites. Sporting bracelets of gold, they promised to reward her with that which they bore on their arms; but instead of rewarding her with gold, they crushed her to death with the heavy shields they carried.

"She was buried atop the hill," Master Piero finished. "And when Tiberians regained the city and established their republic, they used this place to execute traitors, casting them from Tarquin Rock to their deaths."

I shuddered, imaging their broken bodies and wondering if there were old bones strewn among the rocks. No wonder it felt dark here. Lucius looked pale and grave.

Master Piero smiled genially at us. "So," he said. "Let us discuss the nature of betrayal. What is worse? To betray one's city? To betray one's gods? To betray one's family? To betray one's oath? To betray those virtues one holds to be true and good?"

Despite the heat, his questions loosened tongues and the discussion ranged freely. I sat and listened, sweat trickling beneath my hair. No two students made the same argument. Some of the arguments wandered into tangents. If it was worse to betray one's gods, was it due to the nature of the betrayal or because of divine retribution to follow? If it was worse to betray one's virtues, which virtues were those? Some argued for loyalty, while others countered with the possibility that loyalty might be betrayed in the service of a higher good.

"What do you say, Imriel nó Montrève?" Master Piero asked unexpectedly. "Surely you must know aught of betrayal, with all your country has suffered since your birth. Let us hear from a D'Angeline perspective. What is the worst thing one might betray?"

I gazed at him, his image wavering in the mounting heat, and understood that he had chosen this topic to test me. Gritting my teeth, I answered. "Love, Master."

A few students chuckled, mocking and dismissive. One made a lewd gesture with his hands, low and covert. Master Piero merely nodded his head encouragingly at me. "A very D'Angeline answer," he said. "Tell us more."

I mopped the sweat from my brow and glanced around. "Blessed Elua left us with a single precept," I said. "Love as thou wilt. What do you love best? Your country? Your honor? The gods? A woman? A man? Truth? Whatever it be," I said. " That is the worst betrayal."

They fell silent, then, thinking; all save Eamonn, who beamed at me.

"But some people have impure loves." It was a young man I had not met who reasoned through the flaw in my argument; Umaiyyati, by the look of him, with fierce brows meeting over a hawk's nose. "What of gluttons who exist for gluttony's sake? What of those who seek power or wealth above all things?"

I shrugged. "Even they may serve a greater good without knowing it."

He blinked at me with a hawk's stare. "You believe this?"

I thought about Daršanga, and how I had ended there through my mother's treachery, though it was no fault of hers, for once. I thought about what might have befallen the world if the Mahrkagir's power had run unchecked, if Phèdre and Joscelin had not set out to rescue me. "I do," I said. "I have to."

He waved one hand. "Bah!"

"This greater good of which you speak." Brigitta, the Skaldi woman, spoke slowly, eyeing me with distrust. "What is it? Who determines it?"

I wished I had an answer for her, but I didn't; only bitter experience I was reluctant to divulge. "I don't know, my lady," I said humbly. "That's what we're here to discuss, is it not? I know only what Elua bids me do as a D'Angeline." Glancing around, my gaze fell upon Lucius Tadius, who was seated on a nearby ledge, pale and sweating. "You've been silent," I said to him. "What do you say, Lucius?"

He lifted his head. Beneath his unruly curls, his eyes were wide and staring, hazel rims around stark pupils. "I say this place is full of ghosts," he said. "Don't you feel it?" He shuddered. "Lemures, "he said. "Angry ghosts."

Someone laughed, but it was a nervous titter.

Master Piero sprang to his feet, clapping his hands. "Enough!" he said with brisk good cheer. "We have gained many things to discuss this day. Let us gather in the lecture hall tomorrow and continue our conversation without distraction. It will please my fellow Masters for once." At that he smiled with impish glee, and his students chuckled, eased. As our gathering began to dissolve, he beckoned to me. "Imriel nó Montrève. Is it still your wish to study with us?"

"It is," I said.

"Good." He nodded several times, his gaze searching. "Come tomorrow, and we will speak further. We shall see."

I had hoped for more, but it would do. I inclined my head to him. "My thanks, Master."

He waved his hand. "It is what I do. If you wish to thank me, do a kindness for someone in need."

Thus we were dismissed for the day, straggling back toward the center of the city in groups of two and three. I listened with half an ear as Eamonn rambled on about Master Piero's talk. Mercifully, Gilot had agreed not to play nursemaid to me as long as I didn't wander the city alone, reckoning Eamonn and I combined were formidable enough. Armed with advice from Eamonn, Gilot had taken on the task of finding us permanent lodgings in an insula today, and I wondered how he was doing. I didn't entirely trust him not to rent an entire townhouse.

From time to time, I glanced over at Lucius Tadius, whose companions were teasing him mercilessly. He had regained his color, but the set of his mouth was grim. Whatever the reason, he'd been genuinely frightened beneath the shadow of Tarquin Rock.

I thought about Master Piero's injunction.

"Lucius!" I called to him. Excusing himself to his friends, he came over. His eyes were wary. I knew the feeling. I hated for anyone to see me afraid. I clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We barely got to talk yesterday. Can I stand you a jug of wine? I owe you for your generosity."

Eamonn looked surprised by my overture—I wasn't known for being outgoing in matters of friendship—but said nothing.

Lucius' expression eased. "All right," he said, shrugging. "Why not?"

We went to the same wineshop, buying meat pies along the way. Either the garum in Tiberium was better than in Ostia, or I was getting used to the taste. At the door of the wineshop, Eamonn paused.

"Imri, maybe I should look for Gilot," he said. "He's new to the city, and like to get fleeced if he tries to bargain."

"A good thought." I nodded. "My thanks."