Laughing, he chucked Orpelia under the chin. She squealed and made for the aisle, dragging her maid behind her.

Corylus allowed himself a smile. He'd grown up in the cantonments around military bases. He was a tall, good looking youth and the son of an officer besides, so it hadn't been uncommon for older women to suggest they would like to know him better.

Even whores who were feeling the pinch toward the end of the army's pay cycle weren't quite as brazen as some of the women Corylus had encountered here in Carce, though. The metropolis had its own standards-and they weren't as high as those of the barbarian fringes of empire. Corylus wasn't a prude or a virgin, but neither was he desperate enough to be charmed by the attentions of a slut.

On stage, the head of "Geryon" had been placed on a stand beside Hercules. Its wax eyes stared out from beneath bushy brows as lines of actors paraded before it, wearing placards indicating what Lusitanian tribe they were supposed to belong to. Nemetatoi, Tamarci, Cileni…

Corylus frowned as a thought struck him: were they actors, or were they real Lusitanians, either purchased locally or shipped in from the province in order to make the production that much more lavish? If Saxa was paying his impresario a percentage over the expenses, Meoetes had every reason to run the costs up.

He glanced up at the Tribunal, looking for his friend Varus. Instead he saw the profile of Hedia, as crisply chiseled as the portrait on a coin. She started to turn toward the audience, and Corylus as quickly jerked his eyes away.

In the orchestra beneath him sat Marcus Sempronius Tardus, accompanied by three men of foreign aspect. Corylus knew little of the Senate, but he had met-better, had seen-Tardus seven days ago. He doubted whether Tardus would remember him; he certainly hoped the senator wouldn't remember him.