Free Arms of Nemesis by Steven Saylor

smiled broadly and strode to the far side of the pool, where a young slave in a green tunic stood at the water's edge, obscured by the mist.
    As we drew closer, I was impressed by the slave's extraordinary beauty. His hair was thick and almost blue-black, the colour of the sky on a moonless night. His eyes were a vibrant blue. His forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin were perfectly smooth and followed the serene proportions from which the Greeks defined perfection. His full, bow-shaped Lips seemed to hover on the edge of a smile. He was not tall, but beneath the loose folds of his tunic he clearly had an athlete's physique.
    'Apollonius!' Mummius said again. He looked back at me over his shoulder. 'I shall begin with the hottest pool,' he announced, pointing at a door across the way, 'followed by a vigorous massage from Apollonius. And you?'
    'I think I'll test these waters first,' I said, dipping my foot into the main pool and quickly drawing it back. 'Or perhaps one a little less scalding.'
    'Try that one, it's the coolest,' said Mummius, indicating a chamber next to the changing room. He strode away with his hand on the slave's shoulder, humming a boisterous marching tune.
    We sweated and scraped ourselves clean with ivory strigils; we immersed ourselves in one pool and then in another, going from cool to hot and back again, and when we were done with our ablutions Marcus Mummius rejoined us in the heated dressing room, where fresh undergarments and tunics had been laid out for us. Mine was of dark blue wool with a simple black border, befitting a guest in a household in mourning. The old slave had a sharp eye; it was a perfect fit, not even tight across my shoulders, as I often find borrowed garments to be. Mummius dressed in the plain but well-tailored black tunic he had worn on the night he summoned me.
    Eco was less pleased with his costume. The slave, apparently thinking him younger than he was, or else too good-looking to be seen bare-limbed about the house, had brought him a long-sleeved blue tunic that reached to his knees. It was so modest that it would have been more suitable for a boy or girl of thirteen. I told Eco he should be flattered if the old slave found him so dazzling that he should hide himself. Mummius laughed; Eco blushed and would have none of it. He refused to dress until the slave brought him a tunic that matched mine. It was not quite as good a fit, but Eco made do by tightening the black woollen belt about his waist and seemed happy to be dressed in a more manly garment that showed his arms and legs.
    Mummius guided us down long hallways where slaves bowed their heads and stepped meekly out of the way, down one flight of stairs arid up another, through rooms decorated with exquisite statues and sumptuous wall paintings, across gardens breathing the last sweet breath of summer. At last we came to a semicircular room at the northern end of the house, set above a crag of rock overlooking the bay. A slave girl announced us and then departed.
    The room was shaped like an amphitheatre. Where the stage would have been, steps led up to a colonnaded gallery. It opened onto a spectacular vista of sparkling water below and the port of Puteoli in the distance, and far away to the right an unimpeded view of Mount Vesuvius on the horizon and the towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii at its feet.
    The interior of the room was so dark and the light from outside so dazzling that I could see the woman who reclined on the terrace only as a stark silhouette. She sat with her legs extended and her back upright on a low divan beside a small table set with a ewer and cups. She stared out at the bay and made no reaction as we entered; she might have been another statue, except that a gende breeze wafted through the colonnade and caused the hanging folds of her gown to sway in the air.
    She turned towards us. I could not yet distinguish her features, but there was a warm smile in her voice. 'Marcus,' she said, extending her right