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the rest of the night.’
    ‘That’s a matter of perception, master. If she demanded it of me I could not refuse to go to her bed; you, on the other hand, could.’
    ‘And if I did that, then I wouldn’t benefit from her favour.’
    The Greek steward raised an eyebrow a fraction. ‘But that would be your free choice, whereas if I refused she’d be within her rights to have me crucified.’
    Magnus turned and headed for the door with Pallas following. ‘Yeah, well, however you argue it there’s no getting around the fact that she’s a powerful woman and we all have reason to do her bidding.’
    ‘And some of her requests are a little more demanding than others, which is why she sends me to fetch you so that she can preserve her dignity and as few people as possible know that she . . . er . . .’
    ‘Likes to get a hard fucking from ex-boxers?’
    Pallas cleared his throat. ‘Precisely.’
    *
    ‘You may go now, Magnus,’ Antonia murmured, lying back on the pillow and staring up into the gloom of the ceiling high above, beyond the reach of the few oil lamps placed around the bed. ‘And take your things.’
    ‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus looked down at the most powerful woman in Rome and wondered how it had come to this. During his two years as a boxer, after leaving the Urban Cohorts, she had often hired him to fight as an after-dinner entertainment for her friends; like many other respectable Roman matrons, she would sometimes retain him for services of a different nature after the party broke up. He had always performed his duty with diligence, acceding to all her demands – which were numerous and sometimes not for the faint-hearted. However, once he had retired from fighting, the massive difference in their social status precluded any liaison until he had met his patron Senator Pollo’s nephews, Vespasian and Sabinus. They had been favoured by Antonia and because Magnus’ loyalty was to Senator Pollo and his family, his and Antonia’s paths had crossed a few years previously; since then she had made regular demands on his services. It was not so bad, he reflected as he retied his loincloth; for a woman in her mid-sixties she was still attractive. Her skin remained smooth with only a few wrinkles around her sparkling green eyes: eyes that never missed a single detail. She wore very little make-up; her high cheekbones, strong chin and full lips needed no embellishment. Even with her auburn hair loose and dishevelled she still managed to look like the high-born patrician that she was; an image helped by the fact that she had not run to fat and her body had not yet creased and sagged.
    Magnus slipped on his tunic, gently rubbing the bite-marks on his shoulder. ‘ Domina? ’
    ‘Are you still here?’
    ‘I have a favour to ask, domina.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I would like you to give someone a racing tip.’
    ‘To whom and why?’ Antonia turned over languidly to lie on her belly, her eyes closed and her face nestled into the pillow; the sheet fell away from her buttocks.
    Magnus admired his handiwork. ‘To your nephew, Ahenobarbus.’
    ‘You don’t want to get involved with him; he’s probably the most unpleasant member of my family. I’m just pleased that he and Agrippina haven’t managed to breed yet; a child of that union would be atrocious.’
    Magnus knew enough about the imperial family to understand that was condemnation indeed.
    ‘I don’t want to get involved with him; I was hoping to do this without him ever knowing where you got your information from – until it’s been proven reliable, if you take my meaning?’
    ‘Why do you want him to win at the races?’
    ‘I don’t want him to win as much as I want him to place a bet with a bookmaker called Ignatius, big enough to ruin Ignatius when he does win.’
    ‘If he wins.’
    ‘Oh, he’ll win all right; it’ll be a sure thing.’
    ‘How much do you want him to put down?’
    ‘A thousand aurei on a Red one-two-three at odds of around