overpowered? 'My widowed mother was a traitor. She studied witchcraft and consulted with astrologers. She died for it.'
'The Gemonian Stairs?'
'She took poison.'
'How long did it take to kill her?'
'Not long.'
'Interesting.'
He waited for the other boy to say more, but when he didn't, the silence and the blackness proved too much for him. 'Please tell me who you are.'
'Please tell me who you are.'
He gave in. 'I am Aemilius of the Aemilii.'
'Never heard of you.'
This was a strange relief of sorts. 'I am patrician.'
'I suppose you must be, then. How old are you?'
'Fourteen,' said Aemilius.
'Do you have your toga virilis?'
'I was to be given it next week, but then the Emperor's letter came.'
'I wouldn't worry about it, Aemilius.' The other boy crawled along the floor of the pitch-black room, feeling with his hands until he came to the spot where Aemilius crouched. Aemilius cried out when the boy's fingers touched him.
'Stop squawking — I'm not going to hurt you.' The boy crouched by his side. 'Do you know what goes on here?'
'In this room?' said Aemilius, his anxiety rising.
'On this island.'
'My brother Ahenobarbus was sent here before me. He's eight years older than me. He's been here since Saturnalia. Since then we've heard nothing.'
'No. No one does hear much.'
Aemilius's eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. The other boy's features were just discernible. He seemed roughly the same age and size as himself, but his hair was fairer. 'Do you know why I've been sent for? And why my brother was sent for?'
'Because you're the sons of a traitor.'
There was a sickening simplicity to the answer, and yet it told Aemilius nothing. 'Do you have a traitor for a parent?'
'My father was a great man,' the other boy replied automatically. 'But my mother has… upset people.'
'Is that why you're here?'
The other boy became conspiratorial. 'My great-grandmother encouraged me to come here.'
Aemilius tried to imagine such a malicious old relative. 'Why would she do that?'
'I'm not really sure,' the boy whispered.
'Have you been kept here many days?'
'I've been kept here several months.'
Aemilius shuddered. 'In this horrible black room?'
'On and off. I sometimes like to spend time in here when it pleases me.'
'But why?'
'To meet new people.'
Aemilius didn't think he could stand any more of this bewildering conversation. 'You're patrician too — I know it by your voice. Tell me who you are. It isn't fair that I gave you my name but you didn't give yours.'
Little Boots told him and Aemilius caught his breath sharply. 'The Emperor's grandson?'
Little Boots just shrugged in the dark.
Aemilius clutched at his hands. 'Help me — protect me. You've got power here,' he pleaded. 'I don't want to die on this island. I want to live. Please, Little Boots!'
Little Boots was moved by this appeal. 'Grandfather?' he called.
From far across the deceptively large room, Tiberius answered out of the blackness. 'Yes, Grandson?'
Aemilius nearly screamed with the fright.
'I like this boy. I'd like him to be my friend. Can I keep him, Grandfather?'
'But my decreasing minnows…'
'Just send for more. There are always more. Please, Grandfather?'
In the long pause Aemilius heard the beads of his own sweat strike the floor, dripping from the ends of his hair.
'As you wish,' said Tiberius. He began to snore.
Little Boots gave Aemilius a happy squeeze. 'Now we can have some fun,' he whispered.
Later, when they had left the strange, black hall and exhausted themselves playing the games that Little Boots wished to play, Aemilius was taken to the place where Little Boots had made a bed for himself. It was in a room where few of the other minnows ever went, a forgotten attic. It was comfortable and quiet, which was important sometimes, Little Boots assured his new friend, considering how noisy the Emperor's island so often became.
Aemilius quite liked the room and asked if he could live in it too. Little Boots assented, glad of his company. But when Aemilius, seeking sleep, placed his head upon the first cushion that came to hand, Little Boots snatched it away from him and gave him another.
'Is something wrong with that cushion?' Aemilius asked.
Little Boots placed it carefully aside. 'It was given to me by my great-grandmother, Livia,' he said. On the fabric was a single embroidered Latin word: sedeo — 'I sit'.
'Is she the one who encouraged you to come here?'
'Yes.'
Again, this aged relative took on an aura of maliciousness to Aemilius. 'She wanted no one else to sit on the cushion but you?'
Little Boots nodded. 'I think so. She told me a little poem as she gave it to me.'
'What sort of poem?'
' When tiny shoes a cushion brings, the cuckoo's king rewarded.'
'What does that mean?'
'Who knows?' said Little Boots. 'But my great-grandmother promised me that a time will come when the poem means everything in the world.'
The three girls peered from the corridor into their grandmother Antonia's room, where the matron sat upright in her chair, facing the light of the window, her little desk in front of her. Her ebony pen made slow, considered progress across a papyrus sheet. It was so quiet in this part of the house that they could hear the scratching sound the pen made.
'She is writing again,' said Julilla, the youngest of the sisters.
'Ssh,' said Drusilla, the middle one.
'Why? She can't hear us.'
'We don't know that.'
'Yes, we do. Our grandmother hears nothing anymore. She never leaves this room,' said Julilla.
'It is true,' said Nilla.
The girls continued to watch Antonia in silence.
'What does she write all the time?' asked Julilla.
'Letters,' said Drusilla.
'Who to?'
Drusilla cast a look at her older sister, Nilla.
'She writes to the Emperor,' Nilla said.
Julilla said nothing for a moment. Then she added, quietly, 'Does she ask about our mother?'
'She does,' said Nilla. 'She asks about our mother and about many other things. She asks the Emperor what
