court, nor, I imagine, was there anything too extraordinary about the murder of such a person. Therefore, why should the Emperor feel compelled to offer an apology to posterity for Antinous' death?"

"Well then, why?"

"Simply because he loved him. Perhaps, as you say, the devotion was destructive demanding from its recipient either death by slow corruption or a quick, physical killing but it was a sincere affection that created a new religion and a new era in art in atonement for its destructiveness. You cannot create these things without a genuine dedication. Regret being insufficient, he tried to resurrect Antinous' spirit in religion and his form in marble orials not easily corrupted or destroyed."

"All of which makes beautiful fiction."

mem-

"It could be played on a stage. Fear, pity, catharsis

Certainly

...

if you see it as a play." She leaned forward slightly, never shifting her gaze from his face. "But what if you were caught in the midst of it without benefit of pleasant historical perspective? Is there catharsis then? Is there anything other than the pity, or above all, the fear?"

Adrian returned her gaze with equal watchfulness. The light seemed to accentuate the drawn shadows beneath his high cheekbones. "You insist on putting this in the present tense?"

She nodded.

Then you would be correct. It would be bitter. The Emperor himself might agree with you but only after Antinous' death."

Why," asked Domenica slowly, "must the realization come too late? Is there no such thing as foresight?"

"What danger could be foreseen if the love were genuine? "There are certain types of love that are always wrong."

Adrian closed his eyes for an almost imperceptible pulse of time.

“Such as ... ?"

"Such as the love of the sophisticated for the naive."

"Ah," he said, and smiled a little to himself.

Adrian crushed out the cigarette and rose with unstudied weariness. Taking his drink with him, he walked across to the bronze head of Antinous. "Such innocence is incomprehensible."

Domenica sighed and leaned back.

"Leave the past alone, Adrian."

"I cannot afford myself the pleasure of playing Emperor." He looked directly at her with a smile too self-contained either to request or offer sympathy. He placed the full glass in the niche and turned away from the bust of Antinous.

"Goodnight

Domenica, Tony."

Tony, who had been listening quietly, almost forgotten, jumped to his feet, about to make a startled protest.

"Goodnight, Adrian." Domenica gave her approval.

Tony stared uncomprehendingly at his sister and moved to Adrian's side; the latter tossed his head in a quick, pained gesture.

"I'll walk with you through the garden," suggested Tony, gently.

"Thank you." Adrian dug his hands into his trousers' pockets as Tony

touched his arm. Together, they walked out of the room.

Domenica sat alone, listening intently. After a moment, she heard Tony's soft voice raised in a question, and Adrian's rapid, low tones offering some facile explanation. She could picture Adrian, his eyebrows arched to offset his expression of perpetual defeat, reconstructing the evening in light, inconsequential terms for Tony's reassurance. She covered her eyes with her hand, trying to forget the man she had felt in every way justified in driving from her house.

Suddenly, out in the garden, Tony laughed. The night was so still, and the sound so intimate, that she looked up with a start, expecting to find him beside her. With an intuitive shock, she recognized a new quality in his laughter, an