“Yes, Father.”

“And let your actions be your words. Is it better to reason with an enemy or kill him?”

“If I could reason with him, he would not be an enemy.”

Andros stepped in front of him and looked up. He smiled and patted Jacopo’s cheek. “Excellent. You have done well. You had your music class today. Do you like your new instructor?”

“Yes, Father.”

Andros scowled. “I said you could speak, my son.”

Jacopo’s face, as always, was impassive. It was the only defense against the mercurial moods of the ancient Greek. The monster would be as loving as his uncle some nights, then turn in an instant and beat him. Always, Andros said, for his own good. For his education. His training. Jacopo examined the man’s eyes. They were relaxed. Amused even, and his mouth may have been turned down, but his fangs were not descended. It appeared that Andros wanted a debate instead of rote answers.

“The music teacher is a heathen, Father. He teaches me profane songs. I do not care for them.”

Andros smirked. “There is no profane music. Only music. Some is good. Some is bad. Sometimes the coarsest peasant tune is the one most pleasing to the ear.”

Jacopo blinked. He had been exposed to the finest composers of the Basilica di San Lorenzo; and while he had heard beautiful madrigals sung in Paris, nothing could compare to the breathtaking experience of the holy mass.

“I would prefer learning music that edifies the spirit, Father.”

“That is your pathetic uncle talking, boy.”

His temper flared, as it always did when Andros criticized Giovanni Pico.

“You are a heathen demon,” Jacopo spit out. “And God will condemn you for your madness.”

Andros curled his lip and picked up his staff again. “I wonder about you sometimes.” Walking behind Jacopo, he struck the back of his thighs again. “Don’t you know? There is no god. The Greeks stole their gods from the Minoans. The Romans stole their gods from the Greeks. It’s all nonsense, and your Hebrew god is no different.”

Jacopo remembered the gentle instruction of his uncle, reflecting on the common strands of faith that wove through the ancient world. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not, and you know it. You know more now, more than your pitiful uncle and his friends. More than the deluded mortals who plot and plan.” Andros came to stand in front of him and looked up into Jacopo’s defiant eyes. “They build cathedrals for their immortality. But you will have no need for buildings made of stone.”

Jacopo bit his tongue and decided to take Andros’s earlier advice. In the three years he had been with the strange man, he had learned the lesson of silence. The vampire reached up and grabbed Giovanni by the ear, pulling him down to his face.

“You know the truth, my son,” Andros whispered. Jacopo could feel the creature’s vicious fangs scrape his skin. “You know who the ancients saw that made them believe that the gods were among them, don’t you?”

Jacopo forced his jaws to part. “Yes, Father.”

“They saw us, my boy. They saw the water vampire move the ocean, and Poseidon was born. They saw the wind immortal fly on the night storm and draw the lightning to his hands, and Zeus came to be.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Never forget.” Andros patted Jacopo’s cheek and gently stroked the dark curls on his head. He looked up into the young man’s vivid green eyes and smiled. “I am god.”

Castello Furio, Italy

June 2012

Giovanni leaned back in the plush seat of the sedan and eyed Beatrice in the slim leggings and fitted bodice. The black boots she wore rose over her knees and hugged her calves, flaring just below the tight muscles of her thighs as she sat across from him.

“Tesoro,” he murmured, “if the women of the court dressed anything like that, I would have had a much harder time keeping my reputation unsullied.”

She only grinned and glanced at his lap. “You’re not having a hard time right now?”

“Oh, I knew I should have taken my own transport.” Carwyn groaned and closed his eyes. “Or better yet, avoided this fiasco all together. Why? Why did I let her sway me with the pitiful voice?”

Beatrice bumped Carwyn’s shoulder. “You love me, and you know it.”

Giovanni smiled at his old friend and his wife. They bantered back and forth as they made their way to Livia’s party, and he reflected on how different this trip was than the last time he had been in Rome. Then, he had been desperate and pleading. He’d had no time for parties or pleasure when his every waking moment had been focused on manipulating different parties at court—Livia most of all—to negotiate for Beatrice’s release from Lorenzo.

After all that, could Livia had taken up supporting Giovanni’s own estranged son? It was something they would have to determine. He frowned and shook his head, contemplating the idea of staying in Rome longer than their original plan of three months. If the answers were there, they would need to stay as long as necessary.

“Hey, Professor.” Beatrice nudged his knee with the toe of her boot, which he grabbed and pulled into his lap. “Stop brooding. We’re going to a party.”

“And one in your honor, Sparky. You should be grateful.”

“Why do I like either of you? Please, remind me.”

“Aww.” She teased him, slipping across the seats to cuddle into his side. “Poor Gio. Forced to play nice with the empress for the night.”