ubi amor ibi dolor

Petronius' smile was stretched wide, but it was delicate like gold filigree, and Dericus knew that even the smallest disagreement would set him off. "Your slave," he'd said, so delicately, tearing the flesh from a shoulder of a lamb with his teeth. The grease dripped down his fingers, gleaming an ominous orange-red in the light of oil lamps. "Stylianos, is it not?" Dericus clenched his fists, arms shaking with the effort to remain still. He nodded with a stony face. "So pretty," he'd crooned, and Dericus did not need to see the glint in the Emperor's eyes to know the simple compliment was a threat.