When I drew my hand away, a few drops of blood had landed on the white covers of Holofernes's bed. The deep brilliant red against the white thrilled me. I squeezed out more blood, feeling pleasure in the pain, and let it fall below his head, mixed vermilion and madder to match the red, and added more. Streams of it. A deep crimson waterfall soaking into luxurious, tufted bedcovers. Like the blood soaking my sleeve in court. Or the blood I had tried to staunch after the first rape. A smear of blood across Judith's knuckles too. If Rome craved spectacle, then I would give them spectacle.