“Hell’s gates.” Vix got his first close look at the racing stallions—huge and sweating, champing against the red leather reins. “I’m never getting on a horse in my life if I can help it.”

“Killed your first man in the arena at thirteen,” said Sabina, amused, “and you’re afraid of horses?”

“Petrified,” Vix said frankly. “I haven’t met a one that didn’t want me dead. Why would anybody want to—”

“Sabina!” Aunt Diana came up from behind, flinging her unfashionably brown arms about Sabina’s waist. As usual, her red dress and white-blond hair smelled of hay. “The Reds took five of nine, did you see? I’m having the charioteers back to my villa for a party; you’ll come, of course—”

“I think I’m going home, Aunt Diana.”

“Gods’ wheels, girl, at your age I could drink any charioteer under the table! Have it your way, I’m going to check my horses—”

Off she whirled. “That’s your aunt?” Vix twisted his head after her, admiring.

“Not really. She’s some sort of distant cousin on my father’s side, but I call her aunt anyway.” Sabina pulled a wilting poppy from her hair, twirling it between her fingers. “Don’t be embarrassed gawping over her. Everyone does.”

“She must have been something to see when she was young.”

“Yes, men used to turn and stare whenever she walked into a room. It annoyed my mother no end—she wanted men to turn and stare only when she entered a room.”

Sabina slipped her hand into Vix’s arm again, and they made their way out of the Circus Maximus with the rest of the crowd, treading over the litter of stale fallen food and sticky spilled pools of wine, faded festival flowers, and discarded little banners. The Reds fans swaggered and the Blues fans sulked; children wailed fretfully and couples slipped off to darker places. The sky was a deep pink overhead, shading toward night. Sabina tilted her head back to see the vast oval shadow of the Colosseum in the distance and wondered how many men had died inside it today. Vix was looking at the Colosseum too—for the first time that day, she saw his lively face still.

“Do you think about it?” Sabina asked. “The Colosseum.”

“No.” Vix’s voice was curt, and he shoved a drunk out of their path with more force than was necessary. The drunk just beamed and gave a tipsy “Ave Vinalia!” before lurching off into the dusk. “I dream about it sometimes,” Vix added abruptly.

“I wish I dreamed,” Sabina confessed. “I haven’t, not since my epilepsia went.”