“How did you know my name?” I demanded as the girl in blue moved back into the atrium.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “You don’t remember me?”

“Um…”

“Never mind.” She brushed that away. “Why are you waiting to see my father?”

“I’m just back to Rome from Britannia. My mother said he’d likely help me—look, how did you know—”

“You were right to come here. Father helps everybody.” She summoned the steward and spoke a few quiet words. “I’ll jump you to the front of the line.”

And just like that, I was in.

Senator Marcus Norbanus was the kind who puts you on your best behavior. My father had the same effect on people, but mostly because you knew he’d knock the head off your shoulders if you got on his bad side. Senator Norbanus didn’t look like the knocking type—he was nearly seventy, and he had gray hair and a crooked shoulder and ink stains on his fingers. But he had me sitting up straight and minding my language inside the first minute.

“Vercingetorix,” he mused. “I’ve often wondered how you and your family were faring.”

“Very well, Senator.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ve returned to Rome for good?”

“It’s the center of everything.”

“It is that.” He rotated a stylus between his fingers. His study was cheerfully cluttered, pens and parchment and slates on every surface. He had more scrolls than I’d ever seen in one place in my life. “What were you planning to do here in Rome?”

“Thought about the legions.” All I’d wanted once was to be a gladiator, but I got over that fast enough once I had a taste of it. Gladiating aside, there wasn’t much else for a boy with a talent for weapons except the legions. Besides, even a slave-born boy could rise in the Roman army…

“I wonder if you’re aware of the commitment one makes in joining the legions.” Senator Norbanus laid his stylus aside. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Nineteen,” I amended.

He looked at me some more.

“Nineteen! In a couple of months, anyway.”

“Eighteen, then. I assume you plan on advancement through the ranks?”

I snorted. “Didn’t plan on being a common soldier for life!”

“Plan on being a common soldier for the next twelve years, because you cannot even be made a centurion until you reach thirty.”

“Thirty—?”

“Even then, it’s no guarantee. You will need patronage to make centurion, and I may not still be here in twelve years.” The senator ran a rueful hand through his gray hair.

“Well”—I tried to regroup—“I might not stay in the legions till I’m thirty. There’s other jobs.”