“Ow—leggo, leggo—”

“Quintus?” Marcus entered, brows raised, and saw his steward struggling with a slave boy.

“Pardon, Dominus, I caught this one trying to sneak in—” a sudden howl as the boy twisted and got his teeth into the steward’s wrist, darting for the entrance, but Marcus’s hand shot out and caught the back of the young neck.

“So,” he said mildly, “what are you? A slave, I think. Who is your master?”

The boy made a good break, but Marcus had anticipated it and dug a grip in the rough tunic. The boy scowled again: he was perhaps a year older than Sabina, russet-haired and sunburned. Sabina gazed at him, wide-eyed.

“Where do you come from? Tell me, boy,” Marcus ordered as he saw the young jaw jut, “or I’ll turn you over to the magistrates.”

“Brundisium.” Sulkily.

“So far? Did your master bring you?”

“My master’s dead. I hitched a cart to Misenum, then kept going on.” The boy shrugged. “All the roads come here.”

“All roads lead to Rome,” Marcus agreed. Sabina giggled at his side.

The slave boy looked sullen. “I just wanted to see the Great City.”

“I see. And you could not start with the chariot races?”

“Those are for pussies!”

Sabina surprised Marcus by giggling again. “Father,” she tugged his sleeve, “can he stay?”

“If he has the stomach for it.” Marcus found his daughter a low stool well back from any view of the arena and nodded at the boy. “Keep out of the way and keep quiet, but watch if you like.”

“Can I?” The boy bowed for the first time, grinning. “You got a good view, Dominus. I didn’t miss the gladiators, did I? Took me forever to sneak in—”

“Quiet,” said Marcus, amused.

“Sorry, Dominus.” The boy ducked a bow again, not sounding terribly sorry, and settled by the rail.

“What’s your name?” Sabina ventured.

“Vix.” He looked down at the little silken presence at his elbow. “Vercingetorix, actually, but that’s kind of a mouthful.”

“After the Gallic chieftain?” Sabina glanced at Marcus. Just last week her tutors had reviewed Vercingetorix in their account of Gaul’s conquest.

“He was my father.” Bragging.

“He died over a hundred years ago.”

“He was my grandfather,” Vix amended.

“You really ran all the way from Brundisium?”

“Yeah, I used to belong to this old guy, but he died, and I didn’t want to go to the slave market.”

Sabina’s eyes widened. Vix expanded under her gaze.

“It was rough getting out of Brundisium. I stole a chariot, right? And the driver comes after me with a whip—”

Marcus looked at the two children: his daughter; tiny, quiet, clean, and pearled, and the slave boy, filthy, foul-mouthed, grinning, and mendacious. Dear gods, he thought. My daughter’s made a friend.

THEA

IUGULA!” Lepida shouted down at a gladiator begging mercy, her eager profile flushed pink, and for a horrid moment I had a feeling that I should be standing at her back with a peacock-feather fan. A wave of sickness caught at my throat.