“How?” He rested his chin on his hand and looked at her.

“Whatever I say is believed wholly and absolutely, because as a priestess my word is sacred. Can you say as much?”

“No,” he admitted. “No matter what I say, people assume I’m being devious.”

“I am safe wherever I travel, because those who attack a priestess risk the wrath of her goddess. Can you say as much?”

“Certainly not. I’ve had two assassination attempts this year alone. I made a lot of enemies when the Emperor promoted me over so many other heads.”

“If I meet a condemned prisoner on his way to execution, I can grant a divine pardon that not even the Emperor can revoke. Can you say as much?”

“Really?” said Paulinus, diverted. “You can pardon a criminal, just on whim?”

“Not on whim. On divine certainty. If Vesta whispers innocence in my ear.”

“Does she whisper to you often?”

“On occasion.” Justina folded her hands in goddesslike repose, but a little smile twitched her mouth.

“Well, I suppose you’ve got me beaten.” Paulinus leaned back. “Unless . . . can you ride a horse at full gallop toward a herd of screaming blue-painted savages?”

“No.” Gravely. “My veil would get dirty.”

“Then let’s call it even.” Paulinus linked his hands behind his head.

“Paulinus.”

“What?”

“You’re bragging.”

“. . . Maybe I am.”

“Why bother bragging to a woman who’s taken a vow of chastity?”

“Because I want you to think well of me.”

“I already do, Paulinus Norbanus. No need to brag.”

“Good. Can I just ask one thing?”

“Of course.”

“Are you impressed?”

She burst out laughing.

He grinned and looked at the floor, ruffling his hair. “Are you?” he insisted.

“Immeasurably.”

“Really?” He felt like a boy again.

“I’m a Vestal, Paulinus.” Another laugh. “My word is sacred.”

TIVOLI

ARIUS’S sword sailed out of his hand, arcing gracefully to land in the spring mud.

For a moment Vix stared at it. Then he punched his own blade high in the air. “YES! I disarmed the Barbarian! Yes, I am a GOD!” He let out a war whoop that startled the crows in the vineyard. The three-legged dog, curled in the shade on her master’s discarded cloak, looked up for a moment and then went back to sleep.

“Luck.” Arius felt pleased, but knew better than to show it. “Try again.”

Grinning, Vix stooped back into a fighting crouch, sword leaping to the ready. Arius launched a sideways swing. Vix blocked, ducked, and struck back, his well-trained muscles flowing from one blow to the next. He fought sensibly, refusing to lock body-to-body against Arius’s greater strength, relying instead on speed. He was very fast now.

Only when the watery spring sunshine wavered away behind the vineyard did they stab their blades point-down into the earth and flop beside them. “We’ll start shield work tomorrow.” Arius passed a water jug. “Takes time, getting used to the weight.”

“What kind of shield?” Shields marked a gladiator’s class: a big shield for a murmillo with a long sword; a small round shield for a thraex with a little curved blade. No shield at all marked a retiarius, a net-and-trident man—as far as Vix was concerned, the lowest of the low.