“Halt.”

Marcus turned his eyes sharply at the voice. A figure in white, half-hidden by the red and gold solidarity of the Imperial guards.

“Remove yourself,” the Praetorian snapped. “We escort Flavia Domitilla to her execution.”

“What is her charge?” The voice was female, low, unhurried. Lady Flavia stood patiently, an ox waiting for the sacrificial ax.

“Impiety. Now remove yourself from the road, Lady.”

“I am the Vestal Justina. In Vesta’s name I pronounce her innocent of the charge laid upon her. By my authority as a priestess I lift the sentence of death levied upon her.”

The crowd began to whisper.

Flavia opened her eyes.

“Oh, no,” said Marcus quietly.

The Praetorian paused. Cleared his throat. “We—we can’t—”

“Do you disobey the laws of Vesta?” With every word the Vestal’s voice grew stronger, carried farther.

“No, but—but the Emperor—”

“In this matter the Emperor is powerless. My goddess has extended the hand of mercy to this prisoner. Execute her and you risk divine retribution.”

The Praetorian groped. “We’ll—we’ll have to take you before the Emperor, Lady. We can’t—”

“Do so. I am sure that before all the people of Rome, he will not fail to obey Rome’s most ancient laws.” The Vestal stepped between a pair of guards, her veiled head dwarfed between their armored shoulders. Lady Flavia was staring at her now, muddled eyes clearing. Marcus heard her voice very clearly, as the Praetorians reversed their path and bundled the two women back through the buzzing crowd toward the Domus Augustana.

“Why—what—why did you—?”

“Vesta told me to save you,” the Vestal said calmly.

“But I don’t believe in her—I’m a fish-painting Christian, I don’t believe in her—”

“That doesn’t matter. She still wants you alive.”

“But—” They passed out of Marcus’s hearing, but he could still see the horror dawning in Flavia’s eyes as she stared at her savior. The same horror rose in his own gut because he knew that voice—knew it very well. “Her death for yours,” Marcus said aloud. “He’ll have it no other way.”

THEA

DOMITIAN’S tricky,” I said. “But not trickier than Vix. Vix will do all right.”

Arius, squatting by the fire, didn’t answer. He’d hardly spoken ten words to me the past day.

“Really,” I said as if he’d argued. “Vix will be fine. Domitian’s weakness is games; he can’t stop playing games with people. Vix will play him right back—”

Arius’s dog growled in my lap. I stroked her over and over. “He’ll be all right. He will.”

Arius picked his head up. “Quiet.” His nostrils flared, and for a moment he looked like nothing so much as a wolf catching the scent of the wind. In one fluid motion he was out the door. I sat clutching the dog, frozen.

He reappeared. “Praetorians,” he said coolly. “Get your cloak.”

After a day’s rest I felt stronger again. I flung our cloaks over my arm and hastily bundled up the bread left over from dinner. Arius groped under his mattress, coming up with a long glimmer of metal it took me a moment to recognize.