“Do you suppose your mother’s out there?” Domitian made a check on one of his lists, then shuffled to another.

“Dunno,” Vix shrugged. “How about some dice, Caesar? The opening parade’s always pretty pointless.” Vix fleeced the Imperial chamberlain, a tribune, two languid Gracchi noblemen, and the Emperor himself, until I bumped his shoulder at just the right moment and his hands slipped.

“Cheating.” The Emperor snatched up the pair of dice that fell out of Vix’s sleeve. “What else could one expect from a gutter rat?” Courtiers exchanged glances.

“What do Emperors do to cheats?” I said in my most velvety voice.

“Cheats are traditionally thrown to the lions, Lepida. Even young cheats. How’s that for a birthday present, Vercingetorix?” The Emperor’s face was inscrutable. “A dance with a lion on the sands of the great arena?”

“I’ll pass, Caesar, thanks.” Uneasily.

“Cheat.” Caressing the word. “Cheat.”

“And here’s how to cheat like a champion!” Vix produced a cajoling smile from somewhere. “Palm the crooked dice like this . . .” Demonstrating with a rapid hand. “See?”

The Emperor regarded him another silent moment, then grinned. “Show me again.”

“Like this.” Correcting the Imperial grip. “No, no, Caesar. Like this. God, you’re slow.”

They diced through the morning’s wild beast hunts and the midday executions. I frowned. “The gladiators now, Lord and God—your favorite.”

Domitian shoved the dice aside and leaned forward. On the sand, an African and a Thracian were pairing for the first duel.

“The African,” said Domitian. “He’ll win.”

“The Lord and God has such a discerning eye,” I murmured, and a ripple of agreement ran around the box.

“Nope,” said Vix. “That African’s clumsy. Tripped on his net just walking through the gate. I’d go with the Thracian.”

“Really?”

“What do you know?” I snapped. But they both sank chins into hands and bent their eyes on the arena, ignoring me. Not enemies for the time being, or even prisoner and captor. Just two lovers of the games.

The Thracian took the African, and then a pair of Numidians came out, and after that two Gauls. Several good fights, not that I enjoyed them. Normally I quite liked a good brisk slaughter, but with the Emperor ignoring me for a vulgar gutter brat—

“You do have an eye, young Vercingetorix,” Domitian was saying. “How did you know that Macedonian would lose?”

“Hung over. See the way he avoided looking at the light?” Vix popped a handful of fresh figs, chewing vigorously. The victorious fighters had trooped wearily through the Gate of Life, the losers raked away by arena slaves. “Look for fighters like that Gaul who cut the Greek’s arm off, Caesar. The lean mean ones.”

“Really,” I murmured, seeing a chance. “Who taught you that?”

“My father.” Falling into the trap. “He was the best. Rules didn’t apply to him, he used to go in as hung over as all hell and he still—” Suddenly breaking off.

“So your father was a gladiator.” Domitian sat back. “How interesting. I suppose your mother told you it was the noble Barbarian. How romantic, the great gladiator leaving a long-lost son behind him—”