“Hey,” Vix flung at him. “The Barbarian was my father.”

The lounging courtiers tittered. “Likely story!” someone whispered. “That brat’s a lying little toad—!” I tittered, too.

“Perhaps not such a lie.” The Emperor set down his wine goblet. “There is a certain coarse resemblance. I met the Barbarian once or twice, and I never forget a face. What I wonder is, how did you ever meet him?”

“After I ran away from Brundisium.” I could feel Vix shift on the marble step, uneasy. “He taught me a bit.”

“Hence your facility with knives.” The Emperor contemplated the knot of healed scar tissue on his foot. “Do you want to be a gladiator, Vercingetorix?”

“. . . No.”

“Liar,” said Domitian pleasantly.

“Liar as well as cheat,” I interjected.

“Keep out of this, you cow,” glared the Barbarian’s son, and he squared his shoulders as he looked the Emperor in the eye. “Yeah, I want to be a gladiator. Just like my father. Only my father hated the games. Hated them like poison, and look how good he was. So I’ll be better, ’cause I love it. Your fault, Caesar. My father’s your fault because you put him in the arena in the first place. And I’m your fault because you’re the first blood I ever drew.”

Sweat was pouring down his face, and I could feel him trembling against the arm of my chair. But that mad crazy grin appeared, spreading until it nearly hooked behind his ears. I wondered if Domitian would kill him personally. I hoped so—a dagger in the gut would serve the little bastard right, although if he bled all over my new pink stola—

Domitian moved so quickly when he wanted to. In one movement he lunged, grabbed the front of Vix’s tunic, and threw him out over the railing like a doll.

He landed on burning sand. I heard the air whoosh from his lungs, and he sat up gasping for air. The arena buzzed like a beehive.

“Bring back the Gaul,” the Emperor was saying coolly to the arena guards. “The lean mean one who cut the Greek’s arm off.”

Vix scrambled up, looking around him wildly. I leaned forward. Oh, this was something different—!

The Emperor tossed his own dagger into the sand at Vix’s feet. “Time to prove yourself, young Arius.”

“A sword.” Vix dragged his paralyzed gaze up to the box. “At least give me a sword!”

Domitian considered. “Lord and God,” I murmured, “a dagger will be much more amusing.”

“Correct.” He settled back.

The crowd’s buzzing had mounted to uproar now. The games announcer looked from Vix to the Emperor and back again, rifling the schedule to see what this unexpected event might be called. “An, ah, extra bout for our Emperor’s pleasure,” he announced at last, voice ringing through the packed tiers. “The Gaul versus, ah, the boy.”

With a crisp crunch of sand the Gaul stepped up beside Vix. He cast an incredulous look sideways, and I giggled at the paralyzed look on Vix’s face. “Not so cocky now, are you?” I called down.