Lepida wrinkled her pretty nose. “She’s an embarrassment. Falling down in front of my friends like some drooling idiot—”

“Will you shut up?” said Calpurnia ferociously before Marcus could speak.

Trajan grinned. “No shame in epilepsia. No hardship to cure it, either. In fact—” He poked his head through the curtains and shouted down at the bearers. “Turn right up ahead.”

“What’s all that shouting?” Calpurnia wondered. Sabina moaned, head turning back and forth. There certainly was a great deal of shouting. The sort heard from only two kinds of crowds: triumphal processions and games fans. Or in this case, both.

The path back to the Domus Augustana was mobbed with screaming plebs, all shoving and stretching their hands out toward the cluster of red-and-gold Praetorians in the middle. Praetorians bearing on their shoulders the Young Barbarian on a makeshift stretcher.

Trajan hopped down nimbly, applying his armored shoulder to the crush. “Commander Trajan here; official business. Out of the way, please, out of the way—look, will you move? Yes, thank you, out of the way—A moment, tribune,” he said to the Praetorian, and swung up beside the stretcher. Marcus heard his battle-trained voice clearly, even over the din. “Just want to congratulate this young man here on his fight.”

“Who the hell are you?” Marcus half-glimpsed the Young Barbarian hoisted high on his stretcher, scattered with flowers like a bier, blood streaming down his arm. Hands darted at him, pulling bits of his hair or threads of his tunic for souvenirs.

“Commander Trajan. Just wanted to tell you that was a fine bout.” He clapped the boy’s wounded shoulder, hard. “If you’d ever like a job in the legions—”

“Bugger off!” Vix howled, clutching his shoulder.

“Excellent, excellent. Carry on, tribune.” His hand covered in blood, Trajan leaped back toward the waiting litter.

“What—” Marcus exclaimed as he climbed back in.

“Fresh gladiator blood.” Trajan painted Sabina’s lips with one scarlet finger. “Bound to cure epilepsia every time; any soldier knows that.”

“I will not have my daughter drinking blood!”

“I know, I know. Barbaric.” Trajan smeared the rest of the blood on her temples and forehead. “But it works.”

Lepida shivered. “If anyone gets blood on my skirts—”

Sabina’s eyes fluttered open. “Ow,” she said.

“How do you feel?” Calpurnia felt her forehead.

“My head hurts.” Pushing herself upright. “Did he die?”

“Did who die, sweetheart?” Marcus took her hand.

“The boy.”

“No, he’s swearing like a soldier,” Trajan said cheerfully. He looked at Marcus. “See?”

“He’ll get better, won’t he?” Sabina pressed.

“Rest your head, little one, he won’t die.”

“My word,” Lepida yawned, drawing her skirt aside. “So much passion for a gutter rat.”

“You know,” said Trajan. “I think this litter’s a little crowded after all.” He leaned forward, seized Lepida around the waist, and dropped her briskly on the road outside. He yanked the curtains shut on a shrill yelp and a flood of cursing. “Carry on,” he shouted down to the bearers. “She’s no longer your mistress!” The bearers grinned and trotted away double-time. Marcus heard Lepida’s shriek after them and laughed aloud, regarding Trajan thoughtfully.