Nessus the astrologer delivered a ringing prophecy, his round face plump and beaming. Marcus felt Calpurnia’s fingers squeeze his as he heard that eighty years of glory lay ahead for the Roman Empire. The golden age of Rome, Nessus promised, had dawned.

Marcus—and Rome—felt collectively that they had earned it.

WE should go.” Arius felt Thea tap his shoulder. “The boat’s waiting. Oh!” she exclaimed as he turned around. “You’re you again!”

He ran a hand over his hair, scrubbed clean of walnut juice to its original russet. The beard was gone, too. “Like it?”

“I love it.” She twined her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek against his clean jaw. He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. She had a sunburned flush across her nose, her hair hung in a rope down her back, and when he looked at her he didn’t know if the world was up or down.

“Hey,” said Vix, appearing with the dog panting happily under his arm. “Save it for the boat.” Arius walloped him and Vix swung back, grinning. He’d shot up another three inches during his months at the palace, and his bouts in the Colosseum had added more muscle to his arms, but he looked like a boy again. The drawn, wary look had gone from his face, and he was bounding up the street with his old cocky swagger.

They slipped through the empty side streets, Thea’s hand locked in Arius’s and Vix jogging ahead throwing a stick for the dog. No need to worry about being stopped; with the Empress’s seal on their documents, not a soldier in Rome would do anything but salute and let them pass. Anyway, all the soldiers were busy watching their new Emperor. No one knew or cared that a family of three was bound for a boat on the Tiber.

Brigantia. Arius hadn’t seen it since he was Vix’s age. But when he drew in a breath, he could still smell the mountain mist.

He bumped into Vix, who had stopped in the middle of the street. “What—” His eyes followed his son’s.

Gladiators.

A stream of big, scarred men in purple cloaks trooped out of an unbarred gate into a waiting wagon. Armored men, their faces distant and strained under their helmets. Casting sour looks at the perfumed, powdered lanista leaning out of his gilded litter to scold them along.

“Games,” said Thea. “To celebrate the coronation. Trajan loves the games . . .”

Arius shivered. Looking down at Vix, he saw a sickly expression on his son’s face.

“Let’s go,” Arius said.

They walked on in silence. Behind them, the wagon rumbled heavily on its way.

Arius looked back over his shoulder. The Colosseum loomed, a round marble shadow holding a stretch of empty sand and all his nightmares.

Thea’s hand squeezed his. “Don’t look back,” she said. “Remember what happened to Lot’s wife.”

He blinked. “Who?”

“A Jewish story. Take my word for it: You don’t want to look back.”