“Really, I don’t see what everyone makes such a fuss about,” she pouted. “He’s just a big ugly barbarian.”

“The mob dotes on him,” Pollio said absently. “Do admit, he’s splendid. He’s got the Trinovantian on his knees—”

But for all Arius’s disdain as he stalked out through the Gate of Life, he was bloody and winded. And a voice in my head whispered, How long before he’s killed?

I prayed at every temple in Rome. I visited witches and astrologers and fortune-tellers. I spent the coppers I had earned singing and bought charms by the armload. I wore down my knees praying to every god and goddess I’d ever heard of, and quite a few I hadn’t. Arius was highly amused by my efforts, or pretended to be.

“You only believe in one God,” he pointed out one long night.

“Yes, but my God is the god of the Jews,” I said, curling against him under a scratchy blanket. “He’ll look out for me because I’m one of the Chosen People, but He doesn’t care a thing about you.”

“I don’t care about him.” Arius ran his hand up the length of my back, leaving a trail of tingles and shivers. “So we’re square.”

“Who are your gods? Maybe I can pray to them.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with the rare boyish grin that utterly banished his usual stoniness. “There’s Epona. Goddess of horses.”

“What can she do about the Colosseum?”

“Artio, then.”

“Who’s she?”

“Goddess of the forest. Also of bears,” he added gravely.

“Be serious.”

“There’s Sataida. She’s the lady of grief.”

“That’s better. I’ll tell her not to kill you off and come paying me any visits.”

“You’d grieve?” His grin slipped away.

I’d die.

I didn’t say it aloud. That would be to tempt God, who doesn’t like to take second place in any human heart. But Arius’s sword-roughened hand slipped through my hair as if to feel my thoughts on his fingers, and then he caught me up so hard and close that I had no time for any thoughts at all.

ARIUS?” I whispered through the dark. No answer. I felt the whisper of his breath on my bare shoulder.

Careful not to wake him, I turned my face into his hard chest. I closed my eyes against the blackness. And I spoke, softly and formally in the Hebrew of my childhood.

“Arius. Arius, Arius, Arius, I love you. I love you.

“I love the way you rub the scar on the back of your hand when you’re nervous. I love the way you make a sword into a living part of your body. I love the way you burn your eyes into me, as if you’re seeing me fresh every time. I love the black streak in you that wants to kill the world, and the soft streak that is sorry afterward. I love the way you laugh, as if you’re surprised that you can laugh at all. I love the way you kiss my breath away. I love the way you breathe and speak and smile. I love the way you take the air out of my lungs when you hold me. I love the way you make a dance out of death. I love the confusion I see in your eyes when you realize you are happy. I love every muscle and bone in your body, every twist and bend in your soul. I love you so much I can’t say it out loud in the daylight. I love you. I love you. I love you.”