“If the lions are loose,” he said, “we’ll kill them or we’ll cage them back up. Nothing to be afraid of, boys.”

Another roar, followed by screaming.

Screaming.

Screaming.

And silence. Which lasted much too long.

The swallows launched themselves off the rigging. The moon slid across the sky, and the sun crept about under the horizon, its bright fingers grasping at the edge of the sea. Still, the crew stayed on deck.

No one wanted to be the first to investigate what had transpired below.

“The lions sleep,” said the captain, though he was not entirely convinced of this. There had been something about that roar that had stayed in the pit of his stomach. “The lions have eaten, and now they sleep.”

No one moved. The gladiatorial slaves were an expensive cargo, if nothing else. No one wanted to go below and discover carnage. Least of all, if the creatures that had created it were still hiding there, hungering.

“I’ll go,” said the lone passenger just as dawn broke.

The sailors looked at him.

He was mad, clearly. The passenger talked in his sleep, swinging fretfully in his hammock, and he spoke in languages the sailors had never heard before.

Still, he was not one of them, and so they were willing to let him go to his death.

“How many lions are below?” Nicolaus asked, standing over the locked hatch that led to the animal’s hold.

“Six,” said the captain.

“If one is loose, then they all are?”

“Exactly.”

The captain had armed himself with aconite-smeared arrows. He passed Nicolaus a sword and shield, and then the sailors stood in formations, waiting for the lions to be chased up onto the deck.

Nicolaus eased himself down the ladder, at each rung expecting hot breath on his back. His lantern was not bright enough to illuminate the darkness to his satisfaction. He might only travel in a small circle of light, and beyond the edge of it was something horrible.

What was he doing, climbing down a ladder into a dark and haunted hold?

He was as good as dead anyway, a wanted man traveling to Rome.

He could hear breathing, there, in the far darkness. He held the lantern out in front of him, the sword in his other hand overmatched by trembling.

A lion, tawny, amber-eyed, enormous, stretched on the floor, his mane streaked in gore. The beast regarded Nicolaus calmly for a moment, and then, just as casually, lifted his lip and bared his long teeth. The historian felt his bowels liquefy. There were bars between them, though. This lion had not escaped.

There was a sound behind him. The sound of air displaced in a silent leap.

Nicolaus whirled, the lantern swinging, catching a glimpse of golden fur before it disappeared into the shadows. He smelled the silk of the creature, the sleek fur, the musk.

He turned his head slowly, counting them. There were six lions in the cage.

But there had been seven lions in the room.