Amara wonders if Fuscus is already in the arena, sitting at the front, fretting about whether this extravaganza will overshadow the games he threw last year. He was quite peevish on the subject last time she saw him. Egnatius has done her many favors, but none perhaps as great as introducing her to the duumvir. She and Dido perform regularly at both his and Cornelius’s houses, though Fuscus is a less demanding host. There, they are rarely expected to do much more than sing, mainly because Fuscus’s wife holds greater sway over her husband. It feels strange, how intimate she is now with powerful men. At Cornelius’s house, Fuscus will tell her little details about his life—the fountain he has ordered for his father-in-law, the books his two sons are reading—and of course, she knows exactly what he likes in bed. At his own home, he takes the role of a distant employer, bestowing her on his guests, part of the service to be enjoyed along with the fruit platter. In the street, should they bump into one another, she has no doubt he would ignore her. In that sense her life has not changed at all.

“There he is!” Victoria shrieks. “It’s Celadus!”

Amara would never have heard her if Victoria were not yelling right beside ear. The blast of trumpets as the gladiators approach, the wall of sound from the crowd, makes her feel as if her skull might split open. But at last their long, tedious wait has paid off. They are rammed in, right at the front, just by the amphitheater entrance.

“Celadus!” Victoria screams. “Celadus!”

He cannot possibly have heard one scream above any other, and yet, at that moment, the Thracian giant turns, as if impelled by the force of Victoria’s will. He takes two strides toward them, lifts Victoria off her feet in a single sweep, and kisses her. She is so astonished that, for once, she doesn’t respond. The crowd around them erupts. Amara is smacked hard on the head by a girl wedged behind, thrusting her arms out, trying to grab at the gladiator’s leather harness, touch his oiled chest.

“Celadus! Celadus!”

The gladiator sets Victoria down, says something in her ear then rejoins the procession, waving both arms at the crowd.

“He would have kissed me,” Beronice shouts at Amara. “He would have kissed me, if I’d been at the front!” Her face is wild, almost unrecognizable in its rage and disappointment. Amara is glad Victoria cannot hear. Instead, she is standing uncharacteristically still, feet rooted exactly where Celadus placed her, buffeted by the passing flow of people now cramming to get into the arena.

“Come on!” Amara yells, grabbing her arm. “Or we won’t get a seat!”