“Dido!” Amara screams, pointing at where she is trapped. Britannica’s eyes widen. She drops Amara and shoves a man aside, punching him in the throat when he doesn’t get out of her way quick enough.

Britannica tries to charge through the crowd, but her strength is no match for so many people. Amara can see her struggling, surrounded. The space for the fight is getting smaller and smaller, pushing Dido ever closer toward the violence. More and more people must be pouring into the Forum, packing everyone together. Amara tries to push toward Dido herself, but people are too drunk or disinterested to let her pass. She drops to her knees, crawling her way through, almost stifled by her fear of being trampled. She reaches the edge of the crowd. The fight is on top of her, and the satyr nearly stamps on her fingers, but she is too low down to be in range. She can see Britannica yelling, held back by a group of drunken, angry men. Just a short distance away, Dido is scrambling, not facing Amara, instead, trying to claw past the crowd, away from the knives, the drunkard still holding her around the waist.

The men have almost run out of room to fight. Felix is so close, she could almost reach out and touch him. There is no fear on his face, but he looks vulnerable, his body more exposed than the satyr’s in his heavy, protective costume. Amara watches, willing Felix to kill his rival, willing him to end it. Instead, Felix swings round and stumbles over someone’s foot, almost crashing into Dido. The red satyr sees his chance, swiping the knife toward his opponent while he is off balance. Felix dives out of the way. The satyr stabs Dido in the back, burying the knife between her shoulder blades. The drunk holding her lets go in shock. Now, when it is too late, people draw back, letting Dido pass. She takes two steps forward and collapses.

Somebody in the crowd screams, then another. Finally, it is dawning on the gathering that this is not a performance. A group of men rush forward, seizing the red stayr, tearing off his mask. His face is familiar. It is Balbus, Simo’s freedman. He disappears into the mob, mouth open in terror, buried in a frenzy of kicks and punches. The crowd is clearing, some pushing forward to watch Balbus die, others fleeing from the violence. Amara reaches Dido. Britannica is already holding her, cradling her in her arms.

“I’m here!” Amara cries, dropping down beside her. She takes Dido’s hand. “We’re all here. You’re safe now.”

Dido does not answer. Blood is coming from her mouth. She looks at Amara, pain and terror in her eyes.