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The crowd rippled, an endless sea of heads, as the prince arrived, surrounded by his own colourful parade of courtiers.

Some men in the crowd whispered and sneered at his approach, recounting past battles between Persians and Romans. The prince was powerful, feared by some, but there was still an undercurrent of racism that burbled beneath the surface. Though Persian customs and culture had bled into Roman society, though Romans and Persians could be friendly on the face of it, when conflicts arose, they quickly made strangers of each other. Many Romans viewed their empire as inherently superior, no matter how tirelessly they complained about it.

She was a woman and he was a foreigner. Both of them were outsiders, even though she had been born into this world.

Claudia tensed as he took his seat with a sweeping bow, thinking about the knife Gia had found.

‘Empress Claudia.’

‘Prince Darius.’

‘How many Roman deities are dedicated to wine?’ he asked, as servants poured him a glass.

‘Oh, a fair few,’ said Claudia. ‘There’s Bacchus, and Liber Pater. Then there’s Abundatia. Making ale is one of Aristaeus’s many talents, too.’

‘I do not know this one,’ said Darius.

‘The patron of handicrafts and beekeeping.’

He smiled. ‘You Romans have a deity for everything. There is not a thing mortals can do without deities as your patrons.’

‘They do like to get involved.’

After the military band reached their crescendo of drums, Claudia raised her hand to signal the commencement of the games. The crowd roared in response.

The power she held in her palm was enormous, pulsating, but it was prickly too. She could feel the weight of it, the edges.

A series of athletic events followed, with men throwing javelins and discuses. The Romans had adopted the Grecian Olympic tradition and all of the competitors were training for the summer games next year, but this was merely a warm-up for the real meat and bones of the event: the gladiatorial combat and chariot races. Still, the crowd was appreciative, cheering the victors and booing the losers.

Gia nudged her arm.

‘I’m going to get ready now,’ she said, ‘for the match.’

‘Oh, good luck,’ said Claudia. ‘You won’t need it though.’

‘Don’t speak too soon. Livia scares me.’

‘And me, but she has not met Viatrix the Victorious yet. You know I will be cheering the loudest for you, as always.’

They exchanged one of those laden looks again, full of joy and sorrow entwined: the distance between them, and the pull.

‘Be safe,’ she said. ‘As safe as is possible, for a gladiator.’

Claudia felt a strange tightness in her chest as Gia disappeared down the steps, leaving her to eavesdrop on the conversation Darius and Cassius were having, taking bets on which competitor would win.

‘I admire the grace and strength of the sport but I lack the competitive nature that drives athletes to compete,’ the prince was saying. ‘I am too lazy. I have been proficient in many things in my life, and many of them came easily, but I bore very quickly of being the best.’

‘A terrible problem to have,’ said Cassius. ‘Poor thing.’

‘Yes, I am very tragic.’

‘I always took an interest in the games, ever since I was a boy,’ mused Cassius. ‘My father took us. It was the favourite part of my week. There is something delightfully carnal about the wrestling.’

‘So much writhing.’

‘And grunting. Who could forget the grunting?’

‘And the gentle smacking of flapping arse cheeks.’