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At that moment, a roar went up from the crowd. Rows of soldiers appeared on the balcony: the Imperial Guard. Before them stood a lone figure in purple.

“There he is,” Sebastianus said quietly, “the great Jovinian.”

All around us, a low murmur of disapproval swelled into a chorus of boos. On every side, the noise grew, accompanied by stamping feet. Sebastianus and Don looked at one another, surprise evident on the Archidux’s face.

“This is what I’ve been talking about,” Don said. “You’d think he’d be able to hear it.”

Across the stadium, the purple figure of the Imperator raised his hands. Although I thought the noise in the Circodrome could not possibly get any louder, somehow it did. Gleaming chariots burst out from an opening under the stands, pulled by horses in shining harnesses. The drivers holding the reins wore plumed metal helmets. They were shirtless, and their torsos glistened with oil. They slowed and lined up at a mark in front of the Imperial viewing stand. The crowd quieted.

“Which one is Pollux?” Sebastianus asked.

“Third from the right,” Don said.

I squinted at the figure he pointed to: a taut, sinewy back and arms, reins gripped in tight fists, a helmet with a blue plume. I crossed my fingers to wish the man luck.

“Watch,” Don said. “Jovinian will drop the cloth.”

I could just make out a scrap of white fluttering in Jovinian’s outstretched hand. It fell to the ground, and the chariots were off in an explosion of noise and dust.

For the next hour I watched, enraptured. At one point, two chariots collided, and one crashed into the center island. Swept up in enthusiasm, I stood up and shouted. Sebastianus and Don roared with laughter.

“You’re bloodthirsty, Anna,” Don said.

“My falcon.” Sebastianus met my eyes for a moment, and my insides burned.

When the last heat ended, Pollux was brought in front of the Imperial box to receive his honors. Don watched intently as the small figure of the man progressed toward the box and received a wreath of woven laurels.

I squeezed his hand. “What an incredible competitor he is.”

“Anna might be onto something,” Sebastianus said. “He should consider winning less.”

Don only grimaced.

As planned, we made our way cautiously down to the rail to congratulate Pollux while the Circodrome emptied out. Klaudia had agreed to keep watch on the Imperator and his guests and signal to us when they had gone. We walked around the curve of the stadium and down to the rail, where a stone barrier separated the seating area from the dirt track. I was fascinated by the commotion: grooms walking the frothing horses to cool them off, two charioteers talking animatedly, the wreck of a chariot being carried away piece by broken piece. The bright sunlight glinted off the statue of Arcadius’s war horse in the center of the ring.

Pollux finally emerged to shake our hands and thank us in an elegant, clipped accent that made me think of the north. He was clean-shaven, his hair shorn close against his skull. He had a white cotton towel over his bare shoulders. Up close, I could see dust from the track clinging to his oiled skin. His face seemed to light up when he saw Don, and the two of them talked quietly as I looked around the stands.

The Imperial viewing box was already vacant, and Klaudia stood to its left, a small figure in a green stola. She raised her arm briefly in the signal we had agreed to.

Sebastianus and I took our leave from the two men and hurried up through the stands to meet her.

“Quickly. The women are leaving.” She gestured to the discreet corridor connecting the Circodrome to the Imperial Palace. Three women were making their way toward it, escorted by a guard.

“You there,” Sebastianus called to him.

The guard stopped, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “What’s this?”

Klaudia swooped in, and the two of them rounded on the young man, who looked overwhelmed by their unexpected interruption.

I walked on rapidly with my head down, catching up to the women.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly.

They turned.

After months away from Corlivo, I understood why we were immediately recognizable. The women were exquisitely beautiful, completely unlike anyone else I saw in my daily life in Panpirion. The tallest of them had long golden hair, worn straight and loose, high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and a warm smile. The second had light brown hair and a dusting of freckles across her small nose. The third I recognized from the Schola Morum. Ismene. She had been chosen as a tira a year before me, but I could not recall by which house. She had luminous dark skin, liquid brown eyes, and dimples that flashed when she smiled. She alone of the three wore the braided, coiled hairstyle, decorated here and there with tiny colored gems, that all courtesans wore in the mountain city. Despite their subtle differences in height, and variations in hair, eye, and skin color, there was a similarity I had not perceived before leaving Corlivo: an almost artificial perfection.

“I am sorry to take you by surprise like this,” I continued, “but I only have a moment or two. I have come to Panpirion from Corlivo, in the company of a nobleman.”