Page 11

“Yes, for practice,” Safinia ceded. “Before everyone in the city wanted a piece of pretty young Mettius.”

“If only I still was,” he said darkly. Safinia glanced at him. They were passing through the city gates, briefly shadowed by the tall limestone wall, a sudden coolness prickling over her skin. Resentment Safinia didn’t understand passed over Mettius’s face, so much sharper than it had been when they were teenagers, with lines from cheek to jaw, like his father, deepening his skin with age. It could only be a good thing, she thought, if he looked at her and thought she resembled her mother. Not everyone got to grow older. But she didn’t think he agreed.

IV

Tarpeia was the daughter of a governor from one of Sabinum’s southern cities, in Cures Sabini to be raised by a retinue of domestici and pampered with the cosmopolitan offerings of the nation’s seat of power. She was also Hersilia’s best friend. Besides that it was a politically convenient friendship, she and Hersilia got along like two cackling witches. If there was a reasonable explanation for her disappearance, Tarpeia would know it before Orestilla did.

Flora’s was big enough to boast an actual courtyard, not just boxes and oversized amphorae set in the cramped street. It was dizzyingly familiar, even if Safinia had outgrown the crowd of Sabine that hung over the bar, or reclined on woven benches, laughing with each other.

Tarpeia held court on one of the benches, watching a cluster of girls who’d jostled for a place near her, a moody lift to her chin. In the years since Safinia had last seen her, she had only gotten more glamorous; her black ringlets were piled and woven to her head in an impossibly intricate updo. Her face spelled utmost boredom—until she caught sight of Safinia.

“I don’t believe it.” Tarpeia sat up and smiled. There was a mean glint in her eye. “Hersilia’s provincial princess has come in from the wildlands at last!”

“Could I sit?” Safinia asked, gesturing to the bench opposite Tarpeia. The girls that were nearby scurried away, clearly not willing to risk association with Safinia, even if it meant sacrificing good gossip.

“I don’t see why not. Pour yourself something while you’re at it—it’ll be finer than any dreck they’d serve your type at the counter.”

Tarpeia was the only of Hersilia’s friends who had never pretended to like Safinia; it almost made her Safinia’s favorite. But Tarpeia loved to make the people around her squirm—or feel small. She paid attention to people until she was confident she knew what would make them hurt and was not shy, thereafter, in hurting them.

Worst of all, the wine she offered Safinia was the finest she’d had in years.

“This tastes Latin,” Safinia lied. “May as well be vinegar.”

“Sure.” Tarpeia propped her head on her hand and smirked at Safinia. “Well? Spit it out—what brings you out of hiding?”

“I wasn’t hiding. I have a family to provide for.”

“Yes, and you’re doing a lovely job. Anesia’s just in the prime of health, isn’t she? Did you know she sneaks out every other night to come here? Just like her sister, back when you were fun.”

“Anesia goes where she likes,” Safinia snapped. She wasn’t aware that Anesia had been sneaking out, actually. The thought was disconcerting. But she’d be damned if she let Tarpeia think it was happening under her nose—she was already starting this conversation on the back foot. “I’m only here to ask about Hersilia.”

“Interesting.” Tarpeia’s eyes narrowed. “Word is that Hersilia’s busy and not to be disturbed. The Games are coming up in a few months—maybe she’s been helping her father with plans.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“How should I remember? She bores me.” Tarpeia waved an airy hand, as if this conversation was beyond her interest. “Numa has her sitting in on all his meetings, taking notes.”

She’s worried, Safinia realized. Hiding it well, but worried all the same—for Hersilia, or maybe for herself. If Hersilia really was part of a trend of kidnapped women, her status made everyone beneath her—Tarpeia included—potential prey, too. Safinia leaned forward, holding Tarpeia’s dark, resentful stare.

“If there’s anything you can say to make me as confident as you are that she’s alright, say it,” Safinia said quietly. “Anything about her travel plans, or correspondences.”

Tarpeia worked her bottom lip with her teeth, leaving prints in the red stain over her lips. “Suppose there was something wrong,” she said. “What would be the point of telling you about it?”

“I’d look for her,” Safinia said. “I’d try to find her and bring her home. You know I’d at least try. Can you say as much for the quaestors?”

“Oh, you fancy yourself a little hero!” Tarpeia straightened, her voice rising. A few people looked over their shoulders at the pair. “Tell me, if your mad theory was correct, who are you bringing to back you up? The ghost of your mother? Oh, I know—”

Safinia’s stomach clenched. “Don’t,” she said.

“—Mettius! Everyone’s favorite fuck!”

Safinia hissed, “You don’t know a thing about Mettius.”

“Oh, calm down.” Tarpeia draped her arm over her head, languidly stretching as she drank more wine. “Everybody knows how Mettius Curtius likes it.”

Safinia stood abruptly, jostling Tarpeia’s table and making her rush to keep the wine from spilling on her dress. There were things you didn’t imply about a man—it wasn’t the same for them as for women. Probably, Tarpeia was testing her—Safinia had seen her do this before, with other women, pushing buttons until she knew exactly where their loyalties lay—but this was too far. She would learn not to push Safinia. “I was wrong to come here,” she said, not bothering to restrain the anger in her voice. “I’d have had more help from the filth running in the street.”

“Oh, you’re mad,” Tarpeia laughed. “That’s adorable. Come on, sit down, Safinia.”