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“Why are they being so rude to you?” she whispered. There were guards just outside.

“Some people are just rude, Safinia,” he answered loftily. But his lip was well-chewed, a clear sign he’d been thinking hard about something.

“If you aren’t out with it,” Safinia began, but was interrupted by the arrival of Faustus and Quintus, there to escort her to the armory. Livy followed them out and slipped away without another word; when Safinia turned her head to see where he’d gone, she guessed he must have chosen somewhere to hide. For a moment she was reminded of the way Timaeus could melt soundlessly into the forest. She wished she could seize him and remind him to step carefully, but Livy was his own man.

At the armory, Safinia was cinched with heavy, gold-washed plates for her forearms, shins, and the tops of her feet. Faustus held her mother’s spear while she was fitted, looking at it as if he might throw up from sheer awe, but Quintus was more subdued than he had been the previous evening. She had to repeat herself several times as she asked questions about offerings.

“The helmet will be a problem,” the armorer who’d done up Safinia’s legs said. “We have to let out her hair to fit it, but then she’ll look like any other man. It’s bad enough we can see her legs.”

Safinia found the armor cumbersome. She’d never worn her mother’s parade costume—she’d been too small before they were stolen or traded, piece by piece. She was sure this wasn’t what Calliste wore when she guarded treaty-signings, though. The governor’s servants fluttered over her, allowing the heavy, plated belt that went with the armor, but not the sensible short chiton that a soldier would wear. She was in a borrowed stola, tied up at the knees, to carry the illusion that she could maneuver enough to fight.

Quintus had claimed custody over Livy’s ring; apparently it was too noticeable under the restricting fabric of her dress. Safinia made him promise to carry it in hand, so he could give it back as soon as this performance was done with.

At least the governor had ordered her mother’s spear cleaned. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw it gleaming. Quintus had tried to get her to hold a more ornate weapon, but Faustus had sided with Safinia on the matter.

They argued over her hair until Quintus finally cut in. “She needs the helmet. It looks more intimidating. Just let the hair loose.”

His tone was one of authority. Safinia caught Faustus glancing and could not interpret the look that passed between them. “Helmet it is,” he said, and the armorer, who before felt so strongly, obeyed without a word.

Then they were being herded out of the governor’s house, down the tiled walkways that led past Crustumerium’s theater, and to the forum. Safinia was prodded to the front, next to the governor, and Faustus a step behind her. Three bulls awaited them on the threshold to Minerva’s temple.

People trickled into the forum with none of the jostling and laughing Safinia expected. In Cures, public offerings were an excuse to drink and shout nonsense. Here, the mood was sullen.

What’s wrong with all of them? she wondered. They didn’t look ragged or tired; there were no red-rimmed eyes to suggest recent tragedy. But the crowd thrummed with an unmistakable anger.

At this the governor threw his hands into the air and began to intone, asking the god Janus to open the door that would allow divinity to rush in and linger among them. Safinia tuned it out. Her armor was heavy and hot, and beads of sweat ran down her neck. She longed to pin her hair back up. It took two cultists to hold the first bull down; another to saw into its throat. Safinia winced. She was more accustomed to sacrificing goats.

The process seemed to go on and on, the tension in the crowd that lined the temple’s platform growing thicker. Safinia fought to keep her hands and feet still. She was jittery, half-afraid that something would boil over with her too weighed down to defend herself. She thought she saw Livy moving through the crowd; hopefully the people would settle, and he would learn something from muttered talk.

The governor had turned from the offerings and now addressed his people like a king. In Crustumerium, he had power over everything except his tithe to King Tatius.

“We welcome Calliste the Centuria, returned to us in the flesh of her daughter,” the governor was saying, and he gestured for Safinia to come to his side. Her part, at last.

She felt a brief shift, a ripple of curiosity in the crowd. It was such a relief that Safinia lifted her head and smiled—then she caught Quintus’s eye. He shook his head very slightly at her.

Intimidating, he’d said before. He wanted her to look strong. Well, she could do that. Safinia set her jaw.

“A generation ago, Calliste the Centuria routed the Latins from their occupation, outnumbered such that only a hero, one driven by the gods, could shatter the siege and storm the streets victorious. It is said Minerva herself rode beside her, and so it is we give the highest sacrifice to her temple.”

There was some shifting in the crowd. Many among them looked as though they might have once been Latin; more than a few men had short, closely cropped hair, like Livy.

“Now, thirty years hence, Calliste walks our streets once more, a reminder to our enemies of the spear arm we wield against them! No man may work in subterfuge within these city walls, or take what belongs to its sovereign. She, the shining Centuria, will punish them, an extension of Minerva’s own spear arm.”

Spittle covered the governor’s chin. He’d worked himself up to shouting. Safinia was frozen, unsure of what to convey to this sullen crowd; their continued silence bordered on threatening. Her hand was tight on the grip of her spear. If the people in the forum had been cheering for their city-state, if they had been looking at her with curiosity instead of hostility, she might have been fooled into thinking the governor’s words were simply zeal for Crustumerium—she might have even straightened her spine and remembered her mother with pride. But it was clear now why she was standing on these steps. She was a warning to someone, if not everyone, who watched her now.

In the hall of the governor’s villa, Safinia yanked her helmet off and held it under her arm. Her hair was matted with sweat and plastered to her head. Not even a braid would make it presentable without the work of oils and combs. The governor was several steps ahead of her, speaking quietly to two men who had the cloying, nervous look of advisors.

“What was that?” Safinia hissed. Quintus made a shushing gesture as he handed her ring back and knelt to unfasten her shin guards.

“Governor,” she called.

“Don’t!” Quintus gasped from at her feet. Safinia waved him off.

“Governor, you seem to have a different idea of my mother than I do.” She could do Quintus the favor of speaking calmly, but she could not simply accept what had just happened. Her mother’s ghost might have been far away, but it didn’t bear dishonoring. “I was under the understanding that she had not yet even made rank during the siege on Crustumerium.”

“Yes, she was just a skirmisher when the battle took place,” the governor said with an air of boredom. His eyes were on a tablet one of his advisors had handed him. “I allowed the story to embellish over the years. It’s always useful to have a hero to call upon, in dealing with matters of civil unrest.”

“You set me up,” Safinia said. “You made me stand at your side like some enforcer.”