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Safinia tried to think the way Hersilia might have—there was no problem she didn’t try to approach sideways. The best outcome for Numa would be if he didn’t have to demolish Rome. But he was too smart, surely, to think that Romulus’s barbarians could be controlled or predicted.

“Well.” Orestilla halted her pacing. She balled her hands in the folds of her dress, then released them. “We must assume that my father didn’t think it was sensible to tell you his plans to retrieve her. Come to think, I don’t know why I imagined that he would. Of course he would lie to you, you could be a spy, or—I don’t know, a vagrant.”

“A vagrant?”

She waved her hand impatiently. “You know. Someone untrustworthy. Maybe we can wheedle his plans out of one of his personal guards.”

She swallowed. This was Orestilla’s father. She had to be careful about what she suggested. “He’s made it clear that he is in contact with Romulus.”

“You’re not making any sense.” The warning in Orestilla’s voice was clear. But Safinia couldn’t let it drop.

“If Numa is acting as an agent of Rome’s interests . . .” she began.

“Stop,” Orestilla said.

“We know the Romans are asking for marriages—maybe he decided to say yes.”

“Stop!” Orestilla slapped the flat of her hand on the worktable; the sharp sound cut through the room. “My father would never just give her to a brute. What can Rome offer him that is worth Hersilia? Do you know how many princes and magistrates he’s turned away already?”

“The Romans claim that Romulus is the son of a god. Numa is pious.”

“You think this is more likely than that he doesn’t feel he owes an outskirts plebeian his explanations?” Orestilla asked. “Who are you to demand answers?”

Safinia drew up short. Her cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped.

“You weren’t there,” she said. “You didn’t see his face when he threatened me.”

“I won’t hear this,” Orestilla said. “Not in my own home.”

Safinia wanted to shake her. She wanted to scream that the family Orestilla imagined was much better than the one that existed. Even Hersilia, for all her charms, could be cruel. But Numa, he knew something. She refused to tell Orestilla that the matter was over; it hung in the air until Ores turned and headed back upstairs. Safinia stayed where she was, her fists balled on her knees, thinking.

She would have stayed there all night, if she didn’t know Attice would worry about where she was. Orestilla was asleep when Safinia crept up the stairs and shimmied into her place beside her sister. There were much more important things for her mind to turn over than what Orestilla thought of her—but sleep was slow, and when Safinia closed her eyes, all she could find behind them was the slight curl to Orestilla’s lip. Who are you to demand answers?

Her stomach churned. Embarrassment and anger followed her into her dreams.

In the morning, Orestilla was cheerful, as if nothing had happened. This bothered Safinia more than if she had been awkward—it meant Ores felt nothing about reminding Safinia of her place in the world.

She put her aggression into her training; Rania and Flavia were promising students, if easily bored. They had to be drilled in discipline, or their muscle memory would fail them in a real fight. Orestilla was useless with a spear but surprisingly decent with throwing knives.

The worst of her students by far was Anesia. It was an act of neglect that the older teens had never been formally taught to wield a spear. There was no other weapon like it for leveling an uneven fight. She should have tried harder with Anesia, Safinia realized now with a pang. Her sister joked with the girls her own age and rolled her eyes at Safinia’s instructions, but it was clear to everyone that she had no training.

At least she was not alone in her beginner’s status. A surprise came that morning, just before lessons began—three women from the city showed up, and would not go until Safinia sent Mettius to find poles for them to practice with. Orestilla showed them how to tie their stolas so that they had mobility in their legs. They were dogged students, if not quite as strong as the girls who’d been raised in the outskirts.

Safinia caught Mettius’s raised eyebrow as he leaned on the fence to watch. She was a little worried his presence would attract more city girls.

“What’s the harm in it?” he asked when she brought it up. “I like a fighting woman.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Safinia said. But she supposed they could stay. And Mettius hanging around kept onlookers from making rude comments; he had made it clear he would be happy to knock heads ahead of the Games.

There were only three days left before things commenced. Visitors were already pouring in; Veii would make a good showing—they were strong athletes, the Etruscans, though there didn’t seem to be a man in their contingent who could equal Mettius. The Latins were brawnier—athletes from Lavinium and Collatia would represent in nearly every category. And then there were the Romans. Word had spread about Caenina—there was no guest house in the city that would take them. They camped outside the wall, not far from Safinia’s home. That chafed at her.

I wish Livy were here, she thought as she oiled her own weapon after practice, her thumb sliding into the groove her mother once wore in. Livy would know the right time to break into Numa’s villa again. The scrap he’d written, a key to the words Safinia needed to find, burned a hole in the folds of her pants. She pulled it out often, memorizing the loops and whorls of Sabellic, the angry slashes of Latin.

Numa wouldn’t risk Safinia going to the magistrates with her proof, once she had it. Even just to the citizens. He relied too much on their trust in him; if he seemed too openly to be scheming against King Tatius, other councilors would turn on them, do their own scheming. The people would strike, or simply murder those in charge. It had happened before. Rumors, Numa could dismiss. But proof would force him to act.

As she waited, her skin crawling with impatience, Safinia dreamed of Hersilia, her neck slender when it wasn’t weighed down with jewelry, crouched before a man the size of a ship’s prow. Romulus.

VIII