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The streets exploded with brightness overnight, draped with flowered garlands and woven flags. Even the drying lines overhead were pinned with chains of gold and silver and steel.

Safinia stuck her head out the window and watched a stream of people pass by in their best clothes. There was Tarpeia, more gold than girl, and her friends. Safinia called out to greet her and could not help but laugh at their simultaneous sneers.

The night before, Mettius had come to the insula to join them for dinner. Rania and Flavia launched themselves at him, hanging off his arms and climbing over his shoulders. Even Safinia had to laugh.

“I’m up against a fellow from Veii tomorrow,” he told them, with a sidelong look at Safinia. “You’ll all be in the audience?”

“Of course,” Safinia said. It was not hard to feel proud of him. Excitement gripped the city. Everyone was looking forward to the thrashing the Quirite athletes were sure to give the Romans. The Games would last five days. In the morning and early afternoon, athletes would compete at the circus, and in the evenings—sacrifices, dancing, and lots of wine. In the back of Safinia’s mind was her task: During one of these nights of revelry, Numa would not be at home. That was her chance to find the proof she needed.

Safinia thrust herself from the window and hunted for the stola Livy had given her, wrapping the garment and letting Attice wrestle her hair into something halfway elegant. “You’re feeling up to spectating today?” she asked for the seventh time. “We can always leave.”

Attice hummed, but didn’t answer.

They linked arms and joined the current of people heading toward the circus. The forum was ringed with tents from merchants and craftsmen—Ores was among them, helping her grandfather arrange their stall full of glittering things. Safinia touched the Minerva pendant, hanging next to Livy’s ring, under her dress. She stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled, laughing as Ores nearly dropped a rack of necklaces, before recognizing her and breaking into a shy smile. Attice nudged Safinia with her elbow.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, cheeks burning.

At the circus, Safinia and Attice half-slid into an empty space, close to the fenced-off tents where the athletes socialized and prepared before their events, and flung themselves down on the loose ground. Safinia scanned the crowd, looking for people she recognized. Rania and Flavia were with their father, right up against the fence, talking to Mettius. Coming through the gates were Anesia and Aulus.

Were they friends? Safinia wondered. Anesia was often at their farm, helping out, but Aulus lived in the city. Safinia chewed the inside of her cheek. So far, she’d said little to her sisters about Numa—Attice because she was already struggling, and Anesia because Safinia was afraid she would gossip. But if Anesia had an in with one of Numa’s quaestors . . . It should have heartened Safinia, but only seemed to make her feel queasy.

The councilors had a platform at the head of the circus. Safinia struggled a moment to place King Tatius among them—it had been so long since he addressed his subjects in person. Numa was much more visible, ushering several other men to a decadent banquet. These would be the leaders of foreign cities.

There was only one who could be Romulus. Unlike the other kings and governors, he didn’t socialize or lose himself in wine. He stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, surveying the crowd like a hawk looking for a meal. He was taller than the men around him by at least a head, his toga slung low over his broad chest.

Attice saw her watching. “Have you heard the rumor about his father?”

“That he’s a god? I don’t know which one, though.”

“One the Latins worship, I think.”

She could ask Livy about it the next time she saw him. Safinia might have said more, but a sudden roar of the crowd assailed her. On the field, the footraces were starting. Before long, she was on her feet, shouting encouragement for the Quirite champion and abuse for all his competitors. Attice laughed and tugged for her to sit—for a moment she looked like her old self, amused and abashed at her little sister’s antics.

The day bobbed along, with Cures making a good showing in the sprints and long jump, though there was an Etruscan who outpaced the distance runners without even breaking a sweat. Orestilla eventually found them, and Mettius’s father came by with Rania and Flavia. Soon they had a nice group, passing around dough slathered in honey, fruits, and all kind of cheeses.

They could not forget themselves entirely. Tension made a thrumming, steady undercurrent throughout the events—when a Roman did well, the feeling thickened. At midday, Romulus stepped forward and announced a demonstration of horsemanship. Safinia was begrudgingly impressed by the way his voice carried through the stands. The horses she could take or leave. Most Sabine were sensible enough not to ride. Horses were nasty beasts when they wanted to be.

The twins gasped at a trick. Safinia bit her nails.

She left them as the afternoon wore long. Attice and Ores could bring the twins back to the town house. She found Mettius leaning against the field rail and joined him to watch the discus throw. She admired the way an Etruscan athlete unfurled from tightness as he spun. “He’s going to win,” she said.

“Yeah,” Mettius said tightly. He was tense next to her.

“Are you nervous?” Safinia asked. The afternoon faded into evening; the last glittering remains of the sun lit the disc as it hurled across the field. The grounds were emptying as spectators turned to the forum for drink and dancing.

“Hardly,” Mettius said. “The Roman champ is a nasty piece of work. He’s named Hostius. Still, his only trick is to hit first. No stamina at all.”

“I wish you could kill him,” Safinia said. “I don’t think I’d be able to help myself.”

Mettius nodded at the platform. “Makes me sick, seeing him standing there.”

Romulus turned his head toward them, or maybe seeing something in the distance. Safinia quickly looked away. “There’s nothing we can do right now. Let’s just not look at him anymore.”

Mettius nodded, taking her arm and wandering to the forum. She wondered what preoccupied him so, as he brushed off would-be admirers. He was moody even after several cups of wine. “Felt for a second like we should be walking back home together,” he said as they walked. “Old times.”

The night air was light—but she missed the sound of frogs and leaves. “I wish we were walking home, too,” she said. “You’re keeping an eye on the place, right?”

“Of course,” he said. “Been getting the urge to fix your shit roof.”