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“I don’t think so,” Attice said. Her voice was raspy, but strong. “It’s not a matter of pain. Sometimes I just can’t . . .” She trailed off, staring into space, then shook her head. “I told a few of my old ones when you were away. Come on. Let’s settle in.”

It made Safinia feel strangely jealous that Anesia and Orestilla might have heard one of Attice’s stories more recently without her. They were always good, combining morsels of tales she remembered from bards and poets, and plenty of things she made up. When their teeth were scraped and hair oiled, Attice nudged the twins aside to get comfortable. Safinia wiggled in next to her, pinned between Attice and Anesia. Orestilla’s apartment had a lock—there was no need for her to sleep closest to the door, and her weapons.

The lamp flickered where Attice had left it. It would sputter out before too long. When Safinia put her hand up, her shadow was monstrously long over the wall and ceiling of the room. She had the feeling of being in a cave, or the kind of hut children would build for a day.

“You know how the Greeks have gods who look like them?” Attice asked. Her voice was only slightly hoarse. Safinia nodded. “I suppose it makes it easier to deal with the children of gods, if we can imagine them birthed from the same kind of womb. Sabine gods do bear children, sometimes, or maybe they adopt them from the people who worship them best, but they’re not made in the same way. Feronia’s child, for example, was maybe once just a tree, an equal impression in the endless collective of her being. But who hasn’t loved a small part of themselves best of all?

“And so out of the forest walked Erulus.”

Safinia smiled, her eyes closed. She could only remember snatches of the story of Erulus. It was her favorite of the ones her father would tell, though she couldn’t recall why.

“Erulus was king of a city called Praeneste. This was before the sons of Troy came and mingled with the Latins, but not much before. Many nations that bordered the sea had noticed that the land Feronia walked was greener and richer than their own and so they wanted to conquer it for themselves. One of these was a king called Evander. Who actually led a town that I think has now been lost to Rome.”

“Pallantium,” Orestilla mumbled from Attice’s other side. “Hersilia knew of it.”

Safinia had heard the story of Aeneas and his Trojans before. The Sabine had ancient ancestors, too—Spartans, seeking escape from the rigidity of their lands. Sabus, their leader, had founded Cures Sabini and filled it with tough warriors and belligerent drunks both. People in the city loved to raise a glass to the Greeks, as the Latins did for Troy. But Safinia was never able to imagine herself descended from far away. What of the people the Spartans met when they arrived in Feronia’s great forest? Those whose gods weren’t people, but things—fires, doorways, trees. If Sabus came from the Spartans, with their strange pantheons, he abandoned those ways soon enough. He became, as Safinia was, rooted and worshipful of what was right here.

“Yes, Pallantium,” Attice said. “It was a town on one of Rome’s hills. Being king of a small town was not enough for Evander. He waged war all around him, all the way to Praeneste. Erulus rode out to meet him; in his hand, he held a heavy, curved sword, like the Etruscans wield. And on his back was strapped another sword, a wider and flatter one like the Latins, and a spear, as is common for us Sabine. He would have been birthed of all three—Feronia touches all these places.

“He met Evander in battle, in single combat, both armies lined and watching, distracted from their own fights. They were almost evenly matched, but eventually, Evander won. He wrenched the sword from Erulus’s grip and ran him through. But as Evander advanced to take his shield and arms and declare himself the victor, Erulus sprang back up, unsheathing his Latin sword, and taking up the fight again.”

“But he was dead,” Anesia protested. Safinia elbowed her under the pretense of settling more comfortably.

“I know. But Feronia, as goddess of what grows, is familiar with how all things die, and knows how they can live again. When Erulus was born, she loved him so much that she gave him three souls, three bodies, and three sets of arms. Evander overcame Erulus once more, and still, Erulus stood up, holding his spear. And if you believe Evander, he killed Erulus once more, this time for good, and piled his army’s shields against the walls of Praeneste to burn.”

“That’s a terrible ending,” Safinia mumbled. She could feel herself drifting in the heat of the small room. “Erulus wasn’t much of a fighter.”

Attice laughed lightly, then coughed. She waited, working her throat, before continuing. “I thought so, too. When I was young, I asked mother’s standard-bearer if he knew a different ending. These kinds of stories often change depending on who you ask.

“He told me that Feronia is not only a goddess of wild growth, but a goddess of transition, almost like Janus. She sometimes protects the wild by drawing it closer to herself, in this way making room for people who would fight the land, tear out trees and soil to build their cities. He told me Erulus fled with his last life, the Sabine one, into the mountains we live in now.”

“That’s worse,” Safinia protested. “He’s a coward in that one.”

“Just listen. Years later I heard a third ending. A man coming up the Tiber said that Evander, when he realized that he dealt with a god-child, was the one to flee. He was known to be a braggart, the kind of man who would fell one man and call him twenty. The story of Erulus grew each time he told it, until no one really believed he faced Feronia’s child at all, let alone won.”

Safinia stifled laughter. Behind her, Anesia’s breathing had evened out in sleep. The lamp had gone and the room was dark—she couldn’t tell if Orestilla was still awake. “I think you made that last part up.”

“Maybe. No one can say what is true if the truth is lost. Or maybe everyone can.” Attice nestled in the mats, careful not to disturb any of the bodies around her. “I just like the idea of a story that comes in threes.”

Safinia found Attice’s hand in the dark and took Anesia’s from where it was curled in her chiton, clinging to Safinia as if she might leave in the middle of the night. A current ran through them—the same heart, beating separately.

IX

The next day brought news: The king in Toffia was missing two daughters, and petitioning Tatius for help seeking their ransoms. King Tatius already had his hands full ignoring the refugees from Caenina. Safinia’s hands clenched and unclenched when she thought about it.

Her students had been evicted from the circus for the Games—she briefly considered practicing just outside the wall, but what if Romans passed them on their way to and from their vile encampment? Better they think the women of Cures delicate. Safinia was not sure what to do—the group had swollen to twenty-three, minus Anesia, who sneaked away from lessons whenever Safinia’s back was turned.

A timid Quirite girl raised her hand. “My friend’s building has a courtyard,” she said. “I’m sure she would welcome us practicing there.”

She led them all to an insula Safinia was shocked to see—it was the one owned by Tarpeia’s family, and occupied only by her and an army of servants. As the other girls began their stretches or oiled their poles, Safinia touched Tarpeia’s friend on the shoulder.

“Are you sure we’re meant to be here?” she asked in a murmur. “Tarpeia hates me.”

“She was the one who told me to come,” the girl said. “Insisted, even.”

“Huh,” Safinia said. The courtyard was cramped, and they had to maneuver around flower bushes and large decorative amphorae, but it was private. Since Mettius hadn’t shown up to help as he normally did, this was the best they could hope for. Once or twice, Safinia thought she saw a figure in the upper windows, watching.

By afternoon, the sky was pure blue. Safinia pushed her way to a spot at the fence for Mettius’s final match, as she’d promised. Orestilla wiggled through the crowd after her—Safinia had to shove two men and stomp on another’s instep, but they eventually glowered and let her through. The two leaned on the fence, their arms pressed together from wrist to shoulder.