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“I thought all our practicing would make my arms stronger,” Orestilla said. “But I’m exhausted. They tremble if I even lift my pliers.”

“It takes time,” Safinia said. That morning, Orestilla had made it through the full pattern, and even added a few complex moves. “You’re stronger than you think already.”

“Maybe. Oh—there he is—”

Trumpets cut the air. “Hostius Hostilius of Rome,” the announcer cried. “And Mettius Curtius, Champion of Cures!”

Safinia cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed, her voice drowned by a crashing wave of cheers. Mettius looked like a teenager again, the sharpness of his face softened by glowing happiness, as he lifted his hand to greet the crowd. He would be just fine without Safinia at his side. The thought made both sadness and pride rise in her chest. After this his reputation would be repaired enough for most younger daughters—in time, he would find one he liked enough to take him out of the outskirts.

If there wasn’t a war to go to. If he didn’t die in it.

A second trumpet signaled that it was time to begin. She watched the men strip down and circle each other. Hostius had a height and bulk advantage, but Safinia could see that his reflexes were slow, as Mettius feinted to test them. “He’s got no chance,” she said derisively.

“He’s huge,” Orestilla answered. She was transfixed. Standing at the fence was much closer than the tented pavilions she would have watched from in years past. “Almost as big as Romulus—oh, that looked like it hurt.”

A well-aimed kick had split Mettius’s cheek. He reeled back a moment. “Looks worse than it is,” Safinia said. Blood in the cheek was shallow. The eye or temple would have been worse.

They put on a show, going much longer than the qualifying matches—Mettius had the power to end this at any time, but he was teasing Hostius, and the crowd, letting them build a little fear on his behalf. Safinia bit back a grin. Watching, it was easy to shove aside thoughts of war and kidnapping—if this was what a confrontation would look like, Sabine versus Roman, there was nothing to be scared of. Mettius was shining, so effortless, a man carved from the ridges of the mountains, his skin bright with sun. Hostius was furious, graceless, an animal that was only dangerous as it died. Safinia stood on the first rung of the fence and screamed for his blood.

The crowd roared as Mettius swung Hostius face-first into the ground. The man scrambled, locking his arms around Mettius’s waist. Then they both fell, grappling for each other in the dirt, the lines of their muscles shaking with effort. Hostius yanked at Mettius’s leg. Mettius wound an elbow around Hostius’s neck.

Safinia and Orestilla clutched each other—she didn’t remember entwining their hands. Hostius’s face was red with strain. She was close enough to see a vein pulse in his forehead.

His hand came up to Mettius’s arm. He tapped it twice; Mettius released him, gasping, to the dirt.

“Cures!” Mettius screamed, on his feet, his face smeared in blood. “Sabinum!”

The crowd screamed back. Safinia was over the fence before she remembered herself, pulling Orestilla along with her. They were not the only ones—Sabine streamed onto the field to touch Mettius, to chant his name, to jeer at Hostius as he collected himself and limped back to the athlete’s tent. All her anger over Mettius’s proposal was forgotten when Safinia reached him—he threw her over his shoulder as if they were teenagers, whooping with joy, then swept Orestilla in with his other arm and kissed her full on the mouth. She hid her face, laughing, while Safinia pounded his back, thrilled, breathless.

Safinia hadn’t drank so much since before Attice was taken. Her older sister was somewhere in the crowd in the forum, holding hands with the twins and being dragged to look at every shiny thing in the market stalls; for the moment, she was just like her old self: calm, maternal, amused.

The proposal was forgotten, or maybe Mettius was showing her what life could be like if she accepted. They danced, hands linked and feet beating the ground. Orestilla was on his other arm, much more sober, but looking at Safinia with shining eyes.

“You’re reminding me of the first night I ever saw you,” she said.

Safinia grinned. All her limbs felt light. “You mean when you first saw me punch a stupid man? We could find another one tonight, I bet.”

Orestilla laughed. Then Safinia was scooped up again; she was spending more of the night on Mettius’s shoulder than on her feet. Dimly, she remembered telling Livy the Sabine knew decorum when it suited them. Well, that was for festivals. This was a party.

“Did you see Anesia?” Orestilla asked. “She’s with Aulus!”

“Ugh.” Safinia dug her foot into Mettius’s ribs until he set her down, then accepted another cup of mulled wine from an admirer. “I don’t like him for her.”

“Of course you don’t,” Orestilla giggled. “A father never wants to give his daughter up.”

“If he tries to offer me a dowry, I’ll kick him. I hate when it’s put like that. Give me goats because you’re grateful, not because my sister is only worth a few beasts.”

“She’s worth much more than a few goats,” Orestilla said gravely. She took Safinia’s cup and set it aside, her shoulder brushing Safinia’s. “You did a good job with her.”

“She did a good job with herself,” Safinia said. Her face was so close to Orestilla’s. Close enough to see the flecks of light brown in her eyes—they must have been from her mother. Light eyes were a Gaelic feature; in women, they were a sign of promiscuity. She put her hands on either side of Orestilla’s face, holding her still. “I don’t think you’re promiscuous.”

Orestilla snorted. “Well, thank you for that.”

In the back of her mind, she thought of Numa. He wasn’t here, in this crowd—since Mettius had won, he would likely be entertaining at his villa. She would have to wait until the last day of the Games, when the party moved to King Tatius’s Regia, to scour his office.

So Safinia put it from her mind; they drank more, danced more, sang—Mettius and Safinia taught Orestilla the words to the filthiest songs they could remember. Eventually Orestilla spotted some old friends and peeled away; Mettius remained a constant anchor. Safinia could close her eyes and remember a dozen nights like this, flirting with girls, drinking too much, letting every emotion bubble to the surface as it came—joy, when there was cause, fury more often. How could she have deadened herself so much? Anger wasn’t something to fear—it was what made her powerful.

And attractive. To Orestilla, at least. Their eyes kept meeting through the crowd. Safinia could no longer remember any of her reasons for holding back.