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“Look,” Mettius said, nudging her shoulder.

Safinia opened her eyes. A loud, drunken group of men had made their way to the center of the forum—it was not hard; most people in the crowd gave them a wide berth. Hostius was at their head. “Romans.”

“Come for another round?” Mettius called. “I could use a light stretch before bed.”

Hostius scowled. Around Safinia, Mettius’s admirers laughed, or reached out to slap his back. Mettius was slightly unsteady on his feet; Safinia took a familiar place under his arm to brace him.

“I’ll admit to underestimating you,” Hostius said. His voice was just as loud, though he wasn’t nearly as drunk. He wanted to be heard. “People told me you take it up the ass for a handful of salt—I didn’t expect you to put up much of a fight.”

Safinia’s hand flew out, pressed against Mettius’s chest to stop him from lurching forward. But to her surprise he was calm, his grin only slightly cast with bitterness. Music and singing went on, but around them, the crowd had quieted, holding its breath in anticipation.

“It’s nice to get paid for a good day’s work,” Mettius said. “I don’t suppose you get the same courtesy when Romulus fucks you.”

He was turning away already, his hand and cup flung out for a refill, laughter ringing around them both. Safinia felt Mettius twist out of her hands as if in slow motion; she was still facing Hostius. She watched the Roman’s face purple with rage, and his hand go toward the leather strap slung over his shoulder, crossing his broad chest. At his hip was a dagger.

Two things happened simultaneously: He pulled the blade from its sheath, and a strangled, inarticulate cry ripped from Safinia’s throat. Then, the world sped up again—Mettius’s face changed to one of confusion; a ripple of shock went through the crowd, cutting a swath through their celebrating. All too slow. Hostius bared his teeth—everyone had to see the flash of his blade, a moment from Mettius’s skin—and Safinia slammed into him, the impact sending a crack of pain through her shoulder.

Pandemonium rushed into the gap that shock had left. Hostius went down and Safinia dropped with him. They were in real danger of being stepped on or kicked; all around them, Romans and Sabine had launched themselves into a brawl. Hostius was tired and furious—he swiped wildly at Safinia, opening shallow cuts on her arm and cheek. She had to escape, but he was much stronger than her. Safinia scrambled; he grabbed her ankle and dragged her back. “Fucking bitch,” he growled. “Fighters get it the worst. Me and my friends will—”

He was cut off by a stomp to his wrist—Safinia could feel the bones separate as his fingers loosened around her. Mettius grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. She tried to get a sense of the fighting around her, find some rhythm in it that would allow her to slip through and escape, but it was too much of a mess. Women screamed, trying to fight their way through the crowd to safety. Was Orestilla one of them?

“Did he just try to kill me?” Mettius yelled to be heard. His eyes were wild with panic. He gripped Safinia’s collar with white knuckles. “What did he say to you?”

Safinia pried at his hand. Hostius was not down, but the Romans were outnumbered two or three to one. One of Mettius’s friends had Hostius by the arm; another punched him in the nose, and bright red blood spattered on the ground.

A deep cry rolled over the forum like thunder—all the Romans turned their attention toward it, halting whatever punches they were about to throw. Romulus was here. For a moment, Safinia considered the knife Hostius had dropped in the dirt; she would have just enough time to lunge for it and drive it into his heart while he was restrained. No one would fault her.

And then a force had her by the neck. Safinia twisted: It was Aulus, his face grim, pinning her arms behind her. Two men with quaestor badges had Mettius similarly restrained, while Romulus—he had arrived at the center at last—hauled Hostius to his feet.

The fighting was dead as quickly as it had flared to life. Quaestors and some of Numa’s personal guard ranged through the crowd or held the biggest troublemakers still.

They did not restrain Romulus. His eyes flicked over Safinia, disdainful, and then he turned to leave. This infuriated her more than anything else, more than the attempt on Mettius’s life. She was worth more than disdain. She would make him acknowledge her.

“Are these your Romans?” she yelled at him. “So weak they have to wait until our backs are turned to pull the knife?”

Romulus’s nostrils flared as he looked at her, as if she were something disgusting.

“Vappa,” she hissed. “Scum-sucker. Release your man and let him have the rematch he wants. We can give him an honorable death, right here.”

“You demean me,” Romulus said. His voice was pitched to carry over the jeers that had joined Safinia’s. “You insulted my champion with your insinuations. He was within his rights to defend his virtues.”

“What insinuations?” Aulus gripped her harder, a clear message to shut up. Safinia refused. Her blood ran hot. “That you’ve ravaged every exile who comes to take the oath of a Roman? Or that Hostius is your favorite?” A sharp intake of breath to her side—Mettius. “Are you really going to tell us that no one in your city fucks? Everyone knows Rome has no wives.”

“Shut up,” Aulus hissed in her ear. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Say it, Safinia thought. Admit what you’ve done. You do have wives—our women. Here, now, publicly—this could convince Numa to cut the losses of whatever scheme he had going, and make war at last.

“We came to Sabine in friendship.” Romulus turned, finally, and addressed the crowd. For the first time, Safinia noticed Numa, standing with his guards and King Tatius. He was looking at her with a different kind of murder than Romulus—an absolutely unrestrained hatred. “We are forced to leave as enemies. The offense given tonight is too much for the sons of Rome to bear. I will not ask it of them.”

“Leave, then!” someone yelled. Braver onlookers shouted agreement.

Romulus looked at Numa. He gestured to his warriors, and at a reluctant nod, the guards and quaestors holding Romans stepped back, though they looked as disgusted with themselves as Safinia felt of them. Now that the Romans were leaving, attempting some kind of dignified formation, the Quirites in the forum were bolder. They screamed at the men; some flung whatever wine was left in their cups. Others just spat. As for Hostius, Romulus’s hand remained firmly clamped on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Mettius murmured. His quaestors had released him, though they hovered nearby. A nod from him to Aulus made him relax his hold on Safinia, though he kept a grip on her wrist, as if he didn’t trust her not to run.

“I can’t believe I did, either,” Safinia said. She craned her neck to find her sisters and the twins in the crowd, and Orestilla—she could only spot Anesia, nearby with a group of girls, her hands clamped to her mouth. She was looking at Safinia with horror. A new fear dripped down Safinia’s spine. “Mettius—what have I done?”

“I don’t know,” he said, still awed. “I think—”