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waited for the second race. Young Caesar sat not far from us, surrounded by a retinue. Courteously, he came over to greet us. “I hope you’re enjoying the games,” he said.
    I had never met him before. From Tiberius Nero’s description, I expected Caesar’s heir to appear frail. He did not. If his face had a certain pallor, it only made him look like someone who had spent more time in a library than outdoors. Nothing else about him hinted at sickness. He wore a light summer tunic. Though he was barely of medium height, his body was as perfectly proportioned as a Greek statue. He had unusual coloring for a Roman, eyes the blue of the sky on a bright day, hair falling on his forehead in careless golden curls. His features were fine-cut, and he was startlingly handsome.
    Everyone was already speculating about whether he would try to take a political role soon. I gazed at him and thought, No, that’s impossible, he is much too young . I had heard he was still a month or two short of his nineteenth birthday. My husband talked to him the way a man talks to a boy—a fabulously wealthy, well-connected boy, but a boy just the same. “What am I to call you now? ” T iberius Nero asked. “I understand you’ve assumed your adoptive father’s name.”
    The boy moved his shoulders negligently. “You may call me whatever you like.”
    Tiberius Nero persisted. “No, I’m asking what you prefer. What do your friends call you?” He was smiling, the tone of his voice almost avuncular.
    “My friends? Nowadays they call me Caesar.”
    “And you prefer tha t ?”
    Young Caesar moved his shoulders again, not quite in a shrug, as if to say, Why not? “Actually, I do.”
    Did young Caesar know that Tiberius Nero had allied himself with those who had killed his adoptive father? He showed no sign of it if he did. He sat down on the bench next to my husband, and for a while they talked amiably of inconsequential things. It was not politics but something else that caused the atmosphere to change between them.
    “You’re looking very well, ” T iberius Nero said. “I was happy to hear your health is better these days.”
    Young Caesar stiffened, and his eyes went cold. “Yes, much better.”
    Tiberius Nero frowned. I was sure he had not meant to speak of an unpleasant subject, still less to wound, but the boy’s instant reaction suggested his health was an enormously sensitive matter. Young Caesar’s features still betrayed tension as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, looked past Tiberius Nero, and spoke directly to me for the first time. “Who do you like in the next race?”
    “The Whites,” I said.
    “They won’t win.”
    “No?”
    “No,” he said. “Do you want to make a be t ?”
    I shook my head. “You sound too sure.”
    He smiled, at ease again. He had a charming smile. “I know the Reds’ charioteer—my family used to own him. You’re wise not to bet against me.”
    For some reason, these words echoed in my mind: You’re wise not to bet against me.
    My husband excused himself. Perhaps he went to relieve himself; perhaps he saw a friend to whom he wished to speak. In any case, he said a couple of conventionally polite words and left me with this boy—this beautiful boy. We watched the next race together.
    The Reds bumped the Whites, who went colliding into a wall near where we sat. Spectators gasped. I pressed my fist against my teeth. The driver had been thrown clear and lay twisting in the sand. He began to drum his fingers on the ground in agony. A horse also lay on its back, kicking its legs and screaming. Another horse tried to stay on its feet but sank on broken legs.
    Slaves came to cart away the broken chariot, the broken horses, and the injured charioteer, while the Reds raced on to victory.
    “Aren’t you glad you didn’t be t ?” young Caesar said.
    “Very. I’m sure the Reds’ driver bumped them deliberately. He is a complete ruffian.”
    “All the best charioteers are.”
    I looked