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and hyenas paced. Animal keepers who spent game days toiling in near darkness below the arena floor emerged from the tunnels. With squinted eyes, they backed the trailers and opened the cage doors. Hungry animals shot from one form of captivity, only to disappear into an even darker future. Soon their blood would stain the sand, and the bloodthirsty Romans would howl with pleasure.
    Stuffing his desire to set them all free, Caecilianus elbowed his way through the crowds melting in the rising heat and hurried around the massive perimeter. He was careful to avoid the soldiers who cracked whips over the heads of a thousand slaves manning the winch ropes. With each crank of the massive wheels, the sailcloth awnings slowly unfurled above the amphitheater’s tiered seating.
    He passed the numbered entrances used by the plebeians and continued on with feigned confidence until he reached the giant portico topped with a gilded horse-drawn chariot. He tidied his cloak and fell in behind the servants of a patrician wearing inferior purple.
    “Halt!” A beefy guard’s sword came down in front of Caecilianus. “Where do you think you’re going, pleb?”
    “I have a delivery for the proconsul.”
    “Name?” asked the soldier with the roster.
    “Caecilianus, purveyor of purple.”
    The guard checked his list and scowled. “Merchants and plebs use the numbered gates.”
    “But I must see—” Before he could explain, two guards hooked him under the arms, lifted his feet off the ground, and hauled him from the entrance. “Wait.” He wiggled until he managed to open his bag and reveal a corner of the rich purple hue. “This was originally intended for the emperor. The proconsul will not be happy when he learns he missed an opportunity to bid for the finest purple in the empire.”
    At that, he was immediately released and waved through. The wide marble corridors were crawling with royalty. Caecilianus tossed his bag over his shoulder and proceeded to the stairs that led to the box seats of the rich. His purple was worth fifteen times its weight in gold, but would it be enough to accomplish his plan without incurring the proconsul’s wrath? Palms sweating, he climbed the steps to the box of the ruler of Carthage. Caecilianus’s feet felt two sizes too big for the narrow stone slabs.
    Lord, help me.
    He reached the box gate without falling on his face. Relieved, he flashed the deep-hued fibers to the attendant and was granted admission.
    Aspasius, dressed in last year’s purple and draped in gold chains, eyed Caecilianus’s approach over his wine goblet. The beautiful woman sitting beside the proconsul was Magdalena, the healer he’d brought to help Ruth with Metras. From the intensity of her stare, he knew he was not to mention her kindness in front of her master.
    Caecilianus waited to be waved forward, then climbed the stairs, careful to place his feet squarely on each step. “My lord,” he said, bowing. “I am Caecilianus.”
    “I know who you are.” The proconsul sipped his wine.
    “And I can see you know of my purple.” Caecilianus pulled the batting from his bag, and everyone in the box gasped. “This is a special order for the emperor.”
    Curiosity and greed raised the proconsul’s brows. “Why have you brought this to me?”
    “I have come seeking a trade.”

10
    R UTH WOKE WITH A start, her neck stiff from sleeping upright in a chair next to Metras’s bed. Her eyes struggled to focus in the bright light coming through the shutter slats. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How long had it been since she changed Metras’s dressings?
    “Metras?” Ruth jumped from her chair and ripped apart her landlord’s empty bed as if he’d somehow disappeared in the sheets. “Metras!”
    She raced to her mother’s mat. “Mother!” She shook her awake. “Have you seen Metras?”
    Her mother pointed at the door.
    “He left?” Ruth’s heart pounded. “Oh, no.” Had he gone to tell the soldiers? She knew