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community.
    “No!” cried the eldest sister. “This is Paulina’s first child. She is young. She has many years to give you a son.”
    “Exposure,” Aristarchus said firmly, sensing triumph. “I will not sell the child or kill it. Exposure is my decree and my command. Exposure to the elements until it dies.”

    A cacophony of sounds assailed Leah in the darkness beneath the amphitheater, sounds of quiet desperation. Groaning. Fear. Beyond those sounds coming from the prison cells on each side of the tunnel, she heard the occasional distant roar of animals trained to do the executing later.
    Since Nathan’s arrest, Leah had slept only a few hours each night, spending the rest of the darkness tossing and turning as she tried to avoid thoughts of how her brother might actually die.
    Yes, she’d spent far too much time in the horrors of the future; now it was upon her.
    She wanted to be brave. Needed to be brave. For Nathan.
    For her teenage brother. Nathan, the one of impetuous good humor who brightened their home and lives every day. Nathan! The baby of the family. Adored by all. About to die!
    She lifted the hem of her dress, blocked out her fear, and moved deeper into the darkness. As she left the last shafts of light behind, the air seemed to close in on her, and her throat tightened as smells of suffering added to the sensation of smothering—body wastes accumulated in each cell, vomit, and the cloying, nauseating sweetness of alcohol from those fortunate few with enough money to bribe the guards and acquire the numbing forgetfulness from wine.
    In this terrible labyrinth of doom and death, as darkness fell on Rome, Leah began to search for her brother.

    In the Smyrna tavern, tension increased as the hulking man approached Vitas.
    “Who are you to be asking ‘who is asking’?” Titus called from the corner. He began to move back toward Vitas. It was obvious that Vitas would not be able to easily defeat this new opponent.
    The man didn’t dignify Titus or his question with even a glance. He continued to lumber toward Vitas, his eyes focused on the short sword that Vitas held out in a defensive position.
    “Who are you to ask about Damian?” he repeated to Vitas.
    Someone shouted drunkenly, “Rip him apart, Maglorius! Your hands are enough!”
    Maglorius. This name Vitas recognized.
    A living legend.
    Although Maglorius was in his fifth decade and bore the healed slashes of gladiator blades and lions’ claws, he still radiated strength and power. His hair was not dark like most Romans’, but a sandy gray, reflecting his Iceni heritage. Common lore among the mobs said that the army had captured Maglorius during his tribe’s first revolt against the Romans in Britannia, then shipped him to Rome to be humiliated in the public display of Vespasian’s triumph. Afterward they sent him to the arenas to die as a gladiator. Except, as his presence in the tavern proved, he’d survived for over a decade already, had found a way to live by killing others.
    “Who am I to ask?” Vitas said, unafraid. Every nerve tingled as he watched Maglorius the way one lion watches another. “That is my business. Not yours.”
    “I have saved Damian’s life during training half a dozen times over the last year in gladiator school,” Maglorius said. “He is one of the most wretched citizens to take the oath. The only way he’ll survive his first fight in the arena tomorrow is if I save his life again. I think I have the right to ask who is looking for him.”
    Vitas grinned and could see by Maglorius’s reaction that it was unexpected. “Because anyone who wants Damian is either collecting an unpaid debt or wants to punish him for seducing a wife or daughter.”
    Maglorius grunted agreement.
    That should have been the first warning for Vitas: that Maglorius, an obvious loner, had protected Damian over the last year. Damian, who’d been forced to make vows as a gladiator because of his gambling habits, was much more