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devised tank played by three water-breathing Aqua Marinians—green-and-blue-striped barbarians from Mare Byzantium. The old arena lacked the awe-inspiring immensity of the emperor’s planet-circling Rota Fortuna or a Sertorian city-hunter arena, but as I walked beside Marcus, I could feel a vibe, a palpable drama that saturated the air—an energy born of millennia of history mixed with blood and sand.
    Marcus pointed to the royal balcony above us, draped in purple, with images of golden lions.
    â€œThe emperor,” I whispered. Sitting behind a protective energy field up on his private balcony was Caesar Numerius Valentinius himself. Attendants rushed to and fro within the box, anticipating his every need. When Marcus spoke about the emperor being embarrassed by his cousin, I thought he meant that the emperor would be watching the match from some distant location, not be present in person, right here in Rome. This changed things. The emperor in the arena represented the last vestige of democracy in the empire. What the audience demanded, the emperor was likely to grant. Was this what Marcus wanted me to see? How could the emperor have any interest in helping me? I certainly wouldn’t dare petition him. No one asked the emperor any favor lightly in case his judgment ran contrary to expectation. A man who crushed fleets of warships as easily as another might swat a bothersome fly wasn’t someone to irritate needlessly.
    Searching the various matches taking place in the center stage, I located the emperor’s cousin by the glint of his gold armor, trident, and net swinging back and forth before his opponent.
    â€œI feel bad that you have to watch this fool,” Marcus said.
    My trainer had something in mind but was clearly undecided on whether he was going to help me. I had to work out what was going on in his mind and tip the scales in my favor. What was he holding back?
    *   *   *
    I SOUGHT M ARCUS OUT a couple of months after the deaths of my loved ones, sitting on my own in the empty benches at dawn training, front row every morning, studying the fighters and taking notes, until after two weeks, Marcus’ curiosity was piqued and he came over to speak to me.
    â€œCan I help you, my lady?”
    â€œPerhaps. I’m looking for someone that can show me how to use this,” I said, opening my weapon case to reveal Orbis.
    Marcus whistled in appreciation. “A homing discus. That’s a lot of weapon for a little lady.”
    â€œIt was good enough for Julius Ovidius. He won three Ludi Romani using one,” I said.
    â€œThat was over four hundred years ago.” Marcus reached forward to touch my weapon, but Orbis, sensing a stranger, began to rotate in his restraining gel. “It only likes your touch, hey?” He tried again and Orbis spun faster in anticipation. “This one doesn’t like being constrained. He wants to cut me.”
    â€œI noticed that you don’t have a discus player training here,” I said.
    â€œNone have the patience to learn.”
    â€œThen you know how to use it?”
    â€œI learned the fundamentals on Quatrus Negra. They duel to settle public disputes. Two people stand on opposing hills, each one wielding a discus. The first person to receive a mortal wound loses the dispute. It’s a difficult weapon to master, but once you have a sense of it, it’s the hardest to defend against.”
    â€œThen teach me. Let me join your team.”
    He smiled. “I don’t have women fighting here. Do you see any women in my gym?”
    â€œWhat have you got against women fighters?”
    â€œYou brought up Julius Ovidius, the last great discus fighter. He could throw his homing discus on a half-mile returning orbit. Those skinny arms of yours would be lucky to make a spirited throw of thirty yards.”
    â€œMost arena fighting is in close. Who cares how far the weapon can be thrown? Speed,