The shortest day was at the doors: the feast of Saturnalia was approaching. And now the rebel Eagles cast their shadow over Rome. The loss of inhibitions knew no bounds.

The working girls were almost nude, but most wore garish makeup. Some were wearing theatre masks to tease their customers. A drunken harlot giggled as a man caressed her breasts. Another looked on languidly, as patient as a sleek Egyptian cat.

A naked girl with olive skin came squeezing through the crowd. She had a taut, ripe figure, and it wasn’t just the men who groped at it. The throng was stewing in its sweat, and she was damp and gleaming. But her face was hidden by a mask that seemed to mock them all.

It was a tragic actor’s visage, made of stiff white linen, with gaping eyeholes and a wailing mouth. A face that presaged grief and war: but no-one took much notice. The scars on her firm flesh went unremarked. A man clutched at her breast like someone trying to pluck a pear, but didn’t see the claw-marks over it. The mournful mask swung round at him. Befuddled though he was, the man flinched back. The girl moved onward through the crowd, as purposeful and silent as a ghost.

The air was pungent and the mask felt stifling, but Zoe’s breathing was completely calm. The eyeholes were two windows on the heedless world around her, while she stayed faceless with her heart concealed. She carried a basket of honeyed fruit, as tempting as her tits: but the latter seemed to get a lot more interest.

Infiltrating the brothel had been easy. She had the body for it, and the skills. Rome grew ever more debauched as the rebel threat loomed closer. She’d heard they were a day’s march to the north.

The Emperor’s praetorians were in charge of the defences. They were troops from the Germanic Front: hard-bitten and resolved to cling to power. She hadn’t seen so many of the vicious Iron Virgins, the female unit of auxiliaries. Rumour had it they were being held back to guard the palace. They’d fight for every room, like cornered cats.

Zoe reached the stairs and padded up to the first level. Two girls were giggling in the passageway. One took an apple as she passed, but barely glanced at Zoe. The young Greek sauntered past them and continued to the chamber at the end.

The room was dimly lit by its small window and an oil lamp that glowed beside the bed. It smelled of sex and burning spice. A naked girl was sprawled across the sheets. She stirred and muttered grumpily as Zoe tiptoed in. "Don’t tell me there’s another one already!"

"The Mistress sent me upstairs with a gift," said Zoe meekly. She crossed the room and held the basket out. The girl blinked in the half-light, then sat up and showed more interest. The white mask seemed to baffle her, but then she eyed the sweetmeats greedily.

She was a plump, attractive girl with curly russet hair. She had green eyes and pampered milky skin. The brothel’s favourite harlot, she was always in demand. Her loins could drain a dozen men, and Zoe felt her own mouth turning dry.

She cleared her throat. "I’m honoured to be sent up to Sabina."

Sabina smirked and took a candied pear out of the basket. "You’re new, I take it. Here’s a tip: you need another mask."

"This one seemed appropriate," said Zoe evenly. She pulled her dagger from the pile of fruit. The basket spilled its contents as she sprang onto the bed and pressed the blade against the shocked girl’s throat.

Sabina’s mouth and eyes grew round. She bleated helplessly. Zoe eyed her panting breasts, then reached up with one hand and pulled the mask off. Her collar-length dark hair spilled out, already lank with sweat. Her handsome face was hard as teak. She pricked the harlot underneath the chin.

"I hear that you’re a bosom friend of Lady Livia. I want to know where I can track her down."

Sabina goggled up at her and Zoe wriggled closer. "Come on, you cow: don’t play the innocent. I know she’s so insatiable she sometimes walks the streets. And sometimes she comes here to work with you."

The girl’s wide eyes flicked down towards the dagger. Her bosom quivered as she drew a breath. "They say she’s taken refuge in the palace. I don’t think you’ll be following her there." She saw how Zoe’s lips thinned in frustration, and her own spoilt nature started to show through. "You must know she’s the Emperor’s own plaything. Lay a hand on her, you bitch, and you’ll finish up as meat in the arena!"

"I already did," said Zoe, "but I thank you for the thought." She stabbed the girl between her tear-drop tits. Sabina grunted from the blow and flopped against the bolsters. The dagger tore her diaphragm and left her gasping like a landed fish. Zoe pulled the mask over the girl’s face like a hood. "Tragic, isn’t it?" she said, and gave the buried blade a vicious twist.

The harlot doubled forward with a squawk of agony. Blood spurted through the mouth-hole of the mask. It spattered Zoe’s breasts and trickled warmly down her belly. Sabina’s body slumped amid the sheets.

Zoe took a shaky breath and clambered off the bed. She washed her bloody fingers in the bowl of scented water by the window. Then she splashed her breasts with it and towelled herself dry. The day outside was pale and waning fast.

The last act of the tragedy was ready to begin, and Nemesis was waiting in the wings. She glanced towards the bed again. The white mask seem to watch her. Blood drooled from its downturned mouth and drip-drip-dripped onto Sabina’s breasts.

* * *

The dawn was raw and windy underneath a livid sky. Its dull light showed an army at the gates. The weak sun shafted through the clouds to glint on steel and standards. Then the heavens closed again, and all she saw were lines of leaden troops.

Zoe was sitting on a roof with a view across the ramparts. She’d climbed up here before first light, with all the instincts of a hunting cat. She was dressed again, in her cloak and shabby tunic. Her gladius lay across her knees. She scraped a whetstone down its cutting edge.

There was turmoil in the street below, as troops moved up towards the city gates. The wind brought noise in snatches from the rebel concentrations – the steady thud of drums, the blare of horns. The bitter air was flecked with snow. The clouds were lowering. The City looked as grey as death’s domain.

Then the barrage started, like a hail of shooting stars. Fiery arrows shot by archers, mixed with burning bolts from catapults. They flashed and soared in both directions. Zoe caught her breath. The sound of drumming was redoubled as the rebels surged towards the gates.

The spectacle was awesome, but she felt detached from it. It could have been a show in the arena. Romans storming Rome itself; she didn’t care who won. What mattered was the chaos, and the chance to wipe the past away for good.

Listening to the clash of shields, she thought of her own time in the arena. Few of the troops were so inured. She’d seen enough blood spilled to float a galley. It had given her a morbid taste for shedding it herself. Perhaps she could still purge herself of that.

As cohorts battered at the gates, she thought of Lady Livia, the mistress who’d abused and tortured her. Zoe had become a whore; she’d been condemned for murder. But the murderess had learned to fight and kill.

The whetstone rasped along the blade. She recalled the women who’d accused her falsely. Philippa, whom she had poisoned. Corinna, whose soft, white throat she’d sliced. And then there were the others who had crossed her. Victoria, whom she’d disembowelled; Antonia, entombed by tons of stone. Drusilla the rich huntress, hacked to death by her own prey. And Plutus, her first owner: she had fed him to the wolves.

Now there was just Livia to be dealt with. The harlot who’d become a lady, yet remained a scheming bitch at heart. Zoe slid her sword into its scabbard. She touched the dagger in her belt, instinctively confirming it was there.

Maybe, with this final death, her past could be forgotten. She hoped so, but she wasn’t quite convinced. The prospect of fighting Iron Virgins made her heart beat faster. And the thought of Livia’s death throes turned her on.

* * *

"See this ring? He gave it me. He only throws you scraps." Livia’s dark eyes glittered. "I demand to see him now!"

The German girls around the room just sniggered with derision. She glared at them and almost stamped her foot. Her fury didn’t do her any favours. Her kitten-pretty face was pinched with spite.

The gown she wore was midnight blue and moulded to her curves. A fold was draped over her hair, but her diadem and earrings caught the light. Beneath it she was naked, though they didn’t realise that. She’d peel it off before Vitellius: making sure she kept him in her thrall.

But the palace was deserted, and as draughty as a ruin. There was no sign of the household slaves. The torches were beginning to burn out. Wintry daylight filtered in, but the rooms were full of shadows. A handful of praetorians had the whole place to themselves.

"Caesar and his family have taken refuge in his brother’s house."

The emphasis was mocking. Livia looked round with a scowl. Arminia lounged beside the empty throne. She wore a pale silk tunic underneath her bearskin cloak. Her white-blonde hair was teased up with a long curl hanging down between her eyes.

Livia clenched herself against a shiver. The air was cold, and she could see her breath. "I guess he left his hounds behind," she muttered. The blue-eyed girl just smiled disdainfully.

The other Iron Virgins seemed untroubled by their lot. Two of them were playing dice. Another pair were fondling each other. The rest slouched languidly around, and some were clearly drunk. But each girl had her weapons close to hand.

Arminia stepped down off the dais and crossed the tiled floor. Her footsteps echoed in the emptiness. "I’d leave if I were you," she purred. "Take refuge in whichever stew you came from."

Livia’s brown eyes flashed with rage. She bit her pouting lip. Her maidservant Sophia edged behind her. The dice were shaken in their cup. They rattled on the table. A leering Virgin gnawed a chicken leg.

"If they break through, they’ll kill you all like dogs," said Livia.

Arminia smirked. "And then they’ll get their hands on Caesar’s whore."

Livia flinched despite herself. The graceful German girl came stalking round her. Sophia cowered nervously. Arminia put her mouth to Livia’s ear.

"I could protect you too," she murmured slyly. "So long as you can make it worth my while ..."

Livia turned her face away. The Virgin shrugged and walked back to the throne. Livia was left standing in the ashes of her dreams. She’d clawed her way up from the streets, but now her gains were crumbling in her grasp.

* * *

One girl was on sentry duty in the palace courtyard. She paced around uneasily, her mantle gathered close against the cold. The din of battle hung above the rooftops, but the avenue was like a cemetery. She peered out through the iron gates. The concourse was deserted. She had the queasy thought that she’d been left to hold the palace on her own.

Shivering, she turned away and gripped her javelin tighter. The bitter wind was cutting through her cloak. She wore barbarian breeches and a skimpy leather jerkin, but her midriff was exposed and felt the chill.

She was thinking of fires and feasting-halls when she heard a thud behind her, like something dropping off the guardhouse roof. The sound a leaping cat might make if it was human sized. Before the startled girl could turn, a muscled arm was wrapped around her neck.

Zoe jerked her iron blade across the sentry’s throat. The Virgin’s cry deflated to a croak. She squirmed and flailed in Zoe’s grasp till crimson soaked her cleavage. Then she drooped like a rag doll. The Greek girl eased her body to the ground.

The courtyard lay abandoned underneath the livid sky. There was just the flicker of a dying torch. Zoe wiped her dagger and picked up the dead guard’s javelin. It had a reassuring feel – like the trident-staff she’d had to leave behind. The slender point was longer than her forearm, with a spherical lead weight to balance it. Zoe gripped it in both hands. She slipped across the yard and climbed the steps.

The outside of the palace was imposing; the interior felt as eerie as a tomb. The painted walls looked filthy in the half-light. The ceilings were so high, they made the shadows overhead resemble clouds. It was the grandest house she’d ever been in. A fitting mausoleum for the ruler of the world.

She heard a ghostly giggle and her fine hairs stood up straight. She padded cautiously towards the sound. It was coming from the kitchens, where the fires had long gone out. A tipsy pair of guards were making piglets of themselves in Caesar’s pantry.

The sniggering blonde girls looked round as Zoe crossed the threshold. Their smiles were still congealing as she struck. She thrust the javelin through one Virgin’s belly and the girl spat out a mouthful of red wine. Zoe jerked the weapon free as the other guard stood gawking. Her breasts were bare and smeared with food; Zoe drove the spike into her yielding flesh. The girl shrieked miserably as it transfixed her. Her violent death throes shuddered up the shaft.

The bloody iron sucked out again. The young corpse hit the flagstones. Her scream still echoed through the empty house. Zoe darted back along the passageway again. She came into the entrance hall, and found two more praetorians in her path.

The cry had brought them running. They’d already drawn their swords. Zoe jabbed the point at them, and the blonde girls skittered back, then started stalking. The three of them lunged back and forth across the draughty atrium. Zoe’s heart was in her throat. She knew there would be others here in moments.

She feinted at one girl, then launched herself towards the other. Made to stab at her, then swung the shaft around and up. It caught the girl off guard and knocked her backwards, while Zoe swung to face the next attack.

The first praetorian hacked at her, and Zoe blocked the blow. The long sword was deflected but the javelin broke in two. Zoe and the guard both lurched. The Greek girl was the quicker to recover. She jabbed the Virgin’s stomach with the spike of splintered wood. The blonde grimaced with pain and doubled over.

Zoe danced away from her. The other guard was lunging. She sensed a third girl coming down the stairs. Her left hand tossed the javelin’s pointed end; her right hand caught it. She backhanded the leaden ball against the Virgin’s jaw. The impact snapped the girl’s head round, blood slopping from her mouth. Zoe leaned into her swing, and the third praetorian slashed at her and missed.

The broken shaft flipped up again, and Zoe seized it just behind the weight. She plunged the weapon over-arm into the last girl’s chest. The spike sank in for half its length. The Virgin’s mouth dropped open. "Eurh!" she grunted stupidly, her blue eyes staring even as she slumped.

Zoe’s skin was greased with sweat. She drew her gladius. Her body trembled, hot with lust. She had to feel that rush of blood again. Leaving the bodies where they sprawled, she moved on through the palace. Livia was here somewhere. A full-strength cohort wouldn’t save her now.

The noise of the fight had carried to the throne room. Livia frowned and turned her head. Arminia’s pale eyes narrowed warily. The rattle of the dice seemed jarring in the sudden stillness. They lay where they had fallen as the two girls by the table straightened up. One was a Thracian mercenary, her dark hair in a topknot, her sulky brown eyes lined with too much kohl. Tugging her cropped jerkin down to keep her breasts in check, she took her scabbard from the tabletop. The palace had gone quiet again, apart from the faint moaning of the wind. The blonde girls listened to the hush, then broke it with the rasp of their own blades.

Arminia jerked her head. "Go on, and see who dares approach us." The other Virgins padded from the room. Livia watched uneasily, Sophia at her elbow. The dying torch flames guttered in the draught.

Zoe was still prowling through the maze of gilded rooms. Another Virgin blundered into her. The girl must have been woken by the clamour: she was naked and her hair was in her eyes. But she’d picked a sword and buckler up in preference to her garments, and muzzy though she was, she struck at once.

Zoe twisted sideways and the girl’s blade gashed her ribs. It felt like she’d been touched with a hot iron. "Gah!" she gasped and lashed out with the gladius. The Virgin blocked it with her shield, her heavy bosom trembling from the blow.

The pain made Zoe furious. She launched a kick beneath the blonde girl’s guard. Her hobnailed sandal struck the muscled belly and the Virgin folded forward with a whoop. Zoe knocked the shield aside before she could recover, and drove her gladius through one dangling breast. Her victim wailed in agony, then choked as Zoe ripped the blade back out.

Her cry brought more guards running. One girl slipped in the spilled blood. Zoe pounced and slashed at her, bisecting the dark dimple of her navel. The Virgin groaned and doubled up, but Zoe caught and held her. Clutching a handful of blonde hair, she thrust her blade right up beneath the breastplate.

The girl died with a scarlet scream and Zoe wrenched the sword out. Letting the body fall, she turned at bay. The other girls were crowding in, obstructing one another. Some were flushed and clumsy from the Emperor’s own wine.

Zoe’s mind had emptied like a cornered animal’s. There wasn’t time for thought in the arena. She registered the tender flesh within reach of her blade. Baring her teeth, she sprang at them, her onslaught like a blizzard of bare steel.

The Virgins slumped with open mouths as Zoe carved right through them. Her left hand gripped her dagger now, and neither of the blades so much as paused. Girls with breastplates gurgled as she slashed their throats and bellies. Those without protection squealed as her sword and dagger tore into their tits. Blood splashed on the whitewashed walls and spattered Zoe’s cheek. Her head roared like the cheering of the mob.

One of the guards retreated through a doorway, and Zoe slashed and elbowed after her. The flailings of the Virgin’s long-sword kept her at arm’s length, but the blonde girl should have looked over her shoulder. She stumbled backwards down three steps and landed in dark water. The marbled room was one of Caesar’s baths.

The water looked as cold as the Aegean in December. The bedraggled girl began to clamber out. Zoe lunged and stabbed at her large breasts in their wet jerkin. The Virgin moaned and toppled back, her blood dissolving in the chilly depths.

Someone else came down the steps as Zoe waded clear. The dark-haired Thracian girl splashed after her. They sliced at one another in the cold embrace of water. The clash of sword blades echoed round the bath.

Zoe slashed the surface, spraying water in the mercenary’s face. The girl recoiled, blinking, and she dived full-length into the murky bath. The Thracian tried to hack at her, but the water blocked her swing. Then Zoe rose between her legs and drove her blade into the girl’s bare belly.

The Thracian’s scream rebounded off the water and the walls. She flailed at her opponent wretchedly. Zoe kept on thrusting till the point was braced on bone, then forced herself back up, her biceps straining. The dark-haired girl was hoisted up to wriggle on the gladius. She kicked the water into foam, and howled until her throat filled up with blood.

Zoe let her flop back down and dragged the weapon out. The cold bath was becoming warmer now. She waded through its crimson swirls and sloshed back up the steps. The other Virgins lay where they had slumped.

Her sodden cloak and tunic clung to her. She peeled them off. The air was cold against her skin, but the blood was rushing hotly through her veins. Still wearing her soaked loincloth, she moved onward through the palace, leaving pools of pinkish water in her wake.

In the throne room, Livia had begun to back away, towards the staircase to the upper levels. The clash of arms had faded to a cold, unnerving silence. The palace felt more like a catacomb. Arminia wasn’t smiling now. She’d drawn her patterned sword. There were two more Virgins guarding them, and even they were starting to look scared.

They listened to the stealthy creak of sandals. Arminia jerked her head towards the stairs. "Go on and hide yourself in Caesar’s bedroom. We’ll call you when we’ve settled things down here."

She spoke as to a spoilt child, and Livia couldn’t keep herself from pouting. Nonetheless, she moved towards the stairs. Sophia hesitated. Livia gestured irritably. Her maid cringed like a cornered rabbit. "Mistress, we’ll be trapped up there," she whined.

Livia’s dark eyes glared at her. Arminia and her Virgins braced themselves. Sophia glanced from one face to the other. Her frayed nerve snapped completely and she bolted from the room.

Zoe was crouching in the annex like a predator. The maid came skidding to a stop. She gave a sob of fear. Zoe looked into her face and screamed ferociously. Sophia screamed back just as loudly, then went pale and slumped in a dead faint. Zoe darted forward past her body and loped into the throne room just beyond.

She heard a gasp of horror and saw Livia on the stairs. Zoe barely glanced at her, but felt a bitter pleasure flood her heart. She focused her attention on the three remaining Virgins. One girl held a javelin, and the other two were levelling their swords. Zoe crept around them like a panther stalking prey: her wet breasts dripping water and her wicked pair of weapons oozing blood.

Livia was withdrawing up the staircase. The girl with the javelin covered her retreat. Zoe wasn’t sure if she’d been recognised or not. But Arminia had remembered who she was.

The leader of the Iron Virgins eyed her haughtily, that white-gold curl still hanging down her nose. "I knew you were a natural," she murmured. "A shame you’ll never get to join my Guards ..." She matched the Greek girl’s feline prowl, her body straining at the silken tunic. The other guard was sidling in, and Zoe’s bosom heaved expectantly.

She reached the table by the throne, and lashed out without warning. Her gladius struck a silver cup and sent it flying at Arminia’s face. The Virgin leader ducked and Zoe sprang onto the table. She kicked a plate of food across the room. The other Virgin flinched away, and Zoe leapt towards her. She battered through the blonde girl’s guard, and drove the gladius into her gut.

The young praetorian’s mouth became an O of shocked dismay. Zoe left the sword in place and thrust her dagger through the girl’s right breast. The Virgin jerked, her fingers loosening around her sword. Zoe snatched it from her grip, reared back and brought the long blade scything round. It sliced clean through the girl’s swan neck and sent her blonde head tumbling to the tiles. The punctured torso slumped aside, like a statue being toppled from its plinth.

Zoe swung around to meet Arminia’s snarling rush. Their swords met with a scattering of sparks. The impact bounced the girls apart. They lunged and slashed their way around the room. Arminia had taken off her heavy bearskin cloak, and her nipples showed like coins through the silk tunic. Strands of Zoe’s soaking hair were hanging in her eyes, but she didn’t have a chance to push them back.

The leader of the Virgins was a warrior born and bred, but Zoe had been forged by the arena. And while barbarians fought for gold or glory, the gladiator-gypsy fought to kill. She’d walked a long and bloody road to get here, and nobody was going to stop her now. She hacked Arminia’s sword aside, then raised her blade and brought it swinging down.

The weapon cleaved the Virgin’s skull and sank into her brow. Arminia’s eyes glazed over instantly. Then they fluttered closed as blood came spilling down her face, to splash like wine on her protruding tongue. The blade had split the blonde curl on her forehead. Her hair grew dark and matted as she took a blind step backwards and collapsed.

Zoe didn’t even pause to wrest the weapon free. She went for the last guard with her bare hands. The Virgin was retreating up the staircase, her javelin held in an unsteady grip. Livia cringed behind her like a nervous animal, eyes wide with horror at the sight below. Zoe climbed the marble steps towards them. She let the Virgin see her bloody palms.

"My quarrel’s not with you," she murmured calmly. "If you put the javelin down, I’ll let you go."

Livia pouted wretchedly. The Virgin chewed her lip. But she saw that Zoe was unarmed, and couldn’t be expected to give way. She jabbed the point at Zoe’s breast, then thrust towards her stomach. Zoe dodged and grasped the shaft to yank her shocked opponent down the steps. She swung the stumbling Virgin round before she could recover and wedged the javelin underneath her jaw. Bracing one knee against her spine, she bent the blonde girl backwards. The praetorian squirmed and gurgled as the pressure crushed her throat.

Zoe glared over the doomed girl’s shoulder, and recognition flooded Livia’s face. Her mouth dropped open wordlessly. Her eyes grew dark as holes. "By the Gods …" she whispered, still retreating. But then a flash of rage consumed her fear.

Zoe met her gaze with satisfaction. She wrenched the shaft and felt the blonde go limp. Reaching down, she pulled a dagger from the dead girl’s belt and threw it on the step at Livia’s feet. Then she let the Virgin slump, and gripped the javelin in both hands again.

Livia snatched the dagger up and flourished it at Zoe. The veneer of wealth and breeding peeled away. Despite the rich blue gown and classy hairstyle, she was still a vicious harlot underneath.

Slowly Zoe climbed the stairs towards her. Her bare breasts panted as she filled her lungs. Livia hissed and backed away, then darted down the passage. She fled into the nearest room, and Zoe followed her inexorably.

The chamber was luxurious, with painted plaster walls, but the winter daylight leached the life from it. Zoe paused despite herself as Livia turned at bay. The furnishings were from another world. The room boasted the largest bed that she had ever seen. A bower for the Emperor himself.

Livia backed around the bed, and dragged a sheet off it. She held it bunched in her left hand as Zoe stalked across the room towards her. The Greek girl feinted with the javelin. Livia skittered clear – then sprang onto the bed and threw the sheet. It unfurled over Zoe like the net of a retiarius. She cursed as she was tangled in its folds. Livia pounced and stabbed at her. She felt a thumping impact in her side. Blood soaked redly through the linen. Zoe struck out blindly with the shaft.

She fought clear of the shroud as Livia slashed at her again. Zoe blocked her with the shaft, but the woman’s furious onslaught brought her down. They wrestled on the mosaic floor like cats sewn in a sack. Livia hacked at Zoe’s face, but the javelin thwarted her.

Zoe hiked her knee into the other woman’s belly, then let the javelin go and seized her throat. Croaking, Livia slashed her ribs. The Greek girl clenched her teeth. A cut to the biceps broke her grip and Livia struggled clear. Zoe clawed at the blue gown and ripped it off her back.

Livia’s eyes were like a rabid vixen’s. She scrambled up, her firm breasts joggling. "You bitch," she spat, still brandishing the dagger. "I should have had the flesh scourged off your bones!" Zoe rolled aside and snatched the javelin. As Livia pounced triumphantly, she swung the iron point into her path.

Livia started wailing just before the spike impaled her. Her cry became a squeal as it sank home. She sliced the air despairingly, then let the dagger drop and clutched the levelled javelin with both hands. Zoe rose onto her knees, then pushed herself back upright. The point was twisted in the wound and Livia gave a bleat of misery.

Zoe eyed her heaving breasts, and lust went surging through her. She drove the woman back against the wall. Livia screamed in anguish as the javelin skewered her. A bloody drizzle spattered Zoe’s skin. Her muscles bulged with effort as she forced the spike through flesh. A throb of crimson splashed from Livia’s mouth. Zoe kept on shoving till the javelin was stuck fast and her victim’s head was bowed submissively.

The pegs that held the spike in place were starting to come loose. She gave the shaft a twist and wrenched it free. Livia’s body slumped but stayed half-upright. The iron point had pinned her to the wall. Zoe wavered, breathing hard, then raised the woman’s head. Livia had died screaming, and her final cry was frozen on her face.

Zoe let the dark head droop. She felt completely drained. Sweat had soaked her naked skin. She turned and groped her way out of the room. Her mind was like a dried-out sponge, no thoughts in it at all. Her limbs were weak from loss of blood. She wanted to curl up and drift away.

She sat on the stairs and hung her head until her strength had rallied. Then she clambered to her feet and shivered in the cold. She put Arminia’s fur cloak on over her sodden loincloth, and pulled her sword and dagger from the headless Virgin’s corpse. Gingerly she went outside, into the wintry courtyard. Crowds were cheering in the distance, like spectators at the bloody Games.

* * *

Rome fell to the rebels like a rotten apple falling from a tree. The legions smashed into its core and slaughtered the Vitellian loyalists. The mob enjoyed the carnage from the sidelines, not caring who would gain the upper hand. The City had become one great arena, with blood and butchery on every street.

The emperor Vitellius was rooted out and killed. His reign was swept away like summer’s leaves. Dead material, twisting in the cold December wind. Vespasian was the new name on the streets.

In January he took possession of the ravaged City. The year of civil wars was at an end. He called for Games to celebrate his triumph. The crowd looked forward to reliving it.

The gladiatorial schools began preparing for the show. As well as criminals and slaves, they had some volunteers for their ranks. Dregs of the defeated army. Unpaid mercenaries. Men with nothing left to lose, and men who had the urge to risk their all.

There were female would-be fighters, too, but most were turned away. The selectors didn’t try to hide their scorn. Lustful high-born ladies had no place in the arena, and common whores would be more use in bed. But sometimes there were girls who made a shrewd lanista pause. Girls who moved with feline grace and had a different hunger in their eyes.

Girls like the slightly-built brunette who waited now outside the barracks gate.

She had a fine-boned, handsome face and eyes as dark as olives. They didn’t flinch from the selector’s gaze. She wore a slave-girl’s tunic underneath a bearskin cloak, but her poise was full of untamed confidence.

The lanista sat back in his chair and eyed her thoughtfully. "I don’t need amateurs," he said. "Nor girls who brawl with daggers in back alleys."

She brushed the heavy cloak aside to show the sword she carried on her hip. The hilt was polished ebony. He guessed it was a tribune’s gladius. Doubtless she had picked it up after the recent fighting. But something in her steady gaze told him that she was comfortable with it.

"So. You know my terms," he said. "Walk through that gate and you belong to me. As if you were a soldier in the army. I’ll make sure you’re clothed and fed. You bring me victories."

She nodded equably, but something flickered in her eyes. A hint of eagerness, perhaps: as if the path ahead excited her.

"Achillia, a Greek," he murmured, writing. Then he peered at her again. "Perhaps I’ve heard of you?"

Zoe shrugged. "I don’t think so." She patted the black gladius. "But you shall." And now, at last, a thin smile touched her features. Still wearing it, she walked on through the gate.