"It was so thoughtful of you to write," she said. The brittle formality was its own message. "I do apologize, of course, that I was with my family for a short while that night when you felt such an… urgent need for my company." She paused. "Or for that of any woman who might offer her body to a celebrated charioteer."

"Thenai's," he said.

And stopped. She had, he belatedly saw, a knife in her right hand. And so he finally understood what this encounter really was. He closed his eyes. There had always been this possibility, in the life he'd lived.

"Yes?" she said, the tone as detached, as composed as ever. "I thought I heard someone say my name."

He looked at her. He could not have named or even numbered the women who had shared his nights over the years. All the years. Not one had found a way to unsettle him as this one had, and still did. He felt old suddenly, and tired. His wound hurt. He remembered the same feeling, the night he'd gone looking for her. His shoulder aching in the night wind.

"It was me," he said quietly. "I said your name. I say it most nights, Thenai's."

"Really? How diverting that must be for the woman lying with you at the time," she said.

The two gatekeepers were watching them. One still had his mouth agape. It could have been amusing. The wretched physician remained a precise, polite distance away. It was probable that none of them had seen the dagger in the soft light.

Scortius said, "I went to the house of Shirin of the Greens to present her with an offer from Astorgus."

"Ah. He wanted to bed her?"

"You are being unkind."

He winced at what flashed in her eyes then, realized anew just how enraged she was.

The lifelong mask of control, of absolute, flawless poise: what happened to such a person when something broke right through. He drew a too-deep breath, felt the shock of pain in his ribs, said, "He wanted to invite her, discreetly, to join the Blues. I had promised to add my voice to the proposal."

"Your voice," she said. There was a glitter in her eyes. He had never seen it before. "Just your voice? In the middle of the night. Climbing up to her bedroom. How… persuasive."

"It is the truth," he said.

"Indeed. And did you bed her?"

She had no right to ask. To answer was a betrayal of another woman who had offered him wit and kindness and shared pleasure.

It never occurred to him not to answer, or to lie. "Yes," he said. "Unexpectedly."

"Ah. Unexpectedly." The knife was very still in her hand.

"Where did they hurt you?" she asked.

There were noises now from one of the tunnels. The first dancers had left the sands. Beyond her, through the Processional Gates, he could see the eight chariots of the first race wheeling back around and up towards the slant of the start line.

And suddenly it seemed to him that it might actually be enough, what he had done with his life thus far. That the look in this woman's eyes spoke to a level of pain he'd caused-an unfair burden, perhaps, but how did fairness enter into life? — and he could die here, after all, accepting it from her, in this place. He had never expected to grow old.

He said, "Left side. A stab wound, broken ribs around it."

All he had wanted to do once, long ago, was race horses.

She nodded, biting at her lower lip thoughtfully, a single line across her brow. "How unfortunate. I have a knife."

"I did see that."

"If I wished to hurt you very, very much before you died…?"

"You would stab me here," he said, and showed her. There was blood, in any case. It could be seen welling through the blue tunic.

She looked at him. "You wish to die?"

He considered it then. "Not really, no. But I would not want to live if it caused you so much grief"

She drew a breath then. Courage and pain and a kind of… madness. That fierce, never-before-seen glinting in her eye. "You can't imagine I'd be long behind you."

He closed his eyes again, opened them. "Thenai's, there is… so much wrong in that. But I am prepared for whatever you desire."

The knife still did not move. "You should have lied to me, just now. When I asked."

So small he had been, that first time his father let him sit astride a stallion. They'd had to lift him up, his legs sticking out almost straight when he was seated on the big horse. Laughter at that. Then a sudden silence from the men around them, when the animal grew still under the touch of the child on its back. In Soriyya. Far away. Long ago.

A lifetime. He shook his head. "You shouldn't have asked," he said. It was truth, he would not lie.

She drew back the blade then. He was looking straight into her eyes, at what was-so terribly-revealed there when another lifetime's composure fell entirely away.

And because he was doing so, almost falling into her gaze, entangled in her and in memory, oblivious even to the hard upward movement of the small hand that held the knife, he didn't see the swift-striding man come from behind her then and seize her by the wrist, screening the gesture with his own body.

He twisted. The knife fell.

She made no sound, after the first sharp whimper of shock.

"My lady," said Crescens of the Greens, "forgive me."

She looked at him. Scortius looked at him. The three of them stood alone in a huge, dim space. Crescens said, "No man who ever lived is worth what this would mean to you. Put up your hood, please, my lady. There will be people here very soon. If he has offended, there are so many of us who will deal with that."

It was uncanny-and the memory was to stay with Scortius-how swiftly her face changed, how the conduit to a kind of fever in her soul slammed shut to the world as Thenai's looked at the Greens" charioteer. She didn't even give any sign that her wrist was paining her, though it had to be. He had moved very fast, twisted hard.

"You misunderstand," she murmured. And even smiled. A perfect court smile, detached and meaningless. The iron bars of control crashing down again. Scortius actually shivered, seeing it, hearing her voice change. He was aware of the rapid thread of his pulse. A moment ago he had actually expected…

She put up her hood. Said: "It seems my wayward stepson played a role in our mutual friend's injury. He has told my husband a version of the tale. It is not believed. Before we punish the boy-the Senator is furious, of course-I wanted to ascertain from Scortius himself just what took place. It involved a knife, you see, and an allegation of a stabbing."

It was nonsense. Words spoken to have words spoken. A tale that could not possibly hold, unless one wished to allow it to hold. Crescens of the Greens might be a brawling, hard man on the track and in the taverns and the in Green compound, and he'd only been a single year in Sarantium, but he was First of the Greens, had been invited to court by now, spent a winter in the aristocratic circles the leading racers came to know. He'd have seen his share of bedrooms, too, Scortius thought.

The man knew what this was, how to conduct himself.

His apology was passionate, immediate-and brief, for there were loud sounds now in the southern tunnels. "You must allow me," said Crescens, "to call upon you, I beg, to more fully express my contrition. I appear to have blundered like an untutored provincial. My lady, I am ashamed." He looked over. "And I must return to the sands, while you should-if I may urge you-allow your escort to take you from this space, which will be no place at all for a lady in a moment."

They could hear rolling wheels and boisterous laughter around the dark curve of the largest tunnel. Scortius had said nothing, had not even moved. The knife lay on the ground. He bent now, carefully, and picked it up with his right hand. Gave it back to Thenai's. Their fingers touched.