Arabo and I exchange glances.

To the girl, I say, “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

She gives a single nod and steps away.

“She could have information about Drusus,” Arabo says in a hushed voice.

I throw a wary glance at the girl. “Or she could be collecting and killing anyone involved in Verina’s death.” Or summoning me back to my original master.

“So what do we do?”

I gnaw my lower lip for a moment. “I don’t think there’s a choice. I have to go and see what she has to say.” Or what he has to say. But it could be something about Drusus. Gods, please . . .

“You’re probably right,” Arabo says. “I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you.” I wince and push myself to my feet. My back stings and burns as I pull on the tunic, and the sutures itch beneath the coarse linen, but scourged flesh will draw too much attention outside the ludus. Even inside the ludus.

Arabo and I approach the girl, who is waiting for us by the window, staring out as she chews her thumbnail.

“All right,” I say. “We’ll go.”

Sidonia stiffens. “Not both of you. Only the one called Saevius.”

Arabo and I glance at each other.

“I’m not going without him,” I say. “He can wait outside the brothel, but there are too many men between here and there who might want us both dead.”

“Fine,” she says. “But he does not come into the brothel.”

“Agreed,” I whisper, and wonder just what in the name of the gods I’m walking into.

More than once, I consider turning back instead of following Sidonia. Arabo is nervous too; I can see it in the glances he throws me every so often. This could be a waste of time. It could be nothing at all. This was dangerous. Gods, what are we doing?

But this woman, this madam, might know something of Drusus. Maybe he’s alive somewhere, and if he is, maybe she knows.

Or it’s Calvus. It’s been so long since he’s summoned me, and now his wife is dead. He’s either here to demand answers, or he’s here to kill me.

Fortune, Jupiter, anyone who might be charitable, please watch over me, and wherever Drusus is, watch over him.

Before we left the ludus, Arabo gave me a small dagger, just in case. It’s tucked discreetly beneath my clothes, and I keep my thumb against the hilt just to reassure me it’s still there.

We arrive at the brothel, and Arabo waits outside as Sidonia leads me in.

The air is rich with perfumes and thick with sweat. Several of the whores lounge on pillows and furs in this room, drinking wine from gaudy cups as they wait for the next man in need of their services.

“Mother Lucretia,” Sidonia says. “I’ve brought him as you requested.”

“Leta,” the madam says sharply without looking up. “Be done with it.”

One of the whores rises. Her dark hair falls over part of her face, obscuring most of her features. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, just waves a hand and starts down the hall. She keeps her other arm tucked protectively against her side, and she walks with a slight limp. From this vantage point, she’s lovely—slight in the frame with a green silk dress clinging to her smooth, gently curving waist. It’s a wonder she’s not occupied with more lucrative matters than speaking to me, and I pity her whatever an enthusiastic man must have done to her to make her move so gingerly.

And as she leads me down the hall, nerves prickle the back of my neck: who is waiting for me? Calvus. It has to be Calvus. I pray it’s Ataiun or any of Calvus’s other servants. Anyone but the man himself.

I casually slide my hand over the dagger hidden beneath my tunic, making doubly sure it’s still there. Amorous sounds come from some rooms. From others, the low murmur of voices. One man roars loud enough to shake the building, but I can’t bring myself to be jealous of him or whoever he’s fucking. My body wouldn’t stand for it now anyway, and even if it would, worry weighs too heavily on me to feign lust for whomever offered the right amount of coin.

The woman stops in front of a rickety wooden door that’s no different from all the others. She opens it, steps inside, and leaves it open for me to follow.

A couple of oil lamps and a shuttered window offer just enough dim light for me to make out my surroundings and a few of its details. Our feet are silent on the thick furs carpeting the floor. I pull the door shut behind us, eyeing the shadows for any signs we’re not alone.

Calvus isn’t here. Neither is Ataiun.

I’m relieved, but confused. If they’re not here, then why am I?

Looking at Leta’s back, I quietly say, “You had a message for me?”

Slowly, she turns around, and with a slender hand, she pushes the fringe of hair out of the way and lets the flickering light illuminate her face.

My knees almost buckle.

The long, false hair and the painted skin aren’t enough to mask the familiar face, especially the blue eyes I’d know even at a thousand paces. It takes all the air in my lungs to whisper the single word: “Drusus?”

“Yes,” he says just as softly.

I approach slowly, cautiously, narrowing the space that separates us, as if one false move will jar me out of this dream, and yes, it’s him. It’s truly him. When we’re but inches apart, I force a breath into my chest as I reach for him. “Drusus, you’re . . . you’re—”

“A woman?”

“—alive.” I kiss him. He’s still for a moment, frozen in my arms, but then he sighs and surrenders to my kiss, sliding one hand up my arm while the other remains tucked against his side.

Gods, he’s really here. He’s really alive. I let the taste of his mouth intoxicate me, and as I cradle his neck in one hand, I let the other carefully roam his body just to be sure he truly exists.

Without his ever-present breastplate, the truth reveals itself in the softly curving waist beneath my palm and the gentle swell of breasts against my chest, and in my mind I see the woman I followed into this room.

I draw back and look down at Drusus, letting my eyes confirm what my hands have already discovered. There’s no mistaking it.

This is no disguise.

“Drusus, I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

“Your eyes don’t deceive you.” He—she sounds exhausted. Resigned. And still exactly like Drusus has always sounded, that voice that’s a note higher than a Roman man’s, and I realize now is just a note lower than a woman’s.

Shifting her gaze away, she folds her arms across her chest, wincing as she moves her left arm.

“But . . .” I moisten my lips. So many questions. So, so many questions. The one I finally speak is, “What are you doing here?”

She looks at me, eyes wide like that wasn’t what she expected me to ask.

I shift my weight. “What’s going on?”

Drusus glances at the door through which we came. “Lucretia owed me a favor. She doesn’t know exactly what’s going on or that I am Drusus, only that she’s keeping me here as a favor. I came here because no one will think to look for me . . .” Her eyes dart downward at her clothing, and her cheeks darken. “No one will think to look for me here. Like this.”

“But you wanted me to find you.”

This woman before me nods and takes a deep breath, and when our eyes meet, I don’t understand how I’m looking at a woman. The piercing blue eyes are just as they’ve ever been, even if they’re ringed with kohl and framed by a wig. The very same blue eyes I saw when we sparred, when Drusus fought as well as any man could, when he stared me down in the pit, when he cut down gladiators twice his size and put lanistae in their place at the arena.

And the voice, though it’s unsteady and quiet, is the same one I’ve known all this time: “Saevius, I need your help.”

I shift again. “With . . .?”

“I need . . .” She cuts herself off. Cursing under her breath, she steps back, and with some more cursing, the likes of which I’ve heard a thousand times at the ludus, she unpins the wig and pushes it off. My breath catches; though the body is still unmistakably that of a woman, the face is now even more the Drusus I thought was dead. A man . . . a woman . . . I don’t . . . I don’t understand.