Taking the book into his hands, Vespasian gave Persephone and Lucius a wary look. Persephone pursed her lips; Lucius raised an eyebrow. Vespasian returned his gaze to his cleric.

“It has been some time since she has spoken,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Highness,” Gracchus said in his gravely voice. “And her newest pronouncements are not reassuring.”

Vespasian looked at the book to make sure that Gracchus’ personal red wax signet seal was still intact. “Is the news bad?” he asked.

Gracchus paused to look out over the restless crowd. In some areas, squabbles had broken out over the best seats, and the widespread drunkenness and debauchery that usually accompanied the games had begun sooner than usual.

“The news is distressing,” he said finally. “Perhaps you should start the games before reading the diptych. The crowd becomes restless.”

Vespasian shook his head. “I will read it now. Let the mob wait a little longer.”

With a snap of his fingers, he called Gaius, the Games Master, to his side. Once a slave and arena combatant himself, the grizzled old man had long ago lost one eye and several fingers to the games before being given his freedom by one of Vespasian’s predecessors. Granting freedom to a slave, criminal, or enemy of the empire who had fought well in the arena was rare, and only the emperor could bestow such an honor. In his twelve years as Rustannica’s ruler, Vespasian had never done so.

Now Vespasian looked up into the Games Master’s remaining brown eye. “Give them the bread,” he ordered. “That should placate them for a while.”

“My liege,” the man answered with a small bow. He turned and quickly walked to one corner of the box. There stood a series of tall golden staffs that could be easily seen from the arena. Mounted on each staff was a three-sided gilded sign that could be swiveled to signal various commands to ever-watchful centurions prowling the arena floor. Selecting one of the signs, Gaius presented one of its faces to the arena floor.