She still looked at her histories from time to time, but the words all seemed lifeless on the page. Why had she ever slaved over those flat, dead accounts? I’m working on something much better than a scroll now.
Marcella patted her hair, refreshed, and pulled back the curtains of the litter. Perhaps a little shopping in the Forum before the heat of the day settled in? As she stepped down, she saw a familiar head of pale hair in the throng of housewives and shopkeepers. “Diana!”
Diana waved, loping over with two slaves trotting behind, and Marcella smiled in greeting. She no longer felt irritated by Diana, or even envious of her. All the freedom you want, and you use it to make horses run in circles, Marcella thought tolerantly. I make emperors run in circles.
“Shopping?” Marcella greeted her. “I didn’t think you knew what shopping was.”
“Father wants a new block of marble from Carrara.” Diana pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “I said I’d order it for him. Who was the boy getting out of your litter?”
“What boy?” Marcella said vaguely.
“Just now. Dark hair. Vespasian’s son?”
“Oh, him.” Marcella laughed, carefully careless. “He’s been in love with me all year, didn’t you know? Wants me to divorce Lucius and run away to a life of eternal bliss.”
“Mmm.” Diana paused to finger a little stone carving of a horse, and Marcella let out a breath. Diana might be stupid, but she was observant. Best not to forget that. “Oh, look at these.” Marcella tugged her cousin toward a stall with polished brass bowls and figurines. “I suppose you’re off to the circus next?” she asked brightly, fingering a gleaming platter.
“What’s the use of going to the races these days?” Diana demanded savagely.
“You’re not still angry with the Blues for taking all the races at Volcanalia, are you?” Volcanalia had been quite a celebration this year—fish from the Tiber had been ceremonially thrown onto a fire to appease Vulcan, god of fire and forges, and Vitellius had needed no excuse to turn the festival into a citywide fish bake. Everybody had enjoyed themselves but Diana, who had been spitting curses as she watched the Blues win every heat in the day’s races. “You can’t win them all, you know.”
“You can if you’re the Blues.” Diana glared at her own reflection in a polished copper pan, her mirrored face distorted and savage. “Did you know that damned Fabius Valens is having all the races fixed just to keep Vitellius happy?”
“So?” Marcella shrugged. “As long as racing has existed, there have been fixed races.”
“Oh, a race here and there gets thrown,” Diana snarled. “But not all the races. Not every single one!”
“So, tell the Emperor.”
“He just laughs and says I hate eating mud now that his Blues are winning.” Diana folded her arms across her breasts, callused fingers drumming. “It’s not just bribes to keep the other factions losing. A charioteer for the Whites died last week—he dared beat the Blues, and Fabius had the Praetorians beat him to death. As an object lesson to the rest.”
“It won’t be forever,” Marcella said, amused.
“And what happens to my Anemoi in the meantime?” Diana whirled. “They don’t know who’s Emperor, or that they race for the wrong faction. They just want to win. You know what happens when you teach horses how to lose? Their hearts break.” She shook her head, furious. “And I tell you, I’m not putting up with it!”
“What are you going to do?” Marcella laughed, but all she saw was the whisk of Diana’s fair hair like a horse’s tail whipping around a corner as she stamped to the next booth. Marcella caught up, impulsively slipping her arm through her cousin’s.
“It’ll be better soon, you’ll see.” If Vespasian toppled Vitellius, surely no one would be bothering to fix chariot races anymore. “I promise.”
“Let’s hope,” Diana scowled, and they walked arm in arm back to Uncle Paris’s house, where Marcella marveled over the latest batch of carvings.
“Though why on earth does this bust of me have snakes for hair, Uncle Paris?”
He surveyed her with those cloudy blue-green eyes so like his daughter’s. “You tell me.”
“How should I know what’s going on in your head?” Marcella laughed.
“I wonder if anyone knows what’s going on in yours.”
Marcella laughed again and took herself home. There were a few discreet letters she could write, pushing one or two indecisive men in Vitellius’s entourage toward a change of heart . . .
Seventeen
PULL the Reds out of the races today.” Diana paced to the other end of the small faction office. “Xerxes, you have to!”
“I tried.” The Reds faction director flung down his stylus. “For a big day like today, we’ve all been ordered to run.”
“Then at least jog them at the back! Make it into a training run—”
“No, we’re to make a good show of it. Right till the end, when everyone leans on the reins and lets the Blues scamper off in front.” Xerxes shook his head, disgusted.
Diana nibbled her thumbnail. “I can’t watch them dump one more race.”
“Well, you’ll have to. We all have to.” Xerxes heaved his hard bulk out of the chair. “It’s a different world, Lady. We’ll do as we’re told.”
“Isn’t there one charioteer who would risk trying to win?” she burst out.
“After what happened to that boy who drove for the Whites? It’s hard enough finding a driver who won’t pull up after three laps just to make sure.”
“This isn’t happening.” Diana closed her eyes. “This is not happening.”
“Well, it is. And I’ve got work to do, Lady, so if you’ll pardon me—”
“How long do you think we’ll have an audience for this puppet show, if no one does anything? We have to—”
“We? You might be the Emperor’s pet, Lady, but you’re not one of us.” Normally Xerxes tolerated Diana well enough, but now his face looked like a stone as he jerked his slab of a chin at the door. “Get out, Lady. You don’t belong here.”
Speechless, Diana wandered out into the faction courtyard, where grooms and page boys rushed back and forth. It was autumn now, the air crisp and cool—and the rumors flying. There had been a battle up north. A victory, a loss, no one knew. Not even Marcella, who knew everything these days. But Vitellius had decided it was a victory, that his armies had crushed the Moesian legions, and the Circus Maximus was aggressively decorated to celebrate. Colorful banners flapped at every post, the spina was draped in flowers, and a flood of plebs in their holiday best and patricians in their finest silks jammed the tiered seats high. There would be smaller races all through the early afternoon, but the winner of the final crowning race would accept the victory palm from the Emperor’s own hand and take away the largest purse in the history of the Circus Maximus.
On such a day Diana should have been excited, flying everywhere in a fever of anticipation. On such a day the grooms should have been boasting and laying bets, the stable boys careening around in such excitement that they had to be smacked half a dozen times before they settled to work, and the charioteers should have alternately been bragging and praying as they waited their instructions. But all she could think of was the Volcanalia races, when she’d watched her Anemoi take the lead only to be muscled down in the last lap so the Blues could breeze ahead. Diana had escaped the Emperor’s box and run home all the way, weeping tears of pure rage. It had even sucked some of the pleasure out of her lessons with Llyn. “What’s the point of learning to drive a tight turn?” she’d burst out at him when he criticized her hold on the reins. “Nowadays, all any charioteer in Rome knows how to do is lose!”
He’d looked at her calmly. “You learn to drive a tight turn on my track, or you go home.”
“Easy for you to say.” Diana glared back. “You don’t care if the races are rigged.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t care who wins what race, or even who’s Emperor. But when I te
ach anyone to do something, they’ll learn to do it right.”
Diana knew she’d regret it, but found herself wandering to the faction yard for the Blues. Plenty of swagger there—the grooms were already half drunk as they passed the harness back and forth, and the famous blood bays were tossing their heads in excitement. Derricus stood impatiently, already wearing his leather breastplate and striped blue cloak pinned to the shoulders with gold horse-head pins.
“Yes, yes.” He was barely listening as the faction director gave him his instructions. “I won’t tire them out. Why bother?”
He dropped his blue-plumed helmet and caught sight of Diana as he leaned forward to pick it up. In this yard full of blue, she was conspicuous in her red silks. “Lady Diana!” he grinned. “Come to wish me luck?”
“You don’t need it,” she said coldly. “Not to win a race like this one.”
“Don’t be sharp, Lady. Let’s have a smile.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she glared. “A charioteer of your stature, driving in fixed races?”
His smile disappeared. “Maybe I don’t like it much, Lady, but a win’s a win. A purse is a purse. And some of us do this for a living, not just dabbling in between banquets.”
If she stayed a moment longer she’d fly at him, so she stamped out of the Blues yard. She was shaking with too much fury to go up to the Emperor’s box yet, or she’d fly at Fabius Valens too. He’d recovered from his bout of food poisoning and was conducting Vitellius’s business in Rome, though he made noises about going north to take over the army now that there were so many rumors flying about a battle. Diana hoped he left soon and she hoped he died, but for today he was here, dragging Lollia with him. Everyone else would be there too: Marcella, Gaius and Tullia, even Cornelia, who hadn’t been to a public function in weeks. Diana couldn’t bear to face them, and she trailed back to the Reds yard to watch the Anemoi being harnessed.
They were being led out one by one, her four winds. Zephyrus, dancing on his toes with excitement, outside runner and fastest of them all, named for the fleet West Wind . . . Eurus, running just inside Zephyrus, nearly as fast but not so wild and named for the ever-constant East Wind . . . Notus, second inside runner, steady as the strong-blowing South Wind . . . and Boreas, the implacable North Wind, her favorite. Diana curved an arm around Boreas’s stocky neck, crooning wordlessly. He was the oldest of them, the innermost runner, scarred and savage-tempered and solid as a rock around a turn. He didn’t bite Diana quite as often as he bit everyone else, which she counted for affection.
Her Anemoi were gazing about with pricked ears and bright eyes, stamping restlessly as the grooms bustled about with the harness, Boreas swiping his teeth at any groom who got too close. Like any good team they knew it was race day; they knew what harness and bustle and cheering meant, and they chuffed through flared nostrils as they were harnessed to the chariot. Diana could hardly bear to look at them. They hadn’t learned yet that their speed wasn’t required; they didn’t know they were supposed to lose for an emperor’s pleasure.
Xerxes stood scowling to one side with the charioteer, a lean Greek named Siculus. “Keep them in front till the end.” The directions came halfheartedly. “Ease them off gradual, though. That Boreas gets the bit in his teeth if you’re not careful.”
“Of course.”
“Ah, damn it.” Xerxes stumped off. “Just get it over with. I’m going to get drunk.”
“Hey, you.” Siculus collared a groom, pressing a purse into his hand. “Take this to the bettor under the statue of Nero and put it all on the Blues, will you?”
“Blues?” The groom blinked.
“Why not? They’re making me money hand over fist, and I don’t even have to drive for it.”
The groom gave Siculus a disgusted look, and two more traded glances behind his back. “Get on with it,” Siculus ordered, and that was when Diana snapped.
“Lady Diana.” The charioteer bowed as she approached, looking surprised when she stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
“Siculus,” she breathed, “I will hump you silly if you win this race.”
He pulled back. “Lady, the orders . . . Fabius Valens said—”
“Fabius Valens is leaving Rome soon, and the Emperor is so drunk and happy today, no one will retaliate. Win this race,” she repeated, “and you can have me any way you want. Backward, sideways, upside-down—”
Siculus looked to the side, gnawing his lip. “I don’t know, Lady—” He’d looked at her in the past; Diana knew that. Plenty of the drivers did.
“Want something in advance? Come with me.” She took his hand and led him back to the small shed where they kept the chariots. It was empty now—the chariots had already been rolled out—and Diana was already dragging his head down to kiss him before they reached the shadows inside. “Just close that door,” she breathed against his mouth as he started fumbling at her dress. He turned to bar it, and she picked up one of the heavy blocks they wedged under the chariot wheels to keep them from rolling and banged him over the head with it. Siculus went down like an ox on an altar; she banged him one more time to make sure he wouldn’t wake up for a while and then got to work. There wasn’t much time.
She stripped off his leather shin guards and buckled them around her own legs, kilting her red dress up to the knees. Another few moments dragging at the limp limbs and she had the leather breastplate off—too big for her but that was good; it would hide the shape of her breasts. She had her own gauntlets with her and pulled them on as she reached down for the red-plumed helmet. She crammed her hair under it, wishing the helmet hid more of her face, but it would have to do. Siculus was slim and lightly built, like most charioteers; the height difference wasn’t too bad. Anyone who took a close look would realize something was wrong, but she didn’t plan on giving anyone a close look.
“Where’s that bloody Siculus?” A groom’s voice came from outside, annoyed. “They’re rolling out!”
Diana waited as they looked for him. Waited.
“Drat it, the Greens and Whites just went—look in the yard.”
She came running out of the chariot shed at the last minute, dropping the bar on the door in case Siculus woke up, and dashed to where the grooms were waiting with the Anemoi. Her four winds, bright-eyed and flame-bright, eager to run with the light chariot behind them crowned by its flaming fire god. “Sorry,” she said as gruffly as possible, and vaulted up into the chariot.
“You’re late,” the groom said, handing her the red leather reins to knot around her waist. “You’ll be last, but—” He paused, and Diana pulled feverishly at the knots. If she could just get out to the track before he raised the alarm—
“Siculus,” the groom said finally. “You shrank.” He handed her the red-beaded driving whip. “Fortuna be with you.”
Diana was already urging her team forward, toward the track.
“WATCH it,” the Greens charioteer hissed at her, and she edged the Anemoi back in line. Quite a trick, keeping the four teams exactly even as they paraded in their preparatory lap around the track before the race. On the turn, the inside team had to nearly step in place and the outside team had to speed to a trot in order to keep all sixteen noses exactly in line. Taking a turn at a walk wasn’t something Diana had ever practiced, and she’d drawn the outside position. Her hands were already sweating inside their gauntlets, and she could feel the tug of the knotted reins against her waist. Her mouth was tinder-dry, and somewhere inside she could hear her family shrieking in dismay and even her own voice telling her she would crash the team and kill the Anemoi, and then she’d never forgive herself. But the voice she heard most clearly was Llyn’s, and he sounded as mild as ever.
You’re a fool, he told her as the four teams reached the final turn. If I’d led my first attack against Rome when I was as green a leader as you are a driver, then I’d never have lived long enough for us to meet.
“No,” she gritted out between concentration-clenched teeth.
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You’ll lose, you know.
“But at least I’ll lose honestly,” she said aloud. The Anemoi deserved a charioteer, however poor, who would at least try. She managed the last turn quite neatly, and the four teams began lining up. Somewhere overhead was the Imperial box, where Vitellius sat watching, doubtless pouring wine from his second flagon of the day and wondering where his little pet was.
Don’t try to do too much for your horses. They know their job. Trust them to do it.
“Yes.” She could sense the Anemoi stretching on the other end of the reins, feeling her out. An unfamiliar pair of hands, and they were cautious. But they wanted to run, and that would take over once the signal came.
The four teams were poised to start. Adoring women still shrieked in the stands for Derricus. Through the slit of her helmet, Diana saw a figure in purple step forward in the Imperial box.
Good luck, said Llyn inside her head, and that was it. He was gone, and she was alone. Diana pulled a Reds medallion out from under her breastplate and kissed it for luck.
A scrap of cloth fluttered, caught the autumn breeze, drifted down . . . and sixteen horses surged off the line.
THE Reds lunge off the drop a second late, trailing last before the wheels are even in motion. But Diana doesn’t mind that. She doesn’t want to get caught in the jockeying for the inside space against the spina; she doesn’t have the experience to bull her way through a crush. All she has is the raw speed of her four winds. The chariot rocks under her feet, the air blurs her eyes through the slit in her helmet, the reins are taut sawing lines in her hands, and oh gods, she never dreamed that even the four winds could run so fast. She braces her arms, adjusts her weight against the front of the chariot, tucks her chin into her chest to cant the streaming airflow away from her eyes; minuscule adjustments that are second nature now after months of Llyn’s nitpicking, and she realizes that under the helmet she’s grinning like a fiend. “Slowly, beauties,” she sings out to the Anemoi, who are fighting her grip. “Slowly.”