“He’s not interested, Diana,” Marcella said. Too late: a platter of fruit had already been converted into a circus track, a ripe strawberry had become the Reds, a cube of cheese the Whites, a cluster of grapes the Greens. The Briton listened inscrutably, but Marcella thought she caught a flash of amusement in the dark eyes. Well, Diana could be rather amusing in her childlike way. Still, I’d better rescue him. “So you were the one to sell her that team of chestnuts?” Marcella smiled, trying to draw his gaze. “You may regret it—she has no other topic of conversation now.”

“—three lengths ahead in the last lap—” Diana droned on.

“I don’t mind talking horses,” Llyn said. “What else does an old savage like me have to offer?”

“Since you mention it,” Marcella jumped in quickly, “I’m something of an amateur historian, and I’m always interested in the truth. A view of your father’s rebellion from your own perspective—I could do justice to his reputation, if I knew what really happened.”

“—and now the Reds are favorites for the Cerealia races, and we’re going to crush the Blues.” Finally finishing, Diana popped the defeated cube of cheese that was the Whites into her mouth and grinned at Llyn.

The last gazelle lay dead in the arena. A lioness tore ravenous at its fallen carcass while a black-maned male stalked the sand and roared. Another trapdoor opened and a team of bestiarii trooped out with nets, tridents, short bows. They fanned out toward the black-maned male, blades glittering in the sunlight.

“Perhaps we could speak sometime,” Marcella persisted. “I’d be greatly interested in anything you could tell me.”

The Briton gave a slow blink and looked at Diana instead. “Why do you care so much for the races, Lady?”

Diana tossed a grape into the air, catching it neatly between her teeth as she considered. The black-maned lion went down snarling in the arena below, taking an archer with him. The man screamed, his belly opened clear through his back by a swipe of claws, and the crowd howled. “I love the speed,” Diana said at last, reflectively—or at least as reflectively as Diana ever spoke about anything. “And the danger. The horses running their hearts out and the drivers killing themselves for a win. Don’t you enjoy it?”

“No, I’ve seen real danger.”

Marcella drew in a breath to ask him about that, but Diana answered first. “I haven’t. Nobody lets me. So I watch the races instead. I’d kill myself for wins too, if I could drive properly.”

“Driving a chariot’s not as hard as you Romans make it out to be—a knack for the reins, a sense of timing. The turn’s tricky, but all that needs is practice.”