“Really?” Diana hooked an elbow around the back of her chair, cocking her head at him, and Marcella felt a familiar tingle of anger at being shut out. Why do the most interesting men always end up talking to Diana—the least interesting girl in Rome?

“You’ve been a long time in Rome now,” Marcella put in to Llyn, quickly counting the years. Eighteen years’ captivity—he must not have been much older than Marcella herself when he’d been brought to Rome in chains. “How much do you remember of Britannia?”

Llyn looked at her coolly. “I’m not so old my memory’s gone dim, Lady.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t remember it,” she shot back. “I merely wondered if you still choose to.”

“Every day.”

The last two lionesses banded together, snarling and clawing, but the bestiarii worked in a team and brought them down. They vaulted atop the fallen tawny bodies, holding their sweaty arms up to the cheering crowd, and Emperor Otho leaned forward to toss silver coins into the arena.

“I hate animal hunts.” Diana grimaced.

“They fought bravely,” Llyn judged as the bestiarii danced off victorious through the Gate of Life and the dead lions were raked away by arena attendants.

“The lions or the gladiators?” Marcella smiled.

“Oh, the lions.”

“Can an animal be brave?”

“Of course they can,” said Diana at once.

“But how would a lion know the meaning of courage?”

“Why does one have to know the meaning of courage to be brave?” Llyn ap Caradoc countered.

“Does it count as courage if you’re just cornered?”

“Yes,” Diana and the Briton said in unison.

“You’d know better than I, Diana.” Marcella couldn’t resist aiming a little jab at her cousin. “You do spend half your life with animals, after all. Quaint.”

“Whatever you say.” Diana took a swallow of wine as the Gate of Life rumbled open again and the purple-cloaked gladiators came out for their fight. “I just don’t like to watch animals die.”

Llyn watched the gladiators fling their cloaks aside, pairing off. “I don’t like to watch men die, Lady.”

“Oh, gods’ wheels, call me Diana. Everyone does.”

“Briton!” Emperor Otho’s beaming voice cut across the cheerful tumult of the box to Llyn. “Come, bend that savage expertise my way and choose a fighter for me to back. I’ve lost the last two wagers to Salvius here, and I’m determined to fleece him.”

“Of course, Caesar.” Llyn rose, bowing politely, and came forward to lean on the rail beside the Emperor. He might be taller than Otho, Marcella noted, and broader too—but he was still outshone by the Emperor’s dazzling presence. Half a moment’s scrutiny of the fighters in the arena below, and he pointed out a Briton with a wiry beard. “That one.”

“He’s half the size of the others! Why did you pick him out?”