“I always bet on Britons, Caesar.”

“Rather sentimental of you,” Marcella noted.

Otho wasn’t listening. “A hundred denarii, Salvius!” And he threw down a handful of coins.

The gladiators fell on each other. Marcella wrinkled her nose, turning her head away before the blood could start to fly, but the great Caratacus’s son watched intently, hands locked around the rail as his eyes tracked the fighters back and forth across the sand. Diana wandered up beside him, a cup of wine in hand. “I thought you didn’t like watching men die.”

“I don’t.” Following the wiry-haired Briton as he jabbed savagely at a nimble Greek with a trident. “But I’m used to it.”

The Briton went down on a quick strike from the Greek, dying slowly with a blade through his lung. The Emperor turned ruefully back to Llyn. “Not a very good choice.”

“I didn’t say he was a good choice, Caesar,” Llyn said. “I said I always bet on Britons.”

The glint came back into Otho’s eye—the glint that always reminded Marcella of the hard streak behind his charm. The hard streak that had successfully pulled off a coup over the bodies of Fortuna knew how many rivals . . . But Otho at last decided to laugh, and flipped a coin at Llyn. “Well said.”

Llyn’s arm flashed up and he backhanded the coin spinning over the railing into the arena. A gladiator darted to scrabble it out of the sand, and Llyn saluted him.

“I suppose you don’t have gladiators in your own country,” Marcella said. “Perhaps you might tell me—”

“No,” Llyn ap Caradoc cut her off. “I don’t care to discuss those days, Lady. With anyone.”

“Don’t blame you,” said Diana. “Look, the elephants—I think they just dance to pipes and don’t get killed.”

Absently she passed Llyn her wine cup. Just as absently he took a swallow and handed it back. Diana’s hovering suitors looked at the Briton, resentful, and Marcella felt her own lips flattening into a sour line. I try to start up an intelligent conversation with a man, just for information’s sake, and Diana still has to grab all the attention. If she’d been the one to bat her eyes at Marcus Norbanus earlier, I’ll bet he wouldn’t have excused himself so early.

The Emperor soon declared the day’s festivities at an end, a flashing god in an entourage of mortals as he led the procession back toward the palace. The praetor with moist hands descended on Diana—“My dear young lady, I do hope you will look favorably on my suit! When can I speak with your father?” Marcella enjoyed Diana’s protests as the praetor bore her off. She turned to claim Llyn ap Caradoc’s attention now that he was free, but he had already seized his cloak and was taking the opportunity to disappear into the throng of guests.