A howl went up from the crowd as the Whites team tried to slip past the Blues on the inside; the Blues charioteer veered inward, and the Whites were crushed. The chariot disintegrated, a wheel rolling madly across the sand as the screaming horses staggered free. They careened directly across the Reds, and Diana swore horribly as the Reds had to pull up in a violent toss of chestnut forelocks and red leather reins. “Diana,” Cornelia scolded, and seized the excuse to ignore Fabius’s cozy voice at her elbow and subject her youngest cousin to a crisp lecture on the evils of foul language. A shorter lecture than it would normally have been—Cornelia’s own mind was whirling.

Vitellius let out a shout of laughter and pounded the rail in delight as the Blues settled into the lead. Far behind, the Reds disentangled themselves from the mess of the crash and whipped into a gallop again. “They’ll never make up the distance,” Diana groaned, sinking back in her chair. But her winds put their long noses out in a pounding gallop, red manes streaming flat against their glossy necks, and they began chewing back the gap. Half a lap behind—a third—passing the Greens as if they were standing still. Their hides were more black than red with sweat.

“Do you know Caecina Alienus?” Fabius asked, his lips closer to Cornelia’s ear. “Bit of a rough customer, but he’d be a fair enough match. A young widow like you, surely you’re wet for a new husband by now.”

Cornelia licked her lips, keeping her eyes desperately fixed on the circus. She saw the Blues charioteer look behind him and shake the whip over his blood bays. Both teams screeched around the last turn at white heat.

“Come on!” Diana shouted, but the finish line came too soon, the stretching noses of the Reds pulling even with the axle of the Blues chariot. “Oh—” Diana’s head dropped, her blue-green eyes glittering with tears. “Oh, my poor winds, it was almost enough.”

“You really must not show so much emotion over a race,” Cornelia chided, feeling Fabius’s hand on her elbow and launching hastily into a longer lecture on proper patrician decorum. Diana sat deaf, drooping in her chair, watching the Blues charioteer take his victory lap as adoring women screamed and the Emperor slapped his cronies on the back. Cornelia hardly heard them, too conscious of Fabius’s hand on her arm. Juno’s mercy, he’s going to arrange my future for me, and I can’t keep ignoring him.

Derricus the Blues charioteer vaulted up to the Imperial box, dusty and grinning as the Emperor gave him his victory palm. “You’ll share my couch at the feast tonight!” the Emperor shouted, ruddy with triumph, dropping an arm around the charioteer’s shoulder. “And we’ll drink a toast to beating those cowardly bastard Reds—”