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.