“WATCH it,” the Greens charioteer hissed at her, and she edged the Anemoi back in line. Quite a trick, keeping the four teams exactly even as they paraded in their preparatory lap around the track before the race. On the turn, the inside team had to nearly step in place and the outside team had to speed to a trot in order to keep all sixteen noses exactly in line. Taking a turn at a walk wasn’t something Diana had ever practiced, and she’d drawn the outside position. Her hands were already sweating inside their gauntlets, and she could feel the tug of the knotted reins against her waist. Her mouth was tinder-dry, and somewhere inside she could hear her family shrieking in dismay and even her own voice telling her she would crash the team and kill the Anemoi, and then she’d never forgive herself. But the voice she heard most clearly was Llyn’s, and he sounded as mild as ever.

You’re a fool, he told her as the four teams reached the final turn. If I’d led my first attack against Rome when I was as green a leader as you are a driver, then I’d never have lived long enough for us to meet.

“No,” she gritted out between concentration-clenched teeth.

You’ll lose, you know.

“But at least I’ll lose honestly,” she said aloud. The Anemoi deserved a charioteer, however poor, who would at least try. She managed the last turn quite neatly, and the four teams began lining up. Somewhere overhead was the Imperial box, where Vitellius sat watching, doubtless pouring wine from his second flagon of the day and wondering where his little pet was.

Don’t try to do too much for your horses. They know their job. Trust them to do it.

“Yes.” She could sense the Anemoi stretching on the other end of the reins, feeling her out. An unfamiliar pair of hands, and they were cautious. But they wanted to run, and that would take over once the signal came.

The four teams were poised to start. Adoring women still shrieked in the stands for Derricus. Through the slit of her helmet, Diana saw a figure in purple step forward in the Imperial box.

Good luck, said Llyn inside her head, and that was it. He was gone, and she was alone. Diana pulled a Reds medallion out from under her breastplate and kissed it for luck.

A scrap of cloth fluttered, caught the autumn breeze, drifted down . . . and sixteen horses surged off the line.