He shrugged. “You should both go home.”

“So should you,” said Diana.

“I have business here.”

“Business? With who?”

“Vitellius.”

Diana smiled coolly. “Don’t pretend he’s the Emperor who imprisoned you here, Llyn.”

He balanced one foot on a curbstone, graying hair stirring in the twilight breeze. “I never pretend anything.”

Their eyes drilled each other. Marcella tilted her head, watching.

“Vitellius is a dead man still walking,” Diana said at last. “What does he matter to you?”

Llyn smiled at her, the last gleam of daylight catching the torc at his neck and the rings on his arms. Prizes won in battle against another Emperor of Rome, long ago. “I am a dead man too, Lady.”

“You still have a remarkable ability to make all other men in Rome look small,” Diana remarked. “I wish I had met you in Britannia.”

He laughed at that. “I’d have made a warrior out of you.”

“You made me a charioteer instead. Good enough.”

“Diana?” Marcella raised her eyebrows. “Are you done yet? It’s nearly dark, and you were the one to warn me about mobs.”

Diana turned, signaling the guards as she moved past Llyn, but her blue cloak fluttered back and his hand caught her bare arm.

“If anything happens to me,” he said, “my horses are yours.”

“Did you have to do that?” Diana glared at him. “Now I have to decide which I want more—your safety, or your horses. And you have very good horses.”

He smiled again, released her arm, and moved noiselessly into the milling crowds. “What was that about?” Marcella asked as they hastened on. “Don’t tell me that’s your lover. He’s a complete savage.”

“Oh, gods’ wheels,” Diana said disgustedly. “Let’s go home before we get invaded.”

Twenty

Twenty

CORNELIA had always loved Saturnalia.

Everything about it. The cleaning first, scouring her house top to bottom for the new year. Then the traditional feast, where for once the slaves reclined on the couches and the masters served them. Piso hadn’t enjoyed that part—he said it wasn’t dignified—but Cornelia never minded going around the couches with a wine flagon while her slaves grinned at her self-consciously. What harm did it do to switch places once a year? It keeps us all humble. And then after that the more usual festivities: Diana fretting herself into a fever over the Saturnalia races, Gaius so self-conscious as he led the traditional revelries, Lollia getting tipsy and shrieking “Io Saturnalia!” and Marcella sitting there, eternally amused by all the antics. Saturnalia: the year-end festival.

This year Cornelia didn’t think there would be any festivities. No gifts. No merriment. This year there would only be death.

“Domina!” A wide-eyed maid clutched at her arm. “I heard there is fighting at the Milvian Bridge!”