“Aim for the Aurelian Gate,” Cornelia’s soldier said. “That should be deserted by now. If they went for the Emperor, the fighting will be concentrated up at the palace instead.” He grabbed Cornelia’s arm, hauling her toward the chariot. “Get in, love.”

“No, not without you, you have to come too—” Cornelia clutched him, but he cut her off.

“Won’t fit me.” The chariot was built for one; it would barely hold three girls jammed together, much less a stockily built soldier. “Get in.”

“No,” Cornelia wept. But there was a roar of voices and a sound of breaking timbers from the street beyond.

“Hurry up,” said Diana. Her arms were burning now as she held the Anemoi, plunging and bucking against their harness, screaming up at her through the reins.

“Cornelia,” Lollia shouted, scrambling into the chariot, “get in!”

Cornelia shook her head, still clinging to her soldier, but he took her face between his hands and shook her. “I’ll slip out through the back,” he said. “I’ll blend in—the soldiers will think I’m one of them. Won’t work for you, love. Up you go.”

He bundled her in, and she was hardly clear of the wheel before the Reds were plunging madly down the street. Cornelia twisted her head to look back, tear tracks marking her white face, and Diana saw the soldier running up the street with his gladius drawn.

“Marcella,” Lollia was shouting, “where is Marcella?” But Cornelia could only shake her head helplessly. Marcella was gone.

The Reds careened down the slope of the Palatine Hill, houses and streets a nightmarish blur on their way toward the Campus Martius and the Aurelian Gate. The shouting grew louder, and suddenly it was on them. “Oh gods,” Lollia gulped, gripping the little cross her slave had given her, and Cornelia whispered “Juno’s mercy,” and started reciting the names of her ancestors as if she were preparing the litany for death.