“No,” said Diana, amused. “But I think you’ve had bad enough luck with wives without taking me on, Gaius.”

“I’ll take care of him.” Drusus grinned, rescuing Gaius’s wine cup just in time. “Duck out of here if you want, girl.”

A festival mood still ruled in the streets as Diana left the house and climbed into her litter. Every tavern spilled over with happy drinkers, and children ran waving bright ribbons in their fists and tossing each other Janus-headed coins. The Year of the Four Emperors, they were already calling it. Who knew if this new year might be the Year of Six Emperors, or Three Emperors—or maybe just One?

Emperor Vespasian was no doubt returning to the Domus Aurea even now for an Imperial banquet, just as tired and victorious as any winning team in the Circus Maximus. Diana wished Vespasian well. He’d entered the city behind his immaculate legions, wearing his armor like a second skin and driving a two-horse chariot with a skill Diana appreciated. His shrewd ruddy face was already familiar; she saw it every day in marble on her father’s worktable as he chiseled painstakingly at his bust of the new Emperor. “Still working on that one?” Diana had asked her father after the parade. He had carved his busts of Galba and Otho and Vitellius much more quickly.

“I can take my time with this one,” Paris said, his chisel making minute taps over Vespasian’s cheerful carved face. “Years, if necessary. This Emperor is going to last.”

“How do you know that?” Diana sat on the end of his worktable, swinging her feet.

“It’s all in the face. Humorous, you know, and an emperor needs humor.” A moment’s thought. “And a lot of legions.”

“If you say so.” She couldn’t help feeling a sad twinge for fat, drunk, convivial Vitellius, who had rooted for his team so uproariously . . . though he wouldn’t have been cheering today, watching the Anemoi win seven of eight heats and the Blues come in dead last every time. Their famous blood bays had been lost in the riots, and now they had only nags. Diana cackled with glee every time she thought of it.

The litter lurched to a halt after an interminable hour, and Diana climbed down. Her charioteer medallions caught a glint from the last rays of the sun—the Reds faction had struck a medallion in her own image after her Circus Maximus win, bearing the date and her profile, but she’d never wear that. It had pride of place over her bed, right beside her victory palm.

“I suppose you’ll never be happy watching the races now,” her cousins had teased her, not understanding. “Not now you’ve driven a race yourself!”