The faction director was jotting on a slate, working figures. Diana swung over the fence to greet the chestnuts—they were barely winded, tossing their heads as if they’d just cantered to the end of the paddock and back.

“Oh, my beauties, you’re going to make mincemeat of the Blues.” She ran her hands over the warm silk of the outside runner’s neck. “What are their names?”

“I don’t name horses.” The Briton ran a horn-hard hand down the old stallion’s nose. “Makes it harder when you lose them in battles.”

“You’ve fought many battles?”

“A few.” The Briton turned to start wrangling with the faction director over price. Diana unharnessed the chestnuts, taking the two outside runners and walking between them back to the field. The horse on Diana’s left shied at a gust of wind, lifting her off her feet for a moment. She clung to his reins, clucking under her breath till he quieted and followed her again.

“They don’t usually follow along like that,” the Briton said from behind, following with the second pair of horses. “They like to kick anyone they don’t know.”

“Horses never kick me.” Reaching up to tug the bridle over the curved ears, she released first one stallion and then the other into the field with a slap on the rump. The Briton released his pair, and they leaned on the fence watching the chestnuts take off snorting across the grass.

“What will you name them, Lady?”

“That’s easy.” Watching their red manes catch fire in the noon sun. “I’ll call them the Anemoi. After the Four Winds.”

HIDE me,” Marcella greeted her sister. “I am fleeing Tullia. She was going on and on about a chipped tile in the atrium, and it was either flight or murder.”

“Of course you’re welcome here.” Cornelia kissed her cheek, composed as ever, but the hand that gripped Marcella’s was damp.

“I was hoping we could have a good gossip,” Marcella confessed, unwinding the palla from her hair. “Kick off our shoes and curl up with a flagon of wine, the way we used to do in the old days?” Before husbands and politics came along.

“Not today, Marcella.” Cornelia cast a glance over one shoulder to her thronged atrium, noisy with slaves and guards and hangers-on. “Piso’s gone to the palace. The Emperor so relies on him, he went to Galba’s side the minute he heard the news—”

“What, the news from Germania? The legions going about smashing Galba’s statues—”