“I fear I am not good company these days.” He withdrew his hand with a brief bow. “Pray excuse me. Once I make my greetings, I am free to go home. I find I have no stomach for the games today.”
Marcella blinked as he made his exit from the Imperial box but decided not to be annoyed. He was distraught, after all—later he’d be glad of a shoulder to lean on.
She turned as trumpets announced the beginning of the wild beast hunt and rose petals showered down on the stands.
How long will it all take?
A tall man blocked her view, his head tilted down toward Diana at his side. Of course, Diana had no difficulty getting any man’s attention if she wanted it.
“—still don’t know what a horse trainer is doing in the Emperor’s box,” Diana was saying frankly.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
His voice was low and even, whoever he was, and Marcella took a closer look. Not in the usual mode for Diana’s suitors—a tall man of thirty-five or forty, with broad arms and iron-gray hair he’d let grow shaggy. And
breeches
, of all things. “A new suitor, Diana?” Marcella broke in, curious.
“What? Oh, not him.” Diana waved a casual hand at the man in breeches. “This is Llyn. Llyn ap Caradoc.”
Marcella burst out laughing. “You’re not serious?”
Diana blinked. “What? He breeds horses.”
The gray-haired man took a swallow from his cup, noncommittal. Common beer in the cup instead of wine, Marcella noted—and a scar on his neck that might have been a graze from a spear or arrow, and a torc of wrought bronze about his neck, in the tribal fashion. “Llyn ap Caradoc—you mean Caratacus?
The
Caratacus?”
“My father,” he said. Below, a trained leopard had been released into the arena by his handler: the opening display.
“I remember seeing your father about the city now and then,” Marcella said. Time was, every hostess in Rome counted it a coup to have Rome’s greatest enemy at her table: the man who had united the tribes of Britannia, fought Rome to a gallant standstill for nearly a decade, and was finally captured and brought to Rome to be paraded through the city in chains—only to be given an Imperial pardon in reward for his bravery, allowed to live in luxury within Rome’s walls with his remaining family, under oath and under guard never to try to escape. “I wish I’d had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“He died last year, Lady.”
“Yes, I think I heard that somewhere. I’m sorry for it—Llyn, you said your name was?”
“Yes.”
He looked very much like his father, from what Marcella could remember: the same quiet carved face and silent way of moving.
Diana still looked baffled, and Marcella finally leaned forward to whisper briefly into her ear. Diana listened, then cocked her head up at Llyn. “You were a rebel too?”
“As most would define it. Killing Romans since before I was your age, at any rate.”
Diana grinned. Rabbits had been released into the arena below, bounding in all directions, and the leopard chased them down one by one to return them unharmed to his handler in soft jaws. “You know, I thought when we met that your name sounded familiar. My nurse used to tell me the great Caratacus would eat me if I was bad.”
“He had that effect on people.”
Marcella felt a prickle of excitement in her fingertips. Her history of Emperor Claudius had a few lines about the rebellion in Britannia, but she’d gleaned all her facts from books. If she could get a first-hand account . . . surely the great Caratacus’s son would have seen his father’s rebellion at very close range, perhaps even led raids and battles himself. Marcella smiled. “How interesting, meeting a legend. My name—”
“My father was a legend,” he said, bland. “I breed horses.”
“Well,” Diana consoled, “they’re very
good
horses.”
Llyn laughed. A praetor squeezed Diana’s arm from the other side—“Come place a bet for me, Lady Diana, you’ll bring me luck for the next bout!”
Yes, go
, Marcella thought at her cousin as the tame leopard padded out,
let me see if I can get the Briton talking.
A new source, now that was even better entertainment than a love affair. But Diana shook off the praetor and turned back to Llyn, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “My question stands,” she said. “Why
are
you here? I doubt I’d want to sit with Roman emperors after growing up trying to overthrow them.”
“I have nothing against Roman emperors in Rome, Lady,” he said mildly. “It’s Roman emperors in Britannia I never liked. And I’m here because I’m an oddity. I’m not quite as good value as my father when it comes to shocking guests, but I’m the only one left from my family, and Emperor Otho likes oddities.”
“He says the same about me,” said Diana. A fleet herd of gazelles had been released into the arena below, galloping in panicked circles. Four lions came roaring one by one from a trapdoor in the sand.
“How long have you lived in Rome now?” Marcella pondered what to call an ex-rebel without family name or title, and substituted a friendly smile for a salutation.
“Eighteen years,” he said briefly, and turned back to Diana. “How are your Anemoi, Lady? The chestnuts I sold to the Red faction.”
“They won at Equirria. Did you see?”
“I avoid the races.” The gazelles were running in panicked circles now, the lions chasing them down one by one.
“Well, Equirria was thrilling. Those wretched Blues scratched, but my Anemoi took the Greens and the Whites as easy as anything. The Whites came up from behind, but—”
“He’s not interested, Diana,” Marcella said. Too late: a platter of fruit had already been converted into a circus track, a ripe strawberry had become the Reds, a cube of cheese the Whites, a cluster of grapes the Greens. The Briton listened inscrutably, but Marcella thought she caught a flash of amusement in the dark eyes. Well, Diana could be rather amusing in her childlike way.
Still, I’d better rescue him.
“So you were the one to sell her that team of chestnuts?” Marcella smiled, trying to draw his gaze. “You may regret it—she has no other topic of conversation now.”
“—three lengths ahead in the last lap—” Diana droned on.
“I don’t mind talking horses,” Llyn said. “What else does an old savage like me have to offer?”
“Since you mention it,” Marcella jumped in quickly, “I’m something of an amateur historian, and I’m always interested in the truth. A view of your father’s rebellion from your own perspective—I could do justice to his reputation, if I knew what really happened.”
“—and now the Reds are favorites for the Cerealia races, and we’re going to
crush
the Blues.” Finally finishing, Diana popped the defeated cube of cheese that was the Whites into her mouth and grinned at Llyn.
The last gazelle lay dead in the arena. A lioness tore ravenous at its fallen carcass while a black-maned male stalked the sand and roared. Another trapdoor opened and a team of
bestiarii
trooped out with nets, tridents, short bows. They fanned out toward the black-maned male, blades glittering in the sunlight.
“Perhaps we could speak sometime,” Marcella persisted. “I’d be greatly interested in anything you could tell me.”
The Briton gave a slow blink and looked at Diana instead. “Why do you care so much for the races, Lady?”
Diana tossed a grape into the air, catching it neatly between her teeth as she considered. The black-maned lion went down snarling in the arena below, taking an archer with him. The man screamed, his belly opened clear through his back by a swipe of claws, and the crowd howled. “I love the speed,” Diana said at last, reflectively—or at least as reflectively as Diana ever spoke about anything. “And the danger. The horses running their hearts out and the drivers killing themselves for a win. Don’t you enjoy it?”
“No, I’ve seen real danger.”
Marcella drew in a breath to ask him about that, but Diana answered first. “I haven’t. Nobody lets me. So I watch the races instead. I’d kill myself for wins too, if I could drive properly.”
“Driving a chariot’s not as hard as you Romans make it out to be—a knack for the reins, a sense of timing. The turn’s tricky, but all that needs is practice.”
“Really?” Diana hooked an elbow around the back of her chair, cocking her head at him, and Marcella felt a familiar tingle of anger at being shut out.
Why do the most interesting men always end up talking to Diana—the
least
interesting girl in Rome?
“You’ve been a long time in Rome now,” Marcella put in to Llyn, quickly counting the years. Eighteen years’ captivity—he must not have been much older than Marcella herself when he’d been brought to Rome in chains. “How much do you remember of Britannia?”
Llyn looked at her coolly. “I’m not so old my memory’s gone dim, Lady.”
“I didn’t say you
couldn’t
remember it,” she shot back. “I merely wondered if you still choose to.”
“Every day.”
The last two lionesses banded together, snarling and clawing, but the
bestiarii
worked in a team and brought them down. They vaulted atop the fallen tawny bodies, holding their sweaty arms up to the cheering crowd, and Emperor Otho leaned forward to toss silver coins into the arena.
“I hate animal hunts.” Diana grimaced.
“They fought bravely,” Llyn judged as the
bestiarii
danced off victorious through the Gate of Life and the dead lions were raked away by arena attendants.
“The lions or the gladiators?” Marcella smiled.
“Oh, the lions.”
“Can an animal be brave?”
“Of course they can,” said Diana at once.
“But how would a lion know the meaning of courage?”
“Why does one have to know the meaning of courage to be brave?” Llyn ap Caradoc countered.
“Does it count as courage if you’re just cornered?”
“Yes,” Diana and the Briton said in unison.
“You’d know better than I, Diana.” Marcella couldn’t resist aiming a little jab at her cousin. “You do spend half your life with animals, after all. Quaint.”
“Whatever you say.” Diana took a swallow of wine as the Gate of Life rumbled open again and the purple-cloaked gladiators came out for their fight. “I just don’t like to watch animals die.”
Llyn watched the gladiators fling their cloaks aside, pairing off. “I don’t like to watch men die, Lady.”
“Oh, gods’ wheels, call me Diana. Everyone does.”
“Briton!” Emperor Otho’s beaming voice cut across the cheerful tumult of the box to Llyn. “Come, bend that savage expertise my way and choose a fighter for me to back. I’ve lost the last two wagers to Salvius here, and I’m determined to fleece him.”
“Of course, Caesar.” Llyn rose, bowing politely, and came forward to lean on the rail beside the Emperor. He might be taller than Otho, Marcella noted, and broader too—but he was still outshone by the Emperor’s dazzling presence. Half a moment’s scrutiny of the fighters in the arena below, and he pointed out a Briton with a wiry beard. “That one.”
“He’s half the size of the others! Why did you pick him out?”
“I always bet on Britons, Caesar.”
“Rather sentimental of you,” Marcella noted.
Otho wasn’t listening. “A hundred
denarii
, Salvius!” And he threw down a handful of coins.
The gladiators fell on each other. Marcella wrinkled her nose, turning her head away before the blood could start to fly, but the great Caratacus’s son watched intently, hands locked around the rail as his eyes tracked the fighters back and forth across the sand. Diana wandered up beside him, a cup of wine in hand. “I thought you didn’t like watching men die.”
“I don’t.” Following the wiry-haired Briton as he jabbed savagely at a nimble Greek with a trident. “But I’m used to it.”
The Briton went down on a quick strike from the Greek, dying slowly with a blade through his lung. The Emperor turned ruefully back to Llyn. “Not a very good choice.”
“I didn’t say he was a good choice, Caesar,” Llyn said. “I said I always bet on Britons.”
The glint came back into Otho’s eye—the glint that always reminded Marcella of the hard streak behind his charm. The hard streak that had successfully pulled off a coup over the bodies of Fortuna knew how many rivals . . . But Otho at last decided to laugh, and flipped a coin at Llyn. “Well said.”
Llyn’s arm flashed up and he backhanded the coin spinning over the railing into the arena. A gladiator darted to scrabble it out of the sand, and Llyn saluted him.
“I suppose you don’t have gladiators in your own country,” Marcella said. “Perhaps you might tell me—”
“No,” Llyn ap Caradoc cut her off. “I don’t care to discuss those days, Lady. With anyone.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Diana. “Look, the elephants—I think they just dance to pipes and don’t get killed.”
Absently she passed Llyn her wine cup. Just as absently he took a swallow and handed it back. Diana’s hovering suitors looked at the Briton, resentful, and Marcella felt her own lips flattening into a sour line.
I try to start up an intelligent conversation with a man, just for information’s sake, and Diana still has to grab all the attention. If
she’d
been the one to bat her eyes at Marcus Norbanus earlier, I’ll bet he wouldn’t have excused himself so early.
The Emperor soon declared the day’s festivities at an end, a flashing god in an entourage of mortals as he led the procession back toward the palace. The praetor with moist hands descended on Diana—“My dear young lady, I do hope you will look favorably on my suit! When can I speak with your father?” Marcella enjoyed Diana’s protests as the praetor bore her off. She turned to claim Llyn ap Caradoc’s attention now that he was free, but he had already seized his cloak and was taking the opportunity to disappear into the throng of guests.
Lollia beat her way through the crowd in her flashing silver tissue and claimed Marcella’s arm. “For once, my honey, I’m the one with the news.” She was smiling, their last quarrel during the dress fittings apparently forgotten. “Ride with me and I’ll torture you with it.”