Free Daughters of Rome by Kate Quinn Page A

people.”
    The stallion swiped at Diana, but she ducked the slash of teeth and seized the long nose, looking him over. He glared at her, stamping.
    “Too old for the circus,” Xerxes said disapprovingly.
    “No, he isn’t. He’ll steady them.” She released the stallion’s nose, turning back to the tall Briton. “Let’s see them run.” Her stomach trembled and her mouth was dry.
    The Briton brought the chestnut stallions in, and she fell in beside him to help with the harnessing. He gave her a long look, but she proceeded matter-of-factly among the buckles and straps, and after a moment he passed her the outside runner’s bridle without comment. The horses stood eager in the traces, red manes falling like flames along the crests of their necks.
    The Briton vaulted up into the chariot, and for a moment Diana hated him—she’d have given anything on earth to have those reins in her own hands. She fell in beside the chariot as he reined toward the rough track.
    “You know horses, Lady,” the Briton observed.
    “These chestnuts are marvelous.” She shifted into a trot to keep up with the rattling wheels. “Have they raced? Do you breed from those big Gallic horses, or—”
    “From chariot ponies out of Britannia.”
    “Ponies? Too small.”
    “I bred the size up, once I got what I wanted. Briton chariot ponies are bred for battle, so racing’s nothing to them.” He gave a nod of professional pride as he turned the chariot onto the rough makeshift track. “These four will keep calm even in the last lap.”
    He lined them up, poised light as a breath. Diana flung herself against the rail, chewing the inside of her lip, and they leaped down the track: four horses, moving as one like a red wind.
    The Briton took them on four circuits, but Diana had seen enough by the end of the first and so had Xerxes. “That turn —!” The old stallion leaned into his harness like a bull, bringing the other three leaning with him, and the chariot hairpinned around the turn with an inch of clearance.
    Diana vaulted up onto the rail as the chestnuts at last eased to a halt. Her palms were sweating, her eyes swimming, and butterflies had turned her stomach into knots. Lollia always told her she’d feel like this when she finally fell in love—and she finally had.
    She grinned at the Briton as he came down from his chariots, grinned too wide to play calm. “We’ll take them,” she said radiantly. “And if you don’t sell them to the Reds, I’ll steal them.”
    The Briton laughed. Standing on the lowest rail of the fence put Diana level with his eyes. “They’ll run well for you,” he approved.
    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