“How dare you, you can’t just brush me off—” But he did exactly that, and as he disappeared into his borrowed study, Marcella caught a wavery glimpse of herself reflected in a window. Her cheeks had flared pink with fury, her eyes glittered, her breasts heaved rage. I may not be a beauty, but there are plenty who would find me handsome, she thought savagely, stamping away from Lucius’s shut door. Plenty!

Senator Marcus Norbanus certainly seemed to think so, claiming the seat beside her and speaking with his usual grave courtesy. And Marcus was a grandson of the divine Augustus, so respected in the Senate that he had been appointed to his first consulship the minute he turned thirty. If you won’t appreciate your wife, Lucius, there are plenty of better men who will. “How is your little boy, Marcus?” Marcella asked, and turned on her most dazzling smile.

“He’s well. For the moment.”

“The moment? He’s not getting ill, is he?”

“I wish he were. One can call the physician for a fever, but there is no cure for being a Norbanus.” Marcus’s voice was quiet and his face, Marcella noticed with a start, very drawn. “My father was invited to commit suicide.”

“What? By whom?”

“Who do you think?”

Marcella’s eyes traveled to Otho, laughing with his head thrown back. “Why?”

Marcus shrugged. “Best prune a god’s descendants before they get ideas.”

“And has your father . . .”

“Oh, yes. A Norbanus is always punctual. Even to the end.”

“I’m so sorry.” Not everyone, then, found Otho an improvement over Galba. Marcella stored that thought away for future consideration. “Surely you need not be here today, Marcus. Under the circumstances—”

“Oh, but my attendance here is required. How else am I to show my loyalty? And I have a son to consider.” A flash of bitter grief went through Marcus Norbanus’s gaze, but it was gone in another moment. He might only be thirty-three, but he had been reared to an older, stricter school. To show grief in public would be a disgrace.

Marcella admired him more than ever for it. Surely a love affair would get his mind off his troubles. And as a choice of lover, he would definitely tweak Lucius’s nose—her husband might be at ease with politicians, but scholars made him uncomfortable. “Do let me call on you, Marcus.” She squeezed his fingers, just as ink-stained as her own. “Perhaps tomorrow evening?”

“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.