“He is not a pet!” Lollia tugged her hand out of Marcella’s arm and flounced off as they were ushered into the vast triclinium. Marcella felt no urge to call after her. The mere sight of her cousins exasperated her these days. Even her sister—there was Cornelia now, lurking long-faced by a column. Couldn’t she even try to smile?

Marcella took a goblet of wine from the nearest slave, trying to stifle her sourness. It was a beautiful night, after all. Emperor Otho’s usual exotic crowd: senators, praetors, consuls, and their wives all mixed together with actresses, astrologers, charioteers, courtesans, even a star gladiator or two from the day’s games. Too many guests for formal dining, and they all mixed in the gardens where gilded braziers kept away the chill of early spring and half-naked slaves in gold tissue circulated with cups of warmed wine and trays of dainties.

“These Imperial parties are all the same.” Diana’s voice came unexpectedly at Marcella’s elbow. “Ever notice that?”

“It’s rather beautiful.”

“Yes, but it’s always the same.” Diana rubbed a hand down the marble nose of a horse rearing, massive and statue-carved, out of a bank of jasmine. “The food is delicious, the wine is expensive, the people are beautiful, and the conversation is witty.”

“They aren’t all beautiful.” Marcella watched a portly senator wheeze past in one of the short embroidered tunics Otho had made fashionable—not a forgiving fashion to the elderly. “And they aren’t all witty, either,” she added as she heard the tail end of a particularly labored epigram from another guest.

“So what’s the point of it all?” Diana turned to the statue of the horse and scrambled lithely up, seating herself sideways on its marble back. Her airy white skirts caught the cool evening breeze and billowed about her knees, and she swung her feet freely, ignoring the stares.

“Diana,” Marcella said crossly, “get down from there. Do you always have to be the center of attention?”

“Don’t care if I am or not.” Diana leaned down to accept a cup of wine from an Imperial slave too sophisticated to look startled. “I just do what I want.”

“How nice for you.”

“Diana!” Tullia hissed, bustling over with curls bobbing. “Get down! Do you realize how people are staring?”

“Let them,” Diana grinned.

“Showing your bare legs in public like a slave girl—the idea!”

Diana reached down and peeled off her gold-strapped sandals, hanging them over the horse’s marble ear. “Go away,” she advised Tullia, “or I peel off the rest.”

“Oh, Domina,” a half-drunk tribune chortled, draping an arm over Tullia. “Please stay!” A drunken chorus went up.