“You look very serious,” Piso smiled.

Cornelia reached up to smooth back a strand of his dark hair. “Just thinking of our own wedding day.”

“Was that such a serious occasion?” His dark eyes twinkled.

“Well, I took it seriously.” Cornelia shook her head at Lollia, who was pealing laughter from her dining couch and utterly ignoring her new husband. “Piso, do let me introduce you to the new Praetorian Prefect. Be sure to ask about his son’s appointment in the legions; he’s very proud of that—”

Cornelia was very proud herself, watching her husband from the corner of her eye as they made their way through the throng. A smile here and a nod there, a wine cup ready in one hand for a toast, the other hand ready to clap the shoulder of a colleague or press the fingers of a new acquaintance. Reserved, courteous, gracious . . . regal . . .

She made the introduction to the new Prefect, smiled, and bowed out as a proper wife should once the conversation turned to politics. Emperor Galba stayed at the banquet only a few moments more, casting another disapproving glare around the lavish room and stumping out as abruptly as he’d arrived. “Thank goodness,” Lollia tittered all too audibly as the Praetorians filed after him. “That sour face! Nero may have been crazy but at least he had glamour.”

“And Lollia may be an idiot, but she’s right,” Marcella murmured in Cornelia’s ear.

“She is not. Galba had a very distinguished career.”

“He’s a sour, cheap old man.” Marcella spoke under cover of the white-bearded orator who had just come out for the second time to launch into sonorous Greek verse. “All those money-skimping policies—”

“Nero emptied out the treasury. We should be glad someone’s trying to refill it.”

“Well, it won’t make him popular. That will work in your favor, of course—by the time Galba dies, and at his age that can’t be long, everyone will be cheering your Piso like a god.”

“Marcella, hush!”

“It’s truth, Cornelia. And I always speak truth, at least to my sister.” Marcella lifted her goblet. “Or should I say, my future Empress?”

“You should not say.” Empress . . .

Marcella’s knowing smile curled Cornelia’s toes. She never could fool her little sister—though half the time people assumed Marcella was the older: half a hand taller and as statuesque as a temple pillar; a column of cool blue ice topped with leaf-brown hair and a calm carved face. Much more regal-looking than me. Oh, why didn’t I get her nose? “You should go talk to Caesonius Frugi, Marcella. He spoke very fondly of your husband, I believe they were tribunes together in the Twelfth. I’m sure you could do something for Lucius there, advance his career—”

“Lucius can take care of his own career,” Marcella said. “I’m having much more fun watching you work the room.”