“Otho also means to launch a maritime expedition,” another senator added. “Though we don’t know where. If we could find out—” Further details. Cornelia drank in every word, nodding slowly. All her limbs felt heavy these days; marble-carved, a statue half-turned from stone to living flesh. Like the legend of Galatea, the statue brought to life by a sculptor’s love. Did anyone ask Galatea if she wanted to be alive, moving marble-slow and bewildered through a world going far too fast?

Be marble. Be stone. Far easier that way.

“My brother has crossed the Alps in two columns,” Vitellius’s brother added. “Moving fast—”

“Otho will move fast too,” Cornelia cut in. “He means to catch Vitellius north of Placentia.”

“You’re sure?”

“I had it from my cousin Cornelia Tertia, who married Otho’s brother.”

“Thank you, Lady Cornelia. Anything else you hear—”

A terse nod. She heard a great deal, and now she knew to keep her ears open. No more grief, no more attempts to join Piso in the underworld. She’d found a far better way to help him—found it the night of Otho’s banquet after the games, when Marcella had chattered on about the army’s plans to march north. Information. Information about Otho’s troops, about the orders he gave to his generals, about departure dates and supply lists and road conditions . . .

Cornelia had known Vitellius’s brother for years; he’d been a mild acquaintance of Piso’s and an occasional guest at her table. “Are you communicating with your brother?” she’d asked him baldly, stalking into his airy hall.

Caution had bloomed in his eyes. “Of course not, my dear Lady Cornelia. I am a loyal supporter of Emperor Otho—”

“If you’re not, then I have information for you.”

“Ah . . .” And of course he was in communication with his brother, along with half a dozen notable men in Rome who reckoned their fortunes better with an Emperor Vitellius than with an Emperor Otho.

And a few like Cornelia, who just wanted Otho’s head in a jar.

A few more swift words traded back and forth, and they were done. They never met at the same house twice, and never lingered. Vitellius’s brother pressed every hand as his illicit guests dispersed. “Lady Cornelia, your contributions have been invaluable—that bit of news about the marching routes alone!” A squeeze of her fingers. “My brother will see your husband avenged, and you rewarded. He’ll make you a splendid marriage with one of his own supporters—”

“I don’t want another husband.” She jerked her hand away. “I want Otho dead.”