“The Praetorian Guard isn’t much these days,” he said shortly. “You know what my duties are, Lady? Mostly I fetch women for Prefect Proculus.”

Cornelia flushed. They had turned onto the lower slope of the Palatine Hill—the house was only a few short blocks away—

“He’s a bad one,” said Densus. “Hope you know that.”

Cornelia walked faster. A few short blocks were not short enough. “I’ll thank you not to—”

“I’ll say it plain, Lady.” He swung around, jaw set. “Maybe you’re looking to protect your family. Maybe you’re needing another husband. Maybe you’re lonely. Not my business.”

“It is not—” Cornelia started furiously, but Densus’s voice had a parade-ground crack that overran hers.

“Prefect Proculus has a new woman every night, common whores and patrician ladies alike—”

Cornelia clamped her teeth on the nausea in her throat, feeling those rubbery lips sucking on her neck.

“He doesn’t remember their names in the morning, Lady, never mind whatever he’s promised them,” Densus went on doggedly. “And he never wants the same one twice, no matter how much they beg. He just laughs and says they’re persistent bitches, if you’ll pardon me, and calls for another—”

No. Cornelia felt the nausea rising like a tide. No. Be marble.

“So whatever you’re looking for, safety or company or status, find a better man than that. I’d tell my own sister the same thing, and I got to know Senator Piso well enough so I reckon he’d want me telling you too—”

Hearing that name did it—her husband’s name in her ears, with another man’s marks on her neck. Cornelia turned and vomited into the gutter, throwing up over and over, clawing feverishly at her neck. She staggered, and Densus’s hand touched her shoulder.

“Lady—”

“No! Stop telling me you’re sorry!” Cornelia wrenched away from his hand, dragging a hand across her mouth. She felt foul and soiled, shaking and useless. Only pieces of marble left, and she clutched after them. Don’t judge me, she thought disjointedly toward Piso. Don’t judge me, I do it for you—but she wouldn’t say that to this common soldier. You don’t speak for my husband, Densus.

“I can find my own way from here.” Cornelia drew herself up, meeting the steady chestnut eyes level with her own. “Good afternoon, Centurion.”

She turned and toiled up the paved slope, past a mansion with vulgar blue marble columns, toward the ornate house of the Cornelii, which she’d left as a bride and reentered as a widow. I do this for you, Piso. She dragged in deep breaths of cold air as the heaviness returned to her limbs. Galatea in reverse, trembling flesh willing itself back into cold marble.