Otho. That had been more of an experiment. Poor Cornelia was so blind with rage about Piso’s death, so burning with hatred for anything Othonian. Marcella couldn’t resist dropping her sister a few tidbits of information, wondering what she’d do with them. She’d been much more daring than Marcella would have anticipated—she’d started meeting Vitellius’s supporters on her supposed trips to the bathhouse, in fact, to pass along any information that might help defeat Otho. Marcella had been perfectly prepared to meet with the conspirators herself, but with Cornelia being so obliging, all she had to do was feed her sister the necessary information. Movements of legions, supply lines, petty rivalries among Otho’s generals—she’d dropped it all into Cornelia’s ear or left little jotted notes lying on her desk where they could easily be found. Cornelia had passed it all on for her, every weakness the Vitellians had exploited to defeat Otho at Bedriacum. Did Otho lose the battle due to my information-passing? Perhaps not, but it was certainly amusing to think so. Pity Otho had committed suicide, though—Marcella had liked him, very much.

And now, Vitellius.

From what Marcella knew of him, he was just a big, beery, bleary sportsman. Not too clever; surely a pawn in the hands of other ambitious men. What could be done with Vitellius?

She sat down on the worn mossy bench, looking out over the city. Rome. She had written Rome’s history in a dozen careful scrolls, but what good were her histories? A woman’s writings could never be published, would never be read. She’d written them anyway, thinking there was nothing else to do. Because women didn’t make history, of course. They could only be the watchers.

But now here she was, Lady Cornelia Secunda known as Marcella, looking down at all Rome with three emperors lying dead at her feet. No one else knew they were there—not the husband who despised her, not the sister who made pained expressions about her writing, not the idiot cousins who cared only for lovers and horses. None of them knew. But I know. Marcella laughed aloud, imagining the look on Tullia’s face if she knew her hated sister-in-law had brought down three emperors.

Making history was much better than writing it.

“Marcella.” A harsh voice behind her. “I went to your house. The slaves said you went out, so I followed your litter.”

“Goodness, Domitian.” She turned and smiled at the stocky figure coming up the slope toward her. “Such devotion.”

“Every day you were gone, I prayed for your safety.” His black eyes had never been so intent. “Nessus said you’d be safe, but I didn’t believe him till I heard the news.”