“Well, you did say your Nessus was never wrong.” Domitian . . . younger son to the brilliant and shrewd Vespasian, who was Governor of Judaea and who had the only army in the Empire to match that of Vitellius. Vespasian had sworn loyalty to Galba, to Otho—would he swear loyalty to Vitellius now? His own men had wanted to make him Emperor after Nero died, or so Marcella had heard . . .

“Thank the gods you’re unharmed,” Domitian said roughly, and seized her.

“Yes, yes, I’m unharmed.” She laughed, pushing him as he began tugging at her skirts, but there was surprising strength in his arms. He dragged her down to the grass, pushing himself inside her before his lips even landed on hers. His eager tongue filled her mouth to gagging, but a savage little tendril uncoiled in Marcella’s stomach and suddenly she was ravenous. She locked her thighs around him and began tearing at his tunic, sinking her teeth into his cheek when he tried to kiss her again. He buried his face in her breasts but she slapped him away, panting as she crushed him down into the grass. She raked his chest with her nails, drawing blood as she rode him. He cried out in the falling dusk, spasming, and Marcella bared her teeth at the sky.

“You’re mine,” he gasped, clutching her. “You’re mine.”

No, you’re the one who belongs to me. She rolled off him, pulling her torn stola around herself. Domitian. Vespasian’s son. What can I do with you?

She’d have to be stealthy, of course. Sneaky, underhanded. But why not? Every time she’d tried to be forthright this year—with her husband, with her brother, with anyone—she’d been ignored, brushed aside, or outright stepped on. Had she ever gotten her own way with honesty? Not once. Only by stealth.

The sun had sunk below the horizon now. The stars were out, shining in a blue-purple sky over the torch-lit city. Rome. The city that in this year alone, even though it was only spring, had already seen three emperors.

Marcella wondered idly, Why not four?

PART THREE - VITELLIUS

PART THREE

VITELLIUS

April A.D. 69–December A.D. 69

“Had he lived much longer . . . the empire would not have been sufficient for his appetite.”

—JOSEPHUS

Twelve

Twelve

CORNELIA couldn’t stop herself from smiling, even when Lollia hurled a hairbrush at the mirror.

“That’s it.” Lollia scowled as her maids made soothing noises and swept up the fragments. “I’m done. This is the last wedding. Vitellius had better hang on to his throne, because three husbands in one year are enough.”