“No.” Marcella stretched head to toe like a languorous cat. “I make sure of that.”

“You’re very self-satisfied these days, do you know that, Marcella?”

Her sister’s chuckle followed her out.

The Emperor’s box was a sea of blue when Cornelia arrived: blue banners, blue flowers scattered underfoot, blue plums and blue-black oysters circulating in lapis lazuli bowls, a blue stola on every woman and a blue cloak on every man. Fabius Valens wore a sky-blue synthesis, and Lollia’s sapphires were larger than those worn by Vitellius’s meek little Empress. Vitellius’s massive belly stretched under a blue tunic with half a dozen charioteer medallions about his neck, each proclaiming his fabled allegiance to the Blues team. Derricus, the star charioteer for the Blues, had the place of honor at the Emperor’s side, preening in his striped blue tunic. Cornelia felt like a crow in a pride of peacocks and gratefully found a seat for herself at the back. But Vitellius, turning to gesture for more wine, caught sight of her and beckoned. She came forward, bowing.

“Lady Cornelia Prima.” Up close, the Emperor’s ruddy face showed broken veins about the nose, and rolls of fat at the neck from many years of heavy banquets. But he had only a mild smell of wine this afternoon, and the hand that raised her up was steady. “I owe you a debt, my dear.”

“I only did my duty, Caesar.” She kept her eyes properly lowered.

“Not for passing information. For the loss of your husband.” Vitellius dropped his voice. “I am so sorry.”

Startled, Cornelia looked up at him. Otho had paid her polished, insincere apologies. Family members had given stilted condolences; her sister and cousins wordless hugs. No one had simply said, I’m sorry. A lump rose in her throat, and Vitellius’s smile was kind.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, squeezing her fingers in his massive ones, and Fabius Valens over his shoulder grinned. Cornelia curtsied again and hastily retreated. As long as the Emperor’s notion of making it up to her wasn’t a new husband . . .

Diana, flopped in her seat at the back, was not hard to find. She sat scowling, ignoring the glances from the Emperor’s officers and courtiers—disapproving glances for once, rather than admiring. In a sea of blue she was a spot of bright unapologetic red, a medallion for each of her four favorite horses about her neck, red skirts fluttering and scarlet ribbons braided through her white-gold hair. “I’m not going to put off my colors just because the Emperor roots in opposition,” she said to Cornelia’s raised eyebrows. “Anyway, I don’t see you wearing any of that gaudy Blues trash.”

“No,” Cornelia agreed, taking her seat. “What have you done to your hands?” They were rough as sandstone, callused across the palms.

“Sshh, the parade’s beginning.”