Cornelia wandered the shelves, crammed with carvings old and new: rough studies of nymphs and veiled maidens, Vitellius’s hearty double-chinned face, what looked like a carving of Lollia’s Gaul with the arrows and quiver of Apollo . . . “These four here on the table, Uncle Paris—did you carve us again?”

“Yes, as various goddesses.” Diana’s father wandered over to the worktable littered with marble chips and stone dust, where four busts stood in a row. “Took some thinking, really, to find the right one for each of you.”

“Of course Diana is Diana the Huntress.” Lollia smiled at their youngest cousin as the virgin goddess of the moon and the hunt, her exquisite cheekbones chiseled in fine white marble, her eyes sleepy and proud, a crescent moon crowning her disheveled hair. “What about me?”

“Ceres. Goddess of the earth and the harvest.” Lollia’s carved face had a lush mouth carved in a gentle smile, and tiny ears of corn woven into her marble curls.

“Not Venus?” Cornelia smiled. “Surely Lollia is goddess of love.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Paris. “Goddesses of love are jealous fickle things. Our Lollia’s as warm as the earth. And like Ceres, she has a daughter she loves above anything.”

“Mama, Mama, you’re blushing!”

“I am not.” Lollia tucked Flavia closer against her side. “I couldn’t be Venus anyway, with my fat chin. What about Cornelia? I suppose she’s Juno?”

Cornelia looked at her marble-carved self and frowned. No Imperial crown on her marble hair; just a simple veil surrounding her face.

“Vesta,” said Uncle Paris. “Goddess of hearth and home. Since you won’t ever be Empress, now.”

“Uncle, really—” Lollia began.

“No, he’s right.” Cornelia gave a bitter little one-sided smile.

“Is this Marcella?” Lollia looked quizzical, gazing at the last bust. The carved eyes were blank and ferocious, and instead of hair she had a writhing nest of snakes.

“That’s Marcella,” Cornelia said slowly. “But as . . . what?”

“Eris,” said Uncle Paris.

The goddess of discord and chaos, causing trouble wherever she went? Cornelia cocked her head, puzzled, but Uncle Paris just wandered off again.

“Goodness,” Lollia whispered. “He’s mad, sometimes.”

Cornelia busied herself wrapping up the bust of Lollia as Ceres and had a slave lug it out to the litter. She didn’t want to think about the statue of herself as Vesta. Goddess of hearth and home. What good is that, with no husband, no hearth, and no home?

LOLLIA heard a sharp cracking noise as she reentered the house that might as well have been her own prison. Flavia dozed on her hip, and Lollia wished she could sleep so easily. A nice tense evening was doubtless awaiting her tonight, what with Fabius glaring murder over catching her in bed with Thrax. “Down you go, Flavia, let’s tuck you into bed for a nap if you’re sleepy—”