“Generous of you, Lady.” His chestnut eyes stared into hers. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

“I’m just trying to—”

“You’re glad I was booted out of the guard, aren’t you? You think I deserved it. I didn’t save Senator Piso, did I, so I’m not worthy to be a Praetorian.”

“No.” She fell back a step under his rage.

“You think I’ll bow and feel grateful, because you’re telling me I’m not a traitor? Think I’ll apologize again for getting your precious husband killed?” Densus hurled his cloak down. “Piss on that, Lady. I did my best to save him. It wasn’t good enough, but I did my best. I’m done apologizing.”

He turned away, his breath coming harsh and fast in the little room. Cornelia saw his hand opening and closing on the hilt of the gladius and addressed the tense knotted back. “I never thought you should have been thrown out of the Praetorians. You’re the best of them. Better than the Prefects who give you your orders—”

“The ones you let suck on your neck behind closed curtains?” Densus swung around again, jaw clamped. “Not much of a compliment.”

“I wanted information,” she said miserably. “The Prefect gave me information, and I passed it on to the Vitellians. I just wanted Otho dead—”

“Well, it worked. You like the results?” Densus flung the sheathed gladius across the room. It crashed into the little niche, and the figurines of Mars and Minerva tumbled over with a tinny rattle. “All you meddling patrician bitches, playing with lives—”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You never do. You never do.” Densus dropped down on the narrow bed, clasping his square hands between his knees. His fingers were shaking. “Get out, Lady. Find your own bloody way home.”

Cornelia crossed the room, all of two steps. She opened her mouth, but her mind had never been so blank, wiped clean by his rage. She just stood awkwardly before him, wishing she knew what to do. She could only see the top of his head, dropped level to his heaving shoulders.

“Go home,” Densus repeated thickly. “Marry some Vitellian thug and lie there thinking about your duty while he’s mounting you. You patricians are all so good at doing your duty.”

“Not always.” Cornelia reached out and touched his cheek. He flinched, but she stepped closer, pulling his head against her waist. His arms closed around her, bruisingly hard, and Cornelia ran her fingers through his curly hair as his shoulders heaved. Through the thin door panels she could hear the moans of a woman down the hall, a man’s grunting. A whorehouse in the slums, a fetid summer day, an accused traitor, she thought distantly. There are no poems that begin like this.