“Poor Lollia,” Cornelia said, overhearing. “She’s been crying all week, since Fabius flogged her slave. And I’m not sure he doesn’t beat Lollia too—she’s got marks she keeps trying to cover up with powder and bracelets, and she’s avoiding her grandfather. I suppose she doesn’t want him to see the bruises. He didn’t want the marriage to happen in the first place, and he’ll just be miserable he can’t do anything about it now.”

Marcella eyed Fabius thoughtfully as the Emperor reappeared in the box, hitching at his toga. Vitellius would raise an army soon against Vespasian, and he’d count on Fabius to do it. What kind of army could he raise? Those eastern legions were hard, seasoned troops—German savages and palace guards wouldn’t be enough . . .

The Emperor settled back into his chair, waving an irritable hand, and the perspiring actors hitched their masks into place. “Damned long play,” Vitellius complained loudly to Diana, splashing more wine into his cup. The actors onstage looked rather resigned as they resumed trudging through their verses, the Emperor’s strident voice bulling over their own. “I’d rather have a good race any day. No sulks from you when my Blues win at Vinalia, now—losers should wear a smile.”

“Did that mean you were smiling all last year, Caesar?” Diana said sweetly. “When the Blues came in last of all the factions?”

“You’ve got a tart tongue, girl. Your father didn’t beat you enough growing up.”

Marcella only half-listened to Vitellius and Diana’s wrangling, still pondering the possible loyalty of the Emperor’s generals. “If they’re shifty sorts, I wonder what Vespasian’s generals are like? Domitian might know. Of course he’ll be boring and try to get me into bed, but if I can’t wheedle a little information out of an eighteen-year-old boy . . .”

There was a rustle at her side, and Cornelia rose abruptly. “I’m going home.”

“Are you all right?” Marcella looked up, blinking her thoughts away.

“A headache—I hate this hot weather.” Cornelia looked more distracted than ever, pushing a damp tendril of hair off her neck. “Excuse me—” and off she rushed.

Marcella wondered for a moment if she should go with her sister—offer to take her to the bathhouse where they could cool down in the frigidarium and have a good gossip like they used to in the old days. But a moping sister just wasn’t much amusement compared to everything else going on. I’ll spend more time with her later, Marcella thought vaguely, when things have calmed down. Will they ever calm down?

She listened to a few more verses from the lackadaisical actors, thoroughly overridden now by the Emperor’s bull voice and Diana’s strident one as they argued horses, and then someone claimed the seat beside her.

“You shouldn’t sit here.” Marcella waved her fan, languid.