Well, until he got back to Rome, all she had was her tablinum: cluttered, scattered with pens and ink pots, shelves of scrolls and a bust of Clio, the muse of history, that Diana’s odd sculptor father had astutely given Marcella on her nineteenth birthday. The tablinum might be small and dusty, but it was still all hers.

She banished Tullia’s carping from mind and pulled out the stool, reaching for a tablet. Clio gazed serenely overhead with blank marble eyes as Marcella wrote a fresh heading: Servius Sulpicius Galba, sixth Emperor of Rome. A man of great lineage and long service. A high forehead, indicating intelligence; an upright bearing, indicating discipline. A bark of a voice, better suited to a parade ground than a dinner table. Unyielding eyes—that was good; Rome liked her Emperors unyielding. Tight lips—cheapness; not so good. Emperors might be wicked or even insane, but they had to be generous. Marcella had heard whispers that Galba was even refusing to pay his Praetorians their usual bounty. “So he should,” Cornelia had said approvingly when she heard that particular rumor. “Galba wants greater discipline in the ranks, higher standards.”

“Admirable,” Marcella agreed. “And the ranks love being disciplined, don’t they?”

They did look sullen, the guards I saw at the wedding banquet tonight . . .

Marcella put her pen down, looking at the shelf where a few modest scrolls were immaculately stored. A woman might not be able to influence history, but she could certainly watch it—analyze it—record it. Marcella had already written histories of Rome’s past Emperors, from Augustus the God to Nero the mad. What a descent. Galba could hardly be anything but an improvement on Nero. Nero’s history was the newest on her shelf, still not quite finished—she had just this morning penned his death, with a pleasant sense of impartiality. A historian must never allow personal opinion to color her writings, after all. Cornelia Secunda, known as Marcella, she had enjoyed jotting down in the mental portrait of herself. A profoundly disinterested and impartial observer of history.

Being impartial to Nero had been . . . difficult.

“That incident at the palace.” Tullia had accosted Marcella that spring, shortly after it happened. “It must have been terrible, my dear. Do tell me.”

“Should I?”

“Everyone needs a listening ear at such times.”

“Do they?”

“Marcella,” Tullia snapped, dropping the cozy coyness, “don’t be difficult!”

“You want to hear all the details about Emperor Nero, Tullia? How his breath smells? What pomade he uses on his hair?”

“I don’t—”

“I’m sure you’re panting to hear every last sweaty detail, but I’m not going to oblige.”

Off Tullia went. “Gaius, you will not believe how your sister spoke to me!”