“She turned down Fabius’s chief commander Alienus; that wasn’t pretty. And not a week later one of his German officers caught her after the races and tried to drag her off by force—she broke a driving whip over his head, and said she’d stab him if he tried again.”

Drusus blinked. “How does a little thing like that know how to stab anyone?”

“We all do.” Cornelia demonstrated. “Under the breast into the heart, fast and clean. All patrician women know how to die.”

“You people are savages.” He curled a hand protectively around the threatened breast.

“Diana’s certainly a savage,” Cornelia admitted. “Thank the gods Vitellius is too amused by her to be offended. He just keeps saying there are some fillies that won’t ever be saddled.”

“What about you?” Drusus grinned.

“I am a woman of Cornelii,” Cornelia said primly. “I certainly refuse to be saddled.”

“What about worshipped?” As he tipped her over on her back.

“You have a peculiar notion of worship, Drusus . . .”

Cornelia bribed the doorkeeper. She bribed the steward. She bribed her maid. They pretended not to smirk when she came back to the house disheveled and yawning, and still no one put the signs together. “Are you happier these days?” Marcella asked one night, idly.

“What do you mean?” Cornelia tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

“You always bite your nails when you’re wretched. And look at them now, all smooth again for the first time in months. So you must be happy.”

“Well, I’m happy I escaped marrying that German thug,” Cornelia said lightly, and braced herself for one of Marcella’s knowing smiles. She could never hide secrets for long, not from her little sister—but Marcella just wandered away with a yawn. It wasn’t like her, to drop a clue where it lay instead of pursuing it—but Cornelia didn’t question her luck. She was far better off if Marcella’s observant eyes weren’t fixed on her.

Fool, she told herself harshly in the quiet dark of her bedchamber. You know what will happen if anyone finds out. A dalliance with a man of her own class was one thing. Gaius might glare and Tullia might say cutting things about loose-moraled widows, but Lollia would be the first to wink and bid her good luck, and plenty of others would do the same as long as Cornelia was discreet. But a common soldier who rousted drunks out of a whorehouse in the slums . . . a man accused of treason, sentenced to death for failing to protect her own husband . . .

I’d have to leave Rome, if the scandal got out. Every night Cornelia made herself dwell on it: the whispers, the snickers, the disgrace. My family would be humiliated. Gaius would disown me. And Drusus would likely be caught, arrested, executed on the warrant that had never been brought to charge. He’d die, because of me.