“Just stories,” Lollia said defensively. “All about a carpenter in Judaea who turns into a god, or maybe a god who turns into a carpenter. But at least they’re nice stories, all about healing lepers and walking across rivers. Better than those ghastly ghost stories we used to get from our nurses, that scared us out of our wits.” Lollia’s voice was brittle, and she rushed on before Cornelia could say anything. “So, did you hear about Vitellius’s new edict? Gods forbid he do anything to straighten out the financial mess we’re in, but he’s found time to forbid patrician boys from driving chariots in the Circus Maximus! So ridiculous, but—”

She burst into tears.

Cornelia put an arm around her, tugging Lollia’s head against her shoulder. Just a few months ago I was picking quarrels with her for being a gadabout and a careless mother, and now here she is crying into my shoulder like a little girl. Lollia cried a long time, and an answering lump rose in Cornelia’s throat.

“Oh, gods.” Lollia sat up at last, scrubbing at her wet red cheeks. “I hate crying. What good does it do? I’m not even one of those women who get all misty and pretty when they cry. I just turn into a blotchy mess. So what’s the point of it all?”

“Not much,” Cornelia agreed.

Lollia gave a long quivering breath, looking at the doorway where the golden slave named Thrax had vanished. “Those scars are my fault, you know. All my fault. I die of shame every time I look at him now.”

Cornelia stared at her own feet, still dunked in the fountain and turning all green and wrinkled, and supposed she should be shocked. Not that it was shocking that Lollia had taken a slave to her bed . . . just shocking that she had so clearly developed feelings for one. But somehow the shock came to Cornelia distant and blunted, as if it were underwater along with her feet. “I’m having an affair with a soldier,” she found herself saying abruptly.

Lollia’s swollen eyes widened. “Oh, Cornelia—”

“You can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

“What do you take me for, the old Lollia?” Recovering a little sparkle. “Who is he?”

“No one.”

“Tell me!”

Cornelia gave a firm shake of her head. “I’d put him in danger if I did. And don’t ask why.”

“Have it your way, then.” Lollia scrubbed at her eyes again. “I hope he’s fun, at least.”

Cornelia smiled involuntarily.

“Ha, he is. Good for you, my honey. I must say, I never thought I’d see the day. You of all people!”

“We’ve all lost our heads this year.” Cornelia trailed one finger through the water. “First you, then me—and according to Uncle Paris, Diana is sneaking off to meet some charioteer . . .”